"You are certainly in the right," says the doctor; "there is a most

blameable remissness with regard to these matters; but the whole blame

doth not lie there; some little share of the fault is, I am afraid, to

be imputed to the clergy themselves."

"Indeed, sir," cries the young one, "I did not expect that charge from

a gentleman of your cloth. Do the clergy give any encouragement to

such books? Do they not, on the contrary, cry loudly out against the

suffering them? This is the invidious aspersion of the laity; and I

did not expect to hear it confirmed by one of our own cloth."

"Be not too impatient, young gentleman," said the doctor." I do not

absolutely confirm the charge of the laity; it is much too general and

too severe; but even the laity themselves do not attack them in that

part to which you have applied your defence. They are not supposed

such fools as to attack that religion to which they owe their temporal

welfare. They are not taxed with giving any other support to

infidelity than what it draws from the ill examples of their lives; I

mean of the lives of some of them. Here too the laity carry their

censures too far; for there are very few or none of the clergy whose

lives, if compared with those of the laity, can be called profligate;

but such, indeed, is the perfect purity of our religion, such is the

innocence and virtue which it exacts to entitle us to its glorious

rewards and to screen us from its dreadful punishments, that he must

be a very good man indeed who lives up to it. Thus then these persons

argue. This man is educated in a perfect knowledge of religion, is

learned in its laws, and is by his profession obliged, in a manner, to

have them always before his eyes. The rewards which it promises to the

obedience of these laws are so great, and the punishments threatened

on disobedience so dreadful, that it is impossible but all men must

fearfully fly from the one, and as eagerly pursue the other. If,

therefore, such a person lives in direct opposition to, and in a

constant breach of, these laws, the inference is obvious. There is a

pleasant story in Matthew Paris, which I will tell you as well as I

can remember it. Two young gentlemen, I think they were priests,

agreed together that whosoever died first should return and acquaint

his friend with the secrets of the other world. One of them died soon

after, and fulfilled his promise. The whole relation he gave is not

very material; but, among other things, he produced one of his hands,

which Satan had made use of to write upon, as the moderns do on a

card, and had sent his compliments to the priests for the number of

souls which the wicked examples of their lives daily sent to hell.

This story is the more remarkable as it was written by a priest, and a

great favourer of his order."

"Excellent!" cried the old gentleman; "what a memory you have."

"But, sir," cries the young one, "a clergyman is a man as well as

another; and, if such perfect purity be expected--"

"I do not expect it," cries the doctor; "and I hope it will not be

expected of us. The Scripture itself gives us this hope, where the

best of us are said to fall twenty times a-day. But sure we may not

allow the practice of any of those grosser crimes which contaminate

the whole mind. We may expect an obedience to the ten commandments,

and an abstinence from such notorious vices as, in the first place,

Avarice, which, indeed, can hardly subsist without the breach of more

commandments than one. Indeed, it would be excessive candour to

imagine that a man who so visibly sets his whole heart, not only on

this world, but on one of the most worthless things in it (for so is

money, without regard to its uses), should be, at the same time,

laying up his treasure in heaven. Ambition is a second vice of this

sort: we are told we cannot serve God and Mammon. I might have applied

this to avarice; but I chose rather to mention it here. When we see a

man sneaking about in courts and levees, and doing the dirty work of

great men, from the hopes of preferment, can we believe that a fellow

whom we see to have so many hard task-masters upon earth ever thinks

of his Master which is in heaven? Must he not himself think, if ever

he reflects at all, that so glorious a Master will disdain and disown

a servant who is the dutiful tool of a court-favourite, and employed

either as the pimp of his pleasure, or sometimes, perhaps, made a

dirty channel to assist in the conveyance of that corruption which is

clogging up and destroying the very vitals of his country?

"The last vice which I shall mention is Pride. There is not in the

universe a more ridiculous nor a more contemptible animal than a proud

clergyman; a turkey-cock or a jackdaw are objects of veneration when

compared with him. I don't mean, by Pride, that noble dignity of mind

to which goodness can only administer an adequate object, which

delights in the testimony of its own conscience, and could not,

without the highest agonies, bear its condemnation. By Pride I mean

that saucy passion which exults in every little eventual pre-eminence

over other men: such are the ordinary gifts of nature, and the paultry

presents of fortune, wit, knowledge, birth, strength, beauty, riches,

titles, and rank. That passion which is ever aspiring, like a silly

child, to look over the heads of all about them; which, while it

servilely adheres to the great, flies from the poor, as if afraid of

contamination; devouring greedily every murmur of applause and every

look of admiration; pleased and elated with all kind of respect; and

hurt and enflamed with the contempt of the lowest and most despicable

of fools, even with such as treated you last night disrespectfully at

Vauxhall. Can such a mind as this be fixed on things above? Can such a

man reflect that he hath the ineffable honour to be employed in the

immediate service of his great Creator? or can he please himself with

the heart-warming hope that his ways are acceptable in the sight of

that glorious, that incomprehensible Being?"

"Hear, child, hear," cries the old gentleman; "hear, and improve your

understanding. Indeed, my good friend, no one retires from you without

carrying away some good instructions with him. Learn of the doctor,

Tom, and you will be the better man as long as you live."

"Undoubtedly, sir," answered Tom, "the doctor hath spoken a great deal

of excellent truth; and, without a compliment to him, I was always a

great admirer of his sermons, particularly of their oratory. But,

_Nee tamen hoc tribuens dederim quoque caetera_.

I cannot agree that a clergyman is obliged to put up with an affront

any more than another man, and more especially when it is paid to the

order."

"I am very sorry, young gentleman," cries the doctor, "that you should

be ever liable to be affronted as a clergyman; and I do assure you, if

I had known your disposition formerly, the order should never have

been affronted through you."

The old gentleman now began to check his son for his opposition to the

doctor, when a servant delivered the latter a note from Amelia, which

he read immediately to himself, and it contained the following words:

"MY DEAR SIR,--Something hath happened since I saw you which gives me

great uneasiness, and I beg the favour of seeing you as soon as

possible to advise with you upon it.

I am

Your most obliged and dutiful daughter,

AMELIA BOOTH."

The doctor's answer was, that he would wait on the lady directly; and

then, turning to his friend, he asked him if he would not take a walk

in the Park before dinner. "I must go," says he, "to the lady who was

with us last night; for I am afraid, by her letter, some bad accident

hath happened to her. Come, young gentleman, I spoke a little too

hastily to you just now; but I ask your pardon. Some allowance must be

made to the warmth of your blood. I hope we shall, in time, both think

alike."

The old gentleman made his friend another compliment; and the young

one declared he hoped he should always think, and act too, with the

dignity becoming his cloth. After which the doctor took his leave for

a while, and went to Amelia's lodgings.

As soon as he was gone the old gentleman fell very severely on his

son. "Tom," says he, "how can you be such a fool to undo, by your

perverseness, all that I have been doing? Why will you not learn to

study mankind with the attention which I have employed to that

purpose? Do you think, if I had affronted this obstinate old fellow as

you do, I should ever have engaged his friendship?"

"I cannot help it, sir," said Tom: "I have not studied six years at

the university to give up my sentiments to every one. It is true,

indeed, he put together a set of sounding words; but, in the main, I

never heard any one talk more foolishly."

"What of that?" cries the father; "I never told you he was a wise man,

nor did I ever think him so. If he had any understanding, he would

have been a bishop long ago, to my certain knowledge. But, indeed, he

hath been always a fool in private life; for I question whether he is

worth L100 in the world, more than his annual income. He hath given

away above half his fortune to the Lord knows who. I believe I have

had above L200 of him, first and last; and would you lose such a

milch-cow as this for want of a few compliments? Indeed, Tom, thou art

as great a simpleton as himself. How do you expect to rise in the

church if you cannot temporise and give in to the opinions of your

superiors?"

"I don't know, sir," cries Tom, "what you mean by my superiors. In one

sense, I own, a doctor of divinity is superior to a bachelor of arts,

and so far I am ready to allow his superiority; but I understand Greek

and Hebrew as well as he, and will maintain my opinion against him, or

any other in the schools."

"Tom," cries the old gentleman, "till thou gettest the better of thy

conceit I shall never have any hopes of thee. If thou art wise, thou

wilt think every man thy superior of whom thou canst get anything; at

least thou wilt persuade him that thou thinkest so, and that is

sufficient. Tom, Tom, thou hast no policy in thee."

"What have I been learning these seven years," answered he, "in the

university? However, father, I can account for your opinion. It is the

common failing of old men to attribute all wisdom to themselves.

Nestor did it long ago: but, if you will inquire my character at

college, I fancy you will not think I want to go to school again."

The father and son then went to take their walk, during which the

former repeated many good lessons of policy to his son, not greatly

perhaps to his edification. In truth, if the old gentleman's fondness

had not in a great measure blinded him to the imperfections of his

son, he would have soon perceived that he was sowing all his

instructions in a soil so choaked with self-conceit that it was

utterly impossible they should ever bear any fruit.

BOOK X.

Chapter i.

_To which we will prefix no preface_.

The doctor found Amelia alone, for Booth was gone to walk with his

new-revived acquaintance, Captain Trent, who seemed so pleased with

the renewal of his intercourse with his old brother-officer, that he

had been almost continually with him from the time of their meeting at

the drum.

Amelia acquainted the doctor with the purport of her message, as

follows: "I ask your pardon, my dear sir, for troubling you so often

with my affairs; but I know your extreme readiness, as well as

ability, to assist any one with your advice. The fact is, that my

husband hath been presented by Colonel James with two tickets for a

masquerade, which is to be in a day or two, and he insists so strongly

on my going with him, that I really do not know how to refuse without

giving him some reason; and I am not able to invent any other than the

true one, which you would not, I am sure, advise me to communicate to

him. Indeed I had a most narrow escape the other day; for I was almost

drawn in inadvertently by a very strange accident, to acquaint him

with the whole matter." She then related the serjeant's dream, with

all the consequences that attended it.

The doctor considered a little with himself, and then said, "I am

really, child, puzzled as well as you about this matter. I would by no

means have you go to the masquerade; I do not indeed like the

diversion itself, as I have heard it described to me; not that I am

such a prude to suspect every woman who goes there of any evil

intentions; but it is a pleasure of too loose and disorderly a kind

for the recreation of a sober mind. Indeed, you have still a stronger

and more particular objection. I will try myself to reason him out of

it."

