Amelia — Complete

Chapter vi. — Containing as surprizing an accident as is perhaps recorded in history.

Booth had acquainted the serjeant with the great goodness of Colonel James, and with the chearful prospects which he entertained from it. This Atkinson, behind the curtain, communicated to his wife. The conclusion which she drew from it need scarce be hinted to the reader. She made, indeed, no scruple of plainly and bluntly telling her husband that the colonel had a most manifest intention to attack the chastity of Amelia.

This thought gave the poor serjeant great uneasiness, and, after having kept him long awake, tormented him in his sleep with a most horrid dream, in which he imagined that he saw the colonel standing by the bedside of Amelia, with a naked sword in his hand, and threatening to stab her instantly unless she complied with his desires. Upon this the serjeant started up in his bed, and, catching his wife by the throat, cried out, “D—n you, put up your sword this instant, and leave the room, or by Heaven I’ll drive mine to your heart’s blood!”

This rough treatment immediately roused Mrs. Atkinson from her sleep, who no sooner perceived the position of her husband, and felt his hand grasping her throat, than she gave a violent shriek and presently fell into a fit.

Atkinson now waked likewise, and soon became sensible of the violent agitations of his wife. He immediately leapt out of bed, and running for a bottle of water, began to sprinkle her very plentifully; but all to no purpose: she neither spoke nor gave any symptoms of recovery Atkinson then began to roar aloud; upon which Booth, who lay under him, jumped from his bed, and ran up with the lighted candle in his hand. The serjeant had no sooner taken the candle than he ran with it to the bed-side. Here he beheld a sight which almost deprived him of his senses. The bed appeared to be all over blood, and his wife weltering in the midst of it. Upon this the serjeant, almost in a frenzy, cried out, “O Heavens! I have killed my wife. I have stabbed her! I have stabbed her!” “What can be the meaning of all this?” said Booth. “O, sir!” cries the serjeant, “I dreamt I was rescuing your lady from the hands of Colonel James, and I have killed my poor wife.”—Here he threw himself upon the bed by her, caught her in his arms, and behaved like one frantic with despair.

By this time Amelia had thrown on a wrapping-gown, and was come up into the room, where the serjeant and his wife were lying on the bed and Booth standing like a motionless statue by the bed-side. Amelia had some difficulty to conquer the effects of her own surprize on this occasion; for a more ghastly and horrible sight than the bed presented could not be conceived.

Amelia sent Booth to call up the maid of the house, in order to lend her assistance; but before his return Mrs. Atkinson began to come to herself; and soon after, to the inexpressible joy of the serjeant, it was discovered she had no wound. Indeed, the delicate nose of Amelia soon made that discovery, which the grosser smell of the serjeant, and perhaps his fright, had prevented him from making; for now it appeared that the red liquor with which the bed was stained, though it may, perhaps, sometimes run through the veins of a fine lady, was not what is properly called blood, but was, indeed, no other than cherry-brandy, a bottle of which Mrs. Atkinson always kept in her room to be ready for immediate use, and to which she used to apply for comfort in all her afflictions. This the poor serjeant, in his extreme hurry, had mistaken for a bottle of water. Matters were now soon accommodated, and no other mischief appeared to be done, unless to the bed-cloaths. Amelia and Booth returned back to their room, and Mrs. Atkinson rose from her bed in order to equip it with a pair of clean sheets.

And thus this adventure would have ended without producing any kind of consequence, had not the words which the serjeant uttered in his frenzy made some slight impression on Booth; so much, at least, as to awaken his curiosity; so that in the morning when he arose he sent for the serjeant, and desired to hear the particulars of this dream, since Amelia was concerned in it.

The serjeant at first seemed unwilling to comply, and endeavoured to make excuses. This, perhaps, encreased Booth’s curiosity, and he said, “Nay, I am resolved to hear it. Why, you simpleton, do you imagine me weak enough to be affected by a dream, however terrible it may be?”

“Nay, sir,” cries the serjeant, “as for that matter, dreams have sometimes fallen out to be true. One of my own, I know, did so, concerning your honour; for, when you courted my young lady, I dreamt you was married to her; and yet it was at a time when neither I myself, nor any of the country, thought you would ever obtain her. But Heaven forbid this dream should ever come to pass!” “Why, what was this dream?” cries Booth. “I insist on knowing.”

