his power. A lieutenant, your honour knows, can't do a great deal; but I have always found him my friend upon all occasions."

"You say true," cries the Colonel, "a lieutenant can do but little; but I can do much to serve you, and will too. But let me ask you one question-who was the lady whom I saw last night with Mrs Booth at her lodgings?"

Here the serjeant blushed, and repeated, "The lady, sir!"

"Ay, a lady, a woman," cries the Colonel, "who supped with us last night. She looked rather too much like a gentlewoman for the mistress of a lodging-house."

The serjeant's cheeks glowed at this compliment to his wife, and he was just going to own her, when the Colonel proceeded; " I think I never saw in my life so ill-looking, sly, demure a b: I would give something, methinks, to know who she was.'

"I don't know, indeed," cries the serjeant, in great confusion. "I know nothing about her." "I wish you would enquire," said the Colonel," and let me know her name, and likewise what she is. I have a strange curiosity to know, and let me see you again this evening exactly at seven."

"And will not your honour then go to the Lieutenant this morning?" said Atkinson.

"It is not in my power," answered the Colonel: "I am engaged another way. Besides, there is no haste in this affair. If men will be imprudent, they must suffer the consequences. Come to me at seven, and bring me all the particulars you can concerning that ill-looked jade I mentioned to you; for I am resolved to know who she is. And so, good-morrow to you, serjeant; be assured I will take an opportunity to do something for you."

Though some readers may, perhaps, think the serjeant not unworthy of the freedom with which the Colonel treated him, yet that haughty officer would have been very backward to have condescended to such familiarity with one of his rank, had he not proposed some design from it. In truth, he began to conceive hopes of making the serjeant instrumental to his design on Amelia; in other words, to convert him into a pimp; an office in which the Colonel had been served by Atkinson's betters; and which, as he knew it was in his power very well to reward him, he had no apprehension that the serjeant would decline: an opinion which the serjeant might have pardoned, though he had never given the least grounds for it, since the Colonel borrowed it from the knowledge of his own heart. This dictated to him, that he, from a bad motive, was capable of desiring to debauch his friend's wife; and the same heart inspired him to hope that another, from another bad motive, might be guilty of the same breach of friendship, in assisting him. Few men, I believe, think better of others than of themselves; nor do they easily

allow the existence of any virtue of which they perceive no traces in their own minds: for which reason, I have observed, that it is extremely difficult to persuade a rogue that you are an honest man; nor would you ever succeed in the attempt by the strongest evidence, was it not for the comfortable conclusion which the rogue draws, that he who proves himself to be honest, proves himself to be a fool at the same time.

CHAP. IX.

A curious chapter, from which a curious reader may draw sundry observations.

THE serjeant retired from the Colonel in a very dejected state of mind; in which, however, we must leave him a while, and return to Amelia; who, as soon as she was up, had dispatched Mrs Atkinson to pay off her former lodgings, and to bring off all her clothes and other moveables.

The trusty messenger returned without performing her errand; for Mrs Ellison had locked up all her rooms, and was gone out very early that morning, and the servant knew not whither she was gone.

The two ladies now sat down to breakfast, together with Amelia's two children; after which, Amelia declared she would take a coach and visit her husband. To this motion Mrs Atkinson soon agreed, and offered to be her companion. To say truth, I think it was reasonable enough; and the great abhorrence which Booth had of seeing his wife in a bailiff's house, was, perhaps, rather too nice and delicate.

When the ladies were both dressed, and just going to send for their vehicle, a great knocking was heard at the door, and presently Mrs James

was ushered into the room.

This visit was disagreeable enough to Amelia, as it detained her from the sight of her husband, for which she so eagerly longed. However, as she had no doubt but that the visit would be reasonably short, she resolved to receive the lady with all the complaisance in her power.

Mrs James now behaved herself so very unlike the person that she lately appeared, that it might have surprised any one that doth not know, that besides that of a fine lady, which is all mere art and mummery, every such woman hath some real character at the bottom, in which, whenever nature gets the better of her, she acts. Thus the finest ladies in the world will sometimes love, and sometimes scratch, according to their different natural dispositions, with great fury and violence, though both of these are equally inconsistent with a fine lady's artificial character.

Mrs James, then, was at the bottom a very good-natured woman; and the moment she heard of Amelia's misfortune, was sincerely grieved at

it. She had acquiesced on the very first motion with the Colonel's design of inviting her to her house; and this morning at breakfast, when he had acquainted her that Amelia made some difficulty in accepting the offer, very readily undertook to go herself and persuade her friend to accept the invitation.

