BOOK XI.

Chapter i.

_Containing a very polite scene._

We will now look back to some personages who, though not the principal

characters in this history, have yet made too considerable a figure in

it to be abruptly dropt: and these are Colonel James and his lady.

This fond couple never met till dinner the day after the masquerade,

when they happened to be alone together in an antechamber before the

arrival of the rest of the company.

The conversation began with the colonel’s saying, “I hope, madam, you

got no cold last night at the masquerade.” To which the lady answered by

much the same kind of question.

They then sat together near five minutes without opening their mouths

to each other. At last Mrs. James said, “Pray, sir, who was that masque

with you in the dress of a shepherdess? How could you expose yourself

by walking with such a trollop in public; for certainly no woman of any

figure would appear there in such a dress? You know, Mr. James, I never

interfere with your affairs; but I would, methinks, for my own sake, if

I was you, preserve a little decency in the face of the world.”

“Upon my word,” said James, “I do not know whom you mean. A woman in

such a dress might speak to me for aught I know. A thousand people

speak to me at a masquerade. But, I promise you, I spoke to no woman

acquaintance there that I know of. Indeed, I now recollect there was a

woman in a dress of a shepherdess; and there was another aukward thing

in a blue domino that plagued me a little, but I soon got rid of them.”

“And I suppose you do not know the lady in the blue domino neither?”

“Not I, I assure you,” said James. “But pray, why do you ask me these

questions? it looks so like jealousy.”

“Jealousy!” cries she; “I jealous! no, Mr. James, I shall never be

jealous, I promise you, especially of the lady in the blue domino; for,

to my knowledge, she despises you of all human race.”

“I am heartily glad of it,” said James; “for I never saw such a tall

aukward monster in my life.”

“That is a very cruel way of telling me you knew me.”

“You, madam!” said James; “you was in a black domino.”

“It is not so unusual a thing, I believe, you yourself know, to change

dresses. I own I did it to discover some of your tricks. I did not think

you could have distinguished the tall aukward monster so well.”

“Upon my soul,” said James, “if it was you I did not even suspect it; so

you ought not to be offended at what I have said ignorantly.”

“Indeed, sir,” cries she, “you cannot offend me by anything you can

say to my face; no, by my soul, I despise you too much. But I wish, Mr.

James, you would not make me the subject of your conversation amongst

your wenches. I desire I may not be afraid of meeting them for fear of

their insults; that I may not be told by a dirty trollop you make me the

subject of your wit amongst them, of which, it seems, I am the favourite

topic. Though you have married a tall aukward monster, Mr. James, I

think she hath a right to be treated, as your wife, with respect at

least: indeed, I shall never require any more; indeed, Mr. James, I

never shall. I think a wife hath a title to that.”

“Who told you this, madam?” said James.

“Your slut,” said she; “your wench, your shepherdess.”

“By all that’s sacred!” cries James, “I do not know who the shepherdess

was.”

“By all that’s sacred then,” says she, “she told me so, and I am

convinced she told me truth. But I do not wonder at you denying it; for

that is equally consistent with honour as to behave in such a manner to

a wife who is a gentlewoman. I hope you will allow me that, sir. Because

I had not quite so great a fortune I hope you do not think me beneath

you, or that you did me any honour in marrying me. I am come of as good

a family as yourself, Mr. James; and if my brother knew how you treated

me he would not bear it.”

“Do you threaten me with your brother, madam?” said James.

“I will not be ill-treated, sir,” answered she.

“Nor I neither, madam,” cries he; “and therefore I desire you will

prepare to go into the country to-morrow morning.”

“Indeed, sir,” said she, “I shall not.”

“By heavens! madam, but you shall,” answered he: “I will have my coach

at the door to-morrow morning by seven; and you shall either go into it

or be carried.”

“I hope, sir, you are not in earnest,” said she.

“Indeed, madam,” answered he, “but I am in earnest, and resolved; and

into the country you go to-morrow.”

“But why into the country,” said she, “Mr. James? Why will you be so

barbarous to deny me the pleasures of the town?”

“Because you interfere with my pleasures,” cried James, “which I have

told you long ago I would not submit to. It is enough for fond couples

to have these scenes together. I thought we had been upon a better

footing, and had cared too little for each other to become mutual

plagues. I thought you had been satisfied with the full liberty of doing

what you pleased.”

“So I am; I defy you to say I have ever given you any uneasiness.”

“How!” cries he; “have you not just now upbraided me with what you heard

at the masquerade?”

“I own,” said she, “to be insulted by such a creature to my face stung

me to the soul. I must have had no spirit to bear the insults of such

an animal. Nay, she spoke of you with equal contempt. Whoever she is, I

promise you Mr. Booth is her favourite. But, indeed, she is unworthy any

one’s regard, for she behaved like an arrant dragoon.”

“Hang her!” cries the colonel, “I know nothing of her.”

“Well, but, Mr. James, I am sure you will not send me into the country.

Indeed I will not go into the country.”

“If you was a reasonable woman,” cries James, “perhaps I should not

desire it. And on one consideration--”

“Come, name your consideration,” said she.

“Let me first experience your discernment,” said he. “Come, Molly, let

me try your judgment. Can you guess at any woman of your acquaintance

that I like?”

“Sure,” said she, “it cannot be Mrs. Booth!”

“And why not Mrs. Booth?” answered he. “Is she not the finest woman in

the world?”

“Very far from it,” replied she, “in my opinion.”

“Pray what faults,” said he, “can you find in her?”

“In the first place,” cries Mrs. James, “her eyes are too large; and she

hath a look with them that I don’t know how to describe; but I know I

don’t like it. Then her eyebrows are too large; therefore, indeed, she

doth all in her power to remedy this with her pincers; for if it was

not for those her eyebrows would be preposterous. Then her nose, as

well proportioned as it is, has a visible scar on one side. Her neck,

likewise, is too protuberant for the genteel size, especially as she

laces herself; for no woman, in my opinion, can be genteel who is not

entirely flat before. And, lastly, she is both too short and too tall.

Well, you may laugh, Mr. James, I know what I mean, though I cannot well

express it: I mean that she is too tall for a pretty woman and too short

for a fine woman. There is such a thing as a kind of insipid medium--a

kind of something that is neither one thing nor another. I know not how

to express it more clearly; but when I say such a one is a pretty woman,

a pretty thing, a pretty creature, you know very well I mean a little

woman; and when I say such a one is a very fine woman, a very fine

person of a woman, to be sure I must mean a tall woman. Now a woman that

is between both is certainly neither the one nor the other.”

“Well, I own,” said he, “you have explained yourself with great

dexterity; but, with all these imperfections, I cannot help liking her.”

“That you need not tell me, Mr. James,” answered the lady, “for that

I knew before you desired me to invite her to your house. And

nevertheless, did not I, like an obedient wife, comply with your

desires? did I make any objection to the party you proposed for the

masquerade, though I knew very well your motive? what can the best of

wives do more? to procure you success is not in my power; and, if I may

give you my opinion, I believe you will never succeed with her.”

“Is her virtue so very impregnable?” said he, with a sneer.

“Her virtue,” answered Mrs. James, “hath the best guard in the world,

which is a most violent love for her husband.”

“All pretence and affectation,” cries the colonel. “It is impossible she

should have so little taste, or indeed so little delicacy, as to like

such a fellow.”

“Nay, I do not much like him myself,” said she. “He is not indeed at all

such a sort of man as I should like; but I thought he had been generally

allowed to be handsome.”

“He handsome!” cries James. “What, with a nose like the proboscis of an

elephant, with the shoulders of a porter, and the legs of a chairman?

The fellow hath not in the least the look of a gentleman, and one would

rather think he had followed the plough than the camp all his life.”

“Nay, now I protest,” said she, “I think you do him injustice. He is

genteel enough in my opinion. It is true, indeed, he is not quite of the

most delicate make; but, whatever he is, I am convinced she thinks him

the finest man in the world.”

“I cannot believe it,” answered he peevishly; “but will you invite her

to dinner here to-morrow?”

“With all my heart, and as often as you please,” answered she. “But I

have some favours to ask of you. First, I must hear no more of going out

of town till I please.”

“Very well,” cries he.

“In the next place,” said she, “I must have two hundred guineas within

these two or three days.”

“Well, I agree to that too,” answered he.

“And when I do go out of town, I go to Tunbridge--I insist upon that;

and from Tunbridge I go to Bath--positively to Bath. And I promise you

faithfully I will do all in my power to carry Mrs. Booth with me.”

“On that condition,” answered he, “I promise you you shall go wherever

you please. And, to shew you, I will even prevent your wishes by my

generosity; as soon as I receive the five thousand pounds which I am

going to take up on one of my estates, you shall have two hundred more.”

She thanked him with a low curtesie; and he was in such good humour that

he offered to kiss her. To this kiss she coldly turned her cheek, and

then, flirting her fan, said, “Mr. James, there is one thing I forgot

to mention to you--I think you intended to get a commission in some

regiment abroad for this young man. Now if you would take my advice,

I know this will not oblige his wife; and, besides, I am positive

she resolves to go with him. But, if you can provide for him in some

regiment at home, I know she will dearly love you for it, and when he is

ordered to quarters she will be left behind; and Yorkshire or Scotland,

I think, is as good a distance as either of the Indies.”

“Well, I will do what I can,” answered James; “but I cannot ask anything

yet; for I got two places of a hundred a year each for two of my

footmen, within this fortnight.”

