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Title: Joseph Andrews Vol. 1

Author: Henry Fielding

Posting Date: November 17, 2011 [EBook #9611]
Release Date: January, 2006
First Posted: October 9, 2003

Language: English

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THE WORKS OF HENRY FIELDING

EDITED BY GEORGE SAINTSBURY

IN TWELVE VOLUMES

VOL. I.



JOSEPH ANDREWS

VOL. I.




CONTENTS.


  INTRODUCTION.

  PREFACE.

  BOOK I.

  CHAPTER I.
  _Of writing lives in general, and particularly of Pamela, with a word
  by the bye of Colley Cibber and others_

  CHAPTER II.
  _Of Mr Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, education, and great
  endowments, with a word or two concerning ancestors_

  CHAPTER III.
  _Of Mr Abraham Adams the curate, Mrs Slipslop the chambermaid, and
  others_

  CHAPTER IV.
  _What happened after their journey to London_

  CHAPTER V.
  _The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and mournful
  behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of Joseph Andrews_

  CHAPTER VI.
  _How Joseph Andrews writ a letter to his sister Pamela_

  CHAPTER VII.
  _Sayings of wise men. A dialogue between the lady and her maid; and
  a panegyric, or rather satire, on the passion of love, in the sublime
  style_

  CHAPTER VIII.
  _In which, after some very fine writing, the history goes on, and
  relates the interview between the lady and Joseph; where the latter
  hath set an example which we despair of seeing followed by his sex in
  this vicious age_

  CHAPTER IX.
  _What passed between the lady and Mrs Slipslop; in which we prophesy
  there are some strokes which every one will not truly comprehend at
  the first reading_

  CHAPTER X.
  _Joseph writes another letter; his transactions with Mr Peter Pounce,
  &c., with his departure from Lady Booby_

  CHAPTER XI.
  _Of several new matters not expected_

  CHAPTER XII.
  _Containing many surprizing adventures which Joseph Andrews met with
  on the road, scarce credible to those who have never travelled in a
  stage-coach_

  CHAPTER XIII.
  _What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with the
  curious discourse between him and Mr Barnabas, the parson of the
  parish_

  CHAPTER XIV.
  _Being very full of adventures which succeeded each other at the inn_

  CHAPTER XV.
  _Showing how Mrs Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how officious
  Mr Barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the thief: with a
  dissertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other
  persons not mentioned in this history_

  CHAPTER XVI.
  _The escape of the thief. Mr Adams's disappointment. The arrival of
  two very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of parson
  Adams to parson Barnabas_

  CHAPTER XVII.
  _A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the bookseller,
  which was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn,
  which produced a dialogue between Mrs Tow-wouse and her maid of no
  gentle kind._

  CHAPTER XVIII.
  _The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of what
  occasioned the violent scene in the preceding chapter_


  BOOK II.

  CHAPTER I.
  _Of Divisions in Authors_

  CHAPTER II.
  _A surprizing instance of Mr Adams's short memory, with the
  unfortunate consequences which it brought on Joseph_

  CHAPTER III.
  _The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, with Mr
  Adams's inquiry into the religion of his host_

  CHAPTER IV.
  _The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt_

  CHAPTER V.
  _A dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn where the company
  dined, with its bloody consequences to Mr Adams_

  CHAPTER VI.
  _Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt_

  CHAPTER VII.
  _A very short chapter, in which parson Adams went a great way_

  CHAPTER VIII.
  _A notable dissertation by Mr Abraham Adams; wherein that gentleman
  appears in a political light_

  CHAPTER IX.
  _In which the gentleman discants on bravery and heroic virtue, till
  an unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse_

  CHAPTER X.
  _Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding
  adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities; and who the
  woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to his victorious
  arm_

  CHAPTER XI.
  _What happened to them while before the justice. A chapter very full
  of learning_

  CHAPTER XII.
  _A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to
  the good-natured reader_

  CHAPTER XIII.
  _A dissertation concerning high people and low people, with Mrs
  Slipslop's departure in no very good temper of mind, and the evil
  plight in which she left Adams and his company_


  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


  PORTRAIT OF FIELDING, FROM BUST IN THE SHIRE HALL, TAUNTON
  "JOSEPH, I AM SORRY TO HEAR SUCH COMPLAINTS AGAINST YOU"
  THE HOSTLER PRESENTED HIM A BILL
  JOSEPH THANKED HER ON HIS KNEES




GENERAL INTRODUCTION.


There are few amusements more dangerous for an author than the
indulgence in ironic descriptions of his own work. If the irony is
depreciatory, posterity is but too likely to say, "Many a true word is
spoken in jest;" if it is encomiastic, the same ruthless and ungrateful
critic is but too likely to take it as an involuntary confession of
folly and vanity. But when Fielding, in one of his serio-comic
introductions to _Tom Jones_, described it as "this prodigious work," he
all unintentionally (for he was the least pretentious of men)
anticipated the verdict which posterity almost at once, and with
ever-increasing suffrage of the best judges as time went on, was about
to pass not merely upon this particular book, but upon his whole genius
and his whole production as a novelist. His work in other kinds is of a
very different order of excellence. It is sufficiently interesting at
times in itself; and always more than sufficiently interesting as his;
for which reasons, as well as for the further one that it is
comparatively little known, a considerable selection from it is offered
to the reader in the last two volumes of this edition. Until the present
occasion (which made it necessary that I should acquaint myself with
it) I own that my own knowledge of these miscellaneous writings was by
no means thorough. It is now pretty complete; but the idea which I
previously had of them at first and second hand, though a little
improved, has not very materially altered. Though in all this hack-work
Fielding displayed, partially and at intervals, the same qualities which
he displayed eminently and constantly in the four great books here
given, he was not, as the French idiom expresses it, _dans son
assiette_, in his own natural and impregnable disposition and situation
of character and ability, when he was occupied on it. The novel was for
him that _assiette_; and all his novels are here.

Although Henry Fielding lived in quite modern times, although by family
and connections he was of a higher rank than most men of letters, and
although his genius was at once recognised by his contemporaries so soon
as it displayed itself in its proper sphere, his biography until very
recently was by no means full; and the most recent researches, including
those of Mr Austin Dobson--a critic unsurpassed for combination of
literary faculty and knowledge of the eighteenth century--have not
altogether sufficed to fill up the gaps. His family, said to have
descended from a member of the great house of Hapsburg who came to
England in the reign of Henry II., distinguished itself in the Wars of
the Roses, and in the seventeenth century was advanced to the peerages
of Denbigh in England and (later) of Desmond in Ireland. The novelist
was the grandson of John Fielding, Canon of Salisbury, the fifth son of
the first Earl of Desmond of this creation. The canon's third son,
Edmond, entered the army, served under Marlborough, and married Sarah
Gold or Gould, daughter of a judge of the King's Bench. Their eldest son
was Henry, who was born on April 22, 1707, and had an uncertain number
of brothers and sisters of the whole blood. After his first wife's
death, General Fielding (for he attained that rank) married again. The
most remarkable offspring of the first marriage, next to Henry, was his
sister Sarah, also a novelist, who wrote David Simple; of the second,
John, afterwards Sir John Fielding, who, though blind, succeeded his
half-brother as a Bow Street magistrate, and in that office combined an
equally honourable record with a longer tenure.

Fielding was born at Sharpham Park in Somersetshire, the seat of his
maternal grandfather; but most of his early youth was spent at East
Stour in Dorsetshire, to which his father removed after the judge's
death. He is said to have received his first education under a parson of
the neighbourhood named Oliver, in whom a very uncomplimentary tradition
sees the original of Parson Trulliber. He was then certainly sent to
Eton, where he did not waste his time as regards learning, and made
several valuable friends. But the dates of his entering and leaving
school are alike unknown; and his subsequent sojourn at Leyden for two
years--though there is no reason to doubt it--depends even less upon
any positive documentary evidence. This famous University still had a
great repute as a training school in law, for which profession he was
intended; but the reason why he did not receive the even then far more
usual completion of a public school education by a sojourn at Oxford or
Cambridge may be suspected to be different. It may even have had
something to do with a curious escapade of his about which not very much
is known--an attempt to carry off a pretty heiress of Lyme, named
Sarah Andrew.

Even at Leyden, however, General Fielding seems to have been unable or
unwilling to pay his son's expenses, which must have been far less there
than at an English University; and Henry's return to London in 1728-29
is said to have been due to sheer impecuniosity. When he returned to
England, his father was good enough to make him an allowance of L200
nominal, which appears to have been equivalent to L0 actual. And as
practically nothing is known of him for the next six or seven years,
except the fact of his having worked industriously enough at a large
number of not very good plays of the lighter kind, with a few poems and
miscellanies, it is reasonably enough supposed that he lived by his pen.
The only product of this period which has kept (or indeed which ever
received) competent applause is _Tom Thumb, or the Tragedy of
Tragedies_, a following of course of the _Rehearsal_, but full of humour
and spirit. The most successful of his other dramatic works were the
_Mock Doctor_ and the _Miser_, adaptations of Moliere's famous pieces.
His undoubted connection with the stage, and the fact of the
contemporary existence of a certain Timothy Fielding, helped suggestions
of less dignified occupations as actor, booth-keeper, and so forth; but
these have long been discredited and indeed disproved.

In or about 1735, when Fielding was twenty-eight, we find him in a new,
a more brilliant and agreeable, but even a more transient phase. He had
married (we do not know when or where) Miss Charlotte Cradock, one of
three sisters who lived at Salisbury (it is to be observed that
Fielding's entire connections, both in life and letters, are with the
Western Counties and London), who were certainly of competent means, and
for whose alleged illegitimacy there is no evidence but an unsupported
fling of that old maid of genius, Richardson. The descriptions both of
Sophia and of Amelia are said to have been taken from this lady; her
good looks and her amiability are as well established as anything of the
kind can be in the absence of photographs and affidavits; and it is
certain that her husband was passionately attached to her, during their
too short married life. His method, however, of showing his affection
smacked in some ways too much of the foibles which he has attributed to
Captain Booth, and of those which we must suspect Mr Thomas Jones would
also have exhibited, if he had not been adopted as Mr Allworthy's heir,
and had not had Mr Western's fortune to share and look forward to. It is
true that grave breaches have been made by recent criticism in the very
picturesque and circumstantial story told on the subject by Murphy, the
first of Fielding's biographers. This legend was that Fielding, having
succeeded by the death of his mother to a small estate at East Stour,
worth about L200 a year, and having received L1500 in ready money as his
wife's fortune, got through the whole in three years by keeping open
house, with a large retinue in "costly yellow liveries," and so forth.
In details, this story has been simply riddled. His mother had died long
before; he was certainly not away from London three years, or anything
like it; and so forth. At the same time, the best and soberest judges
agree that there is an intrinsic probability, a consensus (if a vague
one) of tradition, and a chain of almost unmistakably personal
references in the novels, which plead for a certain amount of truth, at
the bottom of a much embellished legend. At any rate, if Fielding
established himself in the country, it was not long before he returned
to town; for early in 1736 we find him back again, and not merely a
playwright, but lessee of the "Little Theatre" in the Haymarket. The
plays which he produced here--satirico-political pieces, such as
_Pasquin_ and the _Historical Register_--were popular enough, but
offended the Government; and in 1737 a new bill regulating theatrical
performances, and instituting the Lord Chamberlain's control, was
passed. This measure put an end directly to the "Great Mogul's Company,"
as Fielding had called his troop, and indirectly to its manager's career
as a playwright. He did indeed write a few pieces in future years, but
they were of the smallest importance.

After this check he turned at last to a serious profession, entered
himself of the Middle Temple in November of the same year, and was
called three years later; but during these years, and indeed for some
time afterwards, our information about him is still of the vaguest
character. Nobody doubts that he had a large share in the _Champion_, an
essay-periodical on the usual eighteenth-century model, which began to
appear in 1739, and which is still occasionally consulted for the work
that is certainly or probably his. He went the Western Circuit, and
attended the Wiltshire Sessions, after he was called, giving up his
contributions to periodicals soon after that event. But he soon returned
to literature proper, or rather made his _debut_ in it, with the
immortal book now republished. The _History of the Adventures of Joseph
Andrews, and his Friend Mr Abraham Adams_, appeared in February 1742,
and its author received from Andrew Millar, the publisher, the sum of
L183, 11s. Even greater works have fetched much smaller sums; but it
will be admitted that _Joseph Andrews_ was not dear.

The advantage, however, of presenting a survey of an author's life
uninterrupted by criticism is so clear, that what has to be said about
_Joseph_ may be conveniently postponed for the moment. Immediately after
its publication the author fell back upon miscellaneous writing, and in
the next year (1743) collected and issued three volumes of
_Miscellanies_. In the two first volumes the only thing of much interest
is the unfinished and unequal, but in part powerful, _Journey from this
World to the Next_, an attempt of a kind which Fontenelle and others,
following Lucian, had made very popular with the time. But the third
volume of the _Miscellanies_ deserved a less modest and gregarious
appearance, for it contained, and is wholly occupied by, the wonderful
and terrible satire of _Jonathan Wild_, the greatest piece of pure irony
in English out of Swift. Soon after the publication of the book, a great
calamity came on Fielding. His wife had been very ill when he wrote the
preface; soon afterwards she was dead. They had taken the chance, had
made the choice, that the more prudent and less wise student-hero and
heroine of Mr Browning's _Youth and Art_ had shunned; they had no doubt
"sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired," and we need
not question, that they had also "been happy."

Except this sad event and its rather incongruous sequel, Fielding's
marriage to his wife's maid Mary Daniel--a marriage, however, which did
not take place till full four years later, and which by all accounts
supplied him with a faithful and excellent companion and nurse, and his
children with a kind stepmother--little or nothing is again known of
this elusive man of genius between the publication of the _Miscellanies_
in 1743, and that of _Tom Jones_ in 1749. The second marriage itself in
November 1747; an interview which Joseph Warton had with him rather more
than a year earlier (one of the very few direct interviews we have); the
publication of two anti-Jacobite newspapers (Fielding was always a
strong Whig and Hanoverian), called the _True Patriot_ and the
_Jacobite's Journal_ in 1745 and the following years; some indistinct
traditions about residences at Twickenham and elsewhere, and some, more
precise but not much more authenticated, respecting patronage by the
Duke of Bedford, Mr Lyttelton, Mr Allen, and others, pretty well sum up
the whole.

_Tom Jones_ was published in February (a favourite month with Fielding
or his publisher Millar) 1749; and as it brought him the, for those
days, very considerable sum of L600 to which Millar added another
hundred later, the novelist must have been, for a time at any rate,
relieved from his chronic penury. But he had already, by Lyttelton's
interest, secured his first and last piece of preferment, being made
Justice of the Peace for Westminster, an office on which he entered with
characteristic vigour. He was qualified for it not merely by a solid
knowledge of the law, and by great natural abilities, but by his
thorough kindness of heart; and, perhaps, it may also be added, by his
long years of queer experience on (as Mr Carlyle would have said) the
"burning marl" of the London Bohemia. Very shortly afterwards he was
chosen Chairman of Quarter Sessions, and established himself in Bow
Street. The Bow Street magistrate of that time occupied a most singular
position, and was more like a French Prefect of Police or even a
Minister of Public Safety than a mere justice. Yet he was ill paid.
Fielding says that the emoluments, which before his accession had but
been L500 a year of "dirty" money, were by his own action but L300 of
clean; and the work, if properly performed, was very severe.

That he performed it properly all competent evidence shows, a foolish,
inconclusive, and I fear it must be said emphatically snobbish story of
Walpole's notwithstanding. In particular, he broke up a gang of
cut-throat thieves, which had been the terror of London. But his tenure
of the post was short enough, and scarcely extended to five years. His
health had long been broken, and he was now constantly attacked by gout,
so that he had frequently to retreat on Bath from Bow Street, or his
suburban cottage of Fordhook, Ealing. But he did not relax his literary
work. His pen was active with pamphlets concerning his office; _Amelia_,
his last novel, appeared towards the close of 1751; and next year saw
the beginning of a new paper, the _Covent Garden Journal_, which
appeared twice a week, ran for the greater part of the year, and died in
November. Its great author did not see that month twice again. In the
spring of 1753 he grew worse; and after a year's struggle with ill
health, hard work, and hard weather, lesser measures being pronounced
useless, was persuaded to try the "Portugal Voyage," of which he has
left so charming a record in the _Journey to Lisbon_. He left Fordhook
on June 26, 1754, reached Lisbon in August, and, dying there on the 8th
of October, was buried in the cemetery of the Estrella.

Of not many writers perhaps does a clearer notion, as far as their
personality goes, exist in the general mind that interests itself at all
in literature than of Fielding. Yet more than once a warning has been
sounded, especially by his best and most recent biographer, to the
effect that this idea is founded upon very little warranty of scripture.
The truth is, that as the foregoing record--which, brief as it is, is a
sufficiently faithful summary--will have shown, we know very little
about Fielding. We have hardly any letters of his, and so lack the best
by far and the most revealing of all character-portraits; we have but
one important autobiographic fragment, and though that is of the highest
interest and value, it was written far in the valley of the shadow of
death, it is not in the least retrospective, and it affords but dim and
inferential light on his younger, healthier, and happier days and ways.
He came, moreover, just short of one set of men of letters, of whom we
have a great deal of personal knowledge, and just beyond another. He was
neither of those about Addison, nor of those about Johnson. No intimate
friend of his has left us anything elaborate about him. On the other
hand, we have a far from inconsiderable body of documentary evidence, of
a kind often by no means trustworthy. The best part of it is contained
in the letters of his cousin, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and the
reminiscences or family traditions of her grand-daughter, Lady Louisa
Stuart. But Lady Mary, vivacious and agreeable as she is, had with all
her talent a very considerable knack of writing for effect, of drawing
strong contrasts and the like; and it is not quite certain that she saw
very much of Fielding in the last and most interesting third of his
life. Another witness, Horace Walpole, to less knowledge and equally
dubious accuracy, added decided ill-will, which may have been due partly
to the shrinking of a dilettante and a fop from a burly Bohemian; but I
fear is also consequent upon the fact that Horace could not afford to
despise Fielding's birth, and knew him to be vastly his own superior in
genius. We hear something of him again from Richardson; and Richardson
hated him with the hatred of dissimilar genius, of inferior social
position, and, lastly, of the cat for the dog who touzles and worries
her. Johnson partly inherited or shared Richardson's aversion, partly
was blinded to Fielding's genius by his aggressive Whiggery. I fear,
too, that he was incapable of appreciating it for reasons other than
political. It is certain that Johnson, sane and robust as he was, was
never quite at ease before genius of the gigantic kind, either in dead
or living. Whether he did not like to have to look up too much, or was
actually unable to do so, it is certain that Shakespeare, Milton,
Swift, and Fielding, those four Atlantes of English verse and prose, all
affected him with lukewarm admiration, or with positive dislike, for
which it is vain to attempt to assign any uniform secondary cause,
political or other. It may be permitted to hint another reason. All
Johnson's most sharp-sighted critics have noticed, though most have
discreetly refrained from insisting on, his "thorn-in-the-flesh," the
combination in him of very strong physical passions with the deepest
sense of the moral and religious duty of abstinence. It is perhaps
impossible to imagine anything more distasteful to a man so buffeted,
than the extreme indulgence with which Fielding regards, and the easy
freedom, not to say gusto, with which he depicts, those who succumb to
similar temptation. Only by supposing the workings of some subtle
influence of this kind is it possible to explain, even in so capricious
a humour as Johnson's, the famous and absurd application of the term
"barren rascal" to a writer who, dying almost young, after having for
many years lived a life of pleasure, and then for four or five one of
laborious official duty, has left work anything but small in actual
bulk, and fertile with the most luxuriant growth of intellectual
originality.

Partly on the _obiter dicta_ of persons like these, partly on the still
more tempting and still more treacherous ground of indications drawn
from his works, a Fielding of fantasy has been constructed, which in
Thackeray's admirable sketch attains real life and immortality as a
creature of art, but which possesses rather dubious claims as a
historical character. It is astonishing how this Fielding of fantasy
sinks and shrivels when we begin to apply the horrid tests of criticism
to his component parts. The _eidolon_, with inked ruffles and a towel
round his head, sits in the Temple and dashes off articles for the
_Covent Garden Journal_; then comes Criticism, hellish maid, and reminds
us that when the _Covent Garden Journal_ appeared, Fielding's wild oats,
if ever sown at all, had been sown long ago; that he was a busy
magistrate and householder in Bow Street; and that, if he had towels
round his head, it was probably less because he had exceeded in liquor
than because his Grace of Newcastle had given him a headache by wanting
elaborate plans and schemes prepared at an hour's notice. Lady Mary,
apparently with some envy, tells us that he could "feel rapture with his
cook-maid." "Which many has," as Mr Ridley remarks, from Xanthias
Phoceus downwards; but when we remember the historic fact that he
married this maid (not a "cook-maid" at all), and that though he always
speaks of her with warm affection and hearty respect, such "raptures" as
we have of his clearly refer to a very different woman, who was both a
lady and a beautiful one, we begin a little to shake our heads. Horace
Walpole at second-hand draws us a Fielding, pigging with low companions
in a house kept like a hedge tavern; Fielding himself, within a year or
two, shows us more than half-undesignedly in the _Voyage to Lisbon_ that
he was very careful about the appointments and decency of his table,
that he stood rather upon ceremony in regard to his own treatment of his
family, and the treatment of them and himself by others, and that he was
altogether a person orderly, correct, and even a little finikin. Nor is
there the slightest reasonable reason to regard this as a piece of
hypocrisy, a vice as alien from the Fielding of fancy as from the
Fielding of fact, and one the particular manifestation of which, in this
particular place, would have been equally unlikely and unintelligible.

It may be asked whether I propose to substitute for the traditional
Fielding a quite different person, of regular habits and methodical
economy. Certainly not. The traditional estimate of great men is rarely
wrong altogether, but it constantly has a habit of exaggerating and
dramatising their characteristics. For some things in Fielding's career
we have positive evidence of document, and evidence hardly less certain
of probability. Although I believe the best judges are now of opinion
that his impecuniosity has been overcharged, he certainly had
experiences which did not often fall to the lot of even a cadet of good
family in the eighteenth century. There can be no reasonable doubt that
he was a man who had a leaning towards pretty girls and bottles of good
wine; and I should suppose that if the girl were kind and fairly
winsome, he would not have insisted that she should possess Helen's
beauty, that if the bottle of good wine were not forthcoming, he would
have been very tolerant of a mug of good ale. He may very possibly have
drunk more than he should, and lost more than he could conveniently pay.
It may be put down as morally ascertained that towards all these
weaknesses of humanity, and others like unto them, he held an attitude
which was less that of the unassailable philosopher than that of the
sympathiser, indulgent and excusing. In regard more especially to what
are commonly called moral delinquencies, this attitude was so decided
as to shock some people even in those days, and many in these. Just when
the first sheets of this edition were passing through the press, a
violent attack was made in a newspaper correspondence on the morality of
_Tom Jones_ by certain notorious advocates of Purity, as some say, of
Pruriency and Prudery combined, according to less complimentary
estimates. Even midway between the two periods we find the admirable
Miss Ferrier, a sister of Fielding's own craft, who sometimes had
touches of nature and satire not far inferior to his own, expressing by
the mouth of one of her characters with whom she seems partly to agree,
the sentiment that his works are "vanishing like noxious exhalations."
Towards any misdoing by persons of the one sex towards persons of the
other, when it involved brutality or treachery, Fielding was pitiless;
but when treachery and brutality were not concerned, he was, to say the
least, facile. So, too, he probably knew by experience--he certainly
knew by native shrewdness and acquired observation--that to look too
much on the wine when it is red, or on the cards when they are
parti-coloured, is ruinous to health and fortune; but he thought not
over badly of any man who did these things. Still it is possible to
admit this in him, and to stop short of that idea of a careless and
reckless _viveur_ which has so often been put forward. In particular,
Lady Mary's view of his childlike enjoyment of the moment has been, I
think, much exaggerated by posterity, and was probably not a little
mistaken by the lady herself. There are two moods in which the motto is
_Carpe diem_, one a mood of simply childish hurry, the other one where
behind the enjoyment of the moment lurks, and in which the enjoyment of
the moment is not a little heightened by, that vast ironic consciousness
of the before and after, which I at least see everywhere in the
background of Fielding's work.

The man, however, of whom we know so little, concerns us much less than
the author of the works, of which it only rests with ourselves to know
everything. I have above classed Fielding as one of the four Atlantes of
English verse and prose, and I doubt not that both the phrase and the
application of it to him will meet with question and demur. I have only
to interject, as the critic so often has to interject, a request to the
court to take what I say in the sense in which I say it. I do not mean
that Shakespeare, Milton, Swift, and Fielding are in all or even in most
respects on a level. I do not mean that the three last are in all
respects of the greatest names in English literature. I only mean that,
in a certain quality, which for want of a better word I have chosen to
call Atlantean, they stand alone. Each of them, for the metaphor is
applicable either way, carries a whole world on his shoulders, or looks
down on a whole world from his natural altitude. The worlds are
different, but they are worlds; and though the attitude of the giants is
different also, it agrees in all of them on the points of competence and
strength. Take whomsoever else we may among our men of letters, and we
shall find this characteristic to be in comparison wanting. These four
carry their world, and are not carried by it; and if it, in the language
so dear to Fielding himself, were to crash and shatter, the inquiry,
"_Que vous reste-t-il?_" could be answered by each, "_Moi!_"

The appearance which Fielding makes is no doubt the most modest of the
four. He has not Shakespeare's absolute universality, and in fact not
merely the poet's tongue, but the poet's thought seems to have been
denied him. His sphere is not the ideal like Milton's. His irony,
splendid as it is, falls a little short of that diabolical magnificence
which exalts Swift to the point whence, in his own way, he surveys all
the kingdoms of the world, and the glory or vainglory of them. All
Fielding's critics have noted the manner, in a certain sense modest, in
another ostentatious, in which he seems to confine himself to the
presentation of things English. They might have added to the
presentation of things English--as they appear in London, and on the
Western Circuit, and on the Bath Road.

But this apparent parochialism has never deceived good judges. It did
not deceive Lady Mary, who had seen the men and manners of very many
climes; it did not deceive Gibbon, who was not especially prone to
overvalue things English, and who could look down from twenty centuries
on things ephemeral. It deceives, indeed, I am told, some excellent
persons at the present day, who think Fielding's microcosm a "toylike
world," and imagine that Russian Nihilists and French Naturalists have
gone beyond it. It will deceive no one who has lived for some competent
space of time a life during which he has tried to regard his
fellow-creatures and himself, as nearly as a mortal may, _sub specie
aeternitatis_.

As this is in the main an introduction to a complete reprint of
Fielding's four great novels, the justification in detail of the
estimate just made or hinted of the novelist's genius will be best and
most fitly made by a brief successive discussion of the four as they are
here presented, with some subsequent remarks on the _Miscellanies_ here
selected. And, indeed, it is not fanciful to perceive in each book a
somewhat different presentment of the author's genius; though in no one
of the four is any one of his masterly qualities absent. There is
tenderness even in _Jonathan Wild_; there are touches in _Joseph
Andrews_ of that irony of the Preacher, the last echo of which is heard
amid the kindly resignation of the _Journey to Lisbon_, in the sentence,
"Whereas envy of all things most exposes us to danger from others, so
contempt of all things best secures us from them." But on the whole it
is safe to say that _Joseph Andrews_ best presents Fielding's
mischievous and playful wit; _Jonathan Wild_ his half-Lucianic
half-Swiftian irony; _Tom Jones_ his unerring knowledge of human nature,
and his constructive faculty; _Amelia_ his tenderness, his _mitis
sapientia_, his observation of the details of life. And first of
the first.

_The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and his friend Mr
Abraham Adams_ was, as has been said above, published in February 1742.
A facsimile of the agreement between author and publisher will be given
in the second volume of this series; and it is not uninteresting to
observe that the witness, William Young, is none other than the asserted
original of the immortal Mr Adams himself. He might, on Balzac's plea in
a tolerably well-known anecdote, have demanded half of the L183, 11s. Of
the other origins of the book we have a pretty full account, partly
documentary. That it is "writ in the manner of Cervantes," and is
intended as a kind of comic epic, is the author's own statement--no
doubt as near the actual truth as is consistent with comic-epic theory.
That there are resemblances to Scarron, to Le Sage, and to other
practitioners of the Picaresque novel is certain; and it was inevitable
that there should be. Of directer and more immediate models or
starting-points one is undoubted; the other, though less generally
admitted, not much less indubitable to my mind. The parody of
Richardson's _Pamela_, which was little more than a year earlier (Nov.
1740), is avowed, open, flagrant; nor do I think that the author was so
soon carried away by the greater and larger tide of his own invention as
some critics seem to hold. He is always more or less returning to the
ironic charge; and the multiplicity of the assailants of Joseph's virtue
only disguises the resemblance to the long-drawn dangers of Pamela from
a single ravisher. But Fielding was also well acquainted with Marivaux's
_Paysan Parvenu_, and the resemblances between that book and _Joseph
Andrews_ are much stronger than Fielding's admirers have always been
willing to admit. This recalcitrance has, I think, been mainly due to
the erroneous conception of Marivaux as, if not a mere fribble, yet a
Dresden-Shepherdess kind of writer, good at "preciousness" and
patch-and-powder manners, but nothing more.

There was, in fact, a very strong satiric and ironic touch in the author
of _Marianne_, and I do not think that I was too rash when some years
ago I ventured to speak of him as "playing Fielding to his own
Richardson" in the _Paysan Parvenu_.

Origins, however, and indebtedness and the like, are, when great work is
concerned, questions for the study and the lecture-room, for the
literary historian and the professional critic, rather than for the
reader, however intelligent and alert, who wishes to enjoy a
masterpiece, and is content simply to enjoy it. It does not really
matter how close to anything else something which possesses independent
goodness is; the very utmost technical originality, the most spotless
purity from the faintest taint of suggestion, will not suffice to confer
merit on what does not otherwise possess it. Whether, as I rather think,
Fielding pursued the plan he had formed _ab incepto_, or whether he
cavalierly neglected it, or whether the current of his own genius
carried him off his legs and landed him, half against his will, on the
shore of originality, are questions for the Schools, and, as I venture
to think, not for the higher forms in them. We have _Joseph Andrews_ as
it is; and we may be abundantly thankful for it. The contents of it, as
of all Fielding's work in this kind, include certain things for which
the moderns are scantly grateful. Of late years, and not of late years
only, there has grown up a singular and perhaps an ignorant impatience
of digressions, of episodes, of tales within a tale. The example of this
which has been most maltreated is the "Man of the Hill" episode in _Tom
Jones_; but the stories of the "Unfortunate Jilt" and of Mr Wilson in
our present subject, do not appear to me to be much less obnoxious to
the censure; and _Amelia_ contains more than one or two things of the
same kind. Me they do not greatly disturb; and I see many defences for
them besides the obvious, and at a pinch sufficient one, that
divagations of this kind existed in all Fielding's Spanish and French
models, that the public of the day expected them, and so forth. This
defence is enough, but it is easy to amplify and reintrench it. It is
not by any means the fact that the Picaresque novel of adventure is the
only or the chief form of fiction which prescribes or admits these
episodic excursions. All the classical epics have them; many eastern and
other stories present them; they are common, if not invariable, in the
abundant mediaeval literature of prose and verse romance; they are not
unknown by any means in the modern novel; and you will very rarely hear
a story told orally at the dinner-table or in the smoking-room without
something of the kind. There must, therefore, be something in them
corresponding to an inseparable accident of that most unchanging of all
things, human nature. And I do not think the special form with which we
are here concerned by any means the worst that they have taken. It has
the grand and prominent virtue of being at once and easily skippable.
There is about Cervantes and Le Sage, about Fielding and Smollett, none
of the treachery of the modern novelist, who induces the conscientious
reader to drag through pages, chapters, and sometimes volumes which have
nothing to do with the action, for fear he should miss something that
has to do with it. These great men have a fearless frankness, and almost
tell you in so many words when and what you may skip. Therefore, if the
"Curious Impertinent," and the "Baneful Marriage," and the "Man of the
Hill," and the "Lady of Quality," get in the way, when you desire to
"read for the story," you have nothing to do but turn the page till
_finis_ comes. The defence has already been made by an illustrious hand
for Fielding's inter-chapters and exordiums. It appears to me to be
almost more applicable to his insertions.

And so we need not trouble ourselves any more either about the
insertions or about the exordiums. They both please me; the second class
has pleased persons much better worth pleasing than I can pretend to be;
but the making or marring of the book lies elsewhere. I do not think
that it lies in the construction, though Fielding's following of the
ancients, both sincere and satiric, has imposed a false air of
regularity upon that. The Odyssey of Joseph, of Fanny, and of their
ghostly mentor and bodily guard is, in truth, a little haphazard, and
might have been longer or shorter without any discreet man approving it
the more or the less therefor. The real merits lie partly in the
abounding humour and satire of the artist's criticism, but even more in
the marvellous vivacity and fertility of his creation. For the very
first time in English prose fiction every character is alive, every
incident is capable of having happened. There are lively touches in the
Elizabethan romances; but they are buried in verbiage, swathed in stage
costume, choked and fettered by their authors' want of art. The quality
of Bunyan's knowledge of men was not much inferior to Shakespeare's, or
at least to Fielding's; but the range and the results of it were cramped
by his single theological purpose, and his unvaried allegoric or typical
form. Why Defoe did not discover the New World of Fiction, I at least
have never been able to put into any brief critical formula that
satisfies me, and I have never seen it put by any one else. He had not
only seen it afar off, he had made landings and descents on it; he had
carried off and exhibited in triumph natives such as Robinson Crusoe,
as Man Friday, as Moll Flanders, as William the Quaker; but he had
conquered, subdued, and settled no province therein. I like _Pamela_; I
like it better than some persons who admire Richardson on the whole more
than I do, seem to like it. But, as in all its author's work, the
handling seems to me academic--the working out on paper of an
ingeniously conceived problem rather than the observation or evolution
of actual or possible life. I should not greatly fear to push the
comparison even into foreign countries; but it is well to observe
limits. Let us be content with holding that in England at least, without
prejudice to anything further, Fielding was the first to display the
qualities of the perfect novelist as distinguished from the romancer.

