BOOK XII.

Chapter i.

_The book begins with polite history._

Before we return to the miserable couple, whom we left at the end of the

last book, we will give our reader the more chearful view of the gay and

happy family of Colonel James.

Mrs. James, when she could not, as we have seen, prevail with Amelia to

accept that invitation which, at the desire of the colonel, she had

so kindly and obediently carried her, returned to her husband and

acquainted him with the ill success of her embassy; at which, to say the

truth, she was almost as much disappointed as the colonel himself; for

he had not taken a much stronger liking to Amelia than she herself had

conceived for Booth. This will account for some passages which may have

a little surprized the reader in the former chapters of this history, as

we were not then at leisure to communicate to them a hint of this kind;

it was, indeed, on Mr. Booth’s account that she had been at the trouble

of changing her dress at the masquerade.

But her passions of this sort, happily for her, were not extremely

strong; she was therefore easily baulked; and, as she met with no

encouragement from Booth, she soon gave way to the impetuosity of Miss

Matthews, and from that time scarce thought more of the affair till her

husband’s design against the wife revived her’s likewise; insomuch

that her passion was at this time certainly strong enough for Booth,

to produce a good hearty hatred for Amelia, whom she now abused to the

colonel in very gross terms, both on the account of her poverty and her

insolence, for so she termed the refusal of all her offers.

The colonel, seeing no hopes of soon possessing his new mistress, began,

like a prudent and wise man, to turn his thoughts towards the securing

his old one. From what his wife had mentioned concerning the behaviour

of the shepherdess, and particularly her preference of Booth, he had

little doubt but that this was the identical Miss Matthews. He resolved

therefore to watch her closely, in hopes of discovering Booth’s intrigue

with her. In this, besides the remainder of affection which he yet

preserved for that lady, he had another view, as it would give him a

fair pretence to quarrel with Booth; who, by carrying on this intrigue,

would have broke his word and honour given to him. And he began now to

hate poor Booth heartily, from the same reason from which Mrs. James had

contracted her aversion to Amelia.

The colonel therefore employed an inferior kind of pimp to watch the

lodgings of Miss Matthews, and to acquaint him if Booth, whose person

was known to the pimp, made any visit there.

The pimp faithfully performed his office, and, having last night made

the wished-for discovery, immediately acquainted his master with it.

Upon this news the colonel presently despatched to Booth the short note

which we have before seen. He sent it to his own house instead of Miss

Matthews’s, with hopes of that very accident which actually did happen.

Not that he had any ingredient of the bully in him, and desired to be

prevented from fighting, but with a prospect of injuring Booth in the

affection and esteem of Amelia, and of recommending himself somewhat

to her by appearing in the light of her champion; for which purpose he

added that compliment to Amelia in his letter. He concluded upon the

whole that, if Booth himself opened the letter, he would certainly meet

him the next morning; but if his wife should open it before he came

home it might have the effects before mentioned; and, for his future

expostulation with Booth, it would not be in Amelia’s power to prevent

it.

Now it happened that this pimp had more masters than one. Amongst these

was the worthy Mr. Trent, for whom he had often done business of the

pimping vocation. He had been employed indeed in the service of the

great peer himself, under the direction of the said Trent, and was the

very person who had assisted the said Trent in dogging Booth and his

wife to the opera-house on the masquerade night.

This subaltern pimp was with his superior Trent yesterday morning, when

he found a bailiff with him in order to receive his instructions for

the arresting Booth, when the bailiff said it would be a very difficult

matter to take him, for that to his knowledge he was as shy a cock as

any in England. The subaltern immediately acquainted Trent with the

business in which he was employed by the colonel; upon which Trent

enjoined him the moment he had set him to give immediate notice to the

bailiff, which he agreed to, and performed accordingly.

The bailiff, on receiving the notice, immediately set out for his stand

at an alehouse within three doors of Miss Matthews’s lodgings; at which,

unfortunately for poor Booth, he arrived a very few minutes before Booth

left that lady in order to return to Amelia.

These were several matters of which we thought necessary our reader

should be informed; for, besides that it conduces greatly to a perfect

understanding of all history, there is no exercise of the mind of a

sensible reader more pleasant than the tracing the several small and

almost imperceptible links in every chain of events by which all the

great actions of the world are produced. We will now in the next chapter

proceed with our history.

Chapter ii.

_In which Amelia visits her husband._

Amelia, after much anxious thinking, in which she sometimes flattered

herself that her husband was less guilty than she had at first imagined

him, and that he had some good excuse to make for himself (for, indeed,

she was not so able as willing to make one for him), at length

resolved to set out for the bailiff’s castle. Having therefore strictly

recommended the care of her children to her good landlady, she sent for

a hackney coach, and ordered the coachman to drive to Gray’s-inn-lane.

When she came to the house, and asked for the captain, the bailiff’s

wife, who came to the door, guessing, by the greatness of her beauty

and the disorder of her dress, that she was a young lady of pleasure,

answered surlily, “Captain! I do not know of any captain that is here,

not I!” For this good woman was, as well as dame Purgante in Prior, a

bitter enemy to all whores, especially to those of the handsome kind;

for some such she suspected to go shares with her in a certain property

to which the law gave her the sole right.

Amelia replied she was certain that Captain Booth was there. “Well, if

he is so,” cries the bailiff’s wife, “you may come into the kitchen if

you will, and he shall be called down to you if you have any business

with him.” At the same time she muttered something to herself, and

concluded a little more intelligibly, though still in a muttering voice,

that she kept no such house.

Amelia, whose innocence gave her no suspicion of the true cause of this

good woman’s sullenness, was frightened, and began to fear she knew

not what. At last she made a shift to totter into the kitchen, when

the mistress of the house asked her, “Well, madam, who shall I tell the

captain wants to speak with him?”

“I ask your pardon, madam,” cries Amelia; “in my confusion I really

forgot you did not know me--tell him, if you please, that I am his

wife.”

“And you are indeed his wife, madam?” cries Mrs. Bailiff, a little

softened.

“Yes, indeed, and upon my honour,” answers Amelia.

“If this be the case,” cries the other, “you may walk up-stairs if you

please. Heaven forbid I should part man and wife! Indeed, I think they

can never be too much together. But I never will suffer any bad doings

in my house, nor any of the town ladies to come to gentlemen here.”

Amelia answered that she liked her the better: for, indeed, in her

present disposition, Amelia was as much exasperated against wicked women

as the virtuous mistress of the house, or any other virtuous woman could

be.

The bailiff’s wife then ushered Amelia up-stairs, and, having unlocked

the prisoner’s doors, cried, “Captain, here is your lady, sir, come to

see you.” At which words Booth started up from his chair, and caught

Amelia in his arms, embracing her for a considerable time with so much

rapture, that the bailiff’s wife, who was an eyewitness of this violent

fondness, began to suspect whether Amelia had really told her truth.

However, she had some little awe of the captain; and for fear of being

in the wrong did not interfere, but shut the door and turned the key.

When Booth found himself alone with his wife, and had vented the first

violence of his rapture in kisses and embraces, he looked tenderly at

her and cried, “Is it possible, Amelia, is it possible you can have this

goodness to follow such a wretch as me to such a place as this--or

do you come to upbraid me with my guilt, and to sink me down to that

perdition I so justly deserve?”

“Am I so given to upbraiding then?” says she, in a gentle voice; “have I

ever given you occasion to think I would sink you to perdition?”

“Far be it from me, my love, to think so,” answered he. “And yet you

may forgive the utmost fears of an offending, penitent sinner. I know,

indeed, the extent of your goodness, and yet I know my guilt so great--”

“Alas! Mr. Booth,” said she, “what guilt is this which you mention, and

which you writ to me of last night?--Sure, by your mentioning to me so

much, you intend to tell me more--nay, indeed, to tell me all; and

not leave my mind open to suspicions perhaps ten times worse than the

truth.”

“Will you give me a patient hearing?” said he.

“I will indeed,” answered she, “nay, I am prepared to hear the worst you

can unfold; nay, perhaps, the worst is short of my apprehensions.”

Booth then, after a little further apology, began and related to her the

whole that had passed between him and Miss Matthews, from their first

meeting in the prison to their separation the preceding evening.

All which, as the reader knows it already, it would be tedious and

unpardonable to transcribe from his mouth. He told her likewise all

that he had done and suffered to conceal his transgression from her

knowledge. This he assured her was the business of his visit last night,

the consequence of which was, he declared in the most solemn manner, no

other than an absolute quarrel with Miss Matthews, of whom he had taken

a final leave.

When he had ended his narration, Amelia, after a short silence,

answered, “Indeed, I firmly believe every word you have said, but I

cannot now forgive you the fault you have confessed; and my reason

is--because I have forgiven it long ago. Here, my dear,” said she, “is

an instance that I am likewise capable of keeping a secret.”--She then

delivered her husband a letter which she had some time ago received from

Miss Matthews, and which was the same which that lady had mentioned, and

supposed, as Booth had never heard of it, that it had miscarried; for

she sent it by the penny post. In this letter, which was signed by

a feigned name, she had acquainted Amelia with the infidelity of her

husband, and had besides very greatly abused him; taxing him with many

falsehoods, and, among the rest, with having spoken very slightingly and

disrespectfully of his wife.

Amelia never shined forth to Booth in so amiable and great a light; nor

did his own unworthiness ever appear to him so mean and contemptible as

at this instant. However, when he had read the letter, he uttered many

violent protestations to her, that all which related to herself was

absolutely false.

“I am convinced it is,” said she. “I would not have a suspicion of the

contrary for the world. I assure you I had, till last night revived it

in my memory, almost forgot the letter; for, as I well knew from whom it

came, by her mentioning obligations which she had conferred on you, and

which you had more than once spoken to me of, I made large allowances

for the situation you was then in; and I was the more satisfied, as the

letter itself, as well as many other circumstances, convinced me the

affair was at an end.”