She now pressed this matter with such earnestness, that Amelia, who was not extremely versed in the art of denying, was hardly able to refuse her importunity; nothing, indeed, but her affection to Mrs Atkinson could have prevailed on her to refuse; that point, however, she would not give up, and Mrs James, at last, was contented with a promise, that as soon as their affairs were settled, Amelia, with her husband and family, would make her a visit, and stay some time with her in the country, whither she was soon to retire.

Having obtained this promise, Mrs James, after many very friendly professions, took her leave; and stepping into her coach, re-assumed the fine lady, and drove away to join her company at an

auction.

The moment she was gone, Mrs Atkinson, who had left the room upon the approach of Mrs James, returned into it, and was informed by Amelia of all that had passed.

Pray, madam," said Mrs Atkinson, "do this Colonel and his lady, live, as it is called, well together?”

"If you mean to ask," cries Amelia, "whether they are a very fond couple, I must answer that I believe they are not."

"I have been told," says Mrs Atkinson, "that there have been instances of women who have become bawds to their own husbands, and the husbands pimps for them."

"Fie upon it!" cries Amelia, " I hope there are no such people. Indeed, my dear, this is being a little too censorious."

Call it what you please," answered Mrs Atkinson. "It arises from my love to you, and my fears for your danger. You know the proverb of a burnt child; and if such a one hath any goodnature, it will dread the fire, on the account of others, as well as on its own. And if I may speak my sentiments freely, I cannot think you will be in safety at this Colonel's house."

"I cannot but believe your apprehensions to be sincere," replied Amelia," and I must think myself obliged to you for them: but I am convinced you are entirely in an error. I look on Colonel James as the most generous and best of men. He was a friend, and an excellent friend too, to my husband, long before I was acquainted with him, and he hath done him a thousand good offices. What do you say of his behaviour yesterday?"

"I wish," cries Mrs Atkinson, " that his behaviour to-day had been equal. What I am now going to undertake is the most disagreeable office of friendship, but it is a necessary one. I must

tell you therefore what past this morning be tween the Colonel and Mr Atkinson; for though it will hurt you, you ought, on many accounts, to know it."-Here she related the whole which we have recorded in the preceding chapter, and with which the serjeant had acquainted her, while Mrs James was paying her visit to Amelia. And as the serjeant had painted the matter rather in stronger colours than the Colonel, so Mrs Atkinson again a little improved on the serjeant. Neither of these good people, perhaps, intended to aggravate any circumstance; but such is, I believe, the unavoidable consequence of all reports. Mrs Atkinson, indeed, may be supposed not to see what related to James in the most favourable light; as the serjeant, with more honesty than prudence, had suggested to his wife, that the Colonel had not the kindest opinion of her, and had called her a sly and demure - it is true he omitted ill-looking b―h; two words, which are, perhaps, superior to the patience of any Job in petticoats that ever lived. He made amends, however, by substituting some other phrases in their stead, not extremely agreeable to a female ear.

It appeared to Amelia, from Mrs Atkinson's relation, that the Colonel had grossly abused Booth to the serjeant, and had absolutely refused to become his bail. Poor Amelia became a pale and motionless statue at this account. At length, she cried, "If this be true, I and mine are all, indeed, undone. We have no comfort, no hope, no friend left.-I cannot disbelieve you. -I know you would not deceive me.-Why should you, indeed, deceive me?-But what can have caused this alteration since last night? -Did I say or do any thing to offend him?”

"You said, and did rather, I believe, a great deal too much to please him," answered Mrs Atkinson. "Besides, he is not in the least offended with you. On the contrary, he said many kind things,"

"What can my poor love have done?" said Amelia. "He hath not seen the Colonel since last night. Some villain hath set him against my husband; he was once before suspicious of such a person. Some cruel monster hath belied his innocence."

"Pardon me, dear madam," said Mrs Atkinson; "I believe the person who hath injured the Captain with this friend of his, is one of the worthiest and best of creatures. Nay, do not be surprised; the person I mean, is even your fair self. Sure you would not be so dull in any other case; but in this, gratitude, humility, modesty, every virtue, shut your eyes.

"Mortales hebitant visus,'

as Virgil says. What in the world can be more consistent, than his desire to have you at his own house, and to keep your husband confined in another? all that he said, and all that he did

yesterday, and what is more convincing to me than both, all that he looked last night, are very consistent with both these designs."