What are those qualities, as shown in _Joseph Andrews_? The faculty of
arranging a probable and interesting course of action is one, of course,
and Fielding showed it here. But I do not think that it is at any time
the greatest one; and nobody denies that he made great advances in this
direction later. The faculty of lively dialogue is another; and that he
has not often been refused; but much the same may be said of it. The
interspersing of appropriate description is another; but here also we
shall not find him exactly a paragon. It is in character--the chief
_differentia_ of the novel as distinguished not merely from its elder
sister the romance, and its cousin the drama, but still more from every
other kind of literature--that Fielding stands even here pre-eminent. No
one that I can think of, except his greatest successor in the present
century, has the same unfailing gift of breathing life into every
character he creates or borrows; and even Thackeray draws, if I may use
the phrase, his characters more in the flat and less in the round than
Fielding. Whether in Blifil he once failed, we must discuss hereafter;
he has failed nowhere in _Joseph Andrews_. Some of his sketches may
require the caution that they are eighteenth-century men and women; some
the warning that they are obviously caricatured, or set in designed
profile, or merely sketched. But they are all alive. The finical
estimate of Gray (it is a horrid joy to think how perfectly capable
Fielding was of having joined in that practical joke of the young
gentlemen of Cambridge, which made Gray change his college), while
dismissing these light things with patronage, had to admit that "parson
Adams is perfectly well, so is Mrs Slipslop." "They _were_, Mr
Gray," said some one once, "they were more perfectly well, and in a
higher kind, than anything you ever did; though you were a pretty
workman too."

Yes, parson Adams is perfectly well, and so is Mrs Slipslop. But so are
they all. Even the hero and heroine, tied and bound as they are by the
necessity under which their maker lay of preserving Joseph's
Joseph-hood, and of making Fanny the example of a franker and less
interested virtue than her sister-in-law that might have been, are
surprisingly human where most writers would have made them sticks. And
the rest require no allowance. Lady Booby, few as are the strokes given
to her, is not much less alive than Lady Bellaston. Mr Trulliber,
monster and not at all delicate monster as he is, is also a man, and
when he lays it down that no one even in his own house shall drink when
he "caaled vurst," one can but pay his maker the tribute of that silent
shudder of admiration which hails the addition of one more everlasting
entity to the world of thought and fancy. And Mr Tow-wouse is real, and
Mrs Tow-wouse is more real still, and Betty is real; and the coachman,
and Miss Grave-airs, and all the wonderful crew from first to last. The
dresses they wear, the manners they exhibit, the laws they live under,
the very foods and drinks they live upon, are "past like the shadows on
glasses"--to the comfort and rejoicing of some, to the greater or less
sorrow of others. But _they_ are there--alive, full of blood, full of
breath as we are, and, in truth, I fear a little more so. For some
purposes a century is a gap harder to cross and more estranging than a
couple of millenniums. But in their case the gap is nothing; and it is
not too much to say that as they have stood the harder test, they will
stand the easier. There are very striking differences between Nausicaa
and Mrs Slipslop; there are differences not less striking between Mrs
Slipslop and Beatrice. But their likeness is a stranger and more
wonderful thing than any of their unlikenesses. It is that they are
all women, that they are all live citizenesses of the Land of Matters
Unforgot, the fashion whereof passeth not away, and the franchise
whereof, once acquired, assures immortality.



NOTE TO GENERAL INTRODUCTION.


_The text of this issue in the main follows that of the standard or
first collected edition of 1762. The variants which the author
introduced in successive editions during his lifetime are not
inconsiderable; but for the purposes of the present issue it did not
seem necessary or indeed desirable to take account of them. In the case
of prose fiction, more than in any other department of literature, it is
desirable that work should be read in the form which represents the
completest intention and execution of the author. Nor have any notes
been attempted; for again such things, in the case of prose fiction, are
of very doubtful use, and supply pretty certain stumbling-blocks to
enjoyment; while in the particular case of Fielding, the annotation,
unless extremely capricious, would have to be disgustingly full. Far be
it at any rate from the present editor to bury these delightful
creations under an ugly crust of parallel passages and miscellaneous
erudition. The sheets, however, have been carefully read in order to
prevent the casual errors which are wont to creep into frequently
reprinted texts; and the editor hopes that if any such have escaped him,
the escape will not be attributed to wilful negligence. A few obvious
errors, in spelling of proper names, &c., which occur in the 1762
version have been corrected: but wherever the readings of that version
are possible they have been preferred. The embellishments of the edition
are partly fanciful and partly "documentary;" so that it is hoped both
classes of taste may have something to feed upon._




AUTHOR'S PREFACE.


As it is possible the mere English reader may have a different idea of
romance from the author of these little[A] volumes, and may consequently
expect a kind of entertainment not to be found, nor which was even
intended, in the following pages, it may not be improper to premise a
few words concerning this kind of writing, which I do not remember to
have seen hitherto attempted in our language.

[A] _Joseph Andrews_ was originally published in 2 vols. duodecimo.

The EPIC, as well as the DRAMA, is divided into tragedy and comedy.
HOMER, who was the father of this species of poetry, gave us a pattern
of both these, though that of the latter kind is entirely lost; which
Aristotle tells us, bore the same relation to comedy which his Iliad
bears to tragedy. And perhaps, that we have no more instances of it
among the writers of antiquity, is owing to the loss of this great
pattern, which, had it survived, would have found its imitators equally
with the other poems of this great original.

And farther, as this poetry may be tragic or comic, I will not scruple
to say it may be likewise either in verse or prose: for though it wants
one particular, which the critic enumerates in the constituent parts of
an epic poem, namely metre; yet, when any kind of writing contains all
its other parts, such as fable, action, characters, sentiments, and
diction, and is deficient in metre only, it seems, I think, reasonable
to refer it to the epic; at least, as no critic hath thought proper to
range it under any other head, or to assign it a particular name
to itself.

Thus the Telemachus of the archbishop of Cambray appears to me of the
epic kind, as well as the Odyssey of Homer; indeed, it is much fairer
and more reasonable to give it a name common with that species from
which it differs only in a single instance, than to confound it with
those which it resembles in no other. Such are those voluminous works,
commonly called Romances, namely, Clelia, Cleopatra, Astraea, Cassandra,
the Grand Cyrus, and innumerable others, which contain, as I apprehend,
very little instruction or entertainment.

Now, a comic romance is a comic epic poem in prose; differing from
comedy, as the serious epic from tragedy: its action being more extended
and comprehensive; containing a much larger circle of incidents, and
introducing a greater variety of characters. It differs from the serious
romance in its fable and action, in this; that as in the one these are
grave and solemn, so in the other they are light and ridiculous: it
differs in its characters by introducing persons of inferior rank, and
consequently, of inferior manners, whereas the grave romance sets the
highest before us: lastly, in its sentiments and diction; by preserving
the ludicrous instead of the sublime. In the diction, I think,
burlesque itself may be sometimes admitted; of which many instances
will occur in this work, as in the description of the battles, and some
other places, not necessary to be pointed out to the classical reader,
for whose entertainment those parodies or burlesque imitations are
chiefly calculated.

But though we have sometimes admitted this in our diction, we have
carefully excluded it from our sentiments and characters; for there it
is never properly introduced, unless in writings of the burlesque kind,
which this is not intended to be. Indeed, no two species of writing can
differ more widely than the comic and the burlesque; for as the latter
is ever the exhibition of what is monstrous and unnatural, and where our
delight, if we examine it, arises from the surprizing absurdity, as in
appropriating the manners of the highest to the lowest, or _e converso_;
so in the former we should ever confine ourselves strictly to nature,
from the just imitation of which will flow all the pleasure we can this
way convey to a sensible reader. And perhaps there is one reason why a
comic writer should of all others be the least excused for deviating
from nature, since it may not be always so easy for a serious poet to
meet with the great and the admirable; but life everywhere furnishes an
accurate observer with the ridiculous.

I have hinted this little concerning burlesque, because I have often
heard that name given to performances which have been truly of the comic
kind, from the author's having sometimes admitted it in his diction
only; which, as it is the dress of poetry, doth, like the dress of men,
establish characters (the one of the whole poem, and the other of the
whole man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater excellences:
but surely, a certain drollery in stile, where characters and sentiments
are perfectly natural, no more constitutes the burlesque, than an empty
pomp and dignity of words, where everything else is mean and low, can
entitle any performance to the appellation of the true sublime.

And I apprehend my Lord Shaftesbury's opinion of mere burlesque agrees
with mine, when he asserts, There is no such thing to be found in the
writings of the ancients. But perhaps I have less abhorrence than he
professes for it; and that, not because I have had some little success
on the stage this way, but rather as it contributes more to exquisite
mirth and laughter than any other; and these are probably more wholesome
physic for the mind, and conduce better to purge away spleen,
melancholy, and ill affections, than is generally imagined. Nay, I will
appeal to common observation, whether the same companies are not found
more full of good-humour and benevolence, after they have been sweetened
for two or three hours with entertainments of this kind, than when
soured by a tragedy or a grave lecture.

But to illustrate all this by another science, in which, perhaps, we
shall see the distinction more clearly and plainly, let us examine the
works of a comic history painter, with those performances which the
Italians call Caricatura, where we shall find the true excellence of the
former to consist in the exactest copying of nature; insomuch that a
judicious eye instantly rejects anything _outre_, any liberty which the
painter hath taken with the features of that _alma mater_; whereas in
the Caricatura we allow all licence--its aim is to exhibit monsters,
not men; and all distortions and exaggerations whatever are within its
proper province.

Now, what Caricatura is in painting, Burlesque is in writing; and in the
same manner the comic writer and painter correlate to each other. And
here I shall observe, that, as in the former the painter seems to have
the advantage; so it is in the latter infinitely on the side of the
writer; for the Monstrous is much easier to paint than describe, and the
Ridiculous to describe than paint.

And though perhaps this latter species doth not in either science so
strongly affect and agitate the muscles as the other; yet it will be
owned, I believe, that a more rational and useful pleasure arises to us
from it. He who should call the ingenious Hogarth a burlesque painter,
would, in my opinion, do him very little honour; for sure it is much
easier, much less the subject of admiration, to paint a man with a nose,
or any other feature, of a preposterous size, or to expose him in some
absurd or monstrous attitude, than to express the affections of men on
canvas. It hath been thought a vast commendation of a painter to say his
figures seem to breathe; but surely it is a much greater and nobler
applause, that they appear to think.

But to return. The Ridiculous only, as I have before said, falls within
my province in the present work. Nor will some explanation of this word
be thought impertinent by the reader, if he considers how wonderfully it
hath been mistaken, even by writers who have professed it: for to what
but such a mistake can we attribute the many attempts to ridicule the
blackest villanies, and, what is yet worse, the most dreadful
calamities? What could exceed the absurdity of an author, who should
write the comedy of Nero, with the merry incident of ripping up his
mother's belly? or what would give a greater shock to humanity than an
attempt to expose the miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule? And
yet the reader will not want much learning to suggest such instances
to himself.

Besides, it may seem remarkable, that Aristotle, who is so fond and free
of definitions, hath not thought proper to define the Ridiculous.
Indeed, where he tells us it is proper to comedy, he hath remarked that
villany is not its object: but he hath not, as I remember, positively
asserted what is. Nor doth the Abbe Bellegarde, who hath written a
treatise on this subject, though he shows us many species of it, once
trace it to its fountain.

The only source of the true Ridiculous (as it appears to me) is
affectation. But though it arises from one spring only, when we consider
the infinite streams into which this one branches, we shall presently
cease to admire at the copious field it affords to an observer. Now,
affectation proceeds from one of these two causes, vanity or hypocrisy:
for as vanity puts us on affecting false characters, in order to
purchase applause; so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavour to avoid
censure, by concealing our vices under an appearance of their opposite
virtues. And though these two causes are often confounded (for there is
some difficulty in distinguishing them), yet, as they proceed from very
different motives, so they are as clearly distinct in their operations:
for indeed, the affectation which arises from vanity is nearer to truth
than the other, as it hath not that violent repugnancy of nature to
struggle with, which that of the hypocrite hath. It may be likewise
noted, that affectation doth not imply an absolute negation of those
qualities which are affected; and, therefore, though, when it proceeds
from hypocrisy, it be nearly allied to deceit; yet when it comes from
vanity only, it partakes of the nature of ostentation: for instance, the
affectation of liberality in a vain man differs visibly from the same
affectation in the avaricious; for though the vain man is not what he
would appear, or hath not the virtue he affects, to the degree he would
be thought to have it; yet it sits less awkwardly on him than on the
avaricious man, who is the very reverse of what he would seem to be.

From the discovery of this affectation arises the Ridiculous, which
always strikes the reader with surprize and pleasure; and that in a
higher and stronger degree when the affectation arises from hypocrisy,
than when from vanity; for to discover any one to be the exact reverse
of what he affects, is more surprizing, and consequently more
ridiculous, than to find him a little deficient in the quality he
desires the reputation of. I might observe that our Ben Jonson, who of
all men understood the Ridiculous the best, hath chiefly used the
hypocritical affectation.

Now, from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities of life, or
the imperfections of nature, may become the objects of ridicule. Surely
he hath a very ill-framed mind who can look on ugliness, infirmity, or
poverty, as ridiculous in themselves: nor do I believe any man living,
who meets a dirty fellow riding through the streets in a cart, is
struck with an idea of the Ridiculous from it; but if he should see the
same figure descend from his coach and six, or bolt from his chair with
his hat under his arm, he would then begin to laugh, and with justice.
In the same manner, were we to enter a poor house and behold a wretched
family shivering with cold and languishing with hunger, it would not
incline us to laughter (at least we must have very diabolical natures if
it would); but should we discover there a grate, instead of coals,
adorned with flowers, empty plate or china dishes on the sideboard, or
any other affectation of riches and finery, either on their persons or
in their furniture, we might then indeed be excused for ridiculing so
fantastical an appearance. Much less are natural imperfections the
object of derision; but when ugliness aims at the applause of beauty, or
lameness endeavours to display agility, it is then that these
unfortunate circumstances, which at first moved our compassion, tend
only to raise our mirth.

The poet carries this very far:--

    None are for being what they are in fault,
    But for not being what they would be thought.

Where if the metre would suffer the word Ridiculous to close the first
line, the thought would be rather more proper. Great vices are the
proper objects of our detestation, smaller faults, of our pity; but
affectation appears to me the only true source of the Ridiculous.

But perhaps it may be objected to me, that I have against my own rules
introduced vices, and of a very black kind, into this work. To which I
shall answer: first, that it is very difficult to pursue a series of
human actions, and keep clear from them. Secondly, that the vices to be
found here are rather the accidental consequences of some human frailty
or foible, than causes habitually existing in the mind. Thirdly, that
they are never set forth as the objects of ridicule, but detestation.
Fourthly, that they are never the principal figure at that time on the
scene: and, lastly, they never produce the intended evil.

Having thus distinguished Joseph Andrews from the productions of romance
writers on the one hand and burlesque writers on the other, and given
some few very short hints (for I intended no more) of this species of
writing, which I have affirmed to be hitherto unattempted in our
language; I shall leave to my good-natured reader to apply my piece to
my observations, and will detain him no longer than with a word
concerning the characters in this work.

And here I solemnly protest I have no intention to vilify or asperse any
one; for though everything is copied from the book of nature, and scarce
a character or action produced which I have not taken from my I own
observations and experience; yet I have used the utmost care to obscure
the persons by such different circumstances, degrees, and colours, that
it will be impossible to guess at them with any degree of certainty; and
if it ever happens otherwise, it is only where the failure characterized
is so minute, that it is a foible only which the party himself may laugh
at as well as any other.

As to the character of Adams, as it is the most glaring in the whole, so
I conceive it is not to be found in any book now extant. It is designed
a character of perfect simplicity; and as the goodness of his heart
will recommend him to the good-natured, so I hope it will excuse me to
the gentlemen of his cloth; for whom, while they are worthy of their
sacred order, no man can possibly have a greater respect. They will
therefore excuse me, notwithstanding the low adventures in which he is
engaged, that I have made him a clergyman; since no other office could
have given him so many opportunities of displaying his worthy
inclinations.




THE HISTORY OF THE ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS AND HIS FRIEND MR
ABRAHAM ADAMS




BOOK I.



CHAPTER I.

_Of writing lives in general, and particularly of Pamela; with a word by
the bye of Colley Cibber and others._


It is a trite but true observation, that examples work more forcibly on
the mind than precepts: and if this be just in what is odious and
blameable, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and praiseworthy.
Here emulation most effectually operates upon us, and inspires our
imitation in an irresistible manner. A good man therefore is a standing
lesson to all his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrow
circle than a good book.

But as it often happens that the best men are but little known, and
consequently cannot extend the usefulness of their examples a great way;
the writer may be called in aid to spread their history farther, and to
present the amiable pictures to those who have not the happiness of
knowing the originals; and so, by communicating such valuable patterns
to the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive service to mankind than
the person whose life originally afforded the pattern.

In this light I have always regarded those biographers who have recorded
the actions of great and worthy persons of both sexes. Not to mention
those antient writers which of late days are little read, being written
in obsolete, and as they are generally thought, unintelligible
languages, such as Plutarch, Nepos, and others which I heard of in my
youth; our own language affords many of excellent use and instruction,
finely calculated to sow the seeds of virtue in youth, and very easy to
be comprehended by persons of moderate capacity. Such as the history of
John the Great, who, by his brave and heroic actions against men of
large and athletic bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the
Giant-killer; that of an Earl of Warwick, whose Christian name was Guy;
the lives of Argalus and Parthenia; and above all, the history of those
seven worthy personages, the Champions of Christendom. In all these
delight is mixed with instruction, and the reader is almost as much
improved as entertained.

But I pass by these and many others to mention two books lately
published, which represent an admirable pattern of the amiable in either
sex. The former of these, which deals in male virtue, was written by the
great person himself, who lived the life he hath recorded, and is by
many thought to have lived such a life only in order to write it. The
other is communicated to us by an historian who borrows his lights, as
the common method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, I
believe, already conjectures, I mean the lives of Mr Colley Cibber and
of Mrs Pamela Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by insinuating that
he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in Church and State,
teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcate
an absolute submission to our superiors! Lastly, how completely doth he
arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a passion as the fear of shame!
how clearly doth he expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom,
reputation!

What the female readers are taught by the memoirs of Mrs Andrews is so
well set forth in the excellent essays or letters prefixed to the second
and subsequent editions of that work, that it would be here a needless
repetition. The authentic history with which I now present the public is
an instance of the great good that book is likely to do, and of the
prevalence of example which I have just observed: since it will appear
that it was by keeping the excellent pattern of his sister's virtues
before his eyes, that Mr Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to preserve
his purity in the midst of such great temptations. I shall only add that
this character of male chastity, though doubtless as desirable and
becoming in one part of the human species as in the other, is almost the
only virtue which the great apologist hath not given himself for the
sake of giving the example to his readers.



CHAPTER II.

_Of Mr Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, education, and great
endowments; with a word or two concerning ancestors._


Mr Joseph Andrews, the hero of our ensuing history, was esteemed to be
the only son of Gaffar and Gammer Andrews, and brother to the
illustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so famous. As to his
ancestors, we have searched with great diligence, but little success;
being unable to trace them farther than his great-grandfather, who, as
an elderly person in the parish remembers to have heard his father say,
was an excellent cudgel-player. Whether he had any ancestors before
this, we must leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding
nothing of sufficient certainty to rely on. However, we cannot omit
inserting an epitaph which an ingenious friend of ours hath
communicated:--

    Stay, traveller, for underneath this pew
    Lies fast asleep that merry man Andrew:
    When the last day's great sun shall gild the skies,
    Then he shall from his tomb get up and rise.
    Be merry while thou canst: for surely thou
    Shalt shortly be as sad as he is now.

The words are almost out of the stone with antiquity. But it is needless
to observe that Andrew here is writ without an _s_, and is, besides, a
Christian name. My friend, moreover, conjectures this to have been the
founder of that sect of laughing philosophers since called
Merry-andrews.

To waive, therefore, a circumstance which, though mentioned in
conformity to the exact rules of biography, is not greatly material, I
proceed to things of more consequence. Indeed, it is sufficiently
certain that he had as many ancestors as the best man living, and,
perhaps, if we look five or six hundred years backwards, might be
related to some persons of very great figure at present, whose ancestors
within half the last century are buried in as great obscurity. But
suppose, for argument's sake, we should admit that he had no ancestors
at all, but had sprung up, according to the modern phrase, out of a
dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they themselves did from the earth,
would not this autokopros[A] have been justly entitled to all the
praise arising from his own virtues? Would it not be hard that a man who
hath no ancestors should therefore be rendered incapable of acquiring
honour; when we see so many who have no virtues enjoying the honour of
their forefathers? At ten years old (by which time his education was
advanced to writing and reading) he was bound an apprentice, according
to the statute, to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr Booby's by the
father's side. Sir Thomas having then an estate in his own hands, the
young Andrews was at first employed in what in the country they call
keeping birds. His office was to perform the part the ancients assigned
to the god Priapus, which deity the moderns call by the name of Jack o'
Lent; but his voice being so extremely musical, that it rather allured
the birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the fields
into the dog-kennel, where he was placed under the huntsman, and made
what the sportsmen term whipper-in. For this place likewise the
sweetness of his voice disqualified him; the dogs preferring the melody
of his chiding to all the alluring notes of the huntsman, who soon
became so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to provide
otherwise for him, and constantly laid every fault the dogs were at to
the account of the poor boy, who was now transplanted to the stable.
Here he soon gave proofs of strength and agility beyond his years, and
constantly rode the most spirited and vicious horses to water, with an
intrepidity which surprized every one. While he was in this station, he
rode several races for Sir Thomas, and this with such expertness and
success, that the neighbouring gentlemen frequently solicited the knight
to permit little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their matches. The
best gamesters, before they laid their money, always inquired which
horse little Joey was to ride; and the bets were rather proportioned by
the rider than by the horse himself; especially after he had scornfully
refused a considerable bribe to play booty on such an occasion. This
extremely raised his character, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that she
desired to have him (being now seventeen years of age) for her
own footboy.

[A] In English, sprung from a dunghill.

Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend on his lady, to go on
her errands, stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry
her prayer-book to church; at which place his voice gave him an
opportunity of distinguishing himself by singing psalms: he behaved
likewise in every other respect so well at Divine service, that it
recommended him to the notice of Mr Abraham Adams, the curate, who took
an opportunity one day, as he was drinking a cup of ale in Sir Thomas's
kitchen, to ask the young man several questions concerning religion;
with his answers to which he was wonderfully pleased.



CHAPTER III.

_Of Mr Abraham Adams the curate, Mrs Slipslop the chambermaid, and
others._


Mr Abraham Adams was an excellent scholar. He was a perfect master of
the Greek and Latin languages; to which he added a great share of
knowledge in the Oriental tongues; and could read and translate French,
Italian, and Spanish. He had applied many years to the most severe
study, and had treasured up a fund of learning rarely to be met with in
a university. He was, besides, a man of good sense, good parts, and good
nature; but was at the same time as entirely ignorant of the ways of
this world as an infant just entered into it could possibly be. As he
had never any intention to deceive, so he never suspected such a design
in others. He was generous, friendly, and brave to an excess; but
simplicity was his characteristick: he did, no more than Mr Colley
Cibber, apprehend any such passions as malice and envy to exist in
mankind; which was indeed less remarkable in a country parson than in a
gentleman who hath passed his life behind the scenes,--a place which
hath been seldom thought the school of innocence, and where a very
little observation would have convinced the great apologist that those
passions have a real existence in the human mind.

His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered him equal to
his office, so they made him an agreeable and valuable companion, and
had so much endeared and well recommended him to a bishop, that at the
age of fifty he was provided with a handsome income of twenty-three
pounds a year; which, however, he could not make any great figure with,
because he lived in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a
wife and six children.

It was this gentleman, who having, as I have said, observed the singular
devotion of young Andrews, had found means to question him concerning
several particulars; as, how many books there were in the New Testament?
which were they? how many chapters they contained? and such like: to all
which, Mr Adams privately said, he answered much better than Sir Thomas,
or two other neighbouring justices of the peace could probably
have done.

Mr Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what time, and by what
opportunity, the youth became acquainted with these matters: Joey told
him that he had very early learnt to read and write by the goodness of
his father, who, though he had not interest enough to get him into a
charity school, because a cousin of his father's landlord did not vote
on the right side for a churchwarden in a borough town, yet had been
himself at the expense of sixpence a week for his learning. He told him
likewise, that ever since he was in Sir Thomas's family he had employed
all his hours of leisure in reading good books; that he had read the
Bible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas a Kempis; and that as often as
he could, without being perceived, he had studied a great good book
which lay open in the hall window, where he had read, "as how the devil
carried away half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one of the
congregation; and as how a field of corn ran away down a hill with all
the trees upon it, and covered another man's meadow." This sufficiently
assured Mr Adams that the good book meant could be no other than Baker's
Chronicle.

The curate, surprized to find such instances of industry and application
in a young man who had never met with the least encouragement, asked
him, If he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal education, and
the not having been born of parents who might have indulged his talents
and desire of knowledge? To which he answered, "He hoped he had profited
somewhat better from the books he had read than to lament his condition
in this world. That, for his part, he was perfectly content with the
state to which he was called; that he should endeavour to improve his
talent, which was all required of him; but not repine at his own lot,
nor envy those of his betters." "Well said, my lad," replied the curate;
"and I wish some who have read many more good books, nay, and some who
have written good books themselves, had profited so much by them."

Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady than through the
waiting-gentlewoman; for Sir Thomas was too apt to estimate men merely
by their dress or fortune; and my lady was a woman of gaiety, who had
been blest with a town education, and never spoke of any of her country
neighbours by any other appellation than that of the brutes. They both
regarded the curate as a kind of domestic only, belonging to the parson
of the parish, who was at this time at variance with the knight; for the
parson had for many years lived in a constant state of civil war, or,
which is perhaps as bad, of civil law, with Sir Thomas himself and the
tenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel was a modus, by
setting which aside an advantage of several shillings _per annum_ would
have accrued to the rector; but he had not yet been able to accomplish
his purpose, and had reaped hitherto nothing better from the suits than
the pleasure (which he used indeed frequently to say was no small one)
of reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the poor tenants,
though he had at the same time greatly impoverished himself.

Mrs Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, being herself the daughter of a
curate, preserved some respect for Adams: she professed great regard for
his learning, and would frequently dispute with him on points of
theology; but always insisted on a deference to be paid to her
understanding, as she had been frequently at London, and knew more of
the world than a country parson could pretend to.

She had in these disputes a particular advantage over Adams: for she was
a mighty affecter of hard words, which she used in such a manner that
the parson, who durst not offend her by calling her words in question,
was frequently at some loss to guess her meaning, and would have been
much less puzzled by an Arabian manuscript.

Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after a pretty long
discourse with her on the essence (or, as she pleased to term it, the
incence) of matter, to mention the case of young Andrews; desiring her
to recommend him to her lady as a youth very susceptible of learning,
and one whose instruction in Latin he would himself undertake; by which
means he might be qualified for a higher station than that of a footman;
and added, she knew it was in his master's power easily to provide for
him in a better manner. He therefore desired that the boy might be left
behind under his care.

"La! Mr Adams," said Mrs Slipslop, "do you think my lady will suffer any
preambles about any such matter? She is going to London very concisely,
and I am confidous would not leave Joey behind her on any account; for
he is one of the genteelest young fellows you may see in a summer's day;
and I am confidous she would as soon think of parting with a pair of her
grey mares, for she values herself as much on one as the other." Adams
would have interrupted, but she proceeded: "And why is Latin more
necessitous for a footman than a gentleman? It is very proper that you
clergymen must learn it, because you can't preach without it: but I have
heard gentlemen say in London, that it is fit for nobody else. I am
confidous my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it; and I shall
draw myself into no such delemy." At which words her lady's bell rung,
and Mr Adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a second
opportunity with her before their London journey, which happened a few
days afterwards. However, Andrews behaved very thankfully and gratefully
to him for his intended kindness, which he told him he never would
forget, and at the same time received from the good man many admonitions
concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and his perseverance in
innocence and industry.



CHAPTER IV.

_What happened after their journey to London._


No sooner was young Andrews arrived at London than he began to scrape an
acquaintance with his party-coloured brethren, who endeavoured to make
him despise his former course of life. His hair was cut after the newest
fashion, and became his chief care; he went abroad with it all the
morning in papers, and drest it out in the afternoon. They could not,
however, teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the
town abounded with. He applied most of his leisure hours to music, in
which he greatly improved himself; and became so perfect a connoisseur
in that art, that he led the opinion of all the other footmen at an
opera, and they never condemned or applauded a single song contrary to
his approbation or dislike. He was a little too forward in riots at the
play-houses and assemblies; and when he attended his lady at church
(which was but seldom) he behaved with less seeming devotion than
formerly: however, if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals
remained entirely uncorrupted, though he was at the same time smarter
and genteeler than any of the beaus in town, either in or out of livery.

His lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the handsomest and
genteelest footman in the kingdom, but that it was pity he wanted
spirit, began now to find that fault no longer; on the contrary, she was
frequently heard to cry out, "Ay, there is some life in this fellow."
She plainly saw the effects which the town air hath on the soberest
constitutions. She would now walk out with him into Hyde Park in a
morning, and when tired, which happened almost every minute, would lean
on his arm, and converse with him in great familiarity. Whenever she
stept out of her coach, she would take him by the hand, and sometimes,
for fear of stumbling, press it very hard; she admitted him to deliver
messages at her bedside in a morning, leered at him at table, and
indulged him in all those innocent freedoms which women of figure may
permit without the least sully of their virtue.

But though their virtue remains unsullied, yet now and then some small
arrows will glance on the shadow of it, their reputation; and so it fell
out to Lady Booby, who happened to be walking arm-in-arm with Joey one
morning in Hyde Park, when Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentally
by in their coach. "Bless me," says Lady Tittle, "can I believe my eyes?
Is that Lady Booby?"--"Surely," says Tattle. "But what makes you
surprized?"--"Why, is not that her footman?" replied Tittle. At which
Tattle laughed, and cried, "An old business, I assure you: is it
possible you should not have heard it? The whole town hath known it this
half-year." The consequence of this interview was a whisper through a
hundred visits, which were separately performed by the two ladies[A] the
same afternoon, and might have had a mischievous effect, had it not been
stopt by two fresh reputations which were published the day afterwards,
and engrossed the whole talk of the town.

[A] It may seem an absurdity that Tattle should visit, as she actually
    did, to spread a known scandal: but the reader may reconcile this by
    supposing, with me, that, notwithstanding what she says, this was
    her first acquaintance with it.

But, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous inclination of
defamers might entertain of Lady Booby's innocent freedoms, it is
certain they made no impression on young Andrews, who never offered to
encroach beyond the liberties which his lady allowed him,--a behaviour
which she imputed to the violent respect he preserved for her, and which
served only to heighten a something she began to conceive, and which
the next chapter will open a little farther.



CHAPTER V.