Booth now uttered the most extravagant expressions of admiration and

fondness that his heart could dictate, and accompanied them with the

warmest embraces. All which warmth and tenderness she returned; and

tears of love and joy gushed from both their eyes. So ravished indeed

were their hearts, that for some time they both forgot the dreadful

situation of their affairs.

This, however, was but a short reverie. It soon recurred to Amelia,

that, though she had the liberty of leaving that house when she pleased,

she could not take her beloved husband with her. This thought stung her

tender bosom to the quick, and she could not so far command herself

as to refrain from many sorrowful exclamations against the hardship

of their destiny; but when she saw the effect they had upon Booth

she stifled her rising grief, forced a little chearfulness into her

countenance, and, exerting all the spirits she could raise within

herself, expressed her hopes of seeing a speedy end to their sufferings.

She then asked her husband what she should do for him, and to whom she

should apply for his deliverance?

“You know, my dear,” cries Booth, “that the doctor is to be in town some

time to-day. My hopes of immediate redemption are only in him; and, if

that can be obtained, I make no doubt but of the success of that affair

which is in the hands of a gentleman who hath faithfully promised, and

in whose power I am so well assured it is to serve me.”

Thus did this poor man support his hopes by a dependence on that ticket

which he had so dearly purchased of one who pretended to manage the

wheels in the great state lottery of preferment. A lottery, indeed,

which hath this to recommend it--that many poor wretches feed their

imaginations with the prospect of a prize during their whole lives, and

never discover they have drawn a blank.

Amelia, who was of a pretty sanguine temper, and was entirely ignorant

of these matters, was full as easy to be deceived into hopes as her

husband; but in reality at present she turned her eyes to no distant

prospect, the desire of regaining her husband’s liberty having engrossed

her whole mind.

While they were discoursing on these matters they heard a violent noise

in the house, and immediately after several persons passed by their door

up-stairs to the apartment over their head. This greatly terrified the

gentle spirit of Amelia, and she cried--“Good Heavens, my dear, must

I leave you in this horrid place? I am terrified with a thousand fears

concerning you.”

Booth endeavoured to comfort her, saying that he was in no manner of

danger, and that he doubted not but that the doctor would soon be with

him--“And stay, my dear,” cries he; “now I recollect, suppose you

should apply to my old friend James; for I believe you are pretty well

satisfied that your apprehensions of him were groundless. I have no

reason to think but that he would be as ready to serve me as formerly.”

Amelia turned pale as ashes at the name of James, and, instead of making

a direct answer to her husband, she laid hold of him, and cried, “My

dear, I have one favour to beg of you, and I insist on your granting it

me.”

Booth readily swore he would deny her nothing.

“It is only this, my dear,” said she, “that, if that detested colonel

comes, you will not see him. Let the people of the house tell him you

are not here.”

“He knows nothing of my being here,” answered Booth; “but why should

I refuse to see him if he should be kind enough to come hither to

me? Indeed, my Amelia, you have taken a dislike to that man without

sufficient reason.”

“I speak not upon that account,” cries Amelia; “but I have had dreams

last night about you two. Perhaps you will laugh at my folly, but pray

indulge it. Nay, I insist on your promise of not denying me.”

“Dreams! my dear creature,” answered he. “What dream can you have had of

us?”

“One too horrible to be mentioned,” replied she.--“I cannot think of it

without horrour; and, unless you will promise me not to see the colonel

till I return, I positively will never leave you.”

“Indeed, my Amelia,” said Booth, “I never knew you unreasonable before.

How can a woman of your sense talk of dreams?”

“Suffer me to be once at least unreasonable,” said Amelia, “as you are

so good-natured to say I am not often so. Consider what I have lately

suffered, and how weak my spirits must be at this time.”

As Booth was going to speak, the bailiff, without any ceremony, entered

the room, and cried, “No offence, I hope, madam; my wife, it seems, did

not know you. She thought the captain had a mind for a bit of flesh by

the bye. But I have quieted all matters; for I know you very well: I

have seen that handsome face many a time when I have been waiting upon

the captain formerly. No offence, I hope, madam; but if my wife was as

handsome as you are I should not look for worse goods abroad.”

Booth conceived some displeasure at this speech, but he did not think

proper to express more than a pish; and then asked the bailiff what was

the meaning of the noise they heard just now?

“I know of no noise,” answered the bailiff. “Some of my men have been

carrying a piece of bad luggage up-stairs; a poor rascal that resisted

the law and justice; so I gave him a cut or two with a hanger. If they

should prove mortal, he must thank himself for it. If a man will not

behave like a gentleman to an officer, he must take the consequence; but

I must say that for you, captain, you behave yourself like a gentleman,

and therefore I shall always use you as such; and I hope you will find

bail soon with all my heart. This is but a paultry sum to what the

last was; and I do assure you there is nothing else against you in the

office.”

The latter part of the bailiff’s speech somewhat comforted Amelia, who

had been a little frightened by the former; and she soon after took

leave of her husband to go in quest of the doctor, who, as Amelia

had heard that morning, was expected in town that very day, which was

somewhat sooner than he had intended at his departure.

Before she went, however, she left a strict charge with the bailiff,

who ushered her very civilly downstairs, that if one Colonel James came

there to enquire for her husband he should deny that he was there.

She then departed; and the bailiff immediately gave a very strict charge

to his wife, his maid, and his followers, that if one Colonel James, or

any one from him, should enquire after the captain, that they should let

him know he had the captain above-stairs; for he doubted not but that

the colonel was one of Booth’s creditors, and he hoped for a second

bail-bond by his means.

Chapter iii.

_Containing matter pertinent to the history._

Amelia, in her way to the doctor’s, determined just to stop at her own

lodgings, which lay a little out of the road, and to pay a momentary

visit to her children.

This was fortunate enough; for, had she called at the doctor’s house,

she would have heard nothing of him, which would have caused in her

some alarm and disappointment; for the doctor was set down at Mrs.

Atkinson’s, where he was directed to Amelia’s lodgings, to which he went

before he called at his own; and here Amelia now found him playing with

her two children.

The doctor had been a little surprized at not finding Amelia at home, or

any one that could give an account of her. He was now more surprized to

see her come in such a dress, and at the disorder which he very plainly

perceived in her pale and melancholy countenance. He addressed her first

(for indeed she was in no great haste to speak), and cried, “My dear

child, what is the matter? where is your husband? some mischief I am

afraid hath happened to him in my absence.”

“O my dear doctor!” answered Amelia, “sure some good angel hath sent you

hither. My poor Will is arrested again. I left him in the most miserable

condition in the very house whence your goodness formerly redeemed him.”

“Arrested!” cries the doctor. “Then it must be for some very

inconsiderable trifle.”

“I wish it was,” said Amelia; “but it is for no less than fifty pound.”

“Then,” cries the doctor, “he hath been disingenuous with me. He told

me he did not owe ten pounds in the world for which he was liable to be

sued.”

“I know not what to say,” cries Amelia. “Indeed, I am afraid to tell you

the truth.”

“How, child?” said the doctor--“I hope you will never disguise it to any

one, especially to me. Any prevarication, I promise you, will forfeit my

friendship for ever.”

“I will tell you the whole,” cries Amelia, “and rely entirely on your

goodness.” She then related the gaming story, not forgetting to set in

the fullest light, and to lay the strongest emphasis on, his promise

never to play again.

The doctor fetched a deep sigh when he had heard Amelia’s relation,

and cried, “I am sorry, child, for the share you are to partake in your

husband’s sufferings; but as for him, I really think he deserves no

compassion. You say he hath promised never to play again, but I must

tell you he hath broke his promise to me already; for I had heard he

was formerly addicted to this vice, and had given him sufficient caution

against it. You will consider, child, I am already pretty largely

engaged for him, every farthing of which I am sensible I must pay. You

know I would go to the utmost verge of prudence to serve you; but I

must not exceed my ability, which is not very great; and I have several

families on my hands who are by misfortune alone brought to want. I do

assure you I cannot at present answer for such a sum as this without

distressing my own circumstances.”

“Then Heaven have mercy upon us all!” cries Amelia, “for we have no

other friend on earth: my husband is undone, and these poor little

wretches must be starved.”

The doctor cast his eyes on the children, and then cried, “I hope not

so. I told you I must distress my circumstances, and I will distress

them this once on your account, and on the account of these poor little

babes. But things must not go on any longer in this way. You must take

an heroic resolution. I will hire a coach for you to-morrow morning

which shall carry you all down to my parsonage-house. There you shall

have my protection till something can be done for your husband; of

which, to be plain with you, I at present see no likelihood.”

Amelia fell upon her knees in an ecstasy of thanksgiving to the doctor,

who immediately raised her up, and placed her in her chair. She then

recollected herself, and said, “O my worthy friend, I have still another

matter to mention to you, in which I must have both your advice and

assistance. My soul blushes to give you all this trouble; but what other

friend have I?--indeed, what other friend could I apply to so properly

on such an occasion?”

The doctor, with a very kind voice and countenance, desired her to

speak. She then said, “O sir! that wicked colonel whom I have mentioned

to you formerly hath picked some quarrel with my husband (for she did

not think proper to mention the cause), and hath sent him a challenge.

It came to my hand last night after he was arrested: I opened and read

it.”

“Give it me, child,” said the doctor.

She answered she had burnt it, as was indeed true. “But I remember

it was an appointment to meet with sword and pistol this morning at

Hyde-park.”

“Make yourself easy, my dear child,” cries the doctor; “I will take care

to prevent any mischief.”

“But consider, my dear sir,” said she, “this is a tender matter. My

husband’s honour is to be preserved as well as his life.”