At this instant a violent knock at the door signified the arrival of

their company, upon which both husband and wife put on their best looks

to receive their guests; and, from their behaviour to each other during

the rest of the day, a stranger might have concluded he had been in

company with the fondest couple in the universe.

Chapter ii.

_Matters political._

Before we return to Booth we will relate a scene in which Dr Harrison

was concerned.

This good man, whilst in the country, happened to be in the

neighbourhood of a nobleman of his acquaintance, and whom he knew to

have very considerable interest with the ministers at that time.

The doctor, who was very well known to this nobleman, took this

opportunity of paying him a visit in order to recommend poor Booth to

his favour. Nor did he much doubt of his success, the favour he was to

ask being a very small one, and to which he thought the service of Booth

gave him so just a title.

The doctor’s name soon gained him an admission to the presence of this

great man, who, indeed, received him with much courtesy and politeness;

not so much, perhaps, from any particular regard to the sacred function,

nor from any respect to the doctor’s personal merit, as from some

considerations which the reader will perhaps guess anon. After many

ceremonials, and some previous discourse on different subjects, the

doctor opened the business, and told the great man that he was come to

him to solicit a favour for a young gentleman who had been an officer in

the army and was now on half-pay. “All the favour I ask, my lord,” said

he, “is, that this gentleman may be again admitted _ad_ _eundem_. I am

convinced your lordship will do me the justice to think I would not

ask for a worthless person; but, indeed, the young man I mean hath

very extraordinary merit. He was at the siege of Gibraltar, in which he

behaved with distinguished bravery, and was dangerously wounded at two

several times in the service of his country. I will add that he is at

present in great necessity, and hath a wife and several children, for

whom he hath no other means of providing; and, if it will recommend him

farther to your lordship’s favour, his wife, I believe, is one of the

best and worthiest of all her sex.”

“As to that, my dear doctor,” cries the nobleman, “I shall make no

doubt. Indeed any service I shall do the gentleman will be upon

your account. As to necessity, it is the plea of so many that it is

impossible to serve them all. And with regard to the personal merit of

these inferior officers, I believe I need not tell you that it is very

little regarded. But if you recommend him, let the person be what he

will, I am convinced it will be done; for I know it is in your power at

present to ask for a greater matter than this.”

“I depend entirely upon your lordship,” answered the doctor.

“Indeed, my worthy friend,” replied the lord, “I will not take a merit

to myself which will so little belong to me. You are to depend on

yourself. It falls out very luckily too at this time, when you have it

in your power so greatly to oblige us.”

“What, my lord, is in my power?” cries the doctor.

“You certainly know,” answered his lordship, “how hard Colonel

Trompington is run at your town in the election of a mayor; they tell

me it will be a very near thing unless you join us. But we know it is

in your power to do the business, and turn the scale. I heard your

name mentioned the other day on that account, and I know you may have

anything in reason if you will give us your interest.”

“Sure, my lord,” cries the doctor, “you are not in earnest in asking my

interest for the colonel?”

“Indeed I am,” answered the peer; “why should you doubt it?”

“For many reasons,” answered the doctor. “First, I am an old friend and

acquaintance of Mr. Fairfield, as your lordship, I believe, very well

knows. The little interest, therefore, that I have, you may be assured,

will go in his favour. Indeed, I do not concern myself deeply in these

affairs, for I do not think it becomes my cloth so to do. But, as far as

I think it decent to interest myself, it will certainly be on the side

of Mr. Fairfield. Indeed, I should do so if I was acquainted with both

the gentlemen only by reputation; the one being a neighbouring gentleman

of a very large estate, a very sober and sensible man, of known probity

and attachment to the true interest of his country; the other is a mere

stranger, a boy, a soldier of fortune, and, as far as I can discern from

the little conversation I have had with him, of a very shallow capacity,

and no education.”

“No education, my dear friend!” cries the nobleman. “Why, he hath been

educated in half the courts of Europe.”

“Perhaps so, my lord,” answered the doctor; “but I shall always be so

great a pedant as to call a man of no learning a man of no education.

And, from my own knowledge, I can aver that I am persuaded there is

scarce a foot-soldier in the army who is more illiterate than the

colonel.”

“Why, as to Latin and Greek, you know,” replied the lord, “they are not

much required in the army.”

“It may be so,” said the doctor. “Then let such persons keep to their

own profession. It is a very low civil capacity indeed for which an

illiterate man can be qualified. And, to speak a plain truth, if your

lordship is a friend to the colonel, you would do well to advise him

to decline an attempt in which I am certain he hath no probability of

success.”

“Well, sir,” said the lord, “if you are resolved against us, I must

deal as freely with you, and tell you plainly I cannot serve you in your

affair. Nay, it will be the best thing I can do to hold my tongue; for,

if I should mention his name with your recommendation after what you

have said, he would perhaps never get provided for as long as he lives.”

“Is his own merit, then, my lord, no recommendation?” cries the doctor.

“My dear, dear sir,” cries the other, “what is the merit of a subaltern

officer?”

“Surely, my lord,” cries the doctor, “it is the merit which should

recommend him to the post of a subaltern officer. And it is a merit

which will hereafter qualify him to serve his country in a higher

capacity. And I do assure of this young man, that he hath not only a

good heart but a good head too. And I have been told by those who are

judges that he is, for his age, an excellent officer.”

“Very probably!” cries my lord. “And there are abundance with the

same merit and the same qualifications who want a morsel of bread for

themselves and their families.”

“It is an infamous scandal on the nation,” cries the doctor; “and I am

heartily sorry it can be said even with a colour of truth.”

“How can it be otherwise?” says the peer. “Do you think it is possible

to provide for all men of merit?”

“Yes, surely do I,” said the doctor; “and very easily too.”

“How, pray?” cries the lord. “Upon my word, I shall be glad to know.”

“Only by not providing for those who have none. The men of merit in any

capacity are not, I am afraid, so extremely numerous that we need starve

any of them, unless we wickedly suffer a set of worthless fellows to eat

their bread.”

“This is all mere Utopia,” cries his lordship; “the chimerical system of

Plato’s commonwealth, with which we amused ourselves at the university;

politics which are inconsistent with the state of human affairs.”

“Sure, my lord,” cries the doctor, “we have read of states where such

doctrines have been put in practice. What is your lordship’s opinion

of Rome in the earlier ages of the commonwealth, of Sparta, and even of

Athens itself in some periods of its history?”

“Indeed, doctor,” cries the lord, “all these notions are obsolete and

long since exploded. To apply maxims of government drawn from the Greek

and Roman histories to this nation is absurd and impossible. But, if you

will have Roman examples, fetch them from those times of the republic

that were most like our own. Do you not know, doctor, that this is as

corrupt a nation as ever existed under the sun? And would you think

of governing such a people by the strict principles of honesty and

morality?”

“If it be so corrupt,” said the doctor, “I think it is high time to

amend it: or else it is easy to foresee that Roman and British liberty

will have the same fate; for corruption in the body politic as naturally

tends to dissolution as in the natural body.”

“I thank you for your simile,” cries my lord; “for, in the natural body,

I believe, you will allow there is the season of youth, the season of

manhood, and the season of old age; and that, when the last of these

arrives, it will be an impossible attempt by all the means of art to

restore the body again to its youth, or to the vigour of its middle age.

The same periods happen to every great kingdom. In its youth it rises

by arts and arms to power and prosperity. This it enjoys and flourishes

with a while; and then it may be said to be in the vigour of its age,

enriched at home with all the emoluments and blessings of peace, and

formidable abroad with all the terrors of war. At length this very

prosperity introduces corruption, and then comes on its old age. Virtue

and learning, art and industry, decay by degrees. The people sink into

sloth and luxury and prostitution. It is enervated at home--becomes

contemptible abroad; and such indeed is its misery and wretchedness,

that it resembles a man in the last decrepit stage of life, who looks

with unconcern at his approaching dissolution.”

“This is a melancholy picture indeed,” cries the doctor; “and, if

the latter part of it can be applied to our case, I see nothing

but religion, which would have prevented this decrepit state of the

constitution, should prevent a man of spirit from hanging himself out of

the way of so wretched a contemplation.”

“Why so?” said the peer; “why hang myself, doctor? Would it not be

wiser, think you, to make the best of your time, and the most you can,

in such a nation?”

“And is religion, then, to be really laid out of the question?” cries

the doctor.

“If I am to speak my own opinion, sir,” answered the peer, “you know I

shall answer in the negative. But you are too well acquainted with the

world to be told that the conduct of politicians is not formed upon the

principles of religion.”

“I am very sorry for it,” cries the doctor; “but I will talk to them

then of honour and honesty; this is a language which I hope they will at

least pretend to understand. Now to deny a man the preferment which

he merits, and to give it to another man who doth not merit it, is a

manifest act of injustice, and is consequently inconsistent with both

honour and honesty. Nor is it only an act of injustice to the man

himself, but to the public, for whose good principally all public

offices are, or ought to be, instituted. Now this good can never be

completed nor obtained but by employing all persons according to their

capacities. Wherever true merit is liable to be superseded by favour

and partiality, and men are intrusted with offices without any regard

to capacity or integrity, the affairs of that state will always be in a

deplorable situation. Such, as Livy tells us, was the state of Capua a

little before its final destruction, and the consequence your lordship

well knows. But, my lord, there is another mischief which attends this

kind of injustice, and that is, it hath a manifest tendency to destroy

all virtue and all ability among the people, by taking away all that

encouragement and incentive which should promote emulation and raise

men to aim at excelling in any art, science, or profession. Nor can

anything, my lord, contribute more to render a nation contemptible

among its neighbours; for what opinion can other countries have of

the councils, or what terror can they conceive of the arms, of such a

people? and it was chiefly owing to the avoiding this error that Oliver

Cromwell carried the reputation of England higher than it ever was at

any other time. I will add only one argument more, and that is founded

on the most narrow and selfish system of politics; and this is, that

such a conduct is sure to create universal discontent and grumbling at

home; for nothing can bring men to rest satisfied, when they see others

preferred to them, but an opinion that they deserved that elevation;

for, as one of the greatest men this country ever produced observes,

One worthless man that gains what he pretends

Disgusts a thousand unpretending friends.

