FIELDINi
NOVELS AT 2s. 6cL
VicomtedeBragelonne,2vols. Dumas.
Lewis Arundel, by Smedley.
Frank Fairlegh, by Smedley.
Harry Coveraale, by Smedley.
The Colville Family, by Smedley.
Monte Cristo, Complete, by Dumas.
Memoirs of a Physician, by Dumas.
The Three Musketeers, and Twenty
Years After, by Dumas.
The Taking of the Bastile, Dumas.
Tristram Shandy, and Sentimental
Journey, by Sterne.
Carleton's Traits and Storie3 of the
Irish Peasantry, complete edition.
NOVELS AT TWO SHILLINGS.
W. H. AINSWORTH.
Boscobel.
Manchester Rebels.
Preston Fight.
Beau Nash.
Oapt. ARMSTRONG.
The Two Midshipmen.
The Medora.
The War Hawk.
The Young Commander.
BERTHA H. BUXTON.
Jennie of' The Prince's.'
"Won!
Fetterless.
Great Grenfell Gardens.
Oapt. CHAMTFiR.
Life of a Sailor.
Ben Brace.
Tom Bowling.
Jack Adams.
HENRY COCKTON.
Valentine Vox.
Stanley Thorn.
M. CROMMELIN.
My Love She's but a
Lassie Yet.
Queenie.
A Jewel of a Girl.
Orange Lily.
Black Abbey.
Mrs. CROWE.
Night Side of Nature.
Susan Hopley.
Linny Lockwood.
CHAS. DICKENS.
The Pickwick Papers.
Sketches by Boz.
Nicholas Nickleby.
Oliver Twist.
Martin Chuzzlewit.
Gnmaldi, the Clown.
Dombey and Son.
ALEX. DUMAS.
The Half-Brottiers.
Marguerite de Valois.
The Mohicans of Paris.
The Three Musketeers.
Twenty Years After.
Chicot, the Jester.
The 45 Guardsmen.
A. B. EDWARDS.
The Ladder of Life.
Half a Million of Money.
Miss FERRIER.
Marriage.
The Inheritance.
Destiny.
FIELDING.
Tom Jones.
Joseph Andrews.
Amelia.
GERSTAECKER.
A Wife to Order.
The Two Convicts.
The Feathered Arrow.
Each for Himself.
G. R. GLEIG.
Chelsea Veterans.
The Hussar.
Mrs. GORE.
The Money Lender
Pin Money.
The Dowager.
JAMES GRANT.
Romance of War.
The Aide-de-Camp.
j The Scottish Cavalier.
Bothwell.
Jane Seton; or, The
Queen's Advocate.
Philip Rollo.
Legends of the Black
Watch.
Mary of Lorraine.
Oliver Ellis; or, The
Fusiliers.
Lucy Arden ; or, Holly'
wood Hall.
Frank Hilton.
The Yellow Frigate.
Harry Ogilvie; or, The
Black Dragoons.
Arthur Blane.
Laura Everingham.
Captain of the Guard.
Letty Hyde's Lovers.
Cavaliers of Fortune.
Second to None.
Constable of France.
The Phantom Regiment
King's Own Borderers.
The White Cockade.
Dick Rodney.
First Love & Last Love.
The Girl He Married.
Lady Wedderb urn's
Wish.
Jack Manly.
Only an Ensign.
Adventures of Rob Roy.
Under the Red Dragon.
The Queen's Cadet.
Shall I Win Her ?
Fairer than a Fairy.
The Secret Dispatch.
One of the Six Hundred.
Morley Ashton.
Did She Love Him?
The Ross-shire Bufls.
Six Years Ago.
Vere of Ours.
The Lord Hermitage.
The Royal Regiment.
The Duke of Albany's
Highlanders.
The Cameronians.
The Dead Tryst.
Author of "Guy
Livingstona."
Guy Livingstone.
Barren Honour.
Maurice Dering.
Brakespeare.
Anteros.
Breaking a Butterfly.
Sans Merci.
Sword and Gown.
THEODORE HOOK.
Peregrine Bunce.
Cousin Geoffry.
Gilbert Gnrney.
The Parson's Daughter.
All in the Wrong.
Widow and Marqness.
Gurney Married.
iack Brag,
lax well.
Man of Many Friends.
Passion and Principle.
Merton.
Gervase Skinner.
Cousin William.
Fathers and Sons.
GEORGE ROVTLE-DGE &> SONS.
NOVELS AT TWO SHILLINGS, continued.
G. P. R. JAMBS.
The Brigand.
Morley Emstein.
Darnley.
Richelien.
The Gipsy.
Arabella Stuart.
The Woodman.
Agincourt.
Russell.
The King's Highway.
Castle of Ehrenstein.
The Stepmother.
Forest Days.
The Huguenot.
The Man at Arms.
A Whim and its Con-
sequences-
Henry Masterton.
The Convict.
Mary of Burgundy.
Attila.
Margaret Graham.
Gowrie.
Delaware.
Henry of Gnise.
Dark Scenes of History.
The Robber.
One in a Thousand.
The Smuggler.
De L'Orme.
Heidelberg.
Charles Tyrrell.
The False Heir.
Castleneau.
SirTheodore Broughton.
The Forgery.
The Gentleman of the
Old School.
The Jacquerie.
Philip Augustus.
The Black Eagle.
; Rose D'Albret.
The Old Dominion.
; Leonora D'Orco.
John Marston Hall.
Beaucharbp.
Arrah Neil.
My Aunt Pontypool.
R.M. JEPHSON.
Tom Bullkley of Lis-
. sington.
The Girl He Left Behind
Him.
A Pink Wedding.
The Roll of the Drum.
With the Colours.
'Strettoa
Old Margaret.
The Harveys.
Hornby Mills.
.L JOHN LANG.
Will He Marry Her ?
The Ex-Wife.
CHARLES LEVER.
Arthur O'Leary.
Con Cregan.
Horace Templeton.
S. LOVER.
Rory O'More.
. Handy Andy.
Lord LYTTON.
Pelham.
Paul Clifford.
Eugene Aram.
Last Days of Pompeii.
RienzL
Leila, and Pilgrims of
the Rhine.
The Last of the Barons.
Ernest Maltravers.
Alice; or, The Mysteries.
Night and Morning.
Godolphin.
The Disowned.
Devereux.
The Caxtons.
My Novel, 2 vols.
Lucretia.
Harold.
Zanoni.
What will He Do with
It ? 2 vols.
A Strange Story.
The Coming Race.
Kenelm Chillingly.
The Parisians, 2 vols.
Falkland, and Zicci.
Pausanius.
Capt. MARRYAT.
(Standard Novels), in bds.
Jacob Faithful,
japhet in Search of a
Father.
The King's Own.
Midshipman Easy.
Newton Forster.
Pacha of Many Tales.
Rattlin the Reefer.
The Poacher.
The Phantom Ship.
The Dog Fiend.
Percival Keene.
Frank Mildmay.
Peter Simple.
W. H. MAXWELL.
Stories of Waterloo.
Brian O'Linn; or, Luck
is Everything.
Captain Blake.
The Bivouac.
Hector O' Halloran.
Captain O'Sullivan.
Stories of the Penin-
sular War.
Wild Sports in the West.
. W. J. N. NEALE.
The Lost Ship,
The Captain's Wife.
The Pride of the Mess.
The Flying Dutchman.
Will Watch.
Cavendish.
Gentleman Jack.
Mrs. RADCLHTE.
Mysteries of Udolpho.
Romance of the Forest.
MAYNE REID.
The Quadroon.
The War Trail.
The Scalp Hunters.
The Rifle Rangers.
The Maroon.
The White Chief.
The Wild Huntress-
The White Gauntlet.
The Half-Blood.
Headless Horseman.
Lost Lenore.
The Hunters' Feast.
The Wood Rangers.
The Tiger Hunter.
The Boy Slaves.
The Cliff Climbers.
The Giraffe Hunters.
Afloat in the Forest.
The Ocean Waifs.
The White Squaw.
The Fatal Cord.
The Guerilla Chief.
RICHARDSON.
Clarissa Harlowe.
Pamela.
Sir Charles Grandison.
Sir WALTER SCOTT
Waverley.
Guy Mannering.
Old Mortality.
Heart of Midlothian.
Rob Roy.
Ivanhoe.
The Antiquary.
Bride of Lammermoor.
The Black Dwarf, and A
Legend of Montrose.
The Monastery. '
The Abbot.
Kenihvorth.
The Pirate.
The Fortunes of Nigel.
Peveril of the Peak.
Quentin Durward.
St. Ronan's Well.
Redganntlet.
The Betrothed and High-
land Widow.
The Talisman, and Two
Drovers.
Woodstock.
The Fair Maid of Perth.
Anne of Geierstein.
Count Robert of Paris.
TheSurgeon'sDaughter.
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE <S> SONS.
NOVELS AT TWO SHILLINGS, continued.
The Widow Married.
The Ward.
Love and Jealousy.
JULES VERNE.
Adventures of Captain
Hatteras.
Twenty Thousand
Leagues under the Sea.
Five Weeks in a Bal-
loon, and a Journey to
Centre of the Earth.
Miss WETHERELL.
The Old Helmet.
Melbourne House.
Ellen Montgomery's
Bookshelf.
The Two School Girls.
The Wide, Wide World.
Queechy.
Author of' Whitefriars'
Whitefriars.
ALBERT SMITH.
The Marchioness of
Brinvilliers. [bury.
Adventures of Mr. Led-
Scattergood Family.
Christopher Tadpole.
The Pottleton Legacy.
SMOLLETT.
Roderick Random.
Humphry Clinker.
Peregrine Pickle.
ANNIE THOMAS.
False Colours.
The Dower House.
The Cross of Honour,
ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
GoldenLion of Granpere
John Caldigate.
Mrs. TROLLOPE.
One Fault.
The Widow Barnaby.
Whitehall. t
Cmsar Borgia.
Owen Tudor.
The Maid of Orleans-
Westminster Abbey.
Madeleine Graham.
Armourer's Daughter.
EDMUND YATES.
Running the Gauntlet,
Kissing the Rod.
The Rock Ahead.
Black Sheep.
A Righted Wrong.
The Yellow Flag.
The Impending Sword.
A Waiting Race.
Broken to Harness.
Two by Tricks.
A Silent Witness, [tient.
Dr. Wainwright's Pa-
Wrecked in Port.
Business of Pleasure.
Caleb Williams, by Godwin.
The Scottish Chiefs, by Miss Porter.
Torlogh O' Brien, by Le Fanu.
The Hour and the Man. Martineau.
The Pastor's Fireside. Jane Porter.
The Prairie Bird, by Sir C. Murray.
The Rifleman, by Capt. Rafter.
Salathiel, by Dr. Croly.
The Clockmaker, by " Sam Slick."
The Two Frigates, by Cupples.
The Bashful Irishman.
Deeds, Not Wc-rds, by M. M. Bell.
The Secret of a Life, ditto.
Murder will Out.
Sir Roland Ashton by Lady C. Long.
The Greatest Plague of Life, with
Cruikshank's Plates.
The Attache, by " Sam Slick."
The Green Hand, by Cupples.
Hajji Baba of Ispahan, by Morier.
Whom to Marry, with Cruikshank's
Plates. [" Sam Slick."
Letter Bag of the Great Western, by
Black and Gold, by P. Sanders.
Vidocq, the French Police Spy.
Gilderoy, by Fittis.
Singleton Fontenoy, by Hannay.
The Lamplighter, by Miss Cummins.
Gideon Giles the Roper. T. Miller.
The Wandering Jew, by Sue.
The Mysteries ot Paris, ditto.
Land and Sea Tales, "Old Sailor."
Mabel Vaughan, by Miss Cummins.
Peep o' Day, by Banim.
The Smuggler, ditto.
Stuart of Dunleath.Hon.Mrs.Norton.
I1 Adventuies of a Strolling Player.
The Solitary Hunter, by Palisser.
Kaloolah, by Mayo.
Won in a Canter, by " Old Calabar."
Blount Tempest. J. C. M. Bellew.
VARIOUS AUTHORS.
Mornings at Bow Street, with Cruik-
shank's Plates.
The Arctic Regions. P. L. Simmonds.
Miss Forrester. Author ofArchie
Lovell ''
The Pretty Widow, by Chas. Ross.
Recommended to Mercy.
Love Stories of English Watering
Places.
Saved by a Woman, by Author of
" No Appeal."
At His Gates, by Mrs. Oliphant
Helen, by Miss Edgeworth.