“To be sure, sir,” cries the serjeant, “I must not refuse you; but I hope you will never think any more of it. Why then, sir, I dreamt that your honour was gone to the West Indies, and had left my lady in the care of Colonel James; and last night I dreamt the colonel came to my lady’s bed-side, offering to ravish her, and with a drawn sword in his hand, threatening to stab her that moment unless she would comply with his desires. How I came to be by I know not; but I dreamt I rushed upon him, caught him by the throat, and swore I would put him to death unless he instantly left the room. Here I waked, and this was my dream. I never paid any regard to a dream in my life—but, indeed, I never dreamt anything so very plain as this. It appeared downright reality. I am sure I have left the marks of my fingers in my wife’s throat. I would riot have taken a hundred pound to have used her so.”

“Faith,” cries Booth, “it was an odd dream, and not so easily to be accounted for as that you had formerly of my marriage; for, as Shakespear says, dreams denote a foregone conclusion. Now it is impossible you should ever have thought of any such matter as this.”

“However, sir,” cries the serjeant, “it is in your honour’s power to prevent any possibility of this dream’s coming to pass, by not leaving my lady to the care of the colonel; if you must go from her, certainly there are other places where she may be with great safety; and, since my wife tells me that my lady is so very unwilling, whatever reasons she may have, I hope your honour will oblige her.”

“Now I recollect it,” cries Booth, “Mrs. Atkinson hath once or twice dropt some disrespectful words of the colonel. He hath done something to disoblige her.”

“He hath indeed, sir,” replied the serjeant: “he hath said that of her which she doth not deserve, and for which, if he had not been my superior officer, I would have cut both his ears off. Nay, for that matter, he can speak ill of other people besides her.”

“Do you know, Atkinson,” cries Booth, very gravely, “that you are talking of the dearest friend I have?”

“To be honest then,” answered the serjeant, “I do not think so. If I did, I should love him much better than I do.”

“I must and will have this explained,” cries Booth. “I have too good an opinion of you, Atkinson, to think you would drop such things as you have without some reason—and I will know it.”

“I am sorry I have dropt a word,” cries Atkinson. “I am sure I did not intend it; and your honour hath drawn it from me unawares.”

“Indeed, Atkinson,” cries Booth, “you have made me very uneasy, and I must be satisfied.”

“Then, sir,” said the serjeant, “you shall give me your word of honour, or I will be cut into ten thousand pieces before I will mention another syllable.”

“What shall I promise?” said Booth.

“That you will not resent anything I shall lay to the colonel,” answered Atkinson.

“Resent!—Well, I give you my honour,” said Booth.

The serjeant made him bind himself over and over again, and then related to him the scene which formerly past between the colonel and himself, as far as concerned Booth himself; but concealed all that more immediately related to Amelia.

“Atkinson,” cries Booth, “I cannot be angry with you, for I know you love me, and I have many obligations to you; but you have done wrong in censuring the colonel for what he said of me. I deserve all that he said, and his censures proceeded from his friendship.”

“But it was not so kind, sir,” said Atkinson, “to say such things to me who am but a serjeant, and at such a time too.”

“I will hear no more,” cries Booth. “Be assured you are the only man I would forgive on this occasion; and I forgive you only on condition you never speak a word more of this nature. This silly dream hath intoxicated you.”

“I have done, sir,” cries the serjeant. “I know my distance, and whom I am to obey; but I have one favour to beg of your honour, never to mention a word of what I have said to my lady; for I know she never would forgive me; I know she never would, by what my wife hath told me. Besides, you need not mention it, sir, to my lady, for she knows it all already, and a great deal more.”

Booth presently parted from the serjeant, having desired him to close his lips on this occasion, and repaired to his wife, to whom he related the serjeant’s dream.

Amelia turned as white as snow, and fell into so violent a trembling that Booth plainly perceived her emotion, and immediately partook of it himself. “Sure, my dear,” said he, staring wildly, “there is more in this than I know. A silly dream could not so discompose you. I beg you, I intreat you to tell me—hath ever Colonel James—”

At the very mention of the colonel’s name Amelia fell on her knees, and begged her husband not to frighten her.

“What do I say, my dear love,” cried Booth, “that can frighten you?”

“Nothing, my dear,” said she; “but my spirits are so discomposed with the dreadful scene I saw last night, that a dream, which at another time I should have laughed at, hath shocked me. Do but promise me that you will not leave me behind you, and I am easy.”

“You may be so,” cries Booth, “for I will never deny you anything. But make me easy too. I must know if you have seen anything in Colonel James to displease you.”

“Why should you suspect it?” cries Amelia.

“You torment me to death,” cries Booth. “By Heavens! I will know the truth. Hath he ever said or done anything which you dislike?”

“How, my dear,” said Amelia, “can you imagine I should dislike a man who is so much your friend? Think of all the obligations you have to him, and then you may easily resolve yourself. Do you think, because I refuse to stay behind you in his house, that I have any objection to him? No, my dear, had he done a thousand times more than he hath—was he an angel instead of a man, I would not quit my Billy. There’s the sore, my dear—there’s the misery, to be left by you.”

