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 theindulgence in ironic descriptions of his own work. If the irony isdepreciatory, posterity is but too likely to say, "Many a true word isspoken in jest;" if it is encomiastic, the same ruthless and ungratefulcritic is but too likely to take it as an involuntary confession offolly and vanity. But when Fielding, in one of his serio-comicintroductions to _Tom Jones_, described it as "this prodigious work, " heall unintentionally (for he was the least pretentious of men)anticipated the verdict which posterity almost at once, and withever-increasing suffrage of the best judges as time went on, was aboutto pass not merely upon this particular book, but upon his whole geniusand his whole production as a novelist. His work in other kinds is of avery different order of excellence. It is sufficiently interesting attimes in itself; and always more than sufficiently interesting as his;for which reasons, as well as for the further one that it iscomparatively little known, a considerable selection from it is offeredto the reader in the last two volumes of this edition. Until the presentoccasion (which made it necessary that I should acquaint myself withit) I own that my own knowledge of these miscellaneous writings was byno means thorough. It is now pretty complete; but the idea which Ipreviously had of them at first and second hand, though a littleimproved, has not very materially altered. Though in all this hack-workFielding displayed, partially and at intervals, the same qualities whichhe displayed eminently and constantly in the four great books heregiven, he was not, as the French idiom expresses it, _dans sonassiette_, in his own natural and impregnable disposition and situationof character and ability, when he was occupied on it. The novel was forhim that _assiette_; and all his novels are here. 

Although Henry Fielding lived in quite modern times, although by familyand connections he was of a higher rank than most men of letters, andalthough his genius was at once recognised by his contemporaries so soonas it displayed itself in its proper sphere, his biography until veryrecently was by no means full; and the most recent researches, includingthose of Mr Austin Dobson--a critic unsurpassed for combination ofliterary faculty and knowledge of the eighteenth century--have notaltogether sufficed to fill up the gaps. His family, said to havedescended from a member of the great house of Hapsburg who came toEngland in the reign of Henry II. , distinguished itself in the Wars ofthe Roses, and in the seventeenth century was advanced to the peeragesof Denbigh in England and (later) of Desmond in Ireland. The novelistwas the grandson of John Fielding, Canon of Salisbury, the fifth son ofthe first Earl of Desmond of this creation. The canon's third son, Edmond, entered the army, served under Marlborough, and married SarahGold or Gould, daughter of a judge of the King's Bench. Their eldest sonwas Henry, who was born on April 22, 1707, and had an uncertain numberof brothers and sisters of the whole blood. After his first wife'sdeath, General Fielding (for he attained that rank) married again. Themost remarkable offspring of the first marriage, next to Henry, was hissister Sarah, also a novelist, who wrote David Simple; of the second, John, afterwards Sir John Fielding, who, though blind, succeeded hishalf-brother as a Bow Street magistrate, and in that office combined anequally honourable record with a longer tenure. 

Fielding was born at Sharpham Park in Somersetshire, the seat of hismaternal grandfather; but most of his early youth was spent at EastStour in Dorsetshire, to which his father removed after the judge'sdeath. He is said to have received his first education under a parson ofthe neighbourhood named Oliver, in whom a very uncomplimentary traditionsees the original of Parson Trulliber. He was then certainly sent toEton, where he did not waste his time as regards learning, and madeseveral valuable friends. But the dates of his entering and leavingschool are alike unknown; and his subsequent sojourn at Leyden for twoyears--though there is no reason to doubt it--depends even less uponany positive documentary evidence. This famous University still had agreat repute as a training school in law, for which profession he wasintended; but the reason why he did not receive the even then far moreusual completion of a public school education by a sojourn at Oxford orCambridge may be suspected to be different. It may even have hadsomething to do with a curious escapade of his about which not very muchis known--an attempt to carry off a pretty heiress of Lyme, namedSarah Andrew. 

Even at Leyden, however, General Fielding seems to have been unable orunwilling to pay his son's expenses, which must have been far less therethan at an English University; and Henry's return to London in 1728-29is said to have been due to sheer impecuniosity. When he returned toEngland, his father was good enough to make him an allowance of L200nominal, which appears to have been equivalent to L0 actual. And aspractically nothing is known of him for the next six or seven years, except the fact of his having worked industriously enough at a largenumber of not very good plays of the lighter kind, with a few poems andmiscellanies, it is reasonably enough supposed that he lived by his pen. The only product of this period which has kept (or indeed which everreceived) competent applause is _Tom Thumb, or the Tragedy ofTragedies_, a following of course of the _Rehearsal_, but full of humourand 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 thecontemporary existence of a certain Timothy Fielding, helped suggestionsof less dignified occupations as actor, booth-keeper, and so forth; butthese 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 hadmarried (we do not know when or where) Miss Charlotte Cradock, one ofthree sisters who lived at Salisbury (it is to be observed thatFielding's entire connections, both in life and letters, are with theWestern Counties and London), who were certainly of competent means, andfor whose alleged illegitimacy there is no evidence but an unsupportedfling of that old maid of genius, Richardson. The descriptions both ofSophia and of Amelia are said to have been taken from this lady; hergood looks and her amiability are as well established as anything of thekind can be in the absence of photographs and affidavits; and it iscertain that her husband was passionately attached to her, during theirtoo short married life. His method, however, of showing his affectionsmacked in some ways too much of the foibles which he has attributed toCaptain Booth, and of those which we must suspect Mr Thomas Jones wouldalso 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 istrue that grave breaches have been made by recent criticism in the verypicturesque and circumstantial story told on the subject by Murphy, thefirst of Fielding's biographers. This legend was that Fielding, havingsucceeded 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 hiswife's fortune, got through the whole in three years by keeping openhouse, with a large retinue in "costly yellow liveries, " and so forth. In details, this story has been simply riddled. His mother had died longbefore; he was certainly not away from London three years, or anythinglike it; and so forth. At the same time, the best and soberest judgesagree that there is an intrinsic probability, a consensus (if a vagueone) of tradition, and a chain of almost unmistakably personalreferences in the novels, which plead for a certain amount of truth, atthe bottom of a much embellished legend. At any rate, if Fieldingestablished himself in the country, it was not long before he returnedto town; for early in 1736 we find him back again, and not merely aplaywright, but lessee of the "Little Theatre" in the Haymarket. Theplays which he produced here--satirico-political pieces, such as_Pasquin_ and the _Historical Register_--were popular enough, butoffended the Government; and in 1737 a new bill regulating theatricalperformances, and instituting the Lord Chamberlain's control, waspassed. This measure put an end directly to the "Great Mogul's Company, "as Fielding had called his troop, and indirectly to its manager's careeras a playwright. He did indeed write a few pieces in future years, butthey were of the smallest importance. 

After this check he turned at last to a serious profession, enteredhimself of the Middle Temple in November of the same year, and wascalled three years later; but during these years, and indeed for sometime afterwards, our information about him is still of the vaguestcharacter. Nobody doubts that he had a large share in the _Champion_, anessay-periodical on the usual eighteenth-century model, which began toappear in 1739, and which is still occasionally consulted for the workthat is certainly or probably his. He went the Western Circuit, andattended the Wiltshire Sessions, after he was called, giving up hiscontributions to periodicals soon after that event. But he soon returnedto literature proper, or rather made his _debut_ in it, with theimmortal book now republished. The _History of the Adventures of JosephAndrews, and his Friend Mr Abraham Adams_, appeared in February 1742, and its author received from Andrew Millar, the publisher, the sum ofL183, 11s. Even greater works have fetched much smaller sums; but itwill be admitted that _Joseph Andrews_ was not dear. 

The advantage, however, of presenting a survey of an author's lifeuninterrupted by criticism is so clear, that what has to be said about_Joseph_ may be conveniently postponed for the moment. Immediately afterits publication the author fell back upon miscellaneous writing, and inthe next year (1743) collected and issued three volumes of_Miscellanies_. In the two first volumes the only thing of much interestis the unfinished and unequal, but in part powerful, _Journey from thisWorld to the Next_, an attempt of a kind which Fontenelle and others, following Lucian, had made very popular with the time. But the thirdvolume of the _Miscellanies_ deserved a less modest and gregariousappearance, for it contained, and is wholly occupied by, the wonderfuland terrible satire of _Jonathan Wild_, the greatest piece of pure ironyin English out of Swift. Soon after the publication of the book, a greatcalamity came on Fielding. His wife had been very ill when he wrote thepreface; soon afterwards she was dead. They had taken the chance, hadmade the choice, that the more prudent and less wise student-hero andheroine of Mr Browning's _Youth and Art_ had shunned; they had no doubt"sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired, " and we neednot question, that they had also "been happy. "

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

_Tom Jones_ was published in February (a favourite month with Fieldingor his publisher Millar) 1749; and as it brought him the, for thosedays, very considerable sum of L600 to which Millar added anotherhundred later, the novelist must have been, for a time at any rate, relieved from his chronic penury. But he had already, by Lyttelton'sinterest, secured his first and last piece of preferment, being madeJustice of the Peace for Westminster, an office on which he entered withcharacteristic vigour. He was qualified for it not merely by a solidknowledge of the law, and by great natural abilities, but by histhorough kindness of heart; and, perhaps, it may also be added, by hislong years of queer experience on (as Mr Carlyle would have said) the"burning marl" of the London Bohemia. Very shortly afterwards he waschosen Chairman of Quarter Sessions, and established himself in BowStreet. The Bow Street magistrate of that time occupied a most singularposition, and was more like a French Prefect of Police or even aMinister of Public Safety than a mere justice. Yet he was ill paid. Fielding says that the emoluments, which before his accession had butbeen L500 a year of "dirty" money, were by his own action but L300 ofclean; 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 ofWalpole's notwithstanding. In particular, he broke up a gang ofcut-throat thieves, which had been the terror of London. But his tenureof the post was short enough, and scarcely extended to five years. Hishealth 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 hissuburban cottage of Fordhook, Ealing. But he did not relax his literarywork. His pen was active with pamphlets concerning his office; _Amelia_, his last novel, appeared towards the close of 1751; and next year sawthe beginning of a new paper, the _Covent Garden Journal_, whichappeared twice a week, ran for the greater part of the year, and died inNovember. Its great author did not see that month twice again. In thespring of 1753 he grew worse; and after a year's struggle with illhealth, hard work, and hard weather, lesser measures being pronounceduseless, was persuaded to try the "Portugal Voyage, " of which he hasleft so charming a record in the _Journey to Lisbon_. He left Fordhookon June 26, 1754, reached Lisbon in August, and, dying there on the 8thof October, was buried in the cemetery of the Estrella. 

Of not many writers perhaps does a clearer notion, as far as theirpersonality goes, exist in the general mind that interests itself at allin literature than of Fielding. Yet more than once a warning has beensounded, especially by his best and most recent biographer, to theeffect 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 asufficiently faithful summary--will have shown, we know very littleabout Fielding. We have hardly any letters of his, and so lack the bestby far and the most revealing of all character-portraits; we have butone important autobiographic fragment, and though that is of the highestinterest and value, it was written far in the valley of the shadow ofdeath, it is not in the least retrospective, and it affords but dim andinferential light on his younger, healthier, and happier days and ways. He came, moreover, just short of one set of men of letters, of whom wehave a great deal of personal knowledge, and just beyond another. He wasneither of those about Addison, nor of those about Johnson. No intimatefriend of his has left us anything elaborate about him. On the otherhand, we have a far from inconsiderable body of documentary evidence, ofa kind often by no means trustworthy. The best part of it is containedin the letters of his cousin, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and thereminiscences or family traditions of her grand-daughter, Lady LouisaStuart. But Lady Mary, vivacious and agreeable as she is, had with allher talent a very considerable knack of writing for effect, of drawingstrong contrasts and the like; and it is not quite certain that she sawvery much of Fielding in the last and most interesting third of hislife. Another witness, Horace Walpole, to less knowledge and equallydubious accuracy, added decided ill-will, which may have been due partlyto the shrinking of a dilettante and a fop from a burly Bohemian; but Ifear is also consequent upon the fact that Horace could not afford todespise Fielding's birth, and knew him to be vastly his own superior ingenius. We hear something of him again from Richardson; and Richardsonhated him with the hatred of dissimilar genius, of inferior socialposition, and, lastly, of the cat for the dog who touzles and worriesher. Johnson partly inherited or shared Richardson's aversion, partlywas blinded to Fielding's genius by his aggressive Whiggery. I fear, too, that he was incapable of appreciating it for reasons other thanpolitical. It is certain that Johnson, sane and robust as he was, wasnever quite at ease before genius of the gigantic kind, either in deador living. Whether he did not like to have to look up too much, or wasactually unable to do so, it is certain that Shakespeare, Milton, Swift, and Fielding, those four Atlantes of English verse and prose, allaffected him with lukewarm admiration, or with positive dislike, forwhich it is vain to attempt to assign any uniform secondary cause, political or other. It may be permitted to hint another reason. AllJohnson's most sharp-sighted critics have noticed, though most havediscreetly refrained from insisting on, his "thorn-in-the-flesh, " thecombination in him of very strong physical passions with the deepestsense of the moral and religious duty of abstinence. It is perhapsimpossible to imagine anything more distasteful to a man so buffeted, than the extreme indulgence with which Fielding regards, and the easyfreedom, not to say gusto, with which he depicts, those who succumb tosimilar temptation. Only by supposing the workings of some subtleinfluence of this kind is it possible to explain, even in so capriciousa humour as Johnson's, the famous and absurd application of the term"barren rascal" to a writer who, dying almost young, after having formany years lived a life of pleasure, and then for four or five one oflaborious official duty, has left work anything but small in actualbulk, and fertile with the most luxuriant growth of intellectualoriginality. 

Partly on the _obiter dicta_ of persons like these, partly on the stillmore tempting and still more treacherous ground of indications drawnfrom his works, a Fielding of fantasy has been constructed, which inThackeray's admirable sketch attains real life and immortality as acreature of art, but which possesses rather dubious claims as ahistorical character. It is astonishing how this Fielding of fantasysinks and shrivels when we begin to apply the horrid tests of criticismto his component parts. The _eidolon_, with inked ruffles and a towelround his head, sits in the Temple and dashes off articles for the_Covent Garden Journal_; then comes Criticism, hellish maid, and remindsus 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 busymagistrate and householder in Bow Street; and that, if he had towelsround his head, it was probably less because he had exceeded in liquorthan because his Grace of Newcastle had given him a headache by wantingelaborate plans and schemes prepared at an hour's notice. Lady Mary, apparently with some envy, tells us that he could "feel rapture with hiscook-maid. " "Which many has, " as Mr Ridley remarks, from XanthiasPhoceus downwards; but when we remember the historic fact that hemarried this maid (not a "cook-maid" at all), and that though he alwaysspeaks of her with warm affection and hearty respect, such "raptures" aswe have of his clearly refer to a very different woman, who was both alady and a beautiful one, we begin a little to shake our heads. HoraceWalpole at second-hand draws us a Fielding, pigging with low companionsin a house kept like a hedge tavern; Fielding himself, within a year ortwo, shows us more than half-undesignedly in the _Voyage to Lisbon_ thathe was very careful about the appointments and decency of his table, that he stood rather upon ceremony in regard to his own treatment of hisfamily, and the treatment of them and himself by others, and that he wasaltogether a person orderly, correct, and even a little finikin. Nor isthere the slightest reasonable reason to regard this as a piece ofhypocrisy, a vice as alien from the Fielding of fancy as from theFielding of fact, and one the particular manifestation of which, in thisparticular place, would have been equally unlikely and unintelligible. 

It may be asked whether I propose to substitute for the traditionalFielding a quite different person, of regular habits and methodicaleconomy. Certainly not. The traditional estimate of great men is rarelywrong altogether, but it constantly has a habit of exaggerating anddramatising their characteristics. For some things in Fielding's careerwe have positive evidence of document, and evidence hardly less certainof probability. Although I believe the best judges are now of opinionthat his impecuniosity has been overcharged, he certainly hadexperiences which did not often fall to the lot of even a cadet of goodfamily in the eighteenth century. There can be no reasonable doubt thathe was a man who had a leaning towards pretty girls and bottles of goodwine; and I should suppose that if the girl were kind and fairlywinsome, he would not have insisted that she should possess Helen'sbeauty, that if the bottle of good wine were not forthcoming, he wouldhave been very tolerant of a mug of good ale. He may very possibly havedrunk more than he should, and lost more than he could conveniently pay. It may be put down as morally ascertained that towards all theseweaknesses of humanity, and others like unto them, he held an attitudewhich was less that of the unassailable philosopher than that of thesympathiser, indulgent and excusing. In regard more especially to whatare commonly called moral delinquencies, this attitude was so decidedas to shock some people even in those days, and many in these. Just whenthe first sheets of this edition were passing through the press, aviolent attack was made in a newspaper correspondence on the morality of_Tom Jones_ by certain notorious advocates of Purity, as some say, ofPruriency and Prudery combined, according to less complimentaryestimates. Even midway between the two periods we find the admirableMiss Ferrier, a sister of Fielding's own craft, who sometimes hadtouches of nature and satire not far inferior to his own, expressing bythe 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 theother, when it involved brutality or treachery, Fielding was pitiless;but when treachery and brutality were not concerned, he was, to say theleast, facile. So, too, he probably knew by experience--he certainlyknew by native shrewdness and acquired observation--that to look toomuch on the wine when it is red, or on the cards when they areparti-coloured, is ruinous to health and fortune; but he thought notover badly of any man who did these things. Still it is possible toadmit this in him, and to stop short of that idea of a careless andreckless _viveur_ which has so often been put forward. In particular, Lady Mary's view of his childlike enjoyment of the moment has been, Ithink, much exaggerated by posterity, and was probably not a littlemistaken 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 wherebehind the enjoyment of the moment lurks, and in which the enjoyment ofthe moment is not a little heightened by, that vast ironic consciousnessof the before and after, which I at least see everywhere in thebackground of Fielding's work. 

The man, however, of whom we know so little, concerns us much less thanthe author of the works, of which it only rests with ourselves to knoweverything. I have above classed Fielding as one of the four Atlantes ofEnglish verse and prose, and I doubt not that both the phrase and theapplication of it to him will meet with question and demur. I have onlyto interject, as the critic so often has to interject, a request to thecourt to take what I say in the sense in which I say it. I do not meanthat Shakespeare, Milton, Swift, and Fielding are in all or even in mostrespects on a level. I do not mean that the three last are in allrespects 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 tocall Atlantean, they stand alone. Each of them, for the metaphor isapplicable either way, carries a whole world on his shoulders, or looksdown on a whole world from his natural altitude. The worlds aredifferent, but they are worlds; and though the attitude of the giants isdifferent also, it agrees in all of them on the points of competence andstrength. Take whomsoever else we may among our men of letters, and weshall find this characteristic to be in comparison wanting. These fourcarry their world, and are not carried by it; and if it, in the languageso 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 thefour. He has not Shakespeare's absolute universality, and in fact notmerely the poet's tongue, but the poet's thought seems to have beendenied him. His sphere is not the ideal like Milton's. His irony, splendid as it is, falls a little short of that diabolical magnificencewhich exalts Swift to the point whence, in his own way, he surveys allthe kingdoms of the world, and the glory or vainglory of them. AllFielding's critics have noted the manner, in a certain sense modest, inanother ostentatious, in which he seems to confine himself to thepresentation of things English. They might have added to thepresentation of things English--as they appear in London, and on theWestern Circuit, and on the Bath Road. 

But this apparent parochialism has never deceived good judges. It didnot deceive Lady Mary, who had seen the men and manners of very manyclimes; it did not deceive Gibbon, who was not especially prone toovervalue things English, and who could look down from twenty centurieson things ephemeral. It deceives, indeed, I am told, some excellentpersons at the present day, who think Fielding's microcosm a "toylikeworld, " and imagine that Russian Nihilists and French Naturalists havegone beyond it. It will deceive no one who has lived for some competentspace of time a life during which he has tried to regard hisfellow-creatures and himself, as nearly as a mortal may, _sub specieaeternitatis_. 

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

_The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and his friend MrAbraham Adams_ was, as has been said above, published in February 1742. A facsimile of the agreement between author and publisher will be givenin the second volume of this series; and it is not uninteresting toobserve that the witness, William Young, is none other than the assertedoriginal of the immortal Mr Adams himself. He might, on Balzac's plea ina tolerably well-known anecdote, have demanded half of the L183, 11s. Ofthe other origins of the book we have a pretty full account, partlydocumentary. That it is "writ in the manner of Cervantes, " and isintended as a kind of comic epic, is the author's own statement--nodoubt as near the actual truth as is consistent with comic-epic theory. That there are resemblances to Scarron, to Le Sage, and to otherpractitioners of the Picaresque novel is certain; and it was inevitablethat there should be. Of directer and more immediate models orstarting-points one is undoubted; the other, though less generallyadmitted, not much less indubitable to my mind. The parody ofRichardson's _Pamela_, which was little more than a year earlier (Nov. 1740), is avowed, open, flagrant; nor do I think that the author was sosoon carried away by the greater and larger tide of his own invention assome critics seem to hold. He is always more or less returning to theironic charge; and the multiplicity of the assailants of Joseph's virtueonly disguises the resemblance to the long-drawn dangers of Pamela froma single ravisher. But Fielding was also well acquainted with Marivaux's_Paysan Parvenu_, and the resemblances between that book and _JosephAndrews_ are much stronger than Fielding's admirers have always beenwilling to admit. This recalcitrance has, I think, been mainly due tothe erroneous conception of Marivaux as, if not a mere fribble, yet aDresden-Shepherdess kind of writer, good at "preciousness" andpatch-and-powder manners, but nothing more. 

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

Origins, however, and indebtedness and the like, are, when great work isconcerned, questions for the study and the lecture-room, for theliterary historian and the professional critic, rather than for thereader, however intelligent and alert, who wishes to enjoy amasterpiece, and is content simply to enjoy it. It does not reallymatter how close to anything else something which possesses independentgoodness is; the very utmost technical originality, the most spotlesspurity from the faintest taint of suggestion, will not suffice to confermerit on what does not otherwise possess it. Whether, as I rather think, Fielding pursued the plan he had formed _ab incepto_, or whether hecavalierly neglected it, or whether the current of his own geniuscarried him off his legs and landed him, half against his will, on theshore of originality, are questions for the Schools, and, as I ventureto think, not for the higher forms in them. We have _Joseph Andrews_ asit is; and we may be abundantly thankful for it. The contents of it, asof all Fielding's work in this kind, include certain things for whichthe moderns are scantly grateful. Of late years, and not of late yearsonly, there has grown up a singular and perhaps an ignorant impatienceof digressions, of episodes, of tales within a tale. The example of thiswhich has been most maltreated is the "Man of the Hill" episode in _TomJones_; but the stories of the "Unfortunate Jilt" and of Mr Wilson inour present subject, do not appear to me to be much less obnoxious tothe censure; and _Amelia_ contains more than one or two things of thesame kind. Me they do not greatly disturb; and I see many defences forthem besides the obvious, and at a pinch sufficient one, thatdivagations of this kind existed in all Fielding's Spanish and Frenchmodels, that the public of the day expected them, and so forth. Thisdefence is enough, but it is easy to amplify and reintrench it. It isnot by any means the fact that the Picaresque novel of adventure is theonly or the chief form of fiction which prescribes or admits theseepisodic excursions. All the classical epics have them; many eastern andother stories present them; they are common, if not invariable, in theabundant mediaeval literature of prose and verse romance; they are notunknown by any means in the modern novel; and you will very rarely heara story told orally at the dinner-table or in the smoking-room withoutsomething of the kind. There must, therefore, be something in themcorresponding to an inseparable accident of that most unchanging of allthings, human nature. And I do not think the special form with which weare here concerned by any means the worst that they have taken. It hasthe grand and prominent virtue of being at once and easily skippable. There is about Cervantes and Le Sage, about Fielding and Smollett, noneof the treachery of the modern novelist, who induces the conscientiousreader to drag through pages, chapters, and sometimes volumes which havenothing to do with the action, for fear he should miss something thathas to do with it. These great men have a fearless frankness, and almosttell you in so many words when and what you may skip. Therefore, if the"Curious Impertinent, " and the "Baneful Marriage, " and the "Man of theHill, " 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 handfor Fielding's inter-chapters and exordiums. It appears to me to bealmost more applicable to his insertions. 