"O Heavens!" cries Amelia, " you chill my blood with horror! the idea freezes me to death: I cannot, must not, will not, think of it. Nothing but conviction-Heavens forbid I should ever have more conviction! And did he abuse my husband? What! did he abuse a poor unhappy, distressed creature; oppressed, ruined, torn from his children, torn away from his wretched wife; the honestest, worthiest, noblest, tenderest, fondest, best!"-Here she burst into an agony of grief which exceeds the power of description.

In this situation, Mrs Atkinson was doing her utmost to support her, when a most violent knocking was heard at the door, and immediately the serjeant ran hastily into the room; bringing with him a cordial, which presently relieved Amelia. What this cordial was, we shall inform the reader in due time. In the mean while, he must suspend his curiosity; and the gentlemen at White's may lay wagers, whether it was Ward's pill, or Doctor James's powder.

But before we close this chapter, and return back to the bailiff's house, we must do our best to rescue the character of our heroine from the dulness of apprehension, which several of our quick-sighted readers may lay more heavily to her charge than was done by her friend Mrs Atkinson.

I must inform, therefore, all such readers, that it is not, because innocence is more blind than guilt, that the former often overlooks and tumbles into the pit, which the latter foresees and avoids. The truth is, that it is almost impossible guilt should miss the discovering of all the snares in its way; as it is constantly prying closely into every corner, in order to lay snares for others. Whereas innocence, having no such purpose, walks fearlessly and carelessly through life; and is consequently liable to tread on the gins, which cunning has laid to entrap it. To speak plainly, and without allegory or figure, it is not want of sense, but want of suspicion, by which innocence is often betrayed. Again, we often admire at the folly of the dupe, when we should transfer our whole surprise to the astonishing guilt of the betrayer. In a word, many an innocent person hath owed his ruin to this circumstance alone, that the degree of villainy was such as must have exceeded the faith of every man who was not himself a villain.

CHAP. X.

In which are many profound secrets of philosophy.

BOOTH, having had enough of the author's company the preceding day, chose now another companion. Indeed the author was not very so

licitous of a second interview; for, as he could have no hope from Booth's pocket, so he was not likely to receive much increase to his vanity from Booth's conversation; for low as this wretch was in virtue, sense, learning, birth and fortune, he was by no means low in his vanity. This passion, indeed, was so high in him, and at the same time so blinded him to his own demerits, that he hated every man who did not either flatter him or give him money. In short, he claimed a strange kind of right; either to cheat all his acquaintance of their praise, or to pick their pockets of their pence; in which latter case, he himself repaid very liberally with panegyric.

Α very little specimen of such a fellow must have satisfied a man of Mr Booth's temper. He chose, therefore, now to associate himself with that gentleman, of whom Bondum had given so shabby a character. In short, Mr Booth's opinion of the bailiff was such, that he recommended a man most where he least intended it. Nay, the bailiff, in the present instance, though he had drawn a malicious conclusion, honestly avowed, that this was drawn only from the poverty of the person, which is never, I believe, any forcible disrecommendation to a good mind; but he must have had a very bad mind indeed, who, in Mr Booth's circumstances, could have disliked or despised another man, because that other man was poor.

Some previous conversation having past between this gentleman and Booth, in which they had both opened their several situations to each other; the former casting an affectionate look on the latter, expressed great compassion for his circumstances, for which Booth thanking him, said, "You must have a great deal of compassion, and be a very good man, in such a terrible situation as you describe yourself, to have any pity to spare for other people."

66

My affairs, sir," answered the gentleman, are very bad, it is true; and yet there is one circumstance which makes you appear to me more the object of pity than I am to myself, and it is this; that you must, from your years, be a novice in affliction, whereas I have served a long apprenticeship to misery, and ought, by this time, to be a pretty good master of my trade. To say the truth, I believe habit teaches men to bear the burdens of the mind, as it enures them to bear heavy burdens on their shoulders. Without use and experience, the strongest minds and bodies both will stagger under a weight, which habit might render easy, and even contemptible."

"There is great justice," cried Booth, “in the comparison, and, I think, I have myself experienced the truth of it; for I am not that tyro in affliction which you seem to apprehend me. And, perhaps, it is from the very habit you mention, that I am able to support my present misfortunes a little like a man."