First Lieutenant's Story. Lady Long.
Clement Lorimer, by A. B. Reach.
Tom Cringle's Log. Michael Scott.
Private Life of an Eastern King.
Hearths & Watchfires. Col. Colomb.
The City of the Sultan, Miss Pardoe.
Through the Mist, by [eanie Hering.
Tales of the Coastguard. Warneford.
Leonard Lindsay, by A. B. Reach.
Traits and Stories of Irish Peasantry,
ist & 2nd series, 2 vols. Carleton.
Romance of Military Life.
Robber of the Rhine, by Ritchie.
The Polish Lancer, by Reclstab.
Jasper Lyle, by Mrs. Ward.
Flower of the Forest, by St. John.
Cruise of the Midge, by M. Scott.
Thaddeus of Warsaw. Jane Porter.
The Hazel hurst Mystery.
Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo.
Love or Lucre, by R. Black.
Strafford, by H. B. Baker.
The Prodigal Daughter, Mark Hope.
Madge Dunraven. [Kingston,
Roger Kyffin's Ward, by W. H. G,
Miss Roberts's Fortune. S.WinthroR.
An Uninhabited House. Mrs.Riddel i
Children of the Abbey, R, M. Roctu^
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE &• SONS,
. 3
THE
ADVENTURES
OF
JOSEPH ANDREWS
BY
HENRY FIELDING
AUTHOR OF " TOM JONES"
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
Broadway, Ludgate Hill
NEW YORK: 9, LAFAYETTE PLACE
FIELDING'S NOVELS.
TOM JONES.
AMELIA.
JOSEPH ANDREWS.
SMOLLETT'S NOVELS.
PEREGRINE PICKLE.
HUMPHRY CLINKER.
RODERICK RANDOM.
PEEEACE.
As it is possible the mere English reader may have a different idea
of romance from the author of these little volumes ; * and may
consequently expect a kind of entertainment not to be found, nor
which was even intended, in the following pages; it may not be
improper to premise a few words concerning this kind of writing,
which I do not remember to have seen hitherto attempted in our
language.
The epic, as well as the drama, is divided into tragedy and
comedy. Homer, who was the father of this species of poetry, gave
a pattern of both these, though that of the latter kind is entirely
lost; which, Aristotle tells us, bore the same relation to comedy
which his Iliad bears to tragedy: and, perhaps, that we have no
more instances of it among the writers of antiquity, is owing to the
loss of this great pattern, which, had it survived, would have
found its imitators equally with the other poems of this great
original.
And farther, as this poetry may be tragic or comic, I will not
scruple to say it may be> likewise either in verse or prose : for
though it wants one particular, which the critic enumerates in the
constituent parts of an epic poem, namely, metre; yet, when any
kind of writing contains all its other parts, such as fable, action,
characters, sentiments, and diction, ana is deficient in metre only;
it seems, I think, reasonable to refer it to the epic; at least, as no
critic has thought proper to range it under another head, or to
assign it a particular name to itself.
Thus, the Telemachus of the archbishop of Cambray appears to
me of the epic kind, as well as the Odyssey of Homer: indeed, it
is much fairer and more reasonable to give it a name common with
that species from which it differs only in a single instance, than to
confound it with those which it resembles in no other; such as
those voluminous works, commonly called romances; _ namely,
Clelia, Cleopatra, Astrsea, Cassandra, the grand Cyrus, and innumer-
* Joseph Andrews was originally published in two volumes, 12mo.
<jf 2,
iy PEEFACE.
able others, which contain, as I apprehend, very little instruction
or entertainment.
Now, a comic romance is a comic epic poem in prose; differing
from comedy, as the serious epic from tragedy; its action being
more extended and comprehensive: containing a much larger
circle of incidents, and introducing a greater variety of characters.
It differs from the serious romance in its fable and action, in this;
that as in the one these are grave and solemn, so in the other they
are light and ridiculous : it differs in its characters, by introducing
persons of inferior rank, and consequently of inferior manners;
whereas the grave romance sets the highest before us : lastly, in
its sentiments and diction, by preserving the ludicrous instead of
the sublime. In the diction, I think, burlesque itself may be some-
times admitted; of which many instances will occur in this work,
as in the description of the battles, and some other places, not
necessary to be pointed out to the classical reader; for whose
entertainment those parodies, or burlesque imitations, are chiefly
calculated.
But though we have sometimes admitted this in our diction, we
have carefully excluded it from our sentiments and characters ; for
there it is never properly_ introduced, unless in writings of the
burlesque kind, which this is not intended to be. Indeed, no two
species of writing can differ more widely than the comic and bur-
lesque; for, as the latter is ever the exhibition of what is mon-
strous and unnatural, and where our delight, if we examine it,
arises from the surprising absurdity, as in appropriating the man-
ners of the highest to the lowest, or e converso j so in the former
we should ever confine ourselves strictly to nature, from the just
imitation of which will flow all the pleasure we can this way con-
vey to a sensible reader. And, perhaps, there is one reason why
a comic writer should, of all others, oe the least excused from
deviating from nature, since it may not be always so easy for a
serious poet to meet with the great and the admirable; but life
everywhere furnishes an accurate observer with the ridiculous.
I have hinted this little concerning burlesque, because I have
often heard that name given to performances which have been
truly of the comic kind, from the author's having sometimes
admitted it in his diction only; which, as it is the dress of poetry,
does, like the dress of men, establish characters, the one of the
whole poem, and the other of the whole man, in vulgar opinion
beyond any of their greater excellences; but, surely, a certain
drollery in style, where characters and sentiments are perfectly
natural, no more constitutes the burlesque, than an empty pomp
and dignity of words, where everything else is mean and low, can
entitle any performance to the appellation of the true sublime.
And I apprehend my Lord Shaftesbury's opinion of mere bur-
lesque agrees with mine, when he asserts, there is no such thing to
PREFACE. V
he found in the writings of the ancients: but, perhaps, I have less
abhorrence than he professes for it; and that, not because I have
had some little success on the stage this way, but rather as it con-
tributes more to exquisite mirth and laughter than any other; and
these are probably more wholesome physic for the mind, and con-
duce better to purge away spleen, melancholy, and ill affections,
than is generally imagined. Nay, I will appeal to common observa-
tion, whether the same companies are not found more full of good
humour and benevolence, after they have been sweetened for two
or three hours with entertainments of this kind, than when soured
by a tragedy or a grave lecture. But to illustrate all this by an-
other science, in which, perhaps^ we shall see the distinction more
clearly and plainly; let us examine the works of a comic history-
painter, with those performances which the Italians call caricatura;
where we shall find the true excellence of the former to consist in
the exactest copying of nature; insomuch, that a judicious eye
instantly rejects anything outre, any liberty which the painter has
taken with the features of that alma mater; whereas, in the cari-
catura, we allow all license. Its aim is to exhibit monsters, not
men; and all distortions and exaggerations whatever are within
its proper province.
Nqw, what caricatura is in painting, burlesque is in writing;
and in the same manner the comic writer and painter correlate to
each other. And here I shall observe, that, as in the former the
painter seems to have the advantage, so it is in the latter infinitely
on the side of the writer; for the monstrous is much easier to
paint than describe, and the ridiculous to describe than paint.
And though, perhaps, this latter species does not in either
science so strongly affect and agitate the muscles as in the other:
yet it will be owned, I believe, that a more rational and useful
pleasure arises to us from it. He who should call the ingenious
Hogarth a burlesque painter, would, in my opinion, do him very
little honour; for sure it is much easier, much less the subject of
admiration, to paint a man with a nose, or any other feature, of a
preposterous size, or to expose him in some absurd or monstrous
attitude, than to express the affections of men on canvas. It has
been thought a vast commendation of a painter, to say his figures
seem to breathe; but surely it is a much greater and nobler
applause that they appear to think.
But to return. The ridiculous only, as I have before said, falls
within my province in the present work. Nor will some explana-
tion of tins word he thought impertinent by the reader, if he con-
siders how wonderfully it has heen mistaken even by writers who
nave professed it: for to what hut such a mistake can we attribute
the many attempts to ridicule the blackest villanies, and, what is
yet worse, the most dreadful calamities ? What could exceed the
absurdity of an author, who should write the comedy of Nero with
▼i PREFACE.
the merry incident of ripping up his mother's belly? or, what
would give a greater shock to humanity, than an attempt to expose
the miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule ? And yet the'
reader will not want much learning to suggest such instances to
himself. Besides, it may seem remarkable, that Aristotle, who is
so fond and free of definitions, has not thought proper to define the
ridiculous. Indeed, where he tells us it is proper to comedy, he
has remarked that villany is not its object; Dut he has not, as 1
remember, positively asserted what is. % Nor does the Abbe Belle-
garde, who has written a treatise on this subject, though he shows
us many species of it, once trace it to its fountain.
The only source of the true ridiculous, as it appears to me, is
affectation. But though it arises from one spring only, when we
consider the infinite streams into which this one branches, we shall
presently cease to admire at the copious field it affords to an
observer. Now affectation proceeds from one of these two causes,
vanity or hypocrisy: for as vanity puts us on affecting false cha-
racters, in order to purchase applause; so hypocrisy sets us on an
endeavour to avoid censure, by_ concealing our vices under an
appearance of their opposite virtues. And though these two
causes are often confounded (for there is some difficulty in dis-
tinguishing them), yet, as they proceed from very different motives,
so they are as clearly distinct in their operations: for, indeed, the
affectation which arises from vanity is nearer to truth than the
other; as it has not that violent repugnancy of nature to struggle
with, which that of the hypocrite has. It may be likewise noted,
that affectation does not imply an absolute negation of those quali-
ties which are affected; and therefore, though, when it proceeds
from hypocrisy, it be nearly allied to deceit; yet, when it comes
from vanity only, it partakes of the nature of ostentation : for
instance, the affectation of liberality, in a vain man, differs visibly
from the same affectation in the avaricious; for though the vain
man is not what he would appear, or has not the virtue he affects
to the degree he would be thought to have it; yet it sits less
awkwardly on him than on the avaricious man, who is the very
reverse of what he would seem to be.
From the discovery of this affectation arises the ridiculous,
which always strikes the reader with surprise and pleasure; and
that in a higher and stronger degree when the affectation arises
from hypocrisy then when from vanity: for to discover any one
to be the exact reverse of what he affects, is more surprising, and
consequently more ridiculous, than to find him a little deficient in
the quality he desires the reputation of. I might observe, that our
Ben Jonson, who of all men understood the ridiculous the best,
has chiefly used the hypocritical affectation.
Now from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities of
life, or the imperfections of nature, may become the objects of
PREFACE. Vii
ridicule. Surely he has a very ill-framed mind, who can look on
ugliness, infirmity, or poverty as ridiculous in themselves; nor do
I believe any man living, who meets a dirty fellow riding through
the streets in a cart, is struck with an idea of the ridiculous from
it; but if he should see the same figure descend frem_ his coach
and six, or bolt from his chair with his hat under his arm, lie
would then begin to laugh, and with justice. — In the same
manner, were we to enter a poor house, and behold a wretched
family shivering with cold, and languishing with hunger, it would
not incline us to laughter, at least we must have very diabolical
natures if it would; but should we discover there a grate, instead
of coals, adorned with flowers, empty plate or china dishes on the
sideboard, or any other affectation of riches and finery either on
their persons_ or in their furniture, we might then indeed be
excused for ridiculing so fantastical an appearance. Much less
are natural imperfections the object of derision: but when
. ugliness aims at the applause of beauty, or lameness endeavours
to display agility, it is then that these unfortunate circumstances,
which at first moved our compassion, tend only to raise our mirth.
The poet carries this very far:—
None are for being what they are in fault,
But for not being what they would be thought:
where, if the metre would suffer the word Ridiculous to close the
first line, the thought would be rather more proper. Great vices
are the proper objects of our detestation, smaller faults of our
pity; but affectation appears to me the only true source of the
ridiculous.
But perhaps it may be objected to me, that I have against my
own rules introduced vices, and of a very black kind, into this
work. To which I shall answer, first, that it is very difficult to
pursue a series of human actions, and keep clear from them:
secondly, that the vices to be found here, are rather the accidental
consequences of some human frailty or foible, than causes habitually
existing in the mind; thirdly, that they are never set forth as the
objects of ridicule, but detestation; fourthly, that they are
never the principal figure at that time on the scene ; and, lastly,
they never produce the intended evil.