With what heart-burnings then must any nation see themselves obliged to

contribute to the support of a set of men of whose incapacity to

serve them they are well apprized, and who do their country a double

diskindness, by being themselves employed in posts to which they are

unequal, and by keeping others out of those employments for which they

are qualified!”

“And do you really think, doctor,” cries the nobleman, “that any

minister could support himself in this country upon such principles as

you recommend? Do you think he would be able to baffle an opposition

unless he should oblige his friends by conferring places often contrary

to his own inclinations and his own opinion?”

“Yes, really do I,” cries the doctor. “Indeed, if a minister is resolved

to make good his confession in the liturgy, _by leaving undone all those

things which he ought to have done, and by doing all those things which

he ought not to have done,_ such a minister, I grant, will be obliged to

baffle opposition, as you are pleased to term it, by these arts; for, as

Shakespeare somewhere says,

Things ill begun strengthen themselves by ill.

But if, on the contrary, he will please to consider the true interest

of his country, and that only in great and national points; if he will

engage his country in neither alliances nor quarrels but where it is

really interested; if he will raise no money but what is wanted, nor

employ any civil or military officers but what are useful, and place

in these employments men of the highest integrity, and of the greatest

abilities; if he will employ some few of his hours to advance our trade,

and some few more to regulate our domestic government; if he would do

this, my lord, I will answer for it, he shall either have no opposition

to baffle, or he shall baffle it by a fair appeal to his conduct. Such

a minister may, in the language of the law, put himself on his country

when he pleases, and he shall come off with honour and applause.”

“And do you really believe, doctor,” cries the peer, “there ever was

such a minister, or ever will be?”

“Why not, my lord?” answered the doctor. “It requires no very

extraordinary parts, nor any extraordinary degree of virtue. He need

practise no great instances of self-denial. He shall have power, and

honour, and riches, and, perhaps, all in a much greater degree than he

can ever acquire by pursuing a contrary system. He shall have more of

each and much more of safety.”

“Pray, doctor,” said my lord, “let me ask you one simple question. Do

you really believe any man upon earth was ever a rogue out of choice?”

“Really, my lord,” says the doctor, “I am ashamed to answer in the

affirmative; and yet I am afraid experience would almost justify me if

I should. Perhaps the opinion of the world may sometimes mislead men to

think those measures necessary which in reality are not so. Or the truth

may be, that a man of good inclinations finds his office filled with

such corruption by the iniquity of his predecessors, that he may despair

of being capable of purging it; and so sits down contented, as Augeas

did with the filth of his stables, not because he thought them the

better, or that such filth was really necessary to a stable, but that he

despaired of sufficient force to cleanse them.”

“I will ask you one question more, and I have done,” said the nobleman.

“Do you imagine that if any minister was really as good as you would

have him, that the people in general would believe that he was so?”

“Truly, my lord,” said the doctor, “I think they may be justified in

not believing too hastily. But I beg leave to answer your lordship’s

question by another. Doth your lordship believe that the people of

Greenland, when they see the light of the sun and feel his warmth, after

so long a season of cold and darkness, will really be persuaded that he

shines upon them?”

My lord smiled at the conceit; and then the doctor took an opportunity

to renew his suit, to which his lordship answered, “He would promise

nothing, and could give him no hopes of success; but you may be

assured,” said he, with a leering countenance, “I shall do him all the

service in my power.” A language which the doctor well understood; and

soon after took a civil, but not a very ceremonious leave.

Chapter iii.

_The history of Mr. Trent._

We will now return to Mr. Booth and his wife. The former had spent his

time very uneasily ever since he had discovered what sort of man he was

indebted to; but, lest he should forget it, Mr. Trent thought now proper

to remind him in the following letter, which he read the next morning

after he had put off the appointment.

“SIR,--I am sorry the necessity of my affairs obliges me to mention that

small sum which I had the honour to lend you the other night at play;

and which I shall be much obliged to you if you will let me have some

time either to-day or to-morrow. I am, sir, Your most obedient, most

humble servant, GEORGE TRENT.”

This letter a little surprized Booth, after the genteel, and, indeed,

as it appeared, generous behaviour of Trent. But lest it should have the

same effect upon the reader, we will now proceed to account for this, as

well as for some other phenomena that have appeared in this history, and

which, perhaps, we shall be forgiven for not having opened more largely

before.

Mr. Trent then was a gentleman possibly of a good family, for it was not

certain whence he sprung on the father’s side. His mother, who was the

only parent he ever knew or heard of, was a single gentlewoman, and for

some time carried on the trade of a milliner in Covent-garden. She sent

her son, at the age of eight years old, to a charity-school, where he

remained till he was of the age of fourteen, without making any great

proficiency in learning. Indeed it is not very probable he should; for

the master, who, in preference to a very learned and proper man, was

chosen by a party into this school, the salary of which was upwards of

a hundred pounds a-year, had himself never travelled through the Latin

Grammar, and was, in truth, a most consummate blockhead.

At the age of fifteen Mr. Trent was put clerk to an attorney, where he

remained a very short time before he took leave of his master; rather,

indeed, departed without taking leave; and, having broke open his

mother’s escritore, and carried off with him all the valuable effects he

there found, to the amount of about fifty pounds, he marched off to sea,

and went on board a merchantman, whence he was afterwards pressed into a

man of war.

In this service he continued above three years; during which time he

behaved so ill in his moral character that he twice underwent a very

severe discipline for thefts in which he was detected; but at the same

time, he behaved so well as a sailor in an engagement with some pirates,

that he wiped off all former scores, and greatly recommended himself to

his captain.

At his return home, he being then about twenty years of age, he found

that the attorney had in his absence married his mother, had buried her,

and secured all her effects, to the amount, as he was informed, of

about fifteen hundred pound. Trent applied to his stepfather, but to no

purpose; the attorney utterly disowned him, nor would he suffer him to

come a second time within his doors.

It happened that the attorney had, by a former wife, an only daughter, a

great favourite, who was about the same age with Trent himself, and had,

during his residence at her father’s house, taken a very great liking to

this young fellow, who was extremely handsome and perfectly well made.

This her liking was not, during his absence, so far extinguished but

that it immediately revived on his return. Of this she took care to give

Mr. Trent proper intimation; for she was not one of those backward and

delicate ladies who can die rather than make the first overture. Trent

was overjoyed at this, and with reason, for she was a very lovely girl

in her person, the only child of a rich father; and the prospect of so

complete a revenge on the attorney charmed him above all the rest. To be

as short in the matter as the parties, a marriage was soon consummated

between them.

The attorney at first raged and was implacable; but at last fondness for

his daughter so far overcame resentment that he advanced a sum of money

to buy his son-in-law (for now he acknowledged him as such) an ensign’s

commission in a marching regiment then ordered to Gibraltar; at which

place the attorney heartily hoped that Trent might be knocked on the

head; for in that case he thought he might marry his daughter more

agreeably to his own ambition and to her advantage.

The regiment into which Trent purchased was the same with that in

which Booth likewise served; the one being an ensign, and the other a

lieutenant, in the two additional companies.

Trent had no blemish in his military capacity. Though he had had but

an indifferent education, he was naturally sensible and genteel, and

Nature, as we have said, had given him a very agreeable person. He was

likewise a very bold fellow, and, as he really behaved himself every way

well enough while he was at Gibraltar, there was some degree of intimacy

between him and Booth.

When the siege was over, and the additional companies were again

reduced, Trent returned to his wife, who received him with great joy and

affection. Soon after this an accident happened which proved the utter

ruin of his father-in-law, and ended in breaking his heart. This was

nothing but making a mistake pretty common at this day, of writing

another man’s name to a deed instead of his own. In truth this matter

was no less than what the law calls forgery, and was just then made

capital by an act of parliament. From this offence, indeed, the attorney

was acquitted, by not admitting the proof of the party, who was to avoid

his own deed by his evidence, and therefore no witness, according to

those excellent rules called the law of evidence; a law very excellently

calculated for the preservation of the lives of his majesty’s roguish

subjects, and most notably used for that purpose.

But though by common law the attorney was honourably acquitted, yet, as

common sense manifested to every one that he was guilty, he unhappily

lost his reputation, and of consequence his business; the chagrin of

which latter soon put an end to his life.

This prosecution had been attended with a very great expence; for,

besides the ordinary costs of avoiding the gallows by the help of the

law, there was a very high article, of no less than a thousand pounds,

paid down to remove out of the way a witness against whom there was no

legal exception. The poor gentleman had besides suffered some losses

in business; so that, to the surprize of all his acquaintance, when his

debts were paid there remained no more than a small estate of fourscore

pounds a-year, which he settled upon his daughter, far out of the reach

of her husband, and about two hundred pounds in money.