And so we need not trouble ourselves any more either about theinsertions or about the exordiums. They both please me; the second classhas 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 thinkthat it lies in the construction, though Fielding's following of theancients, both sincere and satiric, has imposed a false air ofregularity upon that. The Odyssey of Joseph, of Fanny, and of theirghostly mentor and bodily guard is, in truth, a little haphazard, andmight have been longer or shorter without any discreet man approving itthe more or the less therefor. The real merits lie partly in theabounding humour and satire of the artist's criticism, but even more inthe marvellous vivacity and fertility of his creation. For the veryfirst time in English prose fiction every character is alive, everyincident is capable of having happened. There are lively touches in theElizabethan romances; but they are buried in verbiage, swathed in stagecostume, choked and fettered by their authors' want of art. The qualityof Bunyan's knowledge of men was not much inferior to Shakespeare's, orat least to Fielding's; but the range and the results of it were crampedby his single theological purpose, and his unvaried allegoric or typicalform. Why Defoe did not discover the New World of Fiction, I at leasthave never been able to put into any brief critical formula thatsatisfies me, and I have never seen it put by any one else. He had notonly seen it afar off, he had made landings and descents on it; he hadcarried off and exhibited in triumph natives such as Robinson Crusoe, as Man Friday, as Moll Flanders, as William the Quaker; but he hadconquered, subdued, and settled no province therein. I like _Pamela_; Ilike it better than some persons who admire Richardson on the whole morethan I do, seem to like it. But, as in all its author's work, thehandling seems to me academic--the working out on paper of aningeniously conceived problem rather than the observation or evolutionof actual or possible life. I should not greatly fear to push thecomparison even into foreign countries; but it is well to observelimits. Let us be content with holding that in England at least, withoutprejudice to anything further, Fielding was the first to display thequalities of the perfect novelist as distinguished from the romancer. 

What are those qualities, as shown in _Joseph Andrews_? The faculty ofarranging 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 timethe greatest one; and nobody denies that he made great advances in thisdirection later. The faculty of lively dialogue is another; and that hehas not often been refused; but much the same may be said of it. Theinterspersing of appropriate description is another; but here also weshall not find him exactly a paragon. It is in character--the chief_differentia_ of the novel as distinguished not merely from its eldersister the romance, and its cousin the drama, but still more from everyother kind of literature--that Fielding stands even here pre-eminent. Noone that I can think of, except his greatest successor in the presentcentury, has the same unfailing gift of breathing life into everycharacter he creates or borrows; and even Thackeray draws, if I may usethe phrase, his characters more in the flat and less in the round thanFielding. Whether in Blifil he once failed, we must discuss hereafter;he has failed nowhere in _Joseph Andrews_. Some of his sketches mayrequire the caution that they are eighteenth-century men and women; somethe warning that they are obviously caricatured, or set in designedprofile, or merely sketched. But they are all alive. The finicalestimate of Gray (it is a horrid joy to think how perfectly capableFielding was of having joined in that practical joke of the younggentlemen of Cambridge, which made Gray change his college), whiledismissing these light things with patronage, had to admit that "parsonAdams is perfectly well, so is Mrs Slipslop. " "They _were_, MrGray, " said some one once, "they were more perfectly well, and in ahigher kind, than anything you ever did; though you were a prettyworkman too. "

Yes, parson Adams is perfectly well, and so is Mrs Slipslop. But so arethey all. Even the hero and heroine, tied and bound as they are by thenecessity under which their maker lay of preserving Joseph'sJoseph-hood, and of making Fanny the example of a franker and lessinterested virtue than her sister-in-law that might have been, aresurprisingly human where most writers would have made them sticks. Andthe rest require no allowance. Lady Booby, few as are the strokes givento 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, andwhen he lays it down that no one even in his own house shall drink whenhe "caaled vurst, " one can but pay his maker the tribute of that silentshudder of admiration which hails the addition of one more everlastingentity to the world of thought and fancy. And Mr Tow-wouse is real, andMrs 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. Thedresses they wear, the manners they exhibit, the laws they live under, the very foods and drinks they live upon, are "past like the shadows onglasses"--to the comfort and rejoicing of some, to the greater or lesssorrow of others. But _they_ are there--alive, full of blood, full ofbreath as we are, and, in truth, I fear a little more so. For somepurposes a century is a gap harder to cross and more estranging than acouple of millenniums. But in their case the gap is nothing; and it isnot too much to say that as they have stood the harder test, they willstand the easier. There are very striking differences between Nausicaaand Mrs Slipslop; there are differences not less striking between MrsSlipslop and Beatrice. But their likeness is a stranger and morewonderful thing than any of their unlikenesses. It is that they areall women, that they are all live citizenesses of the Land of MattersUnforgot, the fashion whereof passeth not away, and the franchisewhereof, once acquired, assures immortality. 

NOTE TO GENERAL INTRODUCTION. 

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

AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 

As it is possible the mere English reader may have a different idea ofromance from the author of these little[A] volumes, and may consequentlyexpect a kind of entertainment not to be found, nor which was evenintended, in the following pages, it may not be improper to premise afew words concerning this kind of writing, which I do not remember tohave 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 patternof both these, though that of the latter kind is entirely lost; whichAristotle tells us, bore the same relation to comedy which his Iliadbears to tragedy. And perhaps, that we have no more instances of itamong the writers of antiquity, is owing to the loss of this greatpattern, which, had it survived, would have found its imitators equallywith the other poems of this great original. 

And farther, as this poetry may be tragic or comic, I will not scrupleto say it may be likewise either in verse or prose: for though it wantsone particular, which the critic enumerates in the constituent parts ofan epic poem, namely metre; yet, when any kind of writing contains allits other parts, such as fable, action, characters, sentiments, anddiction, and is deficient in metre only, it seems, I think, reasonableto refer it to the epic; at least, as no critic hath thought proper torange it under any other head, or to assign it a particular nameto itself. 

Thus the Telemachus of the archbishop of Cambray appears to me of theepic kind, as well as the Odyssey of Homer; indeed, it is much fairerand more reasonable to give it a name common with that species fromwhich it differs only in a single instance, than to confound it withthose 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 fromcomedy, as the serious epic from tragedy: its action being more extendedand comprehensive; containing a much larger circle of incidents, andintroducing a greater variety of characters. It differs from the seriousromance in its fable and action, in this; that as in the one these aregrave and solemn, so in the other they are light and ridiculous: itdiffers in its characters by introducing persons of inferior rank, andconsequently, of inferior manners, whereas the grave romance sets thehighest before us: lastly, in its sentiments and diction; by preservingthe ludicrous instead of the sublime. In the diction, I think, burlesque itself may be sometimes admitted; of which many instanceswill occur in this work, as in the description of the battles, and someother places, not necessary to be pointed out to the classical reader, for whose entertainment those parodies or burlesque imitations arechiefly calculated. 

But though we have sometimes admitted this in our diction, we havecarefully excluded it from our sentiments and characters; for there itis never properly introduced, unless in writings of the burlesque kind, which this is not intended to be. Indeed, no two species of writing candiffer more widely than the comic and the burlesque; for as the latteris ever the exhibition of what is monstrous and unnatural, and where ourdelight, if we examine it, arises from the surprizing absurdity, as inappropriating 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 thisway convey to a sensible reader. And perhaps there is one reason why acomic writer should of all others be the least excused for deviatingfrom nature, since it may not be always so easy for a serious poet tomeet with the great and the admirable; but life everywhere furnishes anaccurate observer with the ridiculous. 

I have hinted this little concerning burlesque, because I have oftenheard that name given to performances which have been truly of the comickind, from the author's having sometimes admitted it in his dictiononly; 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 thewhole man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater excellences:but surely, a certain drollery in stile, where characters and sentimentsare perfectly natural, no more constitutes the burlesque, than an emptypomp and dignity of words, where everything else is mean and low, canentitle any performance to the appellation of the true sublime. 

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

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

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

And though perhaps this latter species doth not in either science sostrongly affect and agitate the muscles as the other; yet it will beowned, I believe, that a more rational and useful pleasure arises to usfrom it. He who should call the ingenious Hogarth a burlesque painter, would, in my opinion, do him very little honour; for sure it is mucheasier, 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 someabsurd or monstrous attitude, than to express the affections of men oncanvas. It hath been thought a vast commendation of a painter to say hisfigures seem to breathe; but surely it is a much greater and noblerapplause, that they appear to think. 

But to return. The Ridiculous only, as I have before said, falls withinmy province in the present work. Nor will some explanation of this wordbe thought impertinent by the reader, if he considers how wonderfully ithath been mistaken, even by writers who have professed it: for to whatbut such a mistake can we attribute the many attempts to ridicule theblackest villanies, and, what is yet worse, the most dreadfulcalamities? What could exceed the absurdity of an author, who shouldwrite the comedy of Nero, with the merry incident of ripping up hismother's belly? or what would give a greater shock to humanity than anattempt to expose the miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule? Andyet the reader will not want much learning to suggest such instancesto himself. 

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

The only source of the true Ridiculous (as it appears to me) isaffectation. But though it arises from one spring only, when we considerthe infinite streams into which this one branches, we shall presentlycease 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 topurchase applause; so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavour to avoidcensure, by concealing our vices under an appearance of their oppositevirtues. And though these two causes are often confounded (for there issome difficulty in distinguishing them), yet, as they proceed from verydifferent motives, so they are as clearly distinct in their operations:for indeed, the affectation which arises from vanity is nearer to truththan the other, as it hath not that violent repugnancy of nature tostruggle with, which that of the hypocrite hath. It may be likewisenoted, that affectation doth not imply an absolute negation of thosequalities which are affected; and, therefore, though, when it proceedsfrom hypocrisy, it be nearly allied to deceit; yet when it comes fromvanity only, it partakes of the nature of ostentation: for instance, theaffectation of liberality in a vain man differs visibly from the sameaffectation in the avaricious; for though the vain man is not what hewould appear, or hath not the virtue he affects, to the degree he wouldbe thought to have it; yet it sits less awkwardly on him than on theavaricious man, who is the very reverse of what he would seem to be. 

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

Now, from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities of life, orthe imperfections of nature, may become the objects of ridicule. Surelyhe hath a very ill-framed mind who can look on ugliness, infirmity, orpoverty, as ridiculous in themselves: nor do I believe any man living, who meets a dirty fellow riding through the streets in a cart, isstruck with an idea of the Ridiculous from it; but if he should see thesame figure descend from his coach and six, or bolt from his chair withhis 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 wretchedfamily shivering with cold and languishing with hunger, it would notincline us to laughter (at least we must have very diabolical natures ifit would); but should we discover there a grate, instead of coals, adorned with flowers, empty plate or china dishes on the sideboard, orany other affectation of riches and finery, either on their persons orin their furniture, we might then indeed be excused for ridiculing sofantastical an appearance. Much less are natural imperfections theobject of derision; but when ugliness aims at the applause of beauty, orlameness endeavours to display agility, it is then that theseunfortunate circumstances, which at first moved our compassion, tendonly 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 firstline, the thought would be rather more proper. Great vices are theproper objects of our detestation, smaller faults, of our pity; butaffectation appears to me the only true source of the Ridiculous. 

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

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

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

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

THE HISTORY OF THE ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS AND HIS FRIEND MRABRAHAM ADAMS

BOOK I. 

CHAPTER I. 

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

It is a trite but true observation, that examples work more forcibly onthe mind than precepts: and if this be just in what is odious andblameable, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and praiseworthy. Here emulation most effectually operates upon us, and inspires ourimitation in an irresistible manner. A good man therefore is a standinglesson to all his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrowcircle than a good book. 

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

In this light I have always regarded those biographers who have recordedthe actions of great and worthy persons of both sexes. Not to mentionthose antient writers which of late days are little read, being writtenin obsolete, and as they are generally thought, unintelligiblelanguages, such as Plutarch, Nepos, and others which I heard of in myyouth; our own language affords many of excellent use and instruction, finely calculated to sow the seeds of virtue in youth, and very easy tobe comprehended by persons of moderate capacity. Such as the history ofJohn the Great, who, by his brave and heroic actions against men oflarge and athletic bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of theGiant-killer; that of an Earl of Warwick, whose Christian name was Guy;the lives of Argalus and Parthenia; and above all, the history of thoseseven worthy personages, the Champions of Christendom. In all thesedelight is mixed with instruction, and the reader is almost as muchimproved as entertained. 

But I pass by these and many others to mention two books latelypublished, which represent an admirable pattern of the amiable in eithersex. The former of these, which deals in male virtue, was written by thegreat person himself, who lived the life he hath recorded, and is bymany thought to have lived such a life only in order to write it. Theother is communicated to us by an historian who borrows his lights, asthe common method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, Ibelieve, already conjectures, I mean the lives of Mr Colley Cibber andof Mrs Pamela Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by insinuating thathe escaped being promoted to the highest stations in Church and State, teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcatean absolute submission to our superiors! Lastly, how completely doth hearm 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 sowell set forth in the excellent essays or letters prefixed to the secondand subsequent editions of that work, that it would be here a needlessrepetition. The authentic history with which I now present the public isan instance of the great good that book is likely to do, and of theprevalence of example which I have just observed: since it will appearthat it was by keeping the excellent pattern of his sister's virtuesbefore his eyes, that Mr Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to preservehis purity in the midst of such great temptations. I shall only add thatthis character of male chastity, though doubtless as desirable andbecoming in one part of the human species as in the other, is almost theonly virtue which the great apologist hath not given himself for thesake of giving the example to his readers. 

CHAPTER II. 

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

Mr Joseph Andrews, the hero of our ensuing history, was esteemed to bethe only son of Gaffar and Gammer Andrews, and brother to theillustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so famous. As to hisancestors, we have searched with great diligence, but little success;being unable to trace them farther than his great-grandfather, who, asan elderly person in the parish remembers to have heard his father say, was an excellent cudgel-player. Whether he had any ancestors beforethis, we must leave to the opinion of our curious reader, findingnothing of sufficient certainty to rely on. However, we cannot omitinserting an epitaph which an ingenious friend of ours hathcommunicated:--

 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 needlessto observe that Andrew here is writ without an _s_, and is, besides, aChristian name. My friend, moreover, conjectures this to have been thefounder of that sect of laughing philosophers since calledMerry-andrews. 

To waive, therefore, a circumstance which, though mentioned inconformity to the exact rules of biography, is not greatly material, Iproceed to things of more consequence. Indeed, it is sufficientlycertain that he had as many ancestors as the best man living, and, perhaps, if we look five or six hundred years backwards, might berelated to some persons of very great figure at present, whose ancestorswithin half the last century are buried in as great obscurity. Butsuppose, for argument's sake, we should admit that he had no ancestorsat all, but had sprung up, according to the modern phrase, out of adunghill, as the Athenians pretended they themselves did from the earth, would not this autokopros[A] have been justly entitled to all thepraise arising from his own virtues? Would it not be hard that a man whohath no ancestors should therefore be rendered incapable of acquiringhonour; when we see so many who have no virtues enjoying the honour oftheir forefathers? At ten years old (by which time his education wasadvanced to writing and reading) he was bound an apprentice, accordingto the statute, to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr Booby's by thefather's side. Sir Thomas having then an estate in his own hands, theyoung Andrews was at first employed in what in the country they callkeeping birds. His office was to perform the part the ancients assignedto 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 alluredthe birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the fieldsinto the dog-kennel, where he was placed under the huntsman, and madewhat the sportsmen term whipper-in. For this place likewise thesweetness of his voice disqualified him; the dogs preferring the melodyof his chiding to all the alluring notes of the huntsman, who soonbecame so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to provideotherwise for him, and constantly laid every fault the dogs were at tothe account of the poor boy, who was now transplanted to the stable. Here he soon gave proofs of strength and agility beyond his years, andconstantly rode the most spirited and vicious horses to water, with anintrepidity which surprized every one. While he was in this station, herode several races for Sir Thomas, and this with such expertness andsuccess, that the neighbouring gentlemen frequently solicited the knightto permit little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their matches. Thebest gamesters, before they laid their money, always inquired whichhorse little Joey was to ride; and the bets were rather proportioned bythe rider than by the horse himself; especially after he had scornfullyrefused a considerable bribe to play booty on such an occasion. Thisextremely raised his character, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that shedesired to have him (being now seventeen years of age) for herown footboy. 

[A] In English, sprung from a dunghill. 

Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend on his lady, to go onher errands, stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carryher prayer-book to church; at which place his voice gave him anopportunity of distinguishing himself by singing psalms: he behavedlikewise in every other respect so well at Divine service, that itrecommended him to the notice of Mr Abraham Adams, the curate, who tookan opportunity one day, as he was drinking a cup of ale in Sir Thomas'skitchen, 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, andothers. _

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

His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered him equal tohis office, so they made him an agreeable and valuable companion, andhad so much endeared and well recommended him to a bishop, that at theage of fifty he was provided with a handsome income of twenty-threepounds 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 awife and six children. 

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

Mr Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what time, and by whatopportunity, the youth became acquainted with these matters: Joey toldhim that he had very early learnt to read and write by the goodness ofhis father, who, though he had not interest enough to get him into acharity school, because a cousin of his father's landlord did not voteon the right side for a churchwarden in a borough town, yet had beenhimself at the expense of sixpence a week for his learning. He told himlikewise, that ever since he was in Sir Thomas's family he had employedall his hours of leisure in reading good books; that he had read theBible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas a Kempis; and that as often ashe could, without being perceived, he had studied a great good bookwhich lay open in the hall window, where he had read, "as how the devilcarried away half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one of thecongregation; and as how a field of corn ran away down a hill with allthe trees upon it, and covered another man's meadow. " This sufficientlyassured Mr Adams that the good book meant could be no other than Baker'sChronicle. 

The curate, surprized to find such instances of industry and applicationin a young man who had never met with the least encouragement, askedhim, If he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal education, andthe not having been born of parents who might have indulged his talentsand desire of knowledge? To which he answered, "He hoped he had profitedsomewhat better from the books he had read than to lament his conditionin this world. That, for his part, he was perfectly content with thestate to which he was called; that he should endeavour to improve histalent, 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 whohave written good books themselves, had profited so much by them. "

Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady than through thewaiting-gentlewoman; for Sir Thomas was too apt to estimate men merelyby their dress or fortune; and my lady was a woman of gaiety, who hadbeen blest with a town education, and never spoke of any of her countryneighbours by any other appellation than that of the brutes. They bothregarded the curate as a kind of domestic only, belonging to the parsonof the parish, who was at this time at variance with the knight; for theparson 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 thetenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel was a modus, bysetting which aside an advantage of several shillings _per annum_ wouldhave accrued to the rector; but he had not yet been able to accomplishhis purpose, and had reaped hitherto nothing better from the suits thanthe 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 acurate, preserved some respect for Adams: she professed great regard forhis learning, and would frequently dispute with him on points oftheology; but always insisted on a deference to be paid to herunderstanding, as she had been frequently at London, and knew more ofthe world than a country parson could pretend to. 

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

Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after a pretty longdiscourse with her on the essence (or, as she pleased to term it, theincence) of matter, to mention the case of young Andrews; desiring herto recommend him to her lady as a youth very susceptible of learning, and one whose instruction in Latin he would himself undertake; by whichmeans 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 forhim in a better manner. He therefore desired that the boy might be leftbehind under his care. 

"La! Mr Adams, " said Mrs Slipslop, "do you think my lady will suffer anypreambles about any such matter? She is going to London very concisely, and I am confidous would not leave Joey behind her on any account; forhe 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 hergrey mares, for she values herself as much on one as the other. " Adamswould have interrupted, but she proceeded: "And why is Latin morenecessitous for a footman than a gentleman? It is very proper that youclergymen must learn it, because you can't preach without it: but I haveheard gentlemen say in London, that it is fit for nobody else. I amconfidous my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it; and I shalldraw 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 secondopportunity with her before their London journey, which happened a fewdays afterwards. However, Andrews behaved very thankfully and gratefullyto him for his intended kindness, which he told him he never wouldforget, and at the same time received from the good man many admonitionsconcerning the regulation of his future conduct, and his perseverance ininnocence and industry. 

CHAPTER IV. 

_What happened after their journey to London. _

No sooner was young Andrews arrived at London than he began to scrape anacquaintance with his party-coloured brethren, who endeavoured to makehim despise his former course of life. His hair was cut after the newestfashion, and became his chief care; he went abroad with it all themorning in papers, and drest it out in the afternoon. They could not, however, teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice thetown abounded with. He applied most of his leisure hours to music, inwhich he greatly improved himself; and became so perfect a connoisseurin that art, that he led the opinion of all the other footmen at anopera, and they never condemned or applauded a single song contrary tohis approbation or dislike. He was a little too forward in riots at theplay-houses and assemblies; and when he attended his lady at church(which was but seldom) he behaved with less seeming devotion thanformerly: however, if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his moralsremained entirely uncorrupted, though he was at the same time smarterand 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 andgenteelest footman in the kingdom, but that it was pity he wantedspirit, began now to find that fault no longer; on the contrary, she wasfrequently heard to cry out, "Ay, there is some life in this fellow. "She plainly saw the effects which the town air hath on the soberestconstitutions. She would now walk out with him into Hyde Park in amorning, and when tired, which happened almost every minute, would leanon his arm, and converse with him in great familiarity. Whenever shestept 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 delivermessages at her bedside in a morning, leered at him at table, andindulged him in all those innocent freedoms which women of figure maypermit without the least sully of their virtue. 

But though their virtue remains unsullied, yet now and then some smallarrows will glance on the shadow of it, their reputation; and so it fellout to Lady Booby, who happened to be walking arm-in-arm with Joey onemorning in Hyde Park, when Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentallyby in their coach. "Bless me, " says Lady Tittle, "can I believe my eyes?Is that Lady Booby?"--"Surely, " says Tattle. "But what makes yousurprized?"--"Why, is not that her footman?" replied Tittle. At whichTattle laughed, and cried, "An old business, I assure you: is itpossible you should not have heard it? The whole town hath known it thishalf-year. " The consequence of this interview was a whisper through ahundred visits, which were separately performed by the two ladies[A] thesame afternoon, and might have had a mischievous effect, had it not beenstopt 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 ofdefamers might entertain of Lady Booby's innocent freedoms, it iscertain they made no impression on young Andrews, who never offered toencroach beyond the liberties which his lady allowed him, --a behaviourwhich she imputed to the violent respect he preserved for her, and whichserved only to heighten a something she began to conceive, and whichthe next chapter will open a little farther. 

