Correction Paroles Containing matter pertinent to the history. par Henry Fielding

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Paroles

Amelia, in her way to the doctor’s, determined just to stop at her own lodgings, which lay a little out of the road, and to pay a momentary visit to her children.

This was fortunate enough; for, had she called at the doctor’s house, she would have heard nothing of him, which would have caused in her some alarm and disappointment; for the doctor was set down at Mrs. Atkinson’s, where he was directed to Amelia’s lodgings, to which he went before he called at his own; and here Amеlia now found him playing with her two children.

The doctor had been a littlе surprized at not finding Amelia at home, or any one that could give an account of her. He was now more surprized to see her come in such a dress, and at the disorder which he very plainly perceived in her pale and melancholy countenance. He addressed her first (for indeed she was in no great haste to speak), and cried, “My dear child, what is the matter? where is your husband? some mischief I am afraid hath happened to him in my absence.”

“O my dear doctor!” answered Amelia, “sure some good angel hath sent you hither. My poor Will is arrested again. I left him in the most miserable condition in the very house whence your goodness formerly redeemed him.”

“Arrested!” cries the doctor. “Then it must be for some very inconsiderable trifle.”

“I wish it was,” said Amelia; “but it is for no less than fifty pound.”

“Then,” cries the doctor, “he hath been disingenuous with me. He told me he did not owe ten pounds in the world for which he was liable to be sued.”

“I know not what to say,” cries Amelia. “Indeed, I am afraid to tell you the truth.”

“How, child?” said the doctor—“I hope you will never disguise it to any one, especially to me. Any prevarication, I promise you, will forfeit my friendship for ever.”

“I will tell you the whole,” cries Amelia, “and rely entirely on your goodness.” She then related the gaming story, not forgetting to set in the fullest light, and to lay the strongest emphasis on, his promise never to play again.

The doctor fetched a deep sigh when he had heard Amelia’s relation, and cried, “I am sorry, child, for the share you are to partake in your husband’s sufferings; but as for him, I really think he deserves no compa**ion. You say he hath promised never to play again, but I must tell you he hath broke his promise to me already; for I had heard he was formerly addicted to this vice, and had given him sufficient caution against it. You will consider, child, I am already pretty largely engaged for him, every farthing of which I am sensible I must pay. You know I would go to the utmost verge of prudence to serve you; but I must not exceed my ability, which is not very great; and I have several families on my hands who are by misfortune alone brought to want. I do a**ure you I cannot at present answer for such a sum as this without distressing my own circ*mstances.”

“Then Heaven have mercy upon us all!” cries Amelia, “for we have no other friend on earth: my husband is undone, and these poor little wretches must be starved.”

The doctor cast his eyes on the children, and then cried, “I hope not so. I told you I must distress my circ*mstances, and I will distress them this once on your account, and on the account of these poor little babes. But things must not go on any longer in this way. You must take an heroic resolution. I will hire a coach for you to-morrow morning which shall carry you all down to my parsonage-house. There you shall have my protection till something can be done for your husband; of which, to be plain with you, I at present see no likelihood.”
Amelia fell upon her knees in an ecstasy of thanksgiving to the doctor, who immediately raised her up, and placed her in her chair. She then recollected herself, and said, “O my worthy friend, I have still another matter to mention to you, in which I must have both your advice and a**istance. My soul blushes to give you all this trouble; but what other friend have I?—indeed, what other friend could I apply to so properly on such an occasion?”

The doctor, with a very kind voice and countenance, desired her to speak. She then said, “O sir! that wicked colonel whom I have mentioned to you formerly hath picked some quarrel with my husband (for she did not think proper to mention the cause), and hath sent him a challenge. It came to my hand last night after he was arrested: I opened and read it.”

“Give it me, child,” said the doctor.

She answered she had burnt it, as was indeed true. “But I remember it was an appointment to meet with sword and pistol this morning at Hyde-park.”

“Make yourself easy, my dear child,” cries the doctor; “I will take care to prevent any mischief.”

“But consider, my dear sir,” said she, “this is a tender matter. My husband’s honour is to be preserved as well as his life.”

“And so is his soul, which ought to be the dearest of all things,” cries the doctor. “Honour! nonsense! Can honour dictate to him to disobey the express commands of his Maker, in compliance with a custom established by a set of blockheads, founded on false principles of virtue, in direct opposition to the plain and positive precepts of religion, and tending manifestly to give a sanction to ruffians, and to protect them in all the ways of impudence and villany?”

“All this, I believe, is very true,” cries Amelia; “but yet you know, doctor, the opinion of the world.”

“You talk simply, child,” cries the doctor. “What is the opinion of the world opposed to religion and virtue? but you are in the wrong. It is not the opinion of the world; it is the opinion of the idle, ignorant, and profligate. It is impossible it should be the opinion of one man of sense, who is in earnest in his belief of our religion. Chiefly, indeed, it hath been upheld by the nonsense of women, who, either from their extreme cowardice and desire of protection, or, as Mr. Bayle thinks, from their excessive vanity, have been always forward to countenance a set of hectors and bravoes, and to despise all men of modesty and sobriety; though these are often, at the bottom, not only the better but the braver men.”