The old gentleman had not long been in his grave before Trent set

himself to consider seriously of the state of his affairs. He had lately

begun to look on his wife with a much less degree of liking and desire

than formerly; for he was one of those who think too much of one thing

is good for nothing. Indeed, he had indulged these speculations so far,

that I believe his wife, though one of the prettiest women in town, was

the last subject that he would have chose for any amorous dalliance.

Many other persons, however, greatly differed from him in his opinion.

Amongst the rest was the illustrious peer of amorous memory. This noble

peer, having therefore got a view of Mrs. Trent one day in the street,

did, by means of an emissary then with him, make himself acquainted with

her lodging, to which he immediately laid siege in form, setting himself

down in a lodging directly opposite to her, from whence the battery of

ogles began to play the very next morning.

This siege had not continued long before the governor of the garrison

became sufficiently apprized of all the works which were carrying on,

and, having well reconnoitered the enemy, and discovered who he was,

notwithstanding a false name and some disguise of his person, he called

a council of war within his own breast. In fact, to drop all allegory,

he began to consider whether his wife was not really a more valuable

possession than he had lately thought her. In short, as he had been

disappointed in her fortune, he now conceived some hopes of turning her

beauty itself into a fortune.

Without communicating these views to her, he soon scraped an

acquaintance with his opposite neighbour by the name which he there

usurped, and counterfeited an entire ignorance of his real name and

title. On this occasion Trent had his disguise likewise, for he affected

the utmost simplicity; of which affectation, as he was a very artful

fellow, he was extremely capable.

The peer fell plumb into this snare; and when, by the simplicity, as he

imagined, of the husband, he became acquainted with the wife, he was so

extravagantly charmed with her person, that he resolved, whatever was

the cost or the consequence, he would possess her.

His lordship, however, preserved some caution in his management of this

affair; more, perhaps, than was necessary. As for the husband, none

was requisite, for he knew all he could; and, with regard to the

wife herself, as she had for some time perceived the decrease of her

husband’s affection (for few women are, I believe, to be imposed upon

in that matter), she was not displeased to find the return of all that

complaisance and endearment, of those looks and languishments, from

another agreeable person, which she had formerly received from Trent,

and which she now found she should receive from him no longer.

My lord, therefore, having been indulged with as much opportunity as

he could wish from Trent, and having received rather more encouragement

than he could well have hoped from the lady, began to prepare all

matters for a storm, when luckily, Mr. Trent declaring he must go out

of town for two days, he fixed on the first day of his departure as the

time of carrying his design into execution.

And now, after some debate with himself in what manner he should

approach his love, he at last determined to do it in his own person; for

he conceived, and perhaps very rightly, that the lady, like Semele, was

not void of ambition, and would have preferred Jupiter in all his glory

to the same deity in the disguise of an humble shepherd. He dressed

himself, therefore, in the richest embroidery of which he was master,

and appeared before his mistress arrayed in all the brightness of

peerage; a sight whose charms she had not the power to resist, and the

consequences are only to be imagined. In short, the same scene which

Jupiter acted with his above-mentioned mistress of old was more than

beginning, when Trent burst from the closet into which he had conveyed

himself, and unkindly interrupted the action.

His lordship presently run to his sword; but Trent, with great calmness,

answered, “That, as it was very well known he durst fight, he should not

draw his sword on this occasion; for sure,” says he, “my lord, it would

be the highest imprudence in me to kill a man who is now become so

considerably my debtor.” At which words he fetched a person from the

closet, who had been confined with him, telling him he had done his

business, and might now, if he pleased, retire.

It would be tedious here to amuse the reader with all that passed on the

present occasion; the rage and confusion of the wife, or the perplexity

in which my lord was involved. We will omit therefore all such matters,

and proceed directly to business, as Trent and his lordship did soon

after. And in the conclusion my lord stipulated to pay a good round sum,

and to provide Mr. Trent with a good place on the first opportunity.

On the side of Mr. Trent were stipulated absolute remission of all past,

and full indulgence for the time to come.

Trent now immediately took a house at the polite end of the town,

furnished it elegantly, and set up his equipage, rigged out both himself

and his wife with very handsome cloaths, frequented all public places

where he could get admission, pushed himself into acquaintance, and his

wife soon afterwards began to keep an assembly, or, in the fashionable

phrase, to be at home once a-week; when, by my lord’s assistance, she

was presently visited by most men of the first rank, and by all such

women of fashion as are not very nice in their company.

My lord’s amour with this lady lasted not long; for, as we have before

observed, he was the most inconstant of all human race. Mrs. Trent’s

passion was not however of that kind which leads to any very deep

resentment of such fickleness. Her passion, indeed, was principally

founded upon interest; so that foundation served to support another

superstructure; and she was easily prevailed upon, as well as her

husband, to be useful to my lord in a capacity which, though very often

exerted in the polite world, hath not as yet, to my great surprize,

acquired any polite name, or, indeed, any which is not too coarse to be

admitted in this history.

After this preface, which we thought necessary to account for a

character of which some of my country and collegiate readers might

possibly doubt the existence, I shall proceed to what more immediately

regards Mrs. Booth. The reader may be pleased to remember that Mr. Trent

was present at the assembly to which Booth and his wife were carried by

Mrs. James, and where Amelia was met by the noble peer.

His lordship, seeing there that Booth and Trent were old acquaintance,

failed not, to use the language of sportsmen, to put Trent upon the

scent of Amelia. For this purpose that gentleman visited Booth the very

next day, and had pursued him close ever since. By his means, therefore,

my lord learned that Amelia was to be at the masquerade, to which place

she was dogged by Trent in a sailor’s jacket, who, meeting my lord,

according to agreement, at the entrance of the opera-house, like the

four-legged gentleman of the same vocation, made a dead point, as it is

called, at the game.

My lord was so satisfied and delighted with his conversation at the

masquerade with the supposed Amelia, and the encouragement which in

reality she had given him, that, when he saw Trent the next morning,

he embraced him with great fondness, gave him a bank note of a hundred

pound, and promised him both the Indies on his success, of which he

began now to have no manner of doubt.

The affair that happened at the gaming-table was likewise a scheme of

Trent’s, on a hint given by my lord to him to endeavour to lead Booth

into some scrape or distress; his lordship promising to pay whatever

expense Trent might be led into by such means. Upon his lordship’s

credit, therefore, the money lent to Booth was really advanced. And

hence arose all that seeming generosity and indifference as to the

payment; Trent being satisfied with the obligation conferred on Booth,

by means of which he hoped to effect his purpose.

But now the scene was totally changed; for Mrs. Atkinson, the morning

after the quarrel, beginning seriously to recollect that she had carried

the matter rather too far, and might really injure Amelia’s reputation,

a thought to which the warm pursuit of her own interest had a good deal

blinded her at the time, resolved to visit my lord himself, and to

let him into the whole story; for, as she had succeeded already in her

favourite point, she thought she had no reason to fear any consequence

of the discovery. This resolution she immediately executed.

Trent came to attend his lordship, just after Mrs. Atkinson had left

him. He found the peer in a very ill humour, and brought no news to

comfort or recruit his spirits; for he had himself just received

a billet from Booth, with an excuse for himself and his wife from

accepting the invitation at Trent’s house that evening, where matters

had been previously concerted for their entertainment, and when his

lordship was by accident to drop into the room where Amelia was, while

Booth was to be engaged at play in another.

And now after much debate, and after Trent had acquainted my lord with

the wretched situation of Booth’s circumstances, it was resolved that

Trent should immediately demand his money of Booth, and upon his not

paying it, for they both concluded it impossible he should pay it, to

put the note which Trent had for the money in suit against him by the

genteel means of paying it away to a nominal third person; and this

they both conceived must end immediately in the ruin of Booth, and,

consequently, in the conquest of Amelia.

In this project, and with this hope, both my lord and his setter, or (if

the sportsmen please) setting-dog, both greatly exulted; and it was next

morning executed, as we have already seen.

Chapter iv.

_Containing some distress._

Trent’s letter drove Booth almost to madness. To be indebted to such a

fellow at any rate had stuck much in his stomach, and had given him very

great uneasiness; but to answer this demand in any other manner than by

paying the money was absolutely what he could not bear. Again, to pay

this money, he very plainly saw there was but one way, and this was, by

stripping his wife, not only of every farthing, but almost of every rag

she had in the world; a thought so dreadful that it chilled his very

soul with horror: and yet pride, at last, seemed to represent this as

the lesser evil of the two.

But how to do this was still a question. It was not sure, at least he

feared it was not, that Amelia herself would readily consent to this;

and so far from persuading her to such a measure, he could not bear even

to propose it. At length his determination was to acquaint his wife with

the whole affair, and to ask her consent, by way of asking her advice;

for he was well assured she could find no other means of extricating him

out of his dilemma. This he accordingly did, representing the affair as

bad as he could; though, indeed, it was impossible for him to aggravate

the real truth.

Amelia heard him patiently, without once interrupting him. When he had

finished, she remained silent some time: indeed, the shock she received

from this story almost deprived her of the power of speaking. At last

she answered, “Well, my dear, you ask my advice; I certainly can give

you no other than that the money must be paid.”

“But how must it be paid?” cries he. “O, heavens! thou sweetest

creature! what, not once upbraid me for bringing this ruin on thee?”

“Upbraid you, my dear!” says she; “would to heaven I could prevent your

upbraiding yourself. But do not despair. I will endeavour by some means

or other to get you the money.”