Booth embraced her with the most passionate raptures, and, looking on her with inexpressible tenderness, cried, “Upon my soul, I am not worthy of you: I am a fool, and yet you cannot blame me. If the stupid miser hoards, with such care, his worthless treasure—if he watches it with such anxiety—if every apprehension of another’s sharing the least part fills his soul with such agonies—O Amelia! what must be my condition, what terrors must I feel, while I am watching over a jewel of such real, such inestimable worth!”

“I can, with great truth, return the compliment,” cries Amelia. “I have my treasure too; and am so much a miser, that no force shall ever tear me from it.”

“I am ashamed of my folly,” cries Booth; “and yet it is all from extreme tenderness. Nay, you yourself are the occasion. Why will you ever attempt to keep a secret from me? Do you think I should have resented to my friend his just censure of my conduct?”

“What censure, my dear love?” cries Amelia.

“Nay, the serjeant hath told me all,” cries Booth—“nay, and that he hath told it to you. Poor soul! thou couldst not endure to hear me accused, though never so justly, and by so good a friend. Indeed, my dear, I have discovered the cause of that resentment to the colonel which you could not hide from me. I love you, I adore you for it; indeed, I could not forgive a slighting word on you. But, why do I compare things so unlike?—what the colonel said of me was just and true; every reflexion on my Amelia must be false and villanous.”

The discernment of Amelia was extremely quick, and she now perceived what had happened, and how much her husband knew of the truth. She resolved therefore to humour him, and fell severely on Colonel James for what he had said to the serjeant, which Booth endeavoured all he could to soften; and thus ended this affair, which had brought Booth to the very brink of a discovery which must have given him the highest torment, if it had not produced any of those tragical effects which Amelia apprehended.

Chapter vii. — In which the author appears to be master of that profound learning called the knowledge of the town.

Mrs. James now came to pay a morning’s visit to Amelia. She entered the room with her usual gaiety, and after a slight preface, addressing herself to Booth, said she had been quarrelling with her husband on his account. “I know not,” said she, “what he means by thinking of sending you the Lord knows whither. I have insisted on his asking something for you nearer home; and it would be the hardest thing in the world if he should not obtain it. Are we resolved never to encourage merit; but to throw away all our preferments on those who do not deserve them? What a set of contemptible wretches do we see strutting about the town in scarlet!”

Booth made a very low bow, and modestly spoke in disparagement of himself. To which she answered, “Indeed, Mr. Booth, you have merit; I have heard it from my brother, who is a judge of those matters, and I am sure cannot be suspected of flattery. He is your friend as well as myself, and we will never let Mr. James rest till he hath got you a commission in England.”

Booth bowed again, and was offering to speak, but she interrupted him, saying, “I will have no thanks, nor no fine speeches; if I can do you any service I shall think I am only paying the debt of friendship to my dear Mrs. Booth.”

Amelia, who had long since forgot the dislike she had taken to Mrs. James at her first seeing her in town, had attributed it to the right cause, and had begun to resume her former friendship for her, expressed very warm sentiments of gratitude on this occasion. She told Mrs. James she should be eternally obliged to her if she could succeed in her kind endeavours; for that the thoughts of parting again with her husband had given her the utmost concern. “Indeed,” added she, “I cannot help saying he hath some merit in the service, for he hath received two dreadful wounds in it, one of which very greatly endangered his life; and I am convinced, if his pretensions were backed with any interest, he would not fail of success.”

“They shall be backed with interest,” cries Mrs. James, “if my husband hath any. He hath no favour to ask for himself, nor for any other friend that I know of; and, indeed, to grant a man his just due, ought hardly to be thought a favour. Resume your old gaiety, therefore, my dear Emily. Lord! I remember the time when you was much the gayer creature of the two. But you make an arrant mope of yourself by confining yourself at home—one never meets you anywhere. Come, you shall go with me to the Lady Betty Castleton’s.”

“Indeed, you must excuse me, my dear,” answered Amelia, “I do not know Lady Betty.”

“Not know Lady Betty! how, is that possible?—but no matter, I will introduce you. She keeps a morning rout; hardly a rout, indeed; a little bit of a drum—only four or five tables. Come, take your capuchine; you positively shall go. Booth, you shall go with us too. Though you are with your wife, another woman will keep you in countenance.”

“La! child,” cries Amelia, “how you rattle!”

“I am in spirits,” answered Mrs. James, “this morning; for I won four rubbers together last night; and betted the things, and won almost every bet. I am in luck, and we will contrive to be partners—Come.”

“Nay, child, you shall not refuse Mrs. James,” said Booth.