The gentleman smiled at this, and cried, "Indeed, Captain, you are a young philosopher." "I think," cries Booth, "I have some pretensions to that philosophy which is taught by misfortunes; and you seem to be of opinion, sir, that is one of the best schools of philosophy." "I mean no more, sir," said the gentleman, "than that in the days of our affliction we are inclined to think more seriously, than in those seasons of life when we are engaged in the hurrying pursuits of business or pleasure, when we have neither leisure nor inclination to sift and examine things to the bottom. Now, there are two considerations which, from my having long fixed my thoughts upon them, have greatly supported me under all my afflictions; the one is the brevity of life, even at its longest duration, which the wisest of men hath compared to the short dimension of a span; one of the Roman poets compares it to the duration of a race, and another to the much shorter transition of a wave. "The second consideration is the uncertainty of it. Short as its utmost limits are, it is far from being assured of reaching those limits. The next day, the next hour, the next moment, may be the end of our course. Now, of what value is so uncertain, so precarious a station? This consideration, indeed, however lightly it is passed over in our conception, doth, in a great measure, level all fortunes and conditions, and gives no man a right to triumph in the happiest state, or any reason to repine in the most miserable. Would the most worldly men see this in the light in which they examine all other matters, they would soon feel and acknowledge the force of this way of reasoning; for which of them would give any price for an estate, from which they were liable to be immediately ejected? or, would they not laugh at him as a madman, who accounted himself rich from such an uncertain possession? This is the fountain, sir, from which I have drawn my philosophy. Hence it is that I have learnt to look on all those things which are esteemed the blessings of life, and those which are dreaded as its evils, with such a degree of indifference, that as I should not be elated with possessing the former, so neither am I greatly dejected and depressed by suffering the latter. Is the actor esteemed happier to whose lot it falls to play the principal part, than he who plays the lowest? and yet the drama may run twenty nights together, and by consequence inay outlast our lives; but, at the best, life is only a little longer drama, and the business of the great stage is consequently a little more serious than that which is performed at the theatre-royal. But even here, the catastrophes and calamities which are represented, are capable of affecting us. The wisest men can deceive themselves into feeling the distresses of a tragedy, though they know them to be merely imaginary, and the children will often lament them as realities; what wonder then, if these tragical scenes,

which I allow to be a little more serious, should a little more affect us? Where, then, is the remedy, but in the philosophy I have mentioned? which, when once, by a long course of meditation, it is reduced to a habit, teaches us to set a just value on every thing, and cures at once all eager wishes and abject fears, all violent joy and grief concerning objects which cannot endure long, and may not exist a moment."

"You have expressed yourself extremely well," cries Booth," and I entirely agree with the justice of your sentiments; but, however true all this may be in theory, I still doubt its efficacy in practice. And the cause of the difference between these two is this, that we reason from our heads, but act from our hearts:

- Video meliora, proboque ; Deteriora sequor.'

Nothing can differ more widely than wise men and fools, in their estimation of things; but as both act from their uppermost passion, they both often act alike. What comfort, then, can your philosophy give to an avaricious man, who is deprived of his riches; or to an ambitious man, who is stript of his power; to the fond lover, who is torn from his mistress; or to the tender husband, who is dragged from his wife? Do you really think that any meditations on the shortness of life will sooth them in their afflictions? Is not this very shortness itself one of their afflictions? And if the evil they suffer be a temporary deprivation of what they love, will they not think their fate the harder, and lament the more, that they are to lose any part of their enjoyment, to which there is so short and so uncertain a period?”

"I beg leave, sir," said the gentleman, "to distinguish here. By philosophy, I do not mean the bare knowledge of right and wrong, but an energy, a habit, as Aristotle calls it; and this I do firmly believe, with him and with the stoics, is superior to all the attacks of Fortune."

He was proceeding, when the bailiff came in, and in a surly tone bade them both good-morrow; after which, he asked the philosopher if he was prepared to go to Newgate, for that he must carry him thither that afternoon.

The poor man seemed very much shocked with this news. "I hope," cries he, " you will give a little longer time, if not till the return of the writ. But I beg you particularly not to carry me thither to-day; for I expect my wife and children here in the evening."

"I have nothing to do with wives and children," cried the bailiff; "I never desire to see any wives and children here. I like no such company."

"I entreat you," said the prisoner, "give me another day. I shall take it as a great obligation; and you will disappoint me in the cruellest manner in the world, if you refuse me."

"I can't help people's disappointments," cries the bailiff; "I must consider myself and my own family. I know not where I shall be paid the money that's due already. I can't afford to keep prisoners at my own expence."