"Indeed it is impossible," answered she; "and therefore I would not

set you about it. I never saw him more set on anything. There is a

party, as they call it, made on the occasion; and he tells me my

refusal will disappoint all."

"I really do not know what to advise you," cries the doctor; "I have

told you I do not approve of these diversions; but yet, as your

husband is so very desirous, I cannot think there will be any harm in

going with him. However, I will consider of it, and do all in my power

for you."

Here Mrs. Atkinson came in, and the discourse on this subject ceased;

but soon after Amelia renewed it, saying there was no occasion to keep

anything a secret from her friend. They then fell to debating on the

subject, but could not come to any resolution. But Mrs. Atkinson, who

was in an unusual flow of spirits, cried out, "Fear nothing, my dear

Amelia, two women surely will be too hard for one man. I think,

doctor, it exceeds Virgil:

_Una dolo divum si faemina victa duorum est_."

"Very well repeated, indeed!" cries the doctor. "Do you understand all

Virgil as well as you seem to do that line?"

"I hope I do, sir," said she, "and Horace too; or else my father threw

away his time to very little purpose in teaching me."

"I ask your pardon, madam," cries the doctor. "I own it was an

impertinent question."

"Not at all, sir," says she; "and if you are one of those who imagine

women incapable of learning, I shall not be offended at it. I know the

common opinion; but

_Interdum vulgus rectum videt, est ubi peccat_."

"If I was to profess such an opinion, madam," said the doctor, "Madam

Dacier and yourself would bear testimony against me. The utmost indeed

that I should venture would be to question the utility of learning in

a young lady's education."

"I own," said Mrs. Atkinson, "as the world is constituted, it cannot

be as serviceable to her fortune as it will be to that of a man; but

you will allow, doctor, that learning may afford a woman, at least, a

reasonable and an innocent entertainment."

"But I will suppose," cried the doctor, "it may have its

inconveniences. As, for instance, if a learned lady should meet with

an unlearned husband, might she not be apt to despise him?"

"I think not," cries Mrs. Atkinson--"and, if I may be allowed the

instance, I think I have shewn, myself, that women who have learning

themselves can be contented without that qualification in a man."

"To be sure," cries the doctor, "there may be other qualifications

which may have their weight in the balance. But let us take the other

side of the question, and suppose the learned of both sexes to meet in

the matrimonial union, may it not afford one excellent subject of

disputation, which is the most learned?"

"Not at all," cries Mrs. Atkinson; "for, if they had both learning and

good sense, they would soon see on which side the superiority lay."

"But if the learned man," said the doctor, "should be a little

unreasonable in his opinion, are you sure that the learned woman would

preserve her duty to her husband, and submit?"

"But why," cries Mrs. Atkinson, "must we necessarily suppose that a

learned man would be unreasonable?"

"Nay, madam," said the doctor, "I am not your husband; and you shall

not hinder me from supposing what I please. Surely it is not such a

paradox to conceive that a man of learning should be unreasonable. Are

there no unreasonable opinions in very learned authors, even among the

critics themselves? For instance, what can be a more strange, and

indeed unreasonable opinion, than to prefer the Metamorphoses of Ovid

to the AEneid of Virgil?"

"It would be indeed so strange," cries the lady, "that you shall not

persuade me it was ever the opinion of any man."

"Perhaps not," cries the doctor; "and I believe you and I should not

differ in our judgments of any person who maintained such an opinion--

What a taste must he have!"

"A most contemptible one indeed," cries Mrs. Atkinson.

"I am satisfied," cries the doctor. "And in the words of your own

Horace, _Verbum non amplius addam_."

"But how provoking is this," cries Mrs. Atkinson, "to draw one in such

a manner! I protest I was so warm in the defence of my favourite

Virgil, that I was not aware of your design; but all your triumph

depends on a supposition that one should be so unfortunate as to meet

with the silliest fellow in the world."

"Not in the least," cries the doctor. "Doctor Bentley was not such a

person; and yet he would have quarrelled, I am convinced, with any

wife in the world, in behalf of one of his corrections. I don't

suppose he would have given up his _Ingentia Fata_ to an angel."

"But do you think," said she, "if I had loved him, I would have

contended with him?"

"Perhaps you might sometimes," said the doctor, "be of these

sentiments; but you remember your own Virgil--_Varium et mutabile

semper faemina_."

"Nay, Amelia," said Mrs. Atkinson, "you are now concerned as well as I

am; for he hath now abused the whole sex, and quoted the severest

thing that ever was said against us, though I allow it is one of the

finest."

"With all my heart, my dear," cries Amelia. "I have the advantage of

you, however, for I don't understand him."

"Nor doth she understand much better than yourself," cries the doctor;

"or she would not admire nonsense, even though in Virgil."

"Pardon me, sir," said she.

"And pardon me, madam," cries the doctor, with a feigned seriousness;

"I say, a boy in the fourth form at Eton would be whipt, or would

deserve to be whipt at least, who made the neuter gender agree with

the feminine. You have heard, however, that Virgil left his AEneid

incorrect; and, perhaps, had he lived to correct it, we should not

have seen the faults we now see in it."

"Why, it is very true as you say, doctor," cries Mrs. Atkinson; "there

seems to be a false concord. I protest I never thought of it before."

"And yet this is the Virgil," answered the doctor, "that you are so

fond of, who hath made you all of the neuter gender; or, as we say in

English, he hath made mere animals of you; for, if we translate it

thus,

"Woman is a various and changeable animal,

"there will be no fault, I believe, unless in point of civility to the

ladies."

Mrs. Atkinson had just time to tell the doctor he was a provoking

creature, before the arrival of Booth and his friend put an end to

that learned discourse, in which neither of the parties had greatly

recommended themselves to each other; the doctor's opinion of the lady

being not at all heightened by her progress in the classics, and she,

on the other hand, having conceived a great dislike in her heart

towards the doctor, which would have raged, perhaps, with no less fury

from the consideration that he had been her husband.

Chapter ii.

_What happened at the masquerade_.

From this time to the day of the masquerade nothing happened of

consequence enough to have a place in this history.

On that day Colonel James came to Booth's about nine in the evening,

where he stayed for Mrs. James, who did not come till near eleven. The

four masques then set out together in several chairs, and all

proceeded to the Haymarket.

When they arrived at the Opera-house the colonel and Mrs. James

presently left them; nor did Booth and his lady remain long together,

but were soon divided from each other by different masques.

A domino soon accosted the lady, and had her away to the upper end of

the farthest room on the right hand, where both the masques sat down;

nor was it long before the he domino began to make very fervent love

to the she. It would, perhaps, be tedious to the reader to run through

the whole process, which was not indeed in the most romantick stile.

The lover seemed to consider his mistress as a mere woman of this

world, and seemed rather to apply to her avarice and ambition than to

her softer passions.

As he was not so careful to conceal his true voice as the lady was,

she soon discovered that this lover of her's was no other than her old

friend the peer, and presently a thought suggested itself to her of

making an advantage of this accident. She gave him therefore an

intimation that she knew him, and expressed some astonishment at his

having found her out. "I suspect," says she, "my lord, that you have a

friend in the woman where I now lodge, as well as you had in Mrs.

Ellison." My lord protested the contrary. To which she answered, "Nay,

my lord, do not defend her so earnestly till you are sure I should

have been angry with her."

At these words, which were accompanied with a very bewitching

softness, my lord flew into raptures rather too strong for the place

he was in. These the lady gently checked, and begged him to take care

they were not observed; for that her husband, for aught she knew, was

then in the room.

Colonel James came now up, and said, "So, madam, I have the good

fortune to find you again; I have been extremely miserable since I

lost you." The lady answered in her masquerade voice that she did not

know him. "I am Colonel James," said he, in a whisper. "Indeed, sir,"

answered she, "you are mistaken; I have no acquaintance with any

Colonel James." "Madam," answered he, in a whisper likewise, "I am

positive I am not mistaken, you are certainly Mrs. Booth." "Indeed,

sir," said she, "you are very impertinent, and I beg you will leave

me." My lord then interposed, and, speaking in his own voice, assured

the colonel that the lady was a woman of quality, and that they were

engaged in a conversation together; upon which the colonel asked the

lady's pardon; for, as there was nothing remarkable in her dress, he

really believed he had been mistaken.

He then went again a hunting through the rooms, and soon after found

Booth walking without his mask between two ladies, one of whom was in

a blue domino, and the other in the dress of a shepherdess. "Will,"

cries the colonel, "do you know what is become of our wives; for I

have seen neither of them since we have been in the room?" Booth

answered, "That he supposed they were both together, and they should

find them by and by." "What!" cries the lady in the blue domino, "are

you both come upon duty then with your wives? as for yours, Mr.

Alderman," said she to the colonel, "I make no question but she is got

into much better company than her husband's." "How can you be so

cruel, madam?" said the shepherdess; "you will make him beat his wife

by and by, for he is a military man I assure you." "In the trained

bands, I presume," cries the domino, "for he is plainly dated from the

city." "I own, indeed," cries the other, "the gentleman smells

strongly of Thames-street, and, if I may venture to guess, of the

honourable calling of a taylor."

"Why, what the devil hast thou picked up here?" cries James.

"Upon my soul, I don't know," answered Booth; "I wish you would take

one of them at least."

"What say you, madam?" cries the domino, "will you go with the

colonel? I assure you, you have mistaken your man, for he is no less a

person than the great Colonel James himself."

[Illustration: Booth between the blue domino and a Shepherdess.]

"No wonder, then, that Mr. Booth gives him his choice of us; it is the

proper office of a caterer, in which capacity Mr. Booth hath, I am

told, the honour to serve the noble colonel."

"Much good may it do you with your ladies!" said James; "I will go in

pursuit of better game." At which words he walked off.

"You are a true sportsman," cries the shepherdess; "for your only

pleasure, I believe, lies in the pursuit."

"Do you know the gentleman, madam?" cries the domino.

"Who doth not know him?" answered the shepherdess.

"What is his character?" cries the domino; "for, though I have jested

with him, I only know him by sight."

"I know nothing very particular in his character," cries the

shepherdess. "He gets every handsome woman he can, and so they do

all."

"I suppose then he is not married?" said the domino.