“And so is his soul, which ought to be the dearest of all things,” cries

the doctor. “Honour! nonsense! Can honour dictate to him to disobey the

express commands of his Maker, in compliance with a custom established

by a set of blockheads, founded on false principles of virtue, in direct

opposition to the plain and positive precepts of religion, and tending

manifestly to give a sanction to ruffians, and to protect them in all

the ways of impudence and villany?”

“All this, I believe, is very true,” cries Amelia; “but yet you know,

doctor, the opinion of the world.”

“You talk simply, child,” cries the doctor. “What is the opinion of the

world opposed to religion and virtue? but you are in the wrong. It is

not the opinion of the world; it is the opinion of the idle, ignorant,

and profligate. It is impossible it should be the opinion of one man of

sense, who is in earnest in his belief of our religion. Chiefly, indeed,

it hath been upheld by the nonsense of women, who, either from their

extreme cowardice and desire of protection, or, as Mr. Bayle thinks,

from their excessive vanity, have been always forward to countenance

a set of hectors and bravoes, and to despise all men of modesty and

sobriety; though these are often, at the bottom, not only the better but

the braver men.”

“You know, doctor,” cries Amelia, “I have never presumed to argue with

you; your opinion is to me always instruction, and your word a law.”

“Indeed, child,” cries the doctor, “I know you are a good woman; and yet

I must observe to you, that this very desire of feeding the passion of

female vanity with the heroism of her man, old Homer seems to make the

characteristic of a bad and loose woman. He introduces Helen upbraiding

her gallant with having quitted the fight, and left the victory to

Menelaus, and seeming to be sorry that she had left her husband only

because he was the better duellist of the two: but in how different a

light doth he represent the tender and chaste love of Andromache to her

worthy Hector! she dissuades him from exposing himself to danger, even

in a just cause. This is indeed a weakness, but it is an amiable one,

and becoming the true feminine character; but a woman who, out of heroic

vanity (for so it is), would hazard not only the life but the soul too

of her husband in a duel, is a monster, and ought to be painted in no

other character but that of a Fury.”

“I assure you, doctor,” cries Amelia, “I never saw this matter in

the odious light in which you have truly represented it, before. I am

ashamed to recollect what I have formerly said on this subject. And yet,

whilst the opinion of the world is as it is, one would wish to comply as

far as possible, especially as my husband is an officer of the army. If

it can be done, therefore, with safety to his honour--”

“Again honour!” cries the doctor; “indeed I will not suffer that noble

word to be so basely and barbarously prostituted. I have known some

of these men of honour, as they call themselves, to be the most arrant

rascals in the universe.”

“Well, I ask your pardon,” said she; “reputation then, if you please, or

any other word you like better; you know my meaning very well.”

“I do know your meaning,” cries the doctor, “and Virgil knew it a great

while ago. The next time you see your friend Mrs. Atkinson, ask her what

it was made Dido fall in love with AEneas?”

“Nay, dear sir,” said Amelia, “do not rally me so unmercifully; think

where my poor husband is now.”

“He is,” answered the doctor, “where I will presently be with him.

In the mean time, do you pack up everything in order for your journey

to-morrow; for if you are wise, you will not trust your husband a day

longer in this town--therefore to packing.”

Amelia promised she would, though indeed she wanted not any warning

for her journey on this account; for when she packed up herself in

the coach, she packed up her all. However, she did not think proper to

mention this to the doctor; for, as he was now in pretty good humour,

she did not care to venture again discomposing his temper.

The doctor then set out for Gray’s-inn-lane, and, as soon as he was

gone, Amelia began to consider of her incapacity to take a journey in

her present situation without even a clean shift. At last she resolved,

as she was possessed of seven guineas and a half, to go to her friend

and redeem some of her own and her husband’s linen out of captivity;

indeed just so much as would render it barely possible for them to

go out of town with any kind of decency. And this resolution she

immediately executed.

As soon as she had finished her business with the pawnbroker (if a man

who lends under thirty _per cent._ deserves that name), he said to her,

“Pray, madam, did you know that man who was here yesterday when you

brought the picture?” Amelia answered in the negative. “Indeed, madam,”

said the broker, “he knows you, though he did not recollect you while

you was here, as your hood was drawn over your face; but the moment you

was gone he begged to look at the picture, which I, thinking no harm,

permitted. He had scarce looked upon it when he cried out, ‘By heaven

and earth it is her picture!’ He then asked me if I knew you.” “Indeed,”

says I, “I never saw the lady before.”

In this last particular, however, the pawnbroker a little savoured of

his profession, and made a small deviation from the truth, for, when

the man had asked him if he knew the lady, he answered she was some poor

undone woman who had pawned all her cloathes to him the day before; and

I suppose, says he, this picture is the last of her goods and chattels.

This hint we thought proper to give the reader, as it may chance to be

material.

Amelia answered coldly that she had taken so very little notice of the

man that she scarce remembered he was there.

“I assure you, madam,” says the pawnbroker, “he hath taken very great

notice of you; for the man changed countenance upon what I said, and

presently after begged me to give him a dram. Oho! thinks I to myself,

are you thereabouts? I would not be so much in love with some folks as

some people are for more interest than I shall ever make of a thousand

pound.”

Amelia blushed, and said, with some peevishness, “That she knew nothing

of the man, but supposed he was some impertinent fellow or other.”

“Nay, madam,” answered the pawnbroker, “I assure you he is not worthy

your regard. He is a poor wretch, and I believe I am possessed of most

of his moveables. However, I hope you are not offended, for indeed he

said no harm; but he was very strangely disordered, that is the truth of

it.”

Amelia was very desirous of putting an end to this conversation, and

altogether as eager to return to her children; she therefore bundled

up her things as fast as she could, and, calling for a hackney-coach,

directed the coachman to her lodgings, and bid him drive her home with

all the haste he could.

Chapter iv.

_In which Dr Harrison visits Colonel James._

The doctor, when he left Amelia, intended to go directly to Booth,

but he presently changed his mind, and determined first to call on the

colonel, as he thought it was proper to put an end to that matter before

he gave Booth his liberty.

The doctor found the two colonels, James and Bath, together. They both

received him very civilly, for James was a very well-bred man, and Bath

always shewed a particular respect to the clergy, he being indeed a

perfect good Christian, except in the articles of fighting and swearing.

Our divine sat some time without mentioning the subject of his errand,

in hopes that Bath would go away, but when he found no likelihood of

that (for indeed Bath was of the two much the most pleased with his

company), he told James that he had something to say to him relating to

Mr. Booth, which he believed he might speak before his brother.

“Undoubtedly, sir,” said James; “for there can be no secrets between us

which my brother may not hear.”

“I come then to you, sir,” said the doctor, “from the most unhappy

woman in the world, to whose afflictions you have very greatly and very

cruelly added by sending a challenge to her husband, which hath very

luckily fallen into her hands; for, had the man for whom you designed it

received it, I am afraid you would not have seen me upon this occasion.”

“If I writ such a letter to Mr. Booth, sir,” said James, “you may be

assured I did not expect this visit in answer to it.”

[Illustration: Dr. Harrison.]

“I do not think you did,” cries the doctor; “but you have great reason

to thank Heaven for ordering this matter contrary to your expectations.

I know not what trifle may have drawn this challenge from you, but,

after what I have some reason to know of you, sir, I must plainly tell

you that, if you had added to your guilt already committed against this

man, that of having his blood upon your hands, your soul would have

become as black as hell itself.”

“Give me leave to say,” cries the colonel, “this is a language which

I am not used to hear; and if your cloth was not your protection you

should not give it me with impunity. After what you know of me, sir!

What do you presume to know of me to my disadvantage?”

“You say my cloth is my protection, colonel,” answered the doctor;

“therefore pray lay aside your anger: I do not come with any design of

affronting or offending you.”

“Very well,” cries Bath; “that declaration is sufficient from a

clergyman, let him say what he pleases.”

“Indeed, sir,” says the doctor very mildly, “I consult equally the good

of you both, and, in a spiritual sense, more especially yours; for you

know you have injured this poor man.”

“So far on the contrary,” cries James, “that I have been his greatest

benefactor. I scorn to upbraid him, but you force me to it. Nor have I

ever done him the least injury.”

“Perhaps not,” said the doctor; “I will alter what I have said. But for

this I apply to your honour--Have you not intended him an injury, the

very intention of which cancels every obligation?”

“How, sir?” answered the colonel; “what do you mean?”

“My meaning,” replied the doctor, “is almost too tender to mention.

Come, colonel, examine your own heart, and then answer me, on your

honour, if you have not intended to do him the highest wrong which one

man can do another?”

“I do not know what you mean by the question,” answered the colonel.

“D--n me, the question is very transparent!” cries Bath. “From any other

man it would be an affront with the strongest emphasis, but from one of

the doctor’s cloth it demands a categorical answer.”

“I am not a papist, sir,” answered Colonel James, “nor am I obliged to

confess to my priest. But if you have anything to say speak openly, for

I do not understand your meaning.”

“I have explained my meaning to you already,” said the doctor, “in

a letter I wrote to you on the subject--a subject which I am sorry I

should have any occasion to write upon to a Christian.”

“I do remember now,” cries the colonel, “that I received a very

impertinent letter, something like a sermon, against adultery; but I did

not expect to hear the author own it to my face.”

“That brave man then, sir,” answered the doctor, “stands before you who

dares own he wrote that letter, and dares affirm too that it was writ

on a just and strong foundation. But if the hardness of your heart could

prevail on you to treat my good intention with contempt and scorn,

what, pray, could induce you to shew it, nay, to give it Mr. Booth?

What motive could you have for that, unless you meant to insult him, and

provoke your rival to give you that opportunity of putting him out of

the world, which you have since wickedly sought by your challenge?”