# Having thus distinguished Joseph Andrews from the produc-
tions of romance writers on the one hand and burlesque writers on
the other, and given some few very short hints (for I intended no
more) of this species of writing, which I have affirmed to be
hitherto unattempted in our language; I shall leave to my good-
natured reader to apply my piece to my observations, and will
detain him no longer than with a word concerning the characters
in this work.
viii PREFACE.
And here I solemnly protest, I have no intention to vilify or
asperse any one: for though everything is copied from the book
of nature, and scarce a character or action produced which I have
not taken from my own observations and experience; yet I have
used the utmost care to obscure the persons by such different
circumstances, degrees, and colours, that it will be impossible ta
guess at them with any degree of certainty; and if it ever happens
otherwise, it is only where the failure characterized is so minute
that it is a foible only which the party himself may laugh at as
well as any other-
As to the character of Adams, as it is the most glaring in the
whole, so I conceive it is not to be found m any book now extant.
It is designed a character of perfect simplicity; and as the good-
ness of his heart will recommend him to the good-natured, so I
hope it will excuse me to the gentlemen of his cloth, for whom,
while they are worthy of their sacred order, no man can possibly
have a greater respect. They will, therefore, excuse me, notwith-
standing the low adventures in which he is engaged, that I have
made him a clergyman; since no other office could have given him
so many opportunities of displaying his worthy inclinations.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
Chap. I.—Of writing Lives in general, and particularly of Pamela; with
a Word, by tlie bye, of Colley Cibber, and others . Page 1
Chap. It.—Of Mr. Joseph Andrews, his Birth, Parentage, Education,
and great Endowments; with a word or two concerning
Ancestors .. .. .. .. .. 2
Chap. III.—Of Mr. Abraham Adams, the Curate; Mrs. Slipslop, the
Chambermaid; and others .. .. .. .. 4
Chap. IV.—What happened after their Journey to London .. .. 7
Chap. V.—The Death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and
mournful Behaviour of his Widow, and the great Purity of
Joseph Andrews .. .. .. .. .. .. 9
Chap. VI.—How Joseph Andrews wrote a Letter to his Sister Pamela .. 1
Chap. 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 .. .. .. .. 13
Chap. VIII.—In which, after some very fine Writing, the History goes on,
and relates an Interview between the Lady and Joseph; where
the latter has set an Example, which we despair of seeing
followed by his Sex in this vicious Age .. .. .. 16
Chap. 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 .. .. .. 20
Chap. X.—Joseph writes another Letter; his Transactions with Mr. Peter
Pounce, &c.; with his Departure from Lady Booby.. .. 23
Chap. XI.—Of several new Matters not expected .. .. .. 24
Chap. XII.—Containing many surprising Adventures which Joseph
Andrews met with on the Road, scarcely credible to those
have never travelled in a Stage-coach .. .. .. 27
Chap. 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 .. .. .. .. .. 32
Chap. XIV.—Being very full of Adventures, which suceeded each other at
the Inn .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 34
Chap. XV.—Showing how Mrs. Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and
how officious Mr. Barnabas and the Surgeon were to prose-
cute the Thief; with a Dissertation, accounting for their Zeal,
and that of many other Persons not mentioned in this
X CONTENTS.
Chap. 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.. Page
Chap. XVII.—A pleasant Discourse between the two Parsons and the
Bookseller, which was broken off by an unlucky Accident
happening in the Inn; which produced a Dialogue between
Mrs. Tow-wouse and her Maid, of no gentle kind ..
Chap. XVIII.—The History of Betty the Chambermaid, and an Account
of what occasioned the violent Scene in the preceding
Chapter .. .. .. ..
BOOK II.
Chap. I.—Of Divisions in Authors .. .. .. .. .. fib
Chap. II.—A surprising Instance of Mr. Adams's Short Memory, with
the unfortunate Consequences which it brought on Joseph .. 57
Chap. III.—The Opinion of two Lawyers concerning the same Gentleman,
with Mr. Adams's Inquiry into the Religion of his Host .. 60
Chap. IV.—The History of Leonora, or the unfortunate Jilt .. .. 65
Chap. V.—A dreadful Quarrel, which happened at the Inn where the
Company dined; with its bloody Consequences to Mr.
Adams .. .. .. .. .. .. ■ • 77
Chap. VI.—Conclusion of the unfortunate Jilt.. .. .. .. 83
Chap. VII.—A very short Chapter, in which Parson Adams went a great
Way .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 87
Chap. VIII.—A notable Dissertation by Mr. Abraham Adams, wherein
that Gentleman appears in a Political Light .. .. 89
Chap. IX.—In which the Gentleman descants on Bravery and Heroic
Virtue, till an unlucky Accident puts an End to the Discourse 91
Chap. X.—Giving an Account of the strange Catastrophe of the pre-
cedingAdventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh Cala-
mities; and who the Woman was who owed the Preservation of
her Chastity to his victorious Arm.. .. .. .. 95
Chap. XI.—What happened to them while before the Justice—a Chapter
very full of Learning .. .. .. .. .. 99
Chap. XII.—A very delightful Adventure, as well to the Persons con-
cemed, as to the good-natured Reader .. .. ..104
Chap. 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 .. .. .. .. .. ..107
Chap. XIV.—An Interview between Parson Adams and Parson Trulliber 112
Chap. XV.—An Adventure, the Consequence of a new Instance which
Parson Adams gave of his Forgetfulness .. .. ..117
Chap. XVI.—A very curious Adventure, in which Mr. Adams gave a much
greater Instance of the honest Simplicity of his Heart, than of
his Experience in the Ways of this World .. .. .. 119
Chap, XVII.—A Dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and his Host,
which, by the Disagreement in their Opinions, seemed to
threaten an unlucky Catastrophe, had it not been timely pre-
vented by the Lovers .. .. .. .. .. 125
CONTENTS.
BOOK IIL
Chap. I.—Matter Prefatory in praise of Biography .. .. Page 13»
Chap. II.—A Night-Scene, wherein several wonderful Adventures befell
Adams and his Fellow-Travellers .. .. .. ..134
Chap. III.—In which the Gentleman relates the History of his Life .. 141
Chap. IV.—A Description of Mr. Wilson's Way of Living—the tragical
Adventure of the Dog, and other grave Matters .. .. 160
Chap. V.—A Disputation on Schools, held on the Road, between Mr.
Abraham Adams and Joseph; and a Discovery not unwelcome
to them both .. .. .. .. .. .. 163
Chap. VI.—Moral Reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the Hunting
Adventure, and Parson Adams's miraculous Escape .. 106
Chap. VII.—A Scene of Roasting, very nicely adapted to the present Taste
and Times .. .. .. .. .. .. 174
Chap. VIII.—Which some Readers will think too Short, and others too
Long .. .. .. .. .. .. ..180
Chap. IX.—Containing as surprising and Bloody Adventures as can be
found in this, or perhaps any other authentic History .. 183
Chap. X.—A Discourse between the Poet and Player, of no other use in
this History but to divert the Reader .. .. .. 187
Chap. XI.—Containing the Exhortations of Parson Adams to his Friend
in Affliction; calculated for the Instruction and Improvement
of the Reader .. .. .. .. .. .. 190
Chap. XII.—More Adventures, which we hope will as much please as
surprise the Reader .. .. .. .. .. 19'J
Chap. XIII.—A curious Dialogue which passed between Mr. Abraham
Adams and Mr. Peter Pounce, better worth Reading than all
the Works of Colley Cibber, and many others .. ..198
BOOK IY.
Chap. I.—The Arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at Booby Hall .. 201
Chap. II.—A Dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and the Lady Booby 204
Chap. III.—What passed between the Lady and Lawyer Scout.. .. 207
Chap. IV.—A short Chapter, but very full of Matter; particularly the
» Arrival of Mr. Booby and his Lady .. .. .. 209
Chap. V.—Containing Justice Business; curious Precedents of Deposi-
tions, and other Matters necessary to be perused by all
Justices of the Peace and their Clerks .. .. .. 210
Chap. VI.—Of which you are desired to read no more than you like .. 215
Chap. VII.—Philosophical Reflections, the like not to be found in any
light French Romance—Mr. Booby's grave Advice to Joseph,
and Fanny's Encounter with a Beau .. .. .. 219
Chap. VIII.—A Discourse which happened between Mr. Adams, Mrs.
Adams, Joseph, and Faimy; with some Behaviour of Mr.
Adams, which may be called, tw some few Readers, very Low,
Absurd, and Unnatural .. .. •• . .. 225
Xii CONTENTS.
Chap. IX.—A Visit, which the polite Lady Booby and her polite Friend
paid the Parson .. .. .. .. .. Page 230
Chap. X.—The History of two Friends, which may afford a useful Lesson
to all those Persons who happen to take up their Residence in
Married Families.. .. .. .. .. 232
Chap. XI.—In which the History is continued.. .. .. .. 237
Chap. XII.—Where the good-natured Reader will see Something which
will give him no great Pleasure .. .. .. . • 240
Chap. XIII.—The Histody, returning to the Lady Booby, gives some Ac-
count of the terrible Conflict in her Breast, between Love and
Pride; with what happened on the present Discovery .. 241
Chap. XIV.—Containing several curious Night-Adventures, in which Mr.
Adams fell into many hair-breadth 'Scapes, partly owing to
his Goodness, and partly to his Inadvertency .. .. 245
Chap. XV.—The Arrival of Gaffer and Gammer Andrews, with another
Person not much expected; and a perfect Solution of the
Difficulties raised by the Pedlar .. .. .. .. 249
Chap. XVI.—Being the Last; in which this true History is brought to a
happy Conclusion .. .. .. .. .. see
THE
ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS.
BOOK I.
Chap. 1.—Of writing Lives in general, and particularly of Pamela; with a
Word, by the bye, of Colley Cibber and others.
It is a trite but true observation, that examples work more forcibly
on the mind than precepts; ana, if this be just in what is odious
and blameable, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and
praiseworthy. Here emulation most effectually operates upon us,
and inspires our imitation in an irresistible manner. A good man,
therefore, is a standing lesson to all his acquaintance, and of far
greater use in that narrow circle than a good book. But, as it
often happens that the best men are but little known, and conse-
quently cannot extend the usefulness of their examples a great
way, the writer may be called in aid to spread their history far-
ther, and to present the amiable pictures to those who have not
the happiness of knowing the originals; and so, by communicating
such valuable patterns to the world, he may, perhaps, do a more
extensive service to mankind, than the person whoselife originally
afforded the pattern.
In this light, I have always regarded the biographers who have
recorded the actions of great and worthy persons of both sexes;
not to mention those ancient writers, which, of late days, are little
read, being written in obsolete, and as they are generally thought,
unintelligible languages; such as Plutarch, Nepos, and others,
which I heard of in my youth. Our own language affords many
of excellent use and instruction, finely calculated to sow the seed3
of virtue in youth; and very easy to be comprehended by persons
of moderate capacity; such as the history of John the Great, who,
by his brave and heroic actions against men of large and athletic
bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the giant-killer; that
of an earl of Warwick, whose Christian name was Guy; the lives
of Argalus and Parthenia: and, above all, the history of those
seven worthy personages, the Champions of Christendom. In all
B
8 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
these, delight is mixed with instruction; and the reader is almost
as much imprcyed as entertained. But I pass by these and many
others, to mention two books lately published, which represent an
admirable pattern in either sex. The former of these, which deals
in male virtue, was written by the great person himself, who lived
the life he has recorded; and is by many thought to have lived
such a life only in order to write it: the other is communicated
to us by an historian, who borrows his lights, as the common
method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, I
believe, already conjectures 1 mean the lives of Mr. Colley Gibber,
and of Mrs. Pamela Andrews. How artfully docs the former,
by insinuating that he escaped being promoted to the highest
stations in the church and state, teach us a contempt of worldly
grandeur ! how strongly does he inculcate an absolute submission
to our superiors! Lastly, how completely does he arm us against
so uneasy, so wretched a passion, as the fear of shame! how
clearly does he expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom,
reputation!
What the female readers are taught, by the memoirs of Mrs.
Andrews, is so Avell set forth in the excellent essays or letters
prefixed to the second and subsequent editions of that work,
that it would be here a needless repetition. The authentic
history, with which I now present the public, is an instance of the
great good that book is likely to do, and of the prevalence of
example, which I have just observed; since, it will appear, that
it was by keeping the excellent pattern of his sister's virtues
before his eyes, that Mr. Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to
preserve his purity in the midst of such great temptations. I
shall only add, that this character of male chastity, though doubt-
less, as desirable and becoming in one part of the human species
as in the other, is almost the only virtue which the great apologist
has not given himself, for the sake of giving the example to his
readers/
Chap. TT.—Of Mr. Joseph Andrews, his Birth, Parentage, Education, and
great Endowments; with a word or two concerning Ancestors.
