Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
AMELIA
Complete
By Henry Fielding
Edited By George Saintsbury
With Illustrations By Herbert Railton & E. J. Wheeler.
MDCCCXCIII
INTRODUCTION
DEDICATION TO RALPH ALLEN, ESQ
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I. Containing the exordium, &c.
CHAPTER II. The history sets out. Observations on the excellency of the
English constitution and curious examinations before a justice of peace
CHAPTER III. Containing the inside of a prison
CHAPTER IV. Disclosing further secrets of the prison-house
CHAPTER V. Containing certain adventures which befel Mr. Booth in the
prison
CHAPTER VI. Containing the extraordinary behaviour of Miss Matthews
on her meeting with Booth, and some endeavours to prove, by reason and
authority, that it is possible for a woman to appear to be what she
really is not
CHAPTER VII. In which Miss Matthews begins her history
CHAPTER VIII. The history of Miss Matthews continued
CHAPTER IX. In which Miss Matthews concludes her relation
CHAPTER X. Table-talk, consisting of a facetious discourse that passed
in the prison
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I. In which Captain Booth begins to relate his history
CHAPTER II. Mr. Booth continues his story. In this chapter there are
some passages that may serve as a kind of touchstone by which a young
lady may examine the heart of her lover. I would advise, therefore, that
every lover be obliged to read it over in the presence of his mistress,
and that she carefully watch his emotions while he is reading
CHAPTER III. The narrative continued. More of the touchstone
CHAPTER IV. The story of Mr. Booth continued. In this chapter the reader
will perceive a glimpse of the character of a very good divine, with
some matters of a very tender kind
CHAPTER V. Containing strange revolutions of fortune
CHAPTER VI. Containing many surprising adventures
CHAPTER VII. The story of Booth continued--More surprising adventures
CHAPTER VIII. In which our readers will probably be divided in their
opinion of Mr. Booth’s conduct
CHAPTER IX. Containing a scene of a different kind from any of the
preceding
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I. In which Mr. Booth resumes his story
CHAPTER II. Containing a scene of the tender kind
CHAPTER III. In which Mr. Booth sets forward on his journey
CHAPTER IV A sea piece
CHAPTER V. The arrival of Booth at Gibraltar, with what there befel him
CHAPTER VI. Containing matters which will please some readers
CHAPTER VII. The captain, continuing his story, recounts some
particulars which, we doubt not, to many good people, will appear
unnatural
CHAPTER VIII. The story of Booth continued
CHAPTER IX. Containing very extraordinary matters
CHAPTER X. Containing a letter of a very curious kind
CHAPTER XI. In which Mr. Booth relates his return to England
CHAPTER XII. In which Mr. Booth concludes his story
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I. Containing very mysterious matter
CHAPTER II. The latter part of which we expect will please our reader
better than the former
CHAPTER III. Containing wise observations of the author, and other
matters
CHAPTER IV. In which Amelia appears in no unamiable light
CHAPTER V. Containing an eulogium upon innocence, and other grave
matters
CHAPTER VI. In which may appear that violence is sometimes done to the
name of love
CHAPTER VII. Containing a very extraordinary and pleasant incident
CHAPTER VIII. Containing various matters
CHAPTER IX. In which Amelia, with her friend, goes to the oratorio
BOOK V.
CHAPTER I. In which the reader will meet with an old acquaintance
CHAPTER I. Containing a brace of doctors and much physical matter
CHAPTER II. In which Booth pays a visit to the noble lord
CHAPTER III. Relating principally to the affairs of serjeant Atkinson
CHAPTER IV. Containing matters that require no preface
CHAPTER V. Containing much heroic matter
CHAPTER VI. In which the reader will find matter worthy his
consideration
CHAPTER VII. Containing various matters
CHAPTER VIII. The heroic behaviour of Colonel Bath
CHAPTER IX. Being the last chapter of the fifth book
BOOK VI.
CHAPTER I. Panegyrics on beauty, with other grave matters
CHAPTER II. Which will not appear, we presume, unnatural to all married
readers
CHAPTER III. In which the history looks a little backwards
CHAPTER IV. Containing a very extraordinary incident
CHAPTER V. Containing some matters not very unnatural
CHAPTER VI. A scene in which some ladies will possibly think Amelia’s
conduct exceptionable
CHAPTER VII. A chapter in which there is much learning
CHAPTER VIII. Containing some unaccountable behaviour in Mrs.. Ellison
CHAPTER IX. Containing a very strange incident
BOOK VII.
CHAPTER I. A very short chapter, and consequently requiring no preface
CHAPTER II. The beginning of Mrs. Bennet’s history
CHAPTER III. Continuation of Mrs. Bennet’s story
CHAPTER IV. Farther continuation
CHAPTER V. The story of Mrs. Bennet continued
CHAPTER VI. Farther continued
CHAPTER VII. The story farther continued
CHAPTER VIII. Farther continuation
CHAPTER IX. The conclusion of Mrs. Bennet’s history
CHAPTER X. Being the last chapter of the seventh book
BOOK VIII.
CHAPTER I. Being the first chapter of the eighth book
CHAPTER II. Containing an account of Mr. Booth’s fellow-sufferers
CHAPTER III. Containing some extraordinary behaviour in Mrs. Ellison
CHAPTER IV. Containing, among many matters, the exemplary behaviour of
Colonel James
CHAPTER V. Comments upon authors
CHAPTER VI. Which inclines rather to satire than panegyric
CHAPTER VII. Worthy a very serious perusal
CHAPTER VIII. Consisting of grave matters
CHAPTER IX. A curious chapter, from which a curious reader may draw
sundry observations
CHAPTER X. In which are many profound secrets of philosophy
BOOK IX.
CHAPTER I In which the history looks backwards
CHAPTER II. In which the history goes forward
CHAPTER III. A conversation between Dr Harrison and others
CHAPTER IV. A dialogue between Booth and Amelia
CHAPTER V. A conversation between Amelia and Dr Harrison, with the
result
CHAPTER VI. Containing as surprising an accident as is perhaps recorded
in history
CHAPTER VII. In which the author appears to be master of that profound
learning called the knowledge of the town
CHAPTER VIII. In which two strangers make their appearance
CHAPTER IX. A scene of modern wit and humour
CHAPTER X. A curious conversation between the doctor, the young
clergyman, and the young clergyman’s father
BOOK X.
CHAPTER I. To which we will prefix no preface
CHAPTER II. What happened at the masquerade
CHAPTER III. Consequences of the masqtierade, not uncommon nor
surprizing
CHAPTER IV. Consequences of the masquerade
CHAPTER V. In which Colonel Bath appears in great glory
CHAPTER VI. Read, gamester, and observe
CHAPTER VII. In which Booth receives a visit from Captain Trent
CHAPTER VIII. Contains a letter and other matters
CHAPTER IX. Containing some things worthy observation
BOOK XI
CHAPTER I. Containing a very polite scene
CHAPTER II. Matters political
CHAPTER III. The history of Mr. Trent
CHAPTER IV. Containing some distress
CHAPTER V. Containing more wormwood and other ingredients
CHAPTER VI. A scene of the tragic kind
CHAPTER VII. In which Mr. Booth meets with more than one adventure
CHAPTER VIII. In which Amelia appears in a light more amiable than gay
CHAPTER IX. A very tragic scene
BOOK XII.
CHAPTER I. The book begins with polite history
CHAPTER II. In which Amelia visits her husband
CHAPTER III. Containing matter pertinent to the history
CHAPTER IV. In which Dr Harrison visits Colonel James
CHAPTER V. What passed at the bailiff’s house
CHAPTER VI. What passed between the doctor and the sick man
CHAPTER VII. In which the history draws towards a conclusion
CHAPTER VIII. Thus this history draws nearer to a conclusion
CHAPTER IX. In which the history is concluded
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
FIELDING’S BIRTHPLACE, SHARPHAM PARK
SHE THEN GAVE A LOOSE TO HER PASSION
THEY OPENED THE HAMPER
HE SEIZED HIM BY THE COLLAR
AMELIA AND HER CHILDREN
COLONEL BATH
LAWYER MURPHY
LEANING BOTH HIS ELBOWS ON THE TABLE, FIXED HIS EYES ON HER
BOOTH BETWEEN A BLUE DOMINO AND A SHEPHERDESS
DR HARRISON
INTRODUCTION.
Fielding’s third great novel has been the subject of much more
discordant judgments than either of its forerunners. If we take the
period since its appearance as covering four generations, we find
the greatest authority in the earliest, Johnson, speaking of it with
something more nearly approaching to enthusiasm than he allowed himself
in reference to any other work of an author, to whom he was on the whole
so unjust. The greatest man of letters of the next generation, Scott
(whose attitude to Fielding was rather undecided, and seems to speak
a mixture of intellectual admiration and moral dislike, or at least
failure in sympathy), pronounces it “on the whole unpleasing,” and
regards it chiefly as a sequel to _Tom Jones_, showing what is to
be expected of a libertine and thoughtless husband. But he too
is enthusiastic over the heroine. Thackeray (whom in this special
connection at any rate it is scarcely too much to call the greatest
man of the third generation) overflows with predilection for it, but
chiefly, as it would seem, because of his affection for Amelia herself,
in which he practically agrees with Scott and Johnson. It would be
invidious, and is noways needful, to single out any critic of our own
time to place beside these great men. But it cannot be denied that the
book, now as always, has incurred a considerable amount of hinted
fault and hesitated dislike. Even Mr. Dobson notes some things in it
as “unsatisfactory;” Mr. Gosse, with evident consciousness of temerity,
ventures to ask whether it is not “a little dull.” The very absence
of episodes (on the ground that Miss Matthews’s story is too closely
connected with the main action to be fairly called an episode) and of
introductory dissertations has been brought against it, as the presence
of these things was brought against its forerunners.
I have sometimes wondered whether _Amelia_ pays the penalty of an
audacity which, _a priori_, its most unfavourable critics would
indignantly deny to be a fault. It begins instead of ending with the
marriage-bells; and though critic after critic of novels has exhausted
his indignation and his satire over the folly of insisting on these as
a finale, I doubt whether the demand is not too deeply rooted in the
English, nay, in the human mind, to be safely neglected. The essence
of all romance is a quest; the quest most perennially and universally
interesting to man is the quest of a wife or a mistress; and the
chapters dealing with what comes later have an inevitable flavour of
tameness, and of the day after the feast. It is not common now-a-days to
meet anybody who thinks Tommy Moore a great poet; one has to encounter
either a suspicion of Philistinism or a suspicion of paradox if one
tries to vindicate for him even his due place in the poetical hierarchy.
Yet I suspect that no poet ever put into words a more universal
criticism of life than he did when he wrote “I saw from the beach,” with
its moral of--
“Give me back, give me back, the wild freshness of morning--Her smiles
and her tears are worth evening’s best light.”
If we discard this fallacy boldly, and ask ourselves whether _Amelia_ is
or is not as good as _Joseph Andrews_ or _Tom Jones_, we shall I think
be inclined to answer rather in the affirmative than in the negative.
It is perhaps a little more easy to find fault with its characters
than with theirs; or rather, though no one of these characters has the
defects of Blifil or of Allworthy, it is easy to say that no one of them
has the charm of the best personages of the earlier books. The idolaters
of Amelia would of course exclaim at this sentence as it regards that
amiable lady; and I am myself by no means disposed to rank amiability
low in the scale of things excellent in woman. But though she is by no
means what her namesake and spiritual grand-daughter. Miss Sedley, must,
I fear, be pronounced to be, an amiable fool, there is really too
much of the milk of human kindness, unrefreshed and unrelieved of its
mawkishness by the rum or whisky of human frailty, in her. One could
have better pardoned her forgiveness of her husband if she had in the
first place been a little more conscious of what there was to forgive;
and in the second, a little more romantic in her attachment to him. As
it is, he was _son homme_; he was handsome; he had broad shoulders;
he had a sweet temper; he was the father of her children, and that was
enough. At least we are allowed to see in Mr. Booth no qualities other
than these, and in her no imagination even of any other qualities. To
put what I mean out of reach of cavil, compare Imogen and Amelia, and
the difference will be felt.