"O yes! and married for love too," answered the other; "but he hath

loved away all his love for her long ago, and now, he says, she makes

as fine an object of hatred. I think, if the fellow ever appears to

have any wit, it is when he abuses his wife; and, luckily for him,

that is his favourite topic. I don't know the poor wretch, but, as he

describes her, it is a miserable animal."

"I know her very well," cries the other; "and I am much mistaken if

she is not even with him; but hang him! what is become of Booth?"

At this instant a great noise arose near that part where the two

ladies were. This was occasioned by a large assembly of young fellows

whom they call bucks, who were got together, and were enjoying, as the

phrase is, a letter, which one of them had found in the room.

Curiosity hath its votaries among all ranks of people; whenever

therefore an object of this appears it is as sure of attracting a

croud in the assemblies of the polite as in those of their inferiors.

When this croud was gathered together, one of the bucks, at the desire

of his companions, as well as of all present, performed the part of a

public orator, and read out the following letter, which we shall give

the reader, together with the comments of the orator himself, and of

all his audience.

The orator then, being mounted on a bench, began as follows:

"Here beginneth the first chapter of--saint--Pox on't, Jack, what is

the saint's name? I have forgot."

"Timothy, you blockhead," answered another; "--Timothy."

"Well, then," cries the orator, "of Saint Timothy.

"'SIR,--I am very sorry to have any occasion of writing on the

following subject in a country that is honoured with the name of

Christian; much more am I concerned to address myself to a man whose

many advantages, derived both from nature and fortune, should demand

the highest return of gratitude to the great Giver of all those good

things. Is not such a man guilty of the highest ingratitude to that

most beneficent Being, by a direct and avowed disobedience of his most

positive laws and commands?

"'I need not tell you that adultery is forbid in the laws of the

decalogue; nor need I, I hope, mention that it is expressly forbid in

the New Testament.'

"You see, therefore," said the orator, "what the law is, and therefore

none of you will be able to plead ignorance when you come to the Old

Bailey in the other world. But here goes again:--

"'If it had not been so expressly forbidden in Scripture, still the

law of Nature would have yielded light enough for us to have

discovered the great horror and atrociousness of this crime.

"'And accordingly we find that nations, where the Sun of righteousness

hath yet never shined, have punished the adulterer with the most

exemplary pains and penalties; not only the polite heathens, but the

most barbarous nations, have concurred in these; in many places the

most severe and shameful corporal punishments, and in some, and those

not a few, death itself hath been inflicted on this crime.

"'And sure in a human sense there is scarce any guilt which deserves

to be more severely punished. It includes in it almost every injury

and every mischief which one man can do to, or can bring on, another.

It is robbing him of his property--'

"Mind that, ladies," said the orator;" you are all the property of

your husbands.--'And of that property which, if he is a good man, he

values above all others. It is poisoning that fountain whence he hath

a right to derive the sweetest and most innocent pleasure, the most

cordial comfort, the most solid friendship, and most faithful

assistance in all his affairs, wants, and distresses. It is the

destruction of his peace of mind, and even of his reputation. The ruin

of both wife and husband, and sometimes of the whole family, are the

probable consequence of this fatal injury. Domestic happiness is the

end of almost all our pursuits, and the common reward of all our

pains. When men find themselves for ever barred from this delightful

fruition, they are lost to all industry, and grow careless of all

their worldly affairs. Thus they become bad subjects, bad relations,

bad friends, and bad men. Hatred and revenge are the wretched passions

which boil in their minds. Despair and madness very commonly ensue,

and murder and suicide often close the dreadful scene.'

"Thus, gentlemen and ladies, you see the scene is closed. So here ends

the first act--and thus begins the second:--

"'I have here attempted to lay before you a picture of this vice, the

horror of which no colours of mine can exaggerate. But what pencil can

delineate the horrors of that punishment which the Scripture denounces

against it?

"'And for what will you subject yourself to this punishment? or for

what reward will you inflict all this misery on another? I will add,

on your friend? for the possession of a woman; for the pleasure of a

moment? But, if neither virtue nor religion can restrain your

inordinate appetites, are there not many women as handsome as your

friend's wife, whom, though not with innocence, you may possess with a

much less degree of guilt? What motive then can thus hurry you on to

the destruction of yourself and your friend? doth the peculiar

rankness of the guilt add any zest to the sin? doth it enhance the

pleasure as much as we may be assured it will the punishment?

"'But if you can be so lost to all sense of fear, and of shame, and of

goodness, as not to be debarred by the evil which you are to bring on

yourself, by the extreme baseness of the action, nor by the ruin in

which you are to involve others, let me still urge the difficulty, I

may say, the impossibility of the success. You are attacking a

fortress on a rock; a chastity so strongly defended, as well by a

happy natural disposition of mind as by the strongest principles of

religion and virtue, implanted by education and nourished and improved

by habit, that the woman must be invincible even without that firm and

constant affection of her husband which would guard a much looser and

worse-disposed heart. What therefore are you attempting but to

introduce distrust, and perhaps disunion, between an innocent and a

happy couple, in which too you cannot succeed without bringing, I am

convinced, certain destruction on your own head?

"'Desist, therefore, let me advise you, from this enormous crime;

retreat from the vain attempt of climbing a precipice which it is

impossible you should ever ascend, where you must probably soon fall

into utter perdition, and can have no other hope but of dragging down

your best friend into perdition with you.

"'I can think of but one argument more, and that, indeed, a very bad

one; you throw away that time in an impossible attempt, which might,

in other places, crown your sinful endeavours with success.'

"And so ends the dismal ditty."

"D--n me," cries one, "did ever mortal hear such d--ned stuff?"

"Upon my soul," said another, "I like the last argument well enough.

There is some sense in that; for d--n me if I had not rather go to D--

g--ss at any time than follow a virtuous b---- for a fortnight."

"Tom," says one of them, "let us set the ditty to music; let us

subscribe to have it set by Handel; it will make an excellent

oratorio."

"D--n me, Jack," says another, "we'll have it set to a psalm-tune, and

we'll sing it next Sunday at St James's church, and I'll bear a bob,

d--n me."

"Fie upon it! gentlemen, fie upon it!" said a frier, who came up; "do

you think there is any wit and humour in this ribaldry; or, if there

were, would it make any atonement for abusing religion and virtue?"

"Heyday!" cries one, "this is a frier in good earnest."

"Whatever I am," said the frier, "I hope at least you are what you

appear to be. Heaven forbid, for the sake of our posterity, that you

should be gentlemen."

"Jack," cries one, "let us toss the frier in a blanket."

"Me in a blanket?" said the frier: "by the dignity of man, I will

twist the neck of every one of you as sure as ever the neck of a

dunghill-cock was twisted." At which words he pulled off his mask, and

the tremendous majesty of Colonel Bath appeared, from which the bucks

fled away as fast as the Trojans heretofore from the face of Achilles.

The colonel did not think it worth while to pursue any other of them

except him who had the letter in his hand, which the colonel desired

to see, and the other delivered, saying it was very much at his

service.

The colonel being possessed of the letter, retired as privately as he

could, in order to give it a careful perusal; for, badly as it had

been read by the orator, there were some passages in it which had

pleased the colonel. He had just gone through it when Booth passed by

him; upon which the colonel called to him, and, delivering him the

letter, bid him put it in his pocket and read it at his leisure. He

made many encomiums upon it, and told Booth it would be of service to

him, and was proper for all young men to read.

Booth had not yet seen his wife; but, as he concluded she was safe

with Mrs. James, he was not uneasy. He had been prevented searching

farther after her by the lady in the blue domino, who had joined him

again. Booth had now made these discoveries: that the lady was pretty

well acquainted with him, that she was a woman of fashion, and that

she had a particular regard for him. But, though he was a gay man, he

was in reality so fond of his Amelia, that he thought of no other

woman; wherefore, though not absolutely a Joseph, as we have already

seen, yet could he not be guilty of premeditated inconstancy. He was

indeed so very cold and insensible to the hints which were given him,

that the lady began to complain of his dullness. When the shepherdess

again came up and heard this accusation against him, she confirmed it,

saying, "I do assure you, madam, he is the dullest fellow in the

world. Indeed, I should almost take you for his wife, by finding you a

second time with him; for I do assure you the gentleman very seldom

keeps any other company." "Are you so well acquainted with him,

madam?" said the domino. "I have had that honour longer than your

ladyship, I believe," answered the shepherdess. "Possibly you may,

madam," cries the domino; "but I wish you would not interrupt us at

present, for we have some business together." "I believe, madam,"

answered the shepherdess, "my business with the gentleman is

altogether as important as yours; and therefore your ladyship may

withdraw if you please." "My dear ladies," cries Booth, "I beg you

will not quarrel about me." "Not at all," answered the domino; "since

you are so indifferent, I resign my pretensions with all my heart. If

you had not been the dullest fellow upon earth, I am convinced you

must have discovered me." She then went off, muttering to herself that

she was satisfied the shepherdess was some wretched creature whom

nobody knew.

The shepherdess overheard the sarcasm, and answered it by asking Booth

what contemptible wretch he had picked up? "Indeed, madam," said he,

"you know as much of her as I do; she is a masquerade acquaintance

like yourself." "Like me!" repeated she. "Do you think if this had

been our first acquaintance I should have wasted so much time with you

as I have? for your part, indeed, I believe a woman will get very

little advantage by her having been formerly intimate with you." "I do

not know, madam," said Booth, "that I deserve that character any more

than I know the person that now gives it me." "And you have the

assurance then," said she, in her own voice, "to affect not to

remember me?" "I think," cries Booth, "I have heard that voice before;

but, upon my soul, I do not recollect it." "Do you recollect," said

she, "no woman that you have used with the highest barbarity--I will

not say ingratitude?" "No, upon my honour," answered Booth. "Mention

not honour," said she, "thou wretch! for, hardened as thou art, I

could shew thee a face that, in spite of thy consummate impudence,

would confound thee with shame and horrour. Dost thou not yet know

me?" "I do, madam, indeed," answered Booth, "and I confess that of all

women in the world you have the most reason for what you said."

Here a long dialogue ensued between the gentleman and the lady, whom,

I suppose, I need not mention to have been Miss Matthews; but, as it

consisted chiefly of violent upbraidings on her side, and excuses on

his, I despair of making it entertaining to the reader, and shall

therefore return to the colonel, who, having searched all the rooms

with the utmost diligence, without finding the woman he looked for,

began to suspect that he had before fixed on the right person, and

that Amelia had denied herself to him, being pleased with her

paramour, whom he had discovered to be the noble peer.

