A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

Amelia (Complete)

H >> Henry Fielding >> Amelia (Complete)




"Indeed, madam," said Mrs. Ellison, "you are not worth my answer; nor
will I stay a moment longer with such a person.--So, Mrs. Booth, you
have your choice, madam, whether you will go with me, or remain in the
company of this lady."

"If so, madam," answered Mrs. Booth, "I shall not be long in
determining to stay where I am."

Mrs. Ellison then, casting a look of great indignation at both the
ladies, made a short speech full of invectives against Mrs. Atkinson,
and not without oblique hints of ingratitude against poor Amelia;
after which she burst out of the room, and out of the house, and made
haste to her own home, in a condition of mind to which fortune without
guilt cannot, I believe, reduce any one.

Indeed, how much the superiority of misery is on the side of
wickedness may appear to every reader who will compare the present
situation of Amelia with that of Mrs. Ellison. Fortune had attacked
the former with almost the highest degree of her malice. She was
involved in a scene of most exquisite distress, and her husband, her
principal comfort, torn violently from her arms; yet her sorrow,
however exquisite, was all soft and tender, nor was she without many
consolations. Her case, however hard, was not absolutely desperate;
for scarce any condition of fortune can be so. Art and industry,
chance and friends, have often relieved the most distrest
circumstances, and converted them into opulence. In all these she had
hopes on this side the grave, and perfect virtue and innocence gave
her the strongest assurances on the other. Whereas, in the bosom of
Mrs. Ellison, all was storm and tempest; anger, revenge, fear, and
pride, like so many raging furies, possessed her mind, and tortured
her with disappointment and shame. Loss of reputation, which is
generally irreparable, was to be her lot; loss of friends is of this
the certain consequence; all on this side the grave appeared dreary
and comfortless; and endless misery on the other, closed the gloomy
prospect.

Hence, my worthy reader, console thyself, that however few of the
other good things of life are thy lot, the best of all things, which
is innocence, is always within thy own power; and, though Fortune may
make thee often unhappy, she can never make thee completely and
irreparably miserable without thy own consent.




Chapter iv.

_Containing, among many matters, the exemplary behaviour of Colonel
James._


When Mrs. Ellison was departed, Mrs. Atkinson began to apply all her
art to soothe and comfort Amelia, but was presently prevented by her.
"I am ashamed, dear madam," said Amelia, "of having indulged my
affliction so much at your expense. The suddenness of the occasion is
my only excuse; for, had I had time to summon my resolution to my
assistance, I hope I am mistress of more patience than you have
hitherto seen me exert. I know, madam, in my unwarrantable excesses, I
have been guilty of many transgressions. First, against that Divine
will and pleasure without whose permission, at least, no human
accident can happen; in the next place, madam, if anything can
aggravate such a fault, I have transgressed the laws of friendship as
well as decency, in throwing upon you some part of the load of my
grief; and again, I have sinned against common sense, which should
teach me, instead of weakly and heavily lamenting my misfortunes, to
rouse all my spirits to remove them. In this light I am shocked at my
own folly, and am resolved to leave my children under your care, and
go directly to my husband. I may comfort him. I may assist him. I may
relieve him. There is nothing now too difficult for me to undertake."

Mrs. Atkinson greatly approved and complimented her friend on all the
former part of her speech, except what related to herself, on which
she spoke very civilly, and I believe with great truth; but as to her
determination of going to her husband she endeavoured to dissuade her,
at least she begged her to defer it for the present, and till the
serjeant returned home. She then reminded Amelia that it was now past
five in the afternoon, and that she had not taken any refreshment but
a dish of tea the whole day, and desired she would give her leave to
procure her a chick, or anything she liked better, for her dinner.

Amelia thanked her friend, and said she would sit down with her to
whatever she pleased; "but if I do not eat," said she, "I would not
have you impute it to anything but want of appetite; for I assure you
all things are equally indifferent to me. I am more solicitous about
these poor little things, who have not been used to fast so long.
Heaven knows what may hereafter be their fate!"

Mrs. Atkinson bid her hope the best, and then recommended the children
to the care of her maid.

And now arrived a servant from Mrs. James, with an invitation to
Captain Booth and to his lady to dine with the colonel the day after
the next. This a little perplexed Amelia; but after a short
consideration she despatched an answer to Mrs. James, in which she
concisely informed her of what had happened.