“I have scarce seen my children to-day,” answered Amelia. “Besides, I mortally detest cards.”

“Detest cards!” cries Mrs. James. “How can you be so stupid? I would not live a day without them—nay, indeed, I do not believe I should be able to exist. Is there so delightful a sight in the world as the four honours in one’s own hand, unless it be three natural aces at bragg?—And you really hate cards?”

“Upon reflexion,” cries Amelia, “I have sometimes had great pleasure in them—in seeing my children build houses with them. My little boy is so dexterous that he will sometimes build up the whole pack.”

“Indeed, Booth,” cries Mrs. James, “this good woman of yours is strangely altered since I knew her first; but she will always be a good creature.”

“Upon my word, my dear,” cries Amelia, “you are altered too very greatly; but I doubt not to live to see you alter again, when you come to have as many children as I have.”

“Children!” cries Mrs. James; “you make me shudder. How can you envy me the only circumstance which makes matrimony comfortable?”

“Indeed, my dear,” said Amelia, “you injure me; for I envy no woman’s happiness in marriage.” At these words such looks past between Booth and his wife as, to a sensible by-stander, would have made all the airs of Mrs. James appear in the highest degree contemptible, and would have rendered herself the object of compassion. Nor could that lady avoid looking a little silly on the occasion.

Amelia now, at the earnest desire of her husband, accoutred herself to attend her friend; but first she insisted on visiting her children, to whom she gave several hearty kisses, and then, recommending them to the care of Mrs. Atkinson, she and her husband accompanied Mrs. James to the rout; where few of my fine readers will be displeased to make part of the company.

The two ladies and Booth then entered an apartment beset with card-tables, like the rooms at Bath and Tunbridge. Mrs. James immediately introduced her friends to Lady Betty, who received them very civily, and presently engaged Booth and Mrs. James in a party at whist; for, as to Amelia, she so much declined playing, that as the party could be filled without her, she was permitted to sit by.

And now, who should make his appearance but the noble peer of whom so much honourable mention hath already been made in this history? He walked directly up to Amelia, and addressed her with as perfect a confidence as if he had not been in the least conscious of having in any manner displeased her; though the reader will hardly suppose that Mrs. Ellison had kept anything a secret from him.

Amelia was not, however, so forgetful. She made him a very distant courtesy, would scarce vouchsafe an answer to anything he said, and took the first opportunity of shifting her chair and retiring from him.

Her behaviour, indeed, was such that the peer plainly perceived that he should get no advantage by pursuing her any farther at present. Instead, therefore, of attempting to follow her, he turned on his heel and addressed his discourse to another lady, though he could not avoid often casting his eyes towards Amelia as long as she remained in the room.

Fortune, which seems to have been generally no great friend to Mr. Booth, gave him no extraordinary marks of her favour at play. He lost two full rubbers, which cost him five guineas; after which, Amelia, who was uneasy at his lordship’s presence, begged him in a whisper to return home; with which request he directly complied.

Nothing, I think, remarkable happened to Booth, unless the renewal of his acquaintance with an officer whom he had known abroad, and who made one of his party at the whist-table.

The name of this gentleman, with whom the reader will hereafter be better acquainted, was Trent. He had formerly been in the same regiment with Booth, and there was some intimacy between them. Captain Trent exprest great delight in meeting his brother officer, and both mutually promised to visit each other.

The scenes which had past the preceding night and that morning had so confused Amelia’s thoughts, that, in the hurry in which she was carried off by Mrs. James, she had entirely forgot her appointment with Dr Harrison. When she was informed at her return home that the doctor had been to wait upon her, and had expressed some anger at her being gone out, she became greatly uneasy, and begged of her husband to go to the doctor’s lodgings and make her apology.

But lest the reader should be as angry with the doctor as he had declared himself with Amelia, we think proper to explain the matter. Nothing then was farther from the doctor’s mind than the conception of any anger towards Amelia. On the contrary, when the girl answered him that her mistress was not at home, the doctor said with great good humour, “How! not at home! then tell your mistress she is a giddy vagabond, and I will come to see her no more till she sends for me.” This the poor girl, from misunderstanding one word, and half forgetting the rest, had construed into great passion, several very bad words, and a declaration that he would never see Amelia any more.

Chapter viii. — In which two strangers make their appearance.

Booth went to the doctor’s lodgings, and found him engaged with his country friend and his son, a young gentleman who was lately in orders; both whom the doctor had left, to keep his appointment with Amelia.

After what we mentioned at the end of the last chapter, we need take little notice of the apology made by Booth, or the doctor’s reception of it, which was in his peculiar manner. “Your wife,” said he, “is a vain hussy to think herself worth my anger; but tell her I have the vanity myself to think I cannot be angry without a better cause. And yet tell her I intend to punish her for her levity; for, if you go abroad, I have determined to take her down with me into the country, and make her do penance there till you return.”