Mr. Joseph Andrews, the hero of our ensuing history, was
esteemed to be the only son of Gaffer and Gammer Andrews, and
brother to the illustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so
famous. As to his ancestors, we have searched with great
diligence, but little success; being unable to trace them farther
than his great-grandfather, who, as an elderly person in the
parish remembers to have heard his father say, was an excellent
cudgcl-pl? yer. Whether he had any ancestors before this; we
BOUND APPEENMCE. &
must leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding nothing
of sufficient certainty to iely on. However, we cannot omit
inserting an epitaph, which an ingenious friend of ours has
communicated:—
Stay, traveller, for underneath this pew
Lies, fast asleep, that merry man, Andrew :
When the last day's great sun shall gild the skies,
Then he shall from his tomb get up and rise.
Be merry while thou canst; for surely thou
Shalt shortly be as sad as he is now.
The words are almost out of the stone with antiquity. But it
is needless to observe that Andrew here is written without an s,
and is, besides, a Christian name. My friend moreover con-
jectures this to have been the founder of that sect of laughing
philosophers, since called Merry-Andrews.
To waive, therefore, a circumstance, which, though mentioned
in conformity to the exact rules of biography, is not greatly
material, I proceed to things of more consequence. Indeed, it is
sufficiently certain, that he had as many ancestors as the best man
living; and, perhaps, if we look five or six hundred years back-
wards, might be related to some persons of very great figure at
present, whose ancestors within half the last century are buried in
•as great obscurity. But suppose, for argument's sake, we should
admit that he had no ancestors at all, but had sprung up, accord-
ing to the modern phrase, out of a dung-hill, as the Athenians
pretended they themselves did from the earth, would not this
autokopros* have been justly entitled to all the praise arising
from his own virtues ? Would it not be hard, that a man, who
has no ancestors, should therefore be rendered incapable of
acquiring honour; when we see so many, who have no virtues,
enjoying the honour of their forefathers ?
At ten years old (by which time his education was advanced to
writing and reading), he was bound an apprentice, according to
the statute, to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr. Booby's by the
father's side. Sir Thomas having then an estate in his own
hands, the young Andrews was at first employed in what in the
country they call keeping birds. His office was to perform the
part the ancients assigned to the god Priapus, which deity the
moderns call by the name of Jack o'Lent; but his voice being so
extremely musical, that it rather allured the birds_ than terrified
them, he was soon transplanted from the fields into the dog-
kennel, where he was placed under the huntsman, and made what
sportsmen term whipper-in. Por this place likewise the sweetness
of his voice disqualified him; the dogs preferring the melody of
his chiding to all the alluring notes of the huntsman; who soon
* In English, sprung from a dunghilL
B 3
4 joseph andrews.
became so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to provide
otherwise for him; and constantly laid every fault the dogs were
at to the account of the poor boy, who was now transplanted to
the stable. Here he soon gave proofs of strength and agility
beyond his years, and constantly rode the most spirited ana
vicious horses to water, with an intrepidity which surprised every
one.
While he was in this station, he rode several races for Sir
Thomas, and this with such expertness and success, that the
neighbouring gentlemen frequently solicited the knight to permit
little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their matches: the best
gamesters, before they laid their money, always inquired which
horse little Joey was to ride; and the bets were rather propor-
tioned by the rider than by the horse himself: especially after he
had scornfully refused a considerable bribe to play booty on such
an occasion. This extremely raised Iris character, and so pleased
the Lady Booby, that she desired to have him (being now seven-
teen years of age) for her own foot-boy.
Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend on his lady,
to go on her errands, stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table,
and carry her prayer-book to church; at which place his voice
jave him an opportunity of distinguishing himself, by singing
Ssalms; he behaved likewise in every other respect so well at
ivine service, that it recommended him to the notice of Mr.
Abraham Adams, the curate, who took an opportunity one day,
as he was drinking a cup of ale in Sir Thomas's kitchen, to ask
the young man several questions concerning religion, with his
answers to which he was wonderfully pleased.
Chap, HI.—Of Mr. Abraham Adams, the Curate; Mrs. Slipslop, the
Chambermaid j and others.
Mr. Abraham Adams was an excellent scholar. He was a perfect
master of the Greek and Latin languages: to which he added a great
shaie of knoyied^e in the Oriental tongues, and could read and
translate French, Italian, and Spanish. He had applied many years
to the most severe study, and had treasured up a fund of learn-
ing rarely to be met with in a university : he was, besides, a man
of good sense, good parts, and good-nature; but was, at the same
time, as entirely ignorant of the ways of this world as an infant
just entered into it could possibly be. As he had never any
intention to deceive, so he never suspected such a design in others.
He was generous, friendly, and brave, to an excess; but simplicity
was his characteristic: he did, no more than Mr, Colley Cibber,
PARSON ADAMS.
apprehend any such passions as malice and envy to exist in man*
kind; which was indeed less remarkable in a country parson,
than in a gentleman who has passed his life behind the scenes;
—a place which has been seldom thought the school of imiocence;
and where a very little observation would have convinced the
reat apologist that those passions have a real existence in the
uman mind.
His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered him
equal to his office, so they made him an agreeable and valuable
companion, and had so much endeared and well recommended him
to a bishop, that at the age of fifty, he was provided with a
handsome income of twenty-three pounds a year; which, how-
ever, he could not make any great figure with, because he lived
in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a wife and six
children.
It was this gentleman who, having, as I have said, observed
the singular devotion of young Andrews, had found means to
question him concerning several particulars ; as, how many books
there were in the Hew Testament? which were they? how
many chapters they contained? and such like: to all which,
Mr. Adams privately said, he answered much better than Sir
Thomas, or two other neighbouring justices of the peace could
probably have done.
Mr. Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what time,
and by what opportunity, the youth became acquainted with
these matters. Joey told him, that he had very early learned to
read and write by the goodness of his father, who, though he
had not interest enough to get him into a charity-school, because
a cousin of his father's landlord did not vote on the right side icf
a churchwarden in a borough town, yet had been himself at the
expense of sixpence a week for his learning. He told him like-
wise, that ever since he was in Sir Thomas's family, he had
employed all his hours of leisure in reading good books; that he
had read the Bible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas a
Kempis; and that, as often as he could, without being per-
ceived, he had studied a great book which lay open in the hall
window, where he had read " as how the devil had carried away
half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one of the con-
gregation; and as how a field of corn ran down a hill, with all the
trees upon it, and covered another man's meadow." This suffi-
ciently assured Mr. Adams, that the good book meant could be no
other than Baker's Chronicle.
The curate, surprised to find such instances of industry and
application in a young man who had never met with the least
encouragement, asked him, if he did not extremely regret the
want of a liberal education, and the not having been born of
parents who might have indulged his talents and desire of know*
6 JOSEPH AWDBJSWS.
ledge? To which he answered, he hoped he had profited some
what better from the hooks he had read, than to lament his con-
dition in this world; that, for his part, he was perfectly content
with the state to which he was called: that he should endeavour
to improve his talent, which was all that was required of him : but
not repine at his own lot, nor envy those of his betters. "Well
said, my lad," replied the curate; " and I wish some who have read
many more good, books, nay, and some who have written good
books themselves, had profited so much bv them."
Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady than
through the waiting-gentlewoman; for Sir Thomas was too apt
to estimate men merely by their dress or fortune; and my lady
was a woman of gaiety, who had been blessed with a town eduea-
tion, and never spoke of any of her country neighbours by any other
appellation than that of the brutes. They both regarded the
curate as a kind of domestic only, belonging to the parson of the
parish, who was at this time at variance with the knight: for the
parson had for many years lived in a constant state of civil war,
or. which is perhaps as bad, of civil law, with Sir Thomas him-
self, and the tenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel
was _ a modus, by setting which aside an advantage of several
shillings per annum would have accrued to the rector • but he
had not yet been able to accomplish his purpose; and had reaped
hitherto nothing better from the suits, than the pleasure (which
he used indeed frequently to say was no small one) of reflecting
that he had utterly undone many of the poor tenants, though
he had at the same time greatly impoverished himself.
Mrs. Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, being herself the
ilaughter of a curate, preserved some respect for Adams: she
professed great regard for his learning, and would frequently
dispute with him on points of theology • but always insisted on a
deference to be paid to her understanding, as she had been fre-
quently at London, and knew more of the world than a country
parson could pretend to.
She had in these disputes a particular advantage over Adams ;
for she was a mighty affecter of hard words, which she used in
such a manner, that the parson, who durst not offend her by
calling her words in question, was frequently at some loss to
guess her meaning, and would have been much less puzzled by an
Arabian manuscript.
Adams therefore took an opportunitv one Gay, after a pretty
long discourse with her on the essence (or, as she pleased to term
it, the incense) of matter, to mention the case of young Andrews;
desiring her to recommend him to her lady, as a youth very
susceptible of learning, and one whose instruction in Latin he
would himself undertake: by which means he miuht be qualified
for a higher station than that of a footman; and added, she knew
AJtBIVAL IN LONDON. 7
it was in his master's power easily to provide for him m a better
manner. He therefore desired that the boy might be left pehind
under his care.
"La, Mr. Adams," said Mrs. Slipslop, "do you think my lad';
will suffer any preambles about any such matter ? She is go
to London very concisely, and I am confidous would not \r(<Zd
Joey behind on any account; for he is one of the genteelest rxng
fellows you may see in a summer's day; and I am confkk '/; she
would as soon think of parting with a pair of her grey -mares;
for she values herself as much on one as the other." Adams
would have interrupted her, but she proceeded: " And why is
Latin more necessitous for a footman than a gentleman ? It is
very proper that you clergymen must learn it, because you can't
preach without it; but I have heard gentlemen say in London,
that it is fit for nobody else. I am confidous my lady would be
angry with me for mentioning it; and I shall draw myself into
Mo such delemy."
At which words her lady's bell rang, and Mr. Adams was forced
to retire; nor could he gain a second opportunity with her before
their London journey, which happened a few days afterwards.
However, Andrews behaved very thankfully and gratefully to him
for his intended kindness, which he told him he never would
forget; and at the same time received from the good man many
admonitions concerning the regulation of his future conduct, ana
his perseverance in innocence and industry.
Chap. IV.—What happened after their Journey to London.
No sooner was young Andrews arrived at London, than he
began to scrape an acquaintance with his party-coloured brethren,
who endeavoured to make him despise his former course of life.
His hair was cut after the newest fashion, and became his chief
care; he went abroad with it all the morning in papers, and
dressed it out in the afternoon. They could not, however, teach
him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the town
abounded with. He applied most of his leisure hours to music,
in which he greatly improved himself; and became so perfect a
connoisseur in that art, that he led the opinion of all the other
footmen at an opera, and they never condemned or applauded
a single song contrary to his approbation or dislike. He was
a little too forward in riots at the playhouses and assemblies;
and when he attended his lady at church, which was but seldom,
he behaved with less seeming devotion than formerly: however,
if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals remained entirely
$ JOSEPH ANDREWS.
uncorrupted, though he was at the same time smarter and
gentecler than any of the beaux in town, either in or out of
very.
His lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the hand-
somest and genteelest footman in the kingdom, but that it was
a pity he wanted spirit, began now to find that fault no longer;
on the contrary, she was frequently heard to cry out, " Ay, there
is some life in this fellow." She plainly saw the effects which the
town air has on the soberest constitutions. _ She would now walk
out with him into Hyde Park in a morning, and when tired,
which happened almost every minute, would lean on his arm and
converse with him in great familiarity. Whenever she stepped
out of her coach, she would take him by the hand, and sometimes,
for fear of stumbling, press it very hard; she admitted him to
deliver messages at her bedside in a morning, leered at him_ at
table, and indulged him in all those innocent freedoms which
women of figure may permit, without the least sully of their
virtue. But though their virtue remains unsullied, yet now and
then some small arrows will glance on the shadow of it, their
reputation; and so it fell out to Lady Booby, who happened to
be walking arm-in-arm with Joey one morning in Hyae Park,
when Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentally by in their
coach. "Bless me," says Lady Tittle, "can I believe my eyes?
Is that Lady Booby ? "—" Surely," says Tattle. " But what
makes you surprised ?"—" Why, is not that her footman ?"
replied Tittle. At which Tattle laughed, and cried, " An old
business, I assure you: is it possible you should not have heard
it ? The whole town has known it this half-year."
