Chapter XXVII: Book X: Chapter i (1)

_To which we will prefix no preface_.

The doctor found Amelia alone, for Booth was gone to walk with his new-revived acquaintance, Captain Trent, who seemed so pleased with the renewal of his intercourse with his old brother-officer, that he had been almost continually with him from the time of their meeting at the drum.

Amelia acquainted the doctor with the purport of her message, as follows: “I ask your pardon, my dear sir, for troubling you so often with my affairs; but I know your extreme readiness, as well as ability, to assist any one with your advice. The fact is, that my husband hath been presented by Colonel James with two tickets for a masquerade, which is to be in a day or two, and he insists so strongly on my going with him, that I really do not know how to refuse without giving him some reason; and I am not able to invent any other than the true one, which you would not, I am sure, advise me to communicate to him. Indeed I had a most narrow escape the other day; for I was almost drawn in inadvertently by a very strange accident, to acquaint him with the whole matter.” She then related the serjeant’s dream, with all the consequences that attended it.

The doctor considered a little with himself, and then said, “I am really, child, puzzled as well as you about this matter. I would by no means have you go to the masquerade; I do not indeed like the diversion itself, as I have heard it described to me; not that I am such a prude to suspect every woman who goes there of any evil intentions; but it is a pleasure of too loose and disorderly a kind for the recreation of a sober mind. Indeed, you have still a stronger and more particular objection. I will try myself to reason him out of it.”

“Indeed it is impossible,” answered she; “and therefore I would not set you about it. I never saw him more set on anything. There is a party, as they call it, made on the occasion; and he tells me my refusal will disappoint all.”

“I really do not know what to advise you,” cries the doctor; “I have told you I do not approve of these diversions; but yet, as your husband is so very desirous, I cannot think there will be any harm in going with him. However, I will consider of it, and do all in my power for you.”

Here Mrs. Atkinson came in, and the discourse on this subject ceased; but soon after Amelia renewed it, saying there was no occasion to keep anything a secret from her friend. They then fell to debating on the subject, but could not come to any resolution. But Mrs. Atkinson, who was in an unusual flow of spirits, cried out, “Fear nothing, my dear Amelia, two women surely will be too hard for one man. I think, doctor, it exceeds Virgil:

_Una dolo divum si faemina victa duorum est_.”

“Very well repeated, indeed!” cries the doctor. “Do you understand all Virgil as well as you seem to do that line?”

“I hope I do, sir,” said she, “and Horace too; or else my father threw away his time to very little purpose in teaching me.”

“I ask your pardon, madam,” cries the doctor. “I own it was an impertinent question.”

“Not at all, sir,” says she; “and if you are one of those who imagine women incapable of learning, I shall not be offended at it. I know the common opinion; but

_Interdum vulgus rectum videt, est ubi peccat_.”

“If I was to profess such an opinion, madam,” said the doctor, “Madam Dacier and yourself would bear testimony against me. The utmost indeed that I should venture would be to question the utility of learning in a young lady’s education.”

“I own,” said Mrs. Atkinson, “as the world is constituted, it cannot be as serviceable to her fortune as it will be to that of a man; but you will allow, doctor, that learning may afford a woman, at least, a reasonable and an innocent entertainment.”

“But I will suppose,” cried the doctor, “it may have its inconveniences. As, for instance, if a learned lady should meet with an unlearned husband, might she not be apt to despise him?”

“I think not,” cries Mrs. Atkinson--“and, if I may be allowed the instance, I think I have shewn, myself, that women who have learning themselves can be contented without that qualification in a man.”

“To be sure,” cries the doctor, “there may be other qualifications which may have their weight in the balance. But let us take the other side of the question, and suppose the learned of both sexes to meet in the matrimonial union, may it not afford one excellent subject of disputation, which is the most learned?”

“Not at all,” cries Mrs. Atkinson; “for, if they had both learning and good sense, they would soon see on which side the superiority lay.”

“But if the learned man,” said the doctor, “should be a little unreasonable in his opinion, are you sure that the learned woman would preserve her duty to her husband, and submit?”

“But why,” cries Mrs. Atkinson, “must we necessarily suppose that a learned man would be unreasonable?”

“Nay, madam,” said the doctor, “I am not your husband; and you shall not hinder me from supposing what I please. Surely it is not such a paradox to conceive that a man of learning should be unreasonable. Are there no unreasonable opinions in very learned authors, even among the critics themselves? For instance, what can be a more strange, and indeed unreasonable opinion, than to prefer the Metamorphoses of Ovid to the AEneid of Virgil?”

“It would be indeed so strange,” cries the lady, “that you shall not persuade me it was ever the opinion of any man.”

“Perhaps not,” cries the doctor; “and I believe you and I should not differ in our judgments of any person who maintained such an opinion--What a taste must he have!”

“A most contemptible one indeed,” cries Mrs. Atkinson.

“I am satisfied,” cries the doctor. “And in the words of your own Horace, _Verbum non amplius addam_.”

“But how provoking is this,” cries Mrs. Atkinson, “to draw one in such a manner! I protest I was so warm in the defence of my favourite Virgil, that I was not aware of your design; but all your triumph depends on a supposition that one should be so unfortunate as to meet with the silliest fellow in the world.”