But Fielding was a prose writer, writing in London in the eighteenth
century, while Shakespeare was a poet writing in all time and all space,
so that the comparison is luminous in more ways than one. I do not think
that in the special scheme which the novelist set himself here he can be
accused of any failure. The life is as vivid as ever; the minor sketches
may be even called a little more vivid. Dr Harrison is not perfect. I do
not mean that he has ethical faults, for that is a merit, not a defect;
but he is not quite perfect in art. His alternate persecution and
patronage of Booth, though useful to the story, repeat the earlier fault
of Allworthy, and are something of a blot. But he is individually
much more natural than Allworthy, and indeed is something like what
Dr Johnson would have been if he had been rather better bred, less
crotchety, and blessed with more health. Miss Matthews in her earlier
scenes has touches of greatness which a thousand French novelists
lavishing “candour” and reckless of exaggeration have not equalled; and
I believe that Fielding kept her at a distance during the later scenes
of the story, because he could not trust himself not to make her more
interesting than Amelia. Of the peers, more wicked and less
wicked, there is indeed not much good to be said. The peer of the
eighteenth-century writers (even when, as in Fielding’s case, there was
no reason why they should “mention him with _Kor_,” as Policeman X. has
it) is almost always a faint type of goodness or wickedness dressed out
with stars and ribbons and coaches-and-six. Only Swift, by combination
of experience and genius, has given us live lords in Lord Sparkish and
Lord Smart. But Mrs. Ellison and Mrs. Atkinson are very women, and the
serjeant, though the touch of “sensibility” is on him, is excellent;
and Dr Harrison’s country friend and his prig of a son are capital; and
Bondum, and “the author,” and Robinson, and all the minor characters,
are as good as they can be.
It is, however, usual to detect a lack of vivacity in the book, an
evidence of declining health and years. It may be so; it is at least
certain that Fielding, during the composition of _Amelia,_ had much less
time to bestow upon elaborating his work than he had previously had,
and that his health was breaking. But are we perfectly sure that if the
chronological order had been different we should have pronounced the
same verdict? Had _Amelia_ come between _Joseph_ and _Tom,_ how many
of us might have committed ourselves to some such sentence as this: “In
_Amelia_ we see the youthful exuberances of _Joseph Andrews_ corrected
by a higher art; the adjustment of plot and character arranged with
a fuller craftsmanship; the genius which was to find its fullest
exemplification in _Tom Jones_ already displaying maturity”? And do
we not too often forget that a very short time--in fact, barely three
years--passed between the appearance of _Tom Jones_ and the appearance
of _Amelia?_ that although we do not know how long the earlier work had
been in preparation, it is extremely improbable that a man of Fielding’s
temperament, of his wants, of his known habits and history, would have
kept it when once finished long in his desk? and that consequently
between some scenes of _Tom Jones_ and some scenes of _Amelia_ it is not
improbable that there was no more than a few months’ interval? I do not
urge these things in mitigation of any unfavourable judgment against the
later novel. I only ask--How much of that unfavourable judgment ought
in justice to be set down to the fallacies connected with an imperfect
appreciation of facts?
To me it is not so much a question of deciding whether I like _Amelia_
less, and if so, how much less, than the others, as a question what part
of the general conception of this great writer it supplies? I do not
think that we could fully understand Fielding without it; I do not think
that we could derive the full quantity of pleasure from him without
it. The exuberant romantic faculty of Joseph Andrews and its pleasant
satire; the mighty craftsmanship and the vast science of life of _Tom
Jones;_ the ineffable irony and logical grasp of _Jonathan Wild_,
might have left us with a slight sense of hardness, a vague desire
for unction, if it had not been for this completion of the picture.
We should not have known (for in the other books, with the possible
exception of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the characters are a little too
determinately goats and sheep) how Fielding could draw _nuances_, how
he could project a mixed personage on the screen, if we had not had Miss
Matthews and Mrs. Atkinson--the last especially a figure full of the
finest strokes, and, as a rule, insufficiently done justice to by
critics.
And I have purposely left to the last a group of personages about whom
indeed there has been little question, but who are among the triumphs of
Fielding’s art--the two Colonels and their connecting-link, the wife of
the one and the sister of the other. Colonel Bath has necessarily united
all suffrages. He is of course a very little stagey; he reminds us that
his author had had a long theatrical apprenticeship: he is something too
much _d’une piece_. But as a study of the brave man who is almost more
braggart than brave, of the generous man who will sacrifice not only
generosity but bare justice to “a hogo of honour,” he is admirable, and
up to his time almost unique. Ordinary writers and ordinary readers have
never been quite content to admit that bravery and braggadocio can go
together, that the man of honour may be a selfish pedant. People have
been unwilling to tell and to hear the whole truth even about Wolfe and
Nelson, who were both favourable specimens of the type; but Fielding the
infallible saw that type in its quiddity, and knew it, and registered it
for ever.
Less amusing but more delicately faithful and true are Colonel James and
his wife. They are both very good sort of people in a way, who live in
a lax and frivolous age, who have plenty of money, no particular
principle, no strong affection for each other, and little individual
character. They might have been--Mrs. James to some extent is--quite
estimable and harmless; but even as it is, they are not to be wholly
ill spoken of. Being what they are, Fielding has taken them, and, with a
relentlessness which Swift could hardly have exceeded, and a good-nature
which Swift rarely or never attained, has held them up to us as
dissected preparations of half-innocent meanness, scoundrelism, and
vanity, such as are hardly anywhere else to be found. I have used the
word “preparations,” and it in part indicates Fielding’s virtue, a
virtue shown, I think, in this book as much as anywhere. But it does not
fully indicate it; for the preparation, wet or dry, is a dead thing, and
a museum is but a mortuary. Fielding’s men and women, once more let
it be said, are all alive. The palace of his work is the hall, not of
Eblis, but of a quite beneficent enchanter, who puts burning hearts into
his subjects, not to torture them, but only that they may light up for
us their whole organisation and being. They are not in the least the
worse for it, and we are infinitely the better.
[Illustration.]
[Illustration.]
DEDICATION.
To RALPH ALLEN, ESQ.
SIR,--The following book is sincerely designed to promote the cause of
virtue, and to expose some of the most glaring evils, as well public as
private, which at present infest the country; though there is scarce, as
I remember, a single stroke of satire aimed at any one person throughout
the whole.
The best man is the properest patron of such an attempt. This, I
believe, will be readily granted; nor will the public voice, I think, be
more divided to whom they shall give that appellation. Should a letter,
indeed, be thus inscribed, DETUR OPTIMO, there are few persons who would
think it wanted any other direction.
I will not trouble you with a preface concerning the work, nor endeavour
to obviate any criticisms which can be made on it. The good-natured
reader, if his heart should be here affected, will be inclined to pardon
many faults for the pleasure he will receive from a tender sensation:
and for readers of a different stamp, the more faults they can discover,
the more, I am convinced, they will be pleased.
Nor will I assume the fulsome stile of common dedicators. I have not
their usual design in this epistle, nor will I borrow their language.
Long, very long may it be before a most dreadful circumstance shall make
it possible for any pen to draw a just and true character of yourself
without incurring a suspicion of flattery in the bosoms of the
malignant. This task, therefore, I shall defer till that day (if I
should be so unfortunate as ever to see it) when every good man shall
pay a tear for the satisfaction of his curiosity; a day which, at
present, I believe, there is but one good man in the world who can think
of it with unconcern.
Accept then, sir, this small token of that love, that gratitude, and
that respect, with which I shall always esteem it my GREATEST HONOUR to
be,
Sir,
Your most obliged, and most obedient humble servant,
HENRY FIELDING.
_Bow Street, Dec. 2, 1751._
[Illustration.]
AMELIA.
VOL. I
BOOK I.
Chapter i.
_Containing the exordium, &c._
The various accidents which befel a very worthy couple after their
uniting in the state of matrimony will be the subject of the following
history. The distresses which they waded through were some of them so
exquisite, and the incidents which produced these so extraordinary,
that they seemed to require not only the utmost malice, but the utmost
invention, which superstition hath ever attributed to Fortune: though
whether any such being interfered in the case, or, indeed, whether
there be any such being in the universe, is a matter which I by no means
presume to determine in the affirmative. To speak a bold truth, I am,
after much mature deliberation, inclined to suspect that the public
voice hath, in all ages, done much injustice to Fortune, and hath
convicted her of many facts in which she had not the least concern.
I question much whether we may not, by natural means, account for the
success of knaves, the calamities of fools, with all the miseries
in which men of sense sometimes involve themselves, by quitting
the directions of Prudence, and following the blind guidance of a
predominant passion; in short, for all the ordinary phenomena which are
imputed to Fortune; whom, perhaps, men accuse with no less absurdity in
life, than a bad player complains of ill luck at the game of chess.
But if men are sometimes guilty of laying improper blame on this
imaginary being, they are altogether as apt to make her amends by
ascribing to her honours which she as little deserves. To retrieve the
ill consequences of a foolish conduct, and by struggling manfully with
distress to subdue it, is one of the noblest efforts of wisdom and
virtue. Whoever, therefore, calls such a man fortunate, is guilty of no
less impropriety in speech than he would be who should call the statuary
or the poet fortunate who carved a Venus or who writ an Iliad.
Life may as properly be called an art as any other; and the great
incidents in it are no more to be considered as mere accidents than the
several members of a fine statue or a noble poem. The critics in all
these are not content with seeing anything to be great without knowing
why and how it came to be so. By examining carefully the several
gradations which conduce to bring every model to perfection, we learn
truly to know that science in which the model is formed: as histories of
this kind, therefore, may properly be called models of _human life_,
so, by observing minutely the several incidents which tend to the
catastrophe or completion of the whole, and the minute causes whence
those incidents are produced, we shall best be instructed in this most
useful of all arts, which I call the _art_ of _life_.
Chapter ii
_The history sets out. Observations on the excellency of the English
constitution and curious examinations before a justice of peace._
On the first of April, in the year ----, the watchmen of a certain
parish (I know not particularly which) within the liberty of Westminster
brought several persons whom they had apprehended the preceding night
before Jonathan Thrasher, Esq., one of the justices of the peace for
that liberty.
But here, reader, before we proceed to the trials of these offenders,
we shall, after our usual manner, premise some things which it may be
necessary for thee to know.
It hath been observed, I think, by many, as well as the celebrated
writer of three letters, that no human institution is capable of
consummate perfection. An observation which, perhaps, that writer at
least gathered from discovering some defects in the polity even of this
well-regulated nation. And, indeed, if there should be any such defect
in a constitution which my Lord Coke long ago told us “the wisdom of
all the wise men in the world, if they had all met together at one time,
could not have equalled,” which some of our wisest men who were met
together long before said was too good to be altered in any particular,
and which, nevertheless, hath been mending ever since, by a very great
number of the said wise men: if, I say, this constitution should
be imperfect, we may be allowed, I think, to doubt whether any such
faultless model can be found among the institutions of men.
It will probably be objected, that the small imperfections which I
am about to produce do not lie in the laws themselves, but in the ill
execution of them; but, with submission, this appears to me to be no
less an absurdity than to say of any machine that it is excellently
made, though incapable of performing its functions. Good laws should
execute themselves in a well-regulated state; at least, if the same
legislature which provides the laws doth not provide for the execution
of them, they act as Graham would do, if he should form all the parts of
a clock in the most exquisite manner, yet put them so together that the
clock could not go. In this case, surely, we might say that there was a
small defect in the constitution of the clock.
To say the truth, Graham would soon see the fault, and would easily
remedy it. The fault, indeed, could be no other than that the parts were
improperly disposed.
Perhaps, reader, I have another illustration which will set my intention
in still a clearer light before you. Figure to yourself then a family,
the master of which should dispose of the several economical offices in
the following manner; viz. should put his butler in the coach-box, his
steward behind his coach, his coachman in the butlery, and his footman
in the stewardship, and in the same ridiculous manner should misemploy
the talents of every other servant; it is easy to see what a figure such
a family must make in the world.
As ridiculous as this may seem, I have often considered some of the
lower officers in our civil government to be disposed in this very
manner. To begin, I think, as low as I well can, with the watchmen in
our metropolis, who, being to guard our streets by night from thieves
and robbers, an office which at least requires strength of body, are
chosen out of those poor old decrepit people who are, from their want
of bodily strength, rendered incapable of getting a livelihood by work.
These men, armed only with a pole, which some of them are scarce able
to lift, are to secure the persons and houses of his majesty’s subjects
from the attacks of gangs of young, bold, stout, desperate, and
well-armed villains.
Quae non viribus istis
Munera conveniunt.
If the poor old fellows should run away from such enemies, no one I
think can wonder, unless it be that they were able to make their escape.