The consequence of this interview wms, a whisper through a
hundred visits, which were separately performed by the two ladies*
the same afternoon, and might have had a mischievous effect, had
it not been stopped by two fresh reputations which were published
the day afterwards; and engrossed the whole talk of the town.
But whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous inclination of
defamers might entertain of Lady Booby's innocent freedoms, it
is certain they made 110 impression on young Andrews, who never
offered to encroach beyond the liberties which his lady allowed
him,—a behaviour which she imputed to the violent respect he
preserved for her, and which served only to heighten a something
she began to conceive, and vh;^u the next chapter will open a
little farther.
* 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.
TEMPTATION.
9
Chap. V.—The Death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and mourn*
ful Behaviour of his Widow, and the great Purity of Joseph Andrews.
At this time an accident happened, which put a stop to those
agreeable walks, which probably would have soon puffed up the
cheeks of Fame, and caused her to blow her brazen trumpet through
the town; and this was no other than the death of Sir Thomas
Booby, who, departing this life, left his disconsolate lady confined
to her house as closely as if she herself had been attacked by some
violent disease. _ During the first six days the poor lady admitted
none but Mrs. Slipslop, and three female friends, who made a party
at cards ; but on the seventh she ordered Joey, whom, for a good
reason, we shall hereafter call Joseph, to bring up her tea-kettle.
The lady, being in bed, called Joseph to her, bade him sit down,
and, having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked him if he
had ever been in love. Joseph answered, with some confusion, it
was time enough for one so young as himself to think on such
things. " As young as you are," replied the lady, " I am convinced
you are no stranger to that passion. Come, Joey," says she, " tell
me truly, who is the happy girl whose eyes have made a conquest
of you ?"
Joseph returned, that all the women he had ever seen were
equally indifferent to him. " 0 then," said the lady, " you are a
general lover. Indeed, you handsome fellows, like handsome
women, are very long and difficult in fixing; but yet you shall
never persuade me that your heart is so insusceptible of affection:
I rather impute what you say to your secrecy, a very commendable
quality, and what I am far from being angry with you for. Nothing
can be more unworthy in a young man, than to betray any
intimacies with the ladies."—"Ladies, madam!" said Joseph:
" I am sure I never had the impudence to think of any that deserve
that name."—"Don't pretend to too much modesty," said she,
"for that sometimes may be impertinent: but pray answer me this
question. Suppose a lady should happen to like you; suppose she
should prefer you to all your sex, and admit you to the ijme
familiarities as you might have hoped for if you had been born her
equal; are you certain that no vanity could tempt you to discov<£.*
her ? Answer me honestly, Joseph; have you so much more sense,
1 and so much more virtue, than you handsome young fellows gene-
rally have, who make no scruple of sacrificing our dear reputation
to your pride, without considering the great obligation we lay on
you, by our condescension and confidence ? Can you keep a secret,
my Joey?"—"Madam," says he. " I hope your ladyship can't tax
10 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
me with ever betraying the secrets of the family: and I hope, if
you was to turn me away, I might have that character of you."—'
" I don't intend to turn you away, Joey," said she, and sighed: " 1
am afraid it is not in my power."
She then raised herself a little in her bed, and discovered one of
the whitest necks that ever was seen; at which Joseph blushed,
" La!" says she, in an affected surprise, " what am 1 doing ? J
have trusted myself with a man alone, naked in bed: suppose yon
should have any wicked intentions upon iny honour, how should 1
defend myself?" Joseph protested that he never had the least
evil design against her. " rJo," says she "perhaps you may not
call your designs wicked; and perhaps they are not so." He swore
they were not. " You misunderstand me," says she: " I mean if
they were against my honour, they may not be wicked; but the
world calls them so. But then, say you, the world will never know
anything of the matter; yet would not that be trusting to your
secrecy ? Must not my reputation be then in your power. Would
not you then be my master ? "
Joseph begged her ladyship to be comforted; for that he would
never imagine the least wicked thing against her, and that he had
rather die a thousand deaths than give her any reason to suspect
him. "Yes," said she, "I must have reason to suspect you.
Are you not a man ? and without vanity I may pretend to some
charms. But perhaps you may fear I should prosecute you;
indeed I hope you do; and yet Heaven knows I should never have
the confidence to appear before a court of justice ; and you know,
Joey, I am of a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don't you think
I should forgive you?"—" Indeed, madam," says Joseph, "I
will never do anything to disoblige your ladyship."—"How,"
says she, " do you think it would not disoblige me then ? Do
you think I would willingly suffer you?"—"I don't understand
you, madam," says Joseph. "Don't you," said she: "then you
are either a fool, or pretend to be so: I find I was mistaken in
you; so get you down stairs, and never let me see your face again;
your pretended innoeency cannot impose on me."—"Madam,"
said Joseph, " I would not have your ladyship think any evil of
me. I have always endeavoured to be a dutiful servant both to
you and my master."—" 0 thou villain!" answered my lady;
" why didst thou mention the name of that dear man, unless to
torment me, to bring his precious memory to my mind ? " (and
then she burst into a fit of tears). " Get thee from my sight! I
shall never endure thee more."
At which words she turned away from him; and Joseph
retreated from the room in a most disconsolate condition, and
wrote that letter which the reader will find in the next chapter.
LETTER TO TAMELA.
11
Chap* VI.—How Joseph Andrews wrote a Letter to his Sister Pamela
" To Mrs. Pamela Andrews, living with Squire Booby.
" Dear Sister,—Since I received your letter of your good lady's
death, we have had a misfortune of the same kind in our family.
My worthy master, Sir Thomas, died about four days ago : and,
what is worse, my poor lady is certainly gone distracted. None
of the servants expected her to take it so to heart, because they
quarrelled almost every day of their lives; but no more of that,
because you know, Pamela, I never loved to tell the secrets of my
master's family; hut to be sure you must have known they never
loved one another; and I have heard her ladyship Avish his honour
dead above a thousand times; but nobody knows what it is to
lose a friend till they have lost him.
" Don't tell anybody what I Avrite, because I should not care
to have folks say I discover what passes in our family; but if it
had not been so great a lady, I should have thought she had a
mind to me. Dear Pamela, don't tell anybody: but she ordered
me to sit down by her bedside, when she was naked in bed; and
she held my hand, and talked exactly as a lady does to her
sweetheart in a stage play, which I have seen in Covent Garden,
while she wanted him to be no better than he should be.
" If madam be mad}> I shall not care for staying long in the
family; so I heartily wish you could get me a place, either at the
squire's or some other neighboring gentleman's, unless it be true
that you are going to be married to Parson Williams, as folks talk;
and then I should be very willing to be his clerk; for which you
know I am qualified, being able to read, and to set a psalm.
" I fancy I shall be discharged very soon; and the moment I
am, unless I hear from you, I shall return to my old master's
country seat, if it be only tosee Parson Adams, who is the best
man in the world. London is a bad place; and there is so little
good fellowship, that the next-door neighbours don't knoAV one
another. Pray give my service to all friends that inquire for
me; sb I rest your loving brother,
"Joseph Andrews."
As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this letter, he walked
down stairs, where he met Mrs. Slipslop, with whom we shall
take this opportunity to bring the reader a little better acquainted.
She was a maiden gentlewoman of about forty-five years^ of age,
who having made a small slip in her youth, had continued a gooa
maid ever since. She was not at this time remarkably handsome;
19 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
being very short, and rather too corpulent in body, and somewhat
red, with the addition of pimples in her face. Her nose was
likewise rather too large, and her eyes too little; nor did she
resemble a cow so much in her breath as in two brown globes
which she carried before her: one of her legs was also a little
shorter than the other, which occasioned her to limp as she
walked.
This fair creature had long cast the eyes of affection on Joseph,
in which she had not met with quite so good success as she
probably wished, though, besides the allurements of her native
charms, she had given him tea, sweetmeats, wine, and many other
delicacies, of which, by keeping the keys, she had the absolute
command. Joseph, however, had not returned the least gratitude
to all these favours, not even so much as a kiss; though I would
not insinuate she was so easily to be satisfied; for surely then he
would have been highly blameable. The truth is, she was
arrived at au age, when she thought she might indulge herself in
any liberties with a man, without the danger of bringing a third
Jierson into the world to betray them. She imagined, that by so
ong a self-denial, she had not only made amends for the small
slip in her youth above hinted at, but had likewise laid up a
quantity of merit to excuse any future failings. In a word, she
resolved to give a loose to her amorous inclinations, and to pay
off the debt of pleasure which she found she owed herself, as fast
as possible.
With these charms of person, and in this disposition of mind,
she encountered poor Joseph at the bottom of the stairs, and asked
him, if he would drink a glass of something good this morning.
Joseph, whose spirits were not a little cast down, very readily and
thankfully accepted the offer, and together they went into a closet,
where, having delivered him a full glass of ratafia, and desired him
to sit down, Mrs. Slipslop thus began:—
" Sure nothing can be a more simple contract in a woman, than
to place her affections on a boy. If I had ever thought it would
have been my fate, I should have wished to die a thousand deaths,
rather than live to see that day. If we like a man, the lightest
hint sophisticates: whereas, a boy proposes upon us to break
through all the regulations of modesty, before we can make any
oppression upon him."
Joseph, who did not understand a word she said, answered,
"Yes, madam."—"Yes, madam!" replied Mrs. Slipslop, with
some warmth, " do you intend to result my passion ? Is it not
enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the favours
I have done you, but you must treat me with ironing ? Barbarous
monster! how have I deserved that my passion should be resulted
and treated with ironing?"—"Madam," answered Joseph, "1
don't understand your hard words: but I am certain you have
sayings or wise men. 13-
no occasion to call me ungrateful; for, so far from intending you
any wrong, I have always loved you as well as if you had been
my own mother."—" How, sirrah," says Mrs. Slipslop, in a rage,
"your own mother? Do you assinuate that I am old enough to
be your mother ? I don't know what a stripling may think, but I
believe a man would refer me to any green-sickness silly girl what-
somdever : but I ought to despise you rather than be angry with
you for referring the conversation of girls to that of a woman of
sense."—"Madam," says Joseph, "I am sure I have always
valued the honour you did me by your conversation, for I know
you are a woman of learning."—" Yes, but, Joseph," said she, a
little softened by the compliment to her learning, " if you had a
value for me, you certainly would have found some method of
showing it me : for I am convinced you may see the value I have
for you. Yes, Joseph, my eyes, whether I would or no, must
have declared a passion I cannot conquer. 0 Joseph!"
As when a hungry tigress, who long has traversed the woods in
fruitless search, sees within the reach of her claws, a lamb, she
prepares to leap on her prey; or, as a voracious pike, of immense
size, surveys through the liquid element, a roach or gudgeon
which cannot escape her jaws, and opens them wide to swallow
the little fish; so did Mrs. Slipslop prepare to lay her violent
amorous hands on the poor Joseph, wnen, luckily, her mistress's
bell rang, and delivered the intended martyr from her clutches.
She was obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer the execution
of her purpose till some other time. We shall, therefore, return
to the Lady Booby, and give our reader some account of her
behaviour, after she was left by Joseph, in a temper of mind not
greatly different from that of the inflamed Slipslop.
Chap. VII.—Sayings of Wise Men—A Dialogue between the Lady and her
Maid—and a Panegyric, or rather Satire, on the Passion of Love, in the
sublime Style.
It is the observation of some ancient sage, whose name I have
forgotten, that passions operate differently on the human mind, as
diseases on the body, in proportion to the strength or weakness,
soundness or rottenness, of one and the other.
We hope, therefore, a judicious reader will give himself some
pains to observe what we have so greatly laboured to describe; the
different operations of this passion of love, in the gentle and cul-
tivated mind of the Lady Booby, from those which it effected in
the less polished and coarser disposition of Mrs. Slipslop.
Another philosopher, whose name at present escapes ray memory,
14 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
has somewhere said, that resolutions taken in the aoeriie of the
beloved object, are very apt to vanish in its presence; on both
which wise sayings, the following chapter may serve as a comment.
No sooner had Joseph left the room, in the manner we have
before related, than the lady, enraged at her disappointment,
began to reflect with severity on her conduct. Her love was now
changed to disdain, which pride assisted to torment her. She
despised herself for the meanness of her passion, and Joseph for-
its ill success. However, she had now got the better of it m he.
own opinion, and determined immediately to dismiss the object.