“I give him the letter!” said the colonel.

“Yes, sir,” answered the doctor, “he shewed me the letter, and affirmed

that you gave it him at the masquerade.”

“He is a lying rascal, then!” said the colonel very passionately. “I

scarce took the trouble of reading the letter, and lost it out of my

pocket.”

Here Bath interfered, and explained this affair in the manner in

which it happened, and with which the reader is already acquainted. He

concluded by great eulogiums on the performance, and declared it was one

of the most enthusiastic (meaning, perhaps, ecclesiastic) letters that

ever was written. “And d--n me,” says he, “if I do not respect the

author with the utmost emphasis of thinking.”

The doctor now recollected what had passed with Booth, and perceived

he had made a mistake of one colonel for another. This he presently

acknowledged to Colonel James, and said that the mistake had been his,

and not Booth’s.

Bath now collected all his gravity and dignity, as he called it, into

his countenance, and, addressing himself to James, said, “And was that

letter writ to you, brother?--I hope you never deserved any suspicion of

this kind.”

“Brother,” cries James, “I am accountable to myself for my actions, and

shall not render an account either to you or to that gentleman.”

“As to me, brother,” answered Bath, “you say right; but I think this

gentleman may call you to an account; nay, I think it is his duty so to

do. And let me tell you, brother, there is one much greater than he to

whom you must give an account. Mrs. Booth is really a fine woman, a lady

of most imperious and majestic presence. I have heard you often say that

you liked her; and, if you have quarrelled with her husband upon this

account, by all the dignity of man I think you ought to ask his pardon.”

“Indeed, brother,” cries James, “I can bear this no longer--you will

make me angry presently.”

“Angry! brother James,” cries Bath; “angry!--I love you, brother, and

have obligations to you. I will say no more, but I hope you know I do

not fear making any man angry.”

James answered he knew it well; and then the doctor, apprehending that

while he was stopping up one breach he should make another, presently

interfered, and turned the discourse back to Booth. “You tell me, sir,”

said he to James, “that my gown is my protection; let it then at

least protect me where I have had no design in offending--where I

have consulted your highest welfare, as in truth I did in writing this

letter. And if you did not in the least deserve any such suspicion,

still you have no cause for resentment. Caution against sin, even to

the innocent, can never be unwholesome. But this I assure you, whatever

anger you have to me, you can have none to poor Booth, who was entirely

ignorant of my writing to you, and who, I am certain, never entertained

the least suspicion of you; on the contrary, reveres you with the

highest esteem, and love, and gratitude. Let me therefore reconcile all

matters between you, and bring you together before he hath even heard of

this challenge.”

“Brother,” cries Bath, “I hope I shall not make you angry--I lie when I

say so; for I am indifferent to any man’s anger. Let me be an accessory

to what the doctor hath said. I think I may be trusted with matters of

this nature, and it is a little unkind that, if you intended to send

a challenge, you did not make me the bearer. But, indeed, as to what

appears to me, this matter may be very well made up; and, as Mr. Booth

doth not know of the challenge, I don’t see why he ever should, any more

than your giving him the lie just now; but that he shall never have from

me, nor, I believe, from this gentleman; for, indeed, if he should, it

would be incumbent upon him to cut your throat.”

“Lookee, doctor,” said James, “I do not deserve the unkind suspicion you

just now threw out against me. I never thirsted after any man’s blood;

and, as for what hath passed, since this discovery hath happened, I may,

perhaps, not think it worth my while to trouble myself any more about

it.”

The doctor was not contented with perhaps, he insisted on a firm

promise, to be bound with the colonel’s honour. This at length he

obtained, and then departed well satisfied.

In fact, the colonel was ashamed to avow the real cause of the quarrel

to this good man, or, indeed, to his brother Bath, who would not only

have condemned him equally with the doctor, but would possibly have

quarrelled with him on his sister’s account, whom, as the reader must

have observed, he loved above all things; and, in plain truth, though

the colonel was a brave man, and dared to fight, yet he was altogether

as willing to let it alone; and this made him now and then give a little

way to the wrongheadedness of Colonel Bath, who, with all the other

principles of honour and humanity, made no more of cutting the throat of

a man upon any of his punctilios than a butcher doth of killing sheep.

Chapter v.

_What passed at the bailiff’s house._

The doctor now set forwards to his friend Booth, and, as he past by the

door of his attorney in the way, he called upon him and took him with

him.

The meeting between him and Booth need not be expatiated on. The doctor

was really angry, and, though he deferred his lecture to a more proper

opportunity, yet, as he was no dissembler (indeed, he was incapable of

any disguise), he could not put on a show of that heartiness with which

he had formerly used to receive his friend.

Booth at last began himself in the following manner: “Doctor, I am

really ashamed to see you; and, if you knew the confusion of my soul on

this occasion, I am sure you would pity rather than upbraid me; and yet

I can say with great sincerity I rejoice in this last instance of my

shame, since I am like to reap the most solid advantage from it.” The

doctor stared at this, and Booth thus proceeded: “Since I have been in

this wretched place I have employed my time almost entirely in reading

over a series of sermons which are contained in that book (meaning Dr

Barrow’s works, which then lay on the table before him) in proof of the

Christian religion; and so good an effect have they had upon me, that I

shall, I believe, be the better man for them as long as I live. I have

not a doubt (for I own I have had such) which remains now unsatisfied.

If ever an angel might be thought to guide the pen of a writer, surely

the pen of that great and good man had such an assistant.” The doctor

readily concurred in the praises of Dr Barrow, and added, “You say you

have had your doubts, young gentleman; indeed, I did not know that--and,

pray, what were your doubts?” “Whatever they were, sir,” said Booth,

“they are now satisfied, as I believe those of every impartial and

sensible reader will be if he will, with due attention, read over these

excellent sermons.” “Very well,” answered the doctor, “though I have

conversed, I find, with a false brother hitherto, I am glad you are

reconciled to truth at last, and I hope your future faith will have

some influence on your future life.” “I need not tell you, sir,” replied

Booth, “that will always be the case where faith is sincere, as I assure

you mine is. Indeed, I never was a rash disbeliever; my chief doubt was

founded on this--that, as men appeared to me to act entirely from their

passions, their actions could have neither merit nor demerit.” “A

very worthy conclusion truly!” cries the doctor; “but if men act, as I

believe they do, from their passions, it would be fair to conclude that

religion to be true which applies immediately to the strongest of these

passions, hope and fear; chusing rather to rely on its rewards and

punishments than on that native beauty of virtue which some of the

antient philosophers thought proper to recommend to their disciples. But

we will defer this discourse till another opportunity; at present,

as the devil hath thought proper to set you free, I will try if I can

prevail on the bailiff to do the same.”

The doctor had really not so much money in town as Booth’s debt amounted

to, and therefore, though he would otherwise very willingly have paid

it, he was forced to give bail to the action. For which purpose, as the

bailiff was a man of great form, he was obliged to get another person

to be bound with him. This person, however, the attorney undertook to

procure, and immediately set out in quest of him.

During his absence the bailiff came into the room, and, addressing

himself to the doctor, said, “I think, sir, your name is Doctor

Harrison?” The doctor immediately acknowledged his name. Indeed, the

bailiff had seen it to a bail-bond before. “Why then, sir,” said the

bailiff, “there is a man above in a dying condition that desires the

favour of speaking to you; I believe he wants you to pray by him.”

The bailiff himself was not more ready to execute his office on all

occasions for his fee than the doctor was to execute his for nothing.

Without making any further enquiry therefore into the condition of the

man, he immediately went up-stairs.

As soon as the bailiff returned down-stairs, which was immediately after

he had lodged the doctor in the room, Booth had the curiosity to ask him

who this man was. “Why, I don’t know much of him,” said the bailiff; “I

had him once in custody before now: I remember it was when your honour

was here last; and now I remember, too, he said that he knew your honour

very well. Indeed, I had some opinion of him at that time, for he spent

his money very much like a gentleman; but I have discovered since that

he is a poor fellow, and worth nothing. He is a mere shy cock; I have

had the stuff about me this week, and could never get at him till this

morning; nay, I don’t believe we should ever have found out his lodgings

had it not been for the attorney that was here just now, who gave us

information. And so we took him this morning by a comical way enough;

for we dressed up one of my men in women’s cloathes, who told the people

of the house that he was his sister, just come to town--for we were

told by the attorney that he had such a sister, upon which he was let

up-stairs--and so kept the door ajar till I and another rushed in. Let

me tell you, captain, there are as good stratagems made use of in our

business as any in the army.”

“But pray, sir,” said Booth, “did not you tell me this morning that the

poor fellow was desperately wounded; nay, I think you told the doctor

that he was a dying man?” “I had like to have forgot that,” cries

the bailiff. “Nothing would serve the gentleman but that he must make

resistance, and he gave my man a blow with a stick; but I soon quieted

him by giving him a wipe or two with a hanger. Not that, I believe, I

have done his business neither; but the fellow is faint-hearted, and the

surgeon, I fancy, frightens him more than he need. But, however, let the

worst come to the worst, the law is all on my side, and it is only _se

fendendo_. The attorney that was here just now told me so, and bid

me fear nothing; for that he would stand my friend, and undertake the

cause; and he is a devilish good one at a defence at the Old Bailey, I

promise you. I have known him bring off several that everybody thought

would have been hanged.”

“But suppose you should be acquitted,” said Booth, “would not the blood

of this poor wretch lie a little heavy at your heart?”

“Why should it, captain?” said the bailiff. “Is not all done in a lawful

way? Why will people resist the law when they know the consequence? To

be sure, if a man was to kill another in an unlawful manner as it were,

and what the law calls murder, that is quite and clear another thing. I

should not care to be convicted of murder any more than another man. Why

now, captain, you have been abroad in the wars they tell me, and to

be sure must have killed men in your time. Pray, was you ever afraid

afterwards of seeing their ghosts?”

