_ Chapter III - Containing wise observations of the author,
and other matters.
There is nothing more difficult than to lay down any fixed and certain
rules for happiness; or indeed to judge with any precision of the
happiness of others from the knowledge of external circumstances.
There is sometimes a little speck of black in the brightest and gayest
colours of fortune, which contaminates and deadens the whole. On the
contrary, when all without looks dark and dismal, there is often a
secret ray of light within the mind, which turns everything to real
joy and gladness.
I have in the course of my life seen many occasions to make this
observation, and Mr. Booth was at present a very pregnant instance of
its truth. He was just delivered from a prison, and in the possession
of his beloved wife and children; and (which might be imagined greatly
to augment his joy) fortune had done all this for him within an hour,
without giving him the least warning or reasonable expectation of the
strange reverse in his circumstances; and yet it is certain that there
were very few men in the world more seriously miserable than he was at
this instant. A deep melancholy seized his mind, and cold damp sweats
overspread his person, so that he was scarce animated; and poor
Amelia, instead of a fond warm husband, bestowed her caresses on a
dull lifeless lump of clay. He endeavoured, however, at first, as much
as possible, to conceal what he felt, and attempted what is the
hardest of all tasks, to act the part of a happy man; but he found no
supply of spirits to carry on this deceit, and would have probably
sunk under his attempt, had not poor Amelia's simplicity helped him to
another fallacy, in which he had much better success.
This worthy woman very plainly perceived the disorder in her husband's
mind; and, having no doubt of the cause of it, especially when she saw
the tears stand in his eyes at the sight of his children, threw her
arms round his neck, and, embracing him with rapturous fondness, cried
out, "My dear Billy, let nothing make you uneasy. Heaven will, I doubt
not, provide for us and these poor babes. Great fortunes are not
necessary to happiness. For my own part, I can level my mind with any
state; and for those poor little things, whatever condition of life we
breed them to, that will be sufficient to maintain them in. How many
thousands abound in affluence whose fortunes are much lower than ours!
for it is not from nature, but from education and habit, that our
wants are chiefly derived. Make yourself easy, therefore, my dear
love; for you have a wife who will think herself happy with you, and
endeavour to make you so, in any situation. Fear nothing, Billy,
industry will always provide us a wholesome meal; and I will take care
that neatness and chearfulness shall make it a pleasant one."
Booth presently took the cue which she had given him. He fixed his
eyes on her for a minute with great earnestness and inexpressible
tenderness; and then cried, "O my Amelia, how much are you my superior
in every perfection! how wise, how great, how noble are your
sentiments! why can I not imitate what I so much admire? why can I not
look with your constancy on those dear little pledges of our loves?
All my philosophy is baffled with the thought that my Amelia's
children are to struggle with a cruel, hard, unfeeling world, and to
buffet those waves of fortune which have overwhelmed their father.--
Here, I own I want your firmness, and am not without an excuse for
wanting it; for am I not the cruel cause of all your wretchedness?
have I not stept between you and fortune, and been the cursed obstacle
to all your greatness and happiness?"
"Say not so, my love," answered she. "Great I might have been, but
never happy with any other man. Indeed, dear Billy, I laugh at the
fears you formerly raised in me; what seemed so terrible at a
distance, now it approaches nearer, appears to have been a mere
bugbear--and let this comfort you, that I look on myself at this day
as the happiest of women; nor have I done anything which I do not
rejoice in, and would, if I had the gift of prescience, do again."
Booth was so overcome with this behaviour, that he had no words to
answer. To say the truth, it was difficult to find any worthy of the
occasion. He threw himself prostrate at her feet, whence poor Amelia
was forced to use all her strength as well as entreaties to raise and
place him in his chair.