“Dear sir,” said Booth, “I know not how to thank you if you are in earnest.”

“I assure you then I am in earnest,” cries the doctor; “but you need not thank me, however, since you know not how.”

“But would not that, sir,” said Booth, “be shewing a slight to the colonel’s invitation? and you know I have so many obligations to him.”

“Don’t tell me of the colonel,” cries the doctor; “the church is to be first served. Besides, sir, I have priority of right, even to you yourself. You stole my little lamb from me; for I was her first love.”

“Well, sir,” cries Booth, “if I should be so unhappy to leave her to any one, she must herself determine; and, I believe, it will not be difficult to guess where her choice will fall; for of all men, next to her husband, I believe, none can contend with Dr Harrison in her favour.”

“Since you say so,” cries the doctor, “fetch her hither to dinner with us; for I am at least so good a Christian to love those that love me—I will shew you my daughter, my old friend, for I am really proud of her—and you may bring my grand-children with you if you please.”

Booth made some compliments, and then went on his errand. As soon as he was gone the old gentleman said to the doctor, “Pray, my good friend, what daughter is this of yours? I never so much as heard that you was married.”

“And what then,” cries the doctor; “did you ever hear that a pope was married? and yet some of them have had sons and daughters, I believe; but, however, this young gentleman will absolve me without obliging me to penance.”

“I have not yet that power,” answered the young clergyman; “for I am only in deacon’s orders.”

“Are you not?” cries the doctor; “why then I will absolve myself. You are to know then, my good friend, that this young lady was the daughter of a neighbour of mine, who is since dead, and whose sins I hope are forgiven; for she had too much to answer for on her child’s account. Her father was my intimate acquaintance and friend; a worthier man, indeed, I believe never lived. He died suddenly when his children were infants; and, perhaps, to the suddenness of his death it was owing that he did not recommend any care of them to me. However, I, in some measure, took that charge upon me; and particularly of her whom I call my daughter. Indeed, as she grew up she discovered so many good qualities that she wanted not the remembrance of her father’s merit to recommend her. I do her no more than justice when I say she is one of the best creatures I ever knew. She hath a sweetness of temper, a generosity of spirit, an openness of heart—in a word, she hath a true Christian disposition. I may call her an Israelite indeed, in whom there is no guile.”

“I wish you joy of your daughter,” cries the old gentleman; “for to a man of your disposition, to find out an adequate object of your benevolence, is, I acknowledge, to find a treasure.”

“It is, indeed, a happiness,” cries the doctor.

“The greatest difficulty,” added the gentleman, “which persons of your turn of mind meet with, is in finding proper objects of their goodness; for nothing sure can be more irksome to a generous mind, than to discover that it hath thrown away all its good offices on a soil that bears no other fruit than ingratitude.”

“I remember,” cries the doctor, “Phocylides saith,

But he speaks more like a philosopher than a Christian. I am more pleased with a French writer, one of the best, indeed, that I ever read, who blames men for lamenting the ill return which is so often made to the best offices. {Footnote: D’Esprit.} A true Christian can never be disappointed if he doth not receive his reward in this world; the labourer might as well complain that he is not paid his hire in the middle of the day.”

“I own, indeed,” said the gentleman, “if we see it in that light—”

“And in what light should we see it?” answered the doctor. “Are we like Agrippa, only almost Christians? or, is Christianity a matter of bare theory, and not a rule for our practice?”

“Practical, undoubtedly; undoubtedly practical,” cries the gentleman. “Your example might indeed have convinced me long ago that we ought to do good to every one.”

“Pardon me, father,” cries the young divine, “that is rather a heathenish than a Christian doctrine. Homer, I remember, introduces in his Iliad one Axylus, of whom he says—

But Plato, who, of all the heathens, came nearest to the Christian philosophy, condemned this as impious doctrine; so Eustathius tells us, folio 474.”

“I know he doth,” cries the doctor, “and so Barnes tells us, in his note upon the place; but if you remember the rest of the quotation as well as you do that from Eustathius, you might have added the observation which Mr. Dryden makes in favour of this passage, that he found not in all the Latin authors, so admirable an instance of extensive humanity. You might have likewise remembered the noble sentiment with which Mr. Barnes ends his note, the sense of which is taken from the fifth chapter of Matthew:—

“It seems, therefore, as if this character rather became a Christian than a heathen, for Homer could not have transcribed it from any of his deities. Whom is it, therefore, we imitate by such extensive benevolence?”

“What a prodigious memory you have!” cries the old gentleman: “indeed, son, you must not contend with the doctor in these matters.”