“That is a different affair,” cries Booth; “but I would not kill a man

in cold blood for all the world.”

“There is no difference at all, as I can see,” cries the bailiff. “One

is as much in the way of business as the other. When gentlemen behave

themselves like unto gentlemen I know how to treat them as such as well

as any officer the king hath; and when they do not, why they must take

what follows, and the law doth not call it murder.”

Booth very plainly saw that the bailiff had squared his conscience

exactly according to law, and that he could not easily subvert his way

of thinking. He therefore gave up the cause, and desired the bailiff

to expedite the bonds, which he promised to do; saying, he hoped he had

used him with proper civility this time, if he had not the last, and

that he should be remembered for it.

But before we close this chapter we shall endeavour to satisfy an

enquiry, which may arise in our most favourite readers (for so are the

most curious), how it came to pass that such a person as was Doctor

Harrison should employ such a fellow as this Murphy?

The case then was thus: this Murphy had been clerk to an attorney in the

very same town in which the doctor lived, and, when he was out of

his time, had set up with a character fair enough, and had married a

maid-servant of Mrs. Harris, by which means he had all the business to

which that lady and her friends, in which number was the doctor, could

recommend him.

Murphy went on with his business, and thrived very well, till he

happened to make an unfortunate slip, in which he was detected by a

brother of the same calling. But, though we call this by the gentle name

of a slip, in respect to its being so extremely common, it was a matter

in which the law, if it had ever come to its ears, would have passed a

very severe censure, being, indeed, no less than perjury and subornation

of perjury.

This brother attorney, being a very good-natured man, and unwilling

to bespatter his own profession, and considering, perhaps, that the

consequence did in no wise affect the public, who had no manner of

interest in the alternative whether A., in whom the right was, or B., to

whom Mr. Murphy, by the means aforesaid, had transferred it, succeeded

in an action; we mention this particular, because, as this brother

attorney was a very violent party man, and a professed stickler for the

public, to suffer any injury to have been done to that, would have been

highly inconsistent with his principles.

This gentleman, therefore, came to Mr. Murphy, and, after shewing him

that he had it in his power to convict him of the aforesaid crime, very

generously told him that he had not the least delight in bringing any

man to destruction, nor the least animosity against him. All that he

insisted upon was, that he would not live in the same town or county

with one who had been guilty of such an action. He then told Mr. Murphy

that he would keep the secret on two conditions; the one was, that he

immediately quitted that country; the other was, that he should convince

him he deserved this kindness by his gratitude, and that Murphy should

transfer to the other all the business which he then had in those parts,

and to which he could possibly recommend him.

It is the observation of a very wise man, that it is a very common

exercise of wisdom in this world, of two evils to chuse the least. The

reader, therefore, cannot doubt but that Mr. Murphy complied with the

alternative proposed by his kind brother, and accepted the terms on

which secrecy was to be obtained.

This happened while the doctor was abroad, and with all this, except the

departure of Murphy, not only the doctor, but the whole town (save his

aforesaid brother alone), were to this day unacquainted.

The doctor, at his return, hearing that Mr. Murphy was gone, applied to

the other attorney in his affairs, who still employed this Murphy as his

agent in town, partly, perhaps, out of good will to him, and partly from

the recommendation of Miss Harris; for, as he had married a servant of

the family, and a particular favourite of hers, there can be no wonder

that she, who was entirely ignorant of the affair above related, as well

as of his conduct in town, should continue her favour to him. It will

appear, therefore, I apprehend, no longer strange that the doctor, who

had seen this man but three times since his removal to town, and then

conversed with him only on business, should remain as ignorant of

his life and character, as a man generally is of the character of the

hackney-coachman who drives him. Nor doth it reflect more on the honour

or understanding of the doctor, under these circumstances, to employ

Murphy, than it would if he had been driven about the town by a thief or

a murderer.

Chapter vi.

_What passed between the doctor and the sick man._

We left the doctor in the last chapter with the wounded man, to whom the

doctor, in a very gentle voice, spoke as follows:--

“I am sorry, friend, to see you in this situation, and am very ready to

give you any comfort or assistance within my power.”

“I thank you kindly, doctor,” said the man. “Indeed I should not have

presumed to have sent to you had I not known your character; for, though

I believe I am not at all known to you, I have lived many years in that

town where you yourself had a house; my name is Robinson. I used to

write for the attorneys in those parts, and I have been employed on your

business in my time.”

“I do not recollect you nor your name,” said the doctor; “but consider,

friend, your moments are precious, and your business, as I am informed,

is to offer up your prayers to that great Being before whom you are

shortly to appear. But first let me exhort you earnestly to a most

serious repentance of all your sins.”

“O doctor!” said the man; “pray; what is your opinion of a death-bed

repentance?”

“If repentance is sincere,” cries the doctor, “I hope, through the

mercies and merits of our most powerful and benign Intercessor, it will

never come too late.”

“But do not you think, sir,” cries the man, “that, in order to obtain

forgiveness of any great sin we have committed, by an injury done to

our neighbours, it is necessary, as far as in us lies, to make all the

amends we can to the party injured, and to undo, if possible, the injury

we have done?”

“Most undoubtedly,” cries the doctor; “our pretence to repentance would

otherwise be gross hypocrisy, and an impudent attempt to deceive and

impose upon our Creator himself.”

“Indeed, I am of the same opinion,” cries the penitent; “and I think

further, that this is thrown in my way, and hinted to me by that great

Being; for an accident happened to me yesterday, by which, as things

have fallen out since, I think I plainly discern the hand of Providence.

I went yesterday, sir, you must know, to a pawnbroker’s, to pawn the

last moveable, which, except the poor cloathes you see on my back, I am

worth in the world. While I was there a young lady came in to pawn her

picture. She had disguised herself so much, and pulled her hood so over

her face, that I did not know her while she stayed, which was scarce

three minutes. As soon as she was gone the pawnbroker, taking the

picture in his hand, cried out, _Upon my word, this is the handsomest

face I ever saw in my life!_ I desired him to let me look on the

picture, which he readily did--and I no sooner cast my eyes upon it,

than the strong resemblance struck me, and I knew it to be Mrs. Booth.”

“Mrs. Booth! what Mrs. Booth?” cries the doctor.

“Captain Booth’s lady, the captain who is now below,” said the other.

“How?” cries the doctor with great impetuosity.

“Have patience,” said the man, “and you shall hear all. I expressed some

surprize to the pawnbroker, and asked the lady’s name. He answered, that

he knew not her name; but that she was some undone wretch, who had the

day before left all her cloathes with him in pawn. My guilt immediately

flew in my face, and told me I had been accessory to this lady’s

undoing. The sudden shock so affected me, that, had it not been for a

dram which the pawnbroker gave me, I believe I should have sunk on the

spot.”

“Accessary to her undoing! how accessary?” said the doctor. “Pray tell

me, for I am impatient to hear.”

“I will tell you all as fast as I can,” cries the sick man. “You know,

good doctor, that Mrs. Harris of our town had two daughters, this Mrs.

Booth and another. Now, sir, it seems the other daughter had, some

way or other, disobliged her mother a little before the old lady died;

therefore she made a will, and left all her fortune, except one thousand

pound, to Mrs. Booth; to which will Mr. Murphy, myself, and another who

is now dead, were the witnesses. Mrs. Harris afterwards died suddenly;

upon which it was contrived by her other daughter and Mr. Murphy to make

a new will, in which Mrs. Booth had a legacy of ten pound, and all the

rest was given to the other. To this will, Murphy, myself, and the same

third person, again set our hands.”

“Good Heaven! how wonderful is thy providence!” cries the

doctor--“Murphy, say you?”

“He himself, sir,” answered Robinson; “Murphy, who is the greatest

rogue, I believe, now in the world.”

“Pray, sir, proceed,” cries the doctor.

“For this service, sir,” said Robinson, “myself and the third person,

one Carter, received two hundred pound each. What reward Murphy himself

had I know not. Carter died soon afterwards; and from that time, at

several payments, I have by threats extorted above a hundred pound more.

And this, sir, is the whole truth, which I am ready to testify if it

would please Heaven to prolong my life.”

“I hope it will,” cries the doctor; “but something must be done for fear

of accidents. I will send to counsel immediately to know how to secure

your testimony.--Whom can I get to send?--Stay, ay--he will do--but I

know not where his house or his chambers are. I will go myself--but I

may be wanted here.”

While the doctor was in this violent agitation the surgeon made his

appearance. The doctor stood still in a meditating posture, while the

surgeon examined his patient. After which the doctor begged him to

declare his opinion, and whether he thought the wounded man in any

immediate danger of death. “I do not know,” answered the surgeon, “what

you call immediate. He may live several days--nay, he may recover. It is

impossible to give any certain opinion in these cases.” He then launched

forth into a set of terms which the doctor, with all his scholarship,

could not understand. To say the truth, many of them were not to be

found in any dictionary or lexicon.

One discovery, however, the doctor made, and that was, that the

surgeon was a very ignorant, conceited fellow, and knew nothing of his

profession. He resolved, therefore, to get better advice for the sick;

but this he postponed at present, and, applying himself to the surgeon,

said, “He should be very much obliged to him if he knew where to find

such a counsellor, and would fetch him thither. I should not ask such a

favour of you, sir,” says the doctor, “if it was not on business of the

last importance, or if I could find any other messenger.”