_The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and mournful
behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of Joseph Andrews._


At this time an accident happened which put a stop to those agreeable
walks, which probably would have soon puffed up the cheeks of Fame, and
caused her to blow her brazen trumpet through the town; and this was no
other than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who, departing this life, left
his disconsolate lady confined to her house, as closely as if she
herself had been attacked by some violent disease. During the first six
days the poor lady admitted none but Mrs. Slipslop, and three female
friends, who made a party at cards: but on the seventh she ordered Joey,
whom, for a good reason, we shall hereafter call JOSEPH, to bring up her
tea-kettle. The lady being in bed, called Joseph to her, bade him sit
down, and, having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked him if he
had ever been in love. Joseph answered, with some confusion, it was time
enough for one so young as himself to think on such things. "As young as
you are," replied the lady, "I am convinced you are no stranger to that
passion. Come, Joey," says she, "tell me truly, who is the happy girl
whose eyes have made a conquest of you?" Joseph returned, that all the
women he had ever seen were equally indifferent to him. "Oh then," said
the lady, "you are a general lover. Indeed, you handsome fellows, like
handsome women, are very long and difficult in fixing; but yet you
shall never persuade me that your heart is so insusceptible of
affection; I rather impute what you say to your secrecy, a very
commendable quality, and what I am far from being angry with you for.
Nothing can be more unworthy in a young man, than to betray any
intimacies with the ladies." "Ladies! madam," said Joseph, "I am sure I
never had the impudence to think of any that deserve that name." "Don't
pretend to too much modesty," said she, "for that sometimes may be
impertinent: but pray answer me this question. Suppose a lady should
happen to like you; suppose she should prefer you to all your sex, and
admit you to the same familiarities as you might have hoped for if you
had been born her equal, are you certain that no vanity could tempt you
to discover her? Answer me honestly, Joseph; have you so much more sense
and so much more virtue than you handsome young fellows generally have,
who make no scruple of sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride,
without considering the great obligation we lay on you by our
condescension and confidence? Can you keep a secret, my Joey?" "Madam,"
says he, "I hope your ladyship can't tax me with ever betraying the
secrets of the family; and I hope, if you was to turn me away, I might
have that character of you." "I don't intend to turn you away, Joey,"
said she, and sighed; "I am afraid it is not in my power." She then
raised herself a little in her bed, and discovered one of the whitest
necks that ever was seen; at which Joseph blushed. "La!" says she, in an
affected surprize, "what am I doing? I have trusted myself with a man
alone, naked in bed; suppose you should have any wicked intentions upon
my honour, how should I defend myself?" Joseph protested that he never
had the least evil design against her. "No," says she, "perhaps you may
not call your designs wicked; and perhaps they are not so."--He swore
they were not. "You misunderstand me," says she; "I mean if they were
against my honour, they may not be wicked; but the world calls them so.
But then, say you, the world will never know anything of the matter; yet
would not that be trusting to your secrecy? Must not my reputation be
then in your power? Would you not then be my master?" Joseph begged her
ladyship to be comforted; for that he would never imagine the least
wicked thing against her, and that he had rather die a thousand deaths
than give her any reason to suspect him. "Yes," said she, "I must have
reason to suspect you. Are you not a man? and, without vanity, I may
pretend to some charms. But perhaps you may fear I should prosecute you;
indeed I hope you do; and yet Heaven knows I should never have the
confidence to appear before a court of justice; and you know, Joey, I am
of a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don't you think I should forgive
you?"--"Indeed, madam," says Joseph, "I will never do anything to
disoblige your ladyship."--"How," says she, "do you think it would not
disoblige me then? Do you think I would willingly suffer you?"--"I don't
understand you, madam," says Joseph.--"Don't you?" said she, "then you
are either a fool, or pretend to be so; I find I was mistaken in you. So
get you downstairs, and never let me see your face again; your pretended
innocence cannot impose on me."--"Madam," said Joseph, "I would not have
your ladyship think any evil of me. I have always endeavoured to be a
dutiful servant both to you and my master."--"O thou villain!" answered
my lady; "why didst thou mention the name of that dear man, unless to
torment me, to bring his precious memory to my mind?" (and then she
burst into a fit of tears.) "Get thee from my sight! I shall never
endure thee more." At which words she turned away from him; and Joseph
retreated from the room in a most disconsolate condition, and writ that
letter which the reader will find in the next chapter.



CHAPTER VI.

_How Joseph Andrews writ a letter to his sister Pamela._


"To MRS PAMELA ANDREWS, LIVING WITH SQUIRE BOOBY.

"DEAR SISTER,--Since I received your letter of your good lady's death,
we have had a misfortune of the same kind in our family. My worthy
master Sir Thomas died about four days ago; and, what is worse, my poor
lady is certainly gone distracted. None of the servants expected her to
take it so to heart, because they quarrelled almost every day of their
lives: but no more of that, because you know, Pamela, I never loved to
tell the secrets of my master's family; but to be sure you must have
known they never loved one another; and I have heard her ladyship wish
his honour dead above a thousand times; but nobody knows what it is to
lose a friend till they have lost him.

"Don't tell anybody what I write, because I should not care to have
folks say I discover what passes in our family; but if it had not been
so great a lady, I should have thought she had had a mind to me. Dear
Pamela, don't tell anybody; but she ordered me to sit down by her
bedside, when she was naked in bed; and she held my hand, and talked
exactly as a lady does to her sweetheart in a stage-play, which I have
seen in Covent Garden, while she wanted him to be no better than he
should be.

"If madam be mad, I shall not care for staying long in the family; so I
heartily wish you could get me a place, either at the squire's, or some
other neighbouring gentleman's, unless it be true that you are going to
be married to parson Williams, as folks talk, and then I should be very
willing to be his clerk; for which you know I am qualified, being able
to read and to set a psalm.

"I fancy I shall be discharged very soon; and the moment I am, unless I
hear from you, I shall return to my old master's country-seat, if it be
only to see parson Adams, who is the best man in the world. London is a
bad place, and there is so little good fellowship, that the next-door
neighbours don't know one another. Pray give my service to all friends
that inquire for me. So I rest

"Your loving brother,

"JOSEPH ANDREWS."

As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this letter he walked
downstairs, where he met Mrs. Slipslop, with whom we shall take this
opportunity to bring the reader a little better acquainted. She was a
maiden gentlewoman of about forty-five years of age, who, having made a
small slip in her youth, had continued a good maid ever since. She was
not at this time remarkably handsome; being very short, and rather too
corpulent in body, and somewhat red, with the addition of pimples in the
face. Her nose was likewise rather too large, and her eyes too little;
nor did she resemble a cow so much in her breath as in two brown globes
which she carried before her; one of her legs was also a little shorter
than the other, which occasioned her to limp as she walked. This fair
creature had long cast the eyes of affection on Joseph, in which she had
not met with quite so good success as she probably wished, though,
besides the allurements of her native charms, she had given him tea,
sweetmeats, wine, and many other delicacies, of which, by keeping the
keys, she had the absolute command. Joseph, however, had not returned
the least gratitude to all these favours, not even so much as a kiss;
though I would not insinuate she was so easily to be satisfied; for
surely then he would have been highly blameable. The truth is, she was
arrived at an age when she thought she might indulge herself in any
liberties with a man, without the danger of bringing a third person into
the world to betray them. She imagined that by so long a self-denial she
had not only made amends for the small slip of her youth above hinted
at, but had likewise laid up a quantity of merit to excuse any future
failings. In a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorous
inclinations, and to pay off the debt of pleasure which she found she
owed herself, as fast as possible.

With these charms of person, and in this disposition of mind, she
encountered poor Joseph at the bottom of the stairs, and asked him if he
would drink a glass of something good this morning. Joseph, whose
spirits were not a little cast down, very readily and thankfully
accepted the offer; and together they went into a closet, where, having
delivered him a full glass of ratafia, and desired him to sit down, Mrs.
Slipslop thus began:--

"Sure nothing can be a more simple contract in a woman than to place her
affections on a boy. If I had ever thought it would have been my fate, I
should have wished to die a thousand deaths rather than live to see that
day. If we like a man, the lightest hint sophisticates. Whereas a boy
proposes upon us to break through all the regulations of modesty, before
we can make any oppression upon him." Joseph, who did not understand a
word she said, answered, "Yes, madam."--"Yes, madam!" replied Mrs.
Slipslop with some warmth, "Do you intend to result my passion? Is it
not enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the favours
I have done you; but you must treat me with ironing? Barbarous monster!
how have I deserved that my passion should be resulted and treated with
ironing?" "Madam," answered Joseph, "I don't understand your hard words;
but I am certain you have no occasion to call me ungrateful, for, so far
from intending you any wrong, I have always loved you as well as if you
had been my own mother." "How, sirrah!" says Mrs. Slipslop in a rage;
"your own mother? Do you assinuate that I am old enough to be your
mother? I don't know what a stripling may think, but I believe a man
would refer me to any green-sickness silly girl whatsomdever: but I
ought to despise you rather than be angry with you, for referring the
conversation of girls to that of a woman of sense."--"Madam," says
Joseph, "I am sure I have always valued the honour you did me by your
conversation, for I know you are a woman of learning."--"Yes, but,
Joseph," said she, a little softened by the compliment to her learning,
"if you had a value for me, you certainly would have found some method
of showing it me; for I am convicted you must see the value I have for
you. Yes, Joseph, my eyes, whether I would or no, must have declared a
passion I cannot conquer.--Oh! Joseph!"

As when a hungry tigress, who long has traversed the woods in fruitless
search, sees within the reach of her claws a lamb, she prepares to leap
on her prey; or as a voracious pike, of immense size, surveys through
the liquid element a roach or gudgeon, which cannot escape her jaws,
opens them wide to swallow the little fish; so did Mrs. Slipslop prepare
to lay her violent amorous hands on the poor Joseph, when luckily her
mistress's bell rung, and delivered the intended martyr from her
clutches. She was obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer the
execution of her purpose till some other time. We shall therefore return
to the Lady Booby, and give our reader some account of her behaviour,
after she was left by Joseph in a temper of mind not greatly different
from that of the inflamed Slipslop.



CHAPTER VII.

_Sayings of wise men. A dialogue between the lady and her maid; and a
panegyric, or rather satire, on the passion of love, in the
sublime style._


It is the observation of some antient sage, whose name I have forgot,
that passions operate differently on the human mind, as diseases on the
body, in proportion to the strength or weakness, soundness or
rottenness, of the one and the other.

We hope, therefore, a judicious reader will give himself some pains to
observe, what we have so greatly laboured to describe, the different
operations of this passion of love in the gentle and cultivated mind of
the Lady Booby, from those which it effected in the less polished and
coarser disposition of Mrs Slipslop.

Another philosopher, whose name also at present escapes my memory, hath
somewhere said, that resolutions taken in the absence of the beloved
object are very apt to vanish in its presence; on both which wise
sayings the following chapter may serve as a comment.

No sooner had Joseph left the room in the manner we have before related
than the lady, enraged at her disappointment, began to reflect with
severity on her conduct. Her love was now changed to disdain, which
pride assisted to torment her. She despised herself for the meanness of
her passion, and Joseph for its ill success. However, she had now got
the better of it in her own opinion, and determined immediately to
dismiss the object. After much tossing and turning in her bed, and many
soliloquies, which if we had no better matter for our reader we would
give him, she at last rung the bell as above mentioned, and was
presently attended by Mrs Slipslop, who was not much better pleased with
Joseph than the lady herself.

"Slipslop," said Lady Booby, "when did you see Joseph?" The poor woman
was so surprized at the unexpected sound of his name at so critical a
time, that she had the greatest difficulty to conceal the confusion she
was under from her mistress; whom she answered, nevertheless, with
pretty good confidence, though not entirely void of fear of suspicion,
that she had not seen him that morning. "I am afraid," said Lady Booby,
"he is a wild young fellow."--"That he is," said Slipslop, "and a
wicked one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, and fights
eternally; besides, he is horribly indicted to wenching."--"Ay!" said
the lady, "I never heard that of him."--"O madam!" answered the other,
"he is so lewd a rascal, that if your ladyship keeps him much longer,
you will not have one virgin in your house except myself. And yet I
can't conceive what the wenches see in him, to be so foolishly fond as
they are; in my eyes, he is as ugly a scarecrow as I ever
upheld."--"Nay," said the lady, "the boy is well enough."--"La! ma'am,"
cries Slipslop, "I think him the ragmaticallest fellow in the
family."--"Sure, Slipslop," says she, "you are mistaken: but which of
the women do you most suspect?"--"Madam," says Slipslop, "there is Betty
the chambermaid, I am almost convicted, is with child by him."--"Ay!"
says the lady, "then pray pay her her wages instantly. I will keep no
such sluts in my family. And as for Joseph, you may discard him
too."--"Would your ladyship have him paid off immediately?" cries
Slipslop, "for perhaps, when Betty is gone he may mend: and really the
boy is a good servant, and a strong healthy luscious boy enough."--
"This morning," answered the lady with some vehemence. "I wish, madam,"
cries Slipslop, "your ladyship would be so good as to try him a little
longer."--"I will not have my commands disputed," said the lady; "sure
you are not fond of him yourself?"--"I, madam!" cries Slipslop,
reddening, if not blushing, "I should be sorry to think your ladyship
had any reason to respect me of fondness for a fellow; and if it be your
pleasure, I shall fulfil it with as much reluctance as possible."--"As
little, I suppose you mean," said the lady; "and so about it instantly."
Mrs. Slipslop went out, and the lady had scarce taken two turns before
she fell to knocking and ringing with great violence. Slipslop, who did
not travel post haste, soon returned, and was countermanded as to
Joseph, but ordered to send Betty about her business without delay. She
went out a second time with much greater alacrity than before; when the
lady began immediately to accuse herself of want of resolution, and to
apprehend the return of her affection, with its pernicious consequences;
she therefore applied herself again to the bell, and re-summoned Mrs.
Slipslop into her presence; who again returned, and was told by her
mistress that she had considered better of the matter, and was
absolutely resolved to turn away Joseph; which she ordered her to do
immediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of her lady's temper, and
would not venture her place for any Adonis or Hercules in the universe,
left her a third time; which she had no sooner done, than the little god
Cupid, fearing he had not yet done the lady's business, took a fresh
arrow with the sharpest point out of his quiver, and shot it directly
into her heart; in other and plainer language, the lady's passion got
the better of her reason. She called back Slipslop once more, and told
her she had resolved to see the boy, and examine him herself; therefore
bid her send him up. This wavering in her mistress's temper probably put
something into the waiting-gentlewoman's head not necessary to mention
to the sagacious reader.

Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could not prevail with
herself. The next consideration therefore was, how she should behave to
Joseph when he came in. She resolved to preserve all the dignity of the
woman of fashion to her servant, and to indulge herself in this last
view of Joseph (for that she was most certainly resolved it should be)
at his own expense, by first insulting and then discarding him.

O Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play with thy votaries of both
sexes! How dost thou deceive them, and make them deceive themselves!
Their follies are thy delight! Their sighs make thee laugh, and their
pangs are thy merriment!

Not the great Rich, who turns men into monkeys, wheel-barrows, and
whatever else best humours his fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed
the human shape; nor the great Cibber, who confounds all number, gender,
and breaks through every rule of grammar at his will, hath so distorted
the English language as thou dost metamorphose and distort the
human senses.

Thou puttest out our eyes, stoppest up our ears, and takest away the
power of our nostrils; so that we can neither see the largest object,
hear the loudest noise, nor smell the most poignant perfume. Again, when
thou pleasest, thou canst make a molehill appear as a mountain, a
Jew's-harp sound like a trumpet, and a daisy smell like a violet. Thou
canst make cowardice brave, avarice generous, pride humble, and cruelty
tender-hearted. In short, thou turnest the heart of man inside out, as a
juggler doth a petticoat, and bringest whatsoever pleaseth thee out
from it. If there be any one who doubts all this, let him read the
next chapter.



CHAPTER VIII.

_In which, after some very fine writing, the history goes on, and
relates the interview between the lady and Joseph; where the latter hath
set an example which we despair of seeing followed by his sex in this
vicious age._


Now the rake Hesperus had called for his breeches, and, having well
rubbed his drowsy eyes, prepared to dress himself for all night; by
whose example his brother rakes on earth likewise leave those beds in
which they had slept away the day. Now Thetis, the good housewife, began
to put on the pot, in order to regale the good man Phoebus after his
daily labours were over. In vulgar language, it was in the evening when
Joseph attended his lady's orders.

But as it becomes us to preserve the character of this lady, who is the
heroine of our tale; and as we have naturally a wonderful tenderness for
that beautiful part of the human species called the fair sex; before we
discover too much of her frailty to our reader, it will be proper to
give him a lively idea of the vast temptation, which overcame all the
efforts of a modest and virtuous mind; and then we humbly hope his good
nature will rather pity than condemn the imperfection of human virtue.

[Illustration]

Nay, the ladies themselves will, we hope, be induced, by considering the
uncommon variety of charms which united in this young man's person, to
bridle their rampant passion for chastity, and be at least as mild as
their violent modesty and virtue will permit them, in censuring the
conduct of a woman who, perhaps, was in her own disposition as chaste
as those pure and sanctified virgins who, after a life innocently spent
in the gaieties of the town, begin about fifty to attend twice _per
diem_ at the polite churches and chapels, to return thanks for the grace
which preserved them formerly amongst beaus from temptations perhaps
less powerful than what now attacked the Lady Booby.

Mr Joseph Andrews was now in the one-and-twentieth year of his age. He
was of the highest degree of middle stature; his limbs were put together
with great elegance, and no less strength; his legs and thighs were
formed in the exactest proportion; his shoulders were broad and brawny,
but yet his arm hung so easily, that he had all the symptoms of strength
without the least clumsiness. His hair was of a nut-brown colour, and
was displayed in wanton ringlets down his back; his forehead was high,
his eyes dark, and as full of sweetness as of fire; his nose a little
inclined to the Roman; his teeth white and even; his lips full, red, and
soft; his beard was only rough on his chin and upper lip; but his
cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread with a thick down;
his countenance had a tenderness joined with a sensibility
inexpressible. Add to this the most perfect neatness in his dress, and
an air which, to those who have not seen many noblemen, would give an
idea of nobility.

Such was the person who now appeared before the lady. She viewed him
some time in silence, and twice or thrice before she spake changed her
mind as to the manner in which she should begin. At length she said to
him, "Joseph, I am sorry to hear such complaints against you: I am told
you behave so rudely to the maids, that they cannot do their business in
quiet; I mean those who are not wicked enough to hearken to your
solicitations. As to others, they may, perhaps, not call you rude; for
there are wicked sluts who make one ashamed of one's own sex, and are as
ready to admit any nauseous familiarity as fellows to offer it: nay,
there are such in my family, but they shall not stay in it; that
impudent trollop who is with child by you is discharged by this time."

As a person who is struck through the heart with a thunderbolt looks
extremely surprised, nay, and perhaps is so too--thus the poor Joseph
received the false accusation of his mistress; he blushed and looked
confounded, which she misinterpreted to be symptoms of his guilt, and
thus went on:--

"Come hither, Joseph: another mistress might discard you for these
offences; but I have a compassion for your youth, and if I could be
certain you would be no more guilty--Consider, child," laying her hand
carelessly upon his, "you are a handsome young fellow, and might do
better; you might make your fortune." "Madam," said Joseph, "I do assure
your ladyship I don't know whether any maid in the house is man or
woman." "Oh fie! Joseph," answered the lady, "don't commit another crime
in denying the truth. I could pardon the first; but I hate a lyar."
"Madam," cries Joseph, "I hope your ladyship will not be offended at my
asserting my innocence; for, by all that is sacred, I have never offered
more than kissing." "Kissing!" said the lady, with great discomposure of
countenance, and more redness in her cheeks than anger in her eyes; "do
you call that no crime? Kissing, Joseph, is as a prologue to a play. Can
I believe a young fellow of your age and complexion will be content with
kissing? No, Joseph, there is no woman who grants that but will grant
more; and I am deceived greatly in you if you would not put her closely
to it. What would you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to kiss me?"
Joseph replied he would sooner die than have any such thought. "And
yet, Joseph," returned she, "ladies have admitted their footmen to such
familiarities; and footmen, I confess to you, much less deserving them;
fellows without half your charms--for such might almost excuse the
crime. Tell me therefore, Joseph, if I should admit you to such freedom,
what would you think of me?--tell me freely." "Madam," said Joseph, "I
should think your ladyship condescended a great deal below yourself."
"Pugh!" said she; "that I am to answer to myself: but would not you
insist on more? Would you be contented with a kiss? Would not your
inclinations be all on fire rather by such a favour?" "Madam," said
Joseph, "if they were, I hope I should be able to controul them, without
suffering them to get the better of my virtue." You have heard, reader,
poets talk of the statue of Surprize; you have heard likewise, or else
you have heard very little, how Surprize made one of the sons of Croesus
speak, though he was dumb. You have seen the faces, in the
eighteen-penny gallery, when, through the trap-door, to soft or no
music, Mr. Bridgewater, Mr. William Mills, or some other of ghostly
appearance, hath ascended, with a face all pale with powder, and a shirt
all bloody with ribbons;--but from none of these, nor from Phidias or
Praxiteles, if they should return to life--no, not from the inimitable
pencil of my friend Hogarth, could you receive such an idea of surprize
as would have entered in at your eyes had they beheld the Lady Booby
when those last words issued out from the lips of Joseph. "Your virtue!"
said the lady, recovering after a silence of two minutes; "I shall never
survive it. Your virtue!--intolerable confidence! Have you the assurance
to pretend, that when a lady demeans herself to throw aside the rules of
decency, in order to honour you with the highest favour in her power,
your virtue should resist her inclination? that, when she had conquered
her own virtue, she should find an obstruction in yours?" "Madam," said
Joseph, "I can't see why her having no virtue should be a reason against
my having any; or why, because I am a man, or because I am poor, my
virtue must be subservient to her pleasures." "I am out of patience,"
cries the lady: "did ever mortal hear of a man's virtue? Did ever the
greatest or the gravest men pretend to any of this kind? Will
magistrates who punish lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make
any scruple of committing it? And can a boy, a stripling, have the
confidence to talk of his virtue?" "Madam," says Joseph, "that boy is
the brother of Pamela, and would be ashamed that the chastity of his
family, which is preserved in her, should be stained in him. If there
are such men as your ladyship mentions, I am sorry for it; and I wish
they had an opportunity of reading over those letters which my father
hath sent me of my sister Pamela's; nor do I doubt but such an example
would amend them." "You impudent villain!" cries the lady in a rage; "do
you insult me with the follies of my relation, who hath exposed himself
all over the country upon your sister's account? a little vixen, whom I
have always wondered my late Lady Booby ever kept in her house. Sirrah!
get out of my sight, and prepare to set out this night; for I will order
you your wages immediately, and you shall be stripped and turned away."
"Madam," says Joseph, "I am sorry I have offended your ladyship, I am
sure I never intended it." "Yes, sirrah," cries she, "you have had the
vanity to misconstrue the little innocent freedom I took, in order to
try whether what I had heard was true. O' my conscience, you have had
the assurance to imagine I was fond of you myself." Joseph answered, he
had only spoke out of tenderness for his virtue; at which words she
flew into a violent passion, and refusing to hear more, ordered him
instantly to leave the room.

He was no sooner gone than she burst forth into the following
exclamation:--"Whither doth this violent passion hurry us? What
meannesses do we submit to from its impulse! Wisely we resist its first
and least approaches; for it is then only we can assure ourselves the
victory. No woman could ever safely say, so far only will I go. Have I
not exposed myself to the refusal of my footman? I cannot bear the
reflection." Upon which she applied herself to the bell, and rung it
with infinite more violence than was necessary--the faithful Slipslop
attending near at hand: to say the truth, she had conceived a suspicion
at her last interview with her mistress, and had waited ever since in
the antechamber, having carefully applied her ears to the keyhole during
the whole time that the preceding conversation passed between Joseph
and the lady.



CHAPTER IX.

_What passed between the lady and Mrs Slipslop; in which we prophesy
there are some strokes which every one will not truly comprehend at the
first reading._


"Slipslop," said the lady, "I find too much reason to believe all thou
hast told me of this wicked Joseph; I have determined to part with him
instantly; so go you to the steward, and bid him pay his wages."
Slipslop, who had preserved hitherto a distance to her lady--rather out
of necessity than inclination--and who thought the knowledge of this
secret had thrown down all distinction between them, answered her
mistress very pertly--"She wished she knew her own mind; and that she
was certain she would call her back again before she was got half-way
downstairs." The lady replied, she had taken a resolution, and was
resolved to keep it. "I am sorry for it," cries Slipslop, "and, if I had
known you would have punished the poor lad so severely, you should never
have heard a particle of the matter. Here's a fuss indeed about
nothing!" "Nothing!" returned my lady; "do you think I will countenance
lewdness in my house?" "If you will turn away every footman," said
Slipslop, "that is a lover of the sport, you must soon open the coach
door yourself, or get a set of mophrodites to wait upon you; and I am
sure I hated the sight of them even singing in an opera." "Do as I bid
you," says my lady, "and don't shock my ears with your beastly
language." "Marry-come-up," cries Slipslop, "people's ears are sometimes
the nicest part about them."

The lady, who began to admire the new style in which her
waiting-gentlewoman delivered herself, and by the conclusion of her
speech suspected somewhat of the truth, called her back, and desired to
know what she meant by the extraordinary degree of freedom in which she
thought proper to indulge her tongue. "Freedom!" says Slipslop; "I don't
know what you call freedom, madam; servants have tongues as well as
their mistresses." "Yes, and saucy ones too," answered the lady; "but I
assure you I shall bear no such impertinence." "Impertinence! I don't
know that I am impertinent," says Slipslop. "Yes, indeed you are," cries
my lady, "and, unless you mend your manners, this house is no place for
you." "Manners!" cries Slipslop; "I never was thought to want manners
nor modesty neither; and for places, there are more places than one; and
I know what I know." "What do you know, mistress?" answered the lady. "I
am not obliged to tell that to everybody," says Slipslop, "any more than
I am obliged to keep it a secret." "I desire you would provide
yourself," answered the lady. "With all my heart," replied the
waiting-gentlewoman; and so departed in a passion, and slapped the door
after her.

The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting-gentlewoman knew more
than she would willingly have had her acquainted with; and this she
imputed to Joseph's having discovered to her what passed at the first
interview. This, therefore, blew up her rage against him, and confirmed
her in a resolution of parting with him.

But the dismissing Mrs Slipslop was a point not so easily to be resolved
upon. She had the utmost tenderness for her reputation, as she knew on
that depended many of the most valuable blessings of life; particularly
cards, making curtsies in public places, and, above all, the pleasure of
demolishing the reputations of others, in which innocent amusement she
had an extraordinary delight. She therefore determined to submit to any
insult from a servant, rather than run a risque of losing the title to
so many great privileges.

She therefore sent for her steward, Mr Peter Pounce, and ordered him to
pay Joseph his wages, to strip off his livery, and to turn him out of
the house that evening.

She then called Slipslop up, and, after refreshing her spirits with a
small cordial, which she kept in her corset, she began in the
following manner:--

"Slipslop, why will you, who know my passionate temper, attempt to
provoke me by your answers? I am convinced you are an honest servant,
and should be very unwilling to part with you. I believe, likewise, you
have found me an indulgent mistress on many occasions, and have as
little reason on your side to desire a change. I can't help being
surprized, therefore, that you will take the surest method to offend
me--I mean, repeating my words, which you know I have always detested."

The prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly weighed the whole matter, and
found, on mature deliberation, that a good place in possession was
better than one in expectation. As she found her mistress, therefore,
inclined to relent, she thought proper also to put on some small
condescension, which was as readily accepted; and so the affair was
reconciled, all offences forgiven, and a present of a gown and petticoat
made her, as an instance of her lady's future favour.

She offered once or twice to speak in favour of Joseph; but found her
lady's heart so obdurate, that she prudently dropt all such efforts. She
considered there were more footmen in the house, and some as stout
fellows, though not quite so handsome, as Joseph; besides, the reader
hath already seen her tender advances had not met with the encouragement
she might have reasonable expected. She thought she had thrown away a
great deal of sack and sweetmeats on an ungrateful rascal; and, being a
little inclined to the opinion of that female sect, who hold one lusty
young fellow to be nearly as good as another lusty young fellow, she at
last gave up Joseph and his cause, and, with a triumph over her passion
highly commendable, walked off with her present, and with great
tranquillity paid a visit to a stone-bottle, which is of sovereign use
to a philosophical temper.

She left not her mistress so easy. The poor lady could not reflect
without agony that her dear reputation was in the power of her servants.
All her comfort as to Joseph was, that she hoped he did not understand
her meaning; at least she could say for herself, she had not plainly
expressed anything to him; and as to Mrs Slipslop, she imagines she
could bribe her to secrecy.

But what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not so entirely
conquered her passion; the little god lay lurking in her heart, though
anger and distain so hood-winked her, that she could not see him. She
was a thousand times on the very brink of revoking the sentence she had
passed against the poor youth. Love became his advocate, and whispered
many things in his favour. Honour likewise endeavoured to vindicate his
crime, and Pity to mitigate his punishment. On the other side, Pride and
Revenge spoke as loudly against him. And thus the poor lady was tortured
with perplexity, opposite passions distracting and tearing her mind
different ways.

So have I seen, in the hall of Westminster, where Serjeant Bramble hath
been retained on the right side, and Serjeant Puzzle on the left, the
balance of opinion (so equal were their fees) alternately incline to
either scale. Now Bramble throws in an argument, and Puzzle's scale
strikes the beam; again Bramble shares the like fate, overpowered by the
weight of Puzzle. Here Bramble hits, there Puzzle strikes; here one has
you, there t'other has you; till at last all becomes one scene of
confusion in the tortured minds of the hearers; equal wagers are laid on
the success, and neither judge nor jury can possibly make anything of
the matter; all things are so enveloped by the careful serjeants in
doubt and obscurity.

Or, as it happens in the conscience, where honour and honesty pull one
way, and a bribe and necessity another.--If it was our present
business only to make similes, we could produce many more to this
purpose; but a simile (as well as a word) to the wise.--We shall
therefore see a little after our hero, for whom the reader is doubtless
in some pain.



CHAPTER X.

_Joseph writes another letter: his transactions with Mr Peter Pounce,
&c., with his departure from Lady Booby._


The disconsolate Joseph would not have had an understanding sufficient
for the principal subject of such a book as this, if he had any longer
misunderstood the drift of his mistress; and indeed, that he did not
discern it sooner, the reader will be pleased to impute to an
unwillingness in him to discover what he must condemn in her as a fault.
Having therefore quitted her presence, he retired into his own garret,
and entered himself into an ejaculation on the numberless calamities
which attended beauty, and the misfortune it was to be handsomer than
one's neighbours.

He then sat down, and addressed himself to his sister Pamela in the
following words:--

"Dear Sister Pamela,--Hoping you are well, what news have I to tell you!
O Pamela! my mistress is fallen in love with me-that is, what great
folks call falling in love-she has a mind to ruin me; but I hope I shall
have more resolution and more grace than to part with my virtue to any
lady upon earth.

"Mr Adams hath often told me, that chastity is as great a virtue in a
man as in a woman. He says he never knew any more than his wife, and I
shall endeavour to follow his example. Indeed, it is owing entirely to
his excellent sermons and advice, together with your letters, that I
have been able to resist a temptation, which, he says, no man complies
with, but he repents in this world, or is damned for it in the next; and
why should I trust to repentance on my deathbed, since I may die in my
sleep? What fine things are good advice and good examples! But I am
glad she turned me out of the chamber as she did: for I had once almost
forgotten every word parson Adams had ever said to me.

"I don't doubt, dear sister, but you will have grace to preserve your
virtue against all trials; and I beg you earnestly to pray I may be
enabled to preserve mine; for truly it is very severely attacked by more
than one; but I hope I shall copy your example, and that of Joseph my
namesake, and maintain my virtue against all temptations."

Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned downstairs by
Mr Peter Pounce, to receive his wages; for, besides that out of eight
pounds a year he allowed his father and mother four, he had been
obliged, in order to furnish himself with musical instruments, to apply
to the generosity of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent occasions, used
to advance the servants their wages: not before they were due, but
before they were payable; that is, perhaps, half a year after they were
due; and this at the moderate premium of fifty per cent, or a little
more: by which charitable methods, together with lending money to other
people, and even to his own master and mistress, the honest man had,
from nothing, in a few years amassed a small sum of twenty thousand
pounds or thereabouts.

Joseph having received his little remainder of wages, and having stript
off his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and breeches of one of the
servants (for he was so beloved in the family, that they would all have
lent him anything): and, being told by Peter that he must not stay a
moment longer in the house than was necessary to pack up his linen,
which he easily did in a very narrow compass, he took a melancholy leave
of his fellow-servants, and set out at seven in the evening.

He had proceeded the length of two or three streets, before he
absolutely determined with himself whether he should leave the town that
night, or, procuring a lodging, wait till the morning. At last, the moon
shining very bright helped him to come to a resolution of beginning his
journey immediately, to which likewise he had some other inducements;
which the reader, without being a conjurer, cannot possibly guess, till
we have given him those hints which it may be now proper to open.



CHAPTER XI.

_Of several new matters not expected._


It is an observation sometimes made, that to indicate our idea of a
simple fellow, we say, he is easily to be seen through: nor do I believe
it a more improper denotation of a simple book. Instead of applying this
to any particular performance, we chuse rather to remark the contrary in
this history, where the scene opens itself by small degrees; and he is a
sagacious reader who can see two chapters before him.

For this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a matter which now seems
necessary to be explained; since it may be wondered at, first, that
Joseph made such extraordinary haste out of town, which hath been
already shewn; and secondly, which will be now shewn, that, instead of
proceeding to the habitation of his father and mother, or to his beloved
sister Pamela, he chose rather to set out full speed to the Lady Booby's
country-seat, which he had left on his journey to London.

Be it known, then, that in the same parish where this seat stood there
lived a young girl whom Joseph (though the best of sons and brothers)
longed more impatiently to see than his parents or his sister. She was a
poor girl, who had formerly been bred up in Sir John's family; whence, a
little before the journey to London, she had been discarded by Mrs
Slipslop, on account of her extraordinary beauty: for I never could find
any other reason.

This young creature (who now lived with a farmer in the parish) had been
always beloved by Joseph, and returned his affection. She was two years
only younger than our hero. They had been acquainted from their infancy,
and had conceived a very early liking for each other; which had grown to
such a degree of affection, that Mr Adams had with much ado prevented
them from marrying, and persuaded them to wait till a few years' service
and thrift had a little improved their experience, and enabled them to
live comfortably together.

They followed this good man's advice, as indeed his word was little less
than a law in his parish; for as he had shown his parishioners, by an
uniform behaviour of thirty-five years' duration, that he had their good
entirely at heart, so they consulted him on every occasion, and very
seldom acted contrary to his opinion.

Nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting between these
two lovers. A thousand sighs heaved the bosom of Joseph, a thousand
tears distilled from the lovely eyes of Fanny (for that was her name).
Though her modesty would only suffer her to admit his eager kisses, her
violent love made her more than passive in his embraces; and she often
pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure, which though perhaps it
would not have squeezed an insect to death, caused more emotion in the
heart of Joseph than the closest Cornish hug could have done.