“I shall not give my opinion hastily,” cries the son. “I know, again, what Mr. Poole, in his annotations, says on that verse of St Matthew—That it is only to heap coals of fire upon their heads. How are we to understand, pray, the text immediately preceding?—Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you.”

“You know, I suppose, young gentleman,” said the doctor, “how these words are generally understood. The commentator you mention, I think, tells us that love is not here to be taken in the strict sense, so as to signify the complacency of the heart; you may hate your enemies as God’s enemies, and seek due revenge of them for his honour; and, for your own sakes too, you may seek moderate satisfaction of them; but then you are to love them with a love consistent with these things; that is to say, in plainer words, you are to love them and hate them, and bless and curse, and do them good and mischief.”

“Excellent! admirable!” said the old gentleman; “you have a most inimitable turn to ridicule.”

“I do not approve ridicule,” said the son, “on such subjects.”

“Nor I neither,” cries the doctor; “I will give you my opinion, therefore, very seriously. The two verses taken together, contain a very positive precept, delivered in the plainest words, and yet illustrated by the clearest instance in the conduct of the Supreme Being; and lastly, the practice of this precept is most nobly enforced by the reward annexed—that ye may be the children, and so forth. No man who understands what it is to love, and to bless, and to do good, can mistake the meaning. But if they required any comment, the Scripture itself affords enow. If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink; not rendering evil for evil, or railing for railing, but contrariwise, blessing. They do not, indeed, want the comments of men, who, when they cannot bend their mind to the obedience of Scripture, are desirous to wrest Scripture to a compliance with their own inclinations.”

“Most nobly and justly observed,” cries the old gentleman. “Indeed, my good friend, you have explained the text with the utmost perspicuity.”

“But if this be the meaning,” cries the son, “there must be an end of all law and justice, for I do not see how any man can prosecute his enemy in a court of justice.”

“Pardon me, sir,” cries the doctor. “Indeed, as an enemy merely, and from a spirit of revenge, he cannot, and he ought not to prosecute him; but as an offender against the laws of his country he may, and it is his duty so to do. Is there any spirit of revenge in the magistrates or officers of justice when they punish criminals? Why do such, ordinarily I mean, concern themselves in inflicting punishments, but because it is their duty? and why may not a private man deliver an offender into the hands of justice, from the same laudable motive? Revenge, indeed, of all kinds is strictly prohibited; wherefore, as we are not to execute it with our own hands, so neither are we to make use of the law as the instrument of private malice, and to worry each other with inveteracy and rancour. And where is the great difficulty in obeying this wise, this generous, this noble precept? If revenge be, as a certain divine, not greatly to his honour, calls it, the most luscious morsel the devil ever dropt into the mouth of a sinner, it must be allowed at least to cost us often extremely dear. It is a dainty, if indeed it be one, which we come at with great inquietude, with great difficulty, and with great danger. However pleasant it may be to the palate while we are feeding on it, it is sure to leave a bitter relish behind it; and so far, indeed, it may be called a luscious morsel, that the most greedy appetites are soon glutted, and the most eager longing for it is soon turned into loathing and repentance. I allow there is something tempting in its outward appearance, but it is like the beautiful colour of some poisons, from which, however they may attract our eyes, a regard to our own welfare commands us to abstain. And this is an abstinence to which wisdom alone, without any Divine command, hath been often found adequate, with instances of which the Greek and Latin authors everywhere abound. May not a Christian, therefore, be well ashamed of making a stumbling-block of a precept, which is not only consistent with his worldly interest, but to which so noble an incentive is proposed?”

The old gentleman fell into raptures at this speech, and, after making many compliments to the doctor upon it, he turned to his son, and told him he had an opportunity now of learning more in one day than he had learnt at the university in a twelvemonth.

The son replied, that he allowed the doctrine to be extremely good in general, and that he agreed with the greater part; “but I must make a distinction,” said he. However, he was interrupted from his distinction at present, for now Booth returned with Amelia and the children.

Chapter ix. — A scene of modern wit and humour.

In the afternoon the old gentleman proposed a walk to Vauxhall, a place of which, he said, he had heard much, but had never seen it.

The doctor readily agreed to his friend’s proposal, and soon after ordered two coaches to be sent for to carry the whole company. But when the servant was gone for them Booth acquainted the doctor that it was yet too early. “Is it so?” said the doctor; “why, then, I will carry you first to one of the greatest and highest entertainments in the world.”

The children pricked up their ears at this, nor did any of the company guess what he meant; and Amelia asked what entertainment he could carry them to at that time of day?

“Suppose,” says the doctor, “I should carry you to court.”

“At five o’clock in the afternoon!” cries Booth.