He resolved, therefore, as he could have no sport himself, to spoil

that of others; accordingly he found out Booth, and asked him again

what was become of both their wives; for that he had searched all over

the rooms, and could find neither of them.

Booth was now a little alarmed at this account, and, parting with Miss

Matthews, went along with the colonel in search of his wife. As for

Miss Matthews, he had at length pacified her with a promise to make

her a visit; which promise she extorted from him, swearing bitterly,

in the most solemn manner, unless he made it to her, she would expose

both him and herself at the masquerade.

As he knew the violence of the lady's passions, and to what heights

they were capable of rising, he was obliged to come in to these terms:

for he had, I am convinced, no fear upon earth equal to that of

Amelia's knowing what it was in the power of Miss Matthews to

communicate to her, and which to conceal from her, he had already

undergone so much uneasiness.

The colonel led Booth directly to the place where he had seen the peer

and Amelia (such he was now well convinced she was) sitting together.

Booth no sooner saw her than he said to the colonel, "Sure that is my

wife in conversation with that masque?" "I took her for your lady

myself," said the colonel; "but I found I was mistaken. Hark ye, that

is my Lord----, and I have seen that very lady with him all this

night."

This conversation past at a little distance, and out of the hearing of

the supposed Amelia; when Booth, looking stedfastly at the lady,

declared with an oath that he was positive the colonel was in the

right. She then beckoned to him with her fan; upon which he went

directly to her, and she asked him to go home, which he very readily

consented to. The peer then walked off: the colonel went in pursuit of

his wife, or of some other woman; and Booth and his lady returned in

two chairs to their lodgings.

Chapter iii.

_Consequences of the masquerade, not uncommon nor surprizing_.

The lady, getting first out of her chair, ran hastily up into the

nursery to the children; for such was Amelia's constant method at her

return home, at whatever hour. Booth then walked into the dining-room,

where he had not been long before Amelia came down to him, and, with a

most chearful countenance, said, "My dear, I fancy we have neither of

us supped; shall I go down and see whether there is any cold meat in

the house?"

"For yourself, if you please," answered Booth; "but I shall eat

nothing."

"How, my dear!" said Amelia; "I hope you have not lost your appetite

at the masquerade!" for supper was a meal at which he generally eat

very heartily.

"I know not well what I have lost," said Booth; "I find myself

disordered.--My head aches. I know not what is the matter with me."

"Indeed, my dear, you frighten me," said Amelia; "you look, indeed,

disordered. I wish the masquerade had been far enough before you had

gone thither."

"Would to Heaven it had!" cries Booth; "but that is over now. But

pray, Amelia, answer me one question--Who was that gentleman with you

when I came up to you?"

"The gentleman! my dear," said Amelia; "what gentleman?"

"The gentleman--the nobleman--when I came up; sure I speak plain."

"Upon my word, my dear, I don't understand you," answered she; "I did

not know one person at the masquerade."

"How!" said he; "what! spend the whole evening with a masque without

knowing him?"

"Why, my dear," said she, "you know we were not together."

"I know we were not," said he, "but what is that to the purpose? Sure

you answer me strangely. I know we were not together; and therefore I

ask you whom you were with?"

"Nay, but, my dear," said she, "can I tell people in masques?"

"I say again, madam," said he, "would you converse two hours or more

with a masque whom you did not know?"

"Indeed, child," says she, "I know nothing of the methods of a

masquerade; for I never was at one in my life."

"I wish to Heaven you had not been at this!" cries Booth. "Nay, you

will wish so yourself if you tell me truth.--What have I said? do I--

can I suspect you of not speaking truth? Since you are ignorant then I

will inform you: the man you have conversed with was no other than

Lord----."

"And is that the reason," said she, "you wish I had not been there?"

"And is not that reason," answered he, "sufficient? Is he not the last

man upon earth with whom I would have you converse?"

"So you really wish then that I had not been at the masquerade?"

"I do," cried he, "from my soul."

"So may I ever be able," cried she, "to indulge you in every wish as

in this.--I was not there."

"Do not trifle, Amelia," cried he; "you would not jest with me if you

knew the situation of my mind."

"Indeed I do not jest with you," said she. "Upon my honour I was not

there. Forgive me this first deceit I ever practised, and indeed it

shall be the last; for I have paid severely for this by the uneasiness

it hath given me." She then revealed to him the whole secret, which

was thus:

I think it hath been already mentioned in some part of this history

that Amelia and Mrs. Atkinson were exactly of the same make and

stature, and that there was likewise a very near resemblance between

their voices. When Mrs. Atkinson, therefore, found that Amelia was so

extremely averse to the masquerade, she proposed to go thither in her

stead, and to pass upon Booth for his own wife.

This was afterwards very easily executed; for, when they left Booth's

lodgings, Amelia, who went last to her chair, ran back to fetch her

masque, as she pretended, which she had purposely left behind. She

then whipt off her domino, and threw it over Mrs. Atkinson, who stood

ready to receive it, and ran immediately downstairs, and, stepping

into Amelia's chair, proceeded with the rest to the masquerade.

As her stature exactly suited that of Amelia, she had very little

difficulty to carry on the imposition; for, besides the natural

resemblance of their voices, and the opportunity of speaking in a

feigned one, she had scarce an intercourse of six words with Booth

during the whole time; for the moment they got into the croud she took

the first opportunity of slipping from him. And he, as the reader may

remember, being seized by other women, and concluding his wife to be

safe with Mrs. James, was very well satisfied, till the colonel set

him upon the search, as we have seen before.

Mrs. Atkinson, the moment she came home, ran upstairs to the nursery,

where she found Amelia, and told her in haste that she might very

easily carry on the deceit with her husband; for that she might tell

him what she pleased to invent, as they had not been a minute together

during the whole evening.

Booth was no sooner satisfied that his wife had not been from home

that evening than he fell into raptures with her, gave her a thousand

tender caresses, blamed his own judgment, acknowledged the goodness of

hers, and vowed never to oppose her will more in any one instance

during his life.

Mrs. Atkinson, who was still in the nursery with her masquerade dress,

was then summoned down-stairs, and, when Booth saw her and heard her

speak in her mimic tone, he declared he was not surprized at his

having been imposed upon, for that, if they were both in the same

disguise, he should scarce be able to discover the difference between

them.

They then sat down to half an hour's chearful conversation, after

which they retired all in the most perfect good humour.

Chapter iv.

_Consequences of the masquerade_.

When Booth rose in the morning he found in his pocket that letter

which had been delivered to him by Colonel Bath, which, had not chance

brought to his remembrance, he might possibly have never recollected.

He had now, however, the curiosity to open the letter, and beginning

to read it, the matter of it drew him on till he perused the whole;

for, notwithstanding the contempt cast upon it by those learned

critics the bucks, neither the subject nor the manner in which it was

treated was altogether contemptible.

But there was still another motive which induced Booth to read the

whole letter, and this was, that he presently thought he knew the

hand. He did, indeed, immediately conclude it was Dr Harrison; for the

doctor wrote a very remarkable one, and this letter contained all the

particularities of the doctor's character.

He had just finished a second reading of this letter when the doctor

himself entered the room. The good man was impatient to know the

success of Amelia's stratagem, for he bore towards her all that love

which esteem can create in a good mind, without the assistance of

those selfish considerations from which the love of wives and children

may be ordinarily deduced. The latter of which, Nature, by very subtle

and refined reasoning, suggests to us to be part of our dear selves;

and the former, as long as they remain the objects of our liking, that

same Nature is furnished with very plain and fertile arguments to

recommend to our affections. But to raise that affection in the human

breast which the doctor had for Amelia, Nature is forced to use a kind

of logic which is no more understood by a bad man than Sir Isaac

Newton's doctrine of colours is by one born blind. And yet in reality

it contains nothing more abstruse than this, that an injury is the

object of anger, danger of fear, and praise of vanity; for in the same

simple manner it may be asserted that goodness is the object of love.

The doctor enquired immediately for his child (for so he often called

Amelia); Booth answered that he had left her asleep, for that she had

had but a restless night. "I hope she is not disordered by the

masquerade," cries the doctor. Booth answered he believed she would be

very well when she waked. "I fancy," said he, "her gentle spirits were

a little too much fluttered last night; that is all."

"I hope, then," said the doctor, "you will never more insist on her

going to such places, but know your own happiness in having a wife

that hath the discretion to avoid those places; which, though perhaps

they may not be as some represent them, such brothels of vice and

debauchery as would impeach the character of every virtuous woman who

was seen at them, are certainly, however, scenes of riot, disorder,

and intemperance, very improper to be frequented by a chaste and sober

Christian matron."

Booth declared that he was very sensible of his error, and that, so

far from soliciting his wife to go to another masquerade, he did not

intend ever to go thither any more himself.

The doctor highly approved the resolution; and then Booth said, "And I

thank you, my dear friend, as well as my wife's discretion, that she

was not at the masquerade last night." He then related to the doctor

the discovery of the plot; and the good man was greatly pleased with

the success of the stratagem, and that Booth took it in such good

part.

"But, sir," says Booth, "I had a letter given me by a noble colonel

there, which is written in a hand so very like yours, that I could

almost swear to it. Nor is the stile, as far as I can guess, unlike

your own. Here it is, sir. Do you own the letter, doctor, or do you

not?"

The doctor took the letter, and, having looked at it a moment, said,

"And did the colonel himself give you this letter?"

"The colonel himself," answered Booth.

"Why then," cries the doctor, "he is surely the most impudent fellow

that the world ever produced. What! did he deliver it with an air of

triumph?"

"He delivered it me with air enough," cries Booth, "after his own

manner, and bid me read it for my edification. To say the truth, I am

a little surprized that he should single me out of all mankind to

deliver the letter to; I do not think I deserve the character of such

a husband. It is well I am not so very forward to take an affront as

some folks."

"I am glad to see you are not," said the doctor; "and your behaviour

in this affair becomes both the man of sense and the Christian; for it

would be surely the greatest folly, as well as the most daring

impiety, to risque your own life for the impertinence of a fool. As

long as you are assured of the virtue of your own wife, it is wisdom

in you to despise the efforts of such a wretch. Not, indeed, that your

wife accuses him of any downright attack, though she hath observed

enough in his behaviour to give offence to her delicacy."