The higher we proceed among our public officers and magistrates, the
less defects of this kind will, perhaps, be observable. Mr. Thrasher,
however, the justice before whom the prisoners above mentioned were now
brought, had some few imperfections in his magistratical capacity.
I own, I have been sometimes inclined to think that this office of a
justice of peace requires some knowledge of the law: for this simple
reason; because, in every case which comes before him, he is to judge
and act according to law. Again, as these laws are contained in a great
variety of books, the statutes which relate to the office of a justice
of peace making of themselves at least two large volumes in folio; and
that part of his jurisdiction which is founded on the common law
being dispersed in above a hundred volumes, I cannot conceive how this
knowledge should by acquired without reading; and yet certain it is, Mr.
Thrasher never read one syllable of the matter.
This, perhaps, was a defect; but this was not all: for where mere
ignorance is to decide a point between two litigants, it will always be
an even chance whether it decides right or wrong: but sorry am I to
say, right was often in a much worse situation than this, and wrong hath
often had five hundred to one on his side before that magistrate; who,
if he was ignorant of the law of England, was yet well versed in the
laws of nature. He perfectly well understood that fundamental principle
so strongly laid down in the institutes of the learned Rochefoucault,
by which the duty of self-love is so strongly enforced, and every man is
taught to consider himself as the centre of gravity, and to attract
all things thither. To speak the truth plainly, the justice was never
indifferent in a cause but when he could get nothing on either side.
Such was the justice to whose tremendous bar Mr. Gotobed the constable,
on the day above mentioned, brought several delinquents, who, as we have
said, had been apprehended by the watch for diverse outrages.
The first who came upon his trial was as bloody a spectre as ever the
imagination of a murderer or a tragic poet conceived. This poor wretch
was charged with a battery by a much stouter man than himself; indeed
the accused person bore about him some evidence that he had been in an
affray, his cloaths being very bloody, but certain open sluices on his
own head sufficiently shewed whence all the scarlet stream had issued:
whereas the accuser had not the least mark or appearance of any wound.
The justice asked the defendant, What he meant by breaking the king’s
peace?----To which he answered----“Upon my shoul I do love the king very
well, and I have not been after breaking anything of his that I do know;
but upon my shoul this man hath brake my head, and my head did brake his
stick; that is all, gra.” He then offered to produce several witnesses
against this improbable accusation; but the justice presently
interrupted him, saying, “Sirrah, your tongue betrays your guilt. You
are an Irishman, and that is always sufficient evidence with me.”
The second criminal was a poor woman, who was taken up by the watch as a
street-walker. It was alleged against her that she was found walking the
streets after twelve o’clock, and the watchman declared he believed her
to be a common strumpet. She pleaded in her defence (as was really the
truth) that she was a servant, and was sent by her mistress, who was a
little shopkeeper and upon the point of delivery, to fetch a midwife;
which she offered to prove by several of the neighbours, if she was
allowed to send for them. The justice asked her why she had not done
it before? to which she answered, she had no money, and could get no
messenger. The justice then called her several scurrilous names, and,
declaring she was guilty within the statute of street-walking, ordered
her to Bridewell for a month.
A genteel young man and woman were then set forward, and a very
grave-looking person swore he caught them in a situation which we cannot
as particularly describe here as he did before the magistrate; who,
having received a wink from his clerk, declared with much warmth that
the fact was incredible and impossible. He presently discharged the
accused parties, and was going, without any evidence, to commit the
accuser for perjury; but this the clerk dissuaded him from, saying he
doubted whether a justice of peace had any such power. The justice at
first differed in opinion, and said, “He had seen a man stand in the
pillory about perjury; nay, he had known a man in gaol for it too; and
how came he there if he was not committed thither?” “Why, that is true,
sir,” answered the clerk; “and yet I have been told by a very great
lawyer that a man cannot be committed for perjury before he is indicted;
and the reason is, I believe, because it is not against the peace before
the indictment makes it so.” “Why, that may be,” cries the justice, “and
indeed perjury is but scandalous words, and I know a man cannot have
no warrant for those, unless you put for rioting [Footnote: _Opus est
interprete._ By the laws of England abusive words are not punishable
by the magistrate; some commissioners of the peace, therefore, when one
scold hath applied to them for a warrant against another, from a too
eager desire of doing justice, have construed a little harmless scolding
into a riot, which is in law an outrageous breach of the peace committed
by several persons, by three at the least, nor can a less number be
convicted of it. Under this word rioting, or riotting (for I have seen
it spelt both ways), many thousands of old women have been arrested and
put to expense, sometimes in prison, for a little intemperate use of
their tongues. This practice began to decrease in the year 1749.] them
into the warrant.”
The witness was now about to be discharged, when the lady whom he had
accused declared she would swear the peace against him, for that he had
called her a whore several times. “Oho! you will swear the peace, madam,
will you?” cries the justice: “Give her the peace, presently; and pray,
Mr. Constable, secure the prisoner, now we have him, while a warrant is
made to take him up.” All which was immediately performed, and the poor
witness, for want of securities, was sent to prison.
A young fellow, whose name was Booth, was now charged with beating the
watchman in the execution of his office and breaking his lanthorn. This
was deposed by two witnesses; and the shattered remains of a broken
lanthorn, which had been long preserved for the sake of its testimony,
were produced to corroborate the evidence. The justice, perceiving
the criminal to be but shabbily drest, was going to commit him without
asking any further questions. At length, however, at the earnest request
of the accused, the worthy magistrate submitted to hear his defence.
The young man then alledged, as was in reality the case, “That as he was
walking home to his lodging he saw two men in the street cruelly beating
a third, upon which he had stopt and endeavoured to assist the person
who was so unequally attacked; that the watch came up during the affray,
and took them all four into custody; that they were immediately carried
to the round-house, where the two original assailants, who appeared
to be men of fortune, found means to make up the matter, and were
discharged by the constable, a favour which he himself, having no money
in his pocket, was unable to obtain. He utterly denied having assaulted
any of the watchmen, and solemnly declared that he was offered his
liberty at the price of half a crown.”
Though the bare word of an offender can never be taken against the oath
of his accuser, yet the matter of this defence was so pertinent,
and delivered with such an air of truth and sincerity, that, had
the magistrate been endued with much sagacity, or had he been very
moderately gifted with another quality very necessary to all who are
to administer justice, he would have employed some labour in
cross-examining the watchmen; at least he would have given the defendant
the time he desired to send for the other persons who were present at
the affray; neither of which he did. In short, the magistrate had too
great an honour for truth to suspect that she ever appeared in sordid
apparel; nor did he ever sully his sublime notions of that virtue by
uniting them with the mean ideas of poverty and distress.
There remained now only one prisoner, and that was the poor man himself
in whose defence the last-mentioned culprit was engaged. His trial
took but a very short time. A cause of battery and broken lanthorn was
instituted against him, and proved in the same manner; nor would
the justice hear one word in defence; but, though his patience was
exhausted, his breath was not; for against this last wretch he poured
forth a great many volleys of menaces and abuse.
The delinquents were then all dispatched to prison under a guard of
watchmen, and the justice and the constable adjourned to a neighbouring
alehouse to take their morning repast.
Chapter iii.
_Containing the inside of a prison._
Mr. Booth (for we shall not trouble you with the rest) was no sooner
arrived in the prison than a number of persons gathered round him, all
demanding garnish; to which Mr. Booth not making a ready answer, as
indeed he did not understand the word, some were going to lay hold of
him, when a person of apparent dignity came up and insisted that no one
should affront the gentleman. This person then, who was no less than the
master or keeper of the prison, turning towards Mr. Booth, acquainted
him that it was the custom of the place for every prisoner upon his
first arrival there to give something to the former prisoners to make
them drink. This, he said, was what they call garnish, and concluded
with advising his new customer to draw his purse upon the present
occasion. Mr. Booth answered that he would very readily comply with this
laudable custom, was it in his power; but that in reality he had not a
shilling in his pocket, and, what was worse, he had not a shilling in
the world.--“Oho! if that be the case,” cries the keeper, “it is another
matter, and I have nothing to say.” Upon which he immediately departed,
and left poor Booth to the mercy of his companions, who without loss of
time applied themselves to uncasing, as they termed it, and with such
dexterity, that his coat was not only stript off, but out of sight in a
minute.
Mr. Booth was too weak to resist and too wise to complain of this usage.
As soon, therefore, as he was at liberty, and declared free of the
place, he summoned his philosophy, of which he had no inconsiderable
share, to his assistance, and resolved to make himself as easy as
possible under his present circumstances.
Could his own thoughts indeed have suffered him a moment to forget where
he was, the dispositions of the other prisoners might have induced him
to believe that he had been in a happier place: for much the greater
part of his fellow-sufferers, instead of wailing and repining at their
condition, were laughing, singing, and diverting themselves with various
kinds of sports and gambols.
The first person who accosted him was called Blear-eyed Moll, a woman
of no very comely appearance. Her eye (for she had but one), whence she
derived her nickname, was such as that nickname bespoke; besides which,
it had two remarkable qualities; for first, as if Nature had been
careful to provide for her own defect, it constantly looked towards her
blind side; and secondly, the ball consisted almost entirely of white,
or rather yellow, with a little grey spot in the corner, so small that
it was scarce discernible. Nose she had none; for Venus, envious perhaps
at her former charms, had carried off the gristly part; and some earthly
damsel, perhaps, from the same envy, had levelled the bone with the rest
of her face: indeed it was far beneath the bones of her cheeks, which
rose proportionally higher than is usual. About half a dozen ebony teeth
fortified that large and long canal which nature had cut from ear to
ear, at the bottom of which was a chin preposterously short, nature
having turned up the bottom, instead of suffering it to grow to its due
length.
Her body was well adapted to her face; she measured full as much round
the middle as from head to foot; for, besides the extreme breadth of her
back, her vast breasts had long since forsaken their native home, and
had settled themselves a little below the girdle.
I wish certain actresses on the stage, when they are to perform
characters of no amiable cast, would study to dress themselves with the
propriety with which Blear-eyed Moll was now arrayed. For the sake
of our squeamish reader, we shall not descend to particulars; let it
suffice to say, nothing more ragged or more dirty was ever emptied out
of the round-house at St Giles’s.
We have taken the more pains to describe this person, for two remarkable
reasons; the one is, that this unlovely creature was taken in the fact
with a very pretty young fellow; the other, which is more productive of
moral lesson, is, that however wretched her fortune may appear to the
reader, she was one of the merriest persons in the whole prison.
Blear-eyed Moll then came up to Mr. Booth with a smile, or rather grin,
on her countenance, and asked him for a dram of gin; and when Booth
assured her that he had not a penny of money, she replied--“D--n your
eyes, I thought by your look you had been a clever fellow, and upon
the snaffling lay [Footnote: A cant term for robbery on the highway] at
least; but, d--n your body and eyes, I find you are some sneaking budge
[Footnote: Another cant term for pilfering] rascal.” She then launched
forth a volley of dreadful oaths, interlarded with some language not
proper to be repeated here, and was going to lay hold on poor Booth,
when a tall prisoner, who had been very earnestly eying Booth for some
time, came up, and, taking her by the shoulder, flung her off at some
distance, cursing her for a b--h, and bidding her let the gentleman
alone.
This person was not himself of the most inviting aspect. He was
long-visaged, and pale, with a red beard of above a fortnight’s growth.
He was attired in a brownish-black coat, which would have shewed more
holes than it did, had not the linen, which appeared through it, been
entirely of the same colour with the cloth.
This gentleman, whose name was Robinson, addressed himself very civilly
to Mr. Booth, and told him he was sorry to see one of his appearance in
that place: “For as to your being without your coat, sir,” says he, “I
can easily account for that; and, indeed, dress is the least part which
distinguishes a gentleman.” At which words he cast a significant look
on his own coat, as if he desired they should be applied to himself. He
then proceeded in the following manner:
“I perceive, sir, you are but just arrived in this dismal place, which
is, indeed, rendered more detestable by the wretches who inhabit it than
by any other circumstance; but even these a wise man will soon bring
himself to bear with indifference; for what is, is; and what must be,
must be. The knowledge of this, which, simple as it appears, is in truth
the heighth of all philosophy, renders a wise man superior to every
evil which can befall him. I hope, sir, no very dreadful accident is the
cause of your coming hither; but, whatever it was, you may be assured it
could not be otherwise; for all things happen by an inevitable fatality;
and a man can no more resist the impulse of fate than a wheelbarrow can
the force of its driver.”