“Ay, suppose I should have interest enough to introduce you into the presence.”

“You are jesting, dear sir,” cries Amelia.

“Indeed, I am serious,” answered the doctor. “I will introduce you into that presence, compared to whom the greatest emperor on the earth is many millions of degrees meaner than the most contemptible reptile is to him. What entertainment can there be to a rational being equal to this? Was not the taste of mankind most wretchedly depraved, where would the vain man find an honour, or where would the love of pleasure propose so adequate an object as divine worship? with what ecstasy must the contemplation of being admitted to such a presence fill the mind! The pitiful courts of princes are open to few, and to those only at particular seasons; but from this glorious and gracious presence we are none of us, and at no time excluded.”

The doctor was proceeding thus when the servant returned, saying the coaches were ready; and the whole company with the greatest alacrity attended the doctor to St James’s church.

When the service was ended, and they were again got into their coaches, Amelia returned the doctor many thanks for the light in which he had placed divine worship, assuring him that she had never before had so much transport in her devotion as at this time, and saying she believed she should be the better for this notion he had given her as long as she lived.

The coaches being come to the water-side, they all alighted, and, getting into one boat, proceeded to Vauxhall.

The extreme beauty and elegance of this place is well known to almost every one of my readers; and happy is it for me that it is so, since to give an adequate idea of it would exceed my power of description. To delineate the particular beauties of these gardens would, indeed, require as much pains, and as much paper too, as to rehearse all the good actions of their master, whose life proves the truth of an observation which I have read in some ethic writer, that a truly elegant taste is generally accompanied with an excellency of heart; or, in other words, that true virtue is, indeed, nothing else but true taste.

Here our company diverted themselves with walking an hour or two before the music began. Of all the seven, Booth alone had ever been here before; so that, to all the rest, the place, with its other charms, had that of novelty. When the music played, Amelia, who stood next to the doctor, said to him in a whisper, “I hope I am not guilty of profaneness; but, in pursuance of that chearful chain of thoughts with which you have inspired me this afternoon, I was just now lost in a reverie, and fancied myself in those blissful mansions which we hope to enjoy hereafter. The delicious sweetness of the place, the enchanting charms of the music, and the satisfaction which appears in every one’s countenance, carried my soul almost to heaven in its ideas. I could not have, indeed, imagined there had been anything like this in this world.”

The doctor smiled, and said, “You see, dear madam, there may be pleasures of which you could conceive no idea till you actually enjoyed them.”

And now the little boy, who had long withstood the attractions of several cheesecakes that passed to and fro, could contain no longer, but asked his mother to give him one, saying, “I am sure my sister would be glad of another, though she is ashamed to ask.” The doctor, overhearing the child, proposed that they should all retire to some place where they might sit down and refresh themselves; which they accordingly did. Amelia now missed her husband; but, as she had three men in her company, and one of them was the doctor, she concluded herself and her children to be safe, and doubted not but that Booth would soon find her out.

They now sat down, and the doctor very gallantly desired Amelia to call for what she liked. Upon which the children were supplied with cakes, and some ham and chicken were provided for the rest of the company; with which while they were regaling themselves with the highest satisfaction, two young fellows walking arm-in-arm, came up, and when they came opposite to Amelia they stood still, staring Amelia full in the face, and one of them cried aloud to the other, “D—n me, my lord, if she is not an angel!”—My lord stood still, staring likewise at her, without speaking a word; when two others of the same gang came up, and one of them cried, “Come along, Jack, I have seen her before; but she is too well manned already. Three——are enough for one woman, or the devil is in it!”

“D—n me,” says he that spoke first, and whom they called Jack, “I will have a brush at her if she belonged to the whole convocation.” And so saying, he went up to the young clergyman, and cried, “Doctor, sit up a little, if you please, and don’t take up more room in a bed than belongs to you.” At which words he gave the young man a push, and seated himself down directly over against Amelia, and, leaning both his elbows on the table, he fixed his eyes on her in a manner with which modesty can neither look nor bear to be looked at.

Amelia seemed greatly shocked at this treatment; upon which the doctor removed her within him, and then, facing the gentleman, asked him what he meant by this rude behaviour?—Upon which my lord stept up and said, “Don’t be impertinent, old gentleman. Do you think such fellows as you are to keep, d—n me, such fine wenches, d—n me, to yourselves, d—n me?”

“No, no,” cries Jack, “the old gentleman is more reasonable. Here’s the fellow that eats up the tithe-pig. Don’t you see how his mouth waters at her? Where’s your slabbering bib?” For, though the gentleman had rightly guessed he was a clergyman, yet he had not any of those insignia on with which it would have been improper to have appeared there.