“Not in the least,” cries the doctor. “Doctor Bentley was not such a person; and yet he would have quarrelled, I am convinced, with any wife in the world, in behalf of one of his corrections. I don’t suppose he would have given up his _Ingentia Fata_ to an angel.”

“But do you think,” said she, “if I had loved him, I would have contended with him?”

“Perhaps you might sometimes,” said the doctor, “be of these sentiments; but you remember your own Virgil--_Varium et mutabile semper faemina_.”

“Nay, Amelia,” said Mrs. Atkinson, “you are now concerned as well as I am; for he hath now abused the whole sex, and quoted the severest thing that ever was said against us, though I allow it is one of the finest.”

“With all my heart, my dear,” cries Amelia. “I have the advantage of you, however, for I don’t understand him.”

“Nor doth she understand much better than yourself,” cries the doctor; “or she would not admire nonsense, even though in Virgil.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said she.

“And pardon me, madam,” cries the doctor, with a feigned seriousness; “I say, a boy in the fourth form at Eton would be whipt, or would deserve to be whipt at least, who made the neuter gender agree with the feminine. You have heard, however, that Virgil left his AEneid incorrect; and, perhaps, had he lived to correct it, we should not have seen the faults we now see in it.”

“Why, it is very true as you say, doctor,” cries Mrs. Atkinson; “there seems to be a false concord. I protest I never thought of it before.”

“And yet this is the Virgil,” answered the doctor, “that you are so fond of, who hath made you all of the neuter gender; or, as we say in English, he hath made mere animals of you; for, if we translate it thus,

“Woman is a various and changeable animal,

“there will be no fault, I believe, unless in point of civility to the ladies.”

Mrs. Atkinson had just time to tell the doctor he was a provoking creature, before the arrival of Booth and his friend put an end to that learned discourse, in which neither of the parties had greatly recommended themselves to each other; the doctor’s opinion of the lady being not at all heightened by her progress in the classics, and she, on the other hand, having conceived a great dislike in her heart towards the doctor, which would have raged, perhaps, with no less fury from the consideration that he had been her husband.

Chapter ii.

_What happened at the masquerade_.

From this time to the day of the masquerade nothing happened of consequence enough to have a place in this history.

On that day Colonel James came to Booth’s about nine in the evening, where he stayed for Mrs. James, who did not come till near eleven. The four masques then set out together in several chairs, and all proceeded to the Haymarket.

When they arrived at the Opera-house the colonel and Mrs. James presently left them; nor did Booth and his lady remain long together, but were soon divided from each other by different masques.

A domino soon accosted the lady, and had her away to the upper end of the farthest room on the right hand, where both the masques sat down; nor was it long before the he domino began to make very fervent love to the she. It would, perhaps, be tedious to the reader to run through the whole process, which was not indeed in the most romantick stile. The lover seemed to consider his mistress as a mere woman of this world, and seemed rather to apply to her avarice and ambition than to her softer passions.

As he was not so careful to conceal his true voice as the lady was, she soon discovered that this lover of her’s was no other than her old friend the peer, and presently a thought suggested itself to her of making an advantage of this accident. She gave him therefore an intimation that she knew him, and expressed some astonishment at his having found her out. “I suspect,” says she, “my lord, that you have a friend in the woman where I now lodge, as well as you had in Mrs. Ellison.” My lord protested the contrary. To which she answered, “Nay, my lord, do not defend her so earnestly till you are sure I should have been angry with her.”

At these words, which were accompanied with a very bewitching softness, my lord flew into raptures rather too strong for the place he was in. These the lady gently checked, and begged him to take care they were not observed; for that her husband, for aught she knew, was then in the room.

Colonel James came now up, and said, “So, madam, I have the good fortune to find you again; I have been extremely miserable since I lost you.” The lady answered in her masquerade voice that she did not know him. “I am Colonel James,” said he, in a whisper. “Indeed, sir,” answered she, “you are mistaken; I have no acquaintance with any Colonel James.” “Madam,” answered he, in a whisper likewise, “I am positive I am not mistaken, you are certainly Mrs. Booth.” “Indeed, sir,” said she, “you are very impertinent, and I beg you will leave me.” My lord then interposed, and, speaking in his own voice, assured the colonel that the lady was a woman of quality, and that they were engaged in a conversation together; upon which the colonel asked the lady’s pardon; for, as there was nothing remarkable in her dress, he really believed he had been mistaken.

He then went again a hunting through the rooms, and soon after found Booth walking without his mask between two ladies, one of whom was in a blue domino, and the other in the dress of a shepherdess. “Will,” cries the colonel, “do you know what is become of our wives; for I have seen neither of them since we have been in the room?” Booth answered, “That he supposed they were both together, and they should find them by and by.” “What!” cries the lady in the blue domino, “are you both come upon duty then with your wives? as for yours, Mr. Alderman,” said she to the colonel, “I make no question but she is got into much better company than her husband’s.” “How can you be so cruel, madam?” said the shepherdess; “you will make him beat his wife by and by, for he is a military man I assure you.” “In the trained bands, I presume,” cries the domino, “for he is plainly dated from the city.” “I own, indeed,” cries the other, “the gentleman smells strongly of Thames-street, and, if I may venture to guess, of the honourable calling of a taylor.”