Besides the obligation which Mr. Robinson had conferred on Mr. Booth in
delivering him from the insults of Blear-eyed Moll, there was something
in the manner of Robinson which, notwithstanding the meanness of his
dress, seemed to distinguish him from the crowd of wretches who swarmed
in those regions; and, above all, the sentiments which he had just
declared very nearly coincided with those of Mr. Booth: this gentleman
was what they call a freethinker; that is to say, a deist, or, perhaps,
an atheist; for, though he did not absolutely deny the existence of a
God, yet he entirely denied his providence. A doctrine which, if it is
not downright atheism, hath a direct tendency towards it; and, as Dr
Clarke observes, may soon be driven into it. And as to Mr. Booth, though
he was in his heart an extreme well-wisher to religion (for he was an
honest man), yet his notions of it were very slight and uncertain.
To say truth, he was in the wavering condition so finely described by
Claudian:
labefacta cadelat
Religio, causaeque--viam non sponte sequebar
Alterius; vacua quae currere semina motu
Affirmat; magnumque novas fer inane figures
Fortuna, non arte, regi; quae numina sensu
Ambiguo, vel nulla futat, vel nescia nostri.
This way of thinking, or rather of doubting, he had contracted from the
same reasons which Claudian assigns, and which had induced Brutus in his
latter days to doubt the existence of that virtue which he had all his
life cultivated. In short, poor Booth imagined that a larger share of
misfortunes had fallen to his lot than he had merited; and this led
him, who (though a good classical scholar) was not deeply learned in
religious matters, into a disadvantageous opinion of Providence. A
dangerous way of reasoning, in which our conclusions are not only too
hasty, from an imperfect view of things, but we are likewise liable to
much error from partiality to ourselves; viewing our virtues and vices
as through a perspective, in which we turn the glass always to our own
advantage, so as to diminish the one, and as greatly to magnify the
other.
From the above reasons, it can be no wonder that Mr. Booth did not
decline the acquaintance of this person, in a place which could not
promise to afford him any better. He answered him, therefore, with great
courtesy, as indeed he was of a very good and gentle disposition, and,
after expressing a civil surprize at meeting him there, declared himself
to be of the same opinion with regard to the necessity of human actions;
adding, however, that he did not believe men were under any blind
impulse or direction of fate, but that every man acted merely from the
force of that passion which was uppermost in his mind, and could do no
otherwise.
A discourse now ensued between the two gentlemen on the necessity
arising from the impulse of fate, and the necessity arising from the
impulse of passion, which, as it will make a pretty pamphlet of itself,
we shall reserve for some future opportunity. When this was ended they
set forward to survey the gaol and the prisoners, with the several
cases of whom Mr. Robinson, who had been some time under confinement,
undertook to make Mr. Booth acquainted.
Chapter iv.
_Disclosing further secrets of the prison-house._
The first persons whom they passed by were three men in fetters, who
were enjoying themselves very merrily over a bottle of wine and a
pipe of tobacco. These, Mr. Robinson informed his friend, were three
street-robbers, and were all certain of being hanged the ensuing
sessions. So inconsiderable an object, said he, is misery to light
minds, when it is at any distance.
A little farther they beheld a man prostrate on the ground, whose heavy
groans and frantic actions plainly indicated the highest disorder of
mind. This person was, it seems, committed for a small felony; and his
wife, who then lay-in, upon hearing the news, had thrown herself from
a window two pair of stairs high, by which means he had, in all
probability, lost both her and his child.
A very pretty girl then advanced towards them, whose beauty Mr. Booth
could not help admiring the moment he saw her; declaring, at the same
time, he thought she had great innocence in her countenance. Robinson
said she was committed thither as an idle and disorderly person, and a
common street-walker. As she past by Mr. Booth, she damned his eyes, and
discharged a volley of words, every one of which was too indecent to be
repeated.
They now beheld a little creature sitting by herself in a corner, and
crying bitterly. This girl, Mr. Robinson said, was committed because her
father-in-law, who was in the grenadier guards, had sworn that he was
afraid of his life, or of some bodily harm which she would do him,
and she could get no sureties for keeping the peace; for which reason
justice Thrasher had committed her to prison.
A great noise now arose, occasioned by the prisoners all flocking to see
a fellow whipt for petty larceny, to which he was condemned by the court
of quarter-sessions; but this soon ended in the disappointment of the
spectators; for the fellow, after being stript, having advanced another
sixpence, was discharged untouched.
This was immediately followed by another bustle; Blear-eyed Moll,
and several of her companions, having got possession of a man who was
committed for certain odious unmanlike practices, not fit to be named,
were giving him various kinds of discipline, and would probably have put
an end to him, had he not been rescued out of their hands by authority.
When this bustle was a little allayed, Mr. Booth took notice of a young
woman in rags sitting on the ground, and supporting the head of an
old man in her lap, who appeared to be giving up the ghost. These, Mr.
Robinson informed him, were father and daughter; that the latter was
committed for stealing a loaf, in order to support the former, and the
former for receiving it, knowing it to be stolen.
A well-drest man then walked surlily by them, whom Mr. Robinson reported
to have been committed on an indictment found against him for a most
horrid perjury; but, says he, we expect him to be bailed today. “Good
Heaven!” cries Booth, “can such villains find bail, and is no person
charitable enough to bail that poor father and daughter?” “Oh! sir,”
answered Robinson, “the offence of the daughter, being felony, is held
not to be bailable in law; whereas perjury is a misdemeanor only;
and therefore persons who are even indicted for it are, nevertheless,
capable of being bailed. Nay, of all perjuries, that of which this man
is indicted is the worst; for it was with an intention of taking away
the life of an innocent person by form of law. As to perjuries in civil
matters, they are not so very criminal.” “They are not,” said Booth;
“and yet even these are a most flagitious offence, and worthy the
highest punishment.” “Surely they ought to be distinguished,” answered
Robinson, “from the others: for what is taking away a little property
from a man, compared to taking away his life and his reputation, and
ruining his family into the bargain?--I hope there can be no comparison
in the crimes, and I think there ought to be none in the punishment.
However, at present, the punishment of all perjury is only pillory and
transportation for seven years; and, as it is a traversable and bailable
offence, methods are found to escape any punishment at all.”[Footnote:
By removing the indictment by _certiorari_ into the King’s Bench, the
trial is so long postponed, and the costs are so highly encreased, that
prosecutors are often tired out, and some incapacitated from pursuing.
_Verbum sapienti._]
Booth exprest great astonishment at this, when his attention was
suddenly diverted by the most miserable object that he had yet seen.
This was a wretch almost naked, and who bore in his countenance, joined
to an appearance of honesty, the marks of poverty, hunger, and disease.
He had, moreover, a wooden leg, and two or three scars on his forehead.
“The case of this poor man is, indeed, unhappy enough,” said Robinson.
“He hath served his country, lost his limb, and received several wounds
at the siege of Gibraltar. When he was discharged from the hospital
abroad he came over to get into that of Chelsea, but could not
immediately, as none of his officers were then in England. In the mean
time, he was one day apprehended and committed hither on suspicion of
stealing three herrings from a fishmonger. He was tried several months
ago for this offence, and acquitted; indeed, his innocence manifestly
appeared at the trial; but he was brought back again for his fees, and
here he hath lain ever since.”
Booth exprest great horror at this account, and declared, if he had only
so much money in his pocket, he would pay his fees for him; but added
that he was not possessed of a single farthing in the world.
Robinson hesitated a moment, and then said, with a smile, “I am going to
make you, sir, a very odd proposal after your last declaration; but what
say you to a game at cards? it will serve to pass a tedious hour, and
may divert your thoughts from more unpleasant speculations.”
I do not imagine Booth would have agreed to this; for, though some
love of gaming had been formerly amongst his faults, yet he was not so
egregiously addicted to that vice as to be tempted by the shabby plight
of Robinson, who had, if I may so express myself, no charms for
a gamester. If he had, however, any such inclinations, he had no
opportunity to follow them, for, before he could make any answer to
Robinson’s proposal, a strapping wench came up to Booth, and, taking
hold of his arm, asked him to walk aside with her; saying, “What a pox,
are you such a fresh cull that you do not know this fellow? why, he is
a gambler, and committed for cheating at play. There is not such a
pickpocket in the whole quad.”[Footnote: A cant word for a prison.]
A scene of altercation now ensued between Robinson and the lady, which
ended in a bout at fisticuffs, in which the lady was greatly superior to
the philosopher.
While the two combatants were engaged, a grave-looking man, rather
better drest than the majority of the company, came up to Mr. Booth,
and, taking him aside, said, “I am sorry, sir, to see a gentleman,
as you appear to be, in such intimacy with that rascal, who makes no
scruple of disowning all revealed religion. As for crimes, they are
human errors, and signify but little; nay, perhaps the worse a man is
by nature, the more room there is for grace. The spirit is active, and
loves best to inhabit those minds where it may meet with the most work.
Whatever your crime be, therefore I would not have you despair, but
rather rejoice at it; for perhaps it may be the means of your being
called.” He ran on for a considerable time with this cant, without
waiting for an answer, and ended in declaring himself a methodist.
Just as the methodist had finished his discourse, a beautiful young
woman was ushered into the gaol. She was genteel and well drest, and
did not in the least resemble those females whom Mr. Booth had hitherto
seen. The constable had no sooner delivered her at the gate than she
asked with a commanding voice for the keeper; and, when he arrived, she
said to him, “Well, sir, whither am I to be conducted? I hope I am not
to take up my lodging with these creatures.” The keeper answered, with a
kind of surly respect, “Madam, we have rooms for those who can afford
to pay for them.” At these words she pulled a handsome purse from
her pocket, in which many guineas chinked, saying, with an air of
indignation, “That she was not come thither on account of poverty.” The
keeper no sooner viewed the purse than his features became all softened
in an instant; and, with all the courtesy of which he was master, he
desired the lady to walk with him, assuring her that she should have the
best apartment in his house.
Mr. Booth was now left alone; for the methodist had forsaken him,
having, as the phrase of the sect is, searched him to the bottom. In
fact, he had thoroughly examined every one of Mr. Booth’s pockets; from
which he had conveyed away a penknife and an iron snuff-box, these being
all the moveables which were to be found.
Booth was standing near the gate of the prison when the young lady above
mentioned was introduced into the yard. He viewed her features very
attentively, and was persuaded that he knew her. She was indeed so
remarkably handsome, that it was hardly possible for any who had ever
seen her to forget her. He enquired of one of the underkeepers if the
name of the prisoner lately arrived was not Matthews; to which he was
answered that her name was not Matthews but Vincent, and that she was
committed for murder.
The latter part of this information made Mr. Booth suspect his memory
more than the former; for it was very possible that she might have
changed her name; but he hardly thought she could so far have changed
her nature as to be guilty of a crime so very incongruous with her
former gentle manners: for Miss Matthews had both the birth and
education of a gentlewoman. He concluded, therefore, that he was
certainly mistaken, and rested satisfied without any further enquiry.
Chapter v.
_Containing certain adventures which befel Mr. Booth in the prison._
The remainder of the day Mr. Booth spent in melancholy contemplation
on his present condition. He was destitute of the common necessaries of
life, and consequently unable to subsist where he was; nor was there a
single person in town to whom he could, with any reasonable hope, apply
for his delivery. Grief for some time banished the thoughts of food from
his mind; but in the morning nature began to grow uneasy for want of
her usual nourishment: for he had not eat a morsel during the last forty
hours. A penny loaf, which is, it seems, the ordinary allowance to the
prisoners in Bridewell, was now delivered him; and while he was eating
this a man brought him a little packet sealed up, informing him that it
came by a messenger, who said it required no answer.
Mr. Booth now opened his packet, and, after unfolding several pieces of
blank paper successively, at last discovered a guinea, wrapt with great
care in the inmost paper. He was vastly surprized at this sight, as he
had few if any friends from whom he could expect such a favour, slight
as it was; and not one of his friends, as he was apprized, knew of his
confinement. As there was no direction to the packet, nor a word of
writing contained in it, he began to suspect that it was delivered to
the wrong person; and being one of the most untainted honesty, he found
out the man who gave it him, and again examined him concerning the
person who brought it, and the message delivered with it. The man
assured Booth that he had made no mistake; saying, “If your name is
Booth, sir, I am positive you are the gentleman to whom the parcel I
gave you belongs.”