CHAPTER V. 

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

At this time an accident happened which put a stop to those agreeablewalks, which probably would have soon puffed up the cheeks of Fame, andcaused her to blow her brazen trumpet through the town; and this was noother than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who, departing this life, lefthis disconsolate lady confined to her house, as closely as if sheherself had been attacked by some violent disease. During the first sixdays the poor lady admitted none but Mrs. Slipslop, and three femalefriends, 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 hertea-kettle. The lady being in bed, called Joseph to her, bade him sitdown, and, having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked him if hehad ever been in love. Joseph answered, with some confusion, it was timeenough for one so young as himself to think on such things. "As young asyou are, " replied the lady, "I am convinced you are no stranger to thatpassion. Come, Joey, " says she, "tell me truly, who is the happy girlwhose eyes have made a conquest of you?" Joseph returned, that all thewomen he had ever seen were equally indifferent to him. "Oh then, " saidthe lady, "you are a general lover. Indeed, you handsome fellows, likehandsome women, are very long and difficult in fixing; but yet youshall never persuade me that your heart is so insusceptible ofaffection; I rather impute what you say to your secrecy, a verycommendable quality, and what I am far from being angry with you for. Nothing can be more unworthy in a young man, than to betray anyintimacies with the ladies. " "Ladies! madam, " said Joseph, "I am sure Inever had the impudence to think of any that deserve that name. " "Don'tpretend to too much modesty, " said she, "for that sometimes may beimpertinent: but pray answer me this question. Suppose a lady shouldhappen to like you; suppose she should prefer you to all your sex, andadmit you to the same familiarities as you might have hoped for if youhad been born her equal, are you certain that no vanity could tempt youto discover her? Answer me honestly, Joseph; have you so much more senseand 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 ourcondescension and confidence? Can you keep a secret, my Joey?" "Madam, "says he, "I hope your ladyship can't tax me with ever betraying thesecrets of the family; and I hope, if you was to turn me away, I mighthave 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 thenraised herself a little in her bed, and discovered one of the whitestnecks that ever was seen; at which Joseph blushed. "La!" says she, in anaffected surprize, "what am I doing? I have trusted myself with a manalone, naked in bed; suppose you should have any wicked intentions uponmy honour, how should I defend myself?" Joseph protested that he neverhad the least evil design against her. "No, " says she, "perhaps you maynot call your designs wicked; and perhaps they are not so. "--He sworethey were not. "You misunderstand me, " says she; "I mean if they wereagainst 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; yetwould not that be trusting to your secrecy? Must not my reputation bethen in your power? Would you not then be my master?" Joseph begged herladyship to be comforted; for that he would never imagine the leastwicked thing against her, and that he had rather die a thousand deathsthan give her any reason to suspect him. "Yes, " said she, "I must havereason to suspect you. Are you not a man? and, without vanity, I maypretend 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 theconfidence to appear before a court of justice; and you know, Joey, I amof a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don't you think I should forgiveyou?"--"Indeed, madam, " says Joseph, "I will never do anything todisoblige your ladyship. "--"How, " says she, "do you think it would notdisoblige me then? Do you think I would willingly suffer you?"--"I don'tunderstand you, madam, " says Joseph. --"Don't you?" said she, "then youare either a fool, or pretend to be so; I find I was mistaken in you. Soget you downstairs, and never let me see your face again; your pretendedinnocence cannot impose on me. "--"Madam, " said Joseph, "I would not haveyour ladyship think any evil of me. I have always endeavoured to be adutiful servant both to you and my master. "--"O thou villain!" answeredmy lady; "why didst thou mention the name of that dear man, unless totorment me, to bring his precious memory to my mind?" (and then sheburst into a fit of tears. ) "Get thee from my sight! I shall neverendure thee more. " At which words she turned away from him; and Josephretreated from the room in a most disconsolate condition, and writ thatletter 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 worthymaster Sir Thomas died about four days ago; and, what is worse, my poorlady is certainly gone distracted. None of the servants expected her totake it so to heart, because they quarrelled almost every day of theirlives: but no more of that, because you know, Pamela, I never loved totell the secrets of my master's family; but to be sure you must haveknown they never loved one another; and I have heard her ladyship wishhis honour dead above a thousand times; but nobody knows what it is tolose a friend till they have lost him. 

"Don't tell anybody what I write, because I should not care to havefolks say I discover what passes in our family; but if it had not beenso great a lady, I should have thought she had had a mind to me. DearPamela, don't tell anybody; but she ordered me to sit down by herbedside, when she was in naked bed; and she held my hand, and talkedexactly as a lady does to her sweetheart in a stage-play, which I haveseen in Covent Garden, while she wanted him to be no better than heshould be. 

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

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

"Your loving brother, "JOSEPH ANDREWS. "

As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this letter he walkeddownstairs, where he met Mrs. Slipslop, with whom we shall take thisopportunity to bring the reader a little better acquainted. She was amaiden gentlewoman of about forty-five years of age, who, having made asmall slip in her youth, had continued a good maid ever since. She wasnot at this time remarkably handsome; being very short, and rather toocorpulent in body, and somewhat red, with the addition of pimples in theface. 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 globeswhich she carried before her; one of her legs was also a little shorterthan the other, which occasioned her to limp as she walked. This faircreature had long cast the eyes of affection on Joseph, in which she hadnot 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 thekeys, she had the absolute command. Joseph, however, had not returnedthe 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; forsurely then he would have been highly blameable. The truth is, she wasarrived at an age when she thought she might indulge herself in anyliberties with a man, without the danger of bringing a third person intothe world to betray them. She imagined that by so long a self-denial shehad not only made amends for the small slip of her youth above hintedat, but had likewise laid up a quantity of merit to excuse any futurefailings. In a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorousinclinations, and to pay off the debt of pleasure which she found sheowed herself, as fast as possible. 

With these charms of person, and in this disposition of mind, sheencountered poor Joseph at the bottom of the stairs, and asked him if hewould drink a glass of something good this morning. Joseph, whosespirits were not a little cast down, very readily and thankfullyaccepted the offer; and together they went into a closet, where, havingdelivered 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 heraffections on a boy. If I had ever thought it would have been my fate, Ishould have wished to die a thousand deaths rather than live to see thatday. If we like a man, the lightest hint sophisticates. Whereas a boyproposes upon us to break through all the regulations of modesty, beforewe can make any oppression upon him. " Joseph, who did not understand aword she said, answered, "Yes, madam. "--"Yes, madam!" replied Mrs. Slipslop with some warmth, "Do you intend to result my passion? Is itnot enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the favoursI have done you; but you must treat me with ironing? Barbarous monster!how have I deserved that my passion should be resulted and treated withironing?" "Madam, " answered Joseph, "I don't understand your hard words;but I am certain you have no occasion to call me ungrateful, for, so farfrom intending you any wrong, I have always loved you as well as if youhad 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 yourmother? I don't know what a stripling may think, but I believe a manwould refer me to any green-sickness silly girl whatsomdever: but Iought to despise you rather than be angry with you, for referring theconversation of girls to that of a woman of sense. "--"Madam, " saysJoseph, "I am sure I have always valued the honour you did me by yourconversation, 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 methodof showing it me; for I am convicted you must see the value I have foryou. Yes, Joseph, my eyes, whether I would or no, must have declared apassion I cannot conquer. --Oh! Joseph!"

As when a hungry tigress, who long has traversed the woods in fruitlesssearch, sees within the reach of her claws a lamb, she prepares to leapon her prey; or as a voracious pike, of immense size, surveys throughthe liquid element a roach or gudgeon, which cannot escape her jaws, opens them wide to swallow the little fish; so did Mrs. Slipslop prepareto lay her violent amorous hands on the poor Joseph, when luckily hermistress's bell rung, and delivered the intended martyr from herclutches. She was obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer theexecution of her purpose till some other time. We shall therefore returnto 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 differentfrom that of the inflamed Slipslop. 

CHAPTER VII. 

_Sayings of wise men. A dialogue between the lady and her maid; and apanegyric, or rather satire, on the passion of love, in thesublime 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 thebody, in proportion to the strength or weakness, soundness orrottenness, of the one and the other. 

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

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

No sooner had Joseph left the room in the manner we have before relatedthan the lady, enraged at her disappointment, began to reflect withseverity on her conduct. Her love was now changed to disdain, whichpride assisted to torment her. She despised herself for the meanness ofher passion, and Joseph for its ill success. However, she had now gotthe better of it in her own opinion, and determined immediately todismiss the object. After much tossing and turning in her bed, and manysoliloquies, which if we had no better matter for our reader we wouldgive him, she at last rung the bell as above mentioned, and waspresently attended by Mrs Slipslop, who was not much better pleased withJoseph than the lady herself. 

"Slipslop, " said Lady Booby, "when did you see Joseph?" The poor womanwas so surprized at the unexpected sound of his name at so critical atime, that she had the greatest difficulty to conceal the confusion shewas under from her mistress; whom she answered, nevertheless, withpretty 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 awicked one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, and fightseternally; besides, he is horribly indicted to wenching. "--"Ay!" saidthe 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 Ican't conceive what the wenches see in him, to be so foolishly fond asthey are; in my eyes, he is as ugly a scarecrow as I everupheld. "--"Nay, " said the lady, "the boy is well enough. "--"La! ma'am, "cries Slipslop, "I think him the ragmaticallest fellow in thefamily. "--"Sure, Slipslop, " says she, "you are mistaken: but which ofthe women do you most suspect?"--"Madam, " says Slipslop, "there is Bettythe chambermaid, I am almost convicted, is with child by him. "--"Ay!"says the lady, "then pray pay her her wages instantly. I will keep nosuch sluts in my family. And as for Joseph, you may discard himtoo. "--"Would your ladyship have him paid off immediately?" criesSlipslop, "for perhaps, when Betty is gone he may mend: and really theboy 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 littlelonger. "--"I will not have my commands disputed, " said the lady; "sureyou are not fond of him yourself?"--"I, madam!" cries Slipslop, reddening, if not blushing, "I should be sorry to think your ladyshiphad any reason to respect me of fondness for a fellow; and if it be yourpleasure, I shall fulfil it with as much reluctance as possible. "--"Aslittle, I suppose you mean, " said the lady; "and so about it instantly. "Mrs. Slipslop went out, and the lady had scarce taken two turns beforeshe fell to knocking and ringing with great violence. Slipslop, who didnot travel post haste, soon returned, and was countermanded as toJoseph, but ordered to send Betty about her business without delay. Shewent out a second time with much greater alacrity than before; when thelady began immediately to accuse herself of want of resolution, and toapprehend 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 hermistress that she had considered better of the matter, and wasabsolutely resolved to turn away Joseph; which she ordered her to doimmediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of her lady's temper, andwould 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 godCupid, fearing he had not yet done the lady's business, took a fresharrow with the sharpest point out of his quiver, and shot it directlyinto her heart; in other and plainer language, the lady's passion gotthe better of her reason. She called back Slipslop once more, and toldher she had resolved to see the boy, and examine him herself; thereforebid her send him up. This wavering in her mistress's temper probably putsomething into the waiting-gentlewoman's head not necessary to mentionto the sagacious reader. 

Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could not prevail withherself. The next consideration therefore was, how she should behave toJoseph when he came in. She resolved to preserve all the dignity of thewoman of fashion to her servant, and to indulge herself in this lastview 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 bothsexes! How dost thou deceive them, and make them deceive themselves!Their follies are thy delight! Their sighs make thee laugh, and theirpangs are thy merriment!

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

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

CHAPTER VIII. 

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

Mr Joseph Andrews was now in the one-and-twentieth year of his age. Hewas of the highest degree of middle stature; his limbs were put togetherwith great elegance, and no less strength; his legs and thighs wereformed in the exactest proportion; his shoulders were broad and brawny, but yet his arm hung so easily, that he had all the symptoms of strengthwithout the least clumsiness. His hair was of a nut-brown colour, andwas 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 littleinclined to the Roman; his teeth white and even; his lips full, red, andsoft; his beard was only rough on his chin and upper lip; but hischeeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread with a thick down;his countenance had a tenderness joined with a sensibilityinexpressible. Add to this the most perfect neatness in his dress, andan air which, to those who have not seen many noblemen, would give anidea of nobility. 

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

As a person who is struck through the heart with a thunderbolt looksextremely surprised, nay, and perhaps is so too--thus the poor Josephreceived the false accusation of his mistress; he blushed and lookedconfounded, which she misinterpreted to be symptoms of his guilt, andthus went on:--

"Come hither, Joseph: another mistress might discard you for theseoffences; but I have a compassion for your youth, and if I could becertain you would be no more guilty--Consider, child, " laying her handcarelessly upon his, "you are a handsome young fellow, and might dobetter; you might make your fortune. " "Madam, " said Joseph, "I do assureyour ladyship I don't know whether any maid in the house is man orwoman. " "Oh fie! Joseph, " answered the lady, "don't commit another crimein 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 myasserting my innocence; for, by all that is sacred, I have never offeredmore than kissing. " "Kissing!" said the lady, with great discomposure ofcountenance, and more redness in her cheeks than anger in her eyes; "doyou call that no crime? Kissing, Joseph, is as a prologue to a play. CanI believe a young fellow of your age and complexion will be content withkissing? No, Joseph, there is no woman who grants that but will grantmore; and I am deceived greatly in you if you would not put her closelyto it. What would you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to kiss me?"Joseph replied he would sooner die than have any such thought. "Andyet, Joseph, " returned she, "ladies have admitted their footmen to suchfamiliarities; and footmen, I confess to you, much less deserving them;fellows without half your charms--for such might almost excuse thecrime. Tell me therefore, Joseph, if I should admit you to such freedom, what would you think of me?--tell me freely. " "Madam, " said Joseph, "Ishould think your ladyship condescended a great deal below yourself. ""Pugh!" said she; "that I am to answer to myself: but would not youinsist on more? Would you be contented with a kiss? Would not yourinclinations be all on fire rather by such a favour?" "Madam, " saidJoseph, "if they were, I hope I should be able to controul them, withoutsuffering them to get the better of my virtue. " You have heard, reader, poets talk of the statue of Surprize; you have heard likewise, or elseyou have heard very little, how Surprize made one of the sons of Croesusspeak, though he was dumb. You have seen the faces, in theeighteen-penny gallery, when, through the trap-door, to soft or nomusic, Mr. Bridgewater, Mr. William Mills, or some other of ghostlyappearance, hath ascended, with a face all pale with powder, and a shirtall bloody with ribbons;--but from none of these, nor from Phidias orPraxiteles, if they should return to life--no, not from the inimitablepencil of my friend Hogarth, could you receive such an idea of surprizeas would have entered in at your eyes had they beheld the Lady Boobywhen those last words issued out from the lips of Joseph. "Your virtue!"said the lady, recovering after a silence of two minutes; "I shall neversurvive it. Your virtue!--intolerable confidence! Have you the assuranceto pretend, that when a lady demeans herself to throw aside the rules ofdecency, in order to honour you with the highest favour in her power, your virtue should resist her inclination? that, when she had conqueredher own virtue, she should find an obstruction in yours?" "Madam, " saidJoseph, "I can't see why her having no virtue should be a reason againstmy having any; or why, because I am a man, or because I am poor, myvirtue 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 thegreatest or the gravest men pretend to any of this kind? Willmagistrates who punish lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, makeany scruple of committing it? And can a boy, a stripling, have theconfidence to talk of his virtue?" "Madam, " says Joseph, "that boy isthe brother of Pamela, and would be ashamed that the chastity of hisfamily, which is preserved in her, should be stained in him. If thereare such men as your ladyship mentions, I am sorry for it; and I wishthey had an opportunity of reading over those letters which my fatherhath sent me of my sister Pamela's; nor do I doubt but such an examplewould amend them. " "You impudent villain!" cries the lady in a rage; "doyou insult me with the follies of my relation, who hath exposed himselfall over the country upon your sister's account? a little vixen, whom Ihave 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 orderyou your wages immediately, and you shall be stripped and turned away. ""Madam, " says Joseph, "I am sorry I have offended your ladyship, I amsure I never intended it. " "Yes, sirrah, " cries she, "you have had thevanity to misconstrue the little innocent freedom I took, in order totry whether what I had heard was true. O' my conscience, you have hadthe assurance to imagine I was fond of you myself. " Joseph answered, hehad only spoke out of tenderness for his virtue; at which words sheflew into a violent passion, and refusing to hear more, ordered himinstantly to leave the room. 

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

CHAPTER IX. 

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

"Slipslop, " said the lady, "I find too much reason to believe all thouhast told me of this wicked Joseph; I have determined to part with himinstantly; so go you to the steward, and bid him pay his wages. "Slipslop, who had preserved hitherto a distance to her lady--rather outof necessity than inclination--and who thought the knowledge of thissecret had thrown down all distinction between them, answered hermistress very pertly--"She wished she knew her own mind; and that shewas certain she would call her back again before she was got half-waydownstairs. " The lady replied, she had taken a resolution, and wasresolved to keep it. "I am sorry for it, " cries Slipslop, "and, if I hadknown you would have punished the poor lad so severely, you should neverhave heard a particle of the matter. Here's a fuss indeed aboutnothing!" "Nothing!" returned my lady; "do you think I will countenancelewdness in my house?" "If you will turn away every footman, " saidSlipslop, "that is a lover of the sport, you must soon open the coachdoor yourself, or get a set of mophrodites to wait upon you; and I amsure I hated the sight of them even singing in an opera. " "Do as I bidyou, " says my lady, "and don't shock my ears with your beastlylanguage. " "Marry-come-up, " cries Slipslop, "people's ears are sometimesthe nicest part about them. "

The lady, who began to admire the new style in which herwaiting-gentlewoman delivered herself, and by the conclusion of herspeech suspected somewhat of the truth, called her back, and desired toknow what she meant by the extraordinary degree of freedom in which shethought proper to indulge her tongue. "Freedom!" says Slipslop; "I don'tknow what you call freedom, madam; servants have tongues as well astheir mistresses. " "Yes, and saucy ones too, " answered the lady; "but Iassure you I shall bear no such impertinence. " "Impertinence! I don'tknow that I am impertinent, " says Slipslop. "Yes, indeed you are, " criesmy lady, "and, unless you mend your manners, this house is no place foryou. " "Manners!" cries Slipslop; "I never was thought to want mannersnor modesty neither; and for places, there are more places than one; andI know what I know. " "What do you know, mistress?" answered the lady. "Iam not obliged to tell that to everybody, " says Slipslop, "any more thanI am obliged to keep it a secret. " "I desire you would provideyourself, " answered the lady. "With all my heart, " replied thewaiting-gentlewoman; and so departed in a passion, and slapped the doorafter her. 

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

But the dismissing Mrs Slipslop was a point not so easily to be resolvedupon. She had the utmost tenderness for her reputation, as she knew onthat depended many of the most valuable blessings of life; particularlycards, making curtsies in public places, and, above all, the pleasure ofdemolishing the reputations of others, in which innocent amusement shehad an extraordinary delight. She therefore determined to submit to anyinsult from a servant, rather than run a risque of losing the title toso many great privileges. 

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

She then called Slipslop up, and, after refreshing her spirits with asmall cordial, which she kept in her corset, she began in thefollowing manner:--

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

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

She offered once or twice to speak in favour of Joseph; but found herlady's heart so obdurate, that she prudently dropt all such efforts. Sheconsidered there were more footmen in the house, and some as stoutfellows, though not quite so handsome, as Joseph; besides, the readerhath already seen her tender advances had not met with the encouragementshe might have reasonable expected. She thought she had thrown away agreat deal of sack and sweetmeats on an ungrateful rascal; and, being alittle inclined to the opinion of that female sect, who hold one lustyyoung fellow to be nearly as good as another lusty young fellow, she atlast gave up Joseph and his cause, and, with a triumph over her passionhighly commendable, walked off with her present, and with greattranquillity paid a visit to a stone-bottle, which is of sovereign useto a philosophical temper. 

She left not her mistress so easy. The poor lady could not reflectwithout 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 understandher meaning; at least she could say for herself, she had not plainlyexpressed anything to him; and as to Mrs Slipslop, she imagines shecould bribe her to secrecy. 

But what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not so entirelyconquered her passion; the little god lay lurking in her heart, thoughanger and distain so hood-winked her, that she could not see him. Shewas a thousand times on the very brink of revoking the sentence she hadpassed against the poor youth. Love became his advocate, and whisperedmany things in his favour. Honour likewise endeavoured to vindicate hiscrime, and Pity to mitigate his punishment. On the other side, Pride andRevenge spoke as loudly against him. And thus the poor lady was torturedwith perplexity, opposite passions distracting and tearing her minddifferent ways. 

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

Or, as it happens in the conscience, where honour and honesty pull oneway, and a bribe and necessity another. --If it was our presentbusiness only to make similes, we could produce many more to thispurpose; but a simile (as well as a word) to the wise. --We shalltherefore see a little after our hero, for whom the reader is doubtlessin 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 sufficientfor the principal subject of such a book as this, if he had any longermisunderstood the drift of his mistress; and indeed, that he did notdiscern it sooner, the reader will be pleased to impute to anunwillingness 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 calamitieswhich attended beauty, and the misfortune it was to be handsomer thanone's neighbours. 

He then sat down, and addressed himself to his sister Pamela in thefollowing 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 greatfolks call falling in love-she has a mind to ruin me; but I hope I shallhave more resolution and more grace than to part with my virtue to anylady upon earth. 

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

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

Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned downstairs byMr Peter Pounce, to receive his wages; for, besides that out of eightpounds a year he allowed his father and mother four, he had beenobliged, in order to furnish himself with musical instruments, to applyto the generosity of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent occasions, usedto advance the servants their wages: not before they were due, butbefore they were payable; that is, perhaps, half a year after they weredue; and this at the moderate premium of fifty per cent, or a littlemore: by which charitable methods, together with lending money to otherpeople, and even to his own master and mistress, the honest man had, from nothing, in a few years amassed a small sum of twenty thousandpounds or thereabouts. 

Joseph having received his little remainder of wages, and having striptoff his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and breeches of one of theservants (for he was so beloved in the family, that they would all havelent him anything): and, being told by Peter that he must not stay amoment 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 leaveof his fellow-servants, and set out at seven in the evening. 

He had proceeded the length of two or three streets, before heabsolutely determined with himself whether he should leave the town thatnight, or, procuring a lodging, wait till the morning. At last, the moonshining very bright helped him to come to a resolution of beginning hisjourney immediately, to which likewise he had some other inducements;which the reader, without being a conjurer, cannot possibly guess, tillwe 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 asimple fellow, we say, he is easily to be seen through: nor do I believeit a more improper denotation of a simple book. Instead of applying thisto any particular performance, we chuse rather to remark the contrary inthis history, where the scene opens itself by small degrees; and he is asagacious reader who can see two chapters before him. 