"You astonish me, doctor," said Booth. "What can you mean? my wife

dislike his behaviour! hath the colonel ever offended her?"

"I do not say he hath ever offended her by any open declarations; nor

hath he done anything which, according to the most romantic notion of

honour, you can or ought to resent; but there is something extremely

nice in the chastity of a truly virtuous woman."

"And hath my wife really complained of anything of that kind in the

colonel?"

"Look ye, young gentleman," cries the doctor; "I will have no

quarrelling or challenging; I find I have made some mistake, and

therefore I insist upon it by all the rights of friendship, that you

give me your word of honour you will not quarrel with the colonel on

this account."

"I do, with all my heart," said Booth; "for, if I did not know your

character, I should absolutely think you was jesting with me. I do not

think you have mistaken my wife, but I am sure she hath mistaken the

colonel, and hath misconstrued some over-strained point of gallantry,

something of the Quixote kind, into a design against her chastity; but

I have that opinion of the colonel, that I hope you will not be

offended when I declare I know not which of you two I should be the

sooner jealous of."

"I would by no means have you jealous of any one," cries the doctor;

"for I think my child's virtue may be firmly relied on; but I am

convinced she would not have said what she did to me without a cause;

nor should I, without such a conviction, have written that letter to

the colonel, as I own to you I did. However, nothing I say hath yet

past which, even in the opinion of false honour, you are at liberty to

resent! but as to declining any great intimacy, if you will take my

advice, I think that would be prudent."

"You will pardon me, my dearest friend," said Booth, "but I have

really such an opinion of the colonel that I would pawn my life upon

his honour; and as for women, I do not believe he ever had an

attachment to any."

"Be it so," said the doctor: "I have only two things to insist on. The

first is, that, if ever you change your opinion, this letter may not

be the subject of any quarrelling or fighting: the other is, that you

never mention a word of this to your wife. By the latter I shall see

whether you can keep a secret; and, if it is no otherwise material, it

will be a wholesome exercise to your mind; for the practice of any

virtue is a kind of mental exercise, and serves to maintain the health

and vigour of the soul."

"I faithfully promise both," cries Booth. And now the breakfast

entered the room, as did soon after Amelia and Mrs. Atkinson.

The conversation ran chiefly on the masquerade; and Mrs. Atkinson gave

an account of several adventures there; but whether she told the whole

truth with regard to herself I will not determine, for, certain it is,

she never once mentioned the name of the noble peer. Amongst the rest,

she said there was a young fellow that had preached a sermon there

upon a stool, in praise of adultery, she believed; for she could not

get near enough to hear the particulars.

During that transaction Booth had been engaged with the blue domino in

another room, so that he knew nothing of it; so that what Mrs.

Atkinson had now said only brought to his mind the doctor's letter to

Colonel Bath, for to him he supposed it was written; and the idea of

the colonel being a lover to Amelia struck him in so ridiculous a

light, that it threw him into a violent fit of laughter.

The doctor, who, from the natural jealousy of an author, imputed the

agitation of Booth's muscles to his own sermon or letter on that

subject, was a little offended, and said gravely, "I should be glad to

know the reason of this immoderate mirth. Is adultery a matter of jest

in your opinion?"

"Far otherwise," answered Booth. "But how is it possible to refrain

from laughter at the idea of a fellow preaching a sermon in favour of

it at such a place?"

"I am very sorry," cries the doctor, "to find the age is grown to so

scandalous a degree of licentiousness, that we have thrown off not

only virtue, but decency. How abandoned must be the manners of any

nation where such insults upon religion and morality can be committed

with impunity! No man is fonder of true wit and humour than myself;

but to profane sacred things with jest and scoffing is a sure sign of

a weak and a wicked mind. It is the very vice which Homer attacks in

the odious character of Thersites. The ladies must excuse my repeating

the passage to you, as I know you have Greek enough to understand

it:--

Os rh' epea phresin esin akosma te, polla te ede

Maps, atar ou kata kosmon epizemenai basileusin,

All'o, ti oi eisaito geloiton Argeiosin

Emmenai

[Footnote: Thus paraphrased by Mr. Pope:

"Awed by no shame, by no respect controll'd,

In scandal busy, in reproaches bold,

With witty malice, studious to defame,

Scorn all his joy, and laughter all his aim."]

And immediately adds,

----aiskistos de aner ypo Ilion elthe

[Footnote: "He was the greatest scoundrel in the whole army."]

"Horace, again, describes such a rascal:

----Solutos

Qui captat risus hominum famamque dicacis,

[Footnote: "Who trivial bursts of laughter strives to raise,

And courts of prating petulance the praise."--FRANCIS.]

and says of him,

Hic niger est, hunc tu, Romane, caveto."

[Footnote: "This man is black; do thou, O Roman! shun this man."]

"O charming Homer!" said Mrs. Atkinson, "how much above all other

writers!"

"I ask your pardon, madam," said the doctor; "I forgot you was a

scholar; but, indeed, I did not know you understood Greek as well as

Latin."

"I do not pretend," said she, "to be a critic in the Greek; but I

think I am able to read a little of Homer, at least with the help of

looking now and then into the Latin."

"Pray, madam," said the doctor, "how do you like this passage in the

speech of Hector to Andromache:

----Eis oikon iousa ta sautes erga komize,

Iston t elakaten te, kai amphipoloisi keleue

Ergon epoichesthai?

[Footnote: "Go home and mind your own business. Follow your

spinning, and keep your maids to their work."]

"Or how do you like the character of Hippodamia, who, by being the

prettiest girl and best workwoman of her age, got one of the best

husbands in all Troy?--I think, indeed, Homer enumerates her

discretion with her other qualifications; but I do not remember he

gives us one character of a woman of learning.--Don't you conceive

this to be a great omission in that who, by being the prettiest girl

and best workwoman of her age, got one of the best husbands in all

Troy?---I think, indeed, Homer enumerates her discretion with her

other qualifications; but I do not remember Don't you conceive this to

be a great omission in that charming poet? However, Juvenal makes you

amends, for he talks very abundantly of the learning of the Roman

ladies in his time."

"You are a provoking man, doctor," said Mrs. Atkinson; "where is the

harm in a woman's having learning as well as a man?"

"Let me ask you another question," said the doctor. "Where is the harm

in a man's being a fine performer with a needle as well as a woman?

And yet, answer me honestly; would you greatly chuse to marry a man

with a thimble upon his finger? Would you in earnest think a needle

became the hand of your husband as well as a halberd?"

"As to war, I am with you," said she. "Homer himself, I well remember,

makes Hector tell his wife that warlike works--what is the Greek word

--Pollemy--something--belonged to men only; and I readily agree to it.

I hate a masculine woman, an Amazon, as much as you can do; but what

is there masculine in learning?"

"Nothing so masculine, take my word for it. As for your Pollemy, I

look upon it to be the true characteristic of a devil. So Homer

everywhere characterizes Mars."

"Indeed, my dear," cries the serjeant, "you had better not dispute

with the doctor; for, upon my word, he will be too hard for you."

"Nay, I beg _you_ will not interfere," cries Mrs. Atkinson; "I am sure

_you_ can be no judge in these matters."

At which the doctor and Booth burst into a loud laugh; and Amelia,

though fearful of giving her friend offence, could not forbear a

gentle smile.

"You may laugh, gentlemen, if you please," said Mrs. Atkinson; "but I

thank Heaven I have married a man who is not jealous of my

understanding. I should have been the most miserable woman upon earth

with a starched pedant who was possessed of that nonsensical opinion

that the difference of sexes causes any difference in the mind. Why

don't you honestly avow the Turkish notion that women have no souls?

for you say the same thing in effect."

"Indeed, my dear," cries the serjeant, greatly concerned to see his

wife so angry, "you have mistaken the doctor."

"I beg, my dear," cried she, "_you_ will say nothing upon these

subjects--I hope _you_ at least do not despise my understanding."

"I assure you, I do not," said the serjeant; "and I hope you will

never despise mine; for a man may have some understanding, I hope,

without learning."

Mrs. Atkinson reddened extremely at these words; and the doctor,

fearing he had gone too far, began to soften matters, in which Amelia

assisted him. By these means, the storm rising in Mrs. Atkinson before

was in some measure laid, at least suspended from bursting at present;

but it fell afterwards upon the poor serjeant's head in a torrent, who

had learned perhaps one maxim from his trade, that a cannon-ball

always doth mischief in proportion to the resistance it meets with,

and that nothing so effectually deadens its force as a woolpack. The

serjeant therefore bore all with patience; and the idea of a woolpack,

perhaps, bringing that of a feather-bed into his head, he at last not

only quieted his wife, but she cried out with great sincerity, "Well,

my dear, I will say one thing for you, that I believe from my soul,

though you have no learning, you have the best understanding of any

man upon earth; and I must own I think the latter far the more

profitable of the two."

Far different was the idea she entertained of the doctor, whom, from

this day, she considered as a conceited pedant; nor could all Amelia's

endeavours ever alter her sentiments.

The doctor now took his leave of Booth and his wife for a week, he

intending to set out within an hour or two with his old friend, with

whom our readers were a little acquainted at the latter end of the

ninth book, and of whom, perhaps, they did not then conceive the most

favourable opinion.

Nay, I am aware that the esteem which some readers before had for the

doctor may be here lessened; since he may appear to have been too easy

a dupe to the gross flattery of the old gentleman. If there be any

such critics, we are heartily sorry, as well for them as for the

doctor; but it is our business to discharge the part of a faithful

historian, and to describe human nature as it is, not as we would wish

it to be.

Chapter V

_In which Colonel Bath appears in great glory_.

That afternoon, as Booth was walking in the Park, he met with Colonel

Bath, who presently asked him for the letter which he had given him

the night before; upon which Booth immediately returned it.

"Don't you think," cries Bath, "it is writ with great dignity of

expression and emphasis of--of--of judgment?"

"I am surprized, though," cries Booth, "that any one should write such

a letter to you, colonel."

"To me!" said Bath. "What do you mean, sir? I hope you don't imagine

any man durst write such a letter to me? d--n me, if I knew a man who

thought me capable of debauching my friend's wife, I would--d--n me."