The most scrupulous honesty would, perhaps, in such a situation,
have been well enough satisfied in finding no owner for the guinea;
especially when proclamation had been made in the prison that Mr. Booth
had received a packet without any direction, to which, if any person had
any claim, and would discover the contents, he was ready to deliver it
to such claimant. No such claimant being found (I mean none who knew
the contents; for many swore that they expected just such a packet, and
believed it to be their property), Mr. Booth very calmly resolved to
apply the money to his own use.
The first thing after redemption of the coat, which Mr. Booth, hungry as
he was, thought of, was to supply himself with snuff, which he had long,
to his great sorrow, been without. On this occasion he presently missed
that iron box which the methodist had so dexterously conveyed out of his
pocket, as we mentioned in the last chapter.
He no sooner missed this box than he immediately suspected that the
gambler was the person who had stolen it; nay, so well was he assured
of this man’s guilt, that it may, perhaps, be improper to say he barely
suspected it. Though Mr. Booth was, as we have hinted, a man of a very
sweet disposition, yet was he rather overwarm. Having, therefore, no
doubt concerning the person of the thief, he eagerly sought him out, and
very bluntly charged him with the fact.
The gambler, whom I think we should now call the philosopher, received
this charge without the least visible emotion either of mind or muscle.
After a short pause of a few moments, he answered, with great solemnity,
as follows: “Young man, I am entirely unconcerned at your groundless
suspicion. He that censures a stranger, as I am to you, without any
cause, makes a worse compliment to himself than to the stranger. You
know yourself, friend; you know not me. It is true, indeed, you heard me
accused of being a cheat and a gamester; but who is my accuser? Look at
my apparel, friend; do thieves and gamesters wear such cloaths as these?
play is my folly, not my vice; it is my impulse, and I have been a
martyr to it. Would a gamester have asked another to play when he
could have lost eighteen-pence and won nothing? However, if you are not
satisfied, you may search my pockets; the outside of all but one will
serve your turn, and in that one there is the eighteen-pence I told you
of.” He then turned up his cloaths; and his pockets entirely resembled
the pitchers of the Belides.
Booth was a little staggered at this defence. He said the real value
of the iron box was too inconsiderable to mention; but that he had a
capricious value for it, for the sake of the person who gave it him;
“for, though it is not,” said he, “worth sixpence, I would willingly
give a crown to any one who would bring it me again.”
Robinson answered, “If that be the case, you have nothing more to do
but to signify your intention in the prison, and I am well convinced you
will not be long without regaining the possession of your snuff-box.”
This advice was immediately followed, and with success, the methodist
presently producing the box, which, he said, he had found, and should
have returned it before, had he known the person to whom it belonged;
adding, with uplifted eyes, that the spirit would not suffer him
knowingly to detain the goods of another, however inconsiderable the
value was. “Why so, friend?” said Robinson. “Have I not heard you often
say, the wickeder any man was the better, provided he was what you call
a believer?” “You mistake me,” cries Cooper (for that was the name
of the methodist): “no man can be wicked after he is possessed by the
spirit. There is a wide difference between the days of sin and the
days of grace. I have been a sinner myself.” “I believe thee,” cries
Robinson, with a sneer. “I care not,” answered the other, “what an
atheist believes. I suppose you would insinuate that I stole the
snuff-box; but I value not your malice; the Lord knows my innocence.”
He then walked off with the reward; and Booth, turning to Robinson, very
earnestly asked pardon for his groundless suspicion; which the other,
without any hesitation, accorded him, saying, “You never accused me,
sir; you suspected some gambler, with whose character I have no concern.
I should be angry with a friend or acquaintance who should give a hasty
credit to any allegation against me; but I have no reason to be offended
with you for believing what the woman, and the rascal who is just gone,
and who is committed here for a pickpocket, which you did not perhaps
know, told you to my disadvantage. And if you thought me to be a gambler
you had just reason to suspect any ill of me; for I myself am confined
here by the perjury of one of those villains, who, having cheated me of
my money at play, and hearing that I intended to apply to a magistrate
against him, himself began the attack, and obtained a warrant against
me of Justice Thrasher, who, without hearing one speech in my defence,
committed me to this place.”
Booth testified great compassion at this account; and, he having invited
Robinson to dinner, they spent that day together. In the afternoon Booth
indulged his friend with a game at cards; at first for halfpence and
afterwards for shillings, when fortune so favoured Robinson that he did
not leave the other a single shilling in his pocket.
A surprizing run of luck in a gamester is often mistaken for somewhat
else by persons who are not over-zealous believers in the divinity of
fortune. I have known a stranger at Bath, who hath happened fortunately
(I might almost say unfortunately) to have four by honours in his hand
almost every time he dealt for a whole evening, shunned universally
by the whole company the next day. And certain it is, that Mr. Booth,
though of a temper very little inclined to suspicion, began to waver in
his opinion whether the character given by Mr. Robinson of himself, or
that which the others gave of him, was the truer.
In the morning hunger paid him a second visit, and found him again in
the same situation as before. After some deliberation, therefore, he
resolved to ask Robinson to lend him a shilling or two of that money
which was lately his own. And this experiments he thought, would confirm
him either in a good or evil opinion of that gentleman.
To this demand Robinson answered, with great alacrity, that he should
very gladly have complied, had not fortune played one of her jade tricks
with him: “for since my winning of you,” said he, “I have been stript
not only of your money but my own.” He was going to harangue farther;
but Booth, with great indignation, turned from him.
This poor gentleman had very little time to reflect on his own misery,
or the rascality, as it appeared to him, of the other, when the same
person who had the day before delivered him the guinea from the unknown
hand, again accosted him, and told him a lady in the house (so he
expressed himself) desired the favour of his company.
Mr. Booth immediately obeyed the message, and was conducted into a room
in the prison, where he was presently convinced that Mrs. Vincent was no
other than his old acquaintance Miss Matthews.
Chapter vi
_Containing the extraordinary behaviour of Miss Matthews on her meeting
with Booth, and some endeavours to prove, by reason and authority, that
it is possible for a woman to appear to be what she really is not._
Eight or nine years had past since any interview between Mr. Booth
and Miss Matthews; and their meeting now in so extraordinary a place
affected both of them with an equal surprize.
After some immaterial ceremonies, the lady acquainted Mr. Booth that,
having heard there was a person in the prison who knew her by the name
of Matthews, she had great curiosity to inquire who he was, whereupon he
had been shewn to her from the window of the house; that she immediately
recollected him, and, being informed of his distressful situation, for
which she expressed great concern, she had sent him that guinea which
he had received the day before; and then proceeded to excuse herself
for not having desired to see him at that time, when she was under the
greatest disorder and hurry of spirits.
Booth made many handsome acknowledgments of her favour; and added that
he very little wondered at the disorder of her spirits, concluding that
he was heartily concerned at seeing her there; “but I hope, madam,” said
he--
Here he hesitated; upon which, bursting into an agony of tears, she
cried out, “O captain! captain! many extraordinary things have passed
since last I saw you. O gracious heaven! did I ever expect that this
would be the next place of our meeting?”
She then flung herself into her chair, where she gave a loose to
her passion, whilst he, in the most affectionate and tender manner,
endeavoured to soothe and comfort her; but passion itself did probably
more for its own relief than all his friendly consolations. Having
vented this in a large flood of tears, she became pretty well composed;
but Booth unhappily mentioning her father, she again relapsed into an
agony, and cried out, “Why? why will you repeat the name of that dear
man? I have disgraced him, Mr. Booth, I am unworthy the name of his
daughter.”--Here passion again stopped her words, and discharged itself
in tears.
After this second vent of sorrow or shame, or, if the reader pleases, of
rage, she once more recovered from her agonies. To say the truth, these
are, I believe, as critical discharges of nature as any of those which
are so called by the physicians, and do more effectually relieve the
mind than any remedies with which the whole materia medica of philosophy
can supply it.
When Mrs. Vincent had recovered her faculties, she perceived Booth
standing silent, with a mixture of concern and astonishment in his
countenance; then addressing herself to him with an air of most
bewitching softness, of which she was a perfect mistress, she said,
“I do not wonder at your amazement, Captain Booth, nor indeed at the
concern which you so plainly discover for me; for I well know the
goodness of your nature: but, O, Mr. Booth! believe me, when you know
what hath happened since our last meeting, your concern will be raised,
however your astonishment may cease. O, sir! you are a stranger to the
cause of my sorrows.”
“I hope I am, madam,” answered he; “for I cannot believe what I have
heard in the prison--surely murder”--at which words she started from her
chair, repeating, “Murder! oh! it is music in my ears!--You have heard
then the cause of my commitment, my glory, my delight, my reparation!
Yes, my old friend, this is the hand, this is the arm that drove the
penknife to his heart. Unkind fortune, that not one drop of his blood
reached my hand.--Indeed, sir, I would never have washed it from
it.--But, though I have not the happiness to see it on my hand, I have
the glorious satisfaction of remembering I saw it run in rivers on
the floor; I saw it forsake his cheeks, I saw him fall a martyr to my
revenge. And is the killing a villain to be called murder? perhaps
the law calls it so.--Let it call it what it will, or punish me as it
pleases.---Punish me!--no, no---that is not in the power of man--not of
that monster man, Mr. Booth. I am undone, am revenged, and have now no
more business for life; let them take it from me when they will.”
Our poor gentleman turned pale with horror at this speech, and the
ejaculation of “Good heavens! what do I hear?” burst spontaneously from
his lips; nor can we wonder at this, though he was the bravest of men;
for her voice, her looks, her gestures, were properly adapted to the
sentiments she exprest. Such indeed was her image, that neither could
Shakspear describe, nor Hogarth paint, nor Clive act, a fury in higher
perfection.
[Illustration: She then gave a loose to her passions]
“What do you hear?” reiterated she. “You hear the resentment of the most
injured of women. You have heard, you say, of the murder; but do you
know the cause, Mr. Booth? Have you since your return to England visited
that country where we formerly knew one another? tell me, do you know my
wretched story? tell me that, my friend.”
Booth hesitated for an answer; indeed, he had heard some imperfect
stories, not much to her advantage. She waited not till he had formed
a speech; but cried, “Whatever you may have heard, you cannot be
acquainted with all the strange accidents which have occasioned your
seeing me in a place which at our last parting was so unlikely that I
should ever have been found in; nor can you know the cause of all that
I have uttered, and which, I am convinced, you never expected to have
heard from my mouth. If these circumstances raise your curiosity, I will
satisfy it.”
He answered, that curiosity was too mean a word to express his ardent
desire of knowing her story. Upon which, with very little previous
ceremony, she began to relate what is written in the following chapter.
But before we put an end to this it may be necessary to whisper a word
or two to the critics, who have, perhaps, begun to express no less
astonishment than Mr. Booth, that a lady in whom we had remarked a most
extraordinary power of displaying softness should, the very next moment
after the words were out of her mouth, express sentiments becoming
the lips of a Dalila, Jezebel, Medea, Semiramis, Parysatis, Tanaquil,
Livilla, Messalina, Agrippina, Brunichilde, Elfrida, Lady Macbeth,
Joan of Naples, Christina of Sweden, Katharine Hays, Sarah Malcolm, Con
Philips,[Footnote: Though last not least.] or any other heroine of the
tender sex, which history, sacred or profane, ancient or modern, false
or true, hath recorded.
We desire such critics to remember that it is the same English climate,
in which, on the lovely 10th of June, under a serene sky, the amorous
Jacobite, kissing the odoriferous zephyr’s breath, gathers a nosegay
of white roses to deck the whiter breast of Celia; and in which, on the
11th of June, the very next day, the boisterous Boreas, roused by the
hollow thunder, rushes horrible through the air, and, driving the wet
tempest before him, levels the hope of the husbandman with the earth,
dreadful remembrance of the consequences of the Revolution.
Again, let it be remembered that this is the selfsame Celia, all tender,
soft, and delicate, who with a voice, the sweetness of which the
Syrens might envy, warbles the harmonious song in praise of the young
adventurer; and again, the next day, or, perhaps the next hour, with
fiery eyes, wrinkled brows, and foaming lips, roars forth treason and
nonsense in a political argument with some fair one of a different
principle.