Such is ever the fortitude of perfect innocence, and such the
depression of guilt in minds not utterly abandoned. Booth was
naturally of a sanguine temper; nor would any such apprehensions as he
mentioned have been sufficient to have restrained his joy at meeting
with his Amelia. In fact, a reflection on the injury he had done her
was the sole cause of his grief. This it was that enervated his heart,
and threw him into agonies, which all that profusion of heroic
tenderness that the most excellent of women intended for his comfort
served only to heighten and aggravate; as the more she rose in his
admiration, the more she quickened his sense of his own unworthiness.
After a disagreeable evening, the first of that kind that he had ever
passed with his Amelia, in which he had the utmost difficulty to force
a little chearfulness, and in which her spirits were at length
overpowered by discerning the oppression on his, they retired to rest,
or rather to misery, which need not be described.
The next morning at breakfast, Booth began to recover a little from
his melancholy, and to taste the company of his children. He now first
thought of enquiring of Amelia by what means she had discovered the
place of his confinement. Amelia, after gently rebuking him for not
having himself acquainted her with it, informed him that it was known
all over the country, and that she had traced the original of it to
her sister; who had spread the news with a malicious joy, and added a
circumstance which would have frightened her to death, had not her
knowledge of him made her give little credit to it, which was, that he
was committed for murder. But, though she had discredited this part,
she said the not hearing from him during several successive posts made
her too apprehensive of the rest; that she got a conveyance therefore
for herself and children to Salisbury, from whence the stage coach had
brought them to town; and, having deposited the children at his
lodging, of which he had sent her an account on his first arrival in
town, she took a hack, and came directly to the prison where she heard
he was, and where she found him.
Booth excused himself, and with truth, as to his not having writ; for,
in fact, he had writ twice from the prison, though he had mentioned
nothing of his confinement; but, as he sent away his letters after
nine at night, the fellow to whom they were entrusted had burnt them
both for the sake of putting the twopence in his own pocket, or rather
in the pocket of the keeper of the next gin-shop. As to the account
which Amelia gave him, it served rather to raise than to satisfy his
curiosity. He began to suspect that some person had seen both him and
Miss Matthews together in the prison, and had confounded her case with
his; and this the circumstance of murder made the more probable. But
who this person should be he could not guess. After giving himself,
therefore, some pains in forming conjectures to no purpose, he was
forced to rest contented with his ignorance of the real truth.
Two or three days now passed without producing anything remarkable;
unless it were that Booth more and more recovered his spirits, and had
now almost regained his former degree of chearfulness, when the
following letter arrived, again to torment him:
"DEAR BILLY,
"To convince you I am the most reasonable of women, I have given you
up three whole days to the unmolested possession of my fortunate
rival; I can refrain no longer from letting you know that I lodge in
Dean Street, not far from the church, at the sign of the Pelican and
Trumpet, where I expect this evening to see you.
"Believe me I am, with more affection than any other woman in the
world can be, my dear Billy,
Your affectionate, fond, doating
F. MATTHEWS."
Booth tore the letter with rage, and threw it into the fire, resolving
never to visit the lady more, unless it was to pay her the money she
had lent him, which he was determined to do the very first
opportunity, for it was not at present in his power.