“Alas! my dear love,” cries Booth, “I know the only way by which you

can raise it. How can I consent to that? do you forget the fears you so

lately expressed of what would be our wretched condition when our little

all was mouldered away? O my Amelia! they cut my very heart-strings when

you spoke then; for I had then lost this little all. Indeed, I assure

you, I have not played since, nor ever will more.”

“Keep that resolution,” said she, “my dear, and I hope we shall yet

recover the past.”--At which words, casting her eyes on the children,

the tears burst from her eyes, and she cried--“Heaven will, I hope,

provide for us.”

A pathetic scene now ensued between the husband and wife, which would

not, perhaps, please many readers to see drawn at too full a length. It

is sufficient to say that this excellent woman not only used her utmost

endeavours to stifle and conceal her own concern, but said and did

everything in her power to allay that of her husband.

Booth was, at this time, to meet a person whom we have formerly

mentioned in the course of our history. This gentleman had a place

in the War-office, and pretended to be a man of great interest and

consequence; by which means he did not only receive great respect and

court from the inferiour officers, but actually bubbled several of their

money, by undertaking to do them services which, in reality, were not

within his power. In truth, I have known few great men who have not been

beset with one or more such fellows as these, through whom the inferior

part of mankind are obliged to make their court to the great men

themselves; by which means, I believe, principally, persons of real

merit have often been deterred from the attempt; for these subaltern

coxcombs ever assume an equal state with their masters, and look for an

equal degree of respect to be paid to them; to which men of spirit,

who are in every light their betters, are not easily brought to submit.

These fellows, indeed, themselves have a jealous eye towards all great

abilities, and are sure, to the utmost of their power, to keep all

who are so endowed from the presence of their masters. They use their

masters as bad ministers have sometimes used a prince--they keep all men

of merit from his ears, and daily sacrifice his true honour and interest

to their own profit and their own vanity.

As soon as Booth was gone to his appointment with this man, Amelia

immediately betook herself to her business with the highest resolution.

She packed up, not only her own little trinkets, and those of the

children, but the greatest part of her own poor cloathes (for she was

but barely provided), and then drove in a hackney-coach to the same

pawnbroker’s who had before been recommended to her by Mrs. Atkinson,

who advanced her the money she desired.

Being now provided with her sum, she returned well pleased home, and her

husband coming in soon after, she with much chearfulness delivered him

all the money.

Booth was so overjoyed with the prospect of discharging his debt to

Trent, that he did not perfectly reflect on the distress to which

his family was now reduced. The good-humour which appeared in the

countenance of Amelia was, perhaps, another help to stifle those

reflexions; but above all, were the assurances he had received from the

great man, whom he had met at a coffee-house, and who had promised to

do him all the service in his power; which several half-pay subaltern

officers assured him was very considerable.

With this comfortable news he acquainted his wife, who either was, or

seemed to be, extremely well pleased with it. And now he set out with

the money in his pocket to pay his friend Trent, who unluckily for him

happened not to be at home.

On his return home he met his old friend the lieutenant, who thankfully

paid him his crown, and insisted on his going with him and taking part

of a bottle. This invitation was so eager and pressing, that poor Booth,

who could not resist much importunity, complied.

While they were over this bottle Booth acquainted his friend with the

promises he had received that afternoon at the coffee-house, with which

the old gentleman was very well pleased: “For I have heard,” says

he, “that gentleman hath very powerful interest;” but he informed him

likewise that he had heard that the great man must be touched, for that

he never did anything without touching. Of this, indeed, the great man

himself had given some oblique hints, by saying, with great sagacity

and slyness, that he knew where fifty pound might be deposited to much

advantage.

Booth answered that he would very readily advance a small sum if he had

it in his power, but that at present it was not so, for that he had no

more in the world than the sum of fifty pounds, which he owed Trent, and

which he intended to pay him the next morning.

“It is very right, undoubtedly, to pay your debts,” says the old

gentleman; “but sure, on such an occasion, any man but the rankest

usurer would be contented to stay a little while for his money; and it

will be only a little while I am convinced; for, if you deposit this

sum in the great man’s hands, I make no doubt but you will succeed

immediately in getting your commission; and then I will help you to a

method of taking up such a sum as this.” The old gentleman persisted

in this advice, and backed it with every argument he could invent,

declaring, as was indeed true, that he gave the same advice which he

would pursue was the case his own.

Booth long rejected the opinion of his friend, till, as they had not

argued with dry lips, he became heated with wine, and then at last the

old gentleman succeeded. Indeed, such was his love, either for Booth or

for his own opinion, and perhaps for both, that he omitted nothing in

his power. He even endeavoured to palliate the character of Trent, and

unsaid half what he had before said of that gentleman. In the end, he

undertook to make Trent easy, and to go to him the very next morning for

that purpose.

Poor Booth at last yielded, though with the utmost difficulty. Indeed,

had he known quite as much of Trent as the reader doth, no motive

whatsoever would have prevailed on him to have taken the old gentleman’s

advice.

Chapter v.

_Containing more wormwood and other ingredients._

In the morning Booth communicated the matter to Amelia, who told him she

would not presume to advise him in an affair of which he was so much the

better judge.

While Booth remained in a doubtful state what conduct to pursue Bound

came to make him a visit, and informed him that he had been at Trent’s

house, but found him not at home, adding that he would pay him a second

visit that very day, and would not rest till he found him.

Booth was ashamed to confess his wavering resolution in an affair in

which he had been so troublesome to his friend; he therefore dressed

himself immediately, and together they both went to wait on the

little great man, to whom Booth now hoped to pay his court in the most

effectual manner.

Bound had been longer acquainted with the modern methods of business

than Booth; he advised his friend, therefore, to begin with tipping (as

it is called) the great man’s servant. He did so, and by that means got

speedy access to the master.

The great man received the money, not as a gudgeon doth a bait, but as

a pike receives a poor gudgeon into his maw. To say the truth, such

fellows as these may well be likened to that voracious fish, who fattens

himself by devouring all the little inhabitants of the river. As soon

as the great man had pocketed the cash, he shook Booth by the hand, and

told him he would be sure to slip no opportunity of serving him, and

would send him word as soon as any offered.

Here I shall stop one moment, and so, perhaps, will my good-natured

reader; for surely it must be a hard heart which is not affected with

reflecting on the manner in which this poor little sum was raised, and

on the manner in which it was bestowed. A worthy family, the wife and

children of a man who had lost his blood abroad in the service of his

country, parting with their little all, and exposed to cold and hunger,

to pamper such a fellow as this!

And if any such reader as I mention should happen to be in reality a

great man, and in power, perhaps the horrour of this picture may induce

him to put a final end to this abominable practice of touching, as it

is called; by which, indeed, a set of leeches are permitted to suck the

blood of the brave and the indigent, of the widow and the orphan.

Booth now returned home, where he found his wife with Mrs. James. Amelia

had, before the arrival of her husband, absolutely refused Mrs. James’s

invitation to dinner the next day; but when Booth came in the lady

renewed her application, and that in so pressing a manner, that Booth

seconded her; for, though he had enough of jealousy in his temper, yet

such was his friendship to the colonel, and such his gratitude to the

obligations which he had received from him, that his own unwillingness

to believe anything of him, co-operating with Amelia’s endeavours to put

everything in the fairest light, had brought him to acquit his friend of

any ill design. To this, perhaps, the late affair concerning my lord had

moreover contributed; for it seems to me that the same passion cannot

much energize on two different objects at one and the same time: an

observation which, I believe, will hold as true with regard to the cruel

passions of jealousy and anger as to the gentle passion of love, in

which one great and mighty object is sure to engage the whole passion.

When Booth grew importunate, Amelia answered, “My dear, I should not

refuse you whatever was in my power; but this is absolutely out of my

power; for since I must declare the truth, I cannot dress myself.”

“Why so?” said Mrs. James.” I am sure you are in good health.”

“Is there no other impediment to dressing but want of health, madam?”

answered Amelia.

“Upon my word, none that I know of,” replied Mrs. James.

“What do you think of want of cloathes, madam?” said Amelia.

“Ridiculous!” cries Mrs. James. “What need have you to dress yourself

out? You will see nobody but our own family, and I promise you I don’t

expect it. A plain night-gown will do very well.”

“But if I must be plain with you, madam,” said Amelia, “I have no other

cloathes but what I have now on my back. I have not even a clean shift

in the world; for you must know, my dear,” said she to Booth, “that

little Betty is walked off this morning, and hath carried all my linen

with her.”

“How, my dear?” cries Booth; “little Betty robbed you?”

“It is even so,” answered Amelia. Indeed, she spoke truth; for little

Betty, having perceived the evening before that her mistress was moving

her goods, was willing to lend all the assistance in her power, and had

accordingly moved off early that morning, taking with her whatever she

could lay her hands on.

Booth expressed himself with some passion on the occasion, and swore he

would make an example of the girl. “If the little slut be above ground,”

cried he, “I will find her out, and bring her to justice.”

“I am really sorry for this accident,” said Mrs. James, “and (though I

know not how to mention it) I beg you’ll give me leave to offer you any

linen of mine till you can make new of your own.”

Amelia thanked Mrs. James, but declined the favour, saying, she should

do well enough at home; and that, as she had no servant now to take

care of her children, she could not, nor would not, leave them on any

account.

“Then bring master and miss with you,” said Mrs. James. “You shall

positively dine with us tomorrow.”