“Why, what the devil hast thou picked up here?” cries James.

“Upon my soul, I don’t know,” answered Booth; “I wish you would take one of them at least.”

“What say you, madam?” cries the domino, “will you go with the colonel? I assure you, you have mistaken your man, for he is no less a person than the great Colonel James himself.”

“No wonder, then, that Mr. Booth gives him his choice of us; it is the proper office of a caterer, in which capacity Mr. Booth hath, I am told, the honour to serve the noble colonel.”

“Much good may it do you with your ladies!” said James; “I will go in pursuit of better game.” At which words he walked off.

“You are a true sportsman,” cries the shepherdess; “for your only pleasure, I believe, lies in the pursuit.”

“Do you know the gentleman, madam?” cries the domino.

“Who doth not know him?” answered the shepherdess.

“What is his character?” cries the domino; “for, though I have jested with him, I only know him by sight.”

“I know nothing very particular in his character,” cries the shepherdess. “He gets every handsome woman he can, and so they do all.”

“I suppose then he is not married?” said the domino.

“O yes! and married for love too,” answered the other; “but he hath loved away all his love for her long ago, and now, he says, she makes as fine an object of hatred. I think, if the fellow ever appears to have any wit, it is when he abuses his wife; and, luckily for him, that is his favourite topic. I don’t know the poor wretch, but, as he describes her, it is a miserable animal.”

“I know her very well,” cries the other; “and I am much mistaken if she is not even with him; but hang him! what is become of Booth?”

At this instant a great noise arose near that part where the two ladies were. This was occasioned by a large assembly of young fellows whom they call bucks, who were got together, and were enjoying, as the phrase is, a letter, which one of them had found in the room.

Curiosity hath its votaries among all ranks of people; whenever therefore an object of this appears it is as sure of attracting a croud in the assemblies of the polite as in those of their inferiors.

When this croud was gathered together, one of the bucks, at the desire of his companions, as well as of all present, performed the part of a public orator, and read out the following letter, which we shall give the reader, together with the comments of the orator himself, and of all his audience.

The orator then, being mounted on a bench, began as follows:

“Here beginneth the first chapter of--saint--Pox on’t, Jack, what is the saint’s name? I have forgot.”

“Timothy, you blockhead,” answered another; “--Timothy.”

“Well, then,” cries the orator, “of Saint Timothy.

“‘SIR,--I am very sorry to have any occasion of writing on the following subject in a country that is honoured with the name of Christian; much more am I concerned to address myself to a man whose many advantages, derived both from nature and fortune, should demand the highest return of gratitude to the great Giver of all those good things. Is not such a man guilty of the highest ingratitude to that most beneficent Being, by a direct and avowed disobedience of his most positive laws and commands?

“‘I need not tell you that adultery is forbid in the laws of the decalogue; nor need I, I hope, mention that it is expressly forbid in the New Testament.’

“You see, therefore,” said the orator, “what the law is, and therefore none of you will be able to plead ignorance when you come to the Old Bailey in the other world. But here goes again:--

“‘If it had not been so expressly forbidden in Scripture, still the law of Nature would have yielded light enough for us to have discovered the great horror and atrociousness of this crime.

“‘And accordingly we find that nations, where the Sun of righteousness hath yet never shined, have punished the adulterer with the most exemplary pains and penalties; not only the polite heathens, but the most barbarous nations, have concurred in these; in many places the most severe and shameful corporal punishments, and in some, and those not a few, death itself hath been inflicted on this crime.

“‘And sure in a human sense there is scarce any guilt which deserves to be more severely punished. It includes in it almost every injury and every mischief which one man can do to, or can bring on, another. It is robbing him of his property--’

“Mind that, ladies,” said the orator; “you are all the property of your husbands.--‘And of that property which, if he is a good man, he values above all others. It is poisoning that fountain whence he hath a right to derive the sweetest and most innocent pleasure, the most cordial comfort, the most solid friendship, and most faithful assistance in all his affairs, wants, and distresses. It is the destruction of his peace of mind, and even of his reputation. The ruin of both wife and husband, and sometimes of the whole family, are the probable consequence of this fatal injury. Domestic happiness is the end of almost all our pursuits, and the common reward of all our pains. When men find themselves for ever barred from this delightful fruition, they are lost to all industry, and grow careless of all their worldly affairs. Thus they become bad subjects, bad relations, bad friends, and bad men. Hatred and revenge are the wretched passions which boil in their minds. Despair and madness very commonly ensue, and murder and suicide often close the dreadful scene.’

“Thus, gentlemen and ladies, you see the scene is closed. So here ends the first act--and thus begins the second:--

“‘I have here attempted to lay before you a picture of this vice, the horror of which no colours of mine can exaggerate. But what pencil can delineate the horrors of that punishment which the Scripture denounces against it?