The honest serjeant, who had been on his legs almost the whole day,
now returned, and brought Amelia a short letter from her husband, in
which he gave her the most solemn assurances of his health and
spirits, and begged her with great earnestness to take care to
preserve her own, which if she did, he said, he had no doubt but that
they should shortly be happy. He added something of hopes from my
lord, with which Mrs. Ellison had amused him, and which served only to
destroy the comfort that Amelia received from the rest of his letter.

Whilst Amelia, the serjeant, and his lady, were engaged in a cold
collation, for which purpose a cold chicken was procured from the
tavern for the ladies, and two pound of cold beef for the serjeant, a
violent knocking was heard at the door, and presently afterwards
Colonel James entered the room. After proper compliments had past, the
colonel told Amelia that her letter was brought to Mrs. James while
they were at table, and that on her shewing it him he had immediately
rose up, made an apology to his company, and took a chair to her. He
spoke to her with great tenderness on the occasion, and desired her to
make herself easy; assuring her that he would leave nothing in his
power undone to serve her husband. He then gave her an invitation, in
his wife's name, to his own house, in the most pressing manner.

Amelia returned him very hearty thanks for all his kind offers, but
begged to decline that of an apartment in his house. She said, as she
could not leave her children, so neither could she think of bringing
such a trouble with her into his family; and, though the colonel gave
her many assurances that her children, as well as herself, would be
very welcome to Mrs. James, and even betook himself to entreaties, she
still persisted obstinately in her refusal.

In real truth, Amelia had taken a vast affection for Mrs. Atkinson, of
the comfort of whose company she could not bear to be deprived in her
distress, nor to exchange it for that of Mrs. James, to whom she had
lately conceived no little dislike.

The colonel, when he found he could not prevail with Amelia to accept
his invitation, desisted from any farther solicitations. He then took
a bank-bill of fifty pounds from his pocket-book, and said, "You will
pardon me, dear madam, if I chuse to impute your refusal of my house
rather to a dislike of my wife, who I will not pretend to be the most
agreeable of women (all men," said he, sighing, "have not Captain
Booth's fortune), than to any aversion or anger to me. I must insist
upon it, therefore, to make your present habitation as easy to you as
possible--I hope, madam, you will not deny me this happiness; I beg
you will honour me with the acceptance of this trifle." He then put
the note into her hand, and declared that the honour of touching it
was worth a hundred times that sum.

"I protest, Colonel James," cried Amelia, blushing, "I know not what
to do or say, your goodness so greatly confounds me. Can I, who am so
well acquainted with the many great obligations Mr. Booth already hath
to your generosity, consent that you should add more to a debt we
never can pay?"

The colonel stopt her short, protesting that she misplaced the
obligation; for, that if to confer the highest happiness was to
oblige, he was obliged to her acceptance. "And I do assure you,
madam," said he, "if this trifling sum or a much larger can contribute
to your ease, I shall consider myself as the happiest man upon earth
in being able to supply it, and you, madam, my greatest benefactor in
receiving it."

Amelia then put the note in her pocket, and they entered into a
conversation in which many civil things were said on both sides; but
what was chiefly worth remark was, that Amelia had almost her husband
constantly in her mouth, and the colonel never mentioned him: the
former seemed desirous to lay all obligations, as much as possible, to
the account of her husband; and the latter endeavoured, with the
utmost delicacy, to insinuate that her happiness was the main and
indeed only point which he had in view.

Amelia had made no doubt, at the colonel's first appearance, but that
he intended to go directly to her husband. When he dropt therefore a
hint of his intention to visit him next morning she appeared visibly
shocked at the delay. The colonel, perceiving this, said, "However
inconvenient it may be, yet, madam, if it will oblige you, or if you
desire it, I will even go to-night." Amelia answered, "My husband will
be far from desiring to derive any good from your inconvenience; but,
if you put it to me, I must be excused for saying I desire nothing
more in the world than to send him so great a comfort as I know he
will receive from the presence of such a friend." "Then, to show you,
madam," cries the colonel, "that I desire nothing more in the world
than to give you pleasure, I will go to him immediately."