The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a pair should, during a
twelvemonth's absence, never converse with one another: indeed, there
was but one reason which did or could have prevented them; and this was,
that poor Fanny could neither write nor read: nor could she be prevailed
upon to transmit the delicacies of her tender and chaste passion by the
hands of an amanuensis.

They contented themselves therefore with frequent inquiries after each
other's health, with a mutual confidence in each other's fidelity, and
the prospect of their future happiness.

Having explained these matters to our reader, and, as far as possible,
satisfied all his doubts, we return to honest Joseph, whom we left just
set out on his travels by the light of the moon.

Those who have read any romance or poetry, antient or modern, must have
been informed that love hath wings: by which they are not to understand,
as some young ladies by mistake have done, that a lover can fly; the
writers, by this ingenious allegory, intending to insinuate no more than
that lovers do not march like horse-guards; in short, that they put the
best leg foremost; which our lusty youth, who could walk with any man,
did so heartily on this occasion, that within four hours he reached a
famous house of hospitality well known to the western traveller. It
presents you a lion on the sign-post: and the master, who was christened
Timotheus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some have conceived that he
hath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he doth in
countenance greatly resemble that magnanimous beast, though his
disposition savours more of the sweetness of the lamb. He is a person
well received among all sorts of men, being qualified to render himself
agreeable to any; as he is well versed in history and politics, hath a
smattering in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, and plays
wonderfully well on the French horn.

A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take shelter in this inn, where
he remembered Sir Thomas had dined in his way to town. Joseph had no
sooner seated himself by the kitchen fire than Timotheus, observing his
livery, began to condole the loss of his late master; who was, he said,
his very particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he had cracked
many a merry bottle, ay many a dozen, in his time. He then remarked,
that all these things were over now, all passed, and just as if they had
never been; and concluded with an excellent observation on the certainty
of death, which his wife said was indeed very true. A fellow now arrived
at the same inn with two horses, one of which he was leading farther
down into the country to meet his master; these he put into the stable,
and came and took his place by Joseph's side, who immediately knew him
to be the servant of a neighbouring gentleman, who used to visit at
their house.

This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm; for he had orders to go
twenty miles farther that evening, and luckily on the same road which
Joseph himself intended to take. He, therefore, embraced this
opportunity of complimenting his friend with his master's horse
(notwithstanding he had received express commands to the contrary),
which was readily accepted; and so, after they had drank a loving pot,
and the storm was over, they set out together.



CHAPTER XII.

_Containing many surprizing adventures which Joseph Andrews met with on
the road, scarce credible to those who have never travelled in a
stage-coach._


Nothing remarkable happened on the road till their arrival at the inn to
which the horses were ordered; whither they came about two in the
morning. The moon then shone very bright; and Joseph, making his friend
a present of a pint of wine, and thanking him for the favour of his
horse, notwithstanding all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his
journey on foot.

He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hope of shortly seeing
his beloved Fanny, when he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and
ordered to stand and deliver. He readily gave them all the money he had,
which was somewhat less than two pounds; and told them he hoped they
would be so generous as to return him a few shillings, to defray his
charges on his way home.

One of the ruffians answered with an oath, "Yes, we'll give you
something presently: but first strip and be d---n'd to you."--"Strip,"
cried the other, "or I'll blow your brains to the devil." Joseph,
remembering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches of a friend, and
that he should be ashamed of making any excuse for not returning them,
replied, he hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which were not
worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. "You are cold, are
you, you rascal?" said one of the robbers: "I'll warm you with a
vengeance;" and, damning his eyes, snapped a pistol at his head; which
he had no sooner done than the other levelled a blow at him with his
stick, which Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with his,
and returned the favour so successfully on his adversary, that he laid
him sprawling at his feet, and at the same instant received a blow from
behind, with the butt end of a pistol, from the other villain, which
felled him to the ground, and totally deprived him of his senses.

The thief who had been knocked down had now recovered himself; and both
together fell to belabouring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they
were convinced they had put an end to his miserable being: they then
stripped him entirely naked, threw him into a ditch, and departed with
their booty.

The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began to recover
his senses as a stage-coach came by. The postillion, hearing a man's
groans, stopt his horses, and told the coachman he was certain there was
a dead man lying in the ditch, for he heard him groan. "Go on, sirrah,"
says the coachman; "we are confounded late, and have no time to look
after dead men." A lady, who heard what the postillion said, and
likewise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coachman to stop and see
what was the matter. Upon which he bid the postillion alight, and look
into the ditch. He did so, and returned, "that there was a man sitting
upright, as naked as ever he was born."--"O J--sus!" cried the lady; "a
naked man! Dear coachman, drive on and leave him." Upon this the
gentlemen got out of the coach; and Joseph begged them to have mercy
upon him: for that he had been robbed and almost beaten to death.
"Robbed!" cries an old gentleman: "let us make all the haste imaginable,
or we shall be robbed too." A young man who belonged to the law
answered, "He wished they had passed by without taking any notice; but
that now they might be proved to have been last in his company; if he
should die they might be called to some account for his murder. He
therefore thought it advisable to save the poor creature's life, for
their own sakes, if possible; at least, if he died, to prevent the
jury's finding that they fled for it. He was therefore of opinion to
take the man into the coach, and carry him to the next inn." The lady
insisted, "That he should not come into the coach. That if they lifted
him in, she would herself alight: for she had rather stay in that place
to all eternity than ride with a naked man." The coachman objected,
"That he could not suffer him to be taken in unless somebody would pay a
shilling for his carriage the four miles." Which the two gentlemen
refused to do. But the lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief happening
to himself, if the wretch was left behind in that condition, saying no
man could be too cautious in these matters, and that he remembered very
extraordinary cases in the books, threatened the coachman, and bid him
deny taking him up at his peril; for that, if he died, he should be
indicted for his murder; and if he lived, and brought an action against
him, he would willingly take a brief in it. These words had a sensible
effect on the coachman, who was well acquainted with the person who
spoke them; and the old gentleman above mentioned, thinking the naked
man would afford him frequent opportunities of showing his wit to the
lady, offered to join with the company in giving a mug of beer for his
fare; till, partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the
promises of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with compassion
at the poor creature's condition, who stood bleeding and shivering with
the cold, he at length agreed; and Joseph was now advancing to the
coach, where, seeing the lady, who held the sticks of her fan before her
eyes, he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, unless he
was furnished with sufficient covering to prevent giving the least
offence to decency--so perfectly modest was this young man; such mighty
effects had the spotless example of the amiable Pamela, and the
excellent sermons of Mr Adams, wrought upon him.

Though there were several greatcoats about the coach, it was not easy to
get over this difficulty which Joseph had started. The two gentlemen
complained they were cold, and could not spare a rag; the man of wit
saying, with a laugh, that charity began at home; and the coachman, who
had two greatcoats spread under him, refused to lend either, lest they
should be made bloody: the lady's footman desired to be excused for the
same reason, which the lady herself, notwithstanding her abhorrence of a
naked man, approved: and it is more than probable poor Joseph, who
obstinately adhered to his modest resolution, must have perished, unless
the postillion (a lad who hath been since transported for robbing a
hen-roost) had voluntarily stript off a greatcoat, his only garment, at
the same time swearing a great oath (for which he was rebuked by the
passengers), "that he would rather ride in his shirt all his life than
suffer a fellow-creature to lie in so miserable a condition."

Joseph, having put on the greatcoat, was lifted into the coach, which
now proceeded on its journey. He declared himself almost dead with the
cold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the lady if she could
not accommodate him with a dram. She answered, with some resentment,
"She wondered at his asking her such a question; but assured him she
never tasted any such thing."

The lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances of the robbery, when the
coach stopt, and one of the ruffians, putting a pistol in, demanded
their money of the passengers, who readily gave it them; and the lady,
in her fright, delivered up a little silver bottle, of about a
half-pint size, which the rogue, clapping it to his mouth, and drinking
her health, declared, held some of the best Nantes he had ever tasted:
this the lady afterwards assured the company was the mistake of her
maid, for that she had ordered her to fill the bottle with
Hungary-water.

As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, it seems, a
case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the company, that if
it had been daylight, and he could have come at his pistols, he would
not have submitted to the robbery: he likewise set forth that he had
often met highwaymen when he travelled on horseback, but none ever durst
attack him; concluding that, if he had not been more afraid for the lady
than for himself, he should not have now parted with his money
so easily.

As wit is generally observed to love to reside in empty pockets, so the
gentleman whose ingenuity we have above remarked, as soon as he had
parted with his money, began to grow wonderfully facetious. He made
frequent allusions to Adam and Eve, and said many excellent things on
figs and fig-leaves; which perhaps gave more offence to Joseph than to
any other in the company.

The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests without departing
from his profession. He said, "If Joseph and the lady were alone, he
would be more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his affairs were
not fettered with any incumbrance; he'd warrant he soon suffered a
recovery by a writ of entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in
tail; that, for his own part, he would engage to make so firm a
settlement in a coach, that there should be no danger of an ejectment,"
with an inundation of the like gibberish, which he continued to vent
till the coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid only was up, in
readiness to attend the coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and a
dram. Joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed prepared
for him, which the maid readily promised to perform; and, being a
good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapt
a large fagot on the fire, and, furnishing Joseph with a greatcoat
belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm
himself whilst she made his bed. The coachman, in the meantime, took an
opportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors; after
which, he reminded his passengers how late they were, and, after they
had taken leave of Joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could.

The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use her interest to
borrow him a shirt; but imagining, as she afterwards said, by his being
so bloody, that he must be a dead man, she ran with all speed to hasten
the surgeon, who was more than half drest, apprehending that the coach
had been overturned, and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as the
wench had informed him at his window that it was a poor foot-passenger
who had been stripped of all he had, and almost murdered, he chid her
for disturbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very
quietly returned to bed and to sleep.

Aurora now began to shew her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten
millions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes a
thousand times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sung both the day
and the song; when the master of the inn, Mr Tow-wouse, arose, and
learning from his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of
his poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, "good-lack-a-day!"
and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his own shirts.

Mrs Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched out her arms in vain to
fold her departed husband, when the maid entered the room. "Who's there?
Betty?"--"Yes, madam."--"Where's your master?"--"He's without, madam;
he hath sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been
robbed and murdered."--"Touch one if you dare, you slut," said Mrs
Tow-wouse: "your master is a pretty sort of a man, to take in naked
vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have no such
doings. If you offer to touch anything, I'll throw the chamber-pot at
your head. Go, send your master to me."--"Yes, madam," answered Betty.
As soon as he came in, she thus began: "What the devil do you mean by
this, Mr Tow-wouse? Am I to buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby
rascals?"--"My dear," said Mr Tow-wouse, "this is a poor
wretch."--"Yes," says she, "I know it is a poor wretch; but what the
devil have we to do with poor wretches? The law makes us provide for too
many already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red coats
shortly."--"My dear," cries Tow-wouse, "this man hath been robbed of all
he hath."--"Well then," said she, "where's his money to pay his
reckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go to an alehouse? I shall send
him packing as soon as I am up, I assure you."--"My dear," said he,
"common charity won't suffer you to do that."--"Common charity, a f--t!"
says she, "common charity teaches us to provide for ourselves and our
families; and I and mine won't be ruined by your charity, I assure
you."--"Well," says he, "my dear, do as you will, when you are up; you
know I never contradict you."--"No," says she; "if the devil was to
contradict me, I would make the house too hot to hold him."

With such like discourses they consumed near half-an-hour, whilst Betty
provided a shirt from the hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and
put it on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last visited him, and
washed and drest his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr Tow-wouse
that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he scarce
saw any hopes of his recovery. "Here's a pretty kettle of fish," cries
Mrs Tow-wouse, "you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeral
at our own expense." Tow-wouse (who, notwithstanding his charity, would
have given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that any
other house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his guest)
answered, "My dear, I am not to blame; he was brought hither by the
stage-coach, and Betty had put him to bed before I was stirring."--"I'll
Betty her," says she.--At which, with half her garments on, the other
half under her arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate Betty,
whilst Tow-wouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor Joseph, and
inquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair.



CHAPTER XIII.

_What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with the
curious discourse between him and Mr Barnabas, the parson of
the parish._


As soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history of the robbery,
together with a short account of himself, and his intended journey, he
asked the surgeon if he apprehended him to be in any danger: to which
the surgeon very honestly answered, "He feared he was; for that his
pulse was very exalted and feverish, and, if his fever should prove more
than symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him." Joseph, fetching
a deep sigh, cried, "Poor Fanny, I would I could have lived to see thee!
but God's will be done."

The surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly affairs to settle,
that he would do it as soon as possible; for, though he hoped he might
recover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he was in great
danger; and if the malign concoction of his humours should cause a
suscitation of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and incapable to
make his will. Joseph answered, "That it was impossible for any creature
in the universe to be in a poorer condition than himself; for since the
robbery he had not one thing of any kind whatever which he could call
his own." "I had," said he, "a poor little piece of gold, which they
took away, that would have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions;
but surely, Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I have thy dear
image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence."

Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but they were refused
him; and he was advised to use all his endeavours to compose himself.
They then left him; and Mr Tow-wouse sent to a clergyman to come and
administer his good offices to the soul of poor Joseph, since the
surgeon despaired of making any successful applications to his body.

Mr Barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) came as soon as sent
for; and, having first drank a dish of tea with the landlady, and
afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the room
where Joseph lay; but, finding him asleep, returned to take the other
sneaker; which when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the
chamber-door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talking to
himself in the following manner:--

"O most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sister! whose example could alone
enable me to withstand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to
preserve my virtue pure and chaste for the arms of my dear Fanny, if it
had pleased Heaven that I should ever have come unto them. What riches,
or honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the loss of innocence?
Doth not that alone afford us more consolation than all worldly
acquisitions? What but innocence and virtue could give any comfort to
such a miserable wretch as I am? Yet these can make me prefer this sick
and painful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in my lady's.
These can make me face death without fear; and though I love my Fanny
more than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me to resign myself to
the Divine will without repining. O thou delightful charming creature!
if Heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest state
would have been a paradise; I could have lived with thee in the lowest
cottage without envying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any
man breathing. But I must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest
angel! I must think of another world; and I heartily pray thou may'st
meet comfort in this."--Barnabas thought he had heard enough, so
downstairs he went, and told Tow-wouse he could do his guest no service;
for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a
rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room.

The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his patient in a higher
fever, as he said, than when he left him, though not delirious; for,
notwithstanding Mr Barnabas's opinion, he had not been once out of his
senses since his arrival at the inn.

Mr Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty prevailed on to
make another visit. As soon as he entered the room he told Joseph "He
was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for another world: in the
first place, therefore, he hoped he had repented of all his sins."
Joseph answered, "He hoped he had; but there was one thing which he knew
not whether he should call a sin; if it was, he feared he should die in
the commission of it; and that was, the regret of parting with a young
woman whom he loved as tenderly as he did his heart-strings." Barnabas
bad him be assured "that any repining at the Divine will was one of the
greatest sins he could commit; that he ought to forget all carnal
affections, and think of better things." Joseph said, "That neither in
this world nor the next he could forget his Fanny; and that the thought,
however grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not half so
tormenting as the fear of what she would suffer when she knew his
misfortune." Barnabas said, "That such fears argued a diffidence and
despondence very criminal; that he must divest himself of all human
passions, and fix his heart above." Joseph answered, "That was what he
desired to do, and should be obliged to him if he would enable him to
accomplish it." Barnabas replied, "That must be done by grace." Joseph
besought him to discover how he might attain it. Barnabas answered, "By
prayer and faith." He then questioned him concerning his forgiveness of
the thieves. Joseph answered, "He feared that was more than he could do;
for nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear they were
taken."--"That," cries Barnabas, "is for the sake of justice."--"Yes,"
said Joseph, "but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I should
attack them, and kill them too, if I could."--"Doubtless," answered
Barnabas, "it is lawful to kill a thief; but can you say you forgive
them as a Christian ought?" Joseph desired to know what that forgiveness
was. "That is," answered Barnabas, "to forgive them as--as--it is to
forgive them as--in short, it is to forgive them as a Christian."--
Joseph replied, "He forgave them as much as he could."--"Well, well,"
said Barnabas, "that will do." He then demanded of him, "If he
remembered any more sins unrepented of; and if he did, he desired him to
make haste and repent of them as fast as he could, that they might
repeat over a few prayers together." Joseph answered, "He could not
recollect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he had
committed he was sincerely sorry for." Barnabas said that was enough,
and then proceeded to prayer with all the expedition he was master of,
some company then waiting for him below in the parlour, where the
ingredients for punch were all in readiness; but no one would squeeze
the oranges till he came.

Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little tea; which Barnabas
reported to Mrs Tow-wouse, who answered, "She had just done drinking it,
and could not be slopping all day;" but ordered Betty to carry him up
some small beer.

Betty obeyed her mistress's commands; but Joseph, as soon as he had
tasted it, said, he feared it would increase his fever, and that he
longed very much for tea; to which the good-natured Betty answered, he
should have tea, if there was any in the land; she accordingly went and
bought him some herself, and attended him with it; where we will leave
her and Joseph together for some time, to entertain the reader with
other matters.



CHAPTER XIV.

_Being very full of adventures which succeeded each other at the inn._


It was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave person rode into the
inn, and, committing his horse to the hostler, went directly into the
kitchen, and, having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the
fireside, where several other persons were likewise assembled.

The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was committed the
night before, and on the poor wretch who lay above in the dreadful
condition in which we have already seen him. Mrs Tow-wouse said, "She
wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell meant by bringing such guests to
her house, when there were so many alehouses on the road proper for
their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the parish should be
at the expense of the funeral." She added, "Nothing would serve the
fellow's turn but tea, she would assure him." Betty, who was just
returned from her charitable office, answered, she believed he was a
gentleman, for she never saw a finer skin in her life. "Pox on his
skin!" replied Mrs Tow-wouse, "I suppose that is all we are like to have
for the reckoning. I desire no such gentlemen should ever call at the
Dragon" (which it seems was the sign of the inn).

The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of emotion at the
distress of this poor creature, whom he observed to be fallen not into
the most compassionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs Tow-wouse had given no
utterance to the sweetness of her temper, nature had taken such pains in
her countenance, that Hogarth himself never gave more expression to
a picture.

Her person was short, thin, and crooked. Her forehead projected in the
middle, and thence descended in a declivity to the top of her nose,
which was sharp and red, and would have hung over her lips, had not
nature turned up the end of it. Her lips were two bits of skin, which,
whenever she spoke, she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked;
and at the upper end of that skin which composed her cheeks, stood two
bones, that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. Add to this a voice
most wonderfully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being both
loud and hoarse.

It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had conceived a greater
dislike for his landlady or compassion for her unhappy guest. He
inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, who was now come into the
kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery? He begged him to use
all possible means towards it, telling him, "it was the duty of men of
all professions to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor
and necessitous." The surgeon answered, "He should take proper care; but
he defied all the surgeons in London to do him any good."--"Pray, sir,"
said the gentleman, "what are his wounds?"--"Why, do you know anything
of wounds?" says the surgeon (winking upon Mrs Tow-wouse).--"Sir, I have
a small smattering in surgery," answered the gentleman.--"A
smattering--ho, ho, ho!" said the surgeon; "I believe it is a
smattering indeed."

The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor, who was
what they call a dry fellow, expose the gentleman.

He began therefore with an air of triumph: "I suppose, sir, you have
travelled?"--"No, really, sir," said the gentleman.--"Ho! then you have
practised in the hospitals perhaps?"--"No, sir."--"Hum! not that
neither? Whence, sir, then, if I may be so bold to inquire, have you got
your knowledge in surgery?"--"Sir," answered the gentleman, "I do not
pretend to much; but the little I know I have from books."--"Books!"
cries the doctor. "What, I suppose you have read Galen and
Hippocrates!"--"No, sir," said the gentleman.--"How! you understand
surgery," answers the doctor, "and not read Galen and Hippocrates?"--
"Sir," cries the other, "I believe there are many surgeons who have
never read these authors."--"I believe so too," says the doctor, "more
shame for them; but, thanks to my education, I have them by heart, and
very seldom go without them both in my pocket."--"They are pretty large
books," said the gentleman.--"Aye," said the doctor, "I believe I know
how large they are better than you." (At which he fell a winking, and
the whole company burst into a laugh.)

The doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman, "If he did not
understand physic as well as surgery." "Rather better," answered the
gentleman.--"Aye, like enough," cries the doctor, with a wink. "Why, I
know a little of physic too."--"I wish I knew half so much," said
Tow-wouse, "I'd never wear an apron again."--"Why, I believe, landlord,"
cries the doctor, "there are few men, though I say it, within twelve
miles of the place, that handle a fever better. _Veniente accurrite
morbo_: that is my method. I suppose, brother, you understand
_Latin_?"--"A little," says the gentleman.--"Aye, and Greek now, I'll
warrant you: _Ton dapomibominos poluflosboio Thalasses_. But I have
almost forgot these things: I could have repeated Homer by heart
once."--"Ifags! the gentleman has caught a traytor," says Mrs Tow-wouse;
at which they all fell a laughing.

The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, very
contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, which he did with
no small satisfaction; and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, told
him, "He was thoroughly convinced of his great learning and abilities;
and that he would be obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion
of his patient's case above-stairs."--"Sir," says the doctor, "his case
is that of a dead man--the contusion on his head has perforated the
internal membrane of the occiput, and divelicated that radical small
minute invisible nerve which coheres to the pericranium; and this was
attended with a fever at first symptomatic, then pneumatic; and he is at
length grown deliriuus, or delirious, as the vulgar express it."

He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty noise
interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighbourhood had taken one
of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty ran upstairs
with this news to Joseph, who begged they might search for a little
piece of broken gold, which had a ribband tied to it, and which he could
swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in the universe.

Notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his innocence, the mob were
very busy in searching him, and presently, among other things, pulled
out the piece of gold just mentioned; which Betty no sooner saw than she
laid violent hands on it, and conveyed it up to Joseph, who received it
with raptures of joy, and, hugging it in his bosom, declared he could
now die contented.

Within a few minutes afterwards came in some other fellows, with a
bundle which they had found in a ditch, and which was indeed the cloaths
which had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other things they had
taken from him.

The gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he declared he knew the
livery; and, if it had been taken from the poor creature above-stairs,
desired he might see him; for that he was very well acquainted with the
family to whom that livery belonged.

He was accordingly conducted up by Betty; but what, reader, was the
surprize on both sides, when he saw Joseph was the person in bed, and
when Joseph discovered the face of his good friend Mr Abraham Adams!

It would be impertinent to insert a discourse which chiefly turned on
the relation of matters already well known to the reader; for, as soon
as the curate had satisfied Joseph concerning the perfect health of his
Fanny, he was on his side very inquisitive into all the particulars
which had produced this unfortunate accident.

To return therefore to the kitchen, where a great variety of company
were now assembled from all the rooms of the house, as well as the
neighbourhood: so much delight do men take in contemplating the
countenance of a thief.

Mr Tow-wouse began to rub his hands with pleasure at seeing so large an
assembly; who would, he hoped, shortly adjourn into several apartments,
in order to discourse over the robbery, and drink a health to all honest
men. But Mrs Tow-wouse, whose misfortune it was commonly to see things a
little perversely, began to rail at those who brought the fellow into
her house; telling her husband, "They were very likely to thrive who
kept a house of entertainment for beggars and thieves."

The mob had now finished their search, and could find nothing about the
captive likely to prove any evidence; for as to the cloaths, though the
mob were very well satisfied with that proof, yet, as the surgeon
observed, they could not convict him, because they were not found in his
custody; to which Barnabas agreed, and added that these were _bona
waviata_, and belonged to the lord of the manor.

"How," says the surgeon, "do you say these goods belong to the lord of
the manor?"--"I do," cried Barnabas.--"Then I deny it," says the
surgeon: "what can the lord of the manor have to do in the case? Will
any one attempt to persuade me that what a man finds is not his
own?"--"I have heard," says an old fellow in the corner, "justice
Wise-one say, that, if every man had his right, whatever is found
belongs to the king of London."--"That may be true," says Barnabas, "in
some sense; for the law makes a difference between things stolen and
things found; for a thing may be stolen that never is found, and a thing
may be found that never was stolen: Now, goods that are both stolen and
found are _waviata_; and they belong to the lord of the manor."--"So the
lord of the manor is the receiver of stolen goods," says the doctor; at
which there was an universal laugh, being first begun by himself.

While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had almost (as there
was no evidence against him) brought over Barnabas, the surgeon,
Tow-wouse, and several others to his side, Betty informed them that they
had overlooked a little piece of gold, which she had carried up to the
man in bed, and which he offered to swear to amongst a million, aye,
amongst ten thousand. This immediately turned the scale against the
prisoner, and every one now concluded him guilty. It was resolved,
therefore, to keep him secured that night, and early in the morning to
carry him before a justice.



CHAPTER XV.

_Showing how Mrs Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how officious Mr
Barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the thief: with a
dissertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other persons
not mentioned in this history._


Betty told her mistress she believed the man in bed was a greater man
than they took him for; for, besides the extreme whiteness of his skin,
and the softness of his hands, she observed a very great familiarity
between the gentleman and him; and added, she was certain they were
intimate acquaintance, if not relations.

This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs Tow-wouse's countenance. She
said, "God forbid she should not discharge the duty of a Christian,
since the poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had a natural
antipathy to vagabonds; but could pity the misfortunes of a Christian
as soon as another." Tow-wouse said, "If the traveller be a gentleman,
though he hath no money about him now, we shall most likely be paid
hereafter; so you may begin to score whenever you will." Mrs Tow-wouse
answered, "Hold your simple tongue, and don't instruct me in my
business. I am sure I am sorry for the gentleman's misfortune with all
my heart; and I hope the villain who hath used him so barbarously will
be hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. God forbid he should want
anything in my house."

Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to satisfy themselves
concerning the piece of gold; Joseph was with difficulty prevailed upon
to show it them, but would by no entreaties be brought to deliver it out
of his own possession. He however attested this to be the same which had
been taken from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the finding it on
the thief.

The only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this gold before
the justice; for as to carrying Joseph himself, it seemed impossible;
nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him, for he had
fastened it with a ribband to his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing
but irresistible force should ever separate them; in which resolution,
Mr Adams, clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle of an ox,
declared he would support him.

A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence not very necessary
to be related here; after which the surgeon dressed Mr Joseph's head,
still persisting in the imminent danger in which his patient lay, but
concluding, with a very important look, "That he began to have some
hopes; that he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and
would see him in the morning." After which Barnabas and he departed, and
left Mr Joseph and Mr Adams together.

Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey which he was
making to London, namely, to publish three volumes of sermons; being
encouraged, as he said, by an advertisement lately set forth by the
society of booksellers, who proposed to purchase any copies offered to
them, at a price to be settled by two persons; but though he imagined he
should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his
family were in urgent need of, he protested he would not leave Joseph in
his present condition: finally, he told him, "He had nine shillings and
threepence halfpenny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as
he pleased."

This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into Joseph's eyes; he
declared, "He had now a second reason to desire life, that he might show
his gratitude to such a friend." Adams bade him "be cheerful; for that
he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his ignorance, desired to make a
merit of curing him, though the wounds in his head, he perceived, were
by no means dangerous; that he was convinced he had no fever, and
doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day or two."

These words infused a spirit into Joseph; he said, "He found himself
very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to think any of his bones
injured, or that he had received any harm in his inside, unless that he
felt something very odd in his stomach; but he knew not whether that
might not arise from not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four
hours." Being then asked if he had any inclination to eat, he answered
in the affirmative. Then parson Adams desired him to "name what he had
the greatest fancy for; whether a poached egg, or chicken-broth." He
answered, "He could eat both very well; but that he seemed to have the
greatest appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage."

Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he had not the
least fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for that evening. He
accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl, I never could with any
tolerable certainty discover which; after this he was, by Mrs
Tow-wouse's order, conveyed into a better bed and equipped with one of
her husband's shirts.

In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to the inn, in order
to see the thief conveyed before the justice. They had consumed the
whole night in debating what measures they should take to produce the
piece of gold in evidence against him; for they were both extremely
zealous in the business, though neither of them were in the least
interested in the prosecution; neither of them had ever received any
private injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever been
suspected of loving the publick well enough to give them a sermon or a
dose of physic for nothing.

To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible to account for this
zeal, we must inform him that, as this parish was so unfortunate as to
have no lawyer in it, there had been a constant contention between the
two doctors, spiritual and physical, concerning their abilities in a
science, in which, as neither of them professed it, they had equal
pretensions to dispute each other's opinions. These disputes were
carried on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided the
parish; Mr Tow-wouse and one half of the neighbours inclining to the
surgeon, and Mrs Tow-wouse with the other half to the parson. The
surgeon drew his knowledge from those inestimable fountains, called The
Attorney's Pocket Companion, and Mr Jacob's Law-Tables; Barnabas trusted
entirely to Wood's Institutes. It happened on this occasion, as was
pretty frequently the case, that these two learned men differed about
the sufficiency of evidence; the doctor being of opinion that the maid's
oath would convict the prisoner without producing the gold; the parson,
_é contra, totis viribus._ To display their parts, therefore, before
the justice and the parish, was the sole motive which we can discover to
this zeal which both of them pretended to have for public justice.

O Vanity! how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy operations
discerned! How wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under different
disguises! Sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity, sometimes of
generosity: nay, thou hast the assurance even to put on those glorious
ornaments which belong only to heroic virtue. Thou odious, deformed
monster! whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, and poets
ridiculed; is there a wretch so abandoned as to own thee for an
acquaintance in public?--yet, how few will refuse to enjoy thee in
private? nay, thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. The
greatest villainies are daily practised to please thee; nor is the
meanest thief below, or the greatest hero above, thy notice. Thy
embraces are often the sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery
and the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, that
we attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to withhold
from them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves. Avarice itself
is often no more than thy handmaid, and even Lust thy pimp. The bully
Fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and Joy and Grief hide their
heads in thy presence.

I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee I court thee, and that
thy love hath inspired me to write this sarcastical panegyric on thee;
but thou art deceived: I value thee not of a farthing; nor will it give
me any pain if thou shouldst prevail on the reader to censure this
digression as arrant nonsense; for know, to thy confusion, that I have
introduced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a short
chapter, and so I return to my history.



CHAPTER XVI.

_The escape of the thief. Mr Adams's disappointment. The arrival of
two very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of parson Adams
to parson Barnabas._


Barnabas and the surgeon, being returned, as we have said, to the inn,
in order to convey the thief before the justice, were greatly concerned
to find a small accident had happened, which somewhat disconcerted them;
and this was no other than the thief's escape, who had modestly
withdrawn himself by night, declining all ostentation, and not chusing,
in imitation of some great men, to distinguish himself at the expense of
being pointed at.

When the company had retired the evening before, the thief was detained
in a room where the constable, and one of the young fellows who took
him, were planted as his guard. About the second watch a general
complaint of drought was made, both by the prisoner and his keepers.
Among whom it was at last agreed that the constable should remain on
duty, and the young fellow call up the tapster; in which disposition the
latter apprehended not the least danger, as the constable was well
armed, and could besides easily summon him back to his assistance, if
the prisoner made the least attempt to gain his liberty.

The young fellow had not long left the room before it came into the
constable's head that the prisoner might leap on him by surprize, and,
thereby preventing him of the use of his weapons, especially the long
staff in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the success of a
struggle to a equal chance. He wisely, therefore, to prevent this
inconvenience, slipt out of the room himself, and locked the door,
waiting without with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the
unhappy prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt to break out.

But human life, as hath been discovered by some great man or other (for
I would by no means be understood to affect the honour of making any
such discovery), very much resembles a game at chess; for as in the
latter, while a gamester is too attentive to secure himself very
strongly on one side the board, he is apt to leave an unguarded opening
on the other; so doth it often happen in life, and so did it happen on
this occasion; for whilst the cautious constable with such wonderful
sagacity had possessed himself of the door, he most unhappily forgot
the window.

The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner perceived this
opening than he began to move that way; and, finding the passage easy,
he took with him the young fellow's hat, and without any ceremony
stepped into the street and made the best of his way.

The young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong beer, was a
little surprized to find the constable at the door; but much more so
when, the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made his
escape, and which way. He threw down the beer, and, without uttering
anything to the constable except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt
out of the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, being very
unwilling to lose the reward which he had assured himself of.

The constable hath not been discharged of suspicion on this account; it
hath been said that, not being concerned in the taking the thief, he
could not have been entitled to any part of the reward if he had been
convicted; that the thief had several guineas in his pocket; that it was
very unlikely he should have been guilty of such an oversight; that his
pretence for leaving the room was absurd; that it was his constant
maxim, that a wise man never refused money on any conditions; that at
every election he always had sold his vote to both parties, &c.

But, notwithstanding these and many other such allegations, I am
sufficiently convinced of his innocence; having been positively assured
of it by those who received their informations from his own mouth;
which, in the opinion of some moderns, is the best and indeed
only evidence.

All the family were now up, and with many others assembled in the
kitchen, where Mr Tow-wouse was in some tribulation; the surgeon having
declared that by law he was liable to be indicted for the thief's
escape, as it was out of his house; he was a little comforted, however,
by Mr Barnabas's opinion, that as the escape was by night the indictment
would not lie.