“‘And for what will you subject yourself to this punishment? or for what reward will you inflict all this misery on another? I will add, on your friend? for the possession of a woman; for the pleasure of a moment? But, if neither virtue nor religion can restrain your inordinate appetites, are there not many women as handsome as your friend’s wife, whom, though not with innocence, you may possess with a much less degree of guilt? What motive then can thus hurry you on to the destruction of yourself and your friend? doth the peculiar rankness of the guilt add any zest to the sin? doth it enhance the pleasure as much as we may be assured it will the punishment?

“‘But if you can be so lost to all sense of fear, and of shame, and of goodness, as not to be debarred by the evil which you are to bring on yourself, by the extreme baseness of the action, nor by the ruin in which you are to involve others, let me still urge the difficulty, I may say, the impossibility of the success. You are attacking a fortress on a rock; a chastity so strongly defended, as well by a happy natural disposition of mind as by the strongest principles of religion and virtue, implanted by education and nourished and improved by habit, that the woman must be invincible even without that firm and constant affection of her husband which would guard a much looser and worse-disposed heart. What therefore are you attempting but to introduce distrust, and perhaps disunion, between an innocent and a happy couple, in which too you cannot succeed without bringing, I am convinced, certain destruction on your own head?

“‘Desist, therefore, let me advise you, from this enormous crime; retreat from the vain attempt of climbing a precipice which it is impossible you should ever ascend, where you must probably soon fall into utter perdition, and can have no other hope but of dragging down your best friend into perdition with you.

“‘I can think of but one argument more, and that, indeed, a very bad one; you throw away that time in an impossible attempt, which might, in other places, crown your sinful endeavours with success.’

“And so ends the dismal ditty.”

“D--n me,” cries one, “did ever mortal hear such d--ned stuff?”

“Upon my soul,” said another, “I like the last argument well enough. There is some sense in that; for d--n me if I had not rather go to D--g--ss at any time than follow a virtuous b---- for a fortnight.”

“Tom,” says one of them, “let us set the ditty to music; let us subscribe to have it set by Handel; it will make an excellent oratorio.”

“D--n me, Jack,” says another, “we’ll have it set to a psalm-tune, and we’ll sing it next Sunday at St James’s church, and I’ll bear a bob, d--n me.”

“Fie upon it! gentlemen, fie upon it!” said a frier, who came up; “do you think there is any wit and humour in this ribaldry; or, if there were, would it make any atonement for abusing religion and virtue?”

“Heyday!” cries one, “this is a frier in good earnest.”

“Whatever I am,” said the frier, “I hope at least you are what you appear to be. Heaven forbid, for the sake of our posterity, that you should be gentlemen.”

“Jack,” cries one, “let us toss the frier in a blanket.”

“Me in a blanket?” said the frier: “by the dignity of man, I will twist the neck of every one of you as sure as ever the neck of a dunghill-cock was twisted.” At which words he pulled off his mask, and the tremendous majesty of Colonel Bath appeared, from which the bucks fled away as fast as the Trojans heretofore from the face of Achilles. The colonel did not think it worth while to pursue any other of them except him who had the letter in his hand, which the colonel desired to see, and the other delivered, saying it was very much at his service.

The colonel being possessed of the letter, retired as privately as he could, in order to give it a careful perusal; for, badly as it had been read by the orator, there were some passages in it which had pleased the colonel. He had just gone through it when Booth passed by him; upon which the colonel called to him, and, delivering him the letter, bid him put it in his pocket and read it at his leisure. He made many encomiums upon it, and told Booth it would be of service to him, and was proper for all young men to read.

Booth had not yet seen his wife; but, as he concluded she was safe with Mrs. James, he was not uneasy. He had been prevented searching farther after her by the lady in the blue domino, who had joined him again. Booth had now made these discoveries: that the lady was pretty well acquainted with him, that she was a woman of fashion, and that she had a particular regard for him. But, though he was a gay man, he was in reality so fond of his Amelia, that he thought of no other woman; wherefore, though not absolutely a Joseph, as we have already seen, yet could he not be guilty of premeditated inconstancy. He was indeed so very cold and insensible to the hints which were given him, that the lady began to complain of his dullness. When the shepherdess again came up and heard this accusation against him, she confirmed it, saying, “I do assure you, madam, he is the dullest fellow in the world. Indeed, I should almost take you for his wife, by finding you a second time with him; for I do assure you the gentleman very seldom keeps any other company.” “Are you so well acquainted with him, madam?” said the domino. “I have had that honour longer than your ladyship, I believe,” answered the shepherdess. “Possibly you may, madam,” cries the domino; “but I wish you would not interrupt us at present, for we have some business together.” “I believe, madam,” answered the shepherdess, “my business with the gentleman is altogether as important as yours; and therefore your ladyship may withdraw if you please.” “My dear ladies,” cries Booth, “I beg you will not quarrel about me.” “Not at all,” answered the domino; “since you are so indifferent, I resign my pretensions with all my heart. If you had not been the dullest fellow upon earth, I am convinced you must have discovered me.” She then went off, muttering to herself that she was satisfied the shepherdess was some wretched creature whom nobody knew.