This letter threw him back into his fit of dejection, in which he had
not continued long when a packet from the country brought him the
following from his friend Dr Harrison:
"Sir, _Lyons, January 21, N. S._
"Though I am now on my return home, I have taken up my pen to
communicate to you some news I have heard from England, which gives me
much uneasiness, and concerning which I can indeed deliver my
sentiments with much more ease this way than any other. In my answer
to your last, I very freely gave you my opinion, in which it was my
misfortune to disapprove of every step you had taken; but those were
all pardonable errors. Can you be so partial to yourself, upon cool
and sober reflexion, to think what I am going to mention is so? I
promise you, it appears to me a folly of so monstrous a kind, that,
had I heard it from any but a person of the highest honour, I should
have rejected it as utterly incredible. I hope you already guess what
I am about to name; since, Heaven forbid, your conduct should afford
you any choice of such gross instances of weakness. In a word, then,
you have set up an equipage. What shall I invent in your excuse,
either to others or to myself? In truth, I can find no excuse for you,
and, what is more, I am certain you can find none for yourself. I must
deal therefore very plainly and sincerely with you. Vanity is always
contemptible; but when joined with dishonesty, it becomes odious and
detestable. At whose expence are you to support this equipage? is it
not entirely at the expence of others? and will it not finally end in
that of your poor wife and children? you know you are two years in
arrears to me. If I could impute this to any extraordinary or common
accident I think I should never have mentioned it; but I will not
suffer my money to support the ridiculous, and, I must say, criminal
vanity of any one. I expect, therefore, to find, at my return, that
you have either discharged my whole debt, or your equipage. Let me beg
you seriously to consider your circumstances and condition in life,
and to remember that your situation will not justify any the least
unnecessary expence. _Simply to be poor,_ says my favourite Greek
historian, _was not held scandalous by the wise Athenians, but highly
so to owe that poverty to our own indiscretion._
"Present my affections to Mrs. Booth, and be assured that I shall not,
without great reason, and great pain too, ever cease to be,
Your most faithful friend,
R. HARRISON."
Had this letter come at any other time, it would have given Booth the
most sensible affliction; but so totally had the affair of Miss
Matthews possessed his mind, that, like a man in the most raging fit
of the gout, he was scarce capable of any additional torture; nay, he
even made an use of this latter epistle, as it served to account to
Amelia for that concern which he really felt on another account. The
poor deceived lady, therefore, applied herself to give him comfort
where he least wanted it. She said he might easily perceive that the
matter had been misrepresented to the doctor, who would not, she was
sure, retain the least anger against him when he knew the real truth.
After a short conversation on this subject, in which Booth appeared to
be greatly consoled by the arguments of his wife, they parted. He went
to take a walk in the Park, and she remained at home to prepare him
his dinner.
He was no sooner departed than his little boy, not quite six years
old, said to Amelia, "La! mamma, what is the matter with poor papa,
what makes him look so as if he was going to cry? he is not half so
merry as he used to be in the country." Amelia answered, "Oh! my dear,
your papa is only a little thoughtful, he will be merry again soon."--
Then looking fondly on her children, she burst into an agony of tears,
and cried, "Oh Heavens; what have these poor little infants done? why
will the barbarous world endeavour to starve them, by depriving us of
our only friend?--O my dear, your father is ruined, and we are
undone!"--The children presently accompanied their mother's tears, and
the daughter cried--"Why, will anybody hurt poor papa? hath he done
any harm to anybody?"--"No, my dear child," said the mother; "he is
the best man in the world, and therefore they hate him." Upon which
the boy, who was extremely sensible at his years, answered, "Nay,
mamma, how can that be? have not you often told me that if I was good
everybody would love me?" "All good people will," answered she. "Why
don't they love papa then?" replied the child, "for I am sure he is
very good." "So they do, my dear," said the mother, "but there are
more bad people in the world, and they will hate you for your
goodness." "Why then, bad people," cries the child, "are loved by more
than the good."--"No matter for that, my dear," said she; "the love of
one good person is more worth having than that of a thousand wicked
ones; nay, if there was no such person in the world, still you must be
a good boy; for there is one in Heaven who will love you, and his love
is better for you than that of all mankind."
This little dialogue, we are apprehensive, will be read with contempt
by many; indeed, we should not have thought it worth recording, was it
not for the excellent example which Amelia here gives to all mothers.
This admirable woman never let a day pass without instructing her
children in some lesson of religion and morality. By which means she
had, in their tender minds, so strongly annexed the ideas of fear and
shame to every idea of evil of which they were susceptible, that it
must require great pains and length of habit to separate them. Though
she was the tenderest of mothers, she never suffered any symptom of
malevolence to shew itself in their most trifling actions without
discouragement, without rebuke, and, if it broke forth with any
rancour, without punishment. In which she had such success, that not
the least mark of pride, envy, malice, or spite discovered itself in
any of their little words or deeds. _