Amelia then bethought herself of the serjeant, and told the colonel
his old acquaintance Atkinson, whom he had known at Gibraltar, was
then in the house, and would conduct him to the place. The serjeant
was immediately called in, paid his respects to the colonel, and was
acknowledged by him. They both immediately set forward, Amelia to the
utmost of her power pressing their departure.

Mrs. Atkinson now returned to Amelia, and was by her acquainted with
the colonel's late generosity; for her heart so boiled over with
gratitude that she could not conceal the ebullition. Amelia likewise
gave her friend a full narrative of the colonel's former behaviour and
friendship to her husband, as well abroad as in England; and ended
with declaring that she believed him to be the most generous man upon
earth.

Mrs. Atkinson agreed with Amelia's conclusion, and said she was glad
to hear there was any such man. They then proceeded with the children
to the tea-table, where panegyric, and not scandal, was the topic of
their conversation; and of this panegyric the colonel was the subject;
both the ladies seeming to vie with each other in celebrating the
praises of his goodness.




Chapter v.

_Comments upon authors._


Having left Amelia in as comfortable a situation as could possibly be
expected, her immediate distresses relieved, and her heart filled with
great hopes from the friendship of the colonel, we will now return to
Booth, who, when the attorney and serjeant had left him, received a
visit from that great author of whom honourable mention is made in our
second chapter.

Booth, as the reader may be pleased to remember, was a pretty good
master of the classics; for his father, though he designed his son for
the army, did not think it necessary to breed him up a blockhead. He
did not, perhaps, imagine that a competent share of Latin and Greek
would make his son either a pedant or a coward. He considered
likewise, probably, that the life of a soldier is in general a life of
idleness; and might think that the spare hours of an officer in
country quarters would be as well employed with a book as in
sauntering about the streets, loitering in a coffee-house, sotting in
a tavern, or in laying schemes to debauch and ruin a set of harmless
ignorant country girls.

As Booth was therefore what might well be called, in this age at
least, a man of learning, he began to discourse our author on subjects
of literature. "I think, sir," says he, "that Dr Swift hath been
generally allowed, by the critics in this kingdom, to be the greatest
master of humour that ever wrote. Indeed, I allow him to have
possessed most admirable talents of this kind; and, if Rabelais was
his master, I think he proves the truth of the common Greek proverb--
that the scholar is often superior to the master. As to Cervantes, I
do not think we can make any just comparison; for, though Mr. Pope
compliments him with sometimes taking Cervantes' serious air--" "I
remember the passage," cries the author;

"O thou, whatever title please thine ear, Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff,
or Gulliver; Whether you take Cervantes' serious air, Or laugh and
shake in Rabelais' easy chair--"

"You are right, sir," said Booth; "but though I should agree that the
doctor hath sometimes condescended to imitate Rabelais, I do not
remember to have seen in his works the least attempt in the manner of
Cervantes. But there is one in his own way, and whom I am convinced he
studied above all others--you guess, I believe, I am going to name
Lucian. This author, I say, I am convinced, he followed; but I think
he followed him at a distance: as, to say the truth, every other
writer of this kind hath done in my opinion; for none, I think, hath
yet equalled him. I agree, indeed, entirely with Mr. Moyle, in his
Discourse on the age of the Philopatris, when he gives him the epithet
of the incomparable Lucian; and incomparable, I believe, he will
remain as long as the language in which he wrote shall endure. What an
inimitable piece of humour is his Cock!" "I remember it very well,"
cries the author; "his story of a Cock and a Bull is excellent." Booth
stared at this, and asked the author what he meant by the Bull? "Nay,"
answered he, "I don't know very well, upon my soul. It is a long time
since I read him. I learnt him all over at school; I have not read him
much since. And pray, sir," said he, "how do you like his Pharsalia?
don't you think Mr. Rowe's translation a very fine one?" Booth
replied, "I believe we are talking of different authors. The
Pharsalia, which Mr. Rowe translated, was written by Lucan; but I have
been speaking of Lucian, a Greek writer, and, in my opinion, the
greatest in the humorous way that ever the world produced." "Ay!"
cries the author, "he was indeed so, a very excellent writer indeed! I
fancy a translation of him would sell very well!" "I do not know,
indeed," cries Booth. "A good translation of him would be a valuable
book. I have seen a wretched one published by Mr. Dryden, but
translated by others, who in many places have misunderstood Lucian's
meaning, and have nowhere preserved the spirit of the original." "That
is great pity," says the author. "Pray, sir, is he well translated in
the French?" Booth answered, he could not tell; but that he doubted it
very much, having never seen a good version into that language out of
the Greek." To confess the truth, I believe," said he, "the French
translators have generally consulted the Latin only; which, in some of
the few Greek writers I have read, is intolerably bad. And as the
English translators, for the most part, pursue the French, we may
easily guess what spirit those copies of bad copies must preserve of
the original."