For this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a matter which now seemsnecessary to be explained; since it may be wondered at, first, thatJoseph made such extraordinary haste out of town, which hath beenalready shewn; and secondly, which will be now shewn, that, instead ofproceeding to the habitation of his father and mother, or to his belovedsister Pamela, he chose rather to set out full speed to the Lady Booby'scountry-seat, which he had left on his journey to London. 

Be it known, then, that in the same parish where this seat stood therelived 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 apoor girl, who had formerly been bred up in Sir John's family; whence, alittle before the journey to London, she had been discarded by MrsSlipslop, on account of her extraordinary beauty: for I never could findany other reason. 

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

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

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

The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a pair should, during atwelvemonth's absence, never converse with one another: indeed, therewas 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 prevailedupon to transmit the delicacies of her tender and chaste passion by thehands of an amanuensis. 

They contented themselves therefore with frequent inquiries after eachother's health, with a mutual confidence in each other's fidelity, andthe 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 justset out on his travels by the light of the moon. 

Those who have read any romance or poetry, antient or modern, must havebeen 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; thewriters, by this ingenious allegory, intending to insinuate no more thanthat lovers do not march like horse-guards; in short, that they put thebest leg foremost; which our lusty youth, who could walk with any man, did so heartily on this occasion, that within four hours he reached afamous house of hospitality well known to the western traveller. Itpresents you a lion on the sign-post: and the master, who was christenedTimotheus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some have conceived that hehath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he doth incountenance greatly resemble that magnanimous beast, though hisdisposition savours more of the sweetness of the lamb. He is a personwell received among all sorts of men, being qualified to render himselfagreeable to any; as he is well versed in history and politics, hath asmattering in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, and playswonderfully well on the French horn. 

A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take shelter in this inn, wherehe remembered Sir Thomas had dined in his way to town. Joseph had nosooner seated himself by the kitchen fire than Timotheus, observing hislivery, began to condole the loss of his late master; who was, he said, his very particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he had crackedmany 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 hadnever been; and concluded with an excellent observation on the certaintyof death, which his wife said was indeed very true. A fellow now arrivedat the same inn with two horses, one of which he was leading fartherdown 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 himto be the servant of a neighbouring gentleman, who used to visit attheir house. 

This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm; for he had orders to gotwenty miles farther that evening, and luckily on the same road whichJoseph himself intended to take. He, therefore, embraced thisopportunity 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 onthe road, scarce credible to those who have never travelled in astage-coach. _

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

He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hope of shortly seeinghis beloved Fanny, when he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, andordered 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 theywould be so generous as to return him a few shillings, to defray hischarges on his way home. 

One of the ruffians answered with an oath, "Yes, we'll give yousomething 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, andthat he should be ashamed of making any excuse for not returning them, replied, he hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which were notworth much, but consider the coldness of the night. "You are cold, areyou, you rascal?" said one of the robbers: "I'll warm you with avengeance;" and, damning his eyes, snapped a pistol at his head; whichhe had no sooner done than the other levelled a blow at him with hisstick, which Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with his, and returned the favour so successfully on his adversary, that he laidhim sprawling at his feet, and at the same instant received a blow frombehind, with the butt end of a pistol, from the other villain, whichfelled him to the ground, and totally deprived him of his senses. 

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

The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began to recoverhis senses as a stage-coach came by. The postillion, hearing a man'sgroans, stopt his horses, and told the coachman he was certain there wasa 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 lookafter dead men. " A lady, who heard what the postillion said, andlikewise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coachman to stop and seewhat was the matter. Upon which he bid the postillion alight, and lookinto the ditch. He did so, and returned, "that there was a man sittingupright, as naked as ever he was born. "--"O J--sus!" cried the lady; "anaked man! Dear coachman, drive on and leave him. " Upon this thegentlemen got out of the coach; and Joseph begged them to have mercyupon 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 lawanswered, "He wished they had passed by without taking any notice; butthat now they might be proved to have been last in his company; if heshould die they might be called to some account for his murder. Hetherefore thought it advisable to save the poor creature's life, fortheir own sakes, if possible; at least, if he died, to prevent thejury's finding that they fled for it. He was therefore of opinion totake the man into the coach, and carry him to the next inn. " The ladyinsisted, "That he should not come into the coach. That if they liftedhim in, she would herself alight: for she had rather stay in that placeto 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 ashilling for his carriage the four miles. " Which the two gentlemenrefused to do. But the lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief happeningto himself, if the wretch was left behind in that condition, saying noman could be too cautious in these matters, and that he remembered veryextraordinary cases in the books, threatened the coachman, and bid himdeny taking him up at his peril; for that, if he died, he should beindicted for his murder; and if he lived, and brought an action againsthim, he would willingly take a brief in it. These words had a sensibleeffect on the coachman, who was well acquainted with the person whospoke them; and the old gentleman above mentioned, thinking the nakedman would afford him frequent opportunities of showing his wit to thelady, offered to join with the company in giving a mug of beer for hisfare; till, partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by thepromises of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with compassionat the poor creature's condition, who stood bleeding and shivering withthe cold, he at length agreed; and Joseph was now advancing to thecoach, where, seeing the lady, who held the sticks of her fan before hereyes, he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, unless hewas furnished with sufficient covering to prevent giving the leastoffence to decency--so perfectly modest was this young man; such mightyeffects had the spotless example of the amiable Pamela, and theexcellent sermons of Mr Adams, wrought upon him. 

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

Joseph, having put on the greatcoat, was lifted into the coach, whichnow proceeded on its journey. He declared himself almost dead with thecold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the lady if she couldnot accommodate him with a dram. She answered, with some resentment, "She wondered at his asking her such a question; but assured him shenever tasted any such thing. "

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

As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, it seems, acase of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the company, that ifit had been daylight, and he could have come at his pistols, he wouldnot have submitted to the robbery: he likewise set forth that he hadoften met highwaymen when he travelled on horseback, but none ever durstattack him; concluding that, if he had not been more afraid for the ladythan for himself, he should not have now parted with his moneyso easily. 

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

The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests without departingfrom his profession. He said, "If Joseph and the lady were alone, hewould be more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his affairs werenot fettered with any incumbrance; he'd warrant he soon suffered arecovery by a writ of entry, which was the proper way to create heirs intail; that, for his own part, he would engage to make so firm asettlement in a coach, that there should be no danger of an ejectment, "with an inundation of the like gibberish, which he continued to venttill the coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid only was up, inreadiness to attend the coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and adram. Joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed preparedfor him, which the maid readily promised to perform; and, being agood-natured wench, and not so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapta large fagot on the fire, and, furnishing Joseph with a greatcoatbelonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to sit down and warmhimself whilst she made his bed. The coachman, in the meantime, took anopportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors; afterwhich, he reminded his passengers how late they were, and, after theyhad 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 toborrow him a shirt; but imagining, as she afterwards said, by his beingso bloody, that he must be a dead man, she ran with all speed to hastenthe surgeon, who was more than half drest, apprehending that the coachhad been overturned, and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as thewench had informed him at his window that it was a poor foot-passengerwho had been stripped of all he had, and almost murdered, he chid herfor disturbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and veryquietly returned to bed and to sleep. 

Aurora now began to shew her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst tenmillions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes athousand times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sung both the dayand the song; when the master of the inn, Mr Tow-wouse, arose, andlearning from his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation ofhis 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 tofold 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 beenrobbed and murdered. "--"Touch one if you dare, you slut, " said MrsTow-wouse: "your master is a pretty sort of a man, to take in nakedvagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have no suchdoings. If you offer to touch anything, I'll throw the chamber-pot atyour 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 bythis, Mr Tow-wouse? Am I to buy shirts to lend to a set of scabbyrascals?"--"My dear, " said Mr Tow-wouse, "this is a poorwretch. "--"Yes, " says she, "I know it is a poor wretch; but what thedevil have we to do with poor wretches? The law makes us provide for toomany already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red coatsshortly. "--"My dear, " cries Tow-wouse, "this man hath been robbed of allhe hath. "--"Well then, " said she, "where's his money to pay hisreckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go to an alehouse? I shall sendhim 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 ourfamilies; and I and mine won't be ruined by your charity, I assureyou. "--"Well, " says he, "my dear, do as you will, when you are up; youknow I never contradict you. "--"No, " says she; "if the devil was tocontradict me, I would make the house too hot to hold him. "

With such like discourses they consumed near half-an-hour, whilst Bettyprovided a shirt from the hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, andput it on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last visited him, andwashed and drest his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr Tow-wousethat his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he scarcesaw any hopes of his recovery. "Here's a pretty kettle of fish, " criesMrs Tow-wouse, "you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeralat our own expense. " Tow-wouse (who, notwithstanding his charity, wouldhave given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that anyother house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his guest)answered, "My dear, I am not to blame; he was brought hither by thestage-coach, and Betty had put him to bed before I was stirring. "--"I'llBetty her, " says she. --At which, with half her garments on, the otherhalf 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, andinquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

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

As soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history of the robbery, together with a short account of himself, and his intended journey, heasked the surgeon if he apprehended him to be in any danger: to whichthe surgeon very honestly answered, "He feared he was; for that hispulse was very exalted and feverish, and, if his fever should prove morethan symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him. " Joseph, fetchinga 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 mightrecover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he was in greatdanger; and if the malign concoction of his humours should cause asuscitation of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and incapable tomake his will. Joseph answered, "That it was impossible for any creaturein the universe to be in a poorer condition than himself; for since therobbery he had not one thing of any kind whatever which he could callhis own. " "I had, " said he, "a poor little piece of gold, which theytook 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 dearimage in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence. "

Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but they were refusedhim; 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 andadminister his good offices to the soul of poor Joseph, since thesurgeon despaired of making any successful applications to his body. 

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

"O most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sister! whose example could aloneenable me to withstand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and topreserve my virtue pure and chaste for the arms of my dear Fanny, if ithad 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 worldlyacquisitions? What but innocence and virtue could give any comfort tosuch a miserable wretch as I am? Yet these can make me prefer this sickand 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 Fannymore than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me to resign myself tothe Divine will without repining. O thou delightful charming creature!if Heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest statewould have been a paradise; I could have lived with thee in the lowestcottage without envying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of anyman breathing. But I must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearestangel! I must think of another world; and I heartily pray thou may'stmeet comfort in this. "--Barnabas thought he had heard enough, sodownstairs 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 arhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room. 

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

Mr Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty prevailed on tomake another visit. As soon as he entered the room he told Joseph "Hewas come to pray by him, and to prepare him for another world: in thefirst place, therefore, he hoped he had repented of all his sins. "Joseph answered, "He hoped he had; but there was one thing which he knewnot whether he should call a sin; if it was, he feared he should die inthe commission of it; and that was, the regret of parting with a youngwoman whom he loved as tenderly as he did his heart-strings. " Barnabasbad him be assured "that any repining at the Divine will was one of thegreatest sins he could commit; that he ought to forget all carnalaffections, and think of better things. " Joseph said, "That neither inthis world nor the next he could forget his Fanny; and that the thought, however grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not half sotormenting as the fear of what she would suffer when she knew hismisfortune. " Barnabas said, "That such fears argued a diffidence anddespondence very criminal; that he must divest himself of all humanpassions, and fix his heart above. " Joseph answered, "That was what hedesired to do, and should be obliged to him if he would enable him toaccomplish it. " Barnabas replied, "That must be done by grace. " Josephbesought him to discover how he might attain it. Barnabas answered, "Byprayer and faith. " He then questioned him concerning his forgiveness ofthe thieves. Joseph answered, "He feared that was more than he could do;for nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear they weretaken. "--"That, " cries Barnabas, "is for the sake of justice. "--"Yes, "said Joseph, "but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I shouldattack them, and kill them too, if I could. "--"Doubtless, " answeredBarnabas, "it is lawful to kill a thief; but can you say you forgivethem as a Christian ought?" Joseph desired to know what that forgivenesswas. "That is, " answered Barnabas, "to forgive them as--as--it is toforgive 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 heremembered any more sins unrepented of; and if he did, he desired him tomake haste and repent of them as fast as he could, that they mightrepeat over a few prayers together. " Joseph answered, "He could notrecollect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he hadcommitted 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 theingredients for punch were all in readiness; but no one would squeezethe oranges till he came. 

Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little tea; which Barnabasreported 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 upsome small beer. 

Betty obeyed her mistress's commands; but Joseph, as soon as he hadtasted it, said, he feared it would increase his fever, and that helonged very much for tea; to which the good-natured Betty answered, heshould have tea, if there was any in the land; she accordingly went andbought him some herself, and attended him with it; where we will leaveher and Joseph together for some time, to entertain the reader withother 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 theinn, and, committing his horse to the hostler, went directly into thekitchen, and, having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by thefireside, where several other persons were likewise assembled. 

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

The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of emotion at thedistress of this poor creature, whom he observed to be fallen not intothe most compassionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs Tow-wouse had given noutterance to the sweetness of her temper, nature had taken such pains inher countenance, that Hogarth himself never gave more expression toa picture. 

Her person was short, thin, and crooked. Her forehead projected in themiddle, 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 notnature 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 twobones, that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. Add to this a voicemost wonderfully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being bothloud and hoarse. 

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

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

He began therefore with an air of triumph: "I I suppose, sir, you havetravelled?"--"No, really, sir, " said the gentleman. --"Ho! then you havepractised in the hospitals perhaps?"--"No, sir. "--"Hum! not thatneither? Whence, sir, then, if I may be so bold to inquire, have you gotyour knowledge in surgery?"--"Sir, " answered the gentleman, "I do notpretend to much; but the little I know I have from books. "--"Books!"cries the doctor. "What, I suppose you have read Galen andHippocrates!"--"No, sir, " said the gentleman. --"How! you understandsurgery, " answers the doctor, "and not read Galen and Hippocrates?"--"Sir, " cries the other, "I believe there are many surgeons who havenever read these authors. "--"I believe so too, " says the doctor, "moreshame for them; but, thanks to my education, I have them by heart, andvery seldom go without them both in my pocket. "--"They are pretty largebooks, " said the gentleman. --"Aye, " said the doctor, "I believe I knowhow large they are better than you. " (At which he fell a winking, andthe whole company burst into a laugh. )

The doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman, "If he did notunderstand physic as well as surgery. " "Rather better, " answered thegentleman. --"Aye, like enough, " cries the doctor, with a wink. "Why, Iknow a little of physic too. "--"I wish I knew half so much, " saidTow-wouse, "I'd never wear an apron again. "--"Why, I believe, landlord, "cries the doctor, "there are few men, though I say it, within twelvemiles of the place, that handle a fever better. _Veniente accurritemorbo_: that is my method. I suppose, brother, you understand_Latin_?"--"A little, " says the gentleman. --"Aye, and Greek now, I'llwarrant you: _Ton dapomibominos poluflosboio Thalasses_. But I havealmost forgot these things: I could have repeated Homer by heartonce. "--"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, verycontentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, which he did withno small satisfaction; and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, toldhim, "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 opinionof his patient's case above-stairs. "--"Sir, " says the doctor, "his caseis that of a dead man--the contusion on his head has perforated theinternal membrane of the occiput, and divelicated that radical smallminute invisible nerve which coheres to the pericranium; and this wasattended with a fever at first symptomatic, then pneumatic; and he is atlength grown deliriuus, or delirious, as the vulgar express it. "

He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty noiseinterrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighbourhood had taken oneof the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty ran upstairswith this news to Joseph, who begged they might search for a littlepiece of broken gold, which had a ribband tied to it, and which he couldswear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in the universe. 

Notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his innocence, the mob werevery busy in searching him, and presently, among other things, pulledout the piece of gold just mentioned; which Betty no sooner saw than shelaid violent hands on it, and conveyed it up to Joseph, who received itwith raptures of joy, and, hugging it in his bosom, declared he couldnow die contented. 

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

The gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he declared he knew thelivery; 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 thefamily to whom that livery belonged. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV. 

_Showing how Mrs Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how officious MrBarnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the thief: with adissertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other personsnot mentioned in this history. _

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

This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs Tow-wouse's countenance. Shesaid, "God forbid she should not discharge the duty of a Christian, since the poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had a naturalantipathy to vagabonds; but could pity the misfortunes of a Christianas 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 paidhereafter; so you may begin to score whenever you will. " Mrs Tow-wouseanswered, "Hold your simple tongue, and don't instruct me in mybusiness. I am sure I am sorry for the gentleman's misfortune with allmy heart; and I hope the villain who hath used him so barbarously willbe hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. God forbid he should wantanything in my house. "

Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to satisfy themselvesconcerning the piece of gold; Joseph was with difficulty prevailed uponto show it them, but would by no entreaties be brought to deliver it outof his own possession. He however attested this to be the same which hadbeen taken from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the finding it onthe thief. 

The only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this gold beforethe justice; for as to carrying Joseph himself, it seemed impossible;nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him, for he hadfastened it with a ribband to his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothingbut 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 necessaryto be related here; after which the surgeon dressed Mr Joseph's head, still persisting in the imminent danger in which his patient lay, butconcluding, with a very important look, "That he began to have somehopes; that he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, andwould see him in the morning. " After which Barnabas and he departed, andleft Mr Joseph and Mr Adams together. 

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

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

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

Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he had not theleast fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for that evening. Heaccordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl, I never could with anytolerable certainty discover which; after this he was, by MrsTow-wouse's order, conveyed into a better bed and equipped with one ofher husband's shirts. 

In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to the inn, in orderto see the thief conveyed before the justice. They had consumed thewhole night in debating what measures they should take to produce thepiece of gold in evidence against him; for they were both extremelyzealous in the business, though neither of them were in the leastinterested in the prosecution; neither of them had ever received anyprivate injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever beensuspected of loving the publick well enough to give them a sermon or adose of physic for nothing. 

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

O Vanity! how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy operationsdiscerned! How wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under differentdisguises! Sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity, sometimes ofgenerosity: nay, thou hast the assurance even to put on those gloriousornaments which belong only to heroic virtue. Thou odious, deformedmonster! whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, and poetsridiculed; is there a wretch so abandoned as to own thee for anacquaintance in public?--yet, how few will refuse to enjoy thee inprivate? nay, thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. Thegreatest villainies are daily practised to please thee; nor is themeanest thief below, or the greatest hero above, thy notice. Thyembraces are often the sole aim and sole reward of the private robberyand the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, thatwe attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to withholdfrom them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves. Avarice itselfis often no more than thy handmaid, and even Lust thy pimp. The bullyFear, like a coward, flies before thee, and Joy and Grief hide theirheads in thy presence. 

I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee I court thee, and thatthy 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 giveme any pain if thou shouldst prevail on the reader to censure thisdigression as arrant nonsense; for know, to thy confusion, that I haveintroduced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a shortchapter, and so I return to my history. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

_The escape of the thief. Mr Adams's disappointment. The arrival oftwo very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of parson Adamsto 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 concernedto find a small accident had happened, which somewhat disconcerted them;and this was no other than the thief's escape, who had modestlywithdrawn himself by night, declining all ostentation, and not chusing, in imitation of some great men, to distinguish himself at the expense ofbeing pointed at. 

When the company had retired the evening before, the thief was detainedin a room where the constable, and one of the young fellows who tookhim, were planted as his guard. About the second watch a generalcomplaint of drought was made, both by the prisoner and his keepers. Among whom it was at last agreed that the constable should remain onduty, and the young fellow call up the tapster; in which disposition thelatter apprehended not the least danger, as the constable was wellarmed, and could besides easily summon him back to his assistance, ifthe prisoner made the least attempt to gain his liberty. 

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

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

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

The young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong beer, was alittle surprized to find the constable at the door; but much more sowhen, the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made hisescape, and which way. He threw down the beer, and, without utteringanything to the constable except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leaptout of the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, being veryunwilling to lose the reward which he had assured himself of. 

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

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

All the family were now up, and with many others assembled in thekitchen, where Mr Tow-wouse was in some tribulation; the surgeon havingdeclared that by law he was liable to be indicted for the thief'sescape, 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 indictmentwould not lie. 

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

He had rose pretty early this morning; but, though his wounds were farfrom threatening any danger, he was so sore with the bruises, that itwas impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey yet; Mr Adams, therefore, whose stock was visibly decreased with the expenses of supperand breakfast, and which could not survive that day's scoring, began toconsider how it was possible to recruit it. At last he cried, "He hadluckily hit on a sure method, and, though it would oblige him to returnhimself home together with Joseph, it mattered not much. " He then sentfor Tow-wouse, and, taking him into another room, told him "he wanted toborrow three guineas, for which he would put ample security into hishands. " Tow-wouse, who expected a watch, or ring, or something of doublethe value, answered, "He believed he could furnish him. " Upon whichAdams, pointing to his saddle-bag, told him, with a face and voice fullof solemnity, "that there were in that bag no less than nine volumes ofmanuscript sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds as a shilling wasworth twelve pence, and that he would deposit one of the volumes in hishands by way of pledge; not doubting but that he would have the honestyto return it on his repayment of the money; for otherwise he must be avery great loser, seeing that every volume would at least bring him tenpounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in thecountry; for, " said he, "as to my own part, having never yet dealt inprinting, 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 withoutsome 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, "Certainlyhe would not scruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedlyworth at least ten. " The landlord replied, "He did not believe he hadso much money in the house, and besides, he was to make up a sum. He wasvery confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily sorryit did not suit him. " He then cried out, "Coming sir!" though nobodycalled; and ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his neck. 

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

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

Whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this posture, a coach and six, with anumerous attendance, drove into the inn. There alighted from the coach ayoung fellow and a brace of pointers, after which another young fellowleapt from the box, and shook the former by the hand; and both, togetherwith the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr Tow-wouse into anapartment; whither as they passed, they entertained themselves with thefollowing 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 thecoachman; "if I had only broke your neck, it would have been savingsomebody else the trouble; but I should have been sorry for thepointers. "--"Why, you son of a b--, " answered the other, "if nobodycould shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no use. "--"D--nme, " says the coachman, "I will shoot with you five guineas ashot. "--"You be hanged, " says the other; "for five guineas you shallshoot at my a--. "--"Done, " says the coachman; "I'll pepper you betterthan ever you was peppered by Jenny Bouncer. "--"Pepper yourgrandmother, " says the other: "Here's Tow-wouse will let you shoot athim for a shilling a time. "--"I know his honour better, " criesTow-wouse; "I never saw a surer shot at a partridge. Every man missesnow and then; but if I could shoot half as well as his honour, I woulddesire 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 herlife. "--"I have a puppy, not a year old, shall hunt with her for ahundred, " cries the other gentleman. --"Done, " says the coachman: "butyou will be pox'd before you make the bett. "--"If you have a mind for abett, " cries the coachman, "I will match my spotted dog with your whitebitch for a hundred, play or pay. "--"Done, " says the other: "and I'llrun Baldface against Slouch with you for another. "--"No, " cries he fromthe box; "but I'll venture Miss Jenny against Baldface, or Hannibaleither. "--"Go to the devil, " cries he from the coach: "I will make everybett your own way, to be sure! I will match Hannibal with Slouch for athousand, 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 withoutpointing at it. ]

They were now arrived; and the reader will be very contented to leavethem, and repair to the kitchen; where Barnabas, the surgeon, and anexciseman were smoaking their pipes over some cyder-and; and where theservants, 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 hispipe in the gallery. "--"Yes, " says Tom; "I pulled off my hat to him, andthe parson spoke to me. "

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

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

It was then proposed to begin a general conversation, and the excisemanopened on foreign affairs; but a word unluckily dropping from one ofthem introduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered by the inferiorclergy; which, after a long duration, concluded with bringing the ninevolumes of sermons on the carpet. 

Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams; he said, "The age was sowicked, that nobody read sermons: would you think it, Mr Adams?" saidhe, "I once intended to print a volume of sermons myself, and they hadthe approbation of two or three bishops; but what do you think abookseller offered me?"--"Twelve guineas perhaps, " cried Adams. --"Nottwelve pence, I assure you, " answered Barnabas: "nay, the dog refused mea Concordance in exchange. At last I offered to give him the printingthem, for the sake of dedicating them to that very gentleman who justnow drove his own coach into the inn; and, I assure you, he had theimpudence to refuse my offer; by which means I lost a good living, thatwas afterwards given away in exchange for a pointer, to one who--but Iwill not say anything against the cloth. So you may guess, Mr Adams, what you are to expect; for if sermons would have gone down, Ibelieve--I will not be vain; but to be concise with you, three bishopssaid they were the best that ever were writ: but indeed there are apretty 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 thousandvolumes at least. "--"Five thousand?" quoth the surgeon: "What can theybe writ upon? I remember when I was a boy, I used to read oneTillotson's sermons; and, I am sure, if a man practised half so much asis in one of those sermons, he will go to heaven. "--"Doctor, " criedBarnabas, "you have a prophane way of talking, for which I must reproveyou. 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 thingsvery well; but comparisons are odious; another man may write as well ashe--I believe there are some of my sermons, "--and then he applied thecandle to his pipe. --"And I believe there are some of my discourses, "cries Adams, "which the bishops would not think totally unworthy ofbeing 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 sellthem by advertising the manuscript sermons of a clergyman latelydeceased, all warranted originals, and never printed. And now I think ofit, I should be obliged to you, if there be ever a funeral one amongthem, 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 doubleprice. "--Adams answered, "He had but one, which he feared would notserve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magistrate, who hadexerted himself very singularly in the preservation of the morality ofhis neighbours, insomuch that he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman inthe parish where he lived. "--"No, " replied Barnabas, "that will not doquite so well; for the deceased, upon whose virtues I am to harangue, was a little too much addicted to liquor, and publickly kept amistress. --I believe I must take a common sermon, and trust to my memoryto introduce something handsome on him. "--"To your invention rather, "said the doctor: "your memory will be apter to put you out; for no manliving 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 toJoseph, 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 MrAdams, when he and the doctor came in. The doctor, having felt his pulseand examined his wounds, declared him much better, which he imputed tothat 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; sincenothing more than those effluvia which escaped the cork could havecontributed to his recovery; for the medicine had stood untouched in thewindow 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 hisrecovery. As he had an excellent habit of body, his wounds were nowalmost healed; and his bruises gave him so little uneasiness, that hepressed Mr Adams to let him depart; told him he should never be able toreturn sufficient thanks for all his favours, but begged that he mightno longer delay his journey to London. 

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVII. 

_A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the bookseller, 'whichwas broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn, whichproduced a dialogue between Mrs Tow-wouse and her maid of nogentle kind. _

As soon as Adams came into the room, Mr Barnabas introduced him to thestranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely todeal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting thestranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; thatnothing could be more convenient, for he had no other business to thegreat city, and was heartily desirous of returning with the young man, who was just recovered of his misfortune. He then snapt his fingers (aswas usual with him), and took two or three turns about the room in anextasy. And to induce the bookseller to be as expeditious as possible, as likewise to offer him a better price for his commodity, he assuredthem their meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for that he had themost pressing occasion for money at that time, his own being almostspent, and having a friend then in the same inn, who was just recoveredfrom some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a mostindigent condition. "So that nothing, " says he, "could be so opportunefor the supplying both our necessities as my making an immediate bargainwith 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 MrBarnabas recommends; but sermons are mere drugs. The trade is so vastlystocked with them, that really, unless they come out with the name ofWhitefield or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, orthose sort of people, I don't care to touch; unless now it was a sermonpreached on the 30th of January; or we could say in the title-page, published at the earnest request of the congregation, or theinhabitants; but, truly, for a dry piece of sermons, I had rather beexcused; especially as my hands are so full at present. However, sir, asMr Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take themanuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a veryshort time. "

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

Adams did not at all relish the last expression; he said "he was sorryto hear sermons compared to plays. " "Not by me, I assure you, " cried thebookseller, "though I don't know whether the licensing act may notshortly bring them to the same footing; but I have formerly known ahundred guineas given for a play. "--"More shame for those who gave it, "cried Barnabas. --"Why so?" said the bookseller, "for they got hundredsby it. "--"But is there no difference between conveying good or illinstructions to mankind?" said Adams: "Would not an honest mind ratherlose money by the one, than gain it by the other?"--"If you can find anysuch, I will not be their hindrance, " answered the bookseller; "but Ithink those persons who get by preaching sermons are the properest tolose by printing them: for my part, the copy that sells best will bealways the best copy in my opinion; I am no enemy to sermons, butbecause they don't sell: for I would as soon print one of Whitefield'sas 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 notwhether you have seen them) are levelled at the clergy. He would reduceus to the example of the primitive ages, forsooth! and would insinuateto the people that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and praying. He pretends to understand the Scripture literally; and would makemankind believe that the poverty and low estate which was recommended tothe Church in its infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted toher under persecution, was to be preserved in her flourishing andestablished state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all thefreethinkers, are not calculated to do half the mischief, as thoseprofessed by this fellow and his followers. "

"Sir, " answered Adams, "if Mr Whitefield had carried his doctrine nofarther than you mention, I should have remained, as I once was, hiswell-wisher. I am, myself, as great an enemy to the luxury and splendourof the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishingestate of the Church, understand the palaces, equipages, dress, furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. Surelythose things, which savour so strongly of this world, become not theservants of one who professed His kingdom was not of it. But when hebegan to call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up thedetestable doctrine of faith against good works, I was his friend nolonger; for surely that doctrine was coined in hell; and one would thinknone but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach it. Forcan anything be more derogatory to the honour of God than for men toimagine that the all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good andvirtuous, 'Notwithstanding the purity of thy life, notwithstanding thatconstant 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 anydoctrine have a more pernicious influence on society, than a persuasionthat it will be a good plea for the villain at the last day--'Lord, itis true I never obeyed one of thy commandments, yet punish me not, for Ibelieve them all?'"--"I suppose, sir, " said the bookseller, "yoursermons are of a different kind. "--"Aye, sir, " said Adams; "thecontrary, I thank Heaven, is inculcated in almost every page, or Ishould belye my own opinion, which hath always been, that a virtuous andgood Turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the sight of their Creatorthan a vicious and wicked Christian, though his faith was as perfectlyorthodox as St Paul's himself. "--"I wish you success, " says thebookseller, "but must beg to be excused, as my hands are so very full atpresent; and, indeed, I am afraid you will find a backwardness in thetrade to engage in a book which the clergy would be certain to crydown. "--"God forbid, " says Adams, "any books should be propagated whichthe clergy would cry down; but if you mean by the clergy, some fewdesigning factious men, who have it at heart to establish some favouriteschemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence ofreligion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any book theyplease; witness that excellent book called, 'A Plain Account of theNature and End of the Sacrament;' a book written (if I may venture onthe expression) with the pen of an angel, and calculated to restore thetrue use of Christianity, and of that sacred institution; for what couldtend more to the noble purposes of religion than frequent chearfulmeetings among the members of a society, in which they should, in thepresence of one another, and in the service of the Supreme Being, makepromises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each other? Now, this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully. " Atthese 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 Woolstoncommended, if he staid a few minutes longer. " Adams desired, "as he wasso much moved at his mentioning a book which he did without apprehendingany possibility of offence, that he would be so kind to propose anyobjections he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer. "--"Ipropose objections!" said Barnabas, "I never read a syllable in any suchwicked book; I never saw it in my life, I assure you. "--Adams was goingto 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 MrsTow-wouse's voice, like a bass viol in a concert, was clearly anddistinctly distinguished among the rest, and was heard to articulate thefollowing sounds:--"O you damn'd villain! is this the return to all thecare I have taken of your family? This the reward of my virtue? Is thisthe manner in which you behave to one who brought you a fortune, andpreferred you to so many matches, all your betters? To abuse my bed, myown bed, with my own servant! but I'll maul the slut, I'll tear hernasty eyes out! Was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such a meantrollop? If she had been a gentlewoman, like myself, it had been someexcuse; but a beggarly, saucy, dirty servant-maid. Get you out of myhouse, you whore. " To which she added another name, which we do not careto stain our paper with. It was a monosyllable beginning with a b--, andindeed was the same as if she had pronounced the words, she-dog. Whichterm we shall, to avoid offence, use on this occasion, though indeedboth the mistress and maid uttered the above-mentioned b--, a wordextremely disgustful to females of the lower sort. Betty had borne allhitherto with patience, and had uttered only lamentations; but the lastappellation 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, Iam 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; mybe-betters are wo-rse than me. "--"Huzzy, huzzy, " says Mrs Tow-wouse, "have you the impudence to answer me? Did I not catch you, yousaucy"--and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to femaleears. "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 nothingthat's unnatural; and I will go out of your house this moment, for Iwill never be called she-dog by any mistress in England. " Mrs Tow-wousethen armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from executing anydreadful purpose by Mr Adams, who confined her arms with the strengthof 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 nodefence to make, very prudently withdrew himself; and Betty committedherself to the protection of the hostler, who, though she could notconceive him pleased with what had happened, was, in her opinion, rathera gentler beast than her mistress. 

Mrs Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr Adams, and finding the enemyvanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usualserenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to thereader the steps which led to a catastrophe, common enough, and comicalenough too perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose andwell-being of families, and the subject of many tragedies, both in lifeand on the stage. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

_The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of what occasionedthe 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, herconstitution was composed of those warm ingredients which, though thepurity of courts or nunneries might have happily controuled them, wereby no means able to endure the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at aninn; who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers of allcomplexions; 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 thewhole armoury of love, against them. 

Betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now lived three years in thisdangerous situation, during which she had escaped pretty well. An ensignof foot was the first person who made an impression on her heart; he didindeed raise a flame in her which required the care of a surgeonto cool. 

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

At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappypassion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual chastity. She waslong deaf to all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at aneighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hostler, with a new strawhat and a pint of wine, made a second conquest over her. 

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

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

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

Joseph, in great confusion, leapt from her, and told her he was sorry tosee a young woman cast off all regard to modesty; but she had gone toofar to recede, and grew so very indecent, that Joseph was obliged, contrary to his inclination, to use some violence to her; and, takingher 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 competentstrength 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 andlust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different ways; onemoment she thought of stabbing Joseph; the next, of taking him in herarms, and devouring him with kisses; but the latter passion was far moreprevalent. Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself; but, whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death presentedhimself to her in so many shapes, of drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c. , that her distracted mind could resolve on none. In this perturbation ofspirit, it accidentally occurred to her memory that her master's bed wasnot made; she therefore went directly to his room, where he happened atthat time to be engaged at his bureau. As soon as she saw him, sheattempted to retire; but he called her back, and, taking her by thehand, squeezed her so tenderly, at the same time whispering so many softthings into her ears, and then pressed her so closely with his kisses, that the vanquished fair one, whose passions were already raised, andwhich were not so whimsically capricious that one man only could laythem, though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that one--thevanquished fair one quietly submitted, I say, to her master's will, whohad just attained the accomplishment of his bliss when Mrs Tow-wouseunexpectedly entered the room, and caused all that confusion which wehave before seen, and which it is not necessary, at present, to take anyfarther notice of; since, without the assistance of a single hint fromus, every reader of any speculation or experience, though not marriedhimself, may easily conjecture that it concluded with the discharge ofBetty, the submission of Mr Tow-wouse, with some things to be performedon his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness in beingreconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any more inthe like manner; and, lastly, his quietly and contentedly bearing to bereminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice aday 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 highestto the lowest, from that of prime-ministering to this of authoring, which are seldom discovered unless to members of the same calling. Amongthose used by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take this ofdividing our works into books and chapters to be none of the leastconsiderable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this secret, common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing we mean only toswell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwise beextended to. These several places therefore in our paper, which arefilled 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 sumtotal, 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 otherinstances we consult the advantage of our reader, not our own; andindeed, many notable uses arise to him from this method; for, first, those little spaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn orresting-place where he may stop and take a glass or any otherrefreshment as it pleases him. Nay, our fine readers will, perhaps, bescarce able to travel farther than through one of them in a day. As tothose vacant pages which are placed between our books, they are to beregarded as those stages where in long journies the traveller stays sometime to repose himself, and consider of what he hath seen in the partshe hath already passed through; a consideration which I take the libertyto recommend a little to the reader; for, however swift his capacity maybe, I would not advise him to travel through these pages too fast; forif he doth, he may probably miss the seeing some curious productions ofnature, which will be observed by the slower and more accurate reader. Avolume without any such places of rest resembles the opening of wilds orseas, which tires the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II. 

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

Mr Adams and Joseph were now ready to depart different ways, when anaccident determined the former to return with his friend, whichTow-wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been able to do. Thisaccident was, that those sermons, which the parson was travelling toLondon to publish, were, O my good reader! left behind; what he hadmistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other than three shirts, apair of shoes, and some other necessaries, which Mrs Adams, who thoughther husband would want shirts more than sermons on his journey, hadcarefully provided him. 

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

Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he apprehended hisfriend must feel from this disappointment; he begged him to pursue hisjourney, and promised he would himself return with the books to him withthe utmost expedition. "No, thank you, child, " answered Adams; "it shallnot be so. What would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, unless Ihad my discourses with me, which are _ut ita dicam_, the sole cause, the_aitia monotate_ of my peregrination? No, child, as this accident hathhappened, I am resolved to return back to my cure, together with you;which indeed my inclination sufficiently leads me to. Thisdisappointment may perhaps be intended for my good. " He concluded with averse out of Theocritus, which signifies no more than that sometimes itrains, and sometimes the sun shines. 

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

[Illustration]

Mr Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting out, havingagreed to ride and tie; a method of travelling much used by persons whohave but one horse between them, and is thus performed. The twotravellers set out together, one on horseback, the other on foot: now, as it generally happens that he on horseback outgoes him on foot, thecustom is, that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is todismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other thing, andthen proceed on foot; when the other comes up to the horse he untieshim, mounts, and gallops on, till, having passed by hisfellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place of tying. And this isthat 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 notuse the latter without being at the expense of suffering the beaststhemselves to use the former. This was the method in use in those dayswhen, instead of a coach and six, a member of parliament's lady used tomount a pillion behind her husband; and a grave serjeant at lawcondescended to amble to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerkkicking his heels behind him. 

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

Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely puzzled him. The sumdue for horse-meat was twelve shillings (for Adams, who had borrowed thebeast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as well as they couldfeed him), and the cash in his pocket amounted to sixpence (for Adamshad divided the last shilling with him). Now, though there have beensome ingenious persons who have contrived to pay twelve shillings withsixpence, Joseph was not one of them. He had never contracted a debt inhis life, and was consequently the less ready at an expedient toextricate himself. Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit till nexttime, to which Mrs Tow-wouse would probably have consented (for such wasJoseph's beauty, that it had made some impression even on that piece offlint which that good woman wore in her bosom by way of heart). Josephwould have found, therefore, very likely the passage free, had he not, when he honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled outthat little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. This causedMrs Tow-wouse's eyes to water; she told Joseph she did not conceive aman could want money whilst he had gold in his pocket. Joseph answeredhe had such a value for that little piece of gold, that he would notpart with it for a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquirein the county was worth. "A pretty way, indeed, " said Mrs Tow-wouse, "torun in debt, and then refuse to part with your money, because you have avalue for it! I never knew any piece of gold of more value than as manyshillings as it would change for. "--"Not to preserve my life fromstarving, nor to redeem it from a robber, would I part with this dearpiece!" answered Joseph. "What, " says Mrs Tow-wouse, "I suppose it wasgiven you by some vile trollop, some miss or other; if it had been thepresent 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 forhim. "--"No, no, I can't part with the horse, indeed, till I have themoney, " cried Tow-wouse. A resolution highly commended by a lawyer thenin 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 shallleave him in it, and carry our reader on after parson Adams, who, hismind being perfectly at ease, fell into a contemplation on a passage inAeschylus, which entertained him for three miles together, withoutsuffering him once to reflect on his fellow-traveller. 

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

He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not doubting but thathe should be shortly overtaken; and soon came to a large water, which, filling the whole road, he saw no method of passing unless by wadingthrough, which he accordingly did up to his middle; but was no soonergot to the other side than he perceived, if he had looked over thehedge, he would have found a footpath capable of conducting him withoutwetting his shoes. 

His surprize at Joseph's not coming up grew now very troublesome: hebegan 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 tofind a house of public entertainment where he might dry his clothes andrefresh himself with a pint; but, seeing no such (for no other reasonthan because he did not cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards), he sathimself down on a stile, and pulled out his Aeschylus. 

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

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

CHAPTER III. 

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

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

One of these immediately asked the other, "If he had seen a more comicaladventure a great while?" Upon which the other said, "He doubtedwhether, by law, the landlord could justify detaining the horse for hiscorn and hay. " But the former answered, "Undoubtedly he can; it is anadjudged case, and I have known it tried. "

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

The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, though he knewno more than Joseph how to procure his horse his liberty; he was, however, prevailed on to stay under covert, till the shower, which wasnow 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 theroad, inquired to whom it belonged; one of the horsemen had no soonermentioned the owner's name, than the other began to revile him in themost opprobrious terms. The English language scarce affords a singlereproachful word, which he did not vent on this occasion. He charged himlikewise with many particular facts. He said, "He no more regarded afield of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he hadinjured several poor farmers by trampling their corn under his horse'sheels; and if any of them begged him with the utmost submission torefrain, his horsewhip was always ready to do them justice. " He said, "That he was the greatest tyrant to the neighbours in every otherinstance, and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though he mightjustify it by law; and in his own family so cruel a master, that henever kept a servant a twelvemonth. In his capacity as a justice, "continued he, "he behaves so partially, that he commits or acquits justas he is in the humour, without any regard to truth or evidence; thedevil may carry any one before him for me; I would rather be triedbefore some judges, than be a prosecutor before him: if I had an estatein the neighbourhood, I would sell it for half the value rather thanlive near him. "

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

Adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those different characters ofthe same person, asked his host if he knew the gentleman: for he beganto imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two several gentlemen. "No, no, master, " answered the host (a shrewd, cunning fellow); "I knowthe gentleman very well of whom they have been speaking, as I do thegentlemen who spoke of him. As for riding over other men's corn, to myknowledge he hath not been on horseback these two years. I never heardhe did any injury of that kind; and as to making reparation, he is notso free of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear ofhis taking away any man's gun; nay, I know several who have guns intheir houses; but as for killing game with them, no man is stricter; andI believe he would ruin any who did. You heard one of the gentlemen sayhe 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 anyof them that he was either one or the other. "--"Aye! aye!" says Adams;"and how doth he behave as a justice, pray?"--"Faith, friend, " answeredthe host, "I question whether he is in the commission; the only cause Ihave heard he hath decided a great while, was one between those very twopersons who just went out of this house; and I am sure he determinedthat justly, for I heard the whole matter. "--"Which did He decide it infavour 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 inmy house; but I knew neither of them spoke a syllable of truth. "--"Godforbid!" said Adams, "that men should arrive at such a pitch ofwickedness to belye the character of their neighbour from a littleprivate affection, or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. Irather believe we have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons;for there are many houses on the road. "--"Why, prithee, friend, " criesthe host, "dost thou pretend never to have told a lye in thylife?"--"Never a malicious one, I am certain, " answered Adams, "nor witha 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 mustspeak better of a friend than an enemy. "--"Out of love to yourself, youshould confine yourself to truth, " says Adams, "for by doing otherwiseyou injure the noblest part of yourself, your immortal soul. I canhardly believe any man such an idiot to risque the loss of that by anytrifling gain, and the greatest gain in this world is but dirt incomparison 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 notyou believe another world?" To which the host answered, "Yes; he was noatheist. "--"And you believe you have an immortal soul?" cries Adams. Heanswered, "God forbid he should not. "--"And heaven and hell?" said theparson. The host then bid him "not to profane; for those were things notto be mentioned nor thought of but in church. " Adams asked him, "Why hewent to church, if what he learned there had no influence on his conductin life?" "I go to church, " answered the host, "to say my prayers andbehave godly. "--"And dost not thou, " cried Adams, "believe what thouhearest at church?"--"Most part of it, master, " returned the host. "Anddost not thou then tremble, " cries Adams, "at the thought of eternalpunishment?"--"As for that, master, " said he, "I never once thoughtabout it; but what signifies talking about matters so far off? The mugis out, shall I draw another?"

Whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage-coach drove up to thedoor. The coachman coming into the house was asked by the mistress whatpassengers 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 todrink anything, I assure you. " Adams asked him, "If he had not seen ayoung man on horseback on the road" (describing Joseph). "Aye, " saidthe coachman, "a gentlewoman in my coach that is his acquaintanceredeemed 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 thischaritable woman was; but what was his surprize when he saw his oldacquaintance, Madam Slipslop? Hers indeed was not so great, because shehad been informed by Joseph that he was on the road. Very civil were thesalutations on both sides; and Mrs Slipslop rebuked the hostess fordenying the gentleman to be there when she asked for him; but indeed thepoor woman had not erred designedly; for Mrs Slipslop asked for aclergyman, and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a person travellingto a neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or some other suchoperation; for he marched in a swinging great but short white coat withblack buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, so far from having a blackhatband, had nothing black about it. 

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

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

They had not proceeded far before Mrs Slipslop, addressing herself tothe parson, spoke thus:--"There hath been a strange alteration in ourfamily, Mr Adams, since Sir Thomas's death. " "A strange alterationindeed, " says Adams, "as I gather from some hints which have droppedfrom Joseph. "--"Aye, " says she, "I could never have believed it; but thelonger one lives in the world, the more one sees. So Joseph hath givenyou hints. " "But of what nature will always remain a perfect secret withme, " cries the parson: "he forced me to promise before he wouldcommunicate anything. I am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behavein 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 tome, I assure you, " cries Slipslop, "and I believe they will be noneanywhere shortly; for ever since the boy's departure, she hath behavedmore like a mad woman than anything else. " "Truly, I am heartilyconcerned, " says Adams, "for she was a good sort of a lady. Indeed, Ihave often wished she had attended a little more constantly at theservice, but she hath done a great deal of good in the parish. " "O MrAdams, " says Slipslop, "people that don't see all, often know nothing. Many things have been given away in our family, I do assure you, withouther 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, thepoor would have wanted many a cordial which I have let them have. As formy late master, he was as worthy a man as ever lived, and would havedone infinite good if he had not been controlled; but he loved a quietlife, Heaven rest his soul! I am confident he is there, and enjoys aquiet life, which some folks would not allow him here. "--Adams answered, "He had never heard this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for heremembered she used to commend her mistress and blame her master) hadnot 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 tellyou; the world will shortly see who hath been deceived; for my part, Isay nothing, but that it is wondersome how some people can carry allthings with a grave face. "

Thus Mr Adams and she discoursed, till they came opposite to a greathouse which stood at some distance from the road: a lady in the coach, spying it, cried, "Yonder lives the unfortunate Leonora, if one canjustly call a woman unfortunate whom we must own at the same time guiltyand the author of her own calamity. " This was abundantly sufficient toawaken the curiosity of Mr Adams, as indeed it did that of the wholecompany, who jointly solicited the lady to acquaint them with Leonora'shistory, since it seemed, by what she had said, to contain somethingremarkable. 