The shepherdess overheard the sarcasm, and answered it by asking Booth what contemptible wretch he had picked up? “Indeed, madam,” said he, “you know as much of her as I do; she is a masquerade acquaintance like yourself.” “Like me!” repeated she. “Do you think if this had been our first acquaintance I should have wasted so much time with you as I have? for your part, indeed, I believe a woman will get very little advantage by her having been formerly intimate with you.” “I do not know, madam,” said Booth, “that I deserve that character any more than I know the person that now gives it me.” “And you have the assurance then,” said she, in her own voice, “to affect not to remember me?” “I think,” cries Booth, “I have heard that voice before; but, upon my soul, I do not recollect it.” “Do you recollect,” said she, “no woman that you have used with the highest barbarity--I will not say ingratitude?” “No, upon my honour,” answered Booth. “Mention not honour,” said she, “thou wretch! for, hardened as thou art, I could shew thee a face that, in spite of thy consummate impudence, would confound thee with shame and horrour. Dost thou not yet know me?” “I do, madam, indeed,” answered Booth, “and I confess that of all women in the world you have the most reason for what you said.”

Here a long dialogue ensued between the gentleman and the lady, whom, I suppose, I need not mention to have been Miss Matthews; but, as it consisted chiefly of violent upbraidings on her side, and excuses on his, I despair of making it entertaining to the reader, and shall therefore return to the colonel, who, having searched all the rooms with the utmost diligence, without finding the woman he looked for, began to suspect that he had before fixed on the right person, and that Amelia had denied herself to him, being pleased with her paramour, whom he had discovered to be the noble peer.

He resolved, therefore, as he could have no sport himself, to spoil that of others; accordingly he found out Booth, and asked him again what was become of both their wives; for that he had searched all over the rooms, and could find neither of them.

Booth was now a little alarmed at this account, and, parting with Miss Matthews, went along with the colonel in search of his wife. As for Miss Matthews, he had at length pacified her with a promise to make her a visit; which promise she extorted from him, swearing bitterly, in the most solemn manner, unless he made it to her, she would expose both him and herself at the masquerade.

As he knew the violence of the lady’s passions, and to what heights they were capable of rising, he was obliged to come in to these terms: for he had, I am convinced, no fear upon earth equal to that of Amelia’s knowing what it was in the power of Miss Matthews to communicate to her, and which to conceal from her, he had already undergone so much uneasiness.

The colonel led Booth directly to the place where he had seen the peer and Amelia (such he was now well convinced she was) sitting together. Booth no sooner saw her than he said to the colonel, “Sure that is my wife in conversation with that masque?” “I took her for your lady myself,” said the colonel; “but I found I was mistaken. Hark ye, that is my Lord----, and I have seen that very lady with him all this night.”

This conversation past at a little distance, and out of the hearing of the supposed Amelia; when Booth, looking stedfastly at the lady, declared with an oath that he was positive the colonel was in the right. She then beckoned to him with her fan; upon which he went directly to her, and she asked him to go home, which he very readily consented to. The peer then walked off: the colonel went in pursuit of his wife, or of some other woman; and Booth and his lady returned in two chairs to their lodgings.

Chapter iii.

_Consequences of the masquerade, not uncommon nor surprizing_.

The lady, getting first out of her chair, ran hastily up into the nursery to the children; for such was Amelia’s constant method at her return home, at whatever hour. Booth then walked into the dining-room, where he had not been long before Amelia came down to him, and, with a most chearful countenance, said, “My dear, I fancy we have neither of us supped; shall I go down and see whether there is any cold meat in the house?”

“For yourself, if you please,” answered Booth; “but I shall eat nothing.”

“How, my dear!” said Amelia; “I hope you have not lost your appetite at the masquerade!” for supper was a meal at which he generally eat very heartily.

“I know not well what I have lost,” said Booth; “I find myself disordered.--My head aches. I know not what is the matter with me.”

“Indeed, my dear, you frighten me,” said Amelia; “you look, indeed, disordered. I wish the masquerade had been far enough before you had gone thither.”

“Would to Heaven it had!” cries Booth; “but that is over now. But pray, Amelia, answer me one question--Who was that gentleman with you when I came up to you?”

“The gentleman! my dear,” said Amelia; “what gentleman?”

“The gentleman--the nobleman--when I came up; sure I speak plain.”

“Upon my word, my dear, I don’t understand you,” answered she; “I did not know one person at the masquerade.”

“How!” said he; “what! spend the whole evening with a masque without knowing him?”

“Why, my dear,” said she, “you know we were not together.”

“I know we were not,” said he, “but what is that to the purpose? Sure you answer me strangely. I know we were not together; and therefore I ask you whom you were with?”

“Nay, but, my dear,” said she, “can I tell people in masques?”

“I say again, madam,” said he, “would you converse two hours or more with a masque whom you did not know?”

“Indeed, child,” says she, “I know nothing of the methods of a masquerade; for I never was at one in my life.”

“I wish to Heaven you had not been at this!” cries Booth. “Nay, you will wish so yourself if you tell me truth.--What have I said? do I--can I suspect you of not speaking truth? Since you are ignorant then I will inform you: the man you have conversed with was no other than Lord----.”

“And is that the reason,” said she, “you wish I had not been there?”

“And is not that reason,” answered he, “sufficient? Is he not the last man upon earth with whom I would have you converse?”

“So you really wish then that I had not been at the masquerade?”