Mrs Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following words: "Sure never was
such a fool as my husband; would any other person living have left a man
in the custody of such a drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom Suckbribe?"
(which was the constable's name); "and if he could be indicted without
any harm to his wife and children, I should be glad of it." (Then the
bell rung in Joseph's room.) "Why Betty, John, Chamberlain, where the
devil are you all? Have you no ears, or no conscience, not to tend the
sick better? See what the gentleman wants. Why don't you go yourself, Mr
Tow-wouse? But any one may die for you; you have no more feeling than a
deal board. If a man lived a fortnight in your house without spending a
penny, you would never put him in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea
or coffee for breakfast." "Yes, my dear," cried Tow-wouse. She then
asked the doctor and Mr Barnabas what morning's draught they chose, who
answered, they had a pot of cyder-and at the fire; which we will leave
them merry over, and return to Joseph.

He had rose pretty early this morning; but, though his wounds were far
from threatening any danger, he was so sore with the bruises, that it
was impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey yet; Mr Adams,
therefore, whose stock was visibly decreased with the expenses of supper
and breakfast, and which could not survive that day's scoring, began to
consider how it was possible to recruit it. At last he cried, "He had
luckily hit on a sure method, and, though it would oblige him to return
himself home together with Joseph, it mattered not much." He then sent
for Tow-wouse, and, taking him into another room, told him "he wanted to
borrow three guineas, for which he would put ample security into his
hands." Tow-wouse, who expected a watch, or ring, or something of double
the value, answered, "He believed he could furnish him." Upon which
Adams, pointing to his saddle-bag, told him, with a face and voice full
of solemnity, "that there were in that bag no less than nine volumes of
manuscript sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds as a shilling was
worth twelve pence, and that he would deposit one of the volumes in his
hands by way of pledge; not doubting but that he would have the honesty
to return it on his repayment of the money; for otherwise he must be a
very great loser, seeing that every volume would at least bring him ten
pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in the
country; for," said he, "as to my own part, having never yet dealt in
printing, I do not pretend to ascertain the exact value of such things."

Tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, said (and not without
some truth), "That he was no judge of the price of such kind of goods;
and as for money, he really was very short." Adams answered, "Certainly
he would not scruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedly
worth at least ten." The landlord replied, "He did not believe he had
so much money in the house, and besides, he was to make up a sum. He was
very confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily sorry
it did not suit him." He then cried out, "Coming sir!" though nobody
called; and ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his neck.

Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this disappointment, nor knew he
what further stratagem to try. He immediately applied to his pipe, his
constant friend and comfort in his afflictions; and, leaning over the
rails, he devoted himself to meditation, assisted by the inspiring fumes
of tobacco.

He had on a nightcap drawn over his wig, and a short greatcoat, which
half covered his cassock--a dress which, added to something comical
enough in his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract the eyes
of those who were not over given to observation.

Whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this posture, a coach and six, with a
numerous attendance, drove into the inn. There alighted from the coach a
young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which another young fellow
leapt from the box, and shook the former by the hand; and both, together
with the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr Tow-wouse into an
apartment; whither as they passed, they entertained themselves with the
following short facetious dialogue:--

"You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack!" says he from the coach;
"you had almost overturned us just now."--"Pox take you!" says the
coachman; "if I had only broke your neck, it would have been saving
somebody else the trouble; but I should have been sorry for the
pointers."--"Why, you son of a b--," answered the other, "if nobody
could shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no use."--"D--n
me," says the coachman, "I will shoot with you five guineas a
shot."--"You be hanged," says the other; "for five guineas you shall
shoot at my a--."--"Done," says the coachman; "I'll pepper you better
than ever you was peppered by Jenny Bouncer."--"Pepper your
grandmother," says the other: "Here's Tow-wouse will let you shoot at
him for a shilling a time."--"I know his honour better," cries
Tow-wouse; "I never saw a surer shot at a partridge. Every man misses
now and then; but if I could shoot half as well as his honour, I would
desire no better livelihood than I could get by my gun."--"Pox on you,"
said the coachman, "you demolish more game now than your head's worth.
There's a bitch, Tow-wouse: by G-- she never blinked[A] a bird in her
life."--"I have a puppy, not a year old, shall hunt with her for a
hundred," cries the other gentleman.--"Done," says the coachman: "but
you will be pox'd before you make the bett."--"If you have a mind for a
bett," cries the coachman, "I will match my spotted dog with your white
bitch for a hundred, play or pay."--"Done," says the other: "and I'll
run Baldface against Slouch with you for another."--"No," cries he from
the box; "but I'll venture Miss Jenny against Baldface, or Hannibal
either."--"Go to the devil," cries he from the coach: "I will make every
bett your own way, to be sure! I will match Hannibal with Slouch for a
thousand, if you dare; and I say done first."

[Footnote A:
To blink is a term used to signify the dog's passing by a bird without
pointing at it.]

They were now arrived; and the reader will be very contented to leave
them, and repair to the kitchen; where Barnabas, the surgeon, and an
exciseman were smoaking their pipes over some cyder-and; and where the
servants, who attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen alight,
were now arrived.

"Tom," cries one of the footmen, "there's parson Adams smoaking his
pipe in the gallery."--"Yes," says Tom; "I pulled off my hat to him, and
the parson spoke to me."

"Is the gentleman a clergyman, then?" says Barnabas (for his cassock had
been tied up when he arrived). "Yes, sir," answered the footman; "and
one there be but few like."--"Aye," said Barnabas; "if I had known it
sooner, I should have desired his company; I would always shew a proper
respect for the cloth: but what say you, doctor, shall we adjourn into a
room, and invite him to take part of a bowl of punch?"

This proposal was immediately agreed to and executed; and parson Adams
accepting the invitation, much civility passed between the two
clergymen, who both declared the great honour they had for the cloth.
They had not been long together before they entered into a discourse on
small tithes, which continued a full hour, without the doctor or
exciseman's having one opportunity to offer a word.

It was then proposed to begin a general conversation, and the exciseman
opened on foreign affairs; but a word unluckily dropping from one of
them introduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered by the inferior
clergy; which, after a long duration, concluded with bringing the nine
volumes of sermons on the carpet.

Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams; he said, "The age was so
wicked, that nobody read sermons: would you think it, Mr Adams?" said
he, "I once intended to print a volume of sermons myself, and they had
the approbation of two or three bishops; but what do you think a
bookseller offered me?"--"Twelve guineas perhaps," cried Adams.--"Not
twelve pence, I assure you," answered Barnabas: "nay, the dog refused me
a Concordance in exchange. At last I offered to give him the printing
them, for the sake of dedicating them to that very gentleman who just
now drove his own coach into the inn; and, I assure you, he had the
impudence to refuse my offer; by which means I lost a good living, that
was afterwards given away in exchange for a pointer, to one who--but I
will not say anything against the cloth. So you may guess, Mr Adams,
what you are to expect; for if sermons would have gone down, I
believe--I will not be vain; but to be concise with you, three bishops
said they were the best that ever were writ: but indeed there are a
pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold yet."--"Pray,
sir," said Adams, "to what do you think the numbers may amount?"--"Sir,"
answered Barnabas, "a bookseller told me, he believed five thousand
volumes at least."--"Five thousand?" quoth the surgeon: "What can they
be writ upon? I remember when I was a boy, I used to read one
Tillotson's sermons; and, I am sure, if a man practised half so much as
is in one of those sermons, he will go to heaven."--"Doctor," cried
Barnabas, "you have a prophane way of talking, for which I must reprove
you. A man can never have his duty too frequently inculcated into him.
And as for Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and said things
very well; but comparisons are odious; another man may write as well as
he--I believe there are some of my sermons,"--and then he applied the
candle to his pipe.--"And I believe there are some of my discourses,"
cries Adams, "which the bishops would not think totally unworthy of
being printed; and I have been informed I might procure a very large sum
(indeed an immense one) on them."--"I doubt that," answered Barnabas:
"however, if you desire to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell
them by advertising the manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately
deceased, all warranted originals, and never printed. And now I think of
it, I should be obliged to you, if there be ever a funeral one among
them, to lend it me; for I am this very day to preach a funeral sermon,
for which I have not penned a line, though I am to have a double
price."--Adams answered, "He had but one, which he feared would not
serve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magistrate, who had
exerted himself very singularly in the preservation of the morality of
his neighbours, insomuch that he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman in
the parish where he lived."--"No," replied Barnabas, "that will not do
quite so well; for the deceased, upon whose virtues I am to harangue,
was a little too much addicted to liquor, and publickly kept a
mistress.--I believe I must take a common sermon, and trust to my memory
to introduce something handsome on him."--"To your invention rather,"
said the doctor: "your memory will be apter to put you out; for no man
living remembers anything good of him."

With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied the bowl of punch,
paid their reckoning, and separated: Adams and the doctor went up to
Joseph, parson Barnabas departed to celebrate the aforesaid deceased,
and the exciseman descended into the cellar to gauge the vessels.

Joseph was now ready to sit down to a loin of mutton, and waited for Mr
Adams, when he and the doctor came in. The doctor, having felt his pulse
and examined his wounds, declared him much better, which he imputed to
that sanative soporiferous draught, a medicine "whose virtues," he said,
"were never to be sufficiently extolled." And great indeed they must be,
if Joseph was so much indebted to them as the doctor imagined; since
nothing more than those effluvia which escaped the cork could have
contributed to his recovery; for the medicine had stood untouched in the
window ever since its arrival.

Joseph passed that day, and the three following, with his friend Adams,
in which nothing so remarkable happened as the swift progress of his
recovery. As he had an excellent habit of body, his wounds were now
almost healed; and his bruises gave him so little uneasiness, that he
pressed Mr Adams to let him depart; told him he should never be able to
return sufficient thanks for all his favours, but begged that he might
no longer delay his journey to London.

Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he conceived it, of Mr
Tow-wouse, and the envy (for such he thought it) of Mr Barnabas, had
great expectations from his sermons: seeing therefore Joseph in so good
a way, he told him he would agree to his setting out the next morning in
the stage-coach, that he believed he should have sufficient, after the
reckoning paid, to procure him one day's conveyance in it, and
afterwards he would be able to get on on foot, or might be favoured with
a lift in some neighbour's waggon, especially as there was then to be a
fair in the town whither the coach would carry him, to which numbers
from his parish resorted--And as to himself, he agreed to proceed to the
great city.

They were now walking in the inn-yard, when a fat, fair, short person
rode in, and, alighting from his horse, went directly up to Barnabas,
who was smoaking his pipe on a bench. The parson and the stranger shook
one another very lovingly by the hand, and went into a room together.

The evening now coming on, Joseph retired to his chamber, whither the
good Adams accompanied him, and took this opportunity to expatiate on
the great mercies God had lately shown him, of which he ought not only
to have the deepest inward sense, but likewise to express outward
thankfulness for them. They therefore fell both on their knees, and
spent a considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving.

They had just finished when Betty came in and told Mr Adams Mr Barnabas
desired to speak to him on some business of consequence below-stairs.
Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, he would let him
know it, that he might go to bed, which Adams promised, and in that case
they wished one another good-night.



CHAPTER XVII.

_A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the bookseller, which
was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn, which
produced a dialogue between Mrs Tow-wouse and her maid of no
gentle kind._


As soon as Adams came into the room, Mr Barnabas introduced him to the
stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely to
deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting the
stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; that
nothing could be more convenient, for he had no other business to the
great city, and was heartily desirous of returning with the young man,
who was just recovered of his misfortune. He then snapt his fingers (as
was usual with him), and took two or three turns about the room in an
extasy. And to induce the bookseller to be as expeditious as possible,
as likewise to offer him a better price for his commodity, he assured
them their meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for that he had the
most pressing occasion for money at that time, his own being almost
spent, and having a friend then in the same inn, who was just recovered
from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a most
indigent condition. "So that nothing," says he, "could be so opportune
for the supplying both our necessities as my making an immediate bargain
with you."

As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in these words:
"Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engaging in what my friend Mr
Barnabas recommends; but sermons are mere drugs. The trade is so vastly
stocked with them, that really, unless they come out with the name of
Whitefield or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or
those sort of people, I don't care to touch; unless now it was a sermon
preached on the 30th of January; or we could say in the title-page,
published at the earnest request of the congregation, or the
inhabitants; but, truly, for a dry piece of sermons, I had rather be
excused; especially as my hands are so full at present. However, sir, as
Mr Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take the
manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very
short time."

"Oh!" said Adams, "if you desire it, I will read two or three discourses
as a specimen." This Barnabas, who loved sermons no better than a grocer
doth figs, immediately objected to, and advised Adams to let the
bookseller have his sermons: telling him, "If he gave him a direction,
he might be certain of a speedy answer;" adding, he need not scruple
trusting them in his possession. "No," said the bookseller, "if it was a
play that had been acted twenty nights together, I believe it would
be safe."

Adams did not at all relish the last expression; he said "he was sorry
to hear sermons compared to plays." "Not by me, I assure you," cried the
bookseller, "though I don't know whether the licensing act may not
shortly bring them to the same footing; but I have formerly known a
hundred guineas given for a play."--"More shame for those who gave it,"
cried Barnabas.--"Why so?" said the bookseller, "for they got hundreds
by it."--"But is there no difference between conveying good or ill
instructions to mankind?" said Adams: "Would not an honest mind rather
lose money by the one, than gain it by the other?"--"If you can find any
such, I will not be their hindrance," answered the bookseller; "but I
think those persons who get by preaching sermons are the properest to
lose by printing them: for my part, the copy that sells best will be
always the best copy in my opinion; I am no enemy to sermons, but
because they don't sell: for I would as soon print one of Whitefield's
as any farce whatever."

"Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged," says Barnabas.
"Sir," said he, turning to Adams, "this fellow's writings (I know not
whether you have seen them) are levelled at the clergy. He would reduce
us to the example of the primitive ages, forsooth! and would insinuate
to the people that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and praying.
He pretends to understand the Scripture literally; and would make
mankind believe that the poverty and low estate which was recommended to
the Church in its infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to
her under persecution, was to be preserved in her flourishing and
established state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all the
freethinkers, are not calculated to do half the mischief, as those
professed by this fellow and his followers."

"Sir," answered Adams, "if Mr Whitefield had carried his doctrine no
farther than you mention, I should have remained, as I once was, his
well-wisher. I am, myself, as great an enemy to the luxury and splendour
of the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing
estate of the Church, understand the palaces, equipages, dress,
furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. Surely
those things, which savour so strongly of this world, become not the
servants of one who professed His kingdom was not of it. But when he
began to call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the
detestable doctrine of faith against good works, I was his friend no
longer; for surely that doctrine was coined in hell; and one would think
none but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach it. For
can anything be more derogatory to the honour of God than for men to
imagine that the all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good and
virtuous, 'Notwithstanding the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that
constant rule of virtue and goodness in which you walked upon earth,
still, as thou didst not believe everything in the true orthodox manner,
thy want of faith shall condemn thee?' Or, on the other side, can any
doctrine have a more pernicious influence on society, than a persuasion
that it will be a good plea for the villain at the last day--'Lord, it
is true I never obeyed one of thy commandments, yet punish me not, for I
believe them all?'"--"I suppose, sir," said the bookseller, "your
sermons are of a different kind."--"Aye, sir," said Adams; "the
contrary, I thank Heaven, is inculcated in almost every page, or I
should belye my own opinion, which hath always been, that a virtuous and
good Turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the sight of their Creator
than a vicious and wicked Christian, though his faith was as perfectly
orthodox as St Paul's himself."--"I wish you success," says the
bookseller, "but must beg to be excused, as my hands are so very full at
present; and, indeed, I am afraid you will find a backwardness in the
trade to engage in a book which the clergy would be certain to cry
down."--"God forbid," says Adams, "any books should be propagated which
the clergy would cry down; but if you mean by the clergy, some few
designing factious men, who have it at heart to establish some favourite
schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence of
religion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any book they
please; witness that excellent book called, 'A Plain Account of the
Nature and End of the Sacrament;' a book written (if I may venture on
the expression) with the pen of an angel, and calculated to restore the
true use of Christianity, and of that sacred institution; for what could
tend more to the noble purposes of religion than frequent chearful
meetings among the members of a society, in which they should, in the
presence of one another, and in the service of the Supreme Being, make
promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each other? Now,
this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully." At
these words Barnabas fell a-ringing with all the violence imaginable;
upon which a servant attending, he bid him "bring a bill immediately;
for that he was in company, for aught he knew, with the devil himself;
and he expected to hear the Alcoran, the Leviathan, or Woolston
commended, if he staid a few minutes longer." Adams desired, "as he was
so much moved at his mentioning a book which he did without apprehending
any possibility of offence, that he would be so kind to propose any
objections he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer."--"I
propose objections!" said Barnabas, "I never read a syllable in any such
wicked book; I never saw it in my life, I assure you."--Adams was going
to answer, when a most hideous uproar began in the inn. Mrs Tow-wouse,
Mr Tow-wouse, and Betty, all lifting up their voices together; but Mrs
Tow-wouse's voice, like a bass viol in a concert, was clearly and
distinctly distinguished among the rest, and was heard to articulate the
following sounds:--"O you damn'd villain! is this the return to all the
care I have taken of your family? This the reward of my virtue? Is this
the manner in which you behave to one who brought you a fortune, and
preferred you to so many matches, all your betters? To abuse my bed, my
own bed, with my own servant! but I'll maul the slut, I'll tear her
nasty eyes out! Was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such a mean
trollop? If she had been a gentlewoman, like myself, it had been some
excuse; but a beggarly, saucy, dirty servant-maid. Get you out of my
house, you whore." To which she added another name, which we do not care
to stain our paper with. It was a monosyllable beginning with a b--, and
indeed was the same as if she had pronounced the words, she-dog. Which
term we shall, to avoid offence, use on this occasion, though indeed
both the mistress and maid uttered the above-mentioned b--, a word
extremely disgustful to females of the lower sort. Betty had borne all
hitherto with patience, and had uttered only lamentations; but the last
appellation stung her to the quick. "I am a woman as well as yourself,"
she roared out, "and no she-dog; and if I have been a little naughty, I
am not the first; if I have been no better than I should be," cries she,
sobbing, "that's no reason you should call me out of my name; my
be-betters are wo-rse than me."--"Huzzy, huzzy," says Mrs Tow-wouse,
"have you the impudence to answer me? Did I not catch you, you
saucy"--and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to female
ears. "I can't bear that name," answered Betty: "if I have been wicked,
I am to answer for it myself in the other world; but I have done nothing
that's unnatural; and I will go out of your house this moment, for I
will never be called she-dog by any mistress in England." Mrs Tow-wouse
then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from executing any
dreadful purpose by Mr Adams, who confined her arms with the strength
of a wrist which Hercules would not have been ashamed of. Mr Tow-wouse,
being caught, as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no
defence to make, very prudently withdrew himself; and Betty committed
herself to the protection of the hostler, who, though she could not
conceive him pleased with what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather
a gentler beast than her mistress.

Mrs Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr Adams, and finding the enemy
vanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usual
serenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to the
reader the steps which led to a catastrophe, common enough, and comical
enough too perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and
well-being of families, and the subject of many tragedies, both in life
and on the stage.



CHAPTER XVIII.

_The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of what occasioned
the violent scene in the preceding chapter._


Betty, who was the occasion of all this hurry, had some good qualities.
She had good-nature, generosity, and compassion, but unfortunately, her
constitution was composed of those warm ingredients which, though the
purity of courts or nunneries might have happily controuled them, were
by no means able to endure the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at an
inn; who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers of all
complexions; to the dangerous addresses of fine gentlemen of the army,
who sometimes are obliged to reside with them a whole year together;
and, above all, are exposed to the caresses of footmen, stage-coachmen,
and drawers; all of whom employ the whole artillery of kissing,
flattering, bribing, and every other weapon which is to be found in the
whole armoury of love, against them.

Betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now lived three years in this
dangerous situation, during which she had escaped pretty well. An ensign
of foot was the first person who made an impression on her heart; he did
indeed raise a flame in her which required the care of a surgeon
to cool.

While she burnt for him, several others burnt for her. Officers of the
army, young gentlemen travelling the western circuit, inoffensive
squires, and some of graver character, were set a-fire by her charms!

At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappy
passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual chastity. She was
long deaf to all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a
neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hostler, with a new straw
hat and a pint of wine, made a second conquest over her.

She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this occasion which
had been the consequence of her former amour; nor, indeed, those other
ill effects which prudent young women very justly apprehend from too
absolute an indulgence to the pressing endearments of their lovers. This
latter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being entirely constant
to John, with whom she permitted Tom Whipwell the stage-coachman, and
now and then a handsome young traveller, to share her favours.

Mr Tow-wouse had for some time cast the languishing eyes of affection on
this young maiden. He had laid hold on every opportunity of saying
tender things to her, squeezing her by the hand, and sometimes kissing
her lips; for, as the violence of his passion had considerably abated to
Mrs Tow-wouse, so, like water, which is stopt from its usual current in
one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs Tow-wouse is
thought to have perceived this abatement, and, probably, it added very
little to the natural sweetness of her temper; for though she was as
true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous
of being shone on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth.

Ever since Joseph's arrival, Betty had conceived an extraordinary liking
to him, which discovered itself more and more as he grew better and
better; till that fatal evening, when, as she was warming his bed, her
passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly mastered both her
modesty and her reason, that, after many fruitless hints and sly
insinuations, she at last threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him
with great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature she had
ever seen.

Joseph, in great confusion, leapt from her, and told her he was sorry to
see a young woman cast off all regard to modesty; but she had gone too
far to recede, and grew so very indecent, that Joseph was obliged,
contrary to his inclination, to use some violence to her; and, taking
her in his arms, he shut her out of the room, and locked the door.

How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is always in his own power;
that, if he hath sufficient strength of mind, he hath always a competent
strength of body to defend himself, and cannot, like a poor weak woman,
be ravished against his will!

Betty was in the most violent agitation at this disappointment. Rage and
lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different ways; one
moment she thought of stabbing Joseph; the next, of taking him in her
arms, and devouring him with kisses; but the latter passion was far more
prevalent. Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself; but,
whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death presented
himself to her in so many shapes, of drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c.,
that her distracted mind could resolve on none. In this perturbation of
spirit, it accidentally occurred to her memory that her master's bed was
not made; she therefore went directly to his room, where he happened at
that time to be engaged at his bureau. As soon as she saw him, she
attempted to retire; but he called her back, and, taking her by the
hand, squeezed her so tenderly, at the same time whispering so many soft
things into her ears, and then pressed her so closely with his kisses,
that the vanquished fair one, whose passions were already raised, and
which were not so whimsically capricious that one man only could lay
them, though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that one--the
vanquished fair one quietly submitted, I say, to her master's will, who
had just attained the accomplishment of his bliss when Mrs Tow-wouse
unexpectedly entered the room, and caused all that confusion which we
have before seen, and which it is not necessary, at present, to take any
farther notice of; since, without the assistance of a single hint from
us, every reader of any speculation or experience, though not married
himself, may easily conjecture that it concluded with the discharge of
Betty, the submission of Mr Tow-wouse, with some things to be performed
on his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness in being
reconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any more in
the like manner; and, lastly, his quietly and contentedly bearing to be
reminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a
day during the residue of his life.




BOOK II.



CHAPTER I.

_Of Divisions in Authors_.


There are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades, from the highest
to the lowest, from that of prime-ministering to this of authoring,
which are seldom discovered unless to members of the same calling. Among
those used by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of
dividing our works into books and chapters to be none of the least
considerable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this secret,
common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing we mean only to
swell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwise be
extended to. These several places therefore in our paper, which are
filled with our books and chapters, are understood as so much buckram,
stays, and stay-tape in a taylor's bill, serving only to make up the sum
total, commonly found at the bottom of our first page and of his last.

But in reality the case is otherwise, and in this as well as all other
instances we consult the advantage of our reader, not our own; and
indeed, many notable uses arise to him from this method; for, first,
those little spaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn or
resting-place where he may stop and take a glass or any other
refreshment as it pleases him. Nay, our fine readers will, perhaps, be
scarce able to travel farther than through one of them in a day. As to
those vacant pages which are placed between our books, they are to be
regarded as those stages where in long journies the traveller stays some
time to repose himself, and consider of what he hath seen in the parts
he hath already passed through; a consideration which I take the liberty
to recommend a little to the reader; for, however swift his capacity may
be, I would not advise him to travel through these pages too fast; for
if he doth, he may probably miss the seeing some curious productions of
nature, which will be observed by the slower and more accurate reader. A
volume without any such places of rest resembles the opening of wilds or
seas, which tires the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon.

Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter but so many
inscriptions over the gates of inns (to continue the same metaphor),
informing the reader what entertainment he is to expect, which if he
likes not, he may travel on to the next; for, in biography, as we are
not tied down to an exact concatenation equally with other historians,
so a chapter or two (for instance, this I am now writing) may be often
passed over without any injury to the whole. And in these inscriptions I
have been as faithful as possible, not imitating the celebrated
Montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives you another; nor some
title-page authors, who promise a great deal and produce nothing at all.

There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several others which our
readers enjoy from this art of dividing; though perhaps most of them too
mysterious to be presently understood by any who are not initiated into
the science of authoring. To mention, therefore, but one which is most
obvious, it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning down its
leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those readers who (though they
read with great improvement and advantage) are apt, when they return to
their study after half-an-hour's absence, to forget where they left off.

These divisions have the sanction of great antiquity. Homer not only
divided his great work into twenty-four books (in compliment perhaps to
the twenty-four letters to which he had very particular obligations),
but, according to the opinion of some very sagacious critics, hawked
them all separately, delivering only one book at a time (probably by
subscription). He was the first inventor of the art which hath so long
lain dormant, of publishing by numbers; an art now brought to such
perfection, that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited piecemeal
to the public; nay, one bookseller hath (to encourage learning and ease
the public) contrived to give them a dictionary in this divided manner
for only fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire.

Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an argument of his
modesty; for by that, doubtless, he would insinuate that he pretends to
no more than half the merit of the Greek; for the same reason, our
Milton went originally no farther than ten; till, being puffed up by the
praise of his friends, he put himself on the same footing with the
Roman poet.

I shall not, however, enter so deep into this matter as some very
learned criticks have done; who have with infinite labour and acute
discernment discovered what books are proper for embellishment, and what
require simplicity only, particularly with regard to similes, which I
think are now generally agreed to become any book but the first.

I will dismiss this chapter with the following observation: that it
becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it does a butcher to
joint his meat, for such assistance is of great help to both the reader
and the carver. And now, having indulged myself a little, I will
endeavour to indulge the curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt
impatient to know what he will find in the subsequent chapters of
this book.



CHAPTER II.

_A surprizing instance of Mr Adams's short memory, with the unfortunate
consequences which it brought on Joseph._


Mr Adams and Joseph were now ready to depart different ways, when an
accident determined the former to return with his friend, which
Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been able to do. This
accident was, that those sermons, which the parson was travelling to
London to publish, were, O my good reader! left behind; what he had
mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other than three shirts, a
pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, which Mrs Adams, who thought
her husband would want shirts more than sermons on his journey, had
carefully provided him.

This discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of Joseph at the
opening the saddlebags; who, having heard his friend say he carried with
him nine volumes of sermons, and not being of that sect of philosophers
who can reduce all the matter of the world into a nutshell, seeing there
was no room for them in the bags, where the parson had said they were
deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, "Bless me, sir, where are your
sermons?" The parson answered, "There, there, child; there they are,
under my shirts." Now it happened that he had taken forth his last
shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty. "Sure, sir," says
Joseph, "there is nothing in the bags." Upon which Adams, starting, and
testifying some surprize, cried, "Hey! fie, fie upon it! they are not
here sure enough. Ay, they are certainly left behind."

Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he apprehended his
friend must feel from this disappointment; he begged him to pursue his
journey, and promised he would himself return with the books to him with
the utmost expedition. "No, thank you, child," answered Adams; "it shall
not be so. What would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, unless I
had my discourses with me, which are _ut ita dicam_, the sole cause, the
_aitia monotate_ of my peregrination? No, child, as this accident hath
happened, I am resolved to return back to my cure, together with you;
which indeed my inclination sufficiently leads me to. This
disappointment may perhaps be intended for my good." He concluded with a
verse out of Theocritus, which signifies no more than that sometimes it
rains, and sometimes the sun shines.

Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the inclination which
the parson expressed of returning with him; and now the bill was called
for, which, on examination, amounted within a shilling to the sum Mr
Adams had in his pocket. Perhaps the reader may wonder how he was able
to produce a sufficient sum for so many days: that he may not be
surprized, therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to acquaint him that he
had borrowed a guinea of a servant belonging to the coach and six, who
had been formerly one of his parishioners, and whose master, the owner
of the coach, then lived within three miles of him; for so good was the
credit of Mr Adams, that even Mr Peter, the Lady Booby's steward, would
have lent him a guinea with very little security.

[Illustration]

Mr Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting out, having
agreed to ride and tie; a method of travelling much used by persons who
have but one horse between them, and is thus performed. The two
travellers set out together, one on horseback, the other on foot: now,
as it generally happens that he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the
custom is, that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is to
dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other thing, and
then proceed on foot; when the other comes up to the horse he unties
him, mounts, and gallops on, till, having passed by his
fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place of tying. And this is
that method of travelling so much in use among our prudent ancestors,
who knew that horses had mouths as well as legs, and that they could not
use the latter without being at the expense of suffering the beasts
themselves to use the former. This was the method in use in those days
when, instead of a coach and six, a member of parliament's lady used to
mount a pillion behind her husband; and a grave serjeant at law
condescended to amble to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk
kicking his heels behind him.

Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted on Joseph's beginning
the journey on horseback, and Joseph had his foot in the stirrup, when
the hostler presented him a bill for the horse's board during his
residence at the inn. Joseph said Mr Adams had paid all; but this
matter, being referred to Mr Tow-wouse, was by him decided in favour of
the hostler, and indeed with truth and justice; for this was a fresh
instance of that shortness of memory which did not arise from want of
parts, but that continual hurry in which parson Adams was
always involved.

Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely puzzled him. The sum
due for horse-meat was twelve shillings (for Adams, who had borrowed the
beast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as well as they could
feed him), and the cash in his pocket amounted to sixpence (for Adams
had divided the last shilling with him). Now, though there have been
some ingenious persons who have contrived to pay twelve shillings with
sixpence, Joseph was not one of them. He had never contracted a debt in
his life, and was consequently the less ready at an expedient to
extricate himself. Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit till next
time, to which Mrs Tow-wouse would probably have consented (for such was
Joseph's beauty, that it had made some impression even on that piece of
flint which that good woman wore in her bosom by way of heart). Joseph
would have found, therefore, very likely the passage free, had he not,
when he honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out
that little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. This caused
Mrs Tow-wouse's eyes to water; she told Joseph she did not conceive a
man could want money whilst he had gold in his pocket. Joseph answered
he had such a value for that little piece of gold, that he would not
part with it for a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquire
in the county was worth. "A pretty way, indeed," said Mrs Tow-wouse, "to
run in debt, and then refuse to part with your money, because you have a
value for it! I never knew any piece of gold of more value than as many
shillings as it would change for."--"Not to preserve my life from
starving, nor to redeem it from a robber, would I part with this dear
piece!" answered Joseph. "What," says Mrs Tow-wouse, "I suppose it was
given you by some vile trollop, some miss or other; if it had been the
present of a virtuous woman, you would not have had such a value for it.
My husband is a fool if he parts with the horse without being paid for
him."--"No, no, I can't part with the horse, indeed, till I have the
money," cried Tow-wouse. A resolution highly commended by a lawyer then
in the yard, who declared Mr Tow-wouse might justify the detainer.

As we cannot therefore at present get Mr Joseph out of the inn, we shall
leave him in it, and carry our reader on after parson Adams, who, his
mind being perfectly at ease, fell into a contemplation on a passage in
Aeschylus, which entertained him for three miles together, without
suffering him once to reflect on his fellow-traveller.

At length, having spun out his thread, and being now at the summit of a
hill, he cast his eyes backwards, and wondered that he could not see any
sign of Joseph. As he left him ready to mount the horse, he could not
apprehend any mischief had happened, neither could he suspect that he
missed his way, it being so broad and plain; the only reason which
presented itself to him was, that he had met with an acquaintance who
had prevailed with him to delay some time in discourse.

He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not doubting but that
he should be shortly overtaken; and soon came to a large water, which,
filling the whole road, he saw no method of passing unless by wading
through, which he accordingly did up to his middle; but was no sooner
got to the other side than he perceived, if he had looked over the
hedge, he would have found a footpath capable of conducting him without
wetting his shoes.

His surprize at Joseph's not coming up grew now very troublesome: he
began to fear he knew not what; and as he determined to move no farther,
and, if he did not shortly overtake him, to return back, he wished to
find a house of public entertainment where he might dry his clothes and
refresh himself with a pint; but, seeing no such (for no other reason
than because he did not cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards), he sat
himself down on a stile, and pulled out his Aeschylus.

A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him if he could direct him
to an alehouse. The fellow, who had just left it, and perceived the
house and sign to be within sight, thinking he had jeered him, and being
of a morose temper, bade him follow his nose and be d---n'd. Adams told
him he was a saucy jackanapes; upon which the fellow turned about
angrily; but, perceiving Adams clench his fist, he thought proper to go
on without taking any farther notice.

A horseman, following immediately after, and being asked the same
question, answered, "Friend, there is one within a stone's throw; I
believe you may see it before you." Adams, lifting up his eyes, cried,
"I protest, and so there is;" and, thanking his informer, proceeded
directly to it.



CHAPTER III.

_The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, with Mr
Adams's inquiry into the religion of his host._


He had just entered the house, and called for his pint, and seated
himself, when two horsemen came to the door, and, fastening their horses
to the rails, alighted. They said there was a violent shower of rain
coming on, which they intended to weather there, and went into a little
room by themselves, not perceiving Mr Adams.