Or, if the critic be a Whig, and consequently dislikes such kind of
similes, as being too favourable to Jacobitism, let him be contented
with the following story:
I happened in my youth to sit behind two ladies in a side-box at a play,
where, in the balcony on the opposite side, was placed the inimitable
B---y C---s, in company with a young fellow of no very formal, or
indeed sober, appearance. One of the ladies, I remember, said to the
other--“Did you ever see anything look so modest and so innocent as that
girl over the way? what pity it is such a creature should be in the
way of ruin, as I am afraid she is, by her being alone with that young
fellow!” Now this lady was no bad physiognomist, for it was impossible
to conceive a greater appearance of modesty, innocence, and simplicity,
than what nature had displayed in the countenance of that girl; and yet,
all appearances notwithstanding, I myself (remember, critic, it was in
my youth) had a few mornings before seen that very identical picture of
all those engaging qualities in bed with a rake at a bagnio, smoaking
tobacco, drinking punch, talking obscenity, and swearing and cursing
with all the impudence and impiety of the lowest and most abandoned
trull of a soldier.
Chapter vii.
_In which Miss Matthews begins her history._
Miss Matthews, having barred the door on the inside as securely as it
was before barred on the outside, proceeded as follows:
“You may imagine I am going to begin my history at the time when you
left the country; but I cannot help reminding you of something which
happened before. You will soon recollect the incident; but I believe you
little know the consequence either at that time or since. Alas! I could
keep a secret then! now I have no secrets; the world knows all; and it
is not worth my while to conceal anything. Well!--You will not wonder,
I believe.--I protest I can hardly tell it you, even now.---But I am
convinced you have too good an opinion of yourself to be surprized at
any conquest you may have made.---Few men want that good opinion--and
perhaps very few had ever more reason for it. Indeed, Will, you was a
charming fellow in those days; nay, you are not much altered for the
worse now, at least in the opinion of some women; for your complexion
and features are grown much more masculine than they were.” Here Booth
made her a low bow, most probably with a compliment; and after a little
hesitation she again proceeded.---“Do you remember a contest which
happened at an assembly, betwixt myself and Miss Johnson, about standing
uppermost? you was then my partner; and young Williams danced with
the other lady. The particulars are not now worth mentioning, though
I suppose you have long since forgot them. Let it suffice that you
supported my claim, and Williams very sneakingly gave up that of his
partner, who was, with much difficulty, afterwards prevailed to dance
with him. You said--I am sure I repeat the words exactly--that you
would not for the world affront any lady there; but that you thought you
might, without any such danger declare, that there was no assembly in
which that lady, meaning your humble servant, was not worthy of the
uppermost place; ‘nor will I,’ said you, ‘suffer, the first duke in
England, when she is at the uppermost end of the room, and hath called
her dance, to lead his partner above her.’
“What made this the more pleasing to me was, that I secretly hated Miss
Johnson. Will you have the reason? why, then, I will tell you honestly,
she was my rival. That word perhaps astonishes you, as you never, I
believe, heard of any one who made his addresses to me; and indeed my
heart was, till that night, entirely indifferent to all mankind: I
mean, then, that she was my rival for praise, for beauty, for dress, for
fortune, and consequently for admiration. My triumph on this conquest
is not to be expressed any more than my delight in the person to whom I
chiefly owed it. The former, I fancy, was visible to the whole company;
and I desired it should be so; but the latter was so well concealed,
that no one, I am confident, took any notice of it. And yet you
appeared to me that night to be an angel. You looked, you danced, you
spoke-everything charmed me.”
“Good Heavens!” cries Booth, “is it possible you should do me so much
unmerited honour, and I should be dunce enough not to perceive the least
symptom?”
“I assure you,” answered she, “I did all I could to prevent you; and yet
I almost hated you for not seeing through what I strove to hide. Why,
Mr. Booth, was you not more quick-sighted?--I will answer for you--your
affections were more happily disposed of to a much better woman than
myself, whom you married soon afterwards. I should ask you for her,
Mr. Booth; I should have asked you for her before; but I am unworthy of
asking for her, or of calling her my acquaintance.”
Booth stopt her short, as she was running into another fit of passion,
and begged her to omit all former matters, and acquaint him with that
part of her history to which he was an entire stranger.
She then renewed her discourse as follows: “You know, Mr. Booth, I
soon afterwards left that town, upon the death of my grandmother, and
returned home to my father’s house; where I had not been long arrived
before some troops of dragoons came to quarter in our neighbourhood.
Among the officers there was a cornet whose detested name was Hebbers,
a name I could scarce repeat, had I not at the same time the pleasure
to reflect that he is now no more. My father, you know, who is a
hearty well-wisher to the present government, used always to invite
the officers to his house; so did he these. Nor was it long before this
cornet in so particular a manner recommended himself to the poor old
gentleman (I cannot think of him without tears), that our house became
his principal habitation, and he was rarely at his quarters, unless when
his superior officers obliged him to be there. I shall say nothing of
his person, nor could that be any recommendation to a man; it was
such, however, as no woman could have made an objection to. Nature had
certainly wrapt up her odious work in a most beautiful covering. To
say the truth, he was the handsomest man, except one only, that I
ever saw--I assure you, I have seen a handsomer---but--well.--He
had, besides, all the qualifications of a gentleman; was genteel and
extremely polite; spoke French well, and danced to a miracle; but what
chiefly recommended him to my father was his skill in music, of which
you know that dear man was the most violent lover. I wish he was not
too susceptible of flattery on that head; for I have heard Hebbers often
greatly commend my father’s performance, and have observed that the good
man was wonderfully pleased with such commendations. To say the truth,
it is the only way I can account for the extraordinary friendship which
my father conceived for this person; such a friendship, that he at last
became a part of our family.
“This very circumstance, which, as I am convinced, strongly recommended
him to my father, had the very contrary effect with me: I had never any
delight in music, and it was not without much difficulty I was prevailed
on to learn to play on the harpsichord, in which I had made a very
slender progress. As this man, therefore, was frequently the occasion of
my being importuned to play against my will, I began to entertain some
dislike for him on that account; and as to his person, I assure you, I
long continued to look on it with great indifference.
“How strange will the art of this man appear to you presently, who had
sufficient address to convert that very circumstance which had at first
occasioned my dislike into the first seeds of affection for him!
“You have often, I believe, heard my sister Betty play on the
harpsichord; she was, indeed, reputed the best performer in the whole
country.
“I was the farthest in the world from regarding this perfection of hers
with envy. In reality, perhaps, I despised all perfection of this kind:
at least, as I had neither skill nor ambition to excel this way, I
looked upon it as a matter of mere indifference.
“Hebbers first put this emulation in my head. He took great pains to
persuade me that I had much greater abilities of the musical kind than
my sister, and that I might with the greatest ease, if I pleased, excel
her; offering me, at the same time, his assistance if I would resolve to
undertake it.
“When he had sufficiently inflamed my ambition, in which, perhaps, he
found too little difficulty, the continual praises of my sister, which
before I had disregarded, became more and more nauseous in my ears; and
the rather, as, music being the favourite passion of my father, I became
apprehensive (not without frequent hints from Hebbers of that nature)
that she might gain too great a preference in his favour.
“To my harpsichord then I applied myself night and day, with such
industry and attention, that I soon began to perform in a tolerable
manner. I do not absolutely say I excelled my sister, for many were of
a different opinion; but, indeed, there might be some partiality in all
that.
“Hebbers, at least, declared himself on my side, and nobody could doubt
his judgment. He asserted openly that I played in the better manner of
the two; and one day, when I was playing to him alone, he affected to
burst into a rapture of admiration, and, squeezing me gently by the
hand, said, There, madam, I now declare you excel your sister as much in
music as, added he in a whispering sigh, you do her, and all the world,
in every other charm.
“No woman can bear any superiority in whatever thing she desires to
excel in. I now began to hate all the admirers of my sister, to be
uneasy at every commendation bestowed on her skill in music, and
consequently to love Hebbers for the preference which he gave to mine.
“It was now that I began to survey the handsome person of Hebbers with
pleasure. And here, Mr. Booth, I will betray to you the grand secret
of our sex.---Many women, I believe, do, with great innocence, and even
with great indifference, converse with men of the finest persons; but
this I am confident may be affirmed with truth, that, when once a woman
comes to ask this question of herself, Is the man whom I like for some
other reason, handsome? her fate and his too, very strongly depend on
her answering in the affirmative.
“Hebbers no sooner perceived that he had made an impression on my
heart, of which I am satisfied I gave him too undeniable tokens, than he
affected on a sudden to shun me in the most apparent manner. He wore
the most melancholy air in my presence, and, by his dejected looks and
sighs, firmly persuaded me that there was some secret sorrow labouring
in his bosom; nor will it be difficult for you to imagine to what cause
I imputed it.
“Whilst I was wishing for his declaration of a passion in which I
thought I could not be mistaken, and at the same time trembling whenever
we met with the apprehension of this very declaration, the widow Carey
came from London to make us a visit, intending to stay the whole summer
at our house.
“Those who know Mrs. Carey will scarce think I do her an injury in
saying she is far from being handsome; and yet she is as finished a
coquette as if she had the highest beauty to support that character.
But perhaps you have seen her; and if you have I am convinced you will
readily subscribe to my opinion.”
Booth answered he had not; and then she proceeded as in the following
chapter.
Chapter viii
_The history of Miss Matthews continued_.
“This young lady had not been three days with us before Hebbers grew so
particular with her, that it was generally observed; and my poor father,
who, I believe, loved the cornet as if he had been his son, began to
jest on the occasion, as one who would not be displeased at throwing a
good jointure into the arms of his friend.
“You will easily guess, sir, the disposition of my mind on this
occasion; but I was not permitted to suffer long under it; for one day,
when Hebbers was alone with me, he took an opportunity of expressing
his abhorrence at the thoughts of marrying for interest, contrary to his
inclinations. I was warm on the subject, and, I believe, went so far as
to say that none but fools and villains did so. He replied, with a sigh,
Yes, madam, but what would you think of a man whose heart is all the
while bleeding for another woman, to whom he would willingly sacrifice
the world; but, because he must sacrifice her interest as well as his
own, never durst even give her a hint of that passion which was preying
on his very vitals? ‘Do you believe, Miss Fanny, there is such a wretch
on earth?’ I answered, with an assumed coldness, I did not believe there
was. He then took me gently by the hand, and, with a look so tender that
I cannot describe it, vowed he was himself that wretch. Then starting,
as if conscious of an error committed, he cried with a faltering voice,
‘What am I saying? Pardon me, Miss Fanny; since I beg only your pity, I
never will ask for more.--’ At these words, hearing my father coming
up, I betrayed myself entirely, if, indeed, I had not done it before. I
hastily withdrew my hand, crying, Hush! for heaven’s sake, my father
is just coming in; my blushes, my look, and my accent, telling him, I
suppose, all which he wished to know.
“A few days now brought matters to an eclaircissement between us; the
being undeceived in what had given me so much uneasiness gave me a
pleasure too sweet to be resisted. To triumph over the widow, for whom
I had in a very short time contracted a most inveterate hatred, was a
pride not to be described. Hebbers appeared to me to be the cause of
all this happiness. I doubted not but that he had the most disinterested
passion for me, and thought him every way worthy of its return. I did
return it, and accepted him as my lover.
“He declared the greatest apprehensions of my father’s suspicion, though
I am convinced these were causeless had his designs been honourable. To
blind these, I consented that he should carry on sham addresses to the
widow, who was now a constant jest between us; and he pretended from
time to time to acquaint me faithfully with everything that past at his
interviews with her; nor was this faithless woman wanting in her part
of the deceit. She carried herself to me all the while with a shew of
affection, and pretended to have the utmost friendship for me But such
are the friendships of women!”
At this remark, Booth, though enough affected at some parts of the
story, had great difficulty to refrain from laughter; but, by good luck,
he escaped being perceived; and the lady went on without interruption.
“I am come now to a part of my narrative in which it is impossible to
be particular without being tedious; for, as to the commerce between
lovers, it is, I believe, much the same in all cases; and there is,
perhaps, scarce a single phrase that hath not been repeated ten millions
of times.
“One thing, however, as I strongly remarked it then, so I will repeat it
to you now. In all our conversations, in moments when he fell into the
warmest raptures, and exprest the greatest uneasiness at the delay
of his joys, he seldom mentioned the word marriage; and never once
solicited a day for that purpose. Indeed, women cannot be cautioned too
much against such lovers; for though I have heard, and perhaps truly, of
some of our sex, of a virtue so exalted, that it is proof against every
temptation; yet the generality, I am afraid, are too much in the power
of a man to whom they have owned an affection. What is called being upon
a good footing is, perhaps, being upon a very dangerous one; and a woman
who hath given her consent to marry can hardly be said to be safe till
she is married.
