Notwithstanding the exchange of his lodgings, Booth did not forget to send an excuse to Mr. Trent, of whose conversation he had taken a full surfeit the preceding evening.

That day in his walks Booth met with an old brother-officer, who had served with him at Gibraltar, and was on half-pay as well as himself. He had not, indeed, had the fortune of being broke with his regiment, as was Booth, but had gone out, as they call it, on half-pay as a lieutenant, a rank to which he had risen in five-and-thirty years.

This honest gentlеman, after some discourse with Booth, dеsired him to lend him half-a-crown, which he assured him he would faithfully pay the next day, when he was to receive some money for his sister. The sister was the widow of an officer that had been killed in the sea-service; and she and her brother lived together, on their joint stock, out of which they maintained likewise an old mother and two of the sister’s children, the eldest of which was about nine years old. “You must know,” said the old lieutenant, “I have been disappointed this morning by an old scoundrel, who wanted fifteen per cent, for advancing my sister’s pension; but I have now got an honest fellow who hath promised it me to-morrow at ten per cent.”

“And enough too, of all conscience,” cries Booth.

“Why, indeed, I think so too,” answered the other; “considering it is sure to be paid one time or other. To say the truth, it is a little hard the government doth not pay those pensions better; for my sister’s hath been due almost these two years; that is my way of thinking.”

Booth answered he was ashamed to refuse him such a sum; but, “Upon my soul,” said he, “I have not a single halfpenny in my pocket; for I am in a worse condition, if possible, than yourself; for I have lost all my money, and, what is worse, I owe Mr. Trent, whom you remember at Gibraltar, fifty pounds.”

“Remember him! yes, d—n him! I remember him very well,” cries the old gentleman, “though he will not remember me. He is grown so great now that he will not speak to his old acquaintance; and yet I should be ashamed of myself to be great in such a manner.”

“What manner do you mean?” cries Booth, a little eagerly.

“Why, by pimping,” answered the other; “he is pimp in ordinary to my Lord——, who keeps his family; or how the devil he lives else I don’t know, for his place is not worth three hundred pounds a year, and he and his wife spend a thousand at least. But she keeps an assembly, which, I believe, if you was to call a bawdy-house, you would not misname it. But d—n me if I had not rather be an honest man, and walk on foot, with holes in my shoes, as I do now, or go without a dinner, as I and all my family will today, than ride in a chariot and feast by such means. I am honest Bob Bound, and always will be; that’s my way of thinking; and there’s no man shall call me otherwise; for if he doth, I will knock him down for a lying rascal; that is my way of thinking.”

“And a very good way of thinking too,” cries Booth. “However, you shall not want a dinner to-day; for if you will go home with me, I will lend you a crown with all my heart.”

“Lookee,” said the old man, “if it be anywise inconvenient to you I will not have it; for I will never rob another man of his dinner to eat myself—that is my way of thinking.”

“Pooh!” said Booth; “never mention such a trifle twice between you and me. Besides, you say you can pay it me to-morrow; and I promise you that will be the same thing.”

They then walked together to Booth’s lodgings, where Booth, from Amelia’s pocket, gave his friend double the little sum he had asked. Upon which the old gentleman shook him heartily by the hand, and, repeating his intention of paying him the next day, made the best of his way to a butcher’s, whence he carried off a leg of mutton to a family that had lately kept Lent without any religious merit.
When he was gone Amelia asked her husband who that old gentleman was? Booth answered he was one of the scandals of his country; that the Duke of Marlborough had about thirty years before made him an ensign from a private man for very particular merit; and that he had not long since gone out of the army with a broken heart, upon having several boys put over his head. He then gave her an account of his family, which he had heard from the old gentleman in their way to his house, and with which we have already in a concise manner acquainted the reader.

“Good Heavens!” cries Amelia; “what are our great men made of? are they in reality a distinct species from the rest of mankind? are they born without hearts?”

“One would, indeed, sometimes,” cries Booth, “be inclined to think so. In truth, they have no perfect idea of those common distresses of mankind which are far removed from their own sphere. Compassion, if thoroughly examined, will, I believe, appear to be the fellow-feeling only of men of the same rank and degree of life for one another, on account of the evils to which they themselves are liable. Our sensations are, I am afraid, very cold towards those who are at a great distance from us, and whose calamities can consequently never reach us.”

“I remember,” cries Amelia, “a sentiment of Dr Harrison’s, which he told me was in some Latin book; I am a man myself, and my heart is interested in whatever can befal the rest of mankind. That is the sentiment of a good man, and whoever thinks otherwise is a bad one.”

“I have often told you, my dear Emily,” cries Booth, “that all men, as well the best as the worst, act alike from the principle of self-love. Where benevolence therefore is the uppermost passion, self-love directs you to gratify it by doing good, and by relieving the distresses of others; for they are then in reality your own. But where ambition, avarice, pride, or any other passion, governs the man and keeps his benevolence down, the miseries of all other men affect him no more than they would a stock or a stone. And thus the man and his statue have often the same degree of feeling or compassion.”

“I have often wished, my dear,” cries Amelia, “to hear you converse with Dr Harrison on this subject; for I am sure he would convince you, though I can’t, that there are really such things as religion and virtue.”

This was not the first hint of this kind which Amelia had given; for she sometimes apprehended from his discourse that he was little better than an atheist: a consideration which did not diminish her affection for him, but gave her great uneasiness. On all such occasions Booth immediately turned the discourse to some other subject; for, though he had in other points a great opinion of his wife’s capacity, yet as a divine or a philosopher he did not hold her in a very respectable light, nor did he lay any great stress on her sentiments in such matters. He now, therefore, gave a speedy turn to the conversation, and began to talk of affairs below the dignity of this history.