After much tossing and turning in her bed, and many soliloquies,
which, if we had no better matter for our reader, we would give
him, she at last rang the bell as above mentioned, and was
presently attended by Mrs. Slipslop, who was not much better
pleased with Joseph than the lady herself.
"Slipslop," said Lady Booby, "when did you see Joseph?"
The poor woman was so surprised at the unexpected sound of his
name, at so critical a time, that she had the greatest difficulty to
conceal the confusion she was under from her mistress; whom
she answered, nevertheless, with pretty good confidence, though
not entirely void of fear of suspicion, that she had not seen him
that morning. " I am afraid," said Lady Booby, " he is a wild
young fellow."—" That he is,"said Slipslop, " and a wicked on{
too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, and fights eter
nally; besides, he is horribly indicted to wenching "—"Ay!"
said the lady: " I have never heard that of him."—" 0 madam,"
answered the other, " he is so lewd a rascal, that if your ladyship
keeps him much longer, you will not have one virgin in your house
except myself: and yet I can't conceive what the wenches see ir.
him, to be so foolishly fond as they are ; in my eyes, he is as ugly
a scarecrow as I ever upheld."—" Nay," said the lady, " the boy
is well enough."—"La! ma'am," cries Slipslop, " I think him the
ragmaticallest fellow in the family."—" Sure, Slipslop," said she,
" you are mistaken: but which of the women do you most sus-
pect ? " —" Madam," says Slipslop, " there is Betty the chamber
maid, I am almost convicted, is with child by him."—" Ay!" says
the lady: "then pray pay her her wages instantly: I will keep no
such sluts in my family. And as for Joseph, you may discard him
too."—"Would your ladyship have him paid off immediately?"
cries Slipslop; " for, perhaps, when Betty is gone, he may -mend;
and really the boy is a good servant, and a strong, healthy, lusci-
ous boy enough."—" This morning," answered the lady, with some
vehemence. "I wish, madam," cries Slipslop, "your ladyship
would be so good as to try him a little longer."—"I will not have
my commands disputed," said the lady: " sure you are not fond of
him yourself?"—"I, madam?" cries Slipslop, reddening, if not
blushing: " I should be sorry to think your ladyship had any re»-
OP LOVE. 15
son to lespect me of fondness for a fellow: and, if it be your
pleasure, 1 stall fulfil it with as much reluctance as possible."—
" As little, I suppose you mean," said the lady; " ana so about it
instantly."
Mrs. Slipslop went out, and the lady had scarcely taken two
turns, before she fell to knocking and nnging with great violence.
Slipslop, who did not travel post-haste, soon returned, and was
countermanded as to Joseph, but ordered to send Betty about her
business without delay. She went out a second time with much
greater alacrity than before: when the lady began immediately to
accuse herself of want of resolution, and to apprehend the return
of her affection, with its pernicious consequences; she therefore
applied herself again to the bell, and resummoned Mrs. Slipslop
into her presence: who again returned, and was told by her
mistress, that she had considered better of the matter, and was
absolutely resolved to turn away Joseph; which she ordered her
to do immediately.
Slipslop, who knew the violence of her lady's temper, and would
not venture her place for any Adonis or Hercules in the universe,
left her a third time ; which she had no sooner done, than the little
god Cupid, fearing he had not yet done the lady's business, took a
fresh arrow with the sharpest point out of his quiver, and shot it
directly into her heart; in other and plainer language, the lady's
- passion got the better of her reason. She called back Slipslop
once more, and told her she had resolved to see the boy, ana
examine him herself; therefore bid her send him up. This waver-
ing in her mistress's temper probably put something into the
waiting-gentlewoman's head not necessary to mention to the
sagacious reader.
Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could not
prevail with herself. The next consideration, therefore, was, how
she should behave to Joseph when he came in. She resolved to
preserve all the dignity of the woman of fashion to her servant,
and to indulge herself m this last view of Joseph (for that she was
most certainly resolved it should be) at his own expense, by first
insulting, and then discarding him.
0 love! what monstrous tricks dost thou play with thy votaries
of both sexes! how dost thou deceive them, and make them
deceive themselves ! Their follies are thy delight: their sighs
mike thee laugh, and their pangs are thy merriment.
Not the great Rich, who turns men into monkeys, wheelbarrows,
and whatever else best humours his fancy, has so strangely meta*
morphosed the human shape; nor the great Cibber, who confounds
all number, gender, and breaks through every rule of grammar at
his will, has so distorted the English language, as thou dost meta-
morphose and distort the human senses. Thou puttest out our
eyes, stoppest up our ears, and takest away the power of oup
16 JOSEPH ANDBEWS.
nostrils; so that we can neither see the largest objects, hear the
loudest noise, nor smell the most poignant perfume. Again,
when thou pleasest, thou canst make a molehill appear as a moun-
tain, a Jew's harp sound like a trumpet, and a daisy smell like a
violet: thou canst make cowardice brave, avarice generous, pride
humble, and cruelty tender-hearted. In short, thou turnest the
heart of man inside out, as a juggler does a petticoat, and bringest
whatsoever pleaseth thee out from it. If there be any one who
doubts all this, let him read the next chapter.
Chap. VIII.—In which, after some very fine Writing:, the History goes on, and
relates an Interview between the Lady and Joseph; where the latter has set
an Example, which we despair of seeing followed by his Sex in this vicious
Age.
Now, the rake Hesperus had called for his breeches, and, having
well rubbed his drowsy eyes, prepared to dress himself for all
night; by whose example his brother-rakes on earth likewise leave
those beds in which they have slept away the day. Now Thetis,
the good housewife, began to put on the pot, in order to regale the
good man Phoebus, after his daily labours were over. In vulgar
language, it was in the evening, when Joseph attended his lady's
orders. But, as it becomes us to preserve the character of this
lady, who is the heroine of our tale; and as we have naturally a
wonderful tenderness for that beautiful part of the human species
called the fair sex; before we discover too much of her frailty to
our reader, it will be proper to give him a lively idea of the vast
temptation, which overcame all the efforts of a modest and virtu-
ous mind; and then we humbly hope his good-nature will rather
pity than condemn the imperfection of human virtue. Nay, the'
ladies themselves will, we hope, be induced, by considering the
uncommon variety of charms which united in this young man's
person, to bridle their rampant passion for chastity, and be at least
as mild as their violent modesty and virtue will permit them, in
censuring the conduct of a woman, who, perhaps, was in her own
disposition as chaste as those pure and sanctified virgins, who,
after a life innocently spent in the gaieties of the town, begin,
about fifty, to attend twice per diem at the polite churches and
chapels, to return thanks for the grace which preserved them
formerly amongst beaux, from temptations, perhaps less powerful
than what now attacked the Lady Booby.
Mr. Joseph Andrews was now in the one-and-twentieth year of
his age: he was of the highest degree of middle stature: his limbs
were put together with great elegance, and no less strength: his
KISSING. 17
legs and tliiglis were formed in the exactest proportion: his
shoulders were broad and brawny; but yet his arms hung so easily,
that he had all the symptoms of strength without the least clumsi-
ness: his hair was of a nut-brown colour, and was displayed in
wanton ringlets down his back; his forehead was high, his eyes
dark, and as full of sweetness as of fire: his nose a little inclined
to the Horn an: his teeth white and even: his lips full, red, and
soft: his beard was only rough on his chin and upper lip ; but his
cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread with a thick
down: his countenance had a tenderness joined with a sensibility
inexpressible. Add to this, the most perfect neatness in his dress,
and an air, which, to those who have not seen many noblemen,
would give an idea of nobility.
_ Such was the person who now appeared before the lady. She
viewed him some time in silence: and, twice or thrice before she
spoke, changed her mind as to the manner in which she should
begin. At length she said to him: " Joseph, I am sorry to hear
such complaints against you: I am told you behave so rudely to
the maids, that they cannot do their business in quiet; I mean
those who are not wicked enough to hearken to your solicitations.
As to others, they may, perhaps, not call you rude; for there are
wicked sluts, who make one ashamed of one's own sex, and are as
ready to admit amy nauseous familiarity as fellows to offer it: nay,
there are such in my family, but they shall not stay in it: that
impudent trollop, who is with child by you, is discharged by this
time."
As a person, who is struck through the heart with a thunder-
bolt, looks extremely surprised, nay, and perhaps is so too; thus
the poor Joseph received the false accusation of his mistress : he
blushed and looked confounded, which she misinterpreted to be
symptoms of his guilt, and thus went on:—
" Come hither, Joseph: another mistress might discard you for
these offences; but I nave a compassion for your youth, and if I
could be certain you would be no more guilty, Consider, child,"
laying her hand carelessly upon his, " you are a handsome young
fellow, and might do better: you might make your fortune."—-
" Madam," said Joseph, " I do assure your ladyship, I don't know
whether any maid in the house is man or woman."—" 0 fie!
Joseph," answered the lady-, "don't commit another crime in
denying the truth. I could pardon the first; but I hate a liar."—
" Madam," cries Joseph, " I hope your ladyship will not be offended
at my asserting my innocence; for, by all that is sacred, I have
never offered more than kissing."—" Kissing!" said the lady, with
great discomposure of countenance, and more redness in her cheeks
than anger m her eyes; " do you call that no crime ? Kissing,
Joseph, is a prologue to a play. Can I believe a young fellow of
your age and complexion will be content with kissing? Noa
18 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Joseph, there is no woman who grants that, but will grant more;
and I am deceived greatly in you, if you would not put her closely
to it. What would you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to kiss
me?"
Joseph replied, he would sooner die thanhave any such thought.
"And yet, Joseph," returned she, "ladies have admitted their
footmen to such familiarities; and footmen, I confess to you, much
less deserving them; fellows without half your charms; for such
might almost excuse the crime. Tell me, therefore, Joseph, if I
should admit you to such freedom, what would you think of me? tell
me freely."—" Madam," said Joseph, " I should think your ladyship
condescended a great deal below yourself."—"Pugh!" said she,
"that I am to answer to myself: but would not you insist on
more? Would you be contented with a kiss? Would not your
inclinations be all on fire rather by such a favour?"—"Madam,"
said Joseph, "if they were, I hope I should be able to control
them, without suffering them to get the better of my virtue." _
You have heard, reader, poets talk of the statue of Surprise;
you have heard likewise, or else you have heard very little, how
surprise made one of the sons of Croesus speak, though he was
dumb: you have seen the faces, in the eighteen-penny gallery,
when, through the trap-door, to soft or no music, Mr. Bridgewater,
Mr. William Mills, or some other of ghostly appearance, has
ascended, with a face all pale with powder, and a shirt all bloody
with ribands; but from none of these, nor from Phidias or Praxi-
teles, if they should return to life • no, not from the inimitable
pencil of my friend Hogarth, could you receive such an idea of
surprise, as would have entered in at your eyes had they beheld
the Lady Booby, when those last words issued out from the lips of
Joseph.
" Your virtue ! " said the lady, recovering after a silence of two
minutes: " I shall never survive it. Your virtue! intolerable com
fidence ! Have you the assurance to pretend, that when a lady
demeans herself to throw aside the rules of decency, in order to
honour you with the highest favour in her power, your virtue
should resist her inclination ? that when she liad conquered her
own virtue, she should find an obstruction in yours ? "
" Madam," said Joseph, " I can't see why her having no virtue
should be a reason against my having any; or why, because I am
a man, or because I am poor, my virtue must be subservient to her
pleasure."
" I am out of patience," cries the lady: " did ever mortal hear
of a man's virtue ? Did ever the greatest or the gravest men pre-
tend to anytliing of this kind? Will magistrates who punish
lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make any scruple
of committing it ? And can a boy, a stripling, have the confidence
to talk of his virtue ? "
DISCHARGED. 19
"Madam," says Joseph, "that hoy is the brother of Pamela,
and would be ashamed that the chastity of his family, which is
preserved in her, should be stained in him. If there are such men
as your ladyship mentions, I am sorry for it; and I wish they had
an opportunity of reading over those letters, which my father has
sent me of my sister Pamela's; nor do I doubt but such an
example would amend them."
" You impudent villain!" cries the lady in a rage, " do you
insult me with the follies of my relation, who has exposed himself
all over the country upon your sister's account ? a little vixen,
whom I have always wondered my late Lady Booby ever kept in
her house. Sirrah ! get out of my sight, and prepare to set out
this night; for I will order you your wages immediately, and you
shall be stripped and turned away."
"Madam," says Joseph, "I am sorry I have offended your
ladyship; I am sure I never intended it."