“I beg, madam, you will mention it no more,” said Amelia; “for, besides

the substantial reasons I have already given, I have some things on

my mind at present which make me unfit for company; and I am resolved

nothing shall prevail on me to stir from home.” Mrs. James had carried

her invitation already to the very utmost limits of good breeding, if

not beyond them. She desisted therefore from going any further, and,

after some short stay longer, took her leave, with many expressions of

concern, which, however, great as it was, left her heart and her mouth

together before she was out of the house.

Booth now declared that he would go in pursuit of little Betty, against

whom he vowed so much vengeance, that Amelia endeavoured to moderate

his anger by representing to him the girl’s youth, and that this was the

first fault she had ever been guilty of. “Indeed,” says she, “I should

be very glad to have my things again, and I would have the girl too

punished in some degree, which might possibly be for her own good; but

I tremble to think of taking away her life;” for Booth in his rage had

sworn he would hang her.

“I know the tenderness of your heart, my dear,” said Booth, “and I love

you for it; but I must beg leave to dissent from your opinion. I do not

think the girl in any light an object of mercy. She is not only guilty

of dishonesty but of cruelty; for she must know our situation and the

very little we had left. She is besides guilty of ingratitude to you,

who have treated her with so much kindness, that you have rather acted

the part of a mother than of a mistress. And, so far from thinking her

youth an excuse, I think it rather an aggravation. It is true, indeed,

there are faults which the youth of the party very strongly recommends

to our pardon. Such are all those which proceed from carelessness and

want of thought; but crimes of this black dye, which are committed with

deliberation, and imply a bad mind, deserve a more severe punishment in

a young person than in one of riper years; for what must the mind be in

old age which hath acquired such a degree of perfection in villany so

very early? Such persons as these it is really a charity to the public

to put out of the society; and, indeed, a religious man would put them

out of the world for the sake of themselves; for whoever understands

anything of human nature must know that such people, the longer they

live, the more they will accumulate vice and wickedness.”

“Well, my dear,” cries Amelia, “I cannot argue with you on these

subjects. I shall always submit to your superior judgment, and I know

you too well to think that you will ever do anything cruel.”

Booth then left Amelia to take care of her children, and went in pursuit

of the thief.

Chapter vi.

_A scene of the tragic kind._

He had not been long gone before a thundering knock was heard at the

door of the house where Amelia lodged, and presently after a figure all

pale, ghastly, and almost breathless, rushed into the room where she

then was with her children.

This figure Amelia soon recognised to be Mrs. Atkinson, though indeed

she was so disguised that at her first entrance Amelia scarce knew her.

Her eyes were sunk in her head, her hair dishevelled, and not only her

dress but every feature in her face was in the utmost disorder.

Amelia was greatly shocked at this sight, and the little girl was much

frightened; as for the boy, he immediately knew her, and, running

to Amelia, he cried, “La! mamma, what is the matter with poor Mrs.

Atkinson?”

As soon as Mrs. Atkinson recovered her breath she cried out, “O,

Mrs. Booth! I am the most miserable of women--I have lost the best of

husbands.”

Amelia, looking at her with all the tenderness imaginable, forgetting, I

believe, that there had ever been any quarrel between them, said--“Good

Heavens, madam, what’s the matter?”

“O, Mrs. Booth!” answered she, “I fear I have lost my husband: the

doctor says there is but little hope of his life. O, madam! however I

have been in the wrong, I am sure you will forgive me and pity me. I

am sure I am severely punished; for to that cursed affair I owe all my

misery.”

“Indeed, madam,” cries Amelia, “I am extremely concerned for your

misfortune. But pray tell me, hath anything happened to the serjeant?”

“O, madam!” cries she, “I have the greatest reason to fear I shall lose

him. The doctor hath almost given him over--he says he hath scarce any

hopes. O, madam! that evening that the fatal quarrel happened between us

my dear captain took it so to heart that he sat up all night and drank

a whole bottle of brandy. Indeed, he said he wished to kill himself; for

nothing could have hurt him so much in the world, he said, as to have

any quarrel between you and me. His concern, and what he drank

together, threw him into a high fever. So that, when I came home from

my lord’s--(for indeed, madam, I have been, and set all to rights--your

reputation is now in no danger)--when I came home, I say, I found the

poor man in a raving delirious fit, and in that he hath continued ever

since till about an hour ago, when he came perfectly to his senses; but

now he says he is sure he shall die, and begs for Heaven’s sake to see

you first. Would you, madam, would you have the goodness to grant my

poor captain’s desire? consider he is a dying man, and neither he nor I

shall ever ask you a second favour. He says he hath something to say to

you that he can mention to no other person, and that he cannot die in

peace unless he sees you.”

“Upon my word, madam,” cries Amelia, “I am extremely concerned at what

you tell me. I knew the poor serjeant from his infancy, and always had

an affection for him, as I think him to be one of the best-natured

and honestest creatures upon earth. I am sure if I could do him any

service--but of what use can my going be?”

“Of the highest in the world,” answered Mrs. Atkinson. “If you knew how

earnestly he entreated it, how his poor breaking heart begged to see

you, you would not refuse.”

“Nay, I do not absolutely refuse,” cries Amelia. “Something to say to

me of consequence, and that he could not die in peace unless he said it!

did he say that, Mrs. Atkinson?”

“Upon my honour he did,” answered she, “and much more than I have

related.”

“Well, I will go with you,” cries Amelia. “I cannot guess what this

should be; but I will go.”

Mrs. Atkinson then poured out a thousand blessings and thanksgivings;

and, taking hold of Amelia’s hand, and eagerly kissing it, cried out,

“How could that fury passion drive me to quarrel with such a creature?”

Amelia told her she had forgiven and forgot it; and then, calling up the

mistress of the house, and committing to her the care of the children,

she cloaked herself up as well as she could and set out with Mrs.

Atkinson.

When they arrived at the house, Mrs. Atkinson said she would go first

and give the captain some notice; for that, if Amelia entered the room

unexpectedly, the surprize might have an ill effect. She left therefore

Amelia in the parlour, and proceeded directly upstairs.

Poor Atkinson, weak and bad as was his condition, no sooner heard that

Amelia was come than he discovered great joy in his countenance, and

presently afterwards she was introduced to him.

Atkinson exerted his utmost strength to thank her for this goodness to

a dying man (for so he called himself). He said he should not have

presumed to give her this trouble, had he not had something which he

thought of consequence to say to her, and which he could not mention to

any other person. He then desired his wife to give him a little box, of

which he always kept the key himself, and afterwards begged her to leave

the room for a few minutes; at which neither she nor Amelia expressed

any dissatisfaction.

When he was alone with Amelia, he spoke as follows: “This, madam, is

the last time my eyes will ever behold what--do pardon me, madam, I

will never offend you more.” Here he sunk down in his bed, and the tears

gushed from his eyes.

“Why should you fear to offend me, Joe?” said Amelia. “I am sure you

never did anything willingly to offend me.”

“No, madam,” answered he, “I would die a thousand times before I would

have ventured it in the smallest matter. But--I cannot speak--and yet I

must. You cannot pardon me, and yet, perhaps, as I am a dying man, and

never shall see you more--indeed, if I was to live after this discovery,

I should never dare to look you in the face again; and yet, madam, to

think I shall never see you more is worse than ten thousand deaths.”

“Indeed, Mr. Atkinson,” cries Amelia, blushing, and looking down on the

floor, “I must not hear you talk in this manner. If you have anything

to say, tell it me, and do not be afraid of my anger; for I think I may

promise to forgive whatever it was possible you should do.”

“Here then, madam,” said he, “is your picture; I stole it when I was

eighteen years of age, and have kept it ever since. It is set in gold,

with three little diamonds; and yet I can truly say it was not the gold

nor the diamonds which I stole--it was the face, which, if I had been

the emperor of the world--”

“I must not hear any more of this,” said she. “Comfort yourself, Joe,

and think no more of this matter. Be assured, I freely and heartily

forgive you--But pray compose yourself; come, let me call in your wife.”

“First, madam, let me beg one favour,” cried he: “consider it is the

last, and then I shall die in peace--let me kiss that hand before I

die.”

“Well, nay,” says she, “I don’t know what I am doing--well--there.” She

then carelessly gave him her hand, which he put gently to his lips, and

then presently let it drop, and fell back in the bed.

Amelia now summoned Mrs. Atkinson, who was indeed no further off than

just without the door. She then hastened down-stairs, and called for a

great glass of water, which having drank off, she threw herself into a

chair, and the tears ran plentifully from her eyes with compassion for

the poor wretch she had just left in his bed.

To say the truth, without any injury to her chastity, that heart, which

had stood firm as a rock to all the attacks of title and equipage, of

finery and flattery, and which all the treasures of the universe could

not have purchased, was yet a little softened by the plain, honest,

modest, involuntary, delicate, heroic passion of this poor and humble

swain; for whom, in spite of herself, she felt a momentary tenderness

and complacence, at which Booth, if he had known it, would perhaps have

been displeased.

Having staid some time in the parlour, and not finding Mrs. Atkinson

come down (for indeed her husband was then so bad she could not quit

him), Amelia left a message with the maid of the house for her mistress,

purporting that she should be ready to do anything in her power to serve

her, and then left the house with a confusion on her mind that she had

never felt before, and which any chastity that is not hewn out of marble

must feel on so tender and delicate an occasion.

Chapter vii.

_In which Mr. Booth meets with more than one adventure._

Booth, having hunted for about two hours, at last saw a young lady in

a tattered silk gown stepping out of a shop in Monmouth--street into a

hackney-coach. This lady, notwithstanding the disguise of her dress, he

presently discovered to be no other than little Betty.