“Such boys as you,” cries the young clergyman, “ought to be well whipped at school, instead of being suffered to become nuisances in society.”

“Boys, sir!” says Jack; “I believe I am as good a man as yourself, Mr.——, and as good a scholar too. Bos fur sus quotque sacerdos. Tell me what’s next. D—n me, I’ll hold you fifty pounds you don’t tell me what’s next.”

“You have him, Jack,” cries my lord. “It is over with him, d—n me! he can’t strike another blow.”

“If I had you in a proper place,” cries the clergyman, “you should find I would strike a blow, and a pretty hard one too.”

“There,” cries my lord, “there is the meekness of the clergyman—there spoke the wolf in sheep’s clothing. D—n me, how big he looks! You must be civil to him, faith! or else he will burst with pride.”

“Ay, ay,” cries Jack, “let the clergy alone for pride; there’s not a lord in the kingdom now hath half the pride of that fellow.”

“Pray, sir,” cries the doctor, turning to the other, “are you a lord?”

“Yes, Mr. ——,” cries he, “I have that honour, indeed.”

“And I suppose you have pride too,” said the doctor.

“I hope I have, sir,” answered he, “at your service.”

“If such a one as you, sir,” cries the doctor, “who are not only a scandal to the title you bear as a lord, but even as a man, can pretend to pride, why will you not allow it to a clergyman? I suppose, sir, by your dress, you are in the army? and, by the ribbon in your hat, you seem to be proud of that too. How much greater and more honourable is the service in which that gentleman is enlisted than yours! Why then should you object to the pride of the clergy, since the lowest of the function is in reality every way so much your superior?”

“Tida Tidu Tidum,” cries my lord.

“However, gentlemen,” cries the doctor, “if you have the least pretension to that name, I beg you will put an end to your frolic; since you see it gives so much uneasiness to the lady. Nay, I entreat you for your own sakes, for here is one coming who will talk to you in a very different stile from ours.”

“One coming!” cries my lord; “what care I who is coming?”

“I suppose it is the devil,” cries Jack; “for here are two of his livery servants already.”

“Let the devil come as soon as he will,” cries my lord; “d—n me if I have not a kiss!”

Amelia now fell a trembling; and her children, perceiving her fright, both hung on her, and began to cry; when Booth and Captain Trent both came up.

Booth, seeing his wife disordered, asked eagerly what was the matter? At the same time the lord and his companion, seeing Captain Trent, whom they well knew, said both together, “What, doth this company belong to you?” When the doctor, with great presence of mind, as he was apprehensive of some fatal consequence if Booth should know what had past, said, “So, Mr. Booth, I am glad you are returned; your poor lady here began to be frighted out of her wits. But now you have him again,” said he to Amelia, “I hope you will be easy.”

Amelia, frighted as she was, presently took the hint, and greatly chid her husband for leaving her. But the little boy was not so quick-sighted, and cried, “Indeed, papa, those naughty men there have frighted my mamma out of her wits.”

“How!” cries Booth, a little moved; “frightened! Hath any one frightened you, my dear?”

“No, my love,” answered she, “nothing. I know not what the child means. Everything is well now I see you safe.”

Trent had been all the while talking aside with the young sparks; and now, addressing himself to Booth, said, “Here hath been some little mistake; I believe my lord mistook Mrs. Booth for some other lady.”

“It is impossible,” cries my lord, “to know every one. I am sure, if I had known the lady to be a woman of fashion, and an acquaintance of Captain Trent, I should have said nothing disagreeable to her; but, if I have, I ask her pardon, and the company’s.”

“I am in the dark,” cries Booth. “Pray what is all this matter?”

“Nothing of any consequence,” cries the doctor, “nor worth your enquiring into. You hear it was a mistake of the person, and I really believe his lordship that all proceeded from his not knowing to whom the lady belonged.”

“Come, come,” says Trent, “there is nothing in the matter, I assure you. I will tell you the whole another time.”

“Very well; since you say so,” cries Booth, “I am contented.” So ended the affair, and the two sparks made their congee, and sneaked off.

“Now they are gone,” said the young gentleman, “I must say I never saw two worse-bred jackanapes, nor fellows that deserved to be kicked more. If I had had them in another place I would have taught them a little more respect to the church.”

“You took rather a better way,” answered the doctor, “to teach them that respect.”

Booth now desired his friend Trent to sit down with them, and proposed to call for a fresh bottle of wine; but Amelia’s spirits were too much disconcerted to give her any prospect of pleasure that evening. She therefore laid hold of the pretence of her children, for whom she said the hour was already too late; with which the doctor agreed. So they paid their reckoning and departed, leaving to the two rakes the triumph of having totally dissipated the mirth of this little innocent company, who were before enjoying complete satisfaction.