The lady, who was perfectly well-bred, did not require many entreaties, and having only wished their entertainment might make amends for thecompany'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 andwell-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance which oftenattracts beyond more regular features joined with an insipid air: nor isthis kind of beauty less apt to deceive than allure; the good humourwhich it indicates being often mistaken for good nature, and thevivacity for true understanding. 

Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with an aunt of hersin 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 shehad frequent opportunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity, with the preference which was given her by the men to almost every otherwoman present. 

Among many young fellows who were particular in their gallantriestowards her, Horatio soon distinguished himself in her eyes beyond allhis competitors; she danced with more than ordinary gaiety when hehappened to be her partner; neither the fairness of the evening, nor themusick of the nightingale, could lengthen her walk like his company. Sheaffected no longer to understand the civilities of others; whilst sheinclined so attentive an ear to every compliment of Horatio, that sheoften 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 tothe law, and had been some few years called to the degree of abarrister. His face and person were such as the generality allowedhandsome; but he had a dignity in his air very rarely to be seen. Histemper was of the saturnine complexion, and without the least taint ofmoroseness. He had wit and humour, with an inclination to satire, whichhe 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. Thewhole town had made the match for him before he himself had drawn aconfidence from her actions sufficient to mention his passion to her;for it was his opinion (and perhaps he was there in the right) that itis highly impolitick to talk seriously of love to a woman before youhave made such a progress in her affections, that she herself expectsand desires to hear it. 

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

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

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

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

They had retired far out of the sight of the company, both maintaining astrict silence. At last Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leonora, who stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he fetched a deepsigh, and then, looking on her eyes with all the tenderness imaginable, he cried out in a faltering accent, "O Leonora! is it necessary for meto declare to you on what the future happiness of my life must befounded? Must I say there is something belonging to you which is a barto my happiness, and which unless you will part with, I must bemiserable!"--"What can that be?" replied Leonora. "No wonder, " said he, "you are surprized that I should make an objection to anything which isyours: yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the richesof the world, if they were mine, should purchase for me. Oh, it is thatwhich you must part with to bestow all the rest! Can Leonora, or ratherwill she, doubt longer? Let me then whisper it in her ears--It is yourname, madam. It is by parting with that, by your condescension to be forever 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 couldpossibly put on, told him, "That had she suspected what his declarationwould have been, he should not have decoyed her from her company, thathe had so surprized and frighted her, that she begged him to convey herback as quick as possible;" which he, trembling very near as much asherself, did. 

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

Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, said the lady, manyweeks had not passed after this interview before Horatio and Leonorawere what they call on a good footing together. All ceremonies exceptthe last were now over; the writings were now drawn, and everything wasin the utmost forwardness preparative to the putting Horatio inpossession of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a letterfrom each of them, which I have got by heart, and which will give you nosmall idea of their passion on both sides. 

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

HORATIO TO LEONORA. 

"How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of pleasure in theabsence of an object to which the mind is entirely devoted, unless ithave some relation to that object! I was last night condemned to thesociety of men of wit and learning, which, however agreeable it mighthave formerly been to me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputedmy absence in conversation to the true cause. For which reason, whenyour engagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of seeing you, I amalways desirous to be alone; since my sentiments for Leonora are sodelicate, that I cannot bear the apprehension of another's prying intothose delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a loverwill sometimes indulge him, and which I suspect my eyes then betray. Tofear this discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too ridiculous anicety to minds not susceptible of all the tendernesses of this delicatepassion. And surely we shall suspect there are few such, when weconsider that it requires every human virtue to exert itself in its fullextent; since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, maygive us charming opportunities of being brave in her defence, generousto her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grateful to herkindness; and in the same manner, of exercising every other virtue, which he who would not do to any degree, and that with the utmostrapture, can never deserve the name of a lover. It is, therefore, with aview to the delicate modesty of your mind that I cultivate it so purelyin my own; and it is that which will sufficiently suggest to you theuneasiness I bear from those liberties, which men to whom the worldallow politeness will sometimes give themselves on these occasions. 

"Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival of that blestday, when I shall experience the falsehood of a common assertion, thatthe greatest human happiness consists in hope? A doctrine which noperson had ever stronger reason to believe than myself at present, sincenone ever tasted such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts ofspending my future days with such a companion, and that every action ofmy life will have the glorious satisfaction of conducing to yourhappiness. "

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 wordand action ever since I had the first pleasure of knowing you, that Ithought it impossible my good opinion of Horatio could have beenheightened to any additional proof of merit. This very thought was myamusement when I received your last letter, which, when I opened, Iconfess I was surprized to find the delicate sentiments expressed thereso far exceeding what I thought could come even from you (although Iknow all the generous principles human nature is capable of are centredin your breast), that words cannot paint what I feel on the reflectionthat my happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your actions. 

"Oh, Horatio! what a life must that be, where the meanest domestic caresare sweetened by the pleasing consideration that the man on earth whobest deserves, and to whom you are most inclined to give youraffections, is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do! Insuch a case toils must be turned into diversions, and nothing but theunavoidable inconveniences of life can make us remember that weare mortal. 

"If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of keeping themundiscovered, makes even the conversation of men of wit and learningtedious to you, what anxious hours must I spend, who am condemned bycustom to the conversation of women, whose natural curiosity leads themto pry into all my thoughts, and whose envy can never suffer Horatio'sheart to be possessed by any one, without forcing them into maliciousdesigns 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 equallynatural 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 thatmost uneasy of all the situations I can figure in my imagination, ofbeing led by inclination to love the person whom my own judgment forcesme to condemn. "

Matters were in so great forwardness between this fond couple, that theday was fixed for their marriage, and was now within a fortnight, whenthe sessions chanced to be held for that county in a town about twentymiles' distance from that which is the scene of our story. It seems, itis 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 thelaw of the justices of peace; for which purpose one of the wisest andgravest of all the justices is appointed speaker, or chairman, as theymodestly call it, and he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in thetrue knowledge of the law. 

"You are here guilty of a little mistake, " says Adams, "which, if youplease, I will correct: I have attended at one of thesequarter-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, ashe hoped by his profession to advance his fortune, which was not atpresent very large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, he resolved tospare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of improving or advancinghimself in it. 

The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora stood at herwindow, a coach and six passed by, which she declared to be thecompletest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding theseremarkable words, "Oh, I am in love with that equipage!" which, thoughher friend Florella at that time did not greatly regard, she hath sinceremembered. 

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

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

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

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

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

This fine figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of every lady inthe assembly than Leonora did his. He had scarce beheld her, but hestood motionless and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done soif good breeding had permitted him. However, he carried it so far beforehe had power to correct himself, that every person in the room easilydiscovered where his admiration was settled. The other ladies began tosingle out their former partners, all perceiving who would beBellarmine's choice; which they however endeavoured, by all possiblemeans, to prevent: many of them saying to Leonora, "O madam! I supposewe shan't have the pleasure of seeing you dance to-night;" and thencrying out, in Bellarmine's hearing, "Oh! Leonora will not dance, Iassure you: her partner is not here. " One maliciously attempted toprevent her, by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her, that so shemight be obliged either to dance with him, or sit down; but this schemeproved abortive. 

Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, and envied by everywoman present. Her little heart began to flutter within her, and herhead was agitated with a convulsive motion: she seemed as if she wouldspeak to several of her acquaintance, but had nothing to say; for, asshe would not mention her present triumph, so she could not disengageher thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. She had nevertasted anything like this happiness. She had before known what it was totorment a single woman; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a wholeassembly was a joy reserved for this blessed moment. As this vastprofusion of ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there wasnothing so foolish as her behaviour: she played a thousand childishtricks, distorted her person into several shapes, and her face intoseveral laughs, without any reason. In a word, her carriage was asabsurd as her desires, which were to affect an insensibility of thestranger's admiration, and at the same time a triumph, from thatadmiration, 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 withher, which she, with as low a curtesy, immediately granted. She dancedwith him all night, and enjoyed, perhaps, the highest pleasure that shewas 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 onlyfor the folly of Leonora. "

Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in the morning, but notto rest. She tumbled and tossed in her bed, with very short intervals ofsleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage and fineclothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, and ridottos, which hadbeen the subject of their conversation. 

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

Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love and tenderness, been solong obtaining, the French-English Bellarmine with gaiety and gallantrypossessed himself of in an instant. In other words, what modesty hademployed a full year in raising, impudence demolished intwenty-four hours. 

Here Adams groaned a second time; but the ladies, who began to smokehim, 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 anunwelcome guest, to enter into her mind. She wished she had seen thecharming Bellarmine and his charming equipage before matters had gone sofar. "Yet why, " says she, "should I wish to have seen him before; orwhat 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 hemust be allowed. Yes, yes, he is that certainly. But did not I, nolonger ago than yesterday, love Horatio more than all the world? Aye, but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. But doth not Horatio doat onme, 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 promisedHoratio first; but that was poor Bellarmine's misfortune; if I had seenhim first, I should certainly have preferred him. Did not the dearcreature prefer me to every woman in the assembly, when every she waslaying out for him? When was it in Horatio's power to give me such aninstance of affection? Can he give me an equipage, or any of thosethings which Bellarmine will make me mistress of? How vast is thedifference between being the wife of a poor counsellor and the wife ofone of Bellarmine's fortune! If I marry Horatio, I shall triumph over nomore than one rival; but by marrying Bellarmine, I shall be the envy ofall 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 withherself, when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a littlerelieved her anxiety for the present. 

The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in presence of heraunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his passion for Leonora. He wasno sooner withdrawn than the old lady began to advise her niece on thisoccasion. "You see, child, " says she, "what fortune hath thrown in yourway; and I hope you will not withstand your own preferment. " Leonora, sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing, when she knew herengagements to Horatio. "Engagements to a fig!" cried the aunt; "youshould thank Heaven on your knees that you have it yet in your power tobreak them. Will any woman hesitate a moment whether she shall ride in acoach or walk on foot all the days of her life? But Bellarmine drivessix, and Horatio not even a pair. "--"Yes, but, madam, what will theworld say?" answered Leonora: "will not they condemn me?"--"The world isalways on the side of prudence, " cries the aunt, "and would surelycondemn you if you sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. Oh!I know the world very well; and you shew your ignorance, my dear, byyour objection. O' my conscience! the world is wiser. I have livedlonger in it than you; and I assure you there is not anything worth ourregard besides money; nor did I ever know one person who married fromother 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 fromhis travels. All the world must allow Bellarmine to be a fine gentleman, positively a fine gentleman, and a handsome man. "--"Perhaps, madam, Ishould not doubt, if I knew how to be handsomely off with theother. "--"Oh! leave that to me, " says the aunt. "You know your fatherhath not been acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for my part I thoughtit might do well enough, not dreaming of such an offer; but I'lldisengage you: leave me to give the fellow an answer. I warrant youshall have no farther trouble. "

Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's reasoning; andBellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed he should thenext morning go to her father and propose the match, which she consentedshould 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, Iassure you, was made at Paris, and I defy the best English taylor evento 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 clumsyEnglish rascal can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you like myliveries?" Leonora answered, "She thought them very pretty. "--"AllFrench, " says he, "I assure you, except the greatcoats; I never trustanything more than a greatcoat to an Englishman. You know one mustencourage our own people what one can, especially as, before I had aplace, I was in the country interest, he, he, he! But for myself, Iwould see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear asingle rag of English work about me: and I am sure, after you have madeone tour to Paris, you will be of the same opinion with regard to yourown clothes. You can't conceive what an addition a French dress would beto your beauty; I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw sinceI came over, I mistook the English ladies for chambermaids, he, he, he!"

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

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

A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in the whole company. Ifthe familiar entrance of Horatio struck the greatest astonishment intoBellarmine, the unexpected presence of Bellarmine no less surprizedHoratio. At length Leonora, collecting all the spirit she was mistressof, addressed herself to the latter, and pretended to wonder at thereason of so late a visit. "I should indeed, " answered he, "have madesome apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not my finding you incompany assured me I do not break in upon your repose. " Bellarmine rosefrom his chair, traversed the room in a minuet step, and hummed anopera tune, while Horatio, advancing to Leonora, asked her in a whisperif that gentleman was not a relation of hers; to which she answered witha smile, or rather sneer, "No, he is no relation of mine yet;" adding, "she could not guess the meaning of his question. " Horatio told hersoftly, "It did not arise from jealousy. "--"Jealousy! I assure you, itwould be very strange in a common acquaintance to give himself any ofthose airs. " These words a little surprized Horatio; but, before he hadtime to answer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady and told her, "Hefeared he interrupted some business between her and the gentleman. "--"Ican 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 thisgentleman is who is to be entrusted with all our secrets. "--"You'll knowsoon enough, " cries Leonora; "but I can't guess what secrets can everpass between us of such mighty consequence. "--"No, madam!" criesHoratio; "I am sure you would not have me understand you inearnest. "--"'Tis indifferent to me, " says she, "how you understand me;but I think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be understood atall, at least when people find one engaged: though one's servants do notdeny one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon take the hint. ""Madam, " said Horatio, "I did not imagine any engagement with astranger, as it seems this gentleman is, would have made my visitimpertinent, or that any such ceremonies were to be preserved betweenpersons in our situation. " "Sure you are in a dream, " says she, "orwould persuade me that I am in one. I know no pretensions a commonacquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies of good breeding. ""Sure, " said he, "I am in a dream; for it is impossible I should bereally esteemed a common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has passedbetween us?" "Passed between us! Do you intend to affront me before thisgentleman?" "D--n me, affront the lady, " says Bellarmine, cocking hishat, and strutting up to Horatio: "does any man dare affront this ladybefore me, d--n me?" "Hark'ee, sir, " says Horatio, "I would advise youto lay aside that fierce air; for I am mightily deceived if this ladyhas 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 ratheryour protectress; but give yourself no more airs, for you see I amprepared for you" (shaking his whip at him). "Oh! _serviteur treshumble_, " says Bellarmine: "_Je vous entend parfaitment bien_. " At whichtime the aunt, who had heard of Horatio's visit, entered the room, andsoon satisfied all his doubts. She convinced him that he was never moreawake in his life, and that nothing more extraordinary had happened inhis three days' absence than a small alteration in the affections ofLeonora; who now burst into tears, and wondered what reason she hadgiven him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desiredBellarmine to withdraw with him; but the ladies prevented it by layingviolent hands on the latter; upon which the former took his leavewithout any great ceremony, and departed, leaving the lady with hisrival to consult for his safety, which Leonora feared her indiscretionmight have endangered; but the aunt comforted her with assurances thatHoratio would not venture his person against so accomplished a cavalieras Bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge in hisown way, and the most they had to apprehend from him was an action. 

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

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

Leonora was waked in the morning, from a visionary coach and six, withthe dismal account that Bellarmine was run through the body by Horatio;that he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had declared thewound mortal. She immediately leaped out of the bed, danced about theroom in a frantic manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all theagonies of despair; in which sad condition her aunt, who likewise aroseat the news, found her. The good old lady applied her utmost art tocomfort 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 toBellarmine, and would only expose herself, which might, probably, keepher some time without any future offer; that, as matters had happened, her wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, but to endeavourto regain the affections of Horatio. " "Speak not to me, " cried thedisconsolate Leonora; "is it not owing to me that poor Bellarmine haslost his life? Have not these cursed charms (at which words she lookedsteadfastly in the glass) been the ruin of the most charming man of thisage? Can I ever bear to contemplate my own face again (with her eyesstill fixed on the glass)? Am I not the murderess of the finestgentleman? No other woman in the town could have made any impression onhim. " "Never think of things past, " cries the aunt: "think of regainingthe affections of Horatio. " "What reason, " said the niece, "have I tohope he would forgive me? No, I have lost him as well as the other, andit was your wicked advice which was the occasion of all; you seduced me, contrary to my inclinations, to abandon poor Horatio (at which words sheburst into tears); you prevailed upon me, whether I would or no, to giveup my affections for him; had it not been for you, Bellarmine neverwould have entered into my thoughts; had not his addresses been backedby your persuasions, they never would have made any impression on me; Ishould have defied all the fortune and equipage in the world; but it wasyou, it was you, who got the better of my youth and simplicity, andforced 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 apurse, began: "I am not surprized, niece, at this ingratitude. Those whoadvise young women for their interest, must always expect such a return:I am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off your match withHoratio, at any rate. "--"That may not be in your power yet, " answeredLeonora, "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 fromHoratio to the old lady; but as true it is, that Bellarmine, when hebreakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented her with abrilliant from his finger, of much greater value than all she hadtouched of the other. )

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

"MOST DIVINE CREATURE, --The wound which I fear you have heard Ireceived from my rival is not like to be so fatal as those shot into myheart which have been fired from your eyes, _tout brilliant_. Those arethe only cannons by which I am to fall; for my surgeon gives me hopes ofbeing soon able to attend your _ruelle_; till when, unless you would dome an honour which I have scarce the _hardiesse_ to think of, yourabsence 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, andthat the gossip Fame had, according to custom, so enlarged his danger, she presently abandoned all further thoughts of Horatio, and was soonreconciled to her aunt, who received her again into favour, with a moreChristian forgiveness than we generally meet with. Indeed, it ispossible she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her niece hadgiven her concerning the presents. She might apprehend such rumours, should they get abroad, might injure a reputation which, by frequentingchurch twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigour and strictness inher countenance and behaviour for many years, she had established. 

Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine with greater force, afterits small relaxation, than ever. She proposed to her aunt to make him avisit in his confinement, which the old lady, with great and commendableprudence, advised her to decline: "For, " says she, "should any accidentintervene to prevent your intended match, too forward a behaviour withthis lover may injure you in the eyes of others. Every woman, till sheis married, ought to consider of, and provide against, the possibilityof the affair's breaking off. " Leonora said, "She should be indifferentto whatever might happen in such a case; for she had now so absolutelyplaced her affections on this dear man (so she called him), that, if itwas her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever abandon all thoughtsof mankind. " She, therefore, resolved to visit him, notwithstanding allthe prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very afternoonexecuted her resolution. 

The lady was proceeding in her story, when the coach drove into the innwhere the company were to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of MrAdams, whose ears were the most hungry part about him; he being, as thereader may perhaps guess, of an insatiable curiosity, and heartilydesirous of hearing the end of this amour, though he professed he couldscarce 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 washis custom, made directly to the kitchen, where he found Joseph sittingby the fire, and the hostess anointing his leg; for the horse which MrAdams 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 hismaster's; nor would he always give any notice of such his intention; hewas often found on his knees when the rider least expected it. Thisfoible, however, was of no great inconvenience to the parson, who wasaccustomed to it; and, as his legs almost touched the ground when hebestrode the beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himselfforward on such occasions with so much dexterity that he never receivedany 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 anexcellent horseman, did not so happily disengage himself; but, fallingwith his leg under the beast, received a violent contusion, to which thegood woman was, as we have said, applying a warm hand, with somecamphorated spirits, just at the time when the parson enteredthe kitchen. 

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

This surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to the appearanceof a traveller, from "God bless your honour, " down to plain "Comingpresently, " 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 theywill have for dinner. " "My dear, " says she, "you know they can havenothing but what is at the fire, which will be ready presently; andreally the poor young man's leg is very much bruised. " At which wordsshe fell to chafing more violently than before: the bell then happeningto ring, he damn'd his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and notstand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe the young fellow'sleg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, within twenty miles hewould find a surgeon to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams fetched twostrides across the room; and snapping his fingers over his head, muttered aloud, He would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, forhe believed the devil had more humanity. These words occasioned adialogue between Adams and the host, in which there were two or threesharp replies, till Joseph bad the latter know how to behave himself tohis betters. At which the host (having first strictly surveyed Adams)scornfully repeating the word "betters, " flew into a rage, and, tellingJoseph he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been to walkinto it, offered to lay violent hands on him; which perceiving, Adamsdealt him so sound a compliment over his face with his fist, that theblood immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. The host, beingunwilling to be outdone in courtesy, especially by a person of Adams'sfigure, returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson'snostrils began to look a little redder than usual. Upon which he againassailed his antagonist, and with another stroke laid him sprawling onthe floor. 

The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband deserved, seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along, hastened presently tohis 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 herhands. She seized it in her fury, and without any reflection, dischargedit into the parson's face; and with so good an aim, that much thegreater part first saluted his countenance, and trickled thence in solarge a current down to his beard, and over his garments, that a morehorrible spectacle was hardly to be seen, or even imagined. All whichwas perceived by Mrs Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant. This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool andpatient as perhaps was required to ask many questions on this occasion, flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, together withsome of her hair, she plucked from her head in a moment, giving her, atthe same time, several hearty cuffs in the face; which by frequentpractice on the inferior servants, she had learned an excellent knack ofdelivering with a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise from hischair; the parson was employed in wiping the blood from his eyes, whichhad entirely blinded him; and the landlord was but just beginning tostir; whilst Mrs Slipslop, holding down the landlady's face with herleft hand, made so dexterous an use of her right, that the poor womanbegan 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 whoarrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen who were present at MrTow-wouse's when Joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and whom wehave before mentioned to have stopt at the alehouse with Adams. Therewas likewise a gentleman just returned from his travels to Italy; allwhom the horrid outcry of murder presently brought into the kitchen, where the several combatants were found in the postures alreadydescribed. 

It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the conquerors beingsatisfied with the vengeance they had taken, and the conquered having noappetite to renew the fight. The principal figure, and which engaged theeyes of all, was Adams, who was all over covered with blood, which thewhole company concluded to be his own, and consequently imagined him nolonger for this world. But the host, who had now recovered from hisblow, and was risen from the ground, soon delivered them from thisapprehension, by damning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings, andtelling 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 paidher, though not half what she deserved. The poor woman had indeed faredmuch the worst; having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost aquantity of hair, which Mrs Slipslop in triumph held in her left hand. 

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

One of the gentlemen having learnt from the host the occasion of thisbustle, 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 dyingwith 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 actionwhich, undoubtedly, you intend to bring, as soon as a writ can bereturned from London; for you look like a man of too much spirit andcourage to suffer any one to beat you without bringing your actionagainst him: he must be a scandalous fellow indeed who would put up witha drubbing whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides, he hath drawnblood from you, and spoiled your coat; and the jury will give damagesfor that too. An excellent new coat upon my word; and now not worth ashilling! 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 thetruth. I saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing from yournostrils. You may take your own opinion; but was I in yourcircumstances, every drop of my blood should convey an ounce of goldinto my pocket: remember I don't advise you to go to law; but if yourjury were Christians, they must give swinging damages. That'sall. "--"Master, " cried the host, scratching his head, "I have no stomachto law, I thank you. I have seen enough of that in the parish, where twoof my neighbours have been at law about a house, till they have bothlawed themselves into a gaol. " At which words he turned about, and beganto inquire again after his hog's puddings; nor would it probably havebeen a sufficient excuse for his wife, that she spilt them in hisdefence, had not some awe of the company, especially of the Italiantraveller, who was a person of great dignity, withheld his rage. 

Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was employed, as we haveseen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was no less hearty onthe 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 hesaid must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition appeared. Adamsanswered, If it was true that they were but one person, he had assaultedthe wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck the husband the firstblow. "I am sorry you own it too, " cries the gentleman; "for it couldnot possibly appear to the court; for here was no evidence present butthe lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be your friend, and wouldconsequently say nothing but what made for you. "--"How, sir, " saysAdams, "do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute revenge incold 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, thegentleman stared (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order ofknights); and, turning hastily about, said, "Every man knew his ownbusiness. "

Matters being now composed, the company retired to their severalapartments; the two gentlemen congratulating each other on the successof their good offices in procuring a perfect reconciliation between thecontending parties; and the traveller went to his repast, crying, "Asthe 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, whoseentrance into the coach was retarded by Miss Grave-airs insisting, against the remonstrance of all the rest, that she would not admit afootman into the coach; for poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. Ayoung lady, who was, as it seems, an earl's grand-daughter, begged itwith almost tears in her eyes. Mr Adams prayed, and Mrs Slipslopscolded; but all to no purpose. She said, "She would not demean herselfto ride with a footman: that there were waggons on the road: that if themaster of the coach desired it, she would pay for two places; but wouldsuffer no such fellow to come in. "--"Madam, " says Slipslop, "I am sureno 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 seldomtravel in them. "--"That may be, madam, " replied Slipslop; "very goodpeople do; and some people's betters, for aught I know. " Miss Grave-airssaid, "Some folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty, to somepeople that were their betters, which did not become them; for her part, she was not used to converse with servants. " Slipslop returned, "Somepeople kept no servants to converse with; for her part, she thankedHeaven she lived in a family where there were a great many, and had moreunder her own command than any paultry little gentlewoman in thekingdom. " Miss Grave-airs cried, "She believed her mistress would notencourage such sauciness to her betters. "--"My betters, " says Slipslop, "who is my betters, pray?"--"I am your betters, " answered MissGrave-airs, "and I'll acquaint your mistress. "--At which Mrs Slipsloplaughed aloud, and told her, "Her lady was one of the great gentry; andsuch little paultry gentlewomen as some folks, who travelled instagecoaches, would not easily come at her. "

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

Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, "If he knew who thegentleman was?" The coachman answered, "He was now a gentleman, and kepthis horse and man; but times are altered, master, " said be; "I rememberwhen he was no better born than myself. "--"Ay! ay!" says Adams. "Myfather drove the squire's coach, " answered he, "when that very man rodepostillion; but he is now his steward; and a great gentleman. " Adamsthen snapped his fingers, and cried, "He thought she was somesuch trollop. "

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

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

As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women all together fell tothe character of Miss Grave-airs; whom one of them declared she hadsuspected to be some low creature, from the beginning of their journey, and another affirmed she had not even the looks of a gentlewoman: athird warranted she was no better than she should be; and, turning tothe lady who had related the story in the coach, said, "Did you everhear, madam, anything so prudish as her remarks? Well, deliver me fromthe censoriousness of such a prude. " The fourth added, "O madam! allthese creatures are censorious; but for my part, I wonder where thewretch was bred; indeed, I must own I have seldom conversed with thesemean kind of people, so that it may appear stranger to me; but to refusethe general desire of a whole company had something in it soastonishing, that, for my part, I own I should hardly believe it if myown ears had not been witnesses to it. "--"Yes, and so handsome a youngfellow, " cries Slipslop; "the woman must have no compulsion in her: Ibelieve she is more of a Turk than a Christian; I am certain, if she hadany Christian woman's blood in her veins, the sight of such a youngfellow must have warmed it. Indeed, there are some wretched, miserableold objects, that turn one's stomach; I should not wonder if she hadrefused such a one; I am as nice as herself, and should have cared nomore than herself for the company of stinking old fellows; but, hold upthy head, Joseph, thou art none of those; and she who hath notcompulsion for thee is a Myhummetman, and I will maintain it. " Thisconversation made Joseph uneasy as well as the ladies; who, perceivingthe spirits which Mrs Slipslop was in (for indeed she was not a cup toolow), began to fear the consequence; one of them therefore desired thelady to conclude the story. "Aye, madam, " said Slipslop, "I beg yourladyship to give us that story you commensated in the morning;" whichrequest that well-bred woman immediately complied with. 

CHAPTER VI. 

_Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt. _

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

The ladies of the town began to take her conduct under consideration: itwas the chief topic of discourse at their tea-tables, and was veryseverely censured by the most part; especially by Lindamira, a ladywhose discreet and starch carriage, together with a constant attendanceat church three times a day, had utterly defeated many malicious attackson her own reputation; for such was the envy that Lindamira's virtue hadattracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict behaviour and strictenquiry into the lives of others, she had not been able to escape beingthe mark of some arrows herself, which, however, did her no injury; ablessing, perhaps, owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief malecompanions, and with two or three of whom she had been barbarously andunjustly calumniated. 

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

The extreme delicacy of Lindamira's virtue was cruelly hurt by thosefreedoms which Leonora allowed herself: she said, "It was an affront toher sex; that she did not imagine it consistent with any woman's honourto speak to the creature, or to be seen in her company; and that, forher 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, whichwas somewhat within a month from his receiving the wound, he set out, according to agreement, for Leonora's father's, in order to propose thematch, and settle all matters with him touching settlements, andthe like. 

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

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

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

To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the errand I have mentioned. Hisperson, his equipage, his family, and his estate, seemed to the fatherto make him an advantageous match for his daughter: he therefore veryreadily accepted his proposals: but when Bellarmine imagined theprincipal affair concluded, and began to open the incidental matters offortune, the old gentleman presently changed his countenance, saying, "He resolved never to marry his daughter on a Smithfield match; thatwhoever had love for her to take her would, when he died, find her shareof his fortune in his coffers; but he had seen such examples ofundutifulness happen from the too early generosity of parents, that hehad made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived. " Hecommended the saying of Solomon, "He that spareth the rod spoileth thechild;" but added, "he might have likewise asserted, That he thatspareth the purse saveth the child. " He then ran into a discourse on theextravagance of the youth of the age; whence he launched into adissertation on horses; and came at length to commend those Bellarminedrove. That fine gentleman, who at another season would have been wellenough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very eager toresume the circumstance of fortune. He said, "He had a very high valuefor the young lady, and would receive her with less than he would anyother whatever; but that even his love to her made some regard toworldly matters necessary; for it would be a most distracting sight forhim to see her, when he had the honour to be her husband, in less than acoach and six. " The old gentleman answered, "Four will do, four willdo;" and then took a turn from horses to extravagance and fromextravagance to horses, till he came round to the equipage again;whither he was no sooner arrived than Bellarmine brought him back to thepoint; but all to no purpose; he made his escape from that subject in aminute; till at last the lover declared, "That in the present situationof his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved Leonora morethan _tout le monde_, to marry her without any fortune. " To which thefather answered, "He was sorry that his daughter must lose so valuable amatch; that, if he had an inclination, at present it was not in hispower to advance a shilling: that he had had great losses, and been atgreat expenses on projects; which, though he had great expectation fromthem, had yet produced him nothing: that he did not know what mighthappen hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such accident; but hewould make no promise, or enter into any article, for he would not breakhis vow for all the daughters in the world. "

In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, Bellarmine, havingtried every argument and persuasion which he could invent, and findingthem all ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order toreturn to Leonora; he proceeded directly to his own seat, whence, aftera few days' stay, he returned to Paris, to the great delight of theFrench and the honour of the English nation. 

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

"ADORABLE AND CHARMANTE, --I am sorry to have the honour to tell you Iam not the _heureux_ person destined for your divine arms. Your papahath 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!_ Youwill certainly believe me, madam, incapable myself of delivering this_triste_ message, which I intend to try the French air to cure theconsequences of. _A jamais! Coeur! Ange! Au diable!_ If your papaobliges 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_, forit 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 shereceived this letter. It is a picture of horror, which I should have aslittle pleasure in drawing as you in beholding. She immediately left theplace where she was the subject of conversation and ridicule, andretired to that house I showed you when I began the story; where shehath ever since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, perhaps, pity forher misfortunes, more than our censure for a behaviour to which theartifices of her aunt very probably contributed, and to which very youngwomen are often rendered too liable by that blameable levity in theeducation of our sex. 

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

"Why, I must own, " says Slipslop, "the gentleman was a littlefalse-hearted; but howsumever, it was hard to have two lovers, and getnever a husband at all. But pray, madam, what became of _Our-asho_?"

He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath applied himself sostrictly to his business, that he hath raised, I hear, a veryconsiderable fortune. And what is remarkable, they say he never hearsthe name of Leonora without a sigh, nor hath ever uttered one syllableto 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, "Neverbelieve me if yonder be not our parson Adams walking along without hishorse!"--"On my word, and so he is, " says Slipslop: "and as sure astwopence he hath left him behind at the inn. " Indeed, true it is, theparson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind; for he wasso pleased with having got Joseph into the coach, that he never oncethought of the beast in the stable; and, finding his legs as nimble ashe desired, he sallied out, brandishing a crabstick, and had kept onbefore the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so thathe had never been much more or less than a quarter of a miledistant 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, oftencrying out, "Aye, aye, catch me if you can;" till at length the coachmanswore he would as soon attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, givingthe 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 MrsSlipslop; and, leaving the coach and its company to pursue theirjourney, we will carry our reader on after parson Adams, who stretchedforwards without once looking behind him, till, having left the coachfull three miles in his rear, he came to a place where, by keeping theextremest track to the right, it was just barely possible for a humancreature to miss his way. This track, however, did he keep, as indeed hehad a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare possibilities, and, travelling in it about three miles over the plain, he arrived at thesummit of a hill, whence looking a great way backwards, and perceivingno coach in sight, he sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling out hisAeschylus, determined to wait here for its arrival. 

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

Adams stood up and presented a figure to the gentleman which would havemoved laughter in many; for his cassock had just again fallen down belowhis greatcoat, that is to say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirtsof his greatcoat descended no lower than half-way down his thighs; butthe gentleman's mirth gave way to his surprize at beholding such apersonage 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 lastbroke by observing that it was a delightful evening. The gentleman, whohad at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of the parson, began, on perceiving a book in his hand and smoaking likewise theinformation of the cassock, to change his thoughts, and made a smalladvance to conversation on his side by saying, "Sir, I suppose you arenot one of these parts?"

Adams immediately told him, "No; that he was a traveller, and invited bythe beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little and amusehimself with reading. "--"I may as well repose myself too, " said thesportsman, "for I have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil abird 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 theneighbourhood, have killed it all. "--"It is very probable, " cries Adams, "for shooting is their profession. "--"Ay, shooting the game, " answeredthe other; "but I don't see they are so forward to shoot our enemies. Idon't like that affair of Carthagena; if I had been there, I believe Ishould have done other-guess things, d--n me: what's a man's life whenhis country demands it? a man who won't sacrifice his life for hiscountry deserves to be hanged, d--n me. " Which words he spoke with soviolent a gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so fierce acountenance, that he might have frightened a captain of trained bands atthe head of his company; but Mr Adams was not greatly subject to fear;he told him intrepidly that he very much approved his virtue, butdisliked his swearing, and begged him not to addict himself to so bad acustom, without which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did. Indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he told the gentleman hewould willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generousway of thinking; that, if he pleased to sit down, he should be greatlydelighted to commune with him; for, though he was a clergyman, he wouldhimself be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his life forhis country. 

The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; and then the latter began, asin the following chapter, a discourse which we have placed by itself, asit 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 gentlemanappears in a political light. _

"I do assure you, sir" (says he, taking the gentleman by the hand), "Iam heartily glad to meet with a man of your kidney; for, though I am apoor parson, I will be bold to say I am an honest man, and would not doan ill thing to be made a bishop; nay, though it hath not fallen in myway to offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not been without opportunitiesof suffering for the sake of my conscience, I thank Heaven for them; forI have had relations, though I say it, who made some figure in theworld; particularly a nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of acorporation. He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy; and Ibelieve would do what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks likeextreme vanity in me to affect being a man of such consequence as tohave so great an interest in an alderman; but others have thought sotoo, as manifestly appeared by the rector, whose curate I formerly was, sending for me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if Iexpected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephew to votefor one Colonel Courtly, a gentleman whom I had never heard tidings oftill that instant. I told the rector I had no power over my nephew'svote (God forgive me for such prevarication!); that I supposed he wouldgive it according to his conscience; that I would by no means endeavourto influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it was in vain toequivocate; that he knew I had already spoke to him in favour of esquireFickle, my neighbour; and, indeed, it was true I had; for it was at aseason when the church was in danger, and when all good men expectedthey knew not what would happen to us all. I then answered boldly, if hethought I had given my promise, he affronted me in proposing any breachof it. Not to be too prolix; I persevered, and so did my nephew, in theesquire's interest, who was chose chiefly through his means; and so Ilost my curacy, Well, sir, but do you think the esquire ever mentioned aword of the church? _Ne verbum quidem, ut ita dicam_: within two yearshe got a place, and hath ever since lived in London; where I have beeninformed (but God forbid I should believe that, ) that he never so muchas goeth to church. I remained, sir, a considerable time without anycure, and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which I preached onthe indisposition of a clergyman; but this by the bye. At last, when MrFickle got his place, Colonel Courtly stood again; and who should makeinterest 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 andstate, had the confidence to sollicit my nephew for him; and the colonelhimself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, which I refusedin favour of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us he would sacrificeeverything to his country; and I believe he would, except his hunting, which he stuck so close to, that in five years together he went buttwice up to parliament; and one of those times, I have been told, neverwas within sight of the House. However, he was a worthy man, and thebest friend I ever had; for, by his interest with a bishop, he got mereplaced into my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocketto buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. He had our interestwhile he lived, which was not many years. On his death I had freshapplications made to me; for all the world knew the interest I had withmy good nephew, who now was a leading man in the corporation; and SirThomas Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver's, proposedhimself a candidate. He was then a young gentleman just come from histravels; and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs which, formy part, I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a thousand votes heshould have had them all. I engaged my nephew in his interest, and hewas elected; and a very fine parliament-man he was. They tell me he madespeeches of an hour long, and, I have been told, very fine ones; but hecould never persuade the parliament to be of his opinion. _Non omniapossumus omnes_. He promised me a living, poor man! and I believe Ishould have had it, but an accident happened, which was, that my ladyhad promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I never heard tillafterwards; 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 leisureto see me. I believe it was partly my lady's fault too, who did notthink my dress good enough for the gentry at her table. However, I mustdo him the justice to say he never was ungrateful; and I have alwaysfound his kitchen, and his cellar too, open to me: many a time, afterservice on a Sunday--for I preach at four churches--have I recruited myspirits with a glass of his ale. Since my nephew's death, thecorporation is in other hands; and I am not a man of that consequence Iwas formerly. I have now no longer any talents to lay out in the serviceof my country; and to whom nothing is given, of him can nothing berequired. However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach of anelection, I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I havethe pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas and the otherhonest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me these fiveyears to procure an ordination for a son of mine, who is now nearthirty, hath an infinite stock of learning, and is, I thank Heaven, ofan unexceptionable life; though, as he was never at an university, thebishop refuses to ordain him. Too much care cannot indeed be taken inadmitting any to the sacred office; though I hope he will never act soas to be a disgrace to any order, but will serve his God and his countryto 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 Ihave 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 notdistrust him, for he is a good boy; and if Providence should throw it inhis way to be of as much consequence in a public light as his fatheronce was, I can answer for him he will use his talents as honestly as Ihave done. "

CHAPTER IX. 

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

The gentleman highly commended Mr Adams for his good resolutions, andtold him, "He hoped his son would tread in his steps;" adding, "that ifhe 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 hiscountry, 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 loveforsooth. I would have all such fellows hanged, sir; I would have themhanged. " Adams answered, "That would be too severe; that men did notmake themselves; and if fear had too much ascendance in the mind, theman was rather to be pitied than abhorred; that reason and time mightteach 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 andcopied Nature, hath taught us this lesson; for Paris fights and Hectorruns away. Nay, we have a mighty instance of this in the history oflater ages, no longer ago than the 705th year of Rome, when the greatPompey, who had won so many battles and been honoured with so manytriumphs, and of whose valour several authors, especially Cicero andPaterculus, have formed such elogiums; this very Pompey left the battleof Pharsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to his tent, where hesat like the most pusillanimous rascal in a fit of despair, and yieldeda victory, which was to determine the empire of the world, to Caesar. Iam 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, hadhe taken any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped hewould consider better, and retract them. The gentleman answered withgreat warmth, and talked much of courage and his country, till, perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams, "What place he intended forthat night?" He told him, "He waited there for the stage-coach. "--"Thestage-coach, sir!" said the gentleman; "they are all passed by long ago. You may see the last yourself almost three miles before us. "--"I protestand 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; andthat, if he did not know his way, he would be in danger of losinghimself on the downs, for it would be presently dark; and he mightramble about all night, and perhaps find himself farther from hisjourney's end in the morning than he was now. " He advised him, therefore, "to accompany him to his house, which was very little out ofhis way, " assuring him "that he would find some country fellow in hisparish who would conduct him for sixpence to the city where he wasgoing. " Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, thegentleman renewing his discourse on courage, and the infamy of not beingready, at all times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. Nightovertook them much about the same time as they arrived near some bushes;whence, on a sudden, they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in afemale voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his companion'shand. "What are you doing?" said he. "Doing!" said Adams; "I amhastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains aremurdering. " "You are not mad enough, I hope, " says the gentleman, trembling: "do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and thatthe robbers are most probably furnished with pistols loaded withbullets? This is no business of ours; let us make as much haste aspossible out of the way, or we may fall into their hands ourselves. " Theshrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but snapt his fingers, and, brandishing his crabstick, made directly to the place whence thevoice issued; and the man of courage made as much expedition towards hisown home, whither he escaped in a very short time without once lookingbehind him; where we will leave him, to contemplate his own bravery, andto 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 womanstruggling with a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almostoverpowered her. The great abilities of Mr Adams were not necessary tohave formed a right judgment of this affair on the first sight. He didnot, therefore, want the entreaties of the poor wretch to assist her;but, lifting up his crabstick, he immediately levelled a blow at thatpart of the ravisher's head where, according to the opinion of theancients, the brains of some persons are deposited, and which he hadundoubtedly let forth, had not Nature (who, as wise men have observed, equips all creatures with what is most expedient for them) taken aprovident care (as she always doth with those she intends forencounters) to make this part of the head three times as thick as thoseof ordinary men who are designed to exercise talents which are vulgarlycalled rational, and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obligedto leave some room for them in the cavity of the skull; whereas, thoseingredients being entirely useless to persons of the heroic calling, shehath an opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it lesssubject to any impression, or liable to be cracked or broken: andindeed, in some who are predestined to the command of armies andempires, she is supposed sometimes to make that part perfectly solid. 

As a game cock, when engaged in amorous toying with a hen, if perchancehe espies another cock at hand, immediately quits his female, andopposes himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on the information ofthe crabstick, immediately leap from the woman and hasten to assail theman. 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'sbreast where the heart is lodged. Adams staggered at the violence of theblow, when, throwing away his staff, he likewise clenched that fistwhich we have before commemorated, and would have discharged it full inthe breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it with hisleft hand, at the same time darting his head (which some modern heroesof the lower class use, like the battering-ram of the ancients, for aweapon of offence; another reason to admire the cunningness of Nature, in composing it of those impenetrable materials); dashing his head, Isay, into the stomach of Adams, he tumbled him on his back; and, nothaving any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have restrainedhim 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 lefthand, 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 hehad done his business;" or, in the language of poetry, "that he had senthim 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 anyboxing champion in the universe, lay still only to watch hisopportunity; and now, perceiving his antagonist to pant with hislabours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and with such success thathe overturned him, and became his superior; when, fixing one of hisknees in his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, "It is my turnnow;" and, after a few minutes' constant application, he gave him sodexterous a blow just under his chin that the fellow no longer retainedany 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 eventhe 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, Iam terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet; but God forgive me what I havedone in defence of innocence!" The poor wretch, who had been some timein recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, during theengagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear even from runningaway, hearing her champion was victorious, came up to him, but notwithout apprehensions even of her deliverer; which, however, she wassoon relieved from by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. Theywere both standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, andwhich Adams wished to see stir much more than the woman did, when heearnestly begged her to tell him "by what misfortune she came, at such atime of night, into so lonely a place. " She acquainted him, "She wastravelling towards London, and had accidentally met with the person fromwhom he had delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his journeyto the same place, and would keep her company; an offer which, suspecting no harm, she had accepted; that he told her they were at asmall distance from an inn where she might take up her lodging thatevening, and he would show her a nearer way to it than by following theroad; that if she had suspected him (which she did not, he spoke sokindly to her), being alone on these downs in the dark, she had no humanmeans to avoid him; that, therefore, she put her whole trust inProvidence, 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 toexecute his wicked will, when, she thanked G--, he timely came up andprevented him. " Adams encouraged her for saying she had put her wholetrust in Providence, and told her, "He doubted not but Providence hadsent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. He wishedindeed he had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but G--'s will bedone;" said, "He hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse him inthe 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 wouldbe properer to make his escape, or to deliver himself into the hands ofjustice; which meditation ended as the reader will see in thenext chapter. 

CHAPTER X. 

_Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the precedingadventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities; and who thewoman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to hisvictorious arm. _

The silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night and lonelinessof the place, struck dreadful apprehension into the poor woman's mind;she began to fear as great an enemy in her deliverer as he haddelivered her from; and as she had not light enough to discover the ageof Adams, and the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspectedhe had used her as some very honest men have used their country; and hadrescued her out of the hands of one rifler in order to rifle herhimself. Such were the suspicions she drew from his silence; but indeedthey were ill-grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, wiselyweighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of thetwo methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgmentsometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the other; for bothseemed to him so equally advisable and so equally dangerous, thatprobably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, onthat very spot, before he had taken any resolution; at length he liftedup his eyes, and spied a light at a distance, to which he instantlyaddressed himself with _Heus tu, traveller, heus tu!_ He presently heardseveral voices, and perceived the light approaching toward him. Thepersons who attended the light began some to laugh, others to sing, andothers to hollow, at which the woman testified some fear (for she hadconcealed her suspicions of the parson himself); but Adams said, "Be ofgood cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Providence whichhath hitherto protected thee, and never will forsake the innocent. "These people, who now approached, were no other, reader, than a set ofyoung fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit of a diversion whichthey call bird-batting. This, if you are ignorant of it (as perhaps ifthou hast never travelled beyond Kensington, Islington, Hackney, or theBorough, thou mayst be), I will inform thee, is performed by holding alarge clap-net before a lanthorn, and at the same time beating thebushes; for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places ofrest, or roost, immediately make to the light, and so are inticedwithin the net. Adams immediately told them what happened, and desiredthem to hold the lanthorn to the face of the man on the ground, for hefeared 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 youngwoman; for whose departure he had patiently waited, that he mightlikewise withdraw himself, having no longer hopes of succeeding in hisdesires, which were moreover almost as well cooled by Mr Adams as theycould have been by the young woman herself had he obtained his utmostwish. 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 thebarbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. Gentlemen, " said he, "youare luckily come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who wouldotherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman, wholed me hither out of my way from the high-road, and both falling on mehave used me as you see. " Adams was going to answer, when one of theyoung fellows cried, "D--n them, let's carry them both before thejustice. " The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up hisvoice, but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him; and oneholding the lanthorn to his face, they all agreed he had the mostvillainous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney's clerk, whowas of the company, declared he was sure he had remembered him at thebar. As to the woman, her hair was dishevelled in the struggle, and hernose had bled; so that they could not perceive whether she was handsomeor ugly, but they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. Andsearching her pockets, as they did those of Adams, for money, which thefellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a purse with some goldin it, which abundantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offeredto swear to it. Mr Adams was found to have no more than one halfpennyabout him. This the clerk said "was a great presumption that he was anold offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman. " To whichall the rest readily assented. 

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

Whilst they were on their way the clerk informed the rest that thisadventure would prove a very beneficial one; for that they would all beentitled to their proportions of £80 for apprehending the robbers. Thisoccasioned a contention concerning the parts which they had severallyborne in taking them; one insisting he ought to have the greatest share, for he had first laid his hands on Adams; another claiming a superiorpart for having first held the lanthorn to the man's face on the ground, by which, he said, "the whole was discovered. " The clerk claimedfour-fifths of the reward for having proposed to search the prisoners, and likewise the carrying them before the justice: he said, "Indeed, instrict justice, he ought to have the whole. " These claims, however, they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed all toagree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated whatmoney should be allotted to the young fellow who had been employed onlyin holding the nets. He very modestly said, "That he did not apprehendany large proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would allowhim something; he desired them to consider that they had assigned theirnets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any inlaying 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 shareimaginable, and should think that rather their bounty than his merit. "But they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever, theclerk particularly swearing, "If they gave him a shilling they might dowhat they pleased with the rest; for he would not concern himself withthe affair. " This contention was so hot, and so totally engaged theattention of all the parties, that a dexterous nimble thief, had he beenin Mr Adams's situation, would have taken care to have given the justiceno trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art of a Sheppardto escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so muchbefriended him; but Adams trusted rather to his innocence than hisheels, and, without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance(which was impossible, as there were six lusty young fellows, besidesthe villain himself, present), he walked with perfect resignation theway they thought proper to conduct him. 

Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations during their journey; atlast, poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his mind, he could not refrainsighing forth his name, which being heard by his companion inaffliction, she cried with some vehemence, "Sure I should know thatvoice; you cannot certainly, sir, be Mr Abraham Adams?"--"Indeed, damsel, " says he, "that is my name; there is something also in yourvoice which persuades me I have heard it before. "--"La! sir, " says she, "don't you remember poor Fanny?"--"How, Fanny!" answered Adams: "indeedI very well remember you; what can have brought you hither?"--"I havetold you, sir, " replied she, "I was travelling towards London; but Ithought you mentioned Joseph Andrews; pray what is become of him?"--"Ileft him, child, this afternoon, " said Adams, "in the stage-coach, inhis way towards our parish, whither he is going to see you. "--"To seeme! La, sir, " answered Fanny, "sure you jeer me; what should he be goingto see me for?"--"Can you ask that?" replied Adams. "I hope, Fanny, youare 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 hadanything to say to him, but as one fellow-servant might to another. "--"Iam sorry to hear this, " said Adams; "a virtuous passion for a young manis what no woman need be ashamed of. You either do not tell me truth, oryou are false to a very worthy man. " Adams then told her what hadhappened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively; and a sighoften escaped from her, notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to thecontrary; nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousandquestions, which would have assured any one but Adams, who never sawfarther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of apassion she endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that this poorgirl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune, by some of the servantsbelonging to the coach which we have formerly mentioned to have stopt atthe inn while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that instantabandoned the cow she was milking, and, taking with her a little bundleof clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth in her ownpurse, without consulting any one, immediately set forward in pursuit ofone whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved withinexpressible violence, though with the purest and most delicatepassion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend hercharacter to all our female readers, and not greatly surprize such ofour 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 oflearning. _

Their fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dispute concerningthe division of the reward for apprehending these innocent people, thatthey attended very little to their discourse. They were now arrived atthe justice's house, and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint hisworship that they had taken two robbers and brought them before him. Thejustice, who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not yetfinished his dinner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into thestable, whither they were attended by all the servants in the house, andall the people in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see themwith as much curiosity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, orthat 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 believedthey should have good sport in their examination, he ordered them intohis presence. They had no sooner entered the room than he began torevile them, saying, "That robberies on the highway were now grown sofrequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, and assuredthem they both should be made examples of at the ensuing assizes. " Afterhe 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 witnessesagainst them. " Which he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in themeantime. Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the depositionof the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice employedhimself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by allthe company at table. One asked, "Whether she was to be indicted for ahighwayman?" Another whispered in her ear, "If she had not providedherself a great belly, he was at her service. " A third said, "Hewarranted she was a relation of Turpin. " To which one of the company, agreat wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered, "He believedshe was nearer related to Turpis;" at which there was an universallaugh. 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 thejustice, "do you go robbing in the dress of a clergyman? let me tell youyour 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 beexalted above the heads of the people;" at which there was a secondlaugh. And now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise inspirits; 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, "Hedeserved scourging for his pronunciation. " The witty fellow answered, "What do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer the firsttime? 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 aparson! Why didst not steal some of the parson's Latin as well as hisgown?" Another at the table then answered, "If he had, you would havebeen too hard for him; I remember you at the college a very devil atthis sport; I have seen you catch a freshman, for nobody that knew youwould 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 Iend 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 couldhold no longer: "Friend, " said he, "I have a boy not above eight yearsold 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 onthe table. "And I'll go your halves, " cries the other. "Done, " answeredAdams; but upon applying to his pocket he was forced to retract, and ownhe had no money about him; which set them all a-laughing, and confirmedthe triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more than theapprobation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he mustgo a little longer to school before he attempted to attack thatgentleman in Latin. 

The clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the fellowhimself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered them tothe justice; who, having sworn the several witnesses without reading asyllable, 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 foryourself when you come on your trial: we are not trying you now; I shallonly commit you to gaol: if you can prove your innocence at size, youwill 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: "Ibeg you would at least hear me before you sign the mittimus. " "Whatsignifies all you can say?" says the justice: "is it not here in blackand white against you? I must tell you you are a very impertinent fellowto 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 bookwritten, as he apprehended, in cyphers; for no one could read a word init. "Ay, " says the justice, "the fellow may be more than a commonrobber, he may be in a plot against the Government. Produce the book. "Upon which the poor manuscript of Aeschylus, which Adams had transcribedwith his own hand, was brought forth; and the justice, looking at it, shook his head, and, turning to the prisoner, asked the meaning of thosecyphers. "Cyphers?" answered Adams, "it is a manuscript of Aeschylus. ""Who? who?" said the justice. Adams repeated, "Aeschylus. " "That is anoutlandish name, " cried the clerk. "A fictitious name rather, Ibelieve, " said the justice. One of the company declared it looked verymuch 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 verylong time since I have seen any Greek. " "There's one, " says he, turningto the parson of the parish, who was present, "will tell usimmediately. " The parson, taking up the book, and putting on hisspectacles and gravity together, muttered some words to himself, andthen pronounced aloud--"Ay, indeed, it is a Greek manuscript; a veryfine piece of antiquity. I make no doubt but it was stolen from the sameclergyman from whom the rogue took the cassock. " "What did the rascalmean by his Aeschylus?" says the justice. "Pooh!" answered the doctor, with a contemptuous grin, "do you think that fellow knows anything ofthis book? Aeschylus! ho! ho! I see now what it is--a manuscript of oneof the fathers. I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of moneyfor such a piece of antiquity. Ay, ay, question and answer. Thebeginning is the catechism in Greek. Ay, ay, _Pollaki toi_: What's yourname?"--"Ay, what's your name?" says the justice to Adams; who answered, "It is Aeschylus, and I will maintain it. "--"Oh! it is, " says thejustice: "make Mr Aeschylus his mittimus. I will teach you to banter mewith a false name. "

One of the company, having looked steadfastly at Adams, asked him, "Ifhe did not know Lady Booby?" Upon which Adams, presently calling him tomind, answered in a rapture, "O squire! are you there? I believe youwill inform his worship I am innocent. "--"I can indeed say, " replied thesquire, "that I am very much surprized to see you in this situation:"and then, addressing himself to the justice, he said, "Sir, I assureyou Mr Adams is a clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a verygood character. I wish you would enquire a little farther into thisaffair; 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 desireto commit him, not I: I will commit the woman by herself, and take yourbail for the gentleman: look into the book, clerk, and see how it is totake bail--come--and make the mittimus for the woman as fast as youcan. "--"Sir, " cries Adams, "I assure you she is as innocent asmyself. "--"Perhaps, " said the squire, "there may be some mistake! praylet us hear Mr Adams's relation. "--"With all my heart, " answered thejustice; "and give the gentleman a glass to wet his whistle before hebegins. 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 thecommission. " Adams then began the narrative, in which, though he wasvery prolix, he was uninterrupted, unless by several hums and hahs ofthe justice, and his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to himmost material. When he had finished, the justice, who, on what thesquire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his bareaffirmation, notwithstanding the depositions on oath to the contrary, began to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, whomhe ordered to stand forth, but in vain; the said witness, long sincefinding what turn matters were likely to take, had privily withdrawn, without attending the issue. The justice now flew into a violentpassion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocentfellows who had been imposed on as well as himself. He swore, "They hadbest find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him beforehim within two days, or he would bind them all over to their goodbehaviour. " They all promised to use their best endeavours to thatpurpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice insisted that Mr Adamsshould sit down and take a glass with him; and the parson of the parishdelivered him back the manuscript without saying a word; nor wouldAdams, who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, shewas, at her own request, recommended to the care of a maid-servant ofthe house, who helped her to new dress and clean herself. 

The company in the parlour had not been long seated before they werealarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the persons who hadapprehended Adams and Fanny had been regaling, according to the customof the house, with the justice's strong beer. These were all fallentogether by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. Thejustice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his presence soonput 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 forapprehending him had belonged. " All the company laughed at this, exceptAdams, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, andsaid, "He was concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. That heremembered a story something like it in one of the parishes where hiscure lay:--There was, " continued he, "a competition between three youngfellows for the place of the clerk, which I disposed of, to the best ofmy abilities, according to merit; that is, I gave it to him who had thehappiest knack at setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner establishedin his place than a contention began between the two disappointedcandidates concerning their excellence; each contending on whom, hadthey two been the only competitors, my election would have fallen. Thisdispute frequently disturbed the congregation, and introduced a discordinto the psalmody, till I was forced to silence them both. But, alas!the litigious spirit could not be stifled; and, being no longer able tovent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fighting. It produced manybattles (for they were very near a match), and I believe would haveended fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity topromote one of them to his place; which presently put an end to thedispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties. " Adams thenproceeded to make some philosophical observations on the folly ofgrowing warm in disputes in which neither party is interested. He thenapplied himself vigorously to smoaking; and a long silence ensued, whichwas at length broke by the justice, who began to sing forth his ownpraises, and to value himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in thecause which had lately been before him. He was quickly interrupted by MrAdams, between whom and his worship a dispute now arose, whether heought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said Adams;in which the latter maintained he ought to have been committed, and thejustice as vehemently held he ought not. This had most probably produceda quarrel (for both were very violent and positive in their opinions), had not Fanny accidentally heard that a young fellow was going from thejustice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach in which Josephwas, put up. Upon this news, she immediately sent for the parson out ofthe parlour. Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though she wouldnot own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces ofthose who had suspected her of such a crime), was as fully determined togo with her; he accordingly took leave of the justice and company: andso ended a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set amagistrate and a divine together by the ears. 

CHAPTER XII. 

_A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to thegood-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 amost violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, orrather alehouse, where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, atoast 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 thestorm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid ofthe house, and the young fellow who was their guide; they all conceivedthey had never seen anything half so handsome; and indeed, reader, ifthou art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the nextparagraph; which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to setdown, humbly hoping that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion; for if itshould happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, weshould be perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might sayto ourselves, _Quod petis est nusquam_. Or, if the finest features in itshould set Lady ----'s image before our eyes, we should be still in asbad a situation, and might say to our desires, _Coelum ipsum petimusstultitia_. 

Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she was tall anddelicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women who seemrather intended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist than for anyother purpose. On the contrary, she was so plump that she seemedbursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confinedher swelling breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop toextend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbswhich she concealed; and though they were a little reddened by herlabour, yet, if her sleeve slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchiefdiscovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finestItalian 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. Herforehead was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise. Her eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the Roman; herlips red and moist, and her underlip, according to the opinion of theladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. Thesmall-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which was so large, itmight have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her left cheek producedone so near a neighbour to it, that the former served only for a foil tothe latter. Her complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, butoverspread with such a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchangedall their white for it: add to these a countenance in which, though shewas extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible; and asweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or description. To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, superior to theacquisition of art, and which surprized all who beheld her. 

This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, when herattention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room, which sungthe 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 mostmelodious that ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on Fanny, he criedout, "Bless us, you look extremely pale!"--"Pale! Mr Adams, " says she;"O Jesus!" and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung hisAeschylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the people of the housefor help. He soon summoned every one into the room, and the songsteramong the rest; but, O reader! when this nightingale, who was no otherthan Joseph Andrews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in the situation wehave described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind? Ifthou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his happiness, when, clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into hercheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with thesoftest accent whisper, "Are you Joseph Andrews?"--"Art thou my Fanny?"he answered eagerly: and, pulling her to his heart, he imprintednumberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present. 

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

Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she began torestrain the impetuosity of her transports; and, reflecting on what shehad done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was immediatelycovered with confusion; and, pushing Joseph gently from her, she beggedhim 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 eyesanother way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as shewent, she wondered who the creature was. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

_A dissertation concerning high people and low people, with MrsSlipslop's departure in no very good temper of mind, and the evil plightin 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 ashort separation, utterly forget her. And indeed the truth is, that sheremembered her very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, thatanything should appear unnatural in this our history, we will endeavourto explain the reasons of her conduct; nor do we doubt being able tosatisfy the most curious reader that Mrs Slipslop did not in the leastdeviate from the common road in this behaviour; and, indeed, had shedone otherwise, she must have descended below herself, and would havevery justly been liable to censure. 

Be it known then, that the human species are divided into two sorts ofpeople, to wit, high people and low people. As by high people I wouldnot be understood to mean persons literally born higher in theirdimensions than the rest of the species, nor metaphorically those ofexalted characters or abilities; so by low people I cannot be construedto intend the reverse. High people signify no other than people offashion, and low people those of no fashion. Now, this word fashion hathby long use lost its original meaning, from which at present it gives usa very different idea; for I am deceived if by persons of fashion we donot generally include a conception of birth and accomplishments superiorto the herd of mankind; whereas, in reality, nothing more was originallymeant by a person of fashion than a person who drest himself in thefashion of the times; and the word really and truly signifies no more atthis day. Now, the world being thus divided into people of fashion andpeople of no fashion, a fierce contention arose between them; nor wouldthose of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publicly to speak tothose of the other, though they often held a very good correspondence inprivate. In this contention it is difficult to say which partysucceeded; for, whilst the people of fashion seized several places totheir own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas, balls, &c. , thepeople of no fashion, besides one royal place, called his Majesty'sBear-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 themselvesfrom each other in a remarkable manner; for, as the people of fashionexalt themselves at church over the heads of the people of no fashion, so in the playhouse they abase themselves in the same degree undertheir feet. This distinction I have never met with any one able toaccount for: it is sufficient that, so far from looking on each other asbrethren in the Christian language, they seem scarce to regard eachother as of the same species. This, the terms "strange persons, peopleone does not know, the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes, " and manyother appellations evidently demonstrate; which Mrs Slipslop, havingoften heard her mistress use, thought she had also a right to use in herturn; and perhaps she was not mistaken; for these two parties, especially those bordering nearly on each other, to wit, the lowest ofthe high, and the highest of the low, often change their partiesaccording to place and time; for those who are people of fashion in oneplace are often people of no fashion in another. And with regard totime, it may not be unpleasant to survey the picture of dependance likea kind of ladder; as, for instance; early in the morning arises thepostillion, or some other boy, which great families, no more than greatships, are without, and falls to brushing the clothes and cleaning theshoes of John the footman; who, being drest himself, applies his handsto the same labours for Mr Second-hand, the squire's gentleman; thegentleman in the like manner, a little later in the day, attends thesquire; the squire is no sooner equipped than he attends the levee of mylord; which is no sooner over than my lord himself is seen at the leveeof the favourite, who, after the hour of homage is at an end, appearshimself to pay homage to the levee of his sovereign. Nor is there, perhaps, in this whole ladder of dependance, any one step at a greaterdistance from the other than the first from the second; so that to aphilosopher the question might only seem, whether you would chuse to bea great man at six in the morning, or at two in the afternoon. And yetthere are scarce two of these who do not think the least familiaritywith the persons below them a condescension, and, if they were to go onestep farther, a degradation. 

And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this long digression, whichseemed to me necessary to vindicate the great character of Mrs Slipslopfrom what low people, who have never seen high people, might think anabsurdity; but we who know them must have daily found very high personsknow us in one place and not in another, to-day and not to-morrow; allwhich it is difficult to account for otherwise than I have hereendeavoured; 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 whichanswers the end of our creation better than this. 

But to return to our history: Adams, who knew no more of this than thecat which sat on the table, imagining Mrs Slipslop's memory had beenmuch worse than it really was, followed her into the next room, cryingout, "Madam Slipslop, here is one of your old acquaintance; do but seewhat a fine woman she is grown since she left Lady Booby's service. "--"Ithink I reflect something of her, " answered she, with great dignity, "but I can't remember all the inferior servants in our family. " She thenproceeded to satisfy Adams's curiosity, by telling him, "When shearrived at the inn, she found a chaise ready for her; that, her ladybeing expected very shortly in the country, she was obliged to make theutmost haste; and, in commensuration of Joseph's lameness, she had takenhim with her;" and lastly, "that the excessive virulence of the stormhad driven them into the house where he found them. " After which, sheacquainted Adams with his having left his horse, and exprest some wonderat his having strayed so far out of his way, and at meeting him, as shesaid, "in the company of that wench, who she feared was no better thanshe should be. "

The horse was no sooner put into Adams's head but he was immediatelydriven out by this reflection on the character of Fanny. He protested, "He believed there was not a chaster damsel in the universe. I heartilywish, I heartily wish, " cried he (snapping his fingers), "that all herbetters were as good. " He then proceeded to inform her of the accidentof their meeting; but when he came to mention the circumstance ofdelivering her from the rape, she said, "She thought him properer forthe army than the clergy; that it did not become a clergyman to layviolent hands on any one; that he should have rather prayed that shemight be strengthened. " Adams said, "He was very far from being ashamedof what he had done:" she replied, "Want of shame was not thecurrycuristic of a clergyman. " This dialogue might have probably grownwarmer, had not Joseph opportunely entered the room, to ask leave ofMadam Slipslop to introduce Fanny: but she positively refused to admitany such trollops, and told him, "She would have been burnt before shewould have suffered him to get into a chaise with her, if she had oncerespected 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 tosee him a bishop. " He made the best bow he could, and cried out, "Ithank you, madam, for that right-reverend appellation, which I shalltake all honest means to deserve. "-"Very honest means, " returned she, with a sneer, "to bring people together. " At these words Adams took twoor three strides across the room, when the coachman came to inform MrsSlipslop, "That the storm was over, and the moon shone very bright. " Shethen sent for Joseph, who was sitting without with his Fanny, and wouldhave had him gone with her; but he peremptorily refused to leave Fannybehind, which threw the good woman into a violent rage. She said, "Shewould inform her lady what doings were carrying on, and did not doubtbut she would rid the parish of all such people;" and concluded a longspeech, full of bitterness and very hard words, with some reflections onthe clergy not decent to repeat; at last, finding Joseph unmoveable, sheflung herself into the chaise, casting a look at Fanny as she went, notunlike that which Cleopatra gives Octavia in the play. To say the truth, she was most disagreeably disappointed by the presence of Fanny: shehad, from her first seeing Joseph at the inn, conceived hopes ofsomething which might have been accomplished at an alehouse as well as apalace. Indeed, it is probable Mr Adams had rescued more than Fanny fromthe clanger of a rape that evening. 

When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slipslop, Adams, Joseph, andFanny assembled over the fire, where they had a great deal of innocentchat, pretty enough; but, as possibly it would not be very entertainingto the reader, we shall hasten to the morning; only observing that noneof 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 eyeswere too well employed to permit any desire of shutting them, to enjoyby themselves, during some hours, an happiness which none of my readerswho 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, andwhich all true lovers will represent to their own minds without theleast assistance from us. 

Let it suffice then to say, that Fanny, after a thousand entreaties, atlast 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 thankedher on his knees, and embraced her with an eagerness which she nowalmost returned, leapt up in a rapture, and awakened the parson, earnestly begging him "that he would that instant join their handstogether. " Adams rebuked him for his request, and told him "He would byno means consent to anything contrary to the forms of the Church; thathe had no licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one; thatthe Church had prescribed a form--namely, the publication of banns--withwhich all good Christians ought to comply, and to the omission of whichhe attributed the many miseries which befell great folks in marriage;"concluding, "As many as are joined together otherwise than G--'s worddoth allow are not joined together by G--, neither is their matrimonylawful. " Fanny agreed with the parson, saying to Joseph, with a blush, "She assured him she would not consent to any such thing, and that shewondered at his offering it. " In which resolution she was comforted andcommended by Adams; and Joseph was obliged to wait patiently till afterthe third publication of the banns, which, however, he obtained theconsent 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 legsurprizingly recovered, proposed to walk forwards; but when they wereall ready to set out, an accident a little retarded them. This was noother than the reckoning, which amounted to seven shillings; no greatsum if we consider the immense quantity of ale which Mr Adams poured in. Indeed, they had no objection to the reasonableness of the bill, butmany to the probability of paying it; for the fellow who had taken poorFanny's purse had unluckily forgot to return it. So that the accountstood 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 Adamswhipt out on his toes, and asked the hostess, "If there was no clergymanin that parish?" She answered, "There was. "--"Is he wealthy?" repliedhe; to which she likewise answered in the affirmative. Adams thensnapping his fingers returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out, "Heureka, Heureka;" which not being understood, he told them in plainEnglish, "They need give themselves no trouble, for he had a brother inthe parish who would defray the reckoning, and that he would just stepto his house and fetch the money, and return to them instantly. "

END OF VOL. I