He instantly gave the alarm of stop thief, stop coach! upon which Mrs.

Betty was immediately stopt in her vehicle, and Booth and his myrmidons

laid hold of her.

The girl no sooner found that she was seised by her master than the

consciousness of her guilt overpowered her; for she was not yet an

experienced offender, and she immediately confessed her crime.

She was then carried before a justice of peace, where she was searched,

and there was found in her possession four shillings and sixpence in

money, besides the silk gown, which was indeed proper furniture

for rag-fair, and scarce worth a single farthing, though the honest

shopkeeper in Monmouth-street had sold it for a crown to the simple

girl.

The girl, being examined by the magistrate, spoke as follows:--“Indeed,

sir, an’t please your worship, I am very sorry for what I have done;

and to be sure, an’t please your honour, my lord, it must have been the

devil that put me upon it; for to be sure, please your majesty, I never

thought upon such a thing in my whole life before, any more than I did

of my dying-day; but, indeed, sir, an’t please your worship--”

She was running on in this manner when the justice interrupted her, and

desired her to give an account of what she had taken from her master,

and what she had done with it.

“Indeed, an’t please your majesty,” said she, “I took no more than two

shifts of madam’s, and I pawned them for five shillings, which I gave

for the gown that’s upon my back; and as for the money in my pocket, it

is every farthing of it my own. I am sure I intended to carry back the

shifts too as soon as ever I could get money to take them out.”

The girl having told them where the pawnbroker lived, the justice sent

to him, to produce the shifts, which he presently did; for he expected

that a warrant to search his house would be the consequence of his

refusal.

The shifts being produced, on which the honest pawnbroker had lent five

shillings, appeared plainly to be worth above thirty; indeed, when new

they had cost much more: so that, by their goodness as well as by their

size, it was certain they could not have belonged to the girl. Booth

grew very warm against the pawnbroker. “I hope, sir,” said he to the

justice, “there is some punishment for this fellow likewise, who so

plainly appears to have known that these goods were stolen. The shops of

these fellows may indeed be called the fountains of theft; for it is in

reality the encouragement which they meet with from these receivers of

their goods that induces men very often to become thieves, so that these

deserve equal if not severer punishment than the thieves themselves.”

The pawnbroker protested his innocence, and denied the taking in the

shifts. Indeed, in this he spoke truth, for he had slipt into an inner

room, as was always his custom on these occasions, and left a little

boy to do the business; by which means he had carried on the trade of

receiving stolen goods for many years with impunity, and had been twice

acquitted at the Old Bailey, though the juggle appeared upon the most

manifest evidence.

As the justice was going to speak he was interrupted by the girl, who,

falling upon her knees to Booth, with many tears begged his forgiveness.

“Indeed, Betty,” cries Booth, “you do not deserve forgiveness; for you

know very good reasons why you should not have thought of robbing your

mistress, particularly at this time. And what further aggravates your

crime is, that you robbed the best and kindest mistress in the world.

Nay, you are not only guilty of felony, but of a felonious breach of

trust, for you know very well everything your mistress had was intrusted

to your care.”

Now it happened, by very great accident, that the justice before whom

the girl was brought understood the law. Turning therefore to Booth, he

said, “Do you say, sir, that this girl was intrusted with the shifts?”

“Yes, sir,” said Booth, “she was intrusted with everything.”

“And will you swear that the goods stolen,” said the justice, “are worth

forty shillings?”

“No, indeed, sir,” answered Booth, “nor that they are worthy thirty

either.”

“Then, sir,” cries the justice, “the girl cannot be guilty of felony.”

“How, sir,” said Booth, “is it not a breach of trust? and is not a

breach of trust felony, and the worst felony too?”

“No, sir,” answered the justice; “a breach of trust is no crime in our

law, unless it be in a servant; and then the act of parliament requires

the goods taken to be of the value of forty shillings.”

“So then a servant,” cries Booth, “may rob his master of thirty-nine

shillings whenever he pleases, and he can’t be punished.”

“If the goods are under his care, he can’t,” cries the justice.

“I ask your pardon, sir,” says Booth. “I do not doubt what you say; but

sure this is a very extraordinary law.”

“Perhaps I think so too,” said the justice; “but it belongs not to my

office to make or to mend laws. My business is only to execute them. If

therefore the case be as you say, I must discharge the girl.”

“I hope, however, you will punish the pawnbroker,” cries Booth.

“If the girl is discharged,” cries the justice, “so must be the

pawnbroker; for, if the goods are not stolen, he cannot be guilty

of receiving them knowing them to be stolen. And, besides, as to his

offence, to say the truth, I am almost weary of prosecuting it; for such

are the difficulties laid in the way of this prosecution, that it is

almost impossible to convict any one on it. And, to speak my opinion

plainly, such are the laws, and such the method of proceeding, that

one would almost think our laws were rather made for the protection of

rogues than for the punishment of them.”

Thus ended this examination: the thief and the receiver went about their

business, and Booth departed in order to go home to his wife.

In his way home Booth was met by a lady in a chair, who, immediately

upon seeing him, stopt her chair, bolted out of it, and, going directly

up to him, said, “So, Mr. Booth, you have kept your word with me.”

The lady was no other than Miss Matthews, and the speech she meant was

of a promise made to her at the masquerade of visiting her within a day

or two; which, whether he ever intended to keep I cannot say, but,

in truth, the several accidents that had since happened to him had so

discomposed his mind that he had absolutely forgot it.

Booth, however, was too sensible and too well-bred to make the excuse of

forgetfulness to a lady; nor could he readily find any other. While he

stood therefore hesitating, and looking not over-wise, Miss Matthews

said, “Well, sir, since by your confusion I see you have some grace

left, I will pardon you on one condition, and that is that you will sup

with me this night. But, if you fail me now, expect all the revenge of

an injured woman.” She then bound herself by a most outrageous oath that

she would complain to his wife--“And I am sure,” says she, “she is so

much a woman of honour as to do me justice. And, though I miscarried in

my first attempt, be assured I will take care of my second.”

Booth asked what she meant by her first attempt; to which she answered

that she had already writ his wife an account of his ill-usage of

her, but that she was pleased it had miscarried. She then repeated her

asseveration that she would now do it effectually if he disappointed

her.

This threat she reckoned would most certainly terrify poor Booth;

and, indeed, she was not mistaken; for I believe it would have been

impossible, by any other menace or by any other means, to have brought

him once even to balance in his mind on this question. But by this

threat she prevailed; and Booth promised, upon his word and honour, to

come to her at the hour she appointed. After which she took leave of him

with a squeeze by the hand, and a smiling countenance, and walked back

to her chair.

But, however she might be pleased with having obtained this promise,

Booth was far from being delighted with the thoughts of having given it.

He looked, indeed, upon the consequences of this meeting with horrour;

but as to the consequence which was so apparently intended by the lady,

he resolved against it. At length he came to this determination, to go

according to his appointment, to argue the matter with the lady, and to

convince her, if possible, that, from a regard to his honour only, he

must discontinue her acquaintance. If this failed to satisfy her, and

she still persisted in her threats to acquaint his wife with the affair,

he then resolved, whatever pains it cost him, to communicate the whole

truth himself to Amelia, from whose goodness he doubted not but to

obtain an absolute remission.

Chapter viii.

_In which Amelia appears in a light more amiable than gay._

We will now return to Amelia, whom we left in some perturbation of mind

departing from Mrs. Atkinson.

Though she had before walked through the streets in a very improper

dress with Mrs. Atkinson, she was unwilling, especially as she was

alone, to return in the same manner. Indeed, she was scarce able to

walk in her present condition; for the case of poor Atkinson had much

affected her tender heart, and her eyes had overflown with many tears.

It occurred likewise to her at present that she had not a single

shilling in her pocket or at home to provide food for herself and

her family. In this situation she resolved to go immediately to the

pawnbroker whither she had gone before, and to deposit her picture for

what she could raise upon it. She then immediately took a chair and put

her design in execution.

The intrinsic value of the gold in which this picture was set, and of

the little diamonds which surrounded it, amounted to nine guineas. This

therefore was advanced to her, and the prettiest face in the world (such

is often the fate of beauty) was deposited, as of no value, into the

bargain.

When she came home she found the following letter from Mrs. Atkinson:--

“MY DEAREST MADAM,--As I know your goodness, I could not delay a moment

acquainting you with the happy turn of my affairs since you went. The

doctor, on his return to visit my husband, has assured me that the

captain was on the recovery, and in very little danger; and I really

think he is since mended. I hope to wait on you soon with better news.

Heaven bless you, dear madam! and believe me to be, with the utmost

sincerity, Your most obliged, obedient, humble servant,

“ATKINSON.”

Amelia was really pleased with this letter; and now, it being past

four o’clock, she despaired of seeing her husband till the evening. She

therefore provided some tarts for her children, and then, eating nothing

but a slice of bread and butter herself, she began to prepare for the

captain’s supper.

There were two things of which her husband was particularly fond, which,

though it may bring the simplicity of his taste into great contempt with

some of my readers, I will venture to name. These were a fowl and egg

sauce and mutton broth; both which Amelia immediately purchased.

As soon as the clock struck seven the good creature went down into the

kitchen, and began to exercise her talents of cookery, of which she was

a great mistress, as she was of every economical office from the highest

to the lowest: and, as no woman could outshine her in a drawing-room, so

none could make the drawing-room itself shine brighter than Amelia. And,

if I may speak a bold truth, I question whether it be possible to view

this fine creature in a more amiable light than while she was dressing

her husband’s supper, with her little children playing round her.