" Yes, sirrah," cries she, " you have had the vanity to miscon-
strue the little innocent freedom I took, in order to try whether
what I had heard was true. 0' my conscience, you have had the
assurance to imagine I was fond of you myself."
Joseph answered, he had only spoken out of tenderness for his
virtue ; at which words she flew into a violent passion, and,
refusing to hear more, ordered him instantly to leave the room.
He was no sooner gone, than she burst forth into the following
exclamation:—" Whither does this violent passion hurry us f
What meannesses do we submit to from its impulse! Wisely we
resist its first and least approaches; for it is then only we can
assure ourselves the victory. No woman could ever safely say, So
far only will I go. Have 1 not exposed myself to the refusal of
my footman ? I cannot bear the reflection." _ Upon which shJ
applied herself to the bell, and rang it with infinitely more violence
than was necessary; the faithful Slipslop attending near at hand.
To say the truth, she had conceived a suspicion at her last inter-
view with her mistress, and had waited ever since in the ante-
chamber, having carefully applied her ears to the keyhole during
the whole time that the preceding conversation passed between
Joseph and the lady. -
20
JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Chap. IX.—What passed between the Lady and Mrs. Slipslop ; in which we
prophesy there are some strokes which every one will not truly comprehend
at the first reading.
" Slipslop," said tlie lady, " I find too much reason to believe
all thou hast told me of this wicked Joseph; I have determined to
part with him instantly: so go yon to the steward, and bid him
pay him his wages."
Slipslop, who had preserved hitherto a distance to her lady
rather out of necessity than incb'nartion, and who thought the know-
ledge of this secret had thrown down all distinction between them,
answered her mistress very pertly, she wished she knew her own
mind: and that she was certain she would call her back again
before she was got half way down stairs.
The lady replied, she had taken a resolution, and was resolved to
keep it. " I am sorry for it," cries Slipslop; " and if I had known
you would have punished the poor lad so severely, you should
never have heard a particle of the matter. Here's a fuss indeed
about nothing! "—"Nothing ? " returned my lady: " do you think
I will countenance lewdness in my house P "—" If you will turn
away every footman," said Slipslop, " that is a lover of the sport,
you must soon open the coach-door yourself, or get a set of
mophrodites to wait upon you; and I am sure I hated the sight of
them even singing in an opera."—" Do as I bid you," says my
lady, " and don't shock my ears with your beastly language."—
" Marry come up! " cries Slipslop, " people's ears are sometimes
the nicest part about them."
The lady, who began to admire the new style in which her
waiting-gentlewoman delivered herself, and by the conclusion of
her speech suspected somewhat of the truth, called her back, and
•desired to know what she meant by the extraordinary degree
of freedom in which she thought proper to indulge her tongue.
" Freedom ! " says Slipslop; " I don't know what you call freedom,
madam; servants have tongues as well as their mistresses."—
" Yes, and saucy ones too," answered the lady; "but I assure you
I shall bear no such impertinence."—"Impertinence ! I don't
know that I am impertinent," says Slipslop. Yes indeed you are,"
cries my lady; " and unless you mend your manners, this house is
no place for you."—" Manners ! " cries Slipslop ; " I never was
thought to want manners, nor modesty neither; and for places,
there are more places than one; and I know what I know."—
" What do you know, mistress ? " answered the lady. " I am not
obliged to tell everybody." says Slipslop. " any more than I am
A RECONCILIATION. 21
obliged to keep it a secret."—"I desire you would provide your,
self," answered the lady. "With all my heart," replied the
waiting-gentlewoman; and so departed in a passion, and slapped
the door after her.
The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting-gentlewoman
knew more than she would willingly have had her acquainted
with; and this she imputed to Joseph's having discovered to her
what passed at the first interview ; this therefore blew up her rage
against him, and confirmed her in a resolution of parting with him.
But the dismissing Mrs. Slipslop was a point not so easily to be
resolved upon: she had the utmost tenderness for her reputation,
as she knew on that depended many of the most valuable blessings
of life; particularly cards, making curtsies in public places, and,
above all, the pleasure of demolishing the reputations of others, in
which innocent amusement she had an extraordinary delight. She
therefore determined to submit to any insult from a servant, rather
than run a risk of losing the title to so many great privileges.
She therefore sent for her steward, Mr. Peter Pounce, and
ordered him to pay Joseph his wages, to strip off his livery, and
turn him out of the house that evening.
She then called Slipslop up; and, after refreshing her spirits
with a small cordial which she kept in her closet, she began in thi.
following manner:—
" Slipslop, why will you, who know my passionate temper,
attempt to provoke me by your answers ? I am convinced you
are an honest servant, and should be very unwilling to part with
you: I believe, likewise, you have found me an indulgent mistress
on many occasions, and have as little reason on your side to desire
a change. I can't help being surprised, therefore, that you will
take the surest method to offend me—I mean, repeating my
words, which you know I have always detested." _
The prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly weighed the whole
matter, and found, on mature deliberation, that a good place in
possession was better than one in expectation. As she found
her mistress therefore inclined to relent, she thought proper
also to put on some small condescension, which was as readily
accepted; and so the affair was reconciled, all offences forgiven,
and a present of a gown and petticoat made her, as an instance of
her lady's future favour.
She offered once or twice to speak in favour of Joseph; but
found her lady's heart so obdurate, that she prudently dropped
all such efforts. She considered there were more footmen in the
house, and some as stout fellows, though not quite so handsome
as Joseph ; besides, the reader has already seen her tender
advances had not met with the encouragement she might have
reasonably expected. She thought she had thrown away a great
deal of sack and sweetmeats on an ungrateful rascal; ana being a
22 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
little inclined to the opinion of that female sect, who hold one
lusty young fellow to be near as good as another lusty young
fellow, she at last gave up Joseph and his cause, and, with a
triumph over her passion highly commendable, walked off with her
present, and with great tranquillity paid a visit to a stone bottle,
which is of sovereign use to a philosophical temper.
She left not her mistress so easy. The poor lady could not
reflect without agony that her dear reputation was in the power
of her servants. All her comfort, as to Joseph, was, that she
hoped he did not understand her meaning; at least, she could
say for herself, she_ had not plainly expressed anything to him;
and as to Mrs. Slipsop, she imagined she could bribe her to
secrecy. But what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not
so entirely conquered her passion; the little god lay lurking in
her heart, though anger ana disdain so hoodwinked her, that she
could not see him. She was a thousand times on the very brink
of revoking the sentence she had passed against the poor youth.
Love became his advocate, and whispered many things in hir
favour: Honour likewise endeavoured to vindicate his crime, and
Pity to mitigate his punishment. On the other side, Pride and
Revenge spoke as loudly against him: and thus the poor lady
was tortured with perplexity, opposite passions distracting and
tearing her mind different ways.
So have I seen, in the hall of "Westminster, where Serjeant
Bramble has been retained on the right side, and Serjeant Puzzle
on the left, the balance of opinion (so equal were their fees)
alternately incline to either scale. Now Bramble throws in an
argument, and Puzzle's scale strikes the beam; again, Bramble's
shares the like fate, overpowered by the weight ot Puzzle. Here
Bramble hits, there Puzzle strikes; here one has you, there
t'other has you: till at last all becomes one scene of confusion in
the tortured minds ,rof the hearers; equal wagers are laid on the
success; and neither judge nor jury can possibly make anything
of the matter, all things are so enveloped by the careful Serjeants
in doubt and obscurity. Or, as it happens in the conscience,
where honour and honesty pull one way, and a bribe and necessity
another. If it was our present business only to make similes, we
could produce many more to this purpose; but a simile (as well
as a word) to the wise. We shall therefore see a little after our
hero, for whom the reader is doubtless in gsias psia.
LETTER TO PAMELA.
33
Chap. X.—Joseph writes another Letter; his Transactions with Mr. Peter
Pounce, &c.; with his Departure from Lady Booby.
The disconsolate Joseph would not have had an understanding
sufficient for the principal subject of such a book as this, if he
had any longer misunderstood the drift of his mistress: and,
indeed, that he did not discern it sooner, the reader will be pleased
to impute to an unwillingness in him to discover what he must
condemn in her as a fault. Having, therefore, quitted her pre-
sence, he retired into his own garret, and entered himself into an
ejaculation on the numberless calamities which attended beauty,
and the misfortune it was to be handsomer than one's neighbours.
He then sat down and addressed himself to his sister Pamela,
in the following words:—
"Dear. Sister Pamela,—Hoping you are well, what news
have I to tell you! O Pamela, my mistress is fallen in love with
me—that is, what great folks call falling in love—she has a mind
to ruin me: but I hope I shall have more resolution and more
grace than to part with my virtue to any lady upon earth.
"Mr. Adams has often told me, that chastity is as great a
virtue in a man as in a woman: he says, he never knew any more
than his wife, and I shall endeavour to follow his example. In-
deed, it is owing entirely to his excellent serjnons ana advice,
together with your letters, that I have been able to resist a
temptation, which he says, no man complies with, but he repents
in this world, or is damned for it in the next; and why should I
trust to repentance on my death-bed, _ since I may die in my
sleep ? What fine things are good advice and good examples \
But I am glad she turned me out of the chamber as she did:
for I had once almost forgotten every word Parson Adams had
ever said to me.
" I don't doubt, dear sister, but you will have grace to preserve
your virtue against all trials; and I beg you earnestly to pray
I may be enabled to preserve mine; for truly it is very severely
attacked by more than one; but I hope I shall copy your example,
and that of Joseph my namesake, ana maintain my virtue against
all temptations."
Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned
down stairs by Mr. Peter Pounce, to receive his wages; for.
besides that out of eight pounds a year he allowed his father and
24 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
mother fipur, he had heen obliged, in order to furnish himself with
musical instruments, to apply to the generosity of the aforesaid
Peter, who, on urgent occasions, used to advance the servants
their wages, not before they were due, but before they were
payable, that is, perhaps, half a year after they were due; and
this at the moderate premium of fifty per cent, or a little more;
by which charitable methods, together with lending money to
other people, and even to his own master and mistress, the honest
man had, from nothing, in a few years amassed a small sum of
twenty thousand pounds, or thereabouts.
Joseph having received his little remainder of wages, and having
stripped off his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and breeches
of one of the servants; for he was so beloved in the family, that
they would all have lent him anything: and being told by Peter,
that he must not stay a moment longer in the house than was
necessary to pack up his linen, wliich he easily did in a very
narrow compass, he took a melancholy leave of his fellow-servants,
and set out at seven in the evening.
He had proceeded the length ot two or three streets, before he
absolutely determined with himself whether he should leave the
town that night, or, procuring a lodging, wait till the morning.
At last the moon, shining very bright, helped him to come to a
resolution of beginning his journey immediately, to which, like-
wise, he had some other inducements ; which the reader, without
being a conjurer, cannot possibly guess, till we have given him
those hints which it may be now proper to open.
Chap. XI.—Of several new Matters not expected.
It is an observation sometimes made, that to indicate our idea
of a simple fellow, we say he is easily to be seen through; nor do
I believe it a more improper denotation of a simple book. In-
stead of applying this to any particular performance, we choose
rather to remark the contrary in tliis history, where the scene
opens itself by small degrees ; and he is a sagacious reader who
can see two chapters before him.
Por this reason, we have not liitherto hinted a matter which now
seems necessary to be explained ; since it may be wondered at,
first, that Joseph made such extraordinary haste out of town,
which has been already shown; and, secondly, which will be now
shown, that, instead of proceeding to the habitation of his father
and mother, or to his beloved sister Pamela, he chose rather to
set out full speed to the Lady Booby's country-seat, which he
had left on his journey to London
A TENDER PARTING. 25
Be it known then, that in the same parish where this seat stood,
there lived a young girl, whom Joseph, though the best of sons
and brothers, longed more impatiently to see than his parents or
his sister. She was a poor girl, who had formerly been bred up
m Sir John's family; whence, a little before the journey to London,
she had been discarded by Mrs. Slipslop, on account of her extra-
ordinary beauty; for I never could fina any other reason.
This young creature, who now lived with a farmer in the parish,
had been always beloved by Joseph, and returned his affection.
She was two years only younger than our hero. They had been
acquainted from their infancy, and had conceived a very early
likmg for each other: which had grown to such a degree of affec-
tion, that Mr. Adams had, with much ado, prevented them from
marrying, and persuaded them to wait till a few years' service and
thrift had a little improved their experience, and enabled them to
live comfortably together.