“I fetch, sir!” said the surgeon very angrily. “Do you take me for a

footman or a porter? I don’t know who you are; but I believe you are

full as proper to go on such an errand as I am.” (For as the doctor,

who was just come off his journey, was very roughly dressed, the surgeon

held him in no great respect.) The surgeon then called aloud from the

top of the stairs, “Let my coachman draw up,” and strutted off without

any ceremony, telling his patient he would call again the next day.

At this very instant arrived Murphy with the other bail, and, finding

Booth alone, he asked the bailiff at the door what was become of the

doctor? “Why, the doctor,” answered he, “is above-stairs, praying

with-----.” “How!” cries Murphy. “How came you not to carry him directly

to Newgate, as you promised me?” “Why, because he was wounded,” cries

the bailiff. “I thought it was charity to take care of him; and,

besides, why should one make more noise about the matter than is

necessary?” “And Doctor Harrison with him?” said Murphy. “Yes, he is,”

said the bailiff; “he desired to speak with the doctor very much,

and they have been praying together almost this hour.” “All is up and

undone!” cries Murphy. “Let me come by, I have thought of something

which I must do immediately.”

Now, as by means of the surgeon’s leaving the door open the doctor heard

Murphy’s voice naming Robinson peevishly, he drew softly to the top of

the stairs, where he heard the foregoing dialogue; and as soon as

Murphy had uttered his last words, and was moving downwards, the doctor

immediately sallied from his post, running as fast as he could, and

crying, Stop the villain! stop the thief!

The attorney wanted no better hint to accelerate his pace; and, having

the start of the doctor, got downstairs, and out into the street; but

the doctor was so close at his heels, and being in foot the nimbler of

the two, he soon overtook him, and laid hold of him, as he would have

done on either Broughton or Slack in the same cause.

This action in the street, accompanied with the frequent cry of Stop

thief by the doctor during the chase, presently drew together a large

mob, who began, as is usual, to enter immediately upon business, and to

make strict enquiry into the matter, in order to proceed to do justice

in their summary way.

Murphy, who knew well the temper of the mob, cried out, “If you are a

bailiff, shew me your writ. Gentlemen, he pretends to arrest me here

without a writ.”

Upon this, one of the sturdiest and forwardest of the mob, and who by

a superior strength of body and of lungs presided in this assembly,

declared he would suffer no such thing. “D--n me,” says he, “away to

the pump with the catchpole directly--shew me your writ, or let the

gentleman go--you shall not arrest a man contrary to law.”

He then laid his hands on the doctor, who, still fast griping the

attorney, cried out, “He is a villain--I am no bailiff, but a clergyman,

and this lawyer is guilty of forgery, and hath ruined a poor family.”

“How!” cries the spokesman--“a lawyer!--that alters the case.”

“Yes, faith,” cries another of the mob, “it is lawyer Murphy. I know him

very well.”

“And hath he ruined a poor family?--like enough, faith, if he’s a

lawyer. Away with him to the justice immediately.”

The bailiff now came up, desiring to know what was the matter; to

whom Doctor Harrison answered that he had arrested that villain for

a forgery. “How can you arrest him?” cries the bailiff; “you are no

officer, nor have any warrant. Mr. Murphy is a gentleman, and he shall

be used as such.”

“Nay, to be sure,” cries the spokesman, “there ought to be a warrant;

that’s the truth on’t.”

“There needs no warrant,” cries the doctor. “I accuse him of felony; and

I know so much of the law of England, that any man may arrest a felon

without any warrant whatever. This villain hath undone a poor family;

and I will die on the spot before I part with him.”

“If the law be so,” cries the orator, “that is another matter. And to be

sure, to ruin a poor man is the greatest of sins. And being a lawyer too

makes it so much the worse. He shall go before the justice, d--n me if

he shan’t go before the justice! I says the word, he shall.”

“I say he is a gentleman, and shall be used according to law,” cries the

bailiff; “and, though you are a clergyman,” said he to Harrison, “you

don’t shew yourself as one by your actions.”

“That’s a bailiff,” cries one of the mob: “one lawyer will always stand

by another; but I think the clergyman is a very good man, and acts

becoming a clergyman, to stand by the poor.”

At which words the mob all gave a great shout, and several cried out,

“Bring him along, away with him to the justice!”

And now a constable appeared, and with an authoritative voice declared

what he was, produced his staff, and demanded the peace.

The doctor then delivered his prisoner over to the officer, and charged

him with felony; the constable received him, the attorney submitted, the

bailiff was hushed, and the waves of the mob immediately subsided.

The doctor now balanced with himself how he should proceed: at last he

determined to leave Booth a little longer in captivity, and not to quit

sight of Murphy before he had lodged him safe with a magistrate. They

then all moved forwards to the justice; the constable and his prisoner

marching first, the doctor and the bailiff following next, and about

five thousand mob (for no less number were assembled in a very few

minutes) following in the procession.

They found the magistrate just sitting down to his dinner; however, when

he was acquainted with the doctor’s profession, he immediately admitted

him, and heard his business; which he no sooner perfectly understood,

with all its circumstances, than he resolved, though it was then very

late, and he had been fatigued all the morning with public business, to

postpone all refreshment till he had discharged his duty. He accordingly

adjourned the prisoner and his cause to the bailiff’s house, whither he

himself, with the doctor, immediately repaired, and whither the attorney

was followed by a much larger number of attendants than he had been

honoured with before.

Chapter vii.

_In which the history draws towards a conclusion._

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of Booth at the behaviour of the

doctor at the time when he sallied forth in pursuit of the attorney; for

which it was so impossible for him to account in any manner whatever.

He remained a long time in the utmost torture of mind, till at last the

bailif’s wife came to him, and asked him if the doctor was not a madman?

and, in truth, he could hardly defend him from that imputation.

While he was in this perplexity the maid of the house brought him a

message from Robinson, desiring the favour of seeing him above-stairs.

With this he immediately complied.

When these two were alone together, and the key turned on them (for

the bailiff’s wife was a most careful person, and never omitted that

ceremony in the absence of her husband, having always at her tongue’s

end that excellent proverb of “Safe bind, safe find”), Robinson, looking

stedfastly upon Booth, said, “I believe, sir, you scarce remember me.”

Booth answered that he thought he had seen his face somewhere before,

but could not then recollect when or where.

“Indeed, sir,” answered the man, “it was a place which no man can

remember with pleasure. But do you not remember, a few weeks ago, that

you had the misfortune to be in a certain prison in this town, where you

lost a trifling sum at cards to a fellow-prisoner?”

This hint sufficiently awakened Booth’s memory, and he now recollected

the features of his old friend Robinson. He answered him a little

surlily, “I know you now very well, but I did not imagine you would ever

have reminded me of that transaction.”

“Alas, sir!” answered Robinson, “whatever happened then was very

trifling compared to the injuries I have done you; but if my life be

spared long enough I will now undo it all: and, as I have been one of

your worst enemies, I will now be one of your best friends.”

He was just entering upon his story when a noise was heard below which

might be almost compared to what have been heard in Holland when the

dykes have given way, and the ocean in an inundation breaks in upon the

land. It seemed, indeed, as if the whole world was bursting into the

house at once.

Booth was a man of great firmness of mind, and he had need of it all

at this instant. As for poor Robinson, the usual concomitants of guilt

attended him, and he began to tremble in a violent manner.

The first person who ascended the stairs was the doctor, who no sooner

saw Booth than he ran to him and embraced him, crying, “My child, I

wish you joy with all my heart. Your sufferings are all at an end, and

Providence hath done you the justice at last which it will, one day or

other, render to all men. You will hear all presently; but I can now

only tell you that your sister is discovered and the estate is your

own.”

Booth was in such confusion that he scarce made any answer, and now

appeared the justice and his clerk, and immediately afterwards the

constable with his prisoner, the bailiff, and as many more as could

possibly crowd up-stairs.

The doctor now addressed himself to the sick man, and desired him

to repeat the same information before the justice which he had made

already; to which Robinson readily consented.

While the clerk was taking down the information, the attorney expressed

a very impatient desire to send instantly for his clerk, and expressed

so much uneasiness at the confusion in which he had left his papers at

home, that a thought suggested itself to the doctor that, if his house

was searched, some lights and evidence relating to this affair would

certainly be found; he therefore desired the justice to grant a

search-warrant immediately to search his house.

The justice answered that he had no such power; that, if there was any

suspicion of stolen goods, he could grant a warrant to search for them.

“How, sir!” said the doctor, “can you grant a warrant to search a man’s

house for a silver tea-spoon, and not in a case like this, where a man

is robbed of his whole estate?”

“Hold, sir,” says the sick man; “I believe I can answer that point;

for I can swear he hath several title-deeds of the estate now in his

possession, which I am sure were stolen from the right owner.”

The justice still hesitated. He said title-deeds savoured of the Realty,

and it was not felony to steal them. If, indeed, they were taken away in

a box, then it would be felony to steal the box.

“Savour of the Realty! Savour of the f--talty,” said the doctor. “I

never heard such incomprehensible nonsense. This is impudent, as well as

childish trifling with the lives and properties of men.”

“Well, sir,” said Robinson, “I now am sure I can do his business; for

I know he hath a silver cup in his possession which is the property of

this gentleman (meaning Booth), and how he got it but by stealth let him

account if he can.”

“That will do,” cries the justice with great pleasure. “That will do;

and if you will charge him on oath with that, I will instantly grant

my warrant to search his house for it.” “And I will go and see it

executed,” cries the doctor; for it was a maxim of his, that no man

could descend below himself in doing any act which may contribute to

protect an innocent person, or to bring a rogue to the gallows.

The oath was instantly taken, the warrant signed, and the doctor

attended the constable in the execution of it.

The clerk then proceeded in taking the information of Robinson, and had

just finished it, when the doctor returned with the utmost joy in his

countenance, and declared that he had sufficient evidence of the fact in

his possession. He had, indeed, two or three letters from Miss Harris

in answer to the attorney’s frequent demands of money for secrecy, that

fully explained the whole villany.