"Egad, you are a shrewd guesser," cries the author. "I am glad the
booksellers have not your sagacity. But how should it be otherwise,
considering the price they pay by the sheet? The Greek, you will
allow, is a hard language; and there are few gentlemen that write who
can read it without a good lexicon. Now, sir, if we were to afford
time to find out the true meaning of words, a gentleman would not get
bread and cheese by his work. If one was to be paid, indeed, as Mr.
Pope was for his Homer--Pray, sir, don't you think that the best
translation in the world?"

"Indeed, sir," cries Booth, "I think, though it is certainly a noble
paraphrase, and of itself a fine poem, yet in some places it is no
translation at all. In the very beginning, for instance, he hath not
rendered the true force of the author. Homer invokes his muse in the
five first lines of the Iliad; and, at the end of the fifth, he gives
his reason:

[Greek]

For all these things," says he, "were brought about by the decree of
Jupiter; and, therefore, he supposes their true sources are known only
to the deities. Now, the translation takes no more notice of the [Greek]
than if no such word had been there."

"Very possibly," answered the author; "it is a long time since I read
the original. Perhaps, then, he followed the French translations. I
observe, indeed, he talks much in the notes of Madam Dacier and
Monsieur Eustathius."

Booth had now received conviction enough of his friend's knowledge of
the Greek language; without attempting, therefore, to set him right,
he made a sudden transition to the Latin. "Pray, sir," said he, "as
you have mentioned Rowe's translation of the Pharsalia, do you
remember how he hath rendered that passage in the character of Cato?--

_----Venerisque huic maximus usus
Progenies; urbi Pater est, urbique Maritus._

For I apprehend that passage is generally misunderstood."

"I really do not remember," answered the author. "Pray, sir, what do
you take to be the meaning?"

"I apprehend, sir," replied Booth, "that by these words, _Urbi Pater
est, urbique Maritus_, Cato is represented as the father and husband
to the city of Rome."

"Very true, sir," cries the author; "very fine, indeed.--Not only the
father of his country, but the husband too; very noble, truly!"

"Pardon me, sir," cries Booth; "I do not conceive that to have been
Lucan's meaning. If you please to observe the context; Lucan, having
commended the temperance of Cato in the instances of diet and cloaths,
proceeds to venereal pleasures; of which, says the poet, his principal
use was procreation: then he adds, _Urbi Pater est, urbique Maritus;_
that he became a father and a husband for the sake only of the city."

"Upon my word that's true," cries the author; "I did not think of it.
It is much finer than the other.--_Urbis Pater est_--what is the
other?--ay--_Urbis Maritus._--It is certainly as you say, sir."

Booth was by this pretty well satisfied of the author's profound
learning; however, he was willing to try him a little farther. He
asked him, therefore, what was his opinion of Lucan in general, and in
what class of writers he ranked him?

The author stared a little at this question; and, after some
hesitation, answered, "Certainly, sir, I think he is a fine writer and
a very great poet."

"I am very much of the same opinion," cries Booth; "but where do you
class him--next to what poet do you place him?"

"Let me see," cries the author; "where do I class him? next to whom do
I place him?--Ay!--why--why, pray, where do you yourself place him?"

"Why, surely," cries Booth, "if he is not to be placed in the first
rank with Homer, and Virgil, and Milton, I think clearly he is at the
head of the second, before either Statius or Silius Italicus--though I
allow to each of these their merits; but, perhaps, an epic poem was
beyond the genius of either. I own, I have often thought, if Statius
had ventured no farther than Ovid or Claudian, he would have succeeded
better; for his Sylvae are, in my opinion, much better than his
Thebais."

"I believe I was of the same opinion formerly," said the author.