"I believe, indeed, sir," cries Booth, "that no man living dares put

his name to such a letter; but you see it is anonymous."

"I don't know what you mean by ominous," cries the colonel; "but,

blast my reputation, if I had received such a letter, if I would not

have searched the world to have found the writer. D--n me, I would

have gone to the East Indies to have pulled off his nose."

"He would, indeed, have deserved it," cries Booth. "But pray, sir, how

came you by it?"

"I took it," said the colonel, "from a sett of idle young rascals, one

of whom was reading it out aloud upon a stool, while the rest were

attempting to make a jest, not only of the letter, but of all decency,

virtue, and religion. A sett of fellows that you must have seen or

heard of about the town, that are, d--n me, a disgrace to the dignity

of manhood; puppies that mistake noise and impudence, rudeness and

profaneness, for wit. If the drummers of my company had not more

understanding than twenty such fellows, I'd have them both whipt out

of the regiment."

"So, then, you do not know the person to whom it was writ?" said

Booth.

"Lieutenant," cries the colonel, "your question deserves no answer. I

ought to take time to consider whether I ought not to resent the

supposition. Do you think, sir, I am acquainted with a rascal?"

"I do not suppose, colonel," cries Booth, "that you would willingly

cultivate an intimacy with such a person; but a man must have good

luck who hath any acquaintance if there are not some rascals among

them."

"I am not offended with you, child," says the colonel. "I know you did

not intend to offend me."

"No man, I believe, dares intend it," said Booth.

"I believe so too," said the colonel; "d--n me, I know it. But you

know, child, how tender I am on this subject. If I had been ever

married myself, I should have cleft the man's skull who had dared look

wantonly at my wife."

"It is certainly the most cruel of all injuries," said Booth. "How

finely doth Shakespeare express it in his Othello!

'But there, where I had treasured up my soul.'"

"That Shakespeare," cries the colonel, "was a fine fellow. He was a

very pretty poet indeed. Was it not Shakespeare that wrote the play

about Hotspur? You must remember these lines. I got them almost by

heart at the playhouse; for I never missed that play whenever it was

acted, if I was in town:--

By Heav'n it was an easy leap,

To pluck bright honour into the full moon,

Or drive into the bottomless deep.

And--and--faith, I have almost forgot them; but I know it is something

about saving your honour from drowning--O! it is very fine! I say, d--

n me, the man that writ those lines was the greatest poet the world

ever produced. There is dignity of expression and emphasis of

thinking, d--n me."

Booth assented to the colonel's criticism, and then cried, "I wish,

colonel, you would be so kind to give me that letter." The colonel

answered, if he had any particular use for it he would give it him

with all his heart, and presently delivered it; and soon afterwards

they parted.

Several passages now struck all at once upon Booth's mind, which gave

him great uneasiness. He became confident now that he had mistaken one

colonel for another; and, though he could not account for the letter's

getting into those hands from whom Bath had taken it (indeed James had

dropt it out of his pocket), yet a thousand circumstances left him no

room to doubt the identity of the person, who was a man much more

liable to raise the suspicion of a husband than honest Bath, who would

at any time have rather fought with a man than lain with a woman.

The whole behaviour of Amelia now rushed upon his memory. Her

resolution not to take up her residence at the colonel's house, her

backwardness even to dine there, her unwillingness to go to the

masquerade, many of her unguarded expressions, and some where she had

been more guarded, all joined together to raise such an idea in Mr.

Booth, that he had almost taken a resolution to go and cut the colonel

to pieces in his own house. Cooler thoughts, however, suggested

themselves to him in time. He recollected the promise he had so

solemnly made to the doctor. He considered, moreover, that he was yet

in the dark as to the extent of the colonel's guilt. Having nothing,

therefore, to fear from it, he contented himself to postpone a

resentment which he nevertheless resolved to take of the colonel

hereafter, if he found he was in any degree a delinquent.

The first step he determined to take was, on the first opportunity, to

relate to Colonel James the means by which he became possessed of the

letter, and to read it to him; on which occasion, he thought he should

easily discern by the behaviour of the colonel whether he had been

suspected either by Amelia or the doctor without a cause; but as for

his wife, he fully resolved not to reveal the secret to her till the

doctor's return.

While Booth was deeply engaged by himself in these meditations,

Captain Trent came up to him, and familiarly slapped him on the

shoulder.

They were soon joined by a third gentleman, and presently afterwards

by a fourth, both acquaintances of Mr. Trent; and all having walked

twice the length of the Mall together, it being now past nine in the

evening, Trent proposed going to the tavern, to which the strangers

immediately consented; and Booth himself, after some resistance, was

at length persuaded to comply.

To the King's Arms then they went, where the bottle went very briskly

round till after eleven; at which time Trent proposed a game at cards,

to which proposal likewise Booth's consent was obtained, though not

without much difficulty; for, though he had naturally some inclination

to gaming, and had formerly a little indulged it, yet he had entirely

left it off for many years.

Booth and his friend were partners, and had at first some success; but

Fortune, according to her usual conduct, soon shifted about, and

persecuted Booth with such malice, that in about two hours he was

stripped of all the gold in his pocket, which amounted to twelve

guineas, being more than half the cash which he was at that time

worth.

How easy it is for a man who is at all tainted with the itch of gaming

to leave off play in such a situation, especially when he is likewise

heated with liquor, I leave to the gamester to determine. Certain it

is that Booth had no inclination to desist; but, on the contrary, was

so eagerly bent on playing on, that he called his friend out of the

room, and asked him for ten pieces, which he promised punctually to

pay the next morning.

Trent chid him for using so much formality on the occasion. "You

know," said he, "dear Booth, you may have what money you please of me.

Here is a twenty-pound note at your service; and, if you want five

times the sum, it is at your service. We will never let these fellows

go away with our money in this manner; for we have so much the

advantage, that if the knowing ones were here they would lay odds of

our side."

But if this was really Mr. rent's opinion, he was very much mistaken;

for the other two honourable gentlemen were not only greater masters

of the game, and somewhat soberer than poor Booth, having, with all

the art in their power, evaded the bottle, but they had, moreover,

another small advantage over their adversaries, both of them, by means

of some certain private signs, previously agreed upon between them,

being always acquainted with the principal cards in each other's

hands. It cannot be wondered, therefore, that Fortune was on their

side; for, however she may be reported to favour fools, she never, I

believe, shews them any countenance when they engage in play with

knaves.

The more Booth lost, the deeper he made his bets; the consequence of

which was, that about two in the morning, besides the loss of his own

money, he was fifty pounds indebted to Trent: a sum, indeed, which he

would not have borrowed, had not the other, like a very generous

friend, pushed it upon him.

Trent's pockets became at last dry by means of these loans. His own

loss, indeed, was trifling; for the stakes of the games were no higher

than crowns, and betting (as it is called) was that to which Booth

owed his ruin. The gentlemen, therefore, pretty well knowing Booth's

circumstances, and being kindly unwilling to win more of a man than he

was worth, declined playing any longer, nor did Booth once ask them to

persist, for he was ashamed of the debt which he had already

contracted to Trent, and very far from desiring to encrease it.

The company then separated. The two victors and Trent went off in

their chairs to their several houses near Grosvenor-square, and poor

Booth, in a melancholy mood, walked home to his lodgings. He was,

indeed, in such a fit of despair, that it more than once came into his

head to put an end to his miserable being.

But before we introduce him to Amelia we must do her the justice to

relate the manner in which she spent this unhappy evening. It was

about seven when Booth left her to walk in the park; from this time

till past eight she was employed with her children, in playing with

them, in giving them their supper, and in putting them to bed.

When these offices were performed she employed herself another hour in

cooking up a little supper for her husband, this being, as we have

already observed, his favourite meal, as indeed it was her's; and, in

a most pleasant and delightful manner, they generally passed their

time at this season, though their fare was very seldom of the

sumptuous kind.

It now grew dark, and her hashed mutton was ready for the table, but

no Booth appeared. Having waited therefore for him a full hour, she

gave him over for that evening; nor was she much alarmed at his

absence, as she knew he was in a night or two to be at the tavern with

some brother-officers; she concluded therefore that they had met in

the park, and had agreed to spend this evening together.

At ten then she sat down to supper by herself, for Mrs. Atkinson was

then abroad. And here we cannot help relating a little incident,

however trivial it may appear to some. Having sat some time alone,

reflecting on their distressed situation, her spirits grew very low;

and she was once or twice going to ring the bell to send her maid for

half-a-pint of white wine, but checked her inclination in order to

save the little sum of sixpence, which she did the more resolutely as

she had before refused to gratify her children with tarts for their

supper from the same motive. And this self-denial she was very

probably practising to save sixpence, while her husband was paying a

debt of several guineas incurred by the ace of trumps being in the

hands of his adversary.

Instead therefore of this cordial she took up one of the excellent

Farquhar's comedies, and read it half through; when, the clock

striking twelve, she retired to bed, leaving the maid to sit up for

her master. She would, indeed, have much more willingly sat up

herself, but the delicacy of her own mind assured her that Booth would

not thank her for the compliment. This is, indeed, a method which some

wives take of upbraiding their husbands for staying abroad till too

late an hour, and of engaging them, through tenderness and good

nature, never to enjoy the company of their friends too long when they

must do this at the expence of their wives' rest.

To bed then she went, but not to sleep. Thrice indeed she told the

dismal clock, and as often heard the more dismal watchman, till her

miserable husband found his way home, and stole silently like a thief

to bed to her; at which time, pretending then first to awake, she

threw her snowy arms around him; though, perhaps, the more witty

property of snow, according to Addison, that is to say its coldness,

rather belonged to the poor captain.

Chapter vi.

_Read, gamester, and observe_.

Booth could not so well disguise the agitations of his mind from

Amelia, but that she perceived sufficient symptoms to assure her that

some misfortune had befallen him. This made her in her turn so uneasy

that Booth took notice of it, and after breakfast said, "Sure, my dear

Emily, something hath fallen out to vex you."

Amelia, looking tenderly at him, answered, "Indeed, my dear, you are

in the right; I am indeed extremely vexed." "For Heaven's sake," said

he, "what is it?" "Nay, my love," cried she, "that you must answer

yourself. Whatever it is which hath given you all that disturbance

that you in vain endeavour to conceal from me, this it is which causes

all my affliction."