The justice now asked the prisoner what he had to say for himself, or

whether he chose to say anything in his own defence.

“Sir,” said the attorney, with great confidence, “I am not to defend

myself here. It will be of no service to me; for I know you neither can

nor will discharge me. But I am extremely innocent of all this matter,

as I doubt not but to make appear to the satisfaction of a court of

justice.”

The legal previous ceremonies were then gone through of binding over the

prosecutor, &c., and then the attorney was committed to Newgate, whither

he was escorted amidst the acclamations of the populace.

When Murphy was departed, and a little calm restored in the house, the

justice made his compliments of congratulation to Booth, who, as well as

he could in his present tumult of joy, returned his thanks to both the

magistrate and the doctor. They were now all preparing to depart, when

Mr. Bondum stept up to Booth, and said, “Hold, sir, you have forgot one

thing--you have not given bail yet.”

This occasioned some distress at this time, for the attorney’s friend

was departed; but when the justice heard this, he immediately offered

himself as the other bondsman, and thus ended the affair.

It was now past six o’clock, and none of the gentlemen had yet dined.

They very readily, therefore, accepted the magistrate’s invitation, and

went all together to his house.

And now the very first thing that was done, even before they sat down to

dinner, was to dispatch a messenger to one of the best surgeons in town

to take care of Robinson, and another messenger to Booth’s lodgings to

prevent Amelia’s concern at their staying so long.

The latter, however, was to little purpose; for Amelia’s patience had

been worn out before, and she had taken a hackney-coach and driven to

the bailiff’s, where she arrived a little after the departure of her

husband, and was thence directed to the justice’s.

Though there was no kind of reason for Amelia’s fright at hearing that

her husband and Doctor Harrison were gone before the justice, and though

she indeed imagined that they were there in the light of complainants,

not of offenders, yet so tender were her fears for her husband, and

so much had her gentle spirits been lately agitated, that she had

a thousand apprehensions of she knew not what. When she arrived,

therefore, at the house, she ran directly into the room where all the

company were at dinner, scarce knowing what she did or whither she was

going.

She found her husband in such a situation, and discovered such

chearfulness in his countenance, that so violent a turn was given to her

spirits that she was just able, with the assistance of a glass of water,

to support herself. She soon, however, recovered her calmness, and in

a little time began to eat what might indeed be almost called her

breakfast.

The justice now wished her joy of what had happened that day, for

which she kindly thanked him, apprehending he meant the liberty of her

husband. His worship might perhaps have explained himself more largely

had not the doctor given him a timely wink; for this wise and good man

was fearful of making such a discovery all at once to Amelia, lest it

should overpower her, and luckily the justice’s wife was not well enough

acquainted with the matter to say anything more on it than barely to

assure the lady that she joined in her husband’s congratulation.

Amelia was then in a clean white gown, which she had that day redeemed,

and was, indeed, dressed all over with great neatness and exactness;

with the glow therefore which arose in her features from finding her

husband released from his captivity, she made so charming a figure, that

she attracted the eyes of the magistrate and of his wife, and they

both agreed when they were alone that they had never seen so charming

a creature; nay, Booth himself afterwards told her that he scarce ever

remembered her to look so extremely beautiful as she did that evening.

Whether Amelia’s beauty, or the reflexion on the remarkable act of

justice he had performed, or whatever motive filled the magistrate with

extraordinary good humour, and opened his heart and cellars, I will not

determine; but he gave them so hearty a welcome, and they were all so

pleased with each other, that Amelia, for that one night, trusted the

care of her children to the woman where they lodged, nor did the company

rise from table till the clock struck eleven.

They then separated. Amelia and Booth, having been set down at their

lodgings, retired into each other’s arms; nor did Booth that evening, by

the doctor’s advice, mention one word of the grand affair to his wife.

Chapter viii.

_Thus this history draws nearer to a conclusion._

In the morning early Amelia received the following letter from Mrs.

Atkinson:

“The surgeon of the regiment, to which the captain my husband lately

belonged, and who came this evening to see the captain, hath almost

frightened me out of my wits by a strange story of your husband being

committed to prison by a justice of peace for forgery. For Heaven’s sake

send me the truth. If my husband can be of any service, weak as he is,

he will be carried in a chair to serve a brother officer for whom he

hath a regard, which I need not mention. Or if the sum of twenty pound

will be of any service to you, I will wait upon you with it the moment I

can get my cloaths on, the morning you receive this; for it is too late

to send to-night. The captain begs his hearty service and respects, and

believe me,

“Dear Madam,

Your ever affectionate friend,

and humble servant,

F. ATKINSON.”

When Amelia read this letter to Booth they were both equally surprized,

she at the commitment for forgery, and he at seeing such a letter from

Mrs. Atkinson; for he was a stranger yet to the reconciliation that had

happened.

Booth’s doubts were first satisfied by Amelia, from which he received

great pleasure; for he really had a very great affection and fondness

for Mr. Atkinson, who, indeed, so well deserved it. “Well, my dear,”

said he to Amelia, smiling, “shall we accept this generous offer?”

“O fy! no, certainly,” answered she.

“Why not?” cries Booth; “it is but a trifle; and yet it will be of great

service to us.”

“But consider, my dear,” said she, “how ill these poor people can spare

it.”

“They can spare it for a little while,” said Booth, “and we shall soon

pay it them again.”

“When, my dear?” said Amelia. “Do, my dear Will, consider our wretched

circumstances. I beg you let us go into the country immediately, and

live upon bread and water till Fortune pleases to smile upon us.”

“I am convinced that day is not far off,” said Booth. “However, give me

leave to send an answer to Mrs. Atkinson, that we shall be glad of her

company immediately to breakfast.”

“You know I never contradict you,” said she, “but I assure you it is

contrary to my inclinations to take this money.”

“Well, suffer me,” cries he, “to act this once contrary to your

inclinations.” He then writ a short note to Mrs. Atkinson, and

dispatched it away immediately; which when he had done, Amelia said, “I

shall be glad of Mrs. Atkinson’s company to breakfast; but yet I wish

you would oblige me in refusing this money. Take five guineas only. That

is indeed such a sum as, if we never should pay it, would sit light on

my mind. The last persons in the world from whom I would receive favours

of that sort are the poor and generous.”

“You can receive favours only from the generous,” cries Booth; “and,

to be plain with you, there are very few who are generous that are not

poor.”

“What think you,” said she, “of Dr Harrison?”

“I do assure you,” said Booth, “he is far from being rich. The doctor

hath an income of little more than six hundred pound a-year, and I

am convinced he gives away four of it. Indeed, he is one of the best

economists in the world: but yet I am positive he never was at any time

possessed of five hundred pound, since he hath been a man. Consider,

dear Emily, the late obligations we have to this gentleman; it would

be unreasonable to expect more, at least at present; my half-pay is

mortgaged for a year to come. How then shall we live?”

“By our labour,” answered she; “I am able to labour, and I am sure I am

not ashamed of it.”

“And do you really think you can support such a life?”

“I am sure I could be happy in it,” answered Amelia. “And why not I as

well as a thousand others, who have not the happiness of such a husband

to make life delicious? why should I complain of my hard fate while so

many who are much poorer than I enjoy theirs? Am I of a superior rank

of being to the wife of the honest labourer? am I not partaker of one

common nature with her?”

“My angel,” cries Booth, “it delights me to hear you talk thus, and

for a reason you little guess; for I am assured that one who can so

heroically endure adversity, will bear prosperity with equal greatness

of soul; for the mind that cannot be dejected by the former, is not

likely to be transported with the latter.”

“If it had pleased Heaven,” cried she, “to have tried me, I think, at

least I hope, I should have preserved my humility.”

“Then, my dear,” said he, “I will relate you a dream I had last night.

You know you lately mentioned a dream of yours.”

“Do so,” said she; “I am attentive.”

“I dreamt,” said he, “this night, that we were in the most miserable

situation imaginable; indeed, in the situation we were yesterday

morning, or rather worse; that I was laid in a prison for debt, and that

you wanted a morsel of bread to feed the mouths of your hungry children.

At length (for nothing you know is quicker than the transition in

dreams) Dr Harrison methought came to me, with chearfulness and joy in

his countenance. The prison-doors immediately flew open, and Dr Harrison

introduced you, gayly though not richly dressed. That you gently chid me

for staying so long. All on a sudden appeared a coach with four horses

to it, in which was a maid-servant with our two children. We both

immediately went into the coach, and, taking our leave of the doctor,

set out towards your country-house; for yours I dreamt it was. I only

ask you now, if this was real, and the transition almost as sudden,

could you support it?”

Amelia was going to answer, when Mrs. Atkinson came into the room, and

after very little previous ceremony, presented Booth with a bank-note,

which he received of her, saying he would very soon repay it; a promise

that a little offended Amelia, as she thought he had no chance of

keeping it.

The doctor presently arrived, and the company sat down to breakfast,

during which Mrs. Atkinson entertained them with the history of the

doctors that had attended her husband, by whose advice Atkinson was

recovered from everything but the weakness which his distemper had

occasioned.

When the tea-table was removed Booth told the doctor that he had

acquainted his wife with a dream he had last night. “I dreamt, doctor,”

said he, “that she was restored to her estate.”

“Very well,” said the doctor; “and if I am to be the Oneiropolus, I

believe the dream will come to pass. To say the truth, I have rather a

better opinion of dreams than Horace had. Old Homer says they come

from Jupiter; and as to your dream, I have often had it in my waking

thoughts, that some time or other that roguery (for so I was always

convinced it was) would be brought to light; for the same Homer says, as

you, madam (meaning Mrs. Atkinson), very well know,

[Greek verses]

[Footnote: “If Jupiter doth not immediately execute his vengeance, he

will however execute it at last; and their transgressions shall fall

heavily on their own heads, and on their wives and children.”]