“And now, sir, I hasten to the period of my ruin. We had a wedding in
our family; my musical sister was married to a young fellow as musical
as herself. Such a match, you may be sure, amongst other festivities,
must have a ball. Oh! Mr. Booth, shall modesty forbid me to remark to
you what past on that occasion? But why do I mention modesty, who
have no pretensions to it? Everything was said and practised on that
occasion, as if the purpose had been to inflame the mind of every
woman present. That effect, I freely own to you, it had with me. Music,
dancing, wine, and the most luscious conversation, in which my poor dear
father innocently joined, raised ideas in me of which I shall for ever
repent; and I wished (why should I deny it?) that it had been my wedding
instead of my sister’s.
“The villain Hebbers danced with me that night, and he lost no
opportunity of improving the occasion. In short, the dreadful evening
came. My father, though it was a very unusual thing with him, grew
intoxicated with liquor; most of the men were in the same condition;
nay, I myself drank more than I was accustomed to, enough to inflame,
though not to disorder. I lost my former bed-fellow, my sister, and--you
may, I think, guess the rest--the villain found means to steal to my
chamber, and I was undone.
“Two months I passed in this detested commerce, buying, even then, my
guilty, half-tasted pleasures at too dear a rate, with continual horror
and apprehension; but what have I paid since--what do I pay now, Mr.
Booth? O may my fate be a warning to every woman to keep her innocence,
to resist every temptation, since she is certain to repent of the
foolish bargain. May it be a warning to her to deal with mankind with
care and caution; to shun the least approaches of dishonour, and never
to confide too much in the honesty of a man, nor in her own strength,
where she has so much at stake; let her remember she walks on a
precipice, and the bottomless pit is to receive her if she slips; nay,
if she makes but one false step.
“I ask your pardon, Mr. Booth; I might have spared these exhortations,
since no woman hears me; but you will not wonder at seeing me affected
on this occasion.”
Booth declared he was much more surprised at her being able so well to
preserve her temper in recounting her story.
“O sir,” answered she, “I am at length reconciled to my fate; and I can
now die with pleasure, since I die revenged. I am not one of those mean
wretches who can sit down and lament their misfortunes. If I ever shed
tears, they are the tears of indignation.--But I will proceed.
“It was my fate now to solicit marriage; and I failed not to do it in
the most earnest manner. He answered me at first with procrastinations,
declaring, from time to time, he would mention it to my father; and
still excusing himself for not doing it. At last he thought on an
expedient to obtain a longer reprieve. This was by pretending that he
should, in a very few weeks, be preferred to the command of a troop; and
then, he said, he could with some confidence propose the match.
“In this delay I was persuaded to acquiesce, and was indeed pretty easy,
for I had not yet the least mistrust of his honour; but what words can
paint my sensations, when one morning he came into my room, with all the
marks of dejection in his countenance, and, throwing an open letter on
the table, said, ‘There is news, madam, in that letter which I am unable
to tell you; nor can it give you more concern than it hath given me.’
“This letter was from his captain, to acquaint him that the rout, as
they call it, was arrived, and that they were to march within two days.
And this, I am since convinced, was what he expected, instead of the
preferment which had been made the pretence of delaying our marriage.
“The shock which I felt at reading this was inexpressible, occasioned
indeed principally by the departure of a villain whom I loved. However,
I soon acquired sufficient presence of mind to remember the main point;
and I now insisted peremptorily on his making me immediately his wife,
whatever might be the consequence.
“He seemed thunderstruck at this proposal, being, I suppose, destitute
of any excuse: but I was too impatient to wait for an answer, and cried
out with much eagerness, Sure you cannot hesitate a moment upon this
matter--‘Hesitate! madam!’ replied he--‘what you ask is impossible. Is
this a time for me to mention a thing of this kind to your father?’--My
eyes were now opened all at once--I fell into a rage little short of
madness. Tell not me, I cried, of impossibilities, nor times, nor of my
father---my honour, my reputation, my all are at stake.--I will have no
excuse, no delay--make me your wife this instant, or I will proclaim
you over the face of the whole earth for the greatest of villains. He
answered, with a kind of sneer, ‘What will you proclaim, madam?--whose
honour will you injure?’ My tongue faltered when I offered to reply,
and I fell into a violent agony, which ended in a fit; nor do I remember
anything more that past till I found myself in the arms of my poor
affrighted father.
“O, Mr. Booth, what was then my situation! I tremble even now from the
reflection.--I must stop a moment. I can go no farther.” Booth attempted
all in his power to soothe her; and she soon recovered her powers, and
proceeded in her story.
Chapter ix
_In which Miss Matthews concludes her relation_.
Before I had recovered my senses I had sufficiently betrayed myself to
the best of men, who, instead of upbraiding me, or exerting any anger,
endeavoured to comfort me all he could with assurances that all should
yet be well. This goodness of his affected me with inexpressible
sensations; I prostrated myself before him, embraced and kissed his
knees, and almost dissolved in tears, and a degree of tenderness hardly
to be conceived---But I am running into too minute descriptions.
“Hebbers, seeing me in a fit, had left me, and sent one of the servants
to take care of me. He then ran away like a thief from the house,
without taking his leave of my father, or once thanking him for all
his civilities. He did not stop at his quarters, but made directly
to London, apprehensive, I believe, either of my father or brother’s
resentment; for I am convinced he is a coward. Indeed his fear of my
brother was utterly groundless; for I believe he would rather have
thanked any man who had destroyed me; and I am sure I am not in the
least behindhand with him in good wishes.
“All his inveteracy to me had, however, no effect on my father, at least
at that time; for, though the good man took sufficient occasions to
reprimand me for my past offence, he could not be brought to abandon
me. A treaty of marriage was now set on foot, in which my father himself
offered me to Hebbers, with a fortune superior to that which had been
given with my sister; nor could all my brother’s remonstrances against
it, as an act of the highest injustice, avail.
“Hebbers entered into the treaty, though not with much warmth. He had
even the assurance to make additional demands on my father, which being
complied with, everything was concluded, and the villain once more
received into the house. He soon found means to obtain my forgiveness
of his former behaviour; indeed, he convinced me, so foolishly blind is
female love, that he had never been to blame.
“When everything was ready for our nuptials, and the day of the ceremony
was to be appointed, in the midst of my happiness I received a letter
from an unknown hand, acquainting me (guess, Mr. Booth, how I was
shocked at receiving it) that Mr. Hebbers was already married to a woman
in a distant part of the kingdom.
“I will not tire you with all that past at our next interview. I
communicated the letter to Hebbers, who, after some little hesitation,
owned the fact, and not only owned it, but had the address to improve it
to his own advantage, to make it the means of satisfying me concerning
all his former delays; which, to say the truth, I was not so much
displeased at imputing to any degree of villany, as I should have been
to impute it to the want of a sufficient warmth of affection, and
though the disappointment of all my hopes, at the very instant of their
expected fruition, threw me into the most violent disorders; yet, when I
came a little to myself, he had no great difficulty to persuade me that
in every instance, with regard to me, Hebbers had acted from no other
motive than from the most ardent and ungovernable love. And there is, I
believe, no crime which a woman will not forgive, when she can derive
it from that fountain. In short, I forgave him all, and am willing to
persuade myself I am not weaker than the rest of my sex. Indeed, Mr.
Booth, he hath a bewitching tongue, and is master of an address that
no woman could resist. I do assure you the charms of his person are his
least perfection, at least in my eye.”
Here Booth smiled, but happily without her perceiving it.
“A fresh difficulty (continued she) now arose. This was to excuse the
delay of the ceremony to my father, who every day very earnestly urged
it. This made me so very uneasy, that I at last listened to a proposal,
which, if any one in the days of my innocence, or even a few days
before, had assured me I could have submitted to have thought of,
I should have treated the supposition with the highest contempt and
indignation; nay, I scarce reflect on it now with more horror than
astonishment. In short, I agreed to run away with him--to leave my
father, my reputation, everything which was or ought to have been dear
to me, and to live with this villain as a mistress, since I could not be
his wife.
“Was not this an obligation of the highest and tenderest kind, and had
I not reason to expect every return in the man’s power on whom I had
conferred it? I will make short of the remainder of my story, for what
is there of a woman worth relating, after what I have told you?
“Above a year I lived with this man in an obscure court in London,
during which time I had a child by him, whom Heaven, I thank it, hath
been pleased to take to itself.
“During many months he behaved to me with all the apparent tenderness
and even fondness imaginable; but, alas! how poor was my enjoyment of
this compared to what it would have been in another situation? When he
was present, life was barely tolerable: but, when he was absent, nothing
could equal the misery I endured. I past my hours almost entirely alone;
for no company but what I despised, would consort with me. Abroad I
scarce ever went, lest I should meet any of my former acquaintance; for
their sight would have plunged a thousand daggers in my soul. My only
diversion was going very seldom to a play, where I hid myself in the
gallery, with a daughter of the woman of the house. A girl, indeed, of
good sense and many good qualities; but how much beneath me was it to
be the companion of a creature so low! O heavens! when I have seen my
equals glittering in a side-box, how have the thoughts of my lost honour
torn my soul!”
“Pardon me, dear madam,” cries Booth, “for interrupting you; but I am
under the utmost anxiety to know what became of your poor father,
for whom I have so great a respect, and who, I am convinced, must so
bitterly feel your loss.”
“O Mr. Booth,” answered she, “he was scarce ever out of my thoughts. His
dear image still obtruded itself in my mind, and I believe would have
broken my heart, had I not taken a very preposterous way to ease myself.
I am, indeed, almost ashamed to tell you; but necessity put it in my
head.--You will think the matter too trifling to have been remembered,
and so it surely was; nor should I have remembered it on any other
occasion. You must know then, sir, that my brother was always my
inveterate enemy and altogether as fond of my sister.--He once prevailed
with my father to let him take my sister with him in the chariot, and
by that means I was disappointed of going to a ball which I had set my
heart on. The disappointment, I assure you, was great at the time; but I
had long since forgotten it. I must have been a very bad woman if I had
not, for it was the only thing in which I can remember that my father
ever disobliged me. However, I now revived this in my mind, which I
artificially worked up into so high an injury, that I assure you it
afforded me no little comfort. When any tender idea intruded into my
bosom, I immediately raised this fantom of an injury in my imagination,
and it considerably lessened the fury of that sorrow which I should have
otherwise felt for the loss of so good a father, who died within a few
months of my departure from him.
“And now, sir, to draw to a conclusion. One night, as I was in the
gallery at Drury-lane playhouse, I saw below me in a side-box (she
was once below me in every place), that widow whom I mentioned to you
before. I had scarce cast my eyes on this woman before I was so shocked
with the sight that it almost deprived me of my senses; for the villain
Hebbers came presently in and seated himself behind her.
“He had been almost a month from me, and I believed him to be at his
quarters in Yorkshire. Guess what were my sensations when I beheld
him sitting by that base woman, and talking to her with the utmost
familiarity. I could not long endure this sight, and having acquainted
my companion that I was taken suddenly ill, I forced her to go home with
me at the end of the second act.
“After a restless and sleepless night, when I rose the next morning I
had the comfort to receive a visit from the woman of the house, who,
after a very short introduction, asked me when I had heard from the
captain, and when I expected to see him? I had not strength or spirits
to make her any answer, and she proceeded thus:--‘Indeed I did not think
the captain would have used me so. My husband was an officer of the army
as well as himself; and if a body is a little low in the world, I am
sure that is no reason for folks to trample on a body. I defy the world
to say as I ever was guilty of an ill thing.’ For heaven’s sake, madam,
says I, what do you mean? ‘Mean?’ cries she; ‘I am sure, if I had not
thought you had been Captain Hebbers’ lady, his lawful lady too, you
should never have set footing in my house. I would have Captain Hebbers
know, that though I am reduced to let lodgings, I never have entertained
any but persons of character.’--In this manner, sir, she ran on, saying
many shocking things not worth repeating, till my anger at last got the
better of my patience as well as my sorrow, and I pushed her out of the
room.