"You guess truly, my sweet," replied Booth; "I am indeed afflicted,

and I will not, nay I cannot, conceal the truth from you. I have

undone myself, Amelia."

"What have you done, child?" said she, in some consternation; "pray,

tell me."

"I have lost my money at play," answered he.

"Pugh!" said she, recovering herself--"what signifies the trifle you

had in your pocket? Resolve never to play again, and let it give you

no further vexation; I warrant you, we will contrive some method to

repair such a loss."

"Thou heavenly angel! thou comfort of my soul!" cried Booth, tenderly

embracing her; then starting a little from her arms, and looking with

eager fondness in her eyes, he said, "Let me survey thee; art thou

really human, or art thou not rather an angel in a human form? O, no,"

cried he, flying again into her arms, "thou art my dearest woman, my

best, my beloved wife!"

Amelia, having returned all his caresses with equal kindness, told him

she had near eleven guineas in her purse, and asked how much she

should fetch him. "I would not advise you, Billy, to carry too much in

your pocket, for fear it should be a temptation to you to return to

gaming, in order to retrieve your past losses. Let me beg you, on all

accounts, never to think more, if possible, on the trifle you have

lost, anymore than if you had never possessed it."

Booth promised her faithfully he never would, and refused to take any

of the money. He then hesitated a moment, and cried--"You say, my

dear, you have eleven guineas; you have a diamond ring, likewise,

which was your grandmother's--I believe that is worth twenty pounds;

and your own and the child's watch are worth as much more."

"I believe they would sell for as much," cried Amelia; "for a

pawnbroker of Mrs. Atkinson's acquaintance offered to lend me thirty-

five pounds upon them when you was in your last distress. But why are

you computing their value now?"

"I was only considering," answered he, "how much we could raise in any

case of exigency."

"I have computed it myself," said she; "and I believe all we have in

the world, besides our bare necessary apparel, would produce about

sixty pounds: and suppose, my dear," said she, "while we have that

little sum, we should think of employing it some way or other, to

procure some small subsistence for ourselves and our family. As for

your dependence on the colonel's friendship, it is all vain, I am

afraid, and fallacious. Nor do I see any hopes you have from any other

quarter, of providing for yourself again in the army. And though the

sum which is now in our power is very small, yet we may possibly

contrive with it to put ourselves into some mean way of livelihood. I

have a heart, my Billy, which is capable of undergoing anything for

your sake; and I hope my hands are as able to work as those which have

been more inured to it. But think, my dear, think what must be our

wretched condition, when the very little we now have is all mouldered

away, as it will soon be in this town."

When poor Booth heard this, and reflected that the time which Amelia

foresaw was already arrived (for that he had already lost every

farthing they were worth), it touched him to the quick; he turned

pale, gnashed his teeth, and cried out, "Damnation! this is too much

to bear."

Amelia was thrown into the utmost consternation by this behaviour;

and, with great terror in her countenance, cried out, "Good Heavens!

my dear love, what is the reason of this agony?"

"Ask me no questions," cried he, "unless you would drive me to

madness."

"My Billy! my love!" said she, "what can be the meaning of this?--I

beg you will deal openly with me, and tell me all your griefs."

"Have you dealt fairly with me, Amelia?" said he.

"Yes, surely," said she; "Heaven is my witness how fairly."

"Nay, do not call Heaven," cried he, "to witness a falsehood. You have

not dealt openly with me, Amelia. You have concealed secrets from me;

secrets which I ought to have known, and which, if I had known, it had

been better for us both."

"You astonish me as much as you shock me," cried she. "What falsehood,

what treachery have I been guilty of?"

"You tell me," said he, "that I can have no reliance on James; why did

not you tell me so before?"

"I call Heaven again," said she, "to witness; nay, I appeal to

yourself for the truth of it; I have often told you so. I have told

you I disliked the man, notwithstanding the many favours he had done

you. I desired you not to have too absolute a reliance upon him. I own

I had once an extreme good opinion of him, but I changed it, and I

acquainted you that I had so--"

"But not," cries he, "with the reasons why you had changed it."

"I was really afraid, my dear," said she, "of going too far. I knew

the obligations you had to him; and if I suspected that he acted

rather from vanity than true friendship--"

"Vanity!" cries he; "take care, Amelia: you know his motive to be much

worse than vanity--a motive which, if he had piled obligations on me

till they had reached the skies, would tumble all down to hell. It is

vain to conceal it longer--I know all--your confidant hath told me

all."

"Nay, then," cries she, "on my knees I entreat you to be pacified, and

hear me out. It was, my dear, for you, my dread of your jealous

honour, and the fatal consequences."

"Is not Amelia, then," cried he, "equally jealous of my honour? Would

she, from a weak tenderness for my person, go privately about to

betray, to undermine the most invaluable treasure of my soul? Would

she have me pointed at as the credulous dupe, the easy fool, the tame,

the kind cuckold, of a rascal with whom I conversed as a friend?"

"Indeed you injure me," said Amelia. "Heaven forbid I should have the

trial! but I think I could sacrifice all I hold most dear to preserve

your honour. I think I have shewn I can. But I will--when you are

cool, I will--satisfy you I have done nothing you ought to blame."

"I am cool then," cries he; "I will with the greatest coolness hear

you.--But do not think, Amelia, I have the least jealousy, the least

suspicion, the least doubt of your honour. It is your want of

confidence in me alone which I blame."

"When you are calm," cried she, "I will speak, and not before."

He assured her he was calm; and then she said, "You have justified my

conduct by your present passion, in concealing from you my suspicions;

for they were no more, nay, it is possible they were unjust; for since

the doctor, in betraying the secret to you, hath so far falsified my

opinion of him, why may I not be as well deceived in my opinion of the

colonel, since it was only formed on some particulars in his behaviour

which I disliked? for, upon my honour, he never spoke a word to me,

nor hath been ever guilty of any direct action, which I could blame."

She then went on, and related most of the circumstances which she had

mentioned to the doctor, omitting one or two of the strongest, and

giving such a turn to the rest, that, if Booth had not had some of

Othello's blood in him, his wife would have almost appeared a prude in

his eyes. Even he, however, was pretty well pacified by this

narrative, and said he was glad to find a possibility of the colonel's

innocence; but that he greatly commended the prudence of his wife, and

only wished she would for the future make him her only confidant.

Amelia, upon that, expressed some bitterness against the doctor for

breaking his trust; when Booth, in his excuse, related all the

circumstances of the letter, and plainly convinced her that the secret

had dropt by mere accident from the mouth of the doctor.

Thus the husband and wife became again reconciled, and poor Amelia

generously forgave a passion of which the sagacious reader is better

acquainted with the real cause than was that unhappy lady.

Chapter vii.

_In which Booth receives a visit from Captain Trent_.

When Booth grew perfectly cool, and began to reflect that he had

broken his word to the doctor, in having made the discovery to his

wife which we have seen in the last chapter, that thought gave him

great uneasiness; and now, to comfort him, Captain Trent came to make

him a visit.

This was, indeed, almost the last man in the world whose company he

wished for; for he was the only man he was ashamed to see, for a

reason well known to gamesters; among whom, the most dishonourable of

all things is not to pay a debt, contracted at the gaming-table, the

next day, or the next time at least that you see the party.

Booth made no doubt but that Trent was come on purpose to receive this

debt; the latter had been therefore scarce a minute in the room before

Booth began, in an aukward manner, to apologise; but Trent immediately

stopt his mouth, and said, "I do not want the money, Mr. Booth, and

you may pay it me whenever you are able; and, if you are never able, I

assure you I will never ask you for it."

This generosity raised such a tempest of gratitude in Booth (if I may

be allowed the expression), that the tears burst from his eyes, and it

was some time before he could find any utterance for those sentiments

with which his mind overflowed; but, when he began to express his

thankfulness, Trent immediately stopt him, and gave a sudden turn to

their discourse.

Mrs. Trent had been to visit Mrs. Booth on the masquerade evening,

which visit Mrs. Booth had not yet returned. Indeed, this was only the

second day since she had received it. Trent therefore now told his

friend that he should take it extremely kind if he and his lady would

waive all ceremony, and sup at their house the next evening. Booth

hesitated a moment, but presently said, "I am pretty certain my wife

is not engaged, and I will undertake for her. I am sure she will not

refuse anything Mr. Trent can ask." And soon after Trent took Booth

with him to walk in the Park.

There were few greater lovers of a bottle than Trent; he soon proposed

therefore to adjourn to the King's Arms tavern, where Booth, though

much against his inclination, accompanied him. But Trent was very

importunate, and Booth did not think himself at liberty to refuse such

a request to a man from whom he had so lately received such

obligations.

When they came to the tavern, however, Booth recollected the omission

he had been guilty of the night before. He wrote a short note

therefore to his wife, acquainting her that he should not come home to

supper; but comforted her with a faithful promise that he would on no

account engage himself in gaming.

The first bottle passed in ordinary conversation; but, when they had

tapped the second, Booth, on some hints which Trent gave him, very

fairly laid open to him his whole circumstances, and declared he

almost despaired of mending them. "My chief relief," said he, "was in

the interest of Colonel James; but I have given up those hopes."

"And very wisely too," said Trent "I say nothing of the colonel's good

will. Very likely he may be your sincere friend; but I do not believe

he hath the interest he pretends to. He hath had too many favours in

his own family to ask any more yet a while. But I am mistaken if you

have not a much more powerful friend than the colonel; one who is both

able and willing to serve you. I dined at his table within these two

days, and I never heard kinder nor warmer expressions from the mouth

of man than he made use of towards you. I make no doubt you know whom

I mean."

"Upon my honour I do not," answered Booth; "nor did I guess that I had

such a friend in the world as you mention."

"I am glad then," cries Trent, "that I have the pleasure of informing

you of it." He then named the noble peer who hath been already so

often mentioned in this history.

Booth turned pale and started at his name. "I forgive you, my dear

Trent," cries Booth, "for mentioning his name to me, as you are a

stranger to what hath passed between us."

"Nay, I know nothing that hath passed between you," answered Trent. "I

am sure, if there is any quarrel between you of two days' standing,

all is forgiven on his part."

"D--n his forgiveness!" said Booth. "Perhaps I ought to blush at what

I have forgiven."

"You surprize me!" cries Trent. "Pray what can be the matter?"