One of these immediately asked the other, "If he had seen a more comical
adventure a great while?" Upon which the other said, "He doubted
whether, by law, the landlord could justify detaining the horse for his
corn and hay." But the former answered, "Undoubtedly he can; it is an
adjudged case, and I have known it tried."

Adams, who, though he was, as the reader may suspect, a little inclined
to forgetfulness, never wanted more than a hint to remind him,
overhearing their discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this
was his own horse, and that he had forgot to pay for him, which, upon
inquiry, he was certified of by the gentlemen; who added, that the horse
was likely to have more rest than food, unless he was paid for.

The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, though he knew
no more than Joseph how to procure his horse his liberty; he was,
however, prevailed on to stay under covert, till the shower, which was
now very violent, was over.

The three travellers then sat down together over a mug of good beer;
when Adams, who had observed a gentleman's house as he passed along the
road, inquired to whom it belonged; one of the horsemen had no sooner
mentioned the owner's name, than the other began to revile him in the
most opprobrious terms. The English language scarce affords a single
reproachful word, which he did not vent on this occasion. He charged him
likewise with many particular facts. He said, "He no more regarded a
field of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he had
injured several poor farmers by trampling their corn under his horse's
heels; and if any of them begged him with the utmost submission to
refrain, his horsewhip was always ready to do them justice." He said,
"That he was the greatest tyrant to the neighbours in every other
instance, and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though he might
justify it by law; and in his own family so cruel a master, that he
never kept a servant a twelvemonth. In his capacity as a justice,"
continued he, "he behaves so partially, that he commits or acquits just
as he is in the humour, without any regard to truth or evidence; the
devil may carry any one before him for me; I would rather be tried
before some judges, than be a prosecutor before him: if I had an estate
in the neighbourhood, I would sell it for half the value rather than
live near him."

Adams shook his head, and said, "He was sorry such men were suffered to
proceed with impunity, and that riches could set any man above the law."
The reviler, a little after, retiring into the yard, the gentleman who
had first mentioned his name to Adams began to assure him "that his
companion was a prejudiced person. It is true," says he, "perhaps, that
he may have sometimes pursued his game over a field of corn, but he hath
always made the party ample satisfaction: that so far from tyrannising
over his neighbours, or taking away their guns, he himself knew several
farmers not qualified, who not only kept guns, but killed game with
them; that he was the best of masters to his servants, and several of
them had grown old in his service; that he was the best justice of peace
in the kingdom, and, to his certain knowledge, had decided many
difficult points, which were referred to him, with the greatest equity
and the highest wisdom; and he verily believed, several persons would
give a year's purchase more for an estate near him, than under the wings
of any other great man." He had just finished his encomium when his
companion returned and acquainted him the storm was over. Upon which
they presently mounted their horses and departed.

Adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those different characters of
the same person, asked his host if he knew the gentleman: for he began
to imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two several gentlemen.
"No, no, master," answered the host (a shrewd, cunning fellow); "I know
the gentleman very well of whom they have been speaking, as I do the
gentlemen who spoke of him. As for riding over other men's corn, to my
knowledge he hath not been on horseback these two years. I never heard
he did any injury of that kind; and as to making reparation, he is not
so free of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear of
his taking away any man's gun; nay, I know several who have guns in
their houses; but as for killing game with them, no man is stricter; and
I believe he would ruin any who did. You heard one of the gentlemen say
he was the worst master in the world, and the other that he is the best;
but for my own part, I know all his servants, and never heard from any
of them that he was either one or the other."--"Aye! aye!" says Adams;
"and how doth he behave as a justice, pray?"--"Faith, friend," answered
the host, "I question whether he is in the commission; the only cause I
have heard he hath decided a great while, was one between those very two
persons who just went out of this house; and I am sure he determined
that justly, for I heard the whole matter."--"Which did He decide it in
favour of?" quoth Adams.--"I think I need not answer that question,"
cried the host, "after the different characters you have heard of him.
It is not my business to contradict gentlemen while they are drinking in
my house; but I knew neither of them spoke a syllable of truth."--"God
forbid!" said Adams, "that men should arrive at such a pitch of
wickedness to belye the character of their neighbour from a little
private affection, or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. I
rather believe we have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons;
for there are many houses on the road."--"Why, prithee, friend," cries
the host, "dost thou pretend never to have told a lye in thy
life?"--"Never a malicious one, I am certain," answered Adams, "nor with
a design to injure the reputation of any man living."--"Pugh! malicious;
no, no," replied the host; "not malicious with a design to hang a man,
or bring him into trouble; but surely, out of love to oneself, one must
speak better of a friend than an enemy."--"Out of love to yourself, you
should confine yourself to truth," says Adams, "for by doing otherwise
you injure the noblest part of yourself, your immortal soul. I can
hardly believe any man such an idiot to risque the loss of that by any
trifling gain, and the greatest gain in this world is but dirt in
comparison of what shall be revealed hereafter." Upon which the host,
taking up the cup, with a smile, drank a health to hereafter; adding,
"He was for something present."--"Why," says Adams very gravely, "do not
you believe another world?" To which the host answered, "Yes; he was no
atheist."--"And you believe you have an immortal soul?" cries Adams. He
answered, "God forbid he should not."--"And heaven and hell?" said the
parson. The host then bid him "not to profane; for those were things not
to be mentioned nor thought of but in church." Adams asked him, "Why he
went to church, if what he learned there had no influence on his conduct
in life?" "I go to church," answered the host, "to say my prayers and
behave godly."--"And dost not thou," cried Adams, "believe what thou
hearest at church?"--"Most part of it, master," returned the host. "And
dost not thou then tremble," cries Adams, "at the thought of eternal
punishment?"--"As for that, master," said he, "I never once thought
about it; but what signifies talking about matters so far off? The mug
is out, shall I draw another?"

Whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage-coach drove up to the
door. The coachman coming into the house was asked by the mistress what
passengers he had in his coach? "A parcel of squinny-gut b--s," says he;
"I have a good mind to overturn them; you won't prevail upon them to
drink anything, I assure you." Adams asked him, "If he had not seen a
young man on horseback on the road" (describing Joseph). "Aye," said
the coachman, "a gentlewoman in my coach that is his acquaintance
redeemed him and his horse; he would have been here before this time,
had not the storm driven him to shelter." "God bless her!" said Adams,
in a rapture; nor could he delay walking out to satisfy himself who this
charitable woman was; but what was his surprize when he saw his old
acquaintance, Madam Slipslop? Hers indeed was not so great, because she
had been informed by Joseph that he was on the road. Very civil were the
salutations on both sides; and Mrs Slipslop rebuked the hostess for
denying the gentleman to be there when she asked for him; but indeed the
poor woman had not erred designedly; for Mrs Slipslop asked for a
clergyman, and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a person travelling
to a neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or some other such
operation; for he marched in a swinging great but short white coat with
black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, so far from having a black
hatband, had nothing black about it.

Joseph was now come up, and Mrs Slipslop would have had him quit his
horse to the parson, and come himself into the coach; but he absolutely
refused, saying, he thanked Heaven he was well enough recovered to be
very able to ride; and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to
ride in a coach while Mr Adams was on horseback.

Mrs Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a lady in the coach
put a short end to the dispute, by refusing to suffer a fellow in a
livery to ride in the same coach with herself; so it was at length
agreed that Adams should fill the vacant place in the coach, and Joseph
should proceed on horseback.

They had not proceeded far before Mrs Slipslop, addressing herself to
the parson, spoke thus:--"There hath been a strange alteration in our
family, Mr Adams, since Sir Thomas's death." "A strange alteration
indeed," says Adams, "as I gather from some hints which have dropped
from Joseph."--"Aye," says she, "I could never have believed it; but the
longer one lives in the world, the more one sees. So Joseph hath given
you hints." "But of what nature will always remain a perfect secret with
me," cries the parson: "he forced me to promise before he would
communicate anything. I am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behave
in so unbecoming a manner. I always thought her in the main a good lady,
and should never have suspected her of thoughts so unworthy a Christian,
and with a young lad her own servant." "These things are no secrets to
me, I assure you," cries Slipslop, "and I believe they will be none
anywhere shortly; for ever since the boy's departure, she hath behaved
more like a mad woman than anything else." "Truly, I am heartily
concerned," says Adams, "for she was a good sort of a lady. Indeed, I
have often wished she had attended a little more constantly at the
service, but she hath done a great deal of good in the parish." "O Mr
Adams," says Slipslop, "people that don't see all, often know nothing.
Many things have been given away in our family, I do assure you, without
her knowledge. I have heard you say in the pulpit we ought not to brag;
but indeed I can't avoid saying, if she had kept the keys herself, the
poor would have wanted many a cordial which I have let them have. As for
my late master, he was as worthy a man as ever lived, and would have
done infinite good if he had not been controlled; but he loved a quiet
life, Heaven rest his soul! I am confident he is there, and enjoys a
quiet life, which some folks would not allow him here."--Adams answered,
"He had never heard this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for he
remembered she used to commend her mistress and blame her master) had
not formerly been of another opinion." "I don't know," replied she,
"what I might once think; but now I am confidous matters are as I tell
you; the world will shortly see who hath been deceived; for my part, I
say nothing, but that it is wondersome how some people can carry all
things with a grave face."

Thus Mr Adams and she discoursed, till they came opposite to a great
house which stood at some distance from the road: a lady in the coach,
spying it, cried, "Yonder lives the unfortunate Leonora, if one can
justly call a woman unfortunate whom we must own at the same time guilty
and the author of her own calamity." This was abundantly sufficient to
awaken the curiosity of Mr Adams, as indeed it did that of the whole
company, who jointly solicited the lady to acquaint them with Leonora's
history, since it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something
remarkable.

The lady, who was perfectly well-bred, did not require many entreaties,
and having only wished their entertainment might make amends for the
company's attention, she began in the following manner.



CHAPTER IV.

_The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt._


Leonora was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune; she was tall and
well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance which often
attracts beyond more regular features joined with an insipid air: nor is
this kind of beauty less apt to deceive than allure; the good humour
which it indicates being often mistaken for good nature, and the
vivacity for true understanding.

Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with an aunt of hers
in a town in the north of England. She was an extreme lover of gaiety,
and very rarely missed a ball or any other public assembly; where she
had frequent opportunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity,
with the preference which was given her by the men to almost every other
woman present.

Among many young fellows who were particular in their gallantries
towards her, Horatio soon distinguished himself in her eyes beyond all
his competitors; she danced with more than ordinary gaiety when he
happened to be her partner; neither the fairness of the evening, nor the
musick of the nightingale, could lengthen her walk like his company. She
affected no longer to understand the civilities of others; whilst she
inclined so attentive an ear to every compliment of Horatio, that she
often smiled even when it was too delicate for her comprehension.

"Pray, madam," says Adams, "who was this squire Horatio?"

Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of a good family, bred to
the law, and had been some few years called to the degree of a
barrister. His face and person were such as the generality allowed
handsome; but he had a dignity in his air very rarely to be seen. His
temper was of the saturnine complexion, and without the least taint of
moroseness. He had wit and humour, with an inclination to satire, which
he indulged rather too much.

This gentleman, who had contracted the most violent passion for Leonora,
was the last person who perceived the probability of its success. The
whole town had made the match for him before he himself had drawn a
confidence from her actions sufficient to mention his passion to her;
for it was his opinion (and perhaps he was there in the right) that it
is highly impolitick to talk seriously of love to a woman before you
have made such a progress in her affections, that she herself expects
and desires to hear it.

But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may create, which are apt
to magnify every favour conferred on a rival, and to see the little
advances towards themselves through the other end of the perspective, it
was impossible that Horatio's passion should so blind his discernment as
to prevent his conceiving hopes from the behaviour of Leonora, whose
fondness for him was now as visible to an indifferent person in their
company as his for her.

"I never knew any of these forward sluts come to good" (says the lady
who refused Joseph's entrance into the coach), "nor shall I wonder at
anything she doth in the sequel."

The lady proceeded in her story thus: It was in the midst of a gay
conversation in the walks one evening, when Horatio whispered Leonora,
that he was desirous to take a turn or two with her in private, for that
he had something to communicate to her of great consequence. "Are you
sure it is of consequence?" said she, smiling. "I hope," answered he,
"you will think so too, since the whole future happiness of my life must
depend on the event."

Leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, would have deferred it
till another time; but Horatio, who had more than half conquered the
difficulty of speaking by the first motion, was so very importunate,
that she at last yielded, and, leaving the rest of the company, they
turned aside into an unfrequented walk.

They had retired far out of the sight of the company, both maintaining a
strict silence. At last Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leonora,
who stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he fetched a deep
sigh, and then, looking on her eyes with all the tenderness imaginable,
he cried out in a faltering accent, "O Leonora! is it necessary for me
to declare to you on what the future happiness of my life must be
founded? Must I say there is something belonging to you which is a bar
to my happiness, and which unless you will part with, I must be
miserable!"--"What can that be?" replied Leonora. "No wonder," said he,
"you are surprized that I should make an objection to anything which is
yours: yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the riches
of the world, if they were mine, should purchase for me. Oh, it is that
which you must part with to bestow all the rest! Can Leonora, or rather
will she, doubt longer? Let me then whisper it in her ears--It is your
name, madam. It is by parting with that, by your condescension to be for
ever mine, which must at once prevent me from being the most miserable,
and will render me the happiest of mankind."

Leonora, covered with blushes, and with as angry a look as she could
possibly put on, told him, "That had she suspected what his declaration
would have been, he should not have decoyed her from her company, that
he had so surprized and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her
back as quick as possible;" which he, trembling very near as much as
herself, did.

"More fool he," cried Slipslop; "it is a sign he knew very little of our
sect."--"Truly, madam," said Adams, "I think you are in the right: I
should have insisted to know a piece of her mind, when I had carried
matters so far." But Mrs Grave-airs desired the lady to omit all such
fulsome stuff in her story, for that it made her sick.

Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, said the lady, many
weeks had not passed after this interview before Horatio and Leonora
were what they call on a good footing together. All ceremonies except
the last were now over; the writings were now drawn, and everything was
in the utmost forwardness preparative to the putting Horatio in
possession of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a letter
from each of them, which I have got by heart, and which will give you no
small idea of their passion on both sides.

Mrs Grave-airs objected to hearing these letters; but being put to the
vote, it was carried against her by all the rest in the coach; parson
Adams contending for it with the utmost vehemence.

HORATIO TO LEONORA.

"How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of pleasure in the
absence of an object to which the mind is entirely devoted, unless it
have some relation to that object! I was last night condemned to the
society of men of wit and learning, which, however agreeable it might
have formerly been to me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputed
my absence in conversation to the true cause. For which reason, when
your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of seeing you, I am
always desirous to be alone; since my sentiments for Leonora are so
delicate, that I cannot bear the apprehension of another's prying into
those delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a lover
will sometimes indulge him, and which I suspect my eyes then betray. To
fear this discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too ridiculous a
nicety to minds not susceptible of all the tendernesses of this delicate
passion. And surely we shall suspect there are few such, when we
consider that it requires every human virtue to exert itself in its full
extent; since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, may
give us charming opportunities of being brave in her defence, generous
to her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grateful to her
kindness; and in the same manner, of exercising every other virtue,
which he who would not do to any degree, and that with the utmost
rapture, can never deserve the name of a lover. It is, therefore, with a
view to the delicate modesty of your mind that I cultivate it so purely
in my own; and it is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the
uneasiness I bear from those liberties, which men to whom the world
allow politeness will sometimes give themselves on these occasions.

"Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival of that blest
day, when I shall experience the falsehood of a common assertion, that
the greatest human happiness consists in hope? A doctrine which no
person had ever stronger reason to believe than myself at present, since
none ever tasted such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts of
spending my future days with such a companion, and that every action of
my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conducing to your
happiness."

LEONORA TO HORATIO.[A]

[A] This letter was written by a young lady on reading the former.

"The refinement of your mind has been so evidently proved by every word
and action ever since I had the first pleasure of knowing you, that I
thought it impossible my good opinion of Horatio could have been
heightened to any additional proof of merit. This very thought was my
amusement when I received your last letter, which, when I opened, I
confess I was surprized to find the delicate sentiments expressed there
so far exceeding what I thought could come even from you (although I
know all the generous principles human nature is capable of are centred
in your breast), that words cannot paint what I feel on the reflection
that my happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your actions.

"Oh, Horatio! what a life must that be, where the meanest domestic cares
are sweetened by the pleasing consideration that the man on earth who
best deserves, and to whom you are most inclined to give your
affections, is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do! In
such a case toils must be turned into diversions, and nothing but the
unavoidable inconveniences of life can make us remember that we
are mortal.

"If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of keeping them
undiscovered, makes even the conversation of men of wit and learning
tedious to you, what anxious hours must I spend, who am condemned by
custom to the conversation of women, whose natural curiosity leads them
to pry into all my thoughts, and whose envy can never suffer Horatio's
heart to be possessed by any one, without forcing them into malicious
designs against the person who is so happy as to possess it! But,
indeed, if ever envy can possibly have any excuse, or even alleviation,
it is in this case, where the good is so great, and it must be equally
natural to all to wish it for themselves; nor am I ashamed to own it:
and to your merit, Horatio, I am obliged, that prevents my being in that
most uneasy of all the situations I can figure in my imagination, of
being led by inclination to love the person whom my own judgment forces
me to condemn."

Matters were in so great forwardness between this fond couple, that the
day was fixed for their marriage, and was now within a fortnight, when
the sessions chanced to be held for that county in a town about twenty
miles' distance from that which is the scene of our story. It seems, it
is usual for the young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these sessions,
not so much for the sake of profit as to show their parts and learn the
law of the justices of peace; for which purpose one of the wisest and
gravest of all the justices is appointed speaker, or chairman, as they
modestly call it, and he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in the
true knowledge of the law.

"You are here guilty of a little mistake," says Adams, "which, if you
please, I will correct: I have attended at one of these
quarter-sessions, where I observed the counsel taught the justices,
instead of learning anything of them."

It is not very material, said the lady. Hither repaired Horatio, who, as
he hoped by his profession to advance his fortune, which was not at
present very large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, he resolved to
spare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of improving or advancing
himself in it.

The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora stood at her
window, a coach and six passed by, which she declared to be the
completest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding these
remarkable words, "Oh, I am in love with that equipage!" which, though
her friend Florella at that time did not greatly regard, she hath since
remembered.

In the evening an assembly was held, which Leonora honoured with her
company; but intended to pay her dear Horatio the compliment of refusing
to dance in his absence.

Oh, why have not women as good resolution to maintain their vows as they
have often good inclinations in making them!

The gentleman who owned the coach and six came to the assembly. His
clothes were as remarkably fine as his equipage could be. He soon
attracted the eyes of the company; all the smarts, all the silk
waistcoats with silver and gold edgings, were eclipsed in an instant.

"Madam," said Adams, "if it be not impertinent, I should be glad to know
how this gentleman was drest."

Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had on a cut velvet coat of
a cinnamon colour, lined with a pink satten, embroidered all over with
gold; his waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was embroidered with
gold likewise. I cannot be particular as to the rest of his dress; but
it was all in the French fashion, for Bellarmine (that was his name) was
just arrived from Paris.

This fine figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of every lady in
the assembly than Leonora did his. He had scarce beheld her, but he
stood motionless and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done so
if good breeding had permitted him. However, he carried it so far before
he had power to correct himself, that every person in the room easily
discovered where his admiration was settled. The other ladies began to
single out their former partners, all perceiving who would be
Bellarmine's choice; which they however endeavoured, by all possible
means, to prevent: many of them saying to Leonora, "O madam! I suppose
we shan't have the pleasure of seeing you dance to-night;" and then
crying out, in Bellarmine's hearing, "Oh! Leonora will not dance, I
assure you: her partner is not here." One maliciously attempted to
prevent her, by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her, that so she
might be obliged either to dance with him, or sit down; but this scheme
proved abortive.

Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, and envied by every
woman present. Her little heart began to flutter within her, and her
head was agitated with a convulsive motion: she seemed as if she would
speak to several of her acquaintance, but had nothing to say; for, as
she would not mention her present triumph, so she could not disengage
her thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. She had never
tasted anything like this happiness. She had before known what it was to
torment a single woman; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a whole
assembly was a joy reserved for this blessed moment. As this vast
profusion of ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there was
nothing so foolish as her behaviour: she played a thousand childish
tricks, distorted her person into several shapes, and her face into
several laughs, without any reason. In a word, her carriage was as
absurd as her desires, which were to affect an insensibility of the
stranger's admiration, and at the same time a triumph, from that
admiration, over every woman in the room.

In this temper of mind, Bellarmine, having inquired who she was,
advanced to her, and with a low bow begged the honour of dancing with
her, which she, with as low a curtesy, immediately granted. She danced
with him all night, and enjoyed, perhaps, the highest pleasure that she
was capable of feeling.

At these words, Adams fetched a deep groan, which frighted the ladies,
who told him, "They hoped he was not ill." He answered, "He groaned only
for the folly of Leonora."

Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in the morning, but not
to rest. She tumbled and tossed in her bed, with very short intervals of
sleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage and fine
clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, and ridottos, which had
been the subject of their conversation.

In the afternoon, Bellarmine, in the dear coach and six, came to wait on
her. He was indeed charmed with her person, and was, on inquiry, so well
pleased with the circumstances of her father (for he himself,
notwithstanding all his finery, was not quite so rich as a Croesus or
an Attalus).--"Attalus," says Mr. Adams: "but pray how came you
acquainted with these names?" The lady smiled at the question, and
proceeded. He was so pleased, I say, that he resolved to make his
addresses to her directly. He did so accordingly, and that with so much
warmth and briskness, that he quickly baffled her weak repulses, and
obliged the lady to refer him to her father, who, she knew, would
quickly declare in favour of a coach and six.

Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love and tenderness, been so
long obtaining, the French-English Bellarmine with gaiety and gallantry
possessed himself of in an instant. In other words, what modesty had
employed a full year in raising, impudence demolished in
twenty-four hours.

Here Adams groaned a second time; but the ladies, who began to smoke
him, took no notice.

From the opening of the assembly till the end of Bellarmine's visit,
Leonora had scarce once thought of Horatio; but he now began, though an
unwelcome guest, to enter into her mind. She wished she had seen the
charming Bellarmine and his charming equipage before matters had gone so
far. "Yet why," says she, "should I wish to have seen him before; or
what signifies it that I have seen him now? Is not Horatio my lover,
almost my husband? Is he not as handsome, nay handsomer than Bellarmine?
Aye, but Bellarmine is the genteeler, and the finer man; yes, that he
must be allowed. Yes, yes, he is that certainly. But did not I, no
longer ago than yesterday, love Horatio more than all the world? Aye,
but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. But doth not Horatio doat on
me, and may he not in despair break his heart if I abandon him? Well,
and hath not Bellarmine a heart to break too? Yes, but I promised
Horatio first; but that was poor Bellarmine's misfortune; if I had seen
him first, I should certainly have preferred him. Did not the dear
creature prefer me to every woman in the assembly, when every she was
laying out for him? When was it in Horatio's power to give me such an
instance of affection? Can he give me an equipage, or any of those
things which Bellarmine will make me mistress of? How vast is the
difference between being the wife of a poor counsellor and the wife of
one of Bellarmine's fortune! If I marry Horatio, I shall triumph over no
more than one rival; but by marrying Bellarmine, I shall be the envy of
all my acquaintance. What happiness! But can I suffer Horatio to die?
for he hath sworn he cannot survive my loss: but perhaps he may not die:
if he should, can I prevent it? Must I sacrifice myself to him? besides,
Bellarmine may be as miserable for me too." She was thus arguing with
herself, when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a little
relieved her anxiety for the present.

The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in presence of her
aunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his passion for Leonora. He was
no sooner withdrawn than the old lady began to advise her niece on this
occasion. "You see, child," says she, "what fortune hath thrown in your
way; and I hope you will not withstand your own preferment." Leonora,
sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing, when she knew her
engagements to Horatio. "Engagements to a fig!" cried the aunt; "you
should thank Heaven on your knees that you have it yet in your power to
break them. Will any woman hesitate a moment whether she shall ride in a
coach or walk on foot all the days of her life? But Bellarmine drives
six, and Horatio not even a pair."--"Yes, but, madam, what will the
world say?" answered Leonora: "will not they condemn me?"--"The world is
always on the side of prudence," cries the aunt, "and would surely
condemn you if you sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. Oh!
I know the world very well; and you shew your ignorance, my dear, by
your objection. O' my conscience! the world is wiser. I have lived
longer in it than you; and I assure you there is not anything worth our
regard besides money; nor did I ever know one person who married from
other considerations, who did not afterwards heartily repent it.
Besides, if we examine the two men, can you prefer a sneaking fellow,
who hath been bred at the university, to a fine gentleman just come from
his travels. All the world must allow Bellarmine to be a fine gentleman,
positively a fine gentleman, and a handsome man."--"Perhaps, madam, I
should not doubt, if I knew how to be handsomely off with the
other."--"Oh! leave that to me," says the aunt. "You know your father
hath not been acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for my part I thought
it might do well enough, not dreaming of such an offer; but I'll
disengage you: leave me to give the fellow an answer. I warrant you
shall have no farther trouble."

Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's reasoning; and
Bellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed he should the
next morning go to her father and propose the match, which she consented
should be consummated at his return.

The aunt retired soon after supper; and, the lovers being left together,
Bellarmine began in the following manner: "Yes, madam; this coat, I
assure you, was made at Paris, and I defy the best English taylor even
to imitate it. There is not one of them can cut, madam; they can't cut.
If you observe how this skirt is turned, and this sleeve: a clumsy
English rascal can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you like my
liveries?" Leonora answered, "She thought them very pretty."--"All
French," says he, "I assure you, except the greatcoats; I never trust
anything more than a greatcoat to an Englishman. You know one must
encourage our own people what one can, especially as, before I had a
place, I was in the country interest, he, he, he! But for myself, I
would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear a
single rag of English work about me: and I am sure, after you have made
one tour to Paris, you will be of the same opinion with regard to your
own clothes. You can't conceive what an addition a French dress would be
to your beauty; I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since
I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chambermaids, he, he, he!"

With such sort of polite discourse did the gay Bellarmine entertain his
beloved Leonora, when the door opened on a sudden, and Horatio entered
the room. Here 'tis impossible to express the surprize of Leonora.

"Poor woman!" says Mrs Slipslop, "what a terrible quandary she must be
in!"--"Not at all," says Mrs Grave-airs; "such sluts can never be
confounded."--"She must have then more than Corinthian assurance," said
Adams; "aye, more than Lais herself."

A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in the whole company. If
the familiar entrance of Horatio struck the greatest astonishment into
Bellarmine, the unexpected presence of Bellarmine no less surprized
Horatio. At length Leonora, collecting all the spirit she was mistress
of, addressed herself to the latter, and pretended to wonder at the
reason of so late a visit. "I should indeed," answered he, "have made
some apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not my finding you in
company assured me I do not break in upon your repose." Bellarmine rose
from his chair, traversed the room in a minuet step, and hummed an
opera tune, while Horatio, advancing to Leonora, asked her in a whisper
if that gentleman was not a relation of hers; to which she answered with
a smile, or rather sneer, "No, he is no relation of mine yet;" adding,
"she could not guess the meaning of his question." Horatio told her
softly, "It did not arise from jealousy."--"Jealousy! I assure you, it
would be very strange in a common acquaintance to give himself any of
those airs." These words a little surprized Horatio; but, before he had
time to answer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady and told her, "He
feared he interrupted some business between her and the gentleman."--"I
can have no business," said she, "with the gentleman, nor any other,
which need be any secret to you."

"You'll pardon me," said Horatio, "if I desire to know who this
gentleman is who is to be entrusted with all our secrets."--"You'll know
soon enough," cries Leonora; "but I can't guess what secrets can ever
pass between us of such mighty consequence."--"No, madam!" cries
Horatio; "I am sure you would not have me understand you in
earnest."--"'Tis indifferent to me," says she, "how you understand me;
but I think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be understood at
all, at least when people find one engaged: though one's servants do not
deny one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon take the hint."
"Madam," said Horatio, "I did not imagine any engagement with a
stranger, as it seems this gentleman is, would have made my visit
impertinent, or that any such ceremonies were to be preserved between
persons in our situation." "Sure you are in a dream," says she, "or
would persuade me that I am in one. I know no pretensions a common
acquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies of good breeding."
"Sure," said he, "I am in a dream; for it is impossible I should be
really esteemed a common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has passed
between us?" "Passed between us! Do you intend to affront me before this
gentleman?" "D--n me, affront the lady," says Bellarmine, cocking his
hat, and strutting up to Horatio: "does any man dare affront this lady
before me, d--n me?" "Hark'ee, sir," says Horatio, "I would advise you
to lay aside that fierce air; for I am mightily deceived if this lady
has not a violent desire to get your worship a good drubbing." "Sir,"
said Bellarmine, "I have the honour to be her protector; and, d--n me,
if I understand your meaning." "Sir," answered Horatio, "she is rather
your protectress; but give yourself no more airs, for you see I am
prepared for you" (shaking his whip at him). "Oh! _serviteur tres
humble_," says Bellarmine: "_Je vous entend parfaitment bien_." At which
time the aunt, who had heard of Horatio's visit, entered the room, and
soon satisfied all his doubts. She convinced him that he was never more
awake in his life, and that nothing more extraordinary had happened in
his three days' absence than a small alteration in the affections of
Leonora; who now burst into tears, and wondered what reason she had
given him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desired
Bellarmine to withdraw with him; but the ladies prevented it by laying
violent hands on the latter; upon which the former took his leave
without any great ceremony, and departed, leaving the lady with his
rival to consult for his safety, which Leonora feared her indiscretion
might have endangered; but the aunt comforted her with assurances that
Horatio would not venture his person against so accomplished a cavalier
as Bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge in his
own way, and the most they had to apprehend from him was an action.

They at length therefore agreed to permit Bellarmine to retire to his
lodgings, having first settled all matters relating to the journey which
he was to undertake in the morning, and their preparations for the
nuptials at his return.

But, alas! as wise men have observed, the seat of valour is not the
countenance; and many a grave and plain man will, on a just provocation,
betake himself to that mischievous metal, cold iron; while men of a
fiercer brow, and sometimes with that emblem of courage, a cockade, will
more prudently decline it.

Leonora was waked in the morning, from a visionary coach and six, with
the dismal account that Bellarmine was run through the body by Horatio;
that he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had declared the
wound mortal. She immediately leaped out of the bed, danced about the
room in a frantic manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all the
agonies of despair; in which sad condition her aunt, who likewise arose
at the news, found her. The good old lady applied her utmost art to
comfort her niece. She told her, "While there was life there was hope;
but that if he should die her affliction would be of no service to
Bellarmine, and would only expose herself, which might, probably, keep
her some time without any future offer; that, as matters had happened,
her wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, but to endeavour
to regain the affections of Horatio." "Speak not to me," cried the
disconsolate Leonora; "is it not owing to me that poor Bellarmine has
lost his life? Have not these cursed charms (at which words she looked
steadfastly in the glass) been the ruin of the most charming man of this
age? Can I ever bear to contemplate my own face again (with her eyes
still fixed on the glass)? Am I not the murderess of the finest
gentleman? No other woman in the town could have made any impression on
him." "Never think of things past," cries the aunt: "think of regaining
the affections of Horatio." "What reason," said the niece, "have I to
hope he would forgive me? No, I have lost him as well as the other, and
it was your wicked advice which was the occasion of all; you seduced me,
contrary to my inclinations, to abandon poor Horatio (at which words she
burst into tears); you prevailed upon me, whether I would or no, to give
up my affections for him; had it not been for you, Bellarmine never
would have entered into my thoughts; had not his addresses been backed
by your persuasions, they never would have made any impression on me; I
should have defied all the fortune and equipage in the world; but it was
you, it was you, who got the better of my youth and simplicity, and
forced me to lose my dear Horatio for ever."

The aunt was almost borne down with this torrent of words; she, however,
rallied all the strength she could, and, drawing her mouth up in a
purse, began: "I am not surprized, niece, at this ingratitude. Those who
advise young women for their interest, must always expect such a return:
I am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off your match with
Horatio, at any rate."--"That may not be in your power yet," answered
Leonora, "though it is very ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it,
after the presents you have received from him." (For indeed true it is,
that many presents, and some pretty valuable ones, had passed from
Horatio to the old lady; but as true it is, that Bellarmine, when he
breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented her with a
brilliant from his finger, of much greater value than all she had
touched of the other.)

The aunt's gall was on float to reply, when a servant brought a letter
into the room, which Leonora, hearing it came from Bellarmine, with
great eagerness opened, and read as follows:--

"MOST DIVINE CREATURE,--The wound which I fear you have heard I
received from my rival is not like to be so fatal as those shot into my
heart which have been fired from your eyes, _tout brilliant_. Those are
the only cannons by which I am to fall; for my surgeon gives me hopes of
being soon able to attend your _ruelle_; till when, unless you would do
me an honour which I have scarce the _hardiesse_ to think of, your
absence will be the greatest anguish which can be felt by,

"Madam,

"_Avec toute le respecte_ in the world,

"Your most obedient, most absolute _Devote_,

"BELLARMINE."

As soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of Bellarmine's recovery, and
that the gossip Fame had, according to custom, so enlarged his danger,
she presently abandoned all further thoughts of Horatio, and was soon
reconciled to her aunt, who received her again into favour, with a more
Christian forgiveness than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is
possible she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her niece had
given her concerning the presents. She might apprehend such rumours,
should they get abroad, might injure a reputation which, by frequenting
church twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigour and strictness in
her countenance and behaviour for many years, she had established.

Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine with greater force, after
its small relaxation, than ever. She proposed to her aunt to make him a
visit in his confinement, which the old lady, with great and commendable
prudence, advised her to decline: "For," says she, "should any accident
intervene to prevent your intended match, too forward a behaviour with
this lover may injure you in the eyes of others. Every woman, till she
is married, ought to consider of, and provide against, the possibility
of the affair's breaking off." Leonora said, "She should be indifferent
to whatever might happen in such a case; for she had now so absolutely
placed her affections on this dear man (so she called him), that, if it
was her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever abandon all thoughts
of mankind." She, therefore, resolved to visit him, notwithstanding all
the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very afternoon
executed her resolution.

The lady was proceeding in her story, when the coach drove into the inn
where the company were to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of Mr
Adams, whose ears were the most hungry part about him; he being, as the
reader may perhaps guess, of an insatiable curiosity, and heartily
desirous of hearing the end of this amour, though he professed he could
scarce wish success to a lady of so inconstant a disposition.



CHAPTER V.

_A dreadful quarrel which happened at the Inn where the company dined,
with its bloody consequences to Mr Adams._


As soon as the passengers had alighted from the coach, Mr Adams, as was
his custom, made directly to the kitchen, where he found Joseph sitting
by the fire, and the hostess anointing his leg; for the horse which Mr
Adams had borrowed of his clerk had so violent a propensity to kneeling,
that one would have thought it had been his trade, as well as his
master's; nor would he always give any notice of such his intention; he
was often found on his knees when the rider least expected it. This
foible, however, was of no great inconvenience to the parson, who was
accustomed to it; and, as his legs almost touched the ground when he
bestrode the beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himself
forward on such occasions with so much dexterity that he never received
any mischief; the horse and he frequently rolling many paces' distance,
and afterwards both getting up and meeting as good friends as ever.

Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle, though an
excellent horseman, did not so happily disengage himself; but, falling
with his leg under the beast, received a violent contusion, to which the
good woman was, as we have said, applying a warm hand, with some
camphorated spirits, just at the time when the parson entered
the kitchen.

He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph's misfortune before the
host likewise entered. He was by no means of Mr Tow-wouse's gentle
disposition; and was, indeed, perfect master of his house, and
everything in it but his guests.

This surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to the appearance
of a traveller, from "God bless your honour," down to plain "Coming
presently," observing his wife on her knees to a footman, cried out,
without considering his circumstances, "What a pox is the woman about?
why don't you mind the company in the coach? Go and ask them what they
will have for dinner." "My dear," says she, "you know they can have
nothing but what is at the fire, which will be ready presently; and
really the poor young man's leg is very much bruised." At which words
she fell to chafing more violently than before: the bell then happening
to ring, he damn'd his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and not
stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe the young fellow's
leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, within twenty miles he
would find a surgeon to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams fetched two
strides across the room; and snapping his fingers over his head,
muttered aloud, He would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for
he believed the devil had more humanity. These words occasioned a
dialogue between Adams and the host, in which there were two or three
sharp replies, till Joseph bad the latter know how to behave himself to
his betters. At which the host (having first strictly surveyed Adams)
scornfully repeating the word "betters," flew into a rage, and, telling
Joseph he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been to walk
into it, offered to lay violent hands on him; which perceiving, Adams
dealt him so sound a compliment over his face with his fist, that the
blood immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. The host, being
unwilling to be outdone in courtesy, especially by a person of Adams's
figure, returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson's
nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. Upon which he again
assailed his antagonist, and with another stroke laid him sprawling on
the floor.

The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband deserved,
seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along, hastened presently to
his assistance, or rather to revenge the blow, which, to all appearance,
was the last he would ever receive; when, lo! a pan full of hog's blood,
which unluckily stood on the dresser, presented itself first to her
hands. She seized it in her fury, and without any reflection, discharged
it into the parson's face; and with so good an aim, that much the
greater part first saluted his countenance, and trickled thence in so
large a current down to his beard, and over his garments, that a more
horrible spectacle was hardly to be seen, or even imagined. All which
was perceived by Mrs Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant.
This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool and
patient as perhaps was required to ask many questions on this occasion,
flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, together with
some of her hair, she plucked from her head in a moment, giving her, at
the same time, several hearty cuffs in the face; which by frequent
practice on the inferior servants, she had learned an excellent knack of
delivering with a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise from his
chair; the parson was employed in wiping the blood from his eyes, which
had entirely blinded him; and the landlord was but just beginning to
stir; whilst Mrs Slipslop, holding down the landlady's face with her
left hand, made so dexterous an use of her right, that the poor woman
began to roar, in a key which alarmed all the company in the inn.

There happened to be in the inn, at this time, besides the ladies who
arrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen who were present at Mr
Tow-wouse's when Joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and whom we
have before mentioned to have stopt at the alehouse with Adams. There
was likewise a gentleman just returned from his travels to Italy; all
whom the horrid outcry of murder presently brought into the kitchen,
where the several combatants were found in the postures already
described.

It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the conquerors being
satisfied with the vengeance they had taken, and the conquered having no
appetite to renew the fight. The principal figure, and which engaged the
eyes of all, was Adams, who was all over covered with blood, which the
whole company concluded to be his own, and consequently imagined him no
longer for this world. But the host, who had now recovered from his
blow, and was risen from the ground, soon delivered them from this
apprehension, by damning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings, and
telling her all would have been very well if she had not intermeddled,
like a b--as she was; adding, he was very glad the gentlewoman had paid
her, though not half what she deserved. The poor woman had indeed fared
much the worst; having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a
quantity of hair, which Mrs Slipslop in triumph held in her left hand.

The traveller, addressing himself to Mrs Grave-airs, desired her not to
be frightened; for here had been only a little boxing, which he said, to
their _disgracia_, the English were _accustomata_ to: adding, it must
be, however, a sight somewhat strange to him, who was just come from
Italy; the Italians not being addicted to the _cuffardo_ but _bastonza_,
says he. He then went up to Adams, and telling him he looked like the
ghost of Othello, bid him not shake his gory locks at him, for he could
not say he did it. Adams very innocently answered, "Sir, I am far from
accusing you." He then returned to the lady, and cried, "I find the
bloody gentleman is _uno insipido del nullo senso_. _Dammato di me_, if
I have seen such a _spectaculo_ in my way from Viterbo."

One of the gentlemen having learnt from the host the occasion of this
bustle, and being assured by him that Adams had struck the first blow,
whispered in his ear, "He'd warrant he would recover."--"Recover!
master," said the host, smiling: "yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying
with a blow or two neither; I am not such a chicken as that."--"Pugh!"
said the gentleman, "I mean you will recover damages in that action
which, undoubtedly, you intend to bring, as soon as a writ can be
returned from London; for you look like a man of too much spirit and
courage to suffer any one to beat you without bringing your action
against him: he must be a scandalous fellow indeed who would put up with
a drubbing whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides, he hath drawn
blood from you, and spoiled your coat; and the jury will give damages
for that too. An excellent new coat upon my word; and now not worth a
shilling! I don't care," continued he, "to intermeddle in these cases;
but you have a right to my evidence; and if I am sworn, I must speak the
truth. I saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing from your
nostrils. You may take your own opinion; but was I in your
circumstances, every drop of my blood should convey an ounce of gold
into my pocket: remember I don't advise you to go to law; but if your
jury were Christians, they must give swinging damages. That's
all."--"Master," cried the host, scratching his head, "I have no stomach
to law, I thank you. I have seen enough of that in the parish, where two
of my neighbours have been at law about a house, till they have both
lawed themselves into a gaol." At which words he turned about, and began
to inquire again after his hog's puddings; nor would it probably have
been a sufficient excuse for his wife, that she spilt them in his
defence, had not some awe of the company, especially of the Italian
traveller, who was a person of great dignity, withheld his rage.

Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was employed, as we have
seen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was no less hearty on
the side of Mr Adams, whom he advised to bring his action immediately.
He said the assault of the wife was in law the assault of the husband,
for they were but one person; and he was liable to pay damages, which he
said must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition appeared. Adams
answered, If it was true that they were but one person, he had assaulted
the wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck the husband the first
blow. "I am sorry you own it too," cries the gentleman; "for it could
not possibly appear to the court; for here was no evidence present but
the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be your friend, and would
consequently say nothing but what made for you."--"How, sir," says
Adams, "do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute revenge in
cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to obtain it? If you knew me,
and my order, I should think you affronted both." At the word order, the
gentleman stared (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of
knights); and, turning hastily about, said, "Every man knew his own
business."

Matters being now composed, the company retired to their several
apartments; the two gentlemen congratulating each other on the success
of their good offices in procuring a perfect reconciliation between the
contending parties; and the traveller went to his repast, crying, "As
the Italian poet says--

    '_Je voi_ very well _que tutta e pace_,
    So send up dinner, good Boniface.'"

The coachman began now to grow importunate with his passengers, whose
entrance into the coach was retarded by Miss Grave-airs insisting,
against the remonstrance of all the rest, that she would not admit a
footman into the coach; for poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. A
young lady, who was, as it seems, an earl's grand-daughter, begged it
with almost tears in her eyes. Mr Adams prayed, and Mrs Slipslop
scolded; but all to no purpose. She said, "She would not demean herself
to ride with a footman: that there were waggons on the road: that if the
master of the coach desired it, she would pay for two places; but would
suffer no such fellow to come in."--"Madam," says Slipslop, "I am sure
no one can refuse another coming into a stage-coach."--"I don't know,
madam," says the lady; "I am not much used to stage-coaches; I seldom
travel in them."--"That may be, madam," replied Slipslop; "very good
people do; and some people's betters, for aught I know." Miss Grave-airs
said, "Some folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty, to some
people that were their betters, which did not become them; for her part,
she was not used to converse with servants." Slipslop returned, "Some
people kept no servants to converse with; for her part, she thanked
Heaven she lived in a family where there were a great many, and had more
under her own command than any paultry little gentlewoman in the
kingdom." Miss Grave-airs cried, "She believed her mistress would not
encourage such sauciness to her betters."--"My betters," says Slipslop,
"who is my betters, pray?"--"I am your betters," answered Miss
Grave-airs, "and I'll acquaint your mistress."--At which Mrs Slipslop
laughed aloud, and told her, "Her lady was one of the great gentry; and
such little paultry gentlewomen as some folks, who travelled in
stagecoaches, would not easily come at her."

This smart dialogue between some people and some folks was going on at
the coach door when a solemn person, riding into the inn, and seeing
Miss Grave-airs, immediately accosted her with "Dear child, how do you?"
She presently answered, "O papa, I am glad you have overtaken me."--"So
am I," answered he; "for one of our coaches is just at hand; and, there
being room for you in it, you shall go no farther in the stage unless
you desire it."--"How can you imagine I should desire it?" says she; so,
bidding Slipslop ride with her fellow, if she pleased, she took her
father by the hand, who was just alighted, and walked with him into
a room.

Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, "If he knew who the
gentleman was?" The coachman answered, "He was now a gentleman, and kept
his horse and man; but times are altered, master," said be; "I remember
when he was no better born than myself."--"Ay! ay!" says Adams. "My
father drove the squire's coach," answered he, "when that very man rode
postillion; but he is now his steward; and a great gentleman." Adams
then snapped his fingers, and cried, "He thought she was some
such trollop."

Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs Slipslop with this good news, as he
imagined it; but it found a reception different from what he expected.
The prudent gentlewoman, who despised the anger of Miss Grave-airs
whilst she conceived her the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune,
now she heard her alliance with the upper servants of a great family in
her neighbourhood, began to fear her interest with the mistress. She
wished she had not carried the dispute so far, and began to think of
endeavouring to reconcile herself to the young lady before she left the
inn; when, luckily, the scene at London, which the reader can scarce
have forgotten, presented itself to her mind, and comforted her with
such assurance, that she no longer apprehended any enemy with
her mistress.

Everything being now adjusted, the company entered the coach, which was
just on its departure, when one lady recollected she had left her fan, a
second her gloves, a third a snuff-box, and a fourth a smelling-bottle
behind her; to find all which occasioned some delay and much swearing to
the coachman.

As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women all together fell to
the character of Miss Grave-airs; whom one of them declared she had
suspected to be some low creature, from the beginning of their journey,
and another affirmed she had not even the looks of a gentlewoman: a
third warranted she was no better than she should be; and, turning to
the lady who had related the story in the coach, said, "Did you ever
hear, madam, anything so prudish as her remarks? Well, deliver me from
the censoriousness of such a prude." The fourth added, "O madam! all
these creatures are censorious; but for my part, I wonder where the
wretch was bred; indeed, I must own I have seldom conversed with these
mean kind of people, so that it may appear stranger to me; but to refuse
the general desire of a whole company had something in it so
astonishing, that, for my part, I own I should hardly believe it if my
own ears had not been witnesses to it."--"Yes, and so handsome a young
fellow," cries Slipslop; "the woman must have no compulsion in her: I
believe she is more of a Turk than a Christian; I am certain, if she had
any Christian woman's blood in her veins, the sight of such a young
fellow must have warmed it. Indeed, there are some wretched, miserable
old objects, that turn one's stomach; I should not wonder if she had
refused such a one; I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no
more than herself for the company of stinking old fellows; but, hold up
thy head, Joseph, thou art none of those; and she who hath not
compulsion for thee is a Myhummetman, and I will maintain it." This
conversation made Joseph uneasy as well as the ladies; who, perceiving
the spirits which Mrs Slipslop was in (for indeed she was not a cup too
low), began to fear the consequence; one of them therefore desired the
lady to conclude the story. "Aye, madam," said Slipslop, "I beg your
ladyship to give us that story you commensated in the morning;" which
request that well-bred woman immediately complied with.



CHAPTER VI.

_Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt._


Leonora, having once broke through the bounds which custom and modesty
impose on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indulgence to her passion. Her
visits to Bellarmine were more constant, as well as longer, than his
surgeon's: in a word, she became absolutely his nurse; made his
water-gruel, administered him his medicines; and, notwithstanding the
prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost intirely resided in
her wounded lover's apartment.

The ladies of the town began to take her conduct under consideration: it
was the chief topic of discourse at their tea-tables, and was very
severely censured by the most part; especially by Lindamira, a lady
whose discreet and starch carriage, together with a constant attendance
at church three times a day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks
on her own reputation; for such was the envy that Lindamira's virtue had
attracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict behaviour and strict
enquiry into the lives of others, she had not been able to escape being
the mark of some arrows herself, which, however, did her no injury; a
blessing, perhaps, owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief male
companions, and with two or three of whom she had been barbarously and
unjustly calumniated.

"Not so unjustly neither, perhaps," says Slipslop; "for the clergy are
men, as well as other folks."

The extreme delicacy of Lindamira's virtue was cruelly hurt by those
freedoms which Leonora allowed herself: she said, "It was an affront to
her sex; that she did not imagine it consistent with any woman's honour
to speak to the creature, or to be seen in her company; and that, for
her part, she should always refuse to dance at an assembly with her,
for fear of contamination by taking her by the hand."

But to return to my story: as soon as Bellarmine was recovered, which
was somewhat within a month from his receiving the wound, he set out,
according to agreement, for Leonora's father's, in order to propose the
match, and settle all matters with him touching settlements, and
the like.

A little before his arrival the old gentleman had received an intimation
of the affair by the following letter, which I can repeat verbatim, and
which, they say, was written neither by Leonora nor her aunt, though it
was in a woman's hand. The letter was in these words:--

"SIR,--I am sorry to acquaint you that your daughter, Leonora, hath
acted one of the basest as well as most simple parts with a young
gentleman to whom she had engaged herself, and whom she hath (pardon the
word) jilted for another of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his
superior figure. You may take what measures you please on this occasion;
I have performed what I thought my duty; as I have, though unknown to
you, a very great respect for your family."

The old gentleman did not give himself the trouble to answer this kind
epistle; nor did he take any notice of it, after he had read it, till he
saw Bellarmine. He was, to say the truth, one of those fathers who look
on children as an unhappy consequence of their youthful pleasures;
which, as he would have been delighted not to have had attended them, so
was he no less pleased with any opportunity to rid himself of the
incumbrance. He passed, in the world's language, as an exceeding good
father; being not only so rapacious as to rob and plunder all mankind to
the utmost of his power, but even to deny himself the conveniencies, and
almost necessaries, of life; which his neighbours attributed to a desire
of raising immense fortunes for his children: but in fact it was not
so; he heaped up money for its own sake only, and looked on his children
as his rivals, who were to enjoy his beloved mistress when he was
incapable of possessing her, and which he would have been much more
charmed with the power of carrying along with him; nor had his children
any other security of being his heirs than that the law would constitute
them such without a will, and that he had not affection enough for any
one living to take the trouble of writing one.

To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the errand I have mentioned. His
person, his equipage, his family, and his estate, seemed to the father
to make him an advantageous match for his daughter: he therefore very
readily accepted his proposals: but when Bellarmine imagined the
principal affair concluded, and began to open the incidental matters of
fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his countenance, saying,
"He resolved never to marry his daughter on a Smithfield match; that
whoever had love for her to take her would, when he died, find her share
of his fortune in his coffers; but he had seen such examples of
undutifulness happen from the too early generosity of parents, that he
had made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived." He
commended the saying of Solomon, "He that spareth the rod spoileth the
child;" but added, "he might have likewise asserted, That he that
spareth the purse saveth the child." He then ran into a discourse on the
extravagance of the youth of the age; whence he launched into a
dissertation on horses; and came at length to commend those Bellarmine
drove. That fine gentleman, who at another season would have been well
enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very eager to
resume the circumstance of fortune. He said, "He had a very high value
for the young lady, and would receive her with less than he would any
other whatever; but that even his love to her made some regard to
worldly matters necessary; for it would be a most distracting sight for
him to see her, when he had the honour to be her husband, in less than a
coach and six." The old gentleman answered, "Four will do, four will
do;" and then took a turn from horses to extravagance and from
extravagance to horses, till he came round to the equipage again;
whither he was no sooner arrived than Bellarmine brought him back to the
point; but all to no purpose; he made his escape from that subject in a
minute; till at last the lover declared, "That in the present situation
of his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved Leonora more
than _tout le monde_, to marry her without any fortune." To which the
father answered, "He was sorry that his daughter must lose so valuable a
match; that, if he had an inclination, at present it was not in his
power to advance a shilling: that he had had great losses, and been at
great expenses on projects; which, though he had great expectation from
them, had yet produced him nothing: that he did not know what might
happen hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such accident; but he
would make no promise, or enter into any article, for he would not break
his vow for all the daughters in the world."

In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, Bellarmine, having
tried every argument and persuasion which he could invent, and finding
them all ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order to
return to Leonora; he proceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after
a few days' stay, he returned to Paris, to the great delight of the
French and the honour of the English nation.

But as soon as he arrived at his home he presently despatched a
messenger with the following epistle to Leonora:--

"ADORABLE AND CHARMANTE,--I am sorry to have the honour to tell you I
am not the _heureux_ person destined for your divine arms. Your papa
hath told me so with a _politesse_ not often seen on this side Paris.
You may perhaps guess his manner of refusing me. _Ah, mon Dieu!_ You
will certainly believe me, madam, incapable myself of delivering this
_triste_ message, which I intend to try the French air to cure the
consequences of. _A jamais! Coeur! Ange! Au diable!_ If your papa
obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall see you at Paris; till when,
the wind that flows from thence will be the warmest _dans le monde_, for
it will consist almost entirely of my sighs. _Adieu, ma princesse!
Ah, l'amour!_

"BELLARMINE."

I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's condition when she
received this letter. It is a picture of horror, which I should have as
little pleasure in drawing as you in beholding. She immediately left the
place where she was the subject of conversation and ridicule, and
retired to that house I showed you when I began the story; where she
hath ever since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, perhaps, pity for
her misfortunes, more than our censure for a behaviour to which the
artifices of her aunt very probably contributed, and to which very young
women are often rendered too liable by that blameable levity in the
education of our sex.

"If I was inclined to pity her," said a young lady in the coach, "it
would be for the loss of Horatio; for I cannot discern any misfortune in
her missing such a husband as Bellarmine."

"Why, I must own," says Slipslop, "the gentleman was a little
false-hearted; but howsumever, it was hard to have two lovers, and get
never a husband at all. But pray, madam, what became of _Our-asho_?"

He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath applied himself so
strictly to his business, that he hath raised, I hear, a very
considerable fortune. And what is remarkable, they say he never hears
the name of Leonora without a sigh, nor hath ever uttered one syllable
to charge her with her ill-conduct towards him.



CHAPTER VII.

_A very short chapter, in which parson Adams went a great way._


The lady, having finished her story, received the thanks of the company;
and now Joseph, putting his head out of the coach, cried out, "Never
believe me if yonder be not our parson Adams walking along without his
horse!"--"On my word, and so he is," says Slipslop: "and as sure as
twopence he hath left him behind at the inn." Indeed, true it is, the
parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind; for he was
so pleased with having got Joseph into the coach, that he never once
thought of the beast in the stable; and, finding his legs as nimble as
he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a crabstick, and had kept on
before the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so that
he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile
distant from it.

Mrs Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted,
but in vain; for the faster he drove the faster ran the parson, often
crying out, "Aye, aye, catch me if you can;" till at length the coachman
swore he would as soon attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, giving
the parson two or three hearty curses, he cry'd, "Softly, softly, boys,"
to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately obeyed.

But we will be more courteous to our reader than he was to Mrs
Slipslop; and, leaving the coach and its company to pursue their
journey, we will carry our reader on after parson Adams, who stretched
forwards without once looking behind him, till, having left the coach
full three miles in his rear, he came to a place where, by keeping the
extremest track to the right, it was just barely possible for a human
creature to miss his way. This track, however, did he keep, as indeed he
had a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare possibilities, and,
travelling in it about three miles over the plain, he arrived at the
summit of a hill, whence looking a great way backwards, and perceiving
no coach in sight, he sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling out his
Aeschylus, determined to wait here for its arrival.

He had not sat long here before a gun going off very near, a little
startled him; he looked up and saw a gentleman within a hundred paces
taking up a partridge which he had just shot.

Adams stood up and presented a figure to the gentleman which would have
moved laughter in many; for his cassock had just again fallen down below
his greatcoat, that is to say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts
of his greatcoat descended no lower than half-way down his thighs; but
the gentleman's mirth gave way to his surprize at beholding such a
personage in such a place.

Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he had good sport,
to which the other answered, "Very little."--"I see, sir," says Adams,
"you have smote one partridge;" to which the sportsman made no reply,
but proceeded to charge his piece.

Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in silence, which he at last
broke by observing that it was a delightful evening. The gentleman, who
had at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of the parson,
began, on perceiving a book in his hand and smoaking likewise the
information of the cassock, to change his thoughts, and made a small
advance to conversation on his side by saying, "Sir, I suppose you are
not one of these parts?"

Adams immediately told him, "No; that he was a traveller, and invited by
the beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little and amuse
himself with reading."--"I may as well repose myself too," said the
sportsman, "for I have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil a
bird have I seen till I came hither."

"Perhaps then the game is not very plenty hereabouts?" cries Adams. "No,
sir," said the gentleman: "the soldiers, who are quartered in the
neighbourhood, have killed it all."--"It is very probable," cries Adams,
"for shooting is their profession."--"Ay, shooting the game," answered
the other; "but I don't see they are so forward to shoot our enemies. I
don't like that affair of Carthagena; if I had been there, I believe I
should have done other-guess things, d--n me: what's a man's life when
his country demands it? a man who won't sacrifice his life for his
country deserves to be hanged, d--n me." Which words he spoke with so
violent a gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so fierce a
countenance, that he might have frightened a captain of trained bands at
the head of his company; but Mr Adams was not greatly subject to fear;
he told him intrepidly that he very much approved his virtue, but
disliked his swearing, and begged him not to addict himself to so bad a
custom, without which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did.
Indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he told the gentleman he
would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generous
way of thinking; that, if he pleased to sit down, he should be greatly
delighted to commune with him; for, though he was a clergyman, he would
himself be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his life for
his country.

The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; and then the latter began, as
in the following chapter, a discourse which we have placed by itself, as
it is not only the most curious in this but perhaps in any other book.



CHAPTER VIII.

_A notable dissertation by Mr Abraham Adams; wherein that gentleman
appears in a political light._


"I do assure you, sir" (says he, taking the gentleman by the hand), "I
am heartily glad to meet with a man of your kidney; for, though I am a
poor parson, I will be bold to say I am an honest man, and would not do
an ill thing to be made a bishop; nay, though it hath not fallen in my
way to offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not been without opportunities
of suffering for the sake of my conscience, I thank Heaven for them; for
I have had relations, though I say it, who made some figure in the
world; particularly a nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a
corporation. He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy; and I
believe would do what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like
extreme vanity in me to affect being a man of such consequence as to
have so great an interest in an alderman; but others have thought so
too, as manifestly appeared by the rector, whose curate I formerly was,
sending for me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if I
expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephew to vote
for one Colonel Courtly, a gentleman whom I had never heard tidings of
till that instant. I told the rector I had no power over my nephew's
vote (God forgive me for such prevarication!); that I supposed he would
give it according to his conscience; that I would by no means endeavour
to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it was in vain to
equivocate; that he knew I had already spoke to him in favour of esquire
Fickle, my neighbour; and, indeed, it was true I had; for it was at a
season when the church was in danger, and when all good men expected
they knew not what would happen to us all. I then answered boldly, if he
thought I had given my promise, he affronted me in proposing any breach
of it. Not to be too prolix; I persevered, and so did my nephew, in the
esquire's interest, who was chose chiefly through his means; and so I
lost my curacy, Well, sir, but do you think the esquire ever mentioned a
word of the church? _Ne verbum quidem, ut ita dicam_: within two years
he got a place, and hath ever since lived in London; where I have been
informed (but God forbid I should believe that,) that he never so much
as goeth to church. I remained, sir, a considerable time without any
cure, and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which I preached on
the indisposition of a clergyman; but this by the bye. At last, when Mr
Fickle got his place, Colonel Courtly stood again; and who should make
interest for him but Mr Fickle himself! that very identical Mr Fickle,
who had formerly told me the colonel was an enemy to both the church and
state, had the confidence to sollicit my nephew for him; and the colonel
himself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, which I refused
in favour of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us he would sacrifice
everything to his country; and I believe he would, except his hunting,
which he stuck so close to, that in five years together he went but
twice up to parliament; and one of those times, I have been told, never
was within sight of the House. However, he was a worthy man, and the
best friend I ever had; for, by his interest with a bishop, he got me
replaced into my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket
to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. He had our interest
while he lived, which was not many years. On his death I had fresh
applications made to me; for all the world knew the interest I had with
my good nephew, who now was a leading man in the corporation; and Sir
Thomas Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver's, proposed
himself a candidate. He was then a young gentleman just come from his
travels; and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs which, for
my part, I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a thousand votes he
should have had them all. I engaged my nephew in his interest, and he
was elected; and a very fine parliament-man he was. They tell me he made
speeches of an hour long, and, I have been told, very fine ones; but he
could never persuade the parliament to be of his opinion. _Non omnia
possumus omnes_. He promised me a living, poor man! and I believe I
should have had it, but an accident happened, which was, that my lady
had promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I never heard till
afterwards; for my nephew, who died about a month before the incumbent,
always told me I might be assured of it. Since that time, Sir Thomas,
poor man, had always so much business, that he never could find leisure
to see me. I believe it was partly my lady's fault too, who did not
think my dress good enough for the gentry at her table. However, I must
do him the justice to say he never was ungrateful; and I have always
found his kitchen, and his cellar too, open to me: many a time, after
service on a Sunday--for I preach at four churches--have I recruited my
spirits with a glass of his ale. Since my nephew's death, the
corporation is in other hands; and I am not a man of that consequence I
was formerly. I have now no longer any talents to lay out in the service
of my country; and to whom nothing is given, of him can nothing be
required. However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach of an
election, I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I have
the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas and the other
honest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me these five
years to procure an ordination for a son of mine, who is now near
thirty, hath an infinite stock of learning, and is, I thank Heaven, of
an unexceptionable life; though, as he was never at an university, the
bishop refuses to ordain him. Too much care cannot indeed be taken in
admitting any to the sacred office; though I hope he will never act so
as to be a disgrace to any order, but will serve his God and his country
to the utmost of his power, as I have endeavoured to do before him; nay,
and will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose. I am sure I
have educated him in those principles; so that I have acquitted my duty,
and shall have nothing to answer for on that account. But I do not
distrust him, for he is a good boy; and if Providence should throw it in
his way to be of as much consequence in a public light as his father
once was, I can answer for him he will use his talents as honestly as I
have done."



CHAPTER IX.

_In which the gentleman discants on bravery and heroic virtue, till an
unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse._


The gentleman highly commended Mr Adams for his good resolutions, and
told him, "He hoped his son would tread in his steps;" adding, "that if
he would not die for his country, he would not be worthy to live in it.
I'd make no more of shooting a man that would not die for his
country, than--

"Sir," said he, "I have disinherited a nephew, who is in the army,
because he would not exchange his commission and go to the West Indies.
I believe the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in love
forsooth. I would have all such fellows hanged, sir; I would have them
hanged." Adams answered, "That would be too severe; that men did not
make themselves; and if fear had too much ascendance in the mind, the
man was rather to be pitied than abhorred; that reason and time might
teach him to subdue it." He said, "A man might be a coward at one time,
and brave at another. Homer," says he, "who so well understood and
copied Nature, hath taught us this lesson; for Paris fights and Hector
runs away. Nay, we have a mighty instance of this in the history of
later ages, no longer ago than the 705th year of Rome, when the great
Pompey, who had won so many battles and been honoured with so many
triumphs, and of whose valour several authors, especially Cicero and
Paterculus, have formed such elogiums; this very Pompey left the battle
of Pharsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to his tent, where he
sat like the most pusillanimous rascal in a fit of despair, and yielded
a victory, which was to determine the empire of the world, to Caesar. I
am not much travelled in the history of modern times, that is to say,
these last thousand years; but those who are can, I make no question,
furnish you with parallel instances." He concluded, therefore, that, had
he taken any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he
would consider better, and retract them. The gentleman answered with
great warmth, and talked much of courage and his country, till,
perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams, "What place he intended for
that night?" He told him, "He waited there for the stage-coach."--"The
stage-coach, sir!" said the gentleman; "they are all passed by long ago.
You may see the last yourself almost three miles before us."--"I protest
and so they are," cries Adams; "then I must make haste and follow them."
The gentleman told him, "he would hardly be able to overtake them; and
that, if he did not know his way, he would be in danger of losing
himself on the downs, for it would be presently dark; and he might
ramble about all night, and perhaps find himself farther from his
journey's end in the morning than he was now." He advised him,
therefore, "to accompany him to his house, which was very little out of
his way," assuring him "that he would find some country fellow in his
parish who would conduct him for sixpence to the city where he was
going." Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, the
gentleman renewing his discourse on courage, and the infamy of not being
ready, at all times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night
overtook them much about the same time as they arrived near some bushes;
whence, on a sudden, they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a
female voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his companion's
hand. "What are you doing?" said he. "Doing!" said Adams; "I am
hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains are
murdering." "You are not mad enough, I hope," says the gentleman,
trembling: "do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that
the robbers are most probably furnished with pistols loaded with
bullets? This is no business of ours; let us make as much haste as
possible out of the way, or we may fall into their hands ourselves." The
shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but snapt his fingers,
and, brandishing his crabstick, made directly to the place whence the
voice issued; and the man of courage made as much expedition towards his
own home, whither he escaped in a very short time without once looking
behind him; where we will leave him, to contemplate his own bravery, and
to censure the want of it in others, and return to the good Adams, who,
on coming up to the place whence the noise proceeded, found a woman
struggling with a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almost
overpowered her. The great abilities of Mr Adams were not necessary to
have formed a right judgment of this affair on the first sight. He did
not, therefore, want the entreaties of the poor wretch to assist her;
but, lifting up his crabstick, he immediately levelled a blow at that
part of the ravisher's head where, according to the opinion of the
ancients, the brains of some persons are deposited, and which he had
undoubtedly let forth, had not Nature (who, as wise men have observed,
equips all creatures with what is most expedient for them) taken a
provident care (as she always doth with those she intends for
encounters) to make this part of the head three times as thick as those
of ordinary men who are designed to exercise talents which are vulgarly
called rational, and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged
to leave some room for them in the cavity of the skull; whereas, those
ingredients being entirely useless to persons of the heroic calling, she
hath an opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it less
subject to any impression, or liable to be cracked or broken: and
indeed, in some who are predestined to the command of armies and
empires, she is supposed sometimes to make that part perfectly solid.

As a game cock, when engaged in amorous toying with a hen, if perchance
he espies another cock at hand, immediately quits his female, and
opposes himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on the information of
the crabstick, immediately leap from the woman and hasten to assail the
man. He had no weapons but what Nature had furnished him with. However,
he clenched his fist, and presently darted it at that part of Adams's
breast where the heart is lodged. Adams staggered at the violence of the
blow, when, throwing away his staff, he likewise clenched that fist
which we have before commemorated, and would have discharged it full in
the breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it with his
left hand, at the same time darting his head (which some modern heroes
of the lower class use, like the battering-ram of the ancients, for a
weapon of offence; another reason to admire the cunningness of Nature,
in composing it of those impenetrable materials); dashing his head, I
say, into the stomach of Adams, he tumbled him on his back; and, not
having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have restrained
him from any farther attack on his enemy till he was again on his legs,
he threw himself upon him, and, laying hold on the ground with his left
hand, he with his right belaboured the body of Adams till he was weary,
and indeed till he concluded (to use the language of fighting) "that he
had done his business;" or, in the language of poetry, "that he had sent
him to the shades below;" in plain English, "that he was dead."