“I have no Greek ears, sir,” said Mrs. Atkinson. “I believe I could

understand it in the Delphin Homer.”

“I wish,” cries he, “my dear child (to Amelia), you would read a little

in the Delphin Aristotle, or else in some Christian divine, to learn

a doctrine which you will one day have a use for. I mean to bear the

hardest of all human conflicts, and support with an even temper, and

without any violent transports of mind, a sudden gust of prosperity.”

“Indeed,” cries Amelia, “I should almost think my husband and you,

doctor, had some very good news to tell me, by your using, both of you,

the same introduction. As far as I know myself, I think I can answer I

can support any degree of prosperity, and I think I yesterday shewed I

could: for I do assure you, it is not in the power of fortune to try

me with such another transition from grief to joy, as I conceived from

seeing my husband in prison and at liberty.”

“Well, you are a good girl,” cries the doctor, “and after I have put on

my spectacles I will try you.”

The doctor then took out a newspaper, and read as follows:

“‘Yesterday one Murphy, an eminent attorney-at-law, was committed to

Newgate for the forgery of a will under which an estate hath been for

many years detained from the right owner.’

“Now in this paragraph there is something very remarkable, and that

is--that it is true: but _opus est explanatu_. In the Delphin edition

of this newspaper there is the following note upon the words right

owner:--‘The right owner of this estate is a young lady of the highest

merit, whose maiden name was Harris, and who some time since was married

to an idle fellow, one Lieutenant Booth. And the best historians assure

us that letters from the elder sister of this lady, which manifestly

prove the forgery and clear up the whole affair, are in the hands of an

old Parson called Doctor Harrison.’”

“And is this really true?” cries Amelia.

“Yes, really and sincerely,” cries the doctor. “The whole estate;

for your mother left it you all, and is as surely yours as if you was

already in possession.”

“Gracious Heaven!” cries she, falling on her knees, “I thank you!” And

then starting up, she ran to her husband, and, embracing him, cried, “My

dear love, I wish you joy; and I ought in gratitude to wish it you; for

you are the cause of mine. It is upon yours and my children’s account

that I principally rejoice.”

Mrs. Atkinson rose from her chair, and jumped about the room for joy,

repeating,

_Turne, quod oplanti divum promittere nemo

Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultro._

[Footnote: “What none of all the Gods could grant thy vows, That,

Turnus, this auspicious day bestows.”]

Amelia now threw herself into a chair, complained she was a little

faint, and begged a glass of water. The doctor advised her to be

blooded; but she refused, saying she required a vent of another kind.

She then desired her children to be brought to her, whom she immediately

caught in her arms, and, having profusely cried over them for several

minutes, declared she was easy. After which she soon regained her usual

temper and complexion.

That day they dined together, and in the afternoon they all, except the

doctor, visited Captain Atkinson; he repaired to the bailiff’s house

to visit the sick man, whom he found very chearful, the surgeon having

assured him that he was in no danger.

The doctor had a long spiritual discourse with Robinson, who assured

him that he sincerely repented of his past life, that he was resolved to

lead his future days in a different manner, and to make what amends

he could for his sins to the society, by bringing one of the greatest

rogues in it to justice. There was a circumstance which much pleased the

doctor, and made him conclude that, however Robinson had been corrupted

by his old master, he had naturally a good disposition. This was, that

Robinson declared he was chiefly induced to the discovery by what

had happened at the pawnbroker’s, and by the miseries which he there

perceived he had been instrumental in bringing on Booth and his family.

The next day Booth and his wife, at the doctor’s instance, dined

with Colonel James and his lady, where they were received with great

civility, and all matters were accommodated without Booth ever knowing a

syllable of the challenge even to this day.

The doctor insisted very strongly on having Miss Harris taken into

custody, and said, if she was his sister, he would deliver her to

justice. He added besides, that it was impossible to skreen her and

carry on the prosecution, or, indeed, recover the estate. Amelia at last

begged the delay of one day only, in which time she wrote a letter to

her sister, informing her of the discovery, and the danger in which she

stood, and begged her earnestly to make her escape, with many assurances

that she would never suffer her to know any distress. This letter she

sent away express, and it had the desired effect; for Miss Harris,

having received sufficient information from the attorney to the same

purpose, immediately set out for Poole, and from thence to France,

carrying with her all her money, most of her cloaths, and some few

jewels. She had, indeed, packed up plate and jewels to the value of two

thousand pound and upwards. But Booth, to whom Amelia communicated the

letter, prevented her by ordering the man that went with the express

(who had been a serjeant of the foot-guards recommended to him by

Atkinson) to suffer the lady to go whither she pleased, but not to take

anything with her except her cloaths, which he was carefully to search.

These orders were obeyed punctually, and with these she was obliged to

comply.

Two days after the bird was flown a warrant from the lord chief justice

arrived to take her up, the messenger of which returned with the news

of her flight, highly to the satisfaction of Amelia, and consequently of

Booth, and, indeed, not greatly to the grief of the doctor.

About a week afterwards Booth and Amelia, with their children, and

Captain Atkinson and his lady, all set forward together for Amelia’s

house, where they arrived amidst the acclamations of all the neighbours,

and every public demonstration of joy.

They found the house ready prepared to receive them by Atkinson’s friend

the old serjeant, and a good dinner prepared for them by Amelia’s old

nurse, who was addressed with the utmost duty by her son and daughter,

most affectionately caressed by Booth and his wife, and by Amelia’s

absolute command seated next to herself at the table. At which, perhaps,

were assembled some of the best and happiest people then in the world.

Chapter ix.

_In which the history is concluded._

Having brought our history to a conclusion, as to those points in which

we presume our reader was chiefly interested, in the foregoing chapter,

we shall in this, by way of epilogue, endeavour to satisfy his curiosity

as to what hath since happened to the principal personages of whom we

have treated in the foregoing pages.

Colonel James and his lady, after living in a polite manner for many

years together, at last agreed to live in as polite a manner asunder.

The colonel hath kept Miss Matthews ever since, and is at length

grown to doat on her (though now very disagreeable in her person, and

immensely fat) to such a degree, that he submits to be treated by her in

the most tyrannical manner.

He allows his lady eight hundred pound a-year, with which she divides

her time between Tunbridge, Bath, and London, and passes about nine

hours in the twenty-four at cards. Her income is lately increased by

three thousand pound left her by her brother Colonel Bath, who was

killed in a duel about six years ago by a gentleman who told the colonel

he differed from him in opinion.

The noble peer and Mrs. Ellison have been both dead several years, and

both of the consequences of their favourite vices; Mrs. Ellison having

fallen a martyr to her liquor, and the other to his amours, by which he

was at last become so rotten that he stunk above-ground.

The attorney, Murphy, was brought to his trial at the Old Bailey,

where, after much quibbling about the meaning of a very plain act

of parliament, he was at length convicted of forgery, and was soon

afterwards hanged at Tyburn.

The witness for some time seemed to reform his life, and received a

small pension from Booth; after which he returned to vicious courses,

took a purse on the highway, was detected and taken, and followed the

last steps of his old master. So apt are men whose manners have been

once thoroughly corrupted, to return, from any dawn of an amendment,

into the dark paths of vice.

As to Miss Harris, she lived three years with a broken heart at

Boulogne, where she received annually fifty pound from her sister, who

was hardly prevailed on by Dr Harrison not to send her a hundred, and

then died in a most miserable manner.

Mr. Atkinson upon the whole hath led a very happy life with his wife,

though he hath been sometimes obliged to pay proper homage to her

superior understanding and knowledge. This, however, he chearfully

submits to, and she makes him proper returns of fondness. They have two

fine boys, of whom they are equally fond. He is lately advanced to the

rank of captain, and last summer both he and his wife paid a visit of

three months to Booth and his wife.

Dr Harrison is grown old in years and in honour, beloved and respected

by all his parishioners and by all his neighbours. He divides his time

between his parish, his old town, and Booth’s--at which last place he

had, two years ago, a gentle fit of the gout, being the first attack of

that distemper. During this fit Amelia was his nurse, and her two oldest

daughters sat up alternately with him for a whole week. The eldest of

those girls, whose name is Amelia, is his favourite; she is the picture

of her mother, and it is thought the doctor hath distinguished her in

his will, for he hath declared that he will leave his whole fortune,

except some few charities, among Amelia’s children.

As to Booth and Amelia, Fortune seems to have made them large amends

for the tricks she played them in their youth. They have, ever since the

above period of this history, enjoyed an uninterrupted course of health

and happiness. In about six weeks after Booth’s first coming into the

country he went to London and paid all his debts of honour; after which,

and a stay of two days only, he returned into the country, and hath

never since been thirty miles from home. He hath two boys and four

girls; the eldest of the boys, he who hath made his appearance in this

history, is just come from the university, and is one of the finest

gentlemen and best scholars of his age. The second is just going from

school, and is intended for the church, that being his own choice. His

eldest daughter is a woman grown, but we must not mention her age. A

marriage was proposed to her the other day with a young fellow of a

good estate, but she never would see him more than once: “For Doctor

Harrison,” says she, “told me he was illiterate, and I am sure he is

ill-natured.” The second girl is three years younger than her sister,

and the others are yet children.

Amelia is still the finest woman in England of her age. Booth himself

often avers she is as handsome as ever. Nothing can equal the serenity

of their lives. Amelia declared to me the other day, that she did not

remember to have seen her husband out of humour these ten years; and,

upon my insinuating to her that he had the best of wives, she answered

with a smile that she ought to be so, for that he had made her the

happiest of women.

THE END.