"Indeed, my dear Trent," cries Booth, very gravely, "he would have

injured me in the tenderest part. I know not how to tell it you; but

he would have dishonoured me with my wife."

"Sure, you are not in earnest!" answered Trent; "but, if you are, you

will pardon me for thinking that impossible."

"Indeed," cries Booth, "I have so good an opinion of my wife as to

believe it impossible for him to succeed; but that he should intend me

the favour you will not, I believe, think an impossibility."

"Faith! not in the least," said Trent. "Mrs. Booth is a very fine

woman; and, if I had the honour to be her husband, I should not be

angry with any man for liking her."

"But you would be angry," said Booth, "with a man, who should make use

of stratagems and contrivances to seduce her virtue; especially if he

did this under the colour of entertaining the highest friendship for

yourself."

"Not at all," cries Trent. "It is human nature."

"Perhaps it is," cries Booth; "but it is human nature depraved, stript

of all its worth, and loveliness, and dignity, and degraded down to a

level with the vilest brutes."

"Look ye, Booth," cries Trent, "I would not be misunderstood. I think,

when I am talking to you, I talk to a man of sense and to an

inhabitant of this country, not to one who dwells in a land of saints.

If you have really such an opinion as you express of this noble lord,

you have the finest opportunity of making a complete fool and bubble

of him that any man can desire, and of making your own fortune at the

same time. I do not say that your suspicions are groundless; for, of

all men upon earth I know, my lord is the greatest bubble to women,

though I believe he hath had very few. And this I am confident of,

that he hath not the least jealousy of these suspicions. Now,

therefore, if you will act the part of a wise man, I will undertake

that you shall make your fortune without the least injury to the

chastity of Mrs. Booth."

"I do not understand you, sir," said Booth.

"Nay," cries Trent, "if you will not understand me, I have done. I

meant only your service; and I thought I had known you better."

Booth begged him to explain himself. "If you can," said he, "shew me

any way to improve such circumstances as I have opened to you, you may

depend on it I shall readily embrace it, and own my obligations to

you."

"That is spoken like a man," cries Trent. "Why, what is it more than

this? Carry your suspicions in your own bosom. Let Mrs. Booth, in

whose virtue I am sure you may be justly confident, go to the public

places; there let her treat my lord with common civility only; I am

sure he will bite. And thus, without suffering him to gain his

purpose, you will gain yours. I know several who have succeeded with

him in this manner."

"I am very sorry, sir," cries Booth, "that you are acquainted with any

such rascals. I do assure you, rather than I would act such a part, I

would submit to the hardest sentence that fortune could pronounce

against me."

"Do as you please, sir," said Trent; "I have only ventured to advise

you as a friend. But do you not think your nicety is a little over-

scrupulous?"

"You will excuse me, sir," said Booth; "but I think no man can be too

scrupulous in points which concern his honour."

"I know many men of very nice honour," answered Trent, "who have gone

much farther; and no man, I am sure, had ever a better excuse for it

than yourself. You will forgive me, Booth, since what I speak proceeds

from my love to you; nay, indeed, by mentioning your affairs to me,

which I am heartily sorry for, you have given me a right to speak. You

know best what friends you have to depend upon; but, if you have no

other pretensions than your merit, I can assure you you would fail, if

it was possible you could have ten times more merit than you have.

And, if you love your wife, as I am convinced you do, what must be

your condition in seeing her want the necessaries of life?"

"I know my condition is very hard," cries Booth; "but I have one

comfort in it, which I will never part with, and that is innocence. As

to the mere necessaries of life, however, it is pretty difficult to

deprive us of them; this I am sure of, no one can want them long."

"Upon my word, sir," cries Trent, "I did not know you had been so

great a philosopher. But, believe me, these matters look much less

terrible at a distance than when they are actually present. You will

then find, I am afraid, that honour hath no more skill in cookery than

Shakspear tells us it hath in surgery. D--n me if I don't wish his

lordship loved my wife as well as he doth yours, I promise you I would

trust her virtue; and, if he should get the better of it, I should

have people of fashion enough to keep me in countenance."

Their second bottle being now almost out, Booth, without making any

answer, called for a bill. Trent pressed very much the drinking

another bottle, but Booth absolutely refused, and presently afterwards

they parted, not extremely well satisfied with each other. They

appeared, indeed, one to the other, in disadvantageous lights of a

very different kind. Trent concluded Booth to be a very silly fellow,

and Booth began to suspect that Trent was very little better than a

scoundrel.

Chapter viii.

_Contains a letter and other matters_.

We will now return to Amelia; to whom, immediately upon her husband's

departure to walk with Mr. Trent, a porter brought the following

letter, which she immediately opened and read:

"MADAM,--The quick despatch which I have given to your first commands

will I hope assure you of the diligence with which I shall always obey

every command that you are pleased to honour me with. I have, indeed,

in this trifling affair, acted as if my life itself had been at stake;

nay, I know not but it may be so; for this insignificant matter, you

was pleased to tell me, would oblige the charming person in whose

power is not only my happiness, but, as I am well persuaded, my life

too. Let me reap therefore some little advantage in your eyes, as you

have in mine, from this trifling occasion; for, if anything could add

to the charms of which you are mistress, it would be perhaps that

amiable zeal with which you maintain the cause of your friend. I hope,

indeed, she will be my friend and advocate with the most lovely of her

sex, as I think she hath reason, and as you was pleased to insinuate

she had been. Let me beseech you, madam, let not that dear heart,

whose tenderness is so inclined to compassionate the miseries of

others, be hardened only against the sufferings which itself

occasions. Let not that man alone have reason to think you cruel, who,

of all others, would do the most to procure your kindness. How often

have I lived over in my reflections, in my dreams, those two short

minutes we were together! But, alas! how faint are these mimicries of

the imagination! What would I not give to purchase the reality of such

another blessing! This, madam, is in your power to bestow on the man

who hath no wish, no will, no fortune, no heart, no life, but what are

at your disposal. Grant me only the favour to be at Lady----'s

assembly. You can have nothing to fear from indulging me with a

moment's sight, a moment's conversation; I will ask no more. I know

your delicacy, and had rather die than offend it. Could I have seen

you sometimes, I believe the fear of offending you would have kept my

love for ever buried in my own bosom; but, to be totally excluded even

from the sight of what my soul doats on is what I cannot bear. It is

that alone which hath extorted the fatal secret from me. Let that

obtain your forgiveness for me. I need not sign this letter otherwise

than with that impression of my heart which I hope it bears; and, to

conclude it in any form, no language hath words of devotion strong

enough to tell you with what truth, what anguish, what zeal, what

adoration I love you."

Amelia had just strength to hold out to the end, when her trembling

grew so violent that she dropt the letter, and had probably dropt

herself, had not Mrs. Atkinson come timely in to support her.

"Good Heavens!" cries Mrs. Atkinson, "what is the matter with you,

madam?"

"I know not what is the matter," cries Amelia; "but I have received a

letter at last from that infamous colonel."

"You will take my opinion again then, I hope, madam," cries Mrs.

Atkinson. "But don't be so affected; the letter cannot eat you or run

away with you. Here it lies, I see; will you give me leave to read

it?"

"Read it with all my heart," cries Amelia; "and give me your advice

how to act, for I am almost distracted."

"Heydey!" says Mrs. Atkinson, "here is a piece of parchment too--what

is that?" In truth, this parchment had dropt from the letter when

Amelia first opened it; but her attention was so fixed by the contents

of the letter itself that she had never read the other. Mrs. Atkinson

had now opened the parchment first; and, after a moment's perusal, the

fire flashed from her eyes, and the blood flushed into her cheeks, and

she cried out, in a rapture, "It is a commission for my husband! upon

my soul, it is a commission for my husband:" and, at the same time,

began to jump about the room in a kind of frantic fit of joy.

"What can be the meaning of all this?" cries Amelia, under the highest

degree of astonishment.

"Do not I tell you, my dear madam," cries she, "that it is a

commission for my husband? and can you wonder at my being overjoyed at

what I know will make him so happy? And now it is all out. The letter

is not from the colonel, but from that noble lord of whom I have told

you so much. But, indeed, madam, I have some pardons to ask of you.

However, I know your goodness, and I will tell you all.

"You are to know then, madam, that I had not been in the Opera-house

six minutes before a masque came up, and, taking me by the hand, led

me aside. I gave the masque my hand; and, seeing a lady at that time

lay hold on Captain Booth, I took that opportunity of slipping away

from him; for though, by the help of the squeaking voice, and by

attempting to mimic yours, I had pretty well disguised my own, I was

still afraid, if I had much conversation with your husband, he would

discover me. I walked therefore away with this masque to the upper end

of the farthest room, where we sat down in a corner together. He

presently discovered to me that he took me for you, and I soon after

found out who he was; indeed, so far from attempting to disguise

himself, he spoke in his own voice and in his own person. He now began

to make very violent love to me, but it was rather in the stile of a

great man of the present age than of an Arcadian swain. In short, he

laid his whole fortune at my feet, and bade me make whatever terms I

pleased, either for myself or for others. By others, I suppose he

meant your husband. This, however, put a thought into my head of

turning the present occasion to advantage. I told him there were two

kinds of persons, the fallaciousness of whose promises had become

proverbial in the world. These were lovers, and great men. What

reliance, then, could I have on the promise of one who united in

himself both those characters? That I had seen a melancholy instance,

in a very worthy woman of my acquaintance (meaning myself, madam), of

his want of generosity. I said I knew the obligations that he had to

this woman, and the injuries he had done her, all which I was

convinced she forgave, for that she had said the handsomest things in

the world of him to me. He answered that he thought he had not been

deficient in generosity to this lady (for I explained to him whom I

meant); but that indeed, if she had spoke well of him to me (meaning

yourself, madam), he would not fail to reward her for such an

obligation. I then told him she had married a very deserving man, who

had served long in the army abroad as a private man, and who was a

serjeant in the guards; that I knew it was so very easy for him to get

him a commission, that I should not think he had any honour or

goodness in the world if he neglected it. I declared this step must be

a preliminary to any good opinion he must ever hope for of mine. I

then professed the greatest friendship to that lady (in which I am

convinced you will think me serious), and assured him he would give me

one of the highest pleasures in letting me be the instrument of doing

her such a service. He promised me in a moment to do what you see,

madam, he hath since done. And to you I shall always think myself

indebted for it."