But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear a drubbing as well as any
boxing champion in the universe, lay still only to watch his
opportunity; and now, perceiving his antagonist to pant with his
labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and with such success that
he overturned him, and became his superior; when, fixing one of his
knees in his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, "It is my turn
now;" and, after a few minutes' constant application, he gave him so
dexterous a blow just under his chin that the fellow no longer retained
any motion, and Adams began to fear he had struck him once too often;
for he often asserted "he should be concerned to have the blood of even
the wicked upon him."

Adams got up and called aloud to the young woman. "Be of good cheer,
damsel," said he, "you are no longer in danger of your ravisher, who, I
am terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet; but God forgive me what I have
done in defence of innocence!" The poor wretch, who had been some time
in recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, during the
engagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear even from running
away, hearing her champion was victorious, came up to him, but not
without apprehensions even of her deliverer; which, however, she was
soon relieved from by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. They
were both standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, and
which Adams wished to see stir much more than the woman did, when he
earnestly begged her to tell him "by what misfortune she came, at such a
time of night, into so lonely a place." She acquainted him, "She was
travelling towards London, and had accidentally met with the person from
whom he had delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his journey
to the same place, and would keep her company; an offer which,
suspecting no harm, she had accepted; that he told her they were at a
small distance from an inn where she might take up her lodging that
evening, and he would show her a nearer way to it than by following the
road; that if she had suspected him (which she did not, he spoke so
kindly to her), being alone on these downs in the dark, she had no human
means to avoid him; that, therefore, she put her whole trust in
Providence, and walked on, expecting every moment to arrive at the inn;
when on a sudden, being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop,
and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties,
which she rejected, he laid violent hands on her, and was attempting to
execute his wicked will, when, she thanked G--, he timely came up and
prevented him." Adams encouraged her for saying she had put her whole
trust in Providence, and told her, "He doubted not but Providence had
sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. He wished
indeed he had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but G--'s will be
done;" said, "He hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse him in
the next world, and he trusted in her evidence to acquit him in this."
He was then silent, and began to consider with himself whether it would
be properer to make his escape, or to deliver himself into the hands of
justice; which meditation ended as the reader will see in the
next chapter.



CHAPTER X.

_Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding
adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities; and who the
woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to his
victorious arm._


The silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night and loneliness
of the place, struck dreadful apprehension into the poor woman's mind;
she began to fear as great an enemy in her deliverer as he had
delivered her from; and as she had not light enough to discover the age
of Adams, and the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspected
he had used her as some very honest men have used their country; and had
rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in order to rifle her
himself. Such were the suspicions she drew from his silence; but indeed
they were ill-grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely
weighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of the
two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgment
sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the other; for both
seemed to him so equally advisable and so equally dangerous, that
probably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, on
that very spot, before he had taken any resolution; at length he lifted
up his eyes, and spied a light at a distance, to which he instantly
addressed himself with _Heus tu, traveller, heus tu!_ He presently heard
several voices, and perceived the light approaching toward him. The
persons who attended the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and
others to hollow, at which the woman testified some fear (for she had
concealed her suspicions of the parson himself); but Adams said, "Be of
good cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Providence which
hath hitherto protected thee, and never will forsake the innocent."
These people, who now approached, were no other, reader, than a set of
young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit of a diversion which
they call bird-batting. This, if you are ignorant of it (as perhaps if
thou hast never travelled beyond Kensington, Islington, Hackney, or the
Borough, thou mayst be), I will inform thee, is performed by holding a
large clap-net before a lanthorn, and at the same time beating the
bushes; for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places of
rest, or roost, immediately make to the light, and so are inticed
within the net. Adams immediately told them what happened, and desired
them to hold the lanthorn to the face of the man on the ground, for he
feared he had smote him fatally. But indeed his fears were frivolous;
for the fellow, though he had been stunned by the last blow he received,
had long since recovered his senses, and, finding himself quit of Adams,
had listened attentively to the discourse between him and the young
woman; for whose departure he had patiently waited, that he might
likewise withdraw himself, having no longer hopes of succeeding in his
desires, which were moreover almost as well cooled by Mr Adams as they
could have been by the young woman herself had he obtained his utmost
wish. This fellow, who had a readiness at improving any accident,
thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man; and,
accordingly, the moment the candle was held to his face he leapt up,
and, laying hold on Adams, cried out, "No, villain, I am not dead,
though you and your wicked whore might well think me so, after the
barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. Gentlemen," said he, "you
are luckily come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who would
otherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman, who
led me hither out of my way from the high-road, and both falling on me
have used me as you see." Adams was going to answer, when one of the
young fellows cried, "D--n them, let's carry them both before the
justice." The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his
voice, but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him; and one
holding the lanthorn to his face, they all agreed he had the most
villainous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney's clerk, who
was of the company, declared he was sure he had remembered him at the
bar. As to the woman, her hair was dishevelled in the struggle, and her
nose had bled; so that they could not perceive whether she was handsome
or ugly, but they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. And
searching her pockets, as they did those of Adams, for money, which the
fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a purse with some gold
in it, which abundantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offered
to swear to it. Mr Adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny
about him. This the clerk said "was a great presumption that he was an
old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman." To which
all the rest readily assented.

This accident promising them better sport than what they had proposed,
they quitted their intention of catching birds, and unanimously resolved
to proceed to the justice with the offenders. Being informed what a
desperate fellow Adams was, they tied his hands behind him; and, having
hid their nets among the bushes, and the lanthorn being carried before
them, they placed the two prisoners in their front, and then began their
march; Adams not only submitting patiently to his own fate, but
comforting and encouraging his companion under her sufferings.

Whilst they were on their way the clerk informed the rest that this
adventure would prove a very beneficial one; for that they would all be
entitled to their proportions of £80 for apprehending the robbers. This
occasioned a contention concerning the parts which they had severally
borne in taking them; one insisting he ought to have the greatest share,
for he had first laid his hands on Adams; another claiming a superior
part for having first held the lanthorn to the man's face on the ground,
by which, he said, "the whole was discovered." The clerk claimed
four-fifths of the reward for having proposed to search the prisoners,
and likewise the carrying them before the justice: he said, "Indeed, in
strict justice, he ought to have the whole." These claims, however,
they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed all to
agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated what
money should be allotted to the young fellow who had been employed only
in holding the nets. He very modestly said, "That he did not apprehend
any large proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would allow
him something; he desired them to consider that they had assigned their
nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in
laying hold of the robbers" (for so those innocent people were called);
"that if he had not occupied the nets, some other must;" concluding,
however, "that he should be contented with the smallest share
imaginable, and should think that rather their bounty than his merit."
But they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever, the
clerk particularly swearing, "If they gave him a shilling they might do
what they pleased with the rest; for he would not concern himself with
the affair." This contention was so hot, and so totally engaged the
attention of all the parties, that a dexterous nimble thief, had he been
in Mr Adams's situation, would have taken care to have given the justice
no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art of a Sheppard
to escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so much
befriended him; but Adams trusted rather to his innocence than his
heels, and, without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance
(which was impossible, as there were six lusty young fellows, besides
the villain himself, present), he walked with perfect resignation the
way they thought proper to conduct him.

Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations during their journey; at
last, poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his mind, he could not refrain
sighing forth his name, which being heard by his companion in
affliction, she cried with some vehemence, "Sure I should know that
voice; you cannot certainly, sir, be Mr Abraham Adams?"--"Indeed,
damsel," says he, "that is my name; there is something also in your
voice which persuades me I have heard it before."--"La! sir," says she,
"don't you remember poor Fanny?"--"How, Fanny!" answered Adams: "indeed
I very well remember you; what can have brought you hither?"--"I have
told you, sir," replied she, "I was travelling towards London; but I
thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews; pray what is become of him?"--"I
left him, child, this afternoon," said Adams, "in the stage-coach, in
his way towards our parish, whither he is going to see you."--"To see
me! La, sir," answered Fanny, "sure you jeer me; what should he be going
to see me for?"--"Can you ask that?" replied Adams. "I hope, Fanny, you
are not inconstant; I assure you he deserves much better of you."--"La!
Mr Adams," said she, "what is Mr Joseph to me? I am sure I never had
anything to say to him, but as one fellow-servant might to another."--"I
am sorry to hear this," said Adams; "a virtuous passion for a young man
is what no woman need be ashamed of. You either do not tell me truth, or
you are false to a very worthy man." Adams then told her what had
happened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively; and a sigh
often escaped from her, notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to the
contrary; nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousand
questions, which would have assured any one but Adams, who never saw
farther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of a
passion she endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that this poor
girl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune, by some of the servants
belonging to the coach which we have formerly mentioned to have stopt at
the inn while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that instant
abandoned the cow she was milking, and, taking with her a little bundle
of clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth in her own
purse, without consulting any one, immediately set forward in pursuit of
one whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved with
inexpressible violence, though with the purest and most delicate
passion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend her
character to all our female readers, and not greatly surprize such of
our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex,
we shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindicate.



CHAPTER XI.

_What happened to them while before the justice. A chapter very full of
learning._


Their fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dispute concerning
the division of the reward for apprehending these innocent people, that
they attended very little to their discourse. They were now arrived at
the justice's house, and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint his
worship that they had taken two robbers and brought them before him. The
justice, who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not yet
finished his dinner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into the
stable, whither they were attended by all the servants in the house, and
all the people in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see them
with as much curiosity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, or
that a rogue did not look like other people.

The justice, now being in the height of his mirth and his cups,
bethought himself of the prisoners; and, telling his company he believed
they should have good sport in their examination, he ordered them into
his presence. They had no sooner entered the room than he began to
revile them, saying, "That robberies on the highway were now grown so
frequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, and assured
them they both should be made examples of at the ensuing assizes." After
he had gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded by his clerk,
"That it would be proper to take the depositions of the witnesses
against them." Which he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the
meantime. Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the deposition
of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice employed
himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by all
the company at table. One asked, "Whether she was to be indicted for a
highwayman?" Another whispered in her ear, "If she had not provided
herself a great belly, he was at her service." A third said, "He
warranted she was a relation of Turpin." To which one of the company, a
great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered, "He believed
she was nearer related to Turpis;" at which there was an universal
laugh. They were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when somebody,
smoking the cassock peeping forth from under the greatcoat of Adams,
cried out, "What have we here, a parson?" "How, sirrah," says the
justice, "do you go robbing in the dress of a clergyman? let me tell you
your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy." "Yes,"
said the witty fellow, "he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be
exalted above the heads of the people;" at which there was a second
laugh. And now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in
spirits; and, turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verses, and,
provoking him by giving the first blow, he repeated--

    _"Molle meum levibus cord est vilebile telis."_

Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told him, "He
deserved scourging for his pronunciation." The witty fellow answered,
"What do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer the first
time? Why, I'll give one, you blockhead, with an S.

    _"'Si licet, ut fulvum spectatur in ignibus haurum.'_

"What, canst not with an M neither? Thou art a pretty fellow for a
parson! Why didst not steal some of the parson's Latin as well as his
gown?" Another at the table then answered, "If he had, you would have
been too hard for him; I remember you at the college a very devil at
this sport; I have seen you catch a freshman, for nobody that knew you
would engage with you." "I have forgot those things now," cried the wit.
"I believe I could have done pretty well formerly. Let's see, what did I
end with?--an M again--aye--

    _"'Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.'_

I could have done it once." "Ah! evil betide you, and so you can now,"
said the other: "nobody in this country will undertake you." Adams could
hold no longer: "Friend," said he, "I have a boy not above eight years
old who would instruct thee that the last verse runs thus:--

    _"'Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.'"_

"I'll hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, throwing the money on
the table. "And I'll go your halves," cries the other. "Done," answered
Adams; but upon applying to his pocket he was forced to retract, and own
he had no money about him; which set them all a-laughing, and confirmed
the triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more than the
approbation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he must
go a little longer to school before he attempted to attack that
gentleman in Latin.

The clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the fellow
himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered them to
the justice; who, having sworn the several witnesses without reading a
syllable, ordered his clerk to make the mittimus.

Adams then said, "He hoped he should not be condemned unheard." "No,
no," cries the justice, "you will be asked what you have to say for
yourself when you come on your trial: we are not trying you now; I shall
only commit you to gaol: if you can prove your innocence at size, you
will be found ignoramus, and so no harm done." "Is it no punishment,
sir, for an innocent man to lie several months in gaol?" cries Adams: "I
beg you would at least hear me before you sign the mittimus." "What
signifies all you can say?" says the justice: "is it not here in black
and white against you? I must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow
to take up so much of my time. So make haste with his mittimus."

The clerk now acquainted the justice that among other suspicious things,
as a penknife, &c., found in Adams's pocket, they had discovered a book
written, as he apprehended, in cyphers; for no one could read a word in
it. "Ay," says the justice, "the fellow may be more than a common
robber, he may be in a plot against the Government. Produce the book."
Upon which the poor manuscript of Aeschylus, which Adams had transcribed
with his own hand, was brought forth; and the justice, looking at it,
shook his head, and, turning to the prisoner, asked the meaning of those
cyphers. "Cyphers?" answered Adams, "it is a manuscript of Aeschylus."
"Who? who?" said the justice. Adams repeated, "Aeschylus." "That is an
outlandish name," cried the clerk. "A fictitious name rather, I
believe," said the justice. One of the company declared it looked very
much like Greek. "Greek?" said the justice; "why, 'tis all writing."
"No," says the other, "I don't positively say it is so; for it is a very
long time since I have seen any Greek." "There's one," says he, turning
to the parson of the parish, who was present, "will tell us
immediately." The parson, taking up the book, and putting on his
spectacles and gravity together, muttered some words to himself, and
then pronounced aloud--"Ay, indeed, it is a Greek manuscript; a very
fine piece of antiquity. I make no doubt but it was stolen from the same
clergyman from whom the rogue took the cassock." "What did the rascal
mean by his Aeschylus?" says the justice. "Pooh!" answered the doctor,
with a contemptuous grin, "do you think that fellow knows anything of
this book? Aeschylus! ho! ho! I see now what it is--a manuscript of one
of the fathers. I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of money
for such a piece of antiquity. Ay, ay, question and answer. The
beginning is the catechism in Greek. Ay, ay, _Pollaki toi_: What's your
name?"--"Ay, what's your name?" says the justice to Adams; who answered,
"It is Aeschylus, and I will maintain it."--"Oh! it is," says the
justice: "make Mr Aeschylus his mittimus. I will teach you to banter me
with a false name."

One of the company, having looked steadfastly at Adams, asked him, "If
he did not know Lady Booby?" Upon which Adams, presently calling him to
mind, answered in a rapture, "O squire! are you there? I believe you
will inform his worship I am innocent."--"I can indeed say," replied the
squire, "that I am very much surprized to see you in this situation:"
and then, addressing himself to the justice, he said, "Sir, I assure
you Mr Adams is a clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very
good character. I wish you would enquire a little farther into this
affair; for I am convinced of his innocence."--"Nay," says the justice,
"if he is a gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don't desire
to commit him, not I: I will commit the woman by herself, and take your
bail for the gentleman: look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to
take bail--come--and make the mittimus for the woman as fast as you
can."--"Sir," cries Adams, "I assure you she is as innocent as
myself."--"Perhaps," said the squire, "there may be some mistake! pray
let us hear Mr Adams's relation."--"With all my heart," answered the
justice; "and give the gentleman a glass to wet his whistle before he
begins. I know how to behave myself to gentlemen as well as another.
Nobody can say I have committed a gentleman since I have been in the
commission." Adams then began the narrative, in which, though he was
very prolix, he was uninterrupted, unless by several hums and hahs of
the justice, and his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to him
most material. When he had finished, the justice, who, on what the
squire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his bare
affirmation, notwithstanding the depositions on oath to the contrary,
began to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, whom
he ordered to stand forth, but in vain; the said witness, long since
finding what turn matters were likely to take, had privily withdrawn,
without attending the issue. The justice now flew into a violent
passion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocent
fellows who had been imposed on as well as himself. He swore, "They had
best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before
him within two days, or he would bind them all over to their good
behaviour." They all promised to use their best endeavours to that
purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice insisted that Mr Adams
should sit down and take a glass with him; and the parson of the parish
delivered him back the manuscript without saying a word; nor would
Adams, who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she
was, at her own request, recommended to the care of a maid-servant of
the house, who helped her to new dress and clean herself.

The company in the parlour had not been long seated before they were
alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the persons who had
apprehended Adams and Fanny had been regaling, according to the custom
of the house, with the justice's strong beer. These were all fallen
together by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. The
justice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his presence soon
put an end to the fray. On his return into the parlour, he reported,
"That the occasion of the quarrel was no other than a dispute to whom,
if Adams had been convicted, the greater share of the reward for
apprehending him had belonged." All the company laughed at this, except
Adams, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and
said, "He was concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. That he
remembered a story something like it in one of the parishes where his
cure lay:--There was," continued he, "a competition between three young
fellows for the place of the clerk, which I disposed of, to the best of
my abilities, according to merit; that is, I gave it to him who had the
happiest knack at setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner established
in his place than a contention began between the two disappointed
candidates concerning their excellence; each contending on whom, had
they two been the only competitors, my election would have fallen. This
dispute frequently disturbed the congregation, and introduced a discord
into the psalmody, till I was forced to silence them both. But, alas!
the litigious spirit could not be stifled; and, being no longer able to
vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fighting. It produced many
battles (for they were very near a match), and I believe would have
ended fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity to
promote one of them to his place; which presently put an end to the
dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties." Adams then
proceeded to make some philosophical observations on the folly of
growing warm in disputes in which neither party is interested. He then
applied himself vigorously to smoaking; and a long silence ensued, which
was at length broke by the justice, who began to sing forth his own
praises, and to value himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in the
cause which had lately been before him. He was quickly interrupted by Mr
Adams, between whom and his worship a dispute now arose, whether he
ought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said Adams;
in which the latter maintained he ought to have been committed, and the
justice as vehemently held he ought not. This had most probably produced
a quarrel (for both were very violent and positive in their opinions),
had not Fanny accidentally heard that a young fellow was going from the
justice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach in which Joseph
was, put up. Upon this news, she immediately sent for the parson out of
the parlour. Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though she would
not own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces of
those who had suspected her of such a crime), was as fully determined to
go with her; he accordingly took leave of the justice and company: and
so ended a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a
magistrate and a divine together by the ears.



CHAPTER XII.

_A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to the
good-natured reader._


Adams, Fanny, and the guide, set out together about one in the morning,
the moon being then just risen. They had not gone above a mile before a
most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or
rather alehouse, where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a
toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content,
utterly forgetting everything that had happened.

Fanny sat likewise down by the fire; but was much more impatient at the
storm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of
the house, and the young fellow who was their guide; they all conceived
they had never seen anything half so handsome; and indeed, reader, if
thou art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the next
paragraph; which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to set
down, humbly hoping that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion; for if it
should happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, we
should be perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say
to ourselves, _Quod petis est nusquam_. Or, if the finest features in it
should set Lady ----'s image before our eyes, we should be still in as
bad a situation, and might say to our desires, _Coelum ipsum petimus
stultitia_.

Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she was tall and
delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women who seem
rather intended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist than for any
other purpose. On the contrary, she was so plump that she seemed
bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confined
her swelling breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to
extend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbs
which she concealed; and though they were a little reddened by her
labour, yet, if her sleeve slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchief
discovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest
Italian paint would be unable to reach. Her hair was of a chesnut brown,
and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut,
and on Sundays used to curl down her neck, in the modern fashion. Her
forehead was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise.
Her eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the Roman; her
lips red and moist, and her underlip, according to the opinion of the
ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The
small-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which was so large, it
might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced
one so near a neighbour to it, that the former served only for a foil to
the latter. Her complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, but
overspread with such a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged
all their white for it: add to these a countenance in which, though she
was extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible; and a
sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or description.
To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, superior to the
acquisition of art, and which surprized all who beheld her.

This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, when her
attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room, which sung
the following song:--

    THE SONG.

    Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray
      Who is by thy beauties undone?
    To wash their remembrance away,
      To what distant Lethe must run?
    The wretch who is sentenced to die
      May escape, and leave justice behind;
    From his country perhaps he may fly,
      But oh! can he fly from his mind?

    O rapture! unthought of before,
      To be thus of Chloe possess'd;
    Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power,
      Her image can tear from my breast.
    But felt not Narcissus more joy,
      With his eyes he beheld his loved charms?
    Yet what he beheld the fond boy
      More eagerly wish'd in his arms.

    How can it thy dear image be
      Which fills thus my bosom with woe?
    Can aught bear resemblance to thee
      Which grief and not joy can bestow?
    This counterfeit snatch from my heart,
      Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave,
    Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart:
      I then shall find rest in my grave.

    Ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain
      Come smiling and tripping along!
    A thousand Loves dance in her train,
      The Graces around her all throng.
    To meet her soft Zephyrus flies,
      And wafts all the sweets from the flowers,
    Ah, rogue I whilst he kisses her eyes,
      More sweets from her breath he devours.

    My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire:
      But her looks were so tender and kind,
    My hope almost reach'd my desire,
      And left lame despair far behind.
    Transported with madness, I flew,
      And eagerly seized on my bliss;
    Her bosom but half she withdrew,
      But half she refused my fond kiss.

    Advances like these made me bold;
      I whisper'd her--Love, we're alone.--
    The rest let immortals unfold;
      No language can tell but their own.
    Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried,
      How long I thy cruelty bore!
    Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied,
      You ne'er was so pressing before.

Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in Aeschylus,
without attending in the least to the voice, though one of the most
melodious that ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on Fanny, he cried
out, "Bless us, you look extremely pale!"--"Pale! Mr Adams," says she;
"O Jesus!" and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung his
Aeschylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the people of the house
for help. He soon summoned every one into the room, and the songster
among the rest; but, O reader! when this nightingale, who was no other
than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in the situation we
have described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind? If
thou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his happiness, when,
clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her
cheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the
softest accent whisper, "Are you Joseph Andrews?"--"Art thou my Fanny?"
he answered eagerly: and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted
numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present.

If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, they may
take their eyes off from it, and survey parson Adams dancing about the
room in a rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps doubt whether he
was not the happiest of the three: for the goodness of his heart enjoyed
the blessings which were exulting in the breasts of both the other two,
together with his own. But we shall leave such disquisitions, as too
deep for us, to those who are building some favourite hypothesis, which
they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support: for our
part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not
only greater than the parson's, but of longer duration: for as soon as
the first tumults of Adams's rapture were over he cast his eyes towards
the fire, where Aeschylus lay expiring; and immediately rescued the
poor remains, to wit, the sheepskin covering, of his dear friend, which
was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion
for upwards of thirty years.

Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she began to
restrain the impetuosity of her transports; and, reflecting on what she
had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was immediately
covered with confusion; and, pushing Joseph gently from her, she begged
him to be quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer.
Then, seeing Mrs Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to advance to her;
but that high woman would not return her curtsies; but, casting her eyes
another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as she
went, she wondered who the creature was.



CHAPTER XIII.

_A dissertation concerning high people and low people, with Mrs
Slipslop's departure in no very good temper of mind, and the evil plight
in which she left Adams and his company._


It will doubtless seem extremely odd to many readers, that Mrs Slipslop,
who had lived several years in the same house with Fanny, should, in a
short separation, utterly forget her. And indeed the truth is, that she
remembered her very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, that
anything should appear unnatural in this our history, we will endeavour
to explain the reasons of her conduct; nor do we doubt being able to
satisfy the most curious reader that Mrs Slipslop did not in the least
deviate from the common road in this behaviour; and, indeed, had she
done otherwise, she must have descended below herself, and would have
very justly been liable to censure.

Be it known then, that the human species are divided into two sorts of
people, to wit, high people and low people. As by high people I would
not be understood to mean persons literally born higher in their
dimensions than the rest of the species, nor metaphorically those of
exalted characters or abilities; so by low people I cannot be construed
to intend the reverse. High people signify no other than people of
fashion, and low people those of no fashion. Now, this word fashion hath
by long use lost its original meaning, from which at present it gives us
a very different idea; for I am deceived if by persons of fashion we do
not generally include a conception of birth and accomplishments superior
to the herd of mankind; whereas, in reality, nothing more was originally
meant by a person of fashion than a person who drest himself in the
fashion of the times; and the word really and truly signifies no more at
this day. Now, the world being thus divided into people of fashion and
people of no fashion, a fierce contention arose between them; nor would
those of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publicly to speak to
those of the other, though they often held a very good correspondence in
private. In this contention it is difficult to say which party
succeeded; for, whilst the people of fashion seized several places to
their own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas, balls, &c., the
people of no fashion, besides one royal place, called his Majesty's
Bear-garden, have been in constant possession of all hops, fairs,
revels, &c. Two places have been agreed to be divided between them,
namely, the church and the playhouse, where they segregate themselves
from each other in a remarkable manner; for, as the people of fashion
exalt themselves at church over the heads of the people of no fashion,
so in the playhouse they abase themselves in the same degree under
their feet. This distinction I have never met with any one able to
account for: it is sufficient that, so far from looking on each other as
brethren in the Christian language, they seem scarce to regard each
other as of the same species. This, the terms "strange persons, people
one does not know, the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes," and many
other appellations evidently demonstrate; which Mrs Slipslop, having
often heard her mistress use, thought she had also a right to use in her
turn; and perhaps she was not mistaken; for these two parties,
especially those bordering nearly on each other, to wit, the lowest of
the high, and the highest of the low, often change their parties
according to place and time; for those who are people of fashion in one
place are often people of no fashion in another. And with regard to
time, it may not be unpleasant to survey the picture of dependance like
a kind of ladder; as, for instance; early in the morning arises the
postillion, or some other boy, which great families, no more than great
ships, are without, and falls to brushing the clothes and cleaning the
shoes of John the footman; who, being drest himself, applies his hands
to the same labours for Mr Second-hand, the squire's gentleman; the
gentleman in the like manner, a little later in the day, attends the
squire; the squire is no sooner equipped than he attends the levee of my
lord; which is no sooner over than my lord himself is seen at the levee
of the favourite, who, after the hour of homage is at an end, appears
himself to pay homage to the levee of his sovereign. Nor is there,
perhaps, in this whole ladder of dependance, any one step at a greater
distance from the other than the first from the second; so that to a
philosopher the question might only seem, whether you would chuse to be
a great man at six in the morning, or at two in the afternoon. And yet
there are scarce two of these who do not think the least familiarity
with the persons below them a condescension, and, if they were to go one
step farther, a degradation.

And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this long digression, which
seemed to me necessary to vindicate the great character of Mrs Slipslop
from what low people, who have never seen high people, might think an
absurdity; but we who know them must have daily found very high persons
know us in one place and not in another, to-day and not to-morrow; all
which it is difficult to account for otherwise than I have here
endeavoured; and perhaps, if the gods, according to the opinion of some,
made men only to laugh at them, there is no part of our behaviour which
answers the end of our creation better than this.

But to return to our history: Adams, who knew no more of this than the
cat which sat on the table, imagining Mrs Slipslop's memory had been
much worse than it really was, followed her into the next room, crying
out, "Madam Slipslop, here is one of your old acquaintance; do but see
what a fine woman she is grown since she left Lady Booby's service."--"I
think I reflect something of her," answered she, with great dignity,
"but I can't remember all the inferior servants in our family." She then
proceeded to satisfy Adams's curiosity, by telling him, "When she
arrived at the inn, she found a chaise ready for her; that, her lady
being expected very shortly in the country, she was obliged to make the
utmost haste; and, in commensuration of Joseph's lameness, she had taken
him with her;" and lastly, "that the excessive virulence of the storm
had driven them into the house where he found them." After which, she
acquainted Adams with his having left his horse, and exprest some wonder
at his having strayed so far out of his way, and at meeting him, as she
said, "in the company of that wench, who she feared was no better than
she should be."

The horse was no sooner put into Adams's head but he was immediately
driven out by this reflection on the character of Fanny. He protested,
"He believed there was not a chaster damsel in the universe. I heartily
wish, I heartily wish," cried he (snapping his fingers), "that all her
betters were as good." He then proceeded to inform her of the accident
of their meeting; but when he came to mention the circumstance of
delivering her from the rape, she said, "She thought him properer for
the army than the clergy; that it did not become a clergyman to lay
violent hands on any one; that he should have rather prayed that she
might be strengthened." Adams said, "He was very far from being ashamed
of what he had done:" she replied, "Want of shame was not the
currycuristic of a clergyman." This dialogue might have probably grown
warmer, had not Joseph opportunely entered the room, to ask leave of
Madam Slipslop to introduce Fanny: but she positively refused to admit
any such trollops, and told him, "She would have been burnt before she
would have suffered him to get into a chaise with her, if she had once
respected him of having his sluts waylaid on the road for him;" adding,
"that Mr Adams acted a very pretty part, and she did not doubt but to
see him a bishop." He made the best bow he could, and cried out, "I
thank you, madam, for that right-reverend appellation, which I shall
take all honest means to deserve."-"Very honest means," returned she,
with a sneer, "to bring people together." At these words Adams took two
or three strides across the room, when the coachman came to inform Mrs
Slipslop, "That the storm was over, and the moon shone very bright." She
then sent for Joseph, who was sitting without with his Fanny, and would
have had him gone with her; but he peremptorily refused to leave Fanny
behind, which threw the good woman into a violent rage. She said, "She
would inform her lady what doings were carrying on, and did not doubt
but she would rid the parish of all such people;" and concluded a long
speech, full of bitterness and very hard words, with some reflections on
the clergy not decent to repeat; at last, finding Joseph unmoveable, she
flung herself into the chaise, casting a look at Fanny as she went, not
unlike that which Cleopatra gives Octavia in the play. To say the truth,
she was most disagreeably disappointed by the presence of Fanny: she
had, from her first seeing Joseph at the inn, conceived hopes of
something which might have been accomplished at an alehouse as well as a
palace. Indeed, it is probable Mr Adams had rescued more than Fanny from
the danger of a rape that evening.

When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slipslop, Adams, Joseph, and
Fanny assembled over the fire, where they had a great deal of innocent
chat, pretty enough; but, as possibly it would not be very entertaining
to the reader, we shall hasten to the morning; only observing that none
of them went to bed that night. Adams, when he had smoaked three pipes,
took a comfortable nap in a great chair, and left the lovers, whose eyes
were too well employed to permit any desire of shutting them, to enjoy
by themselves, during some hours, an happiness which none of my readers
who have never been in love are capable of the least conception of,
though we had as many tongues as Homer desired, to describe it with, and
which all true lovers will represent to their own minds without the
least assistance from us.

Let it suffice then to say, that Fanny, after a thousand entreaties, at
last gave up her whole soul to Joseph; and, almost fainting in his arms,
with a sigh infinitely softer and sweeter too than any Arabian breeze,
she whispered to his lips, which were then close to hers, "O Joseph,
you have won me: I will be yours for ever." Joseph, having thanked
her on his knees, and embraced her with an eagerness which she now
almost returned, leapt up in a rapture, and awakened the parson,
earnestly begging him "that he would that instant join their hands
together." Adams rebuked him for his request, and told him "He would by
no means consent to anything contrary to the forms of the Church; that
he had no licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one; that
the Church had prescribed a form--namely, the publication of banns--with
which all good Christians ought to comply, and to the omission of which
he attributed the many miseries which befell great folks in marriage;"
concluding, "As many as are joined together otherwise than G--'s word
doth allow are not joined together by G--, neither is their matrimony
lawful." Fanny agreed with the parson, saying to Joseph, with a blush,
"She assured him she would not consent to any such thing, and that she
wondered at his offering it." In which resolution she was comforted and
commended by Adams; and Joseph was obliged to wait patiently till after
the third publication of the banns, which, however, he obtained the
consent of Fanny, in the presence of Adams, to put in at their arrival.

The sun had been now risen some hours, when Joseph, finding his leg
surprizingly recovered, proposed to walk forwards; but when they were
all ready to set out, an accident a little retarded them. This was no
other than the reckoning, which amounted to seven shillings; no great
sum if we consider the immense quantity of ale which Mr Adams poured in.
Indeed, they had no objection to the reasonableness of the bill, but
many to the probability of paying it; for the fellow who had taken poor
Fanny's purse had unluckily forgot to return it. So that the account
stood thus:--

                                   £ S D
        Mr Adams and company, Dr.  0 7 0

        In Mr Adams's pocket       0 0 6 1/2
        In Mr Joseph's             0 0 0
        In Mrs Fanny's             0 0 0

          Balance                  0 6 5 1/2

They stood silent some few minutes, staring at each other, when Adams
whipt out on his toes, and asked the hostess, "If there was no clergyman
in that parish?" She answered, "There was."--"Is he wealthy?" replied
he; to which she likewise answered in the affirmative. Adams then
snapping his fingers returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out,
"Heureka, Heureka;" which not being understood, he told them in plain
English, "They need give themselves no trouble, for he had a brother in
the parish who would defray the reckoning, and that he would just step
to his house and fetch the money, and return to them instantly."



END OF VOL. I









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