“She had not been long gone before her daughter came to me, and, after
many expressions of tenderness and pity, acquainted me that her mother
had just found out, by means of the captain’s servant, that the captain
was married to another lady; ‘which, if you did not know before, madam,’
said she, ‘I am sorry to be the messenger of such ill news.’
“Think, Mr. Booth, what I must have endured to see myself humbled before
such a creature as this, the daughter of a woman who lets lodgings!
However, having recollected myself a little, I thought it would be in
vain to deny anything; so, knowing this to be one of the best-natured
and most sensible girls in the world, I resolved to tell her my whole
story, and for the future to make her my confidante. I answered her,
therefore, with a good deal of assurance, that she need not regret
telling me this piece of ill news, for I had known it before I came to
her house.
“‘Pardon me, madam,’ replied the girl, ‘you cannot possibly have known
it so long, for he hath not been married above a week; last night was
the first time of his appearing in public with his wife at the play.
Indeed, I knew very well the cause of your uneasiness there; but would
not mention---’
“His wife at the play? answered I eagerly. What wife? whom do you mean?
“‘I mean the widow Carey, madam,’ replied she, ‘to whom the captain was
married a few days since. His servant was here last night to pay for
your lodging, and he told it my mother.’
“I know not what answer I made, or whether I made any. I presently fell
dead on the floor, and it was with great difficulty I was brought back
to life by the poor girl, for neither the mother nor the maid of the
house would lend me any assistance, both seeming to regard me rather as
a monster than a woman.
“Scarce had I recovered the use of my senses when I received a letter
from the villain, declaring he had not assurance to see my face, and
very kindly advising me to endeavour to reconcile myself to my family,
concluding with an offer, in case I did not succeed, to allow me twenty
pounds a-year to support me in some remote part of the kingdom.
“I need not mention my indignation at these proposals. In the highest
agony of rage, I went in a chair to the detested house, where I easily
got access to the wretch I had devoted to destruction, whom I no sooner
found within my reach than I plunged a drawn penknife, which I had
prepared in my pocket for the purpose, into his accursed heart. For this
fact I was immediately seized and soon after committed hither; and
for this fact I am ready to die, and shall with pleasure receive the
sentence of the law.
“Thus, sir,” said she, “I have related to you my unhappy story, and if
I have tired your patience, by dwelling too long on those parts which
affected me the most, I ask your pardon.”
Booth made a proper speech on this occasion, and, having exprest much
concern at her present situation, concluded that he hoped her sentence
would be milder than she seemed to expect.
Her reply to this was full of so much bitterness and indignation, that
we do not think proper to record the speech at length, in which having
vented her passion, she all at once put on a serene countenance, and
with an air of great complacency said, “Well, Mr. Booth, I think I have
now a right to satisfy my curiosity at the expense of your breath. I
may say it is not altogether a vain curiosity, for perhaps I have had
inclination enough to interest myself in whatever concerns you; but no
matter for that: those days (added she with a sigh) are now over.”
Booth, who was extremely good-natured and well-bred, told her that she
should not command him twice whatever was in his power; and then, after
the usual apology, was going to begin his history, when the keeper
arrived, and acquainted the lady that dinner was ready, at the same time
saying, “I suppose, madam, as the gentleman is an acquaintance of yours,
he must dine with us too.”
Miss Matthews told the keeper that she had only one word to mention in
private to the gentleman, and that then they would both attend him. She
then pulled her purse from her pocket, in which were upwards of twenty
guineas, being the remainder of the money for which she had sold a gold
repeating watch, her father’s present, with some other trinkets, and
desired Mr. Booth to take what he should have occasion for, saying, “You
know, I believe, dear Will, I never valued money; and now I am sure
I shall have very little use for it.” Booth, with much difficulty,
accepted of two guineas, and then they both together attended the
keeper.
Chapter x
_Table-talk, consisting of a facetious discourse that passed in the
prison_.
There were assembled at the table the governor of these (not improperly
called infernal) regions; the lieutenant-governor, vulgarly named the
first turnkey; Miss Matthews, Mr. Booth, Mr. Robinson the gambler,
several other prisoners of both sexes, and one Murphy, an attorney.
The governor took the first opportunity to bring the affair of Miss
Matthews upon the carpet, and then, turning to Murphy, he said, “It is
very lucky this gentleman happens to be present; I do assure you, madam,
your cause cannot be in abler hands. He is, I believe, the best man in
England at a defence; I have known him often succeed against the most
positive evidence.”
“Fy, sir,” answered Murphy; “you know I hate all this; but, if the lady
will trust me with her cause, I will do the best in my power. Come,
madam, do not be discouraged; a bit of manslaughter and cold iron, I
hope, will be the worst: or perhaps we may come off better with a slice
of chance-medley, or _se defendendo_”
“I am very ignorant of the law, sir,” cries the lady.
“Yes, madam,” answered Murphy; “it can’t be expected you should
understand it. There are very few of us who profess it that understand
the whole, nor is it necessary we should. There is a great deal of
rubbish of little use, about indictments, and abatements, and bars, and
ejectments, and trovers, and such stuff, with which people cram their
heads to little purpose. The chapter of evidence is the main business;
that is the sheet-anchor; that is the rudder, which brings the vessel
safe _in portum_. Evidence is, indeed, the whole, the _summa totidis_,
for _de non apparentibus et non insistentibus eandem est ratio_.”
“If you address yourself to me, sir,” said the lady, “you are much too
learned, I assure you, for my understanding.”
“_Tace_, madam,” answered Murphy, “is Latin for a candle: I commend your
prudence. I shall know the particulars of your case when we are alone.”
“I hope the lady,” said Robinson, “hath no suspicion of any person here.
I hope we are all persons of honour at this table.”
“D--n my eyes!” answered a well-dressed woman, “I can answer for myself
and the other ladies; though I never saw the lady in my life, she need
not be shy of us, d--n my eyes! I scorn to rap [Footnote: A cant word,
meaning to swear, or rather to perjure yourself] against any lady.”
“D--n me, madam!” cried another female, “I honour what you have done. I
once put a knife into a cull myself--so my service to you, madam, and I
wish you may come off with _se diffidendo_ with all my heart.”
“I beg, good woman,” said Miss Matthews, “you would talk on some other
subject, and give yourself no concern about my affairs.”
“You see, ladies,” cried Murphy, “the gentle-woman doth not care to talk
on this matter before company; so pray do not press her.”
“Nay, I value the lady’s acquaintance no more than she values mine,”
cries the first woman who spoke. “I have kept as good company as the
lady, I believe, every day in the week. Good woman! I don’t use to be
so treated. If the lady says such another word to me, d--n me, I will
darken her daylights. Marry, come up! Good woman!--the lady’s a whore as
well as myself! and, though I am sent hither to mill doll, d--n my eyes,
I have money enough to buy it off as well as the lady herself.”
Action might perhaps soon have ensued this speech, had not the keeper
interposed his authority, and put an end to any further dispute. Soon
after which, the company broke up, and none but himself, Mr. Murphy,
Captain Booth, and Miss Matthews, remained together.
Miss Matthews then, at the entreaty of the keeper, began to open her
case to Mr. Murphy, whom she admitted to be her solicitor, though she
still declared she was indifferent as to the event of the trial.
Mr. Murphy, having heard all the particulars with which the reader is
already acquainted (as far as related to the murder), shook his head and
said, “There is but one circumstance, madam, which I wish was out of the
case; and that we must put out of it; I mean the carrying the penknife
drawn into the room with you; for that seems to imply malice prepensive,
as we call it in the law: this circumstance, therefore, must not appear
against you; and, if the servant who was in the room observed this,
he must be bought off at all hazards. All here you say are friends;
therefore I tell you openly, you must furnish me with money sufficient
for this purpose. Malice is all we have to guard against.”
“I would not presume, sir,” cries Booth, “to inform you in the law;
but I have heard, in case of stabbing, a man may be indicted upon the
statute; and it is capital, though no malice appears.”
“You say true, sir,” answered Murphy; “a man may be indicted _contra
formam statutis;_ and that method, I allow you, requires no malice. I
presume you are a lawyer, sir?”
“No, indeed, sir,” answered Booth, “I know nothing of the law.”
“Then, sir, I will tell you--If a man be indicted _contra formam
tatutis_, as we say, no malice is necessary, because the form of the
statute makes malice; and then what we have to guard against is having
struck the first blow. Pox on’t, it is unlucky this was done in a room:
if it had been in the street we could have had five or six witnesses to
have proved the first blow, cheaper than, I am afraid, we shall get this
one; for when a man knows, from the unhappy circumstances of the case,
that you can procure no other witness but himself, he is always dear. It
is so in all other ways of business. I am very implicit, you see; but we
are all among friends. The safest way is to furnish me with money enough
to offer him a good round sum at once; and I think (it is for your good
I speak) fifty pounds is the least than can be offered him. I do assure
you I would offer him no less was it my own case.”
“And do you think, sir,” said she, “that I would save my life at the
expense of hiring another to perjure himself?”
“Ay, surely do I,” cries Murphy; “for where is the fault, admitting
there is some fault in perjury, as you call it? and, to be sure, it is
such a matter as every man would rather wish to avoid than not: and yet,
as it may be managed, there is not so much as some people are apt to
imagine in it; for he need not kiss the book, and then pray where’s
the perjury? but if the crier is sharper than ordinary, what is it he
kisses? is it anything but a bit of calf’s-skin? I am sure a man must
be a very bad Christian himself who would not do so much as that to
save the life of any Christian whatever, much more of so pretty a lady.
Indeed, madam, if we can make out but a tolerable case, so much beauty
will go a great way with the judge and the jury too.”
The latter part of this speech, notwithstanding the mouth it came from,
caused Miss Matthews to suppress much of the indignation which began
to arise at the former; and she answered with a smile, “Sir, you are a
great casuist in these matters; but we need argue no longer concerning
them; for, if fifty pounds would save my life, I assure you I could not
command that sum. The little money I have in my pocket is all I can call
my own; and I apprehend, in the situation I am in, I shall have very
little of that to spare.”
“Come, come, madam,” cries Murphy, “life is sweet, let me tell you, and
never sweeter than when we are near losing it. I have known many a man
very brave and undaunted at his first commitment, who, when business
began to thicken a little upon him, hath changed his note. It is no time
to be saving in your condition.”
The keeper, who, after the liberality of Miss Matthews, and on seeing
a purse of guineas in her hand, had conceived a great opinion of her
wealth, no sooner heard that the sum which he had in intention intirely
confiscated for his own use was attempted to be broke in upon, thought
it high time to be upon his guard. “To be sure,” cries he, “Mr. Murphy,
life is sweet, as you say, that must be acknowledged; to be sure, life
is sweet; but, sweet as it is, no persons can advance more than they are
worth to save it. And indeed, if the lady can command no more money than
that little she mentions, she is to be commended for her unwillingness
to part with any of it; for, to be sure, as she says, she will want
every farthing of that to live like a gentlewoman till she comes to her
trial. And, to be sure, as sweet as life is, people ought to take care
to be able to live sweetly while they do live; besides, I cannot help
saying the lady shews herself to be what she is, by her abhorrence of
perjury, which is certainly a very dreadful crime. And, though the not
kissing the book doth, as you say, make a great deal of difference; and,
if a man had a great while to live and repent, perhaps he might swallow
it well enough; yet, when people comes to be near their end (as who can
venture to foretel what will be the lady’s case?) they ought to take
care not to overburthen their conscience. I hope the lady’s case
will not be found murder; for I am sure I always wish well to all my
prisoners who shew themselves to be gentlemen or gentlewomen; yet one
should always fear the worst.”
“Indeed, sir, you speak like an oracle,” answered the lady; “and one
subornation of perjury would sit heavier on my conscience than twenty
such murders as I am guilty of.”
“Nay, to be sure, madam,” answered the keeper, “nobody can pretend to
tell what provocation you must have had; and certainly it can never be
imagined that a lady who behaves herself so handsomely as you have done
ever since you have been under my keys should be guilty of killing a man
without being very highly provoked to do it.”
Mr. Murphy was, I believe, going to answer when he was called out of
the room; after which nothing passed between the remaining persons worth
relating, till Booth and the lady retired back again into the lady’s
apartment.
Here they fell immediately to commenting on the foregoing discourse;
but, as their comments were, I believe, the same with what most readers
have made on the same occasion, we shall omit them. At last, Miss
Matthews reminding her companion of his promise of relating to her what
had befallen him since the interruption of their former acquaintance, he
began as is written in the next book of this history.