"And for what reason have you altered it?" cries Booth.

"I have not altered it," answered the author; "but, to tell you the
truth, I have not any opinion at all about these matters at present. I
do not trouble my head much with poetry; for there is no encouragement
to such studies in this age. It is true, indeed, I have now and then
wrote a poem or two for the magazines, but I never intend to write any
more; for a gentleman is not paid for his time. A sheet is a sheet
with the booksellers; and, whether it be in prose or verse, they make
no difference; though certainly there is as much difference to a
gentleman in the work as there is to a taylor between making a plain
and a laced suit. Rhimes are difficult things; they are stubborn
things, sir. I have been sometimes longer in tagging a couplet than I
have been in writing a speech on the side of the opposition which hath
been read with great applause all over the kingdom."

"I am glad you are pleased to confirm that," cries Booth; "for I
protest it was an entire secret to me till this day. I was so
perfectly ignorant, that I thought the speeches published in the
magazines were really made by the members themselves."

"Some of them, and I believe I may, without vanity, say the best,"
cries the author, "are all the productions of my own pen! but I
believe I shall leave it off soon, unless a sheet of speech will fetch
more than it does at present. In truth, the romance-writing is the
only branch of our business now that is worth following. Goods of that
sort have had so much success lately in the market, that a bookseller
scarce cares what he bids for them. And it is certainly the easiest
work in the world; you may write it almost as fast as you can set pen
to paper; and if you interlard it with a little scandal, a little
abuse on some living characters of note, you cannot fail of success."

"Upon my word, sir," cries Booth, "you have greatly instructed me. I
could not have imagined there had been so much regularity in the trade
of writing as you are pleased to mention; by what I can perceive, the
pen and ink is likely to become the staple commodity of the kingdom."

"Alas! sir," answered the author, "it is overstocked. The market is
overstocked. There is no encouragement to merit, no patrons. I have
been these five years soliciting a subscription for my new translation
of Ovid's Metamorphoses, with notes explanatory, historical, and
critical; and I have scarce collected five hundred names yet."

The mention of this translation a little surprized Booth; not only as
the author had just declared his intentions to forsake the tuneful
muses; but, for some other reasons which he had collected from his
conversation with our author, he little expected to hear of a proposal
to translate any of the Latin poets. He proceeded, therefore, to
catechise him a little farther; and by his answers was fully satisfied
that he had the very same acquaintance with Ovid that he had appeared
to have with Lucan.

The author then pulled out a bundle of papers containing proposals for
his subscription, and receipts; and, addressing himself to Booth,
said, "Though the place in which we meet, sir, is an improper place to
solicit favours of this kind, yet, perhaps, it may be in your power to
serve me if you will charge your pockets with some of these." Booth
was just offering at an excuse, when the bailiff introduced Colonel
James and the serjeant.

The unexpected visit of a beloved friend to a man in affliction,
especially in Mr. Booth's situation, is a comfort which can scarce be
equalled; not barely from the hopes of relief or redress by his
assistance, but as it is an evidence of sincere friendship which
scarce admits of any doubt or suspicion. Such an instance doth indeed
make a man amends for all ordinary troubles and distresses; and we
ought to think ourselves gainers by having had such an opportunity of
discovering that we are possessed of one of the most valuable of all
human possessions.

Booth was so transported at the sight of the colonel, that he dropt
the proposals which the author had put into his hands, and burst forth
into the highest professions of gratitude to his friend; who behaved
very properly on his side, and said everything which became the mouth
of a friend on the occasion.

It is true, indeed, he seemed not moved equally either with Booth or
the serjeant, both whose eyes watered at the scene. In truth, the
colonel, though a very generous man, had not the least grain of
tenderness in his disposition. His mind was formed of those firm
materials of which nature formerly hammered out the Stoic, and upon
which the sorrows of no man living could make an impression. A man of
this temper, who doth not much value danger, will fight for the person
he calls his friend, and the man that hath but little value for his
money will give it him; but such friendship is never to be absolutely
depended on; for, whenever the favourite passion interposes with it,
it is sure to subside and vanish into air. Whereas the man whose
tender disposition really feels the miseries of another will endeavour
to relieve them for his own sake; and, in such a mind, friendship will
often get the superiority over every other passion.

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.