“You know, doctor,” cries Amelia, “I have never presumed to argue with you; your opinion is to me always instruction, and your word a law.”

“Indeed, child,” cries the doctor, “I know you are a good woman; and yet I must observe to you, that this very desire of feeding the pa**ion of female vanity with the heroism of her man, old Homer seems to make the characteristic of a bad and loose woman. He introduces Helen upbraiding her gallant with having quitted the fight, and left the victory to Menelaus, and seeming to be sorry that she had left her husband only because he was the better duellist of the two: but in how different a light doth he represent the tender and chaste love of Andromache to her worthy Hector! she dissuades him from exposing himself to danger, even in a just cause. This is indeed a weakness, but it is an amiable one, and becoming the true feminine character; but a woman who, out of heroic vanity (for so it is), would hazard not only the life but the soul too of her husband in a duel, is a monster, and ought to be painted in no other character but that of a Fury.”

“I a**ure you, doctor,” cries Amelia, “I never saw this matter in the odious light in which you have truly represented it, before. I am ashamed to recollect what I have formerly said on this subject. And yet, whilst the opinion of the world is as it is, one would wish to comply as far as possible, especially as my husband is an officer of the army. If it can be done, therefore, with safety to his honour—”

“Again honour!” cries the doctor; “indeed I will not suffer that noble word to be so basely and barbarously prost**uted. I have known some of these men of honour, as they call themselves, to be the most arrant rascals in the universe.”
“Well, I ask your pardon,” said she; “reputation then, if you please, or any other word you like better; you know my meaning very well.”

“I do know your meaning,” cries the doctor, “and Virgil knew it a great while ago. The next time you see your friend Mrs. Atkinson, ask her what it was made Dido fall in love with AEneas?”

“Nay, dear sir,” said Amelia, “do not rally me so unmercifully; think where my poor husband is now.”

“He is,” answered the doctor, “where I will presently be with him. In the mean time, do you pack up everything in order for your journey to-morrow; for if you are wise, you will not trust your husband a day longer in this town—therefore to packing.”

Amelia promised she would, though indeed she wanted not any warning for her journey on this account; for when she packed up herself in the coach, she packed up her all. However, she did not think proper to mention this to the doctor; for, as he was now in pretty good humour, she did not care to venture again discomposing his temper.

The doctor then set out for Gray’s-inn-lane, and, as soon as he was gone, Amelia began to consider of her incapacity to take a journey in her present situation without even a clean shift. At last she resolved, as she was possessed of seven guineas and a half, to go to her friend and redeem some of her own and her husband’s linen out of captivity; indeed just so much as would render it barely possible for them to go out of town with any kind of decency. And this resolution she immediately executed.

As soon as she had finished her business with the pawnbroker (if a man who lends under thirty per cent. deserves that name), he said to her, “Pray, madam, did you know that man who was here yesterday when you brought the picture?” Amelia answered in the negative. “Indeed, madam,” said the broker, “he knows you, though he did not recollect you while you was here, as your hood was drawn over your face; but the moment you was gone he begged to look at the picture, which I, thinking no harm, permitted. He had scarce looked upon it when he cried out, ‘By heaven and earth it is her picture!’ He then asked me if I knew you.” “Indeed,” says I, “I never saw the lady before.”

In this last particular, however, the pawnbroker a little savoured of his profession, and made a small deviation from the truth, for, when the man had asked him if he knew the lady, he answered she was some poor undone woman who had pawned all her cloathes to him the day before; and I suppose, says he, this picture is the last of her goods and chattels. This hint we thought proper to give the reader, as it may chance to be material.

Amelia answered coldly that she had taken so very little notice of the man that she scarce remembered he was there.

“I a**ure you, madam,” says the pawnbroker, “he hath taken very great notice of you; for the man changed countenance upon what I said, and presently after begged me to give him a dram. Oho! thinks I to myself, are you thereabouts? I would not be so much in love with some folks as some people are for more interest than I shall ever make of a thousand pound.”

Amelia blushed, and said, with some peevishness, “That she knew nothing of the man, but supposed he was some impertinent fellow or other.”

“Nay, madam,” answered the pawnbroker, “I a**ure you he is not worthy your regard. He is a poor wretch, and I believe I am possessed of most of his moveables. However, I hope you are not offended, for indeed he said no harm; but he was very strangely disordered, that is the truth of it.”

Amelia was very desirous of putting an end to this conversation, and altogether as eager to return to her children; she therefore bundled up her things as fast as she could, and, calling for a hackney-coach, directed the coachman to her lodgings, and bid him drive her home with all the haste he could.

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