“I do,” cried he, “from my soul.”

“So may I ever be able,” cried she, “to indulge you in every wish as in this.--I was not there.”

“Do not trifle, Amelia,” cried he; “you would not jest with me if you knew the situation of my mind.”

“Indeed I do not jest with you,” said she. “Upon my honour I was not there. Forgive me this first deceit I ever practised, and indeed it shall be the last; for I have paid severely for this by the uneasiness it hath given me.” She then revealed to him the whole secret, which was thus:

I think it hath been already mentioned in some part of this history that Amelia and Mrs. Atkinson were exactly of the same make and stature, and that there was likewise a very near resemblance between their voices. When Mrs. Atkinson, therefore, found that Amelia was so extremely averse to the masquerade, she proposed to go thither in her stead, and to pass upon Booth for his own wife.

This was afterwards very easily executed; for, when they left Booth’s lodgings, Amelia, who went last to her chair, ran back to fetch her masque, as she pretended, which she had purposely left behind. She then whipt off her domino, and threw it over Mrs. Atkinson, who stood ready to receive it, and ran immediately downstairs, and, stepping into Amelia’s chair, proceeded with the rest to the masquerade.

As her stature exactly suited that of Amelia, she had very little difficulty to carry on the imposition; for, besides the natural resemblance of their voices, and the opportunity of speaking in a feigned one, she had scarce an intercourse of six words with Booth during the whole time; for the moment they got into the croud she took the first opportunity of slipping from him. And he, as the reader may remember, being seized by other women, and concluding his wife to be safe with Mrs. James, was very well satisfied, till the colonel set him upon the search, as we have seen before.

Mrs. Atkinson, the moment she came home, ran upstairs to the nursery, where she found Amelia, and told her in haste that she might very easily carry on the deceit with her husband; for that she might tell him what she pleased to invent, as they had not been a minute together during the whole evening.

Booth was no sooner satisfied that his wife had not been from home that evening than he fell into raptures with her, gave her a thousand tender caresses, blamed his own judgment, acknowledged the goodness of hers, and vowed never to oppose her will more in any one instance during his life.

Mrs. Atkinson, who was still in the nursery with her masquerade dress, was then summoned down-stairs, and, when Booth saw her and heard her speak in her mimic tone, he declared he was not surprized at his having been imposed upon, for that, if they were both in the same disguise, he should scarce be able to discover the difference between them.

They then sat down to half an hour’s chearful conversation, after which they retired all in the most perfect good humour.

Chapter iv.

_Consequences of the masquerade_.

When Booth rose in the morning he found in his pocket that letter which had been delivered to him by Colonel Bath, which, had not chance brought to his remembrance, he might possibly have never recollected.

He had now, however, the curiosity to open the letter, and beginning to read it, the matter of it drew him on till he perused the whole; for, notwithstanding the contempt cast upon it by those learned critics the bucks, neither the subject nor the manner in which it was treated was altogether contemptible.

But there was still another motive which induced Booth to read the whole letter, and this was, that he presently thought he knew the hand. He did, indeed, immediately conclude it was Dr Harrison; for the doctor wrote a very remarkable one, and this letter contained all the particularities of the doctor’s character.

He had just finished a second reading of this letter when the doctor himself entered the room. The good man was impatient to know the success of Amelia’s stratagem, for he bore towards her all that love which esteem can create in a good mind, without the assistance of those selfish considerations from which the love of wives and children may be ordinarily deduced. The latter of which, Nature, by very subtle and refined reasoning, suggests to us to be part of our dear selves; and the former, as long as they remain the objects of our liking, that same Nature is furnished with very plain and fertile arguments to recommend to our affections. But to raise that affection in the human breast which the doctor had for Amelia, Nature is forced to use a kind of logic which is no more understood by a bad man than Sir Isaac Newton’s doctrine of colours is by one born blind. And yet in reality it contains nothing more abstruse than this, that an injury is the object of anger, danger of fear, and praise of vanity; for in the same simple manner it may be asserted that goodness is the object of love.

The doctor enquired immediately for his child (for so he often called Amelia); Booth answered that he had left her asleep, for that she had had but a restless night. “I hope she is not disordered by the masquerade,” cries the doctor. Booth answered he believed she would be very well when she waked. “I fancy,” said he, “her gentle spirits were a little too much fluttered last night; that is all.”

“I hope, then,” said the doctor, “you will never more insist on her going to such places, but know your own happiness in having a wife that hath the discretion to avoid those places; which, though perhaps they may not be as some represent them, such brothels of vice and debauchery as would impeach the character of every virtuous woman who was seen at them, are certainly, however, scenes of riot, disorder, and intemperance, very improper to be frequented by a chaste and sober Christian matron.”

Booth declared that he was very sensible of his error, and that, so far from soliciting his wife to go to another masquerade, he did not intend ever to go thither any more himself.

The doctor highly approved the resolution; and then Booth said, “And I thank you, my dear friend, as well as my wife’s discretion, that she was not at the masquerade last night.” He then related to the doctor the discovery of the plot; and the good man was greatly pleased with the success of the stratagem, and that Booth took it in such good part.