"I don't intend it shall be at your expence," cries the philosopher; "my wife is gone to raise money this morning, and I hope to pay you all I owe you at her arrival. But we intend to sup together to-night at your house; and if you should remove me now, it would be the most barbarous disappointment to us both, and will make me the most miserable man alive."

"Nay, for my part," said the bailiff, "I don't desire to do any thing barbarous. I know how to treat gentlemen with civility as well as another. And when people pay as they go, and spend their money like gentlemen, I am sure nobody can accuse me of any incivility since I have been in the office; and if you intend to be merry to-night, I am not the man that will prevent it. Though I say it, you may have as good a supper dressed here as at any tavern in town." "Since Mr Bondum is so kind, Captain," said the philosopher, "I hope for the favour of your company. I assure you, if it ever be my fortune to go abroad into the world, I shall be proud of the honour of your acquaintance."

"Indeed, sir," cries Booth, "it is an honour I shall be very ready to accept; but as for this evening, I cannot help saying, I hope to be engaged in another place."

"I promise you, sir," answered the other, "I shall rejoice at your liberty, though I am a loser by it."

a sneer,

"Why, as to that matter," cries Bondum with "I fancy, Captain, you may engage yourself to the gentleman without any fear of breaking your word; for I am very much mistaken if we part to-day.”

"Pardon me, my good friend," said Booth, "but I expect my bail every minute."

"Lookee, sir," cries Bondum, "I don't love to see gentlemen in an error. I shall not take the serjeant's bail; and as for the Colonel, I have been with him myself this morning; (for, to be sure, I love to do all I can for gentlemen,) and he told me he could not possibly be here today; besides, why should I mince the matter? there is more.stuff in the office."

"What do you mean by stuff?" cries Booth. "I mean that there is another writ," answered the bailiff," at the suit of Mrs Ellison, the gentlewoman that was here yesterday; and the attorney that was with her is concerned against you. Some officers would not tell you all this; but I loves to shew civility to gentlemen, while they behave themselves as such; and I loves the gentlemen of the army in particular. I had like to have been in the army myself once; but I liked the commission I have better. Come, Captain, let not your noble courage be cast down;

VOL. I.

what say you to a glass of white wine, or a tiff of punch, by way of whet?".

"I have told you, sir, I never drink in the morning," cries Booth, a little peevishly.

"No offence, I hope, sir," said the bailiff. "I hope I have not treated you with any incivility. I don't ask any gentleman to call for liquor in my house, if he doth not chuse it; nor I don't desire any body to stay here longer than they have a mind to. Newgate, to be sure, is the place for all debtors that can't find bail. I knows what civility is, and I scorn to behave myself unbecoming a gentleman; but I'd have you consider that the twenty-four hours appointed by act of parliament are almost out; and so it is time to think of removing. As to bail, I would not have you flatter yourself; for I knows very well there are other things coming against you. Besides, the sum you are already charged with is very large, and I must see you in a place of safety. My house is no prison, though I lock up for a little time in it. Indeed, when gentlemen are gentlemen, and likely to find bail, I don't stand for a day or two; but I have a good nose at a bit of carrion, Captain ; I have not carried so much carrion to Newgate, without knowing the smell of it."

you so

"I understand not your cant," cries Booth; "but I did not think to have offended much by refusing to drink in a morning." "Offended me, sir !" cries the bailiff. "Who told you so? do you think, sir, if I want a glass of wine, I am under any necessity of asking my prisoners for it? damn it, sir, I'll shew you, I scorn your words. I can afford to treat you with a glass of the best wine in England, if you comes to that."-He then pulled out a handful of guineas, saying, "There, sir, they are all my own; I owe nobody a shilling. I am no beggar, nor no debtor. I am the king's officer, as well as you, and I will spend guinea for guinea, as long as you please."

"Harkee, rascal," cries Booth, laying hold of the bailiff's collar, "how dare you treat me with this insolence? doth the law give you any authority to insult me in my misfortunes?" At which words he gave the bailiff a good shove, and threw him from him.

"Very well, sir," cries the bailiff, "I will swear both an assault, and an attempt to a rescue. If officers are to be used in this manner, there is an end of all law and justice. But though I am not a match for you myself, I have those below that are." He then ran to the door, and called up two ill-looking fellows, his followers, whom, as soon as they entered the room, he ordered to seize on Booth, declaring he would immediately carry him to Newgate; at the same time pouring out a vast quantity of abuse, below the dignity of history to record.

Booth desired the two dirty fellows to stand off, and declared he would make no resistance, 2S