It was now half an hour past eight, and the meat almost ready, the table

likewise neatly spread with materials borrowed from her landlady, and

she began to grow a little uneasy at Booth’s not returning when a sudden

knock at the door roused her spirits, and she cried, “There, my dear,

there is your good papa;” at which words she darted swiftly upstairs and

opened the door to her husband.

She desired her husband to walk up into the dining-room, and she would

come to him in an instant; for she was desirous to encrease his pleasure

by surprising him with his two favourite dishes. She then went down

again to the kitchen, where the maid of the house undertook to send up

the supper, and she with her children returned to Booth.

He then told her concisely what had happened with relation to the

girl--to which she scarce made any answer, but asked him if he had not

dined? He assured her he had not eat a morsel the whole day.

“Well,” says she, “my dear, I am a fellow-sufferer; but we shall both

enjoy our supper the more; for I have made a little provision for you,

as I guessed what might be the case. I have got you a bottle of wine

too. And here is a clean cloth and a smiling countenance, my dear Will.

Indeed, I am in unusual good spirits to-night, and I have made a promise

to the children, which you must confirm; I have promised to let them sit

up this one night to supper with us.--Nay, don’t look so serious: cast

off all uneasy thoughts, I have a present for you here--no matter how

I came by it.”--At which words she put eight guineas into his hand,

crying, “Come, my dear Bill, be gay--Fortune will yet be kind to us--at

least let us be happy this night. Indeed, the pleasures of many women

during their whole lives will not amount to my happiness this night if

you will be in good humour.”

Booth fetched a deep sigh, and cried, “How unhappy am I, my dear, that I

can’t sup with you to-night!”

As in the delightful month of June, when the sky is all serene, and the

whole face of nature looks with a pleasing and smiling aspect, suddenly

a dark cloud spreads itself over the hemisphere, the sun vanishes from

our sight, and every object is obscured by a dark and horrid gloom;

so happened it to Amelia: the joy that had enlightened every feature

disappeared in a moment; the lustre forsook her shining eyes, and all

the little loves that played and wantoned in her cheeks hung their

drooping heads, and with a faint trembling voice she repeated her

husband’s words, “Not sup with me to-night, my dear!”

“Indeed, my dear,” answered he, “I cannot. I need not tell you how

uneasy it makes me, or that I am as much disappointed as yourself; but

I am engaged to sup abroad. I have absolutely given my honour; and

besides, it is on business of importance.”

“My dear,” said she, “I say no more. I am convinced you would not

willingly sup from me. I own it is a very particular disappointment to

me to-night, when I had proposed unusual pleasure; but the same reason

which is sufficient to you ought to be so to me.”

Booth made his wife a compliment on her ready compliance, and then asked

her what she intended by giving him that money, or how she came by it?

“I intend, my dear,” said she, “to give it you; that is all. As to

the manner in which I came by it, you know, Billy, that is not very

material. You are well assured I got it by no means which would

displease you; and, perhaps, another time I may tell you.”

Booth asked no farther questions; but he returned her, and insisted on

her taking, all but one guinea, saying she was the safest treasurer. He

then promised her to make all the haste home in his power, and he hoped,

he said, to be with her in an hour and half at farthest, and then took

his leave.

When he was gone the poor disappointed Amelia sat down to supper with

her children, with whose company she was forced to console herself for

the absence of her husband.

Chapter ix.

_A very tragic scene._

The clock had struck eleven, and Amelia was just proceeding to put her

children to bed, when she heard a knock at the street-door; upon which

the boy cried out, “There’s papa, mamma; pray let me stay and see him

before I go to bed.” This was a favour very easily obtained; for Amelia

instantly ran down-stairs, exulting in the goodness of her husband for

returning so soon, though half an hour was already elapsed beyond the

time in which he promised to return.

Poor Amelia was now again disappointed; for it was not her husband at

the door, but a servant with a letter for him, which he delivered into

her hands. She immediately returned up-stairs, and said--“It was not

your papa, my dear; but I hope it is one who hath brought us some good

news.” For Booth had told her that he hourly expected to receive such

from the great man, and had desired her to open any letter which came to

him in his absence.

Amelia therefore broke open the letter, and read as follows:

“SIR,--After what hath passed between us, I need only tell you that I

know you supped this very night alone with Miss Matthews: a fact which

will upbraid you sufficiently, without putting me to that trouble,

and will very well account for my desiring the favour of seeing you

to-morrow in Hyde-park at six in the morning. You will forgive me

reminding you once more how inexcusable this behaviour is in you, who

are possessed in your own wife of the most inestimable jewel.

“Yours, &c.

“T. JAMES.

“I shall bring pistols with me.”

It is not easy to describe the agitation of Amelia’s mind when she read

this letter. She threw herself into her chair, turned as pale as death,

began to tremble all over, and had just power enough left to tap the

bottle of wine, which she had hitherto preserved entire for her husband,

and to drink off a large bumper.

The little boy perceived the strange symptoms which appeared in his

mother; and running to her, he cried, “What’s the matter, my dear mamma?

you don’t look well!--No harm hath happened to poor papa, I hope--Sure

that bad man hath not carried him away again?”

Amelia answered, “No, child, nothing--nothing at all.” And then a large

shower of tears came to her assistance, which presently after produced

the same in the eyes of both the children.

Amelia, after a short silence, looking tenderly at her children, cried

out, “It is too much, too much to bear. Why did I bring these little

wretches into the world? why were these innocents born to such a fate?”

She then threw her arms round them both (for they were before embracing

her knees), and cried, “O my children! my children! forgive me, my

babes! Forgive me that I have brought you into such a world as this! You

are undone--my children are undone!”

The little boy answered with great spirit, “How undone, mamma? my sister

and I don’t care a farthing for being undone. Don’t cry so upon our

accounts--we are both very well; indeed we are. But do pray tell us. I

am sure some accident hath happened to poor papa.”

“Mention him no more,” cries Amelia; “your papa is--indeed he is a

wicked man--he cares not for any of us. O Heavens! is this the happiness

I promised myself this evening?” At which words she fell into an agony,

holding both her children in her arms.

The maid of the house now entered the room, with a letter in her hand

which she had received from a porter, whose arrival the reader will not

wonder to have been unheard by Amelia in her present condition.

The maid, upon her entrance into the room, perceiving the situation of

Amelia, cried out, “Good Heavens! madam, what’s the matter?” Upon which

Amelia, who had a little recovered herself after the last violent vent

of her passion, started up and cried, “Nothing, Mrs. Susan--nothing

extraordinary. I am subject to these fits sometimes; but I am very well

now. Come, my dear children, I am very well again; indeed I am. You must

now go to bed; Mrs. Susan will be so good as to put you to bed.”

“But why doth not papa love us?” cries the little boy. “I am sure we

have none of us done anything to disoblige him.”

This innocent question of the child so stung Amelia that she had the

utmost difficulty to prevent a relapse. However, she took another dram

of wine; for so it might be called to her, who was the most temperate of

women, and never exceeded three glasses on any occasion. In this glass

she drank her children’s health, and soon after so well soothed and

composed them that they went quietly away with Mrs. Susan.

The maid, in the shock she had conceived at the melancholy, indeed

frightful scene, which had presented itself to her at her first coming

into the room, had quite forgot the letter which she held in her hand.

However, just at her departure she recollected it, and delivered it to

Amelia, who was no sooner alone than she opened it, and read as follows:

“MY DEAREST, SWEETEST LOVE,--I write this from the bailiff’s house where

I was formerly, and to which I am again brought at the suit of that

villain Trent. I have the misfortune to think I owe this accident (I

mean that it happened to-night) to my own folly in endeavouring to keep

a secret from you. O my dear! had I had resolution to confess my crime

to you, your forgiveness would, I am convinced, have cost me only a

few blushes, and I had now been happy in your arms. Fool that I was, to

leave you on such an account, and to add to a former transgression a new

one!--Yet, by Heavens! I mean not a transgression of the like kind; for

of that I am not nor ever will be guilty; and when you know the true

reason of my leaving you to-night I think you will pity rather than

upbraid me. I am sure you would if you knew the compunction with which

I left you to go to the most worthless, the most infamous. Do guess the

rest--guess that crime with which I cannot stain my paper--but still

believe me no more guilty than I am, or, if it will lessen your vexation

at what hath befallen me, believe me as guilty as you please, and think

me, for a while at least, as undeserving of you as I think myself. This

paper and pen are so bad, I question whether you can read what I write:

I almost doubt whether I wish you should. Yet this I will endeavour to

make as legible as I can. Be comforted, my dear love, and still keep up

your spirits with the hopes of better days. The doctor will be in town

to-morrow, and I trust on his goodness for my delivery once more from

this place, and that I shall soon be able to repay him. That Heaven

may bless and preserve you is the prayer of, my dearest love, Your ever

fond, affectionate, and hereafter, faithful husband,

W. BOOTH.”

Amelia pretty well guessed the obscure meaning of this letter, which,

though at another time it might have given her unspeakable torment,

was at present rather of the medicinal kind, and served to allay

her anguish. Her anger to Booth too began a little to abate, and was

softened by her concern for his misfortune. Upon the whole, however,

she passed a miserable and sleepless night, her gentle mind torn and

distracted with various and contending passions, distressed with doubts,

and wandering in a kind of twilight which presented her only objects of

different degrees of horror, and where black despair closed at a small

distance the gloomy prospect.