“But, sir,” says Booth, “I had a letter given me by a noble colonel there, which is written in a hand so very like yours, that I could almost swear to it. Nor is the stile, as far as I can guess, unlike your own. Here it is, sir. Do you own the letter, doctor, or do you not?”

The doctor took the letter, and, having looked at it a moment, said, “And did the colonel himself give you this letter?”

“The colonel himself,” answered Booth.

“Why then,” cries the doctor, “he is surely the most impudent fellow that the world ever produced. What! did he deliver it with an air of triumph?”

“He delivered it me with air enough,” cries Booth, “after his own manner, and bid me read it for my edification. To say the truth, I am a little surprized that he should single me out of all mankind to deliver the letter to; I do not think I deserve the character of such a husband. It is well I am not so very forward to take an affront as some folks.”

“I am glad to see you are not,” said the doctor; “and your behaviour in this affair becomes both the man of sense and the Christian; for it would be surely the greatest folly, as well as the most daring impiety, to risque your own life for the impertinence of a fool. As long as you are assured of the virtue of your own wife, it is wisdom in you to despise the efforts of such a wretch. Not, indeed, that your wife accuses him of any downright attack, though she hath observed enough in his behaviour to give offence to her delicacy.”

“You astonish me, doctor,” said Booth. “What can you mean? my wife dislike his behaviour! hath the colonel ever offended her?”

“I do not say he hath ever offended her by any open declarations; nor hath he done anything which, according to the most romantic notion of honour, you can or ought to resent; but there is something extremely nice in the chastity of a truly virtuous woman.”

“And hath my wife really complained of anything of that kind in the colonel?”

“Look ye, young gentleman,” cries the doctor; “I will have no quarrelling or challenging; I find I have made some mistake, and therefore I insist upon it by all the rights of friendship, that you give me your word of honour you will not quarrel with the colonel on this account.”

“I do, with all my heart,” said Booth; “for, if I did not know your character, I should absolutely think you was jesting with me. I do not think you have mistaken my wife, but I am sure she hath mistaken the colonel, and hath misconstrued some over-strained point of gallantry, something of the Quixote kind, into a design against her chastity; but I have that opinion of the colonel, that I hope you will not be offended when I declare I know not which of you two I should be the sooner jealous of.”

“I would by no means have you jealous of any one,” cries the doctor; “for I think my child’s virtue may be firmly relied on; but I am convinced she would not have said what she did to me without a cause; nor should I, without such a conviction, have written that letter to the colonel, as I own to you I did. However, nothing I say hath yet past which, even in the opinion of false honour, you are at liberty to resent! but as to declining any great intimacy, if you will take my advice, I think that would be prudent.”

“You will pardon me, my dearest friend,” said Booth, “but I have really such an opinion of the colonel that I would pawn my life upon his honour; and as for women, I do not believe he ever had an attachment to any.”

“Be it so,” said the doctor: “I have only two things to insist on. The first is, that, if ever you change your opinion, this letter may not be the subject of any quarrelling or fighting: the other is, that you never mention a word of this to your wife. By the latter I shall see whether you can keep a secret; and, if it is no otherwise material, it will be a wholesome exercise to your mind; for the practice of any virtue is a kind of mental exercise, and serves to maintain the health and vigour of the soul.”

“I faithfully promise both,” cries Booth. And now the breakfast entered the room, as did soon after Amelia and Mrs. Atkinson.

The conversation ran chiefly on the masquerade; and Mrs. Atkinson gave an account of several adventures there; but whether she told the whole truth with regard to herself I will not determine, for, certain it is, she never once mentioned the name of the noble peer. Amongst the rest, she said there was a young fellow that had preached a sermon there upon a stool, in praise of adultery, she believed; for she could not get near enough to hear the particulars.

During that transaction Booth had been engaged with the blue domino in another room, so that he knew nothing of it; so that what Mrs. Atkinson had now said only brought to his mind the doctor’s letter to Colonel Bath, for to him he supposed it was written; and the idea of the colonel being a lover to Amelia struck him in so ridiculous a light, that it threw him into a violent fit of laughter.

The doctor, who, from the natural jealousy of an author, imputed the agitation of Booth’s muscles to his own sermon or letter on that subject, was a little offended, and said gravely, “I should be glad to know the reason of this immoderate mirth. Is adultery a matter of jest in your opinion?”

“Far otherwise,” answered Booth. “But how is it possible to refrain from laughter at the idea of a fellow preaching a sermon in favour of it at such a place?”

“I am very sorry,” cries the doctor, “to find the age is grown to so scandalous a degree of licentiousness, that we have thrown off not only virtue, but decency. How abandoned must be the manners of any nation where such insults upon religion and morality can be committed with impunity! No man is fonder of true wit and humour than myself; but to profane sacred things with jest and scoffing is a sure sign of a weak and a wicked mind. It is the very vice which Homer attacks in the odious character of Thersites. The ladies must excuse my repeating the passage to you, as I know you have Greek enough to understand it:--

Os rh’ epea phresin esin akosma te, polla te ede
Maps, atar ou kata kosmon epizemenai basileusin,
All’o, ti oi eisaito geloiton Argeiosin
Emmenai

[Footnote: Thus paraphrased by Mr. Pope:

“Awed by no shame, by no respect controll’d,
In scandal busy, in reproaches bold,
With witty malice, studious to defame,
Scorn all his joy, and laughter all his aim.”]

And immediately adds,

----aiskistos de aner ypo Ilion elthe

[Footnote: “He was the greatest scoundrel in the whole army.”]

“Horace, again, describes such a rascal:

----Solutos
Qui captat risus hominum famamque dicacis,

[Footnote: “Who trivial bursts of laughter strives to raise, And courts of prating petulance the praise.”--FRANCIS.]

and says of him,

Hic niger est, hunc tu, Romane, caveto.”

[Footnote: “This man is black; do thou, O Roman! shun this man.”]

“O charming Homer!” said Mrs. Atkinson, “how much above all other writers!”

“I ask your pardon, madam,” said the doctor; “I forgot you was a scholar; but, indeed, I did not know you understood Greek as well as Latin.”

“I do not pretend,” said she, “to be a critic in the Greek; but I think I am able to read a little of Homer, at least with the help of looking now and then into the Latin.”

“Pray, madam,” said the doctor, “how do you like this passage in the speech of Hector to Andromache:

----Eis oikon iousa ta sautes erga komize,
Iston t elakaten te, kai amphipoloisi keleue
Ergon epoichesthai?

[Footnote: “Go home and mind your own business. Follow your spinning, and keep your maids to their work.”]

“Or how do you like the character of Hippodamia, who, by being the prettiest girl and best workwoman of her age, got one of the best husbands in all Troy?--I think, indeed, Homer enumerates her discretion with her other qualifications; but I do not remember he gives us one character of a woman of learning.--Don’t you conceive this to be a great omission in that who, by being the prettiest girl and best workwoman of her age, got one of the best husbands in all Troy?---I think, indeed, Homer enumerates her discretion with her other qualifications; but I do not remember Don’t you conceive this to be a great omission in that charming poet? However, Juvenal makes you amends, for he talks very abundantly of the learning of the Roman ladies in his time.”

“You are a provoking man, doctor,” said Mrs. Atkinson; “where is the harm in a woman’s having learning as well as a man?”

“Let me ask you another question,” said the doctor. “Where is the harm in a man’s being a fine performer with a needle as well as a woman? And yet, answer me honestly; would you greatly chuse to marry a man with a thimble upon his finger? Would you in earnest think a needle became the hand of your husband as well as a halberd?”

“As to war, I am with you,” said she. “Homer himself, I well remember, makes Hector tell his wife that warlike works--what is the Greek word--Pollemy--something--belonged to men only; and I readily agree to it. I hate a masculine woman, an Amazon, as much as you can do; but what is there masculine in learning?”

“Nothing so masculine, take my word for it. As for your Pollemy, I look upon it to be the true characteristic of a devil. So Homer everywhere characterizes Mars.”

“Indeed, my dear,” cries the serjeant, “you had better not dispute with the doctor; for, upon my word, he will be too hard for you.”

“Nay, I beg _you_ will not interfere,” cries Mrs. Atkinson; “I am sure _you_ can be no judge in these matters.”

At which the doctor and Booth burst into a loud laugh; and Amelia, though fearful of giving her friend offence, could not forbear a gentle smile.

“You may laugh, gentlemen, if you please,” said Mrs. Atkinson; “but I thank Heaven I have married a man who is not jealous of my understanding. I should have been the most miserable woman upon earth with a starched pedant who was possessed of that nonsensical opinion that the difference of sexes causes any difference in the mind. Why don’t you honestly avow the Turkish notion that women have no souls? for you say the same thing in effect.”

“Indeed, my dear,” cries the serjeant, greatly concerned to see his wife so angry, “you have mistaken the doctor.”

“I beg, my dear,” cried she, “_you_ will say nothing upon these subjects--I hope _you_ at least do not despise my understanding.”

“I assure you, I do not,” said the serjeant; “and I hope you will never despise mine; for a man may have some understanding, I hope, without learning.”

Mrs. Atkinson reddened extremely at these words; and the doctor, fearing he had gone too far, began to soften matters, in which Amelia assisted him. By these means, the storm rising in Mrs. Atkinson before was in some measure laid, at least suspended from bursting at present; but it fell afterwards upon the poor serjeant’s head in a torrent, who had learned perhaps one maxim from his trade, that a cannon-ball always doth mischief in proportion to the resistance it meets with, and that nothing so effectually deadens its force as a woolpack. The serjeant therefore bore all with patience; and the idea of a woolpack, perhaps, bringing that of a feather-bed into his head, he at last not only quieted his wife, but she cried out with great sincerity, “Well, my dear, I will say one thing for you, that I believe from my soul, though you have no learning, you have the best understanding of any man upon earth; and I must own I think the latter far the more profitable of the two.”

Far different was the idea she entertained of the doctor, whom, from this day, she considered as a conceited pedant; nor could all Amelia’s endeavours ever alter her sentiments.

The doctor now took his leave of Booth and his wife for a week, he intending to set out within an hour or two with his old friend, with whom our readers were a little acquainted at the latter end of the ninth book, and of whom, perhaps, they did not then conceive the most favourable opinion.