_ They followed this good man's advice, as, indeed, his word was
little less than a law in his parish; for as he had shown his
parishioners, by a uniform behaviour of thirty-five years' duration,
that he had their good entirely at heart, so they consulted him on
every occasion, and very seldom acted contrary to his opinion.
Nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting
between these two lovers. A thousand siglis heaved the bosom of
Joseph, a thousand tears distilled from the lovely eyes of Tanny,
for that was her name. Though her modesty would only suffer
her to admit his _ eager kisses, her violent love made her more
than passive in his embraces; and she often pulled him to her
breast with a soft pressure, which, though perhaps it would not
have squeezed an insect to death, caused more emotion in the
heart ot Joseph, than the closest Cornish hug could have done.
The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a pair should,
during a twelvemonth's absence, never converse with one another:
indeed, there was but one reason which did, or could have
prevented them; and this was, that poor Tanny could neither
write nor read; nor could she be prevailed upon to transmit the
delicacies of her tender and chaste passion by the hands of an
amanuensis.
They contented themselves, therefore, with frequent inquiries
after each other's health, with a mutual confidence in each other's
fidelity, and the prospect of their future happiness.
Having explained these matters to our reader, and, as far as
possible, satisfied all his doubts, we return to honest Joseph, whom
we left just set out on his travels, by the light of the moon.
Those who have read any romance or poetry, ancient or modern^
must have been informed that love has win^s ; by which, they are"
not to understand, as some young ladies by mistake have done,
that a lover can fly; the writers, by this ingenious allegory,
36
JOSEPH ANDREWS.
intending to insinuate no more than that lovers do not march
like horse-guards; in short, that they put the best leg foremost;
which our lusty youth, who could walk with any man, did so
heartily on this occasion, that within four hours he reached a
famous house of hospitality well known to the western traveller.
It presents you a lion on the sign-post; and the master, who was
christened Timotheus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some have
conceived that he has particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as
he does in countenance greatly resemble that magnanimous beast,
though his disposition savours more of the sweetness of the lamb.
He is a person well received among all sorts of men, being qualified
to render himself agreeable to any; as he is well versed in history
and politics, has a smattering in law and divinity, cracks a good
jest, and plays wonderfully well on the Trench horn.
, A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take shelter in this inn,
where he remembered Sir Thomas had dined in his way to town.
Joseph had no sooner seated himself by the kitchen fire, than
Timotheus, observing his livery, began to condole tbe loss of his
late master, who was, he said, his very particular and intimate
acquaintance, with wliom_ he had cracked many a merry bottle,
ay, many a dozen in his time. He then remarked, that all those
things were over now, 11 1 1 ' ' as if they had never
certainty of death, which his wife said was indeed very true. _ A
fellow now arrived at the same inn with two horses, one of which
he was leading farther down into the country to meet his master:
these he put into the stable, and came and took his place by
Joseph's side, who immediately knew him to be the servant of a
neighbouring gentleman who used to visit at their house.
This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm; for he had
orders to go twenty miles farther that evening, and luckily on the
same road which Joseph himself intended to take. He therefore
embraced this opportunity of complimenting his friend with his
master's horse, notwithstanding he had received express com-
mands to the contrary, which was readily accepted ; and so, after
they had drunk a loving pot, *nd the storm was over, they set o
together.
WCIO UVCi UUYV,
been ; and concluded
observation on the
BOBBED.
Chap. XII.—Containing many surprising Adventures which Joseph Andrews
met with on the Road, scarce credible to those who have never travelled
in a stage-coach.
Nothing remarkable happened on the road, till their arrival at
the inn to which the horses were ordered; whither they came
about two in the morning. The moon then shone very bright:
and Joseph, making his friend a present of a pint of wine, and
thanking him for the favour of his horse, notwithstanding all
entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his journey on foot.
He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hopes of
shortly seeing his beloved Fanny, when he was met by two
fellows in a narrow lane, and ordered to stand and deliver. He
readily gave them all the money he had, which was somewhat less
than two pounds; and told them he hoped they would be so
generous as to return him a few shillings, to defray his charges
on his way home.
One of the ruffians answered with an oath, "Yes, we'll give
you something presently: but first strip and be d—nea to you."—
" Strip," cried the other, " or I'll blow your brains to the devil."
Joseph, remembering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches
of a friend, and that he should be ashamed of making any excuse
for not returning them, replied, he hoped they would not insist on
his clothes, which were not worth much, but consider the .coldness
of the night. " You are cold, are you, you rascal ? " says one of
the robbers: " I'll warm you with a vengeance;" and, d—ing his
eyes, snapped a pistol at his head; which he had no sooner done,
than the other levelled a blow at him with his stick, which Joseph,
who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with his, and returned
the favour so successfully on his adversary, that he laid him
sprawling at his feet, and at the same instant received a blow
from behind, with the butt end of a pistol, from the other villain,
which felled him to the ground, ana totally deprived him of his
senses.
The thief who had been knocked down had now recovered
himself ; and both together fell to belabouring poor Joseph with
their sticks, till they were convinced they had put an end to his
miserable being: they then stripped him entirely naked, threw
him into a ditch, and departed with their booty.
The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began
to recover his senses as a stage-coach came by. The postilion,
hearing a man's groans, stopped his horses, and told the coachman
he was certain there was a dead man lying in the ditch, for he
28 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
heard him groan. " Go on, sirrah," says the coachman: " we are
confounded late, and have no time to look after dead men."
A lady, who heard what the postilion said, and likewise heard
the groan, called eagerly to the coachman to stop and see what was
the matter; upon which he hid the postilion alight, and look into
the ditch. He did so, and returned, that there was a man sitting
upright, as naked as ever he was born. "0 Lord!" cried the
lady ; " a naked man! Dear coachman, drive on and leave him."
Upon this the gentlemen got out of the coach; and Joseph
begged them to have mercy upon him; for that he had been
robbed and almost beaten to death. "Robbed!" cries an old
gentleman: " let us make all the haste imaginable, or we shall be
robbed too."
A young man, who belonged to the law, answered, he wished
they had passed by without taking any notice; but that now they
might be proved to have been last in his company; if he should
die, they might be called to some account for his murder. He
therefore thought it advisable to save the poor creature's life for
their own sakes, if possible; at least, if he died, to prevent the
jury's finding that they fled for it. He was therefore of opinion to
take the man into the coach, and carry him to the next inn.
The lady insisted that he should not come into the coach; that
if they lifted him in, she would herself alight: for she had rather
stay in that place to all eternity, than ride with a naked man.
The coachman objected, that he could not suffer him to be taken
in, unless somebody would pay a shilling for his carriage the four
miles, which the two gentlemen refused to do: but the lawyer,
who was afraid of some mischief happening to himself, if the wretch
was left behind in that condition, saying, no man could be too
cautious in these matters, and that he remembered very extraordi-
nary cases in the books, threatened the coachman, and bid him
deny taking him up at his peril; for that if he died he should be
indicted for his murder; and if he lived, and brought an action
against him, he would willingly take a brief in it.
These words had a sensible effect on the coachman, who was well
acquainted with the person who spoke them; and the old gentle-
man above mentioned, thinking the naked man would afford him
frequent opportunities of showing his wit to the lady, offered to
join with the company in giving a mug of beer for his fare ; till,
partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the promises
of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with compassion at
the poor creature's condition, who stood bleeding and shivering
with the cold, he at length agreed • and Joseph was now advancing
to the coach, where, seeing the lady, who held the sticks of her fan
before her eyes, he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to
enter, unless he was furnished with sufficient covering to prevent
giving the least offence to decency: so perfectly modest was this
young man; such mighty effects had the spotless example of the
amiable Pamela, and the excellent sermons of Mr. Adams, wrought
upon him.
Though there were several great-coats about the coach it was
not easy to get over this difficulty which Joseph had started. The
two gentlemen complained they were cold, and could not spare a rag;
the man of wit saying, with a laugh, that charity began at home;
and the coachman, who had two great-coats spread under him,
refused to lend either, lest they should be made bloody: the lady's
footman desired to be excused for the same reason, which the lady
herself, notwithstanding her abhorrence of a naked man, approved:
and it is more than probable that Joseph, who obstinately adhered
to his modest resolution, must have perished, unless the postilion
(a lad who has been since transported for robbing a hen-roost) had
voluntarily stripped off a great-coat, his only garment; at the same
time swearing a great oath, for which he was rebuked by the
passengers, that he would rather ride in his shut all his life, than
suffer a fellow-creature to lie in so miserable a condition.
Joseph, having put on the_ great-coat, was lifted into the coacb,
which now proceeded on its journey. He declared himself almost
dead with the cold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask
the lady if she could not accommodate him with a dram. She
answered, with some resentment, she wondered at his asking her
such a question; but assured him she never tasted any such thing.
The lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances of the robbery,
when the coach stopped, and one of the ruffians, putting a pistol
in, demanded their money of the passengers, who readily gave it
them; and the lady, in her fright, delivered up a little silver oottle,
of about a half-pint size, which the rogue, clapping it to his mouth,
and drinking her health, declared, held some of the best Nantes
he had ever tasted: this the lady afterwards assured the company
was the mistake of her maid; for that she had ordered her to fill
the bottle with Hungary-water.
As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, it
seems, a case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the com-
pany, that if it had been daylight, and he could have come at his
pistols, he would not have submitted to the robbery; he likewise
set forth, that he had often met highwaymen when ne travelled on
horseback, but none ever durst attack him; concluding, that if he
had not been more afraid for the lady than for himself, he should
not have now parted with his money so easily.
As wit is generally observed to love to reside in empty pockets,
so the gentleman, whose ingenuity we have above remarked, as
soon as he had parted with his money, began to grow wonderfully
facetious. He made frequent allusions to Adam and Eve, and
said many excellent things on figs and fig-leaves, which perhaps
gave more offence to Joseph than to any other in the company.
30 JOSE til ANDREWS.
The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests, without
departing from his profession. He said, if Joseph and the lady
were alone, he would be more capable of making a conveyance to
her, as his alfairs were not fettered with any encumbrance; he'd
warrant he soon suffered a recovery by a writ of entry, which was
the proper way to create heirs in tail; that for his own part, he
would engage to make so firm a settlement in a coach, that there
should be no danger of an ejectment; with an inundation of'the
like gibberish, which he continued to vent till the coach arrived at
an inn, where one servant-maid only was up, in readiness to
attend the coachman, and furnish him with cola meat and a dram.
Joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed prepared
for him, which the maid readily promised to perform ; and being a
good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as the lady had been,
she clapped a large fagot on the fire, and, furnishing Joseph with
a great-coat belonging to one of the ostlers, desired him to sit
down and warm himself while she made his bed. The coachman,
in the mean time, took an opportunity to call up a surgeon, who
lived within a few doors; after which, he reminded his passengers
how late they were, and, after they had taken leave of Joseph,
hurried them off as fast as he could.
The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use her in-
terest to borrow him a shirt; but imagining, as she afterwards said,
by his being so bloody, that he must be a dead man, she ran with
all speed to hasten the surgeon, who was more than half-dressed,
apprehending that the coach had been overturned, and some gen-
tleman or lady hurt. As soon as the wench had informed him at
his window, that it was a poor foot-passenger, who had been
stripped of all he had, and almost murdered, he chid her for dis-
turbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very quietly
returned to bed and to sleep.
Aurora npw began to show her blooming cheeks over the hills
while ten millions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated
odes a thousand times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sang
both the day and the song; when the master of the inn, Mr. Tow-
wouse, arose, and_ learning from his maid an account of the
robbery, and the situation of his poor naked guest, he shook his
head and cried " Good-lack-a-day!" and then ordered the girl to
carry him one of his own shirts.
Mrs. Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched out her
arms in vain to fold her departed husband, when the maid entered
her room. " Who's there ? Betty ? "—" Yes, madam."—" Where's
your master?"—"He's without, madam: he has sent me for a
shirt to lend a poor naked man, who has been robbed and mur-
dered."—"Touch one, if you dare, you slut," said Mrs. Tow-
wouse: " your master is a pretty sort of a man, to take in naked
vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have
CHAHITY. 31
no such doings. If you offer to touch anything, I'll throw the
chamber-pot at your head. Go, send your master to me."—" Yes,
madam," answered Betty.
As soon as he came in, she thus began : " "What the devil do you
mean by this, Mr. Tow-wouse ? Am I to buy shirts to lend to a
set of shabby rascals ?"—"My dear," said Mr. Tow-wouse, "this
is a poor wretch."—" Yes," says she, " I know it is a poor wretch,
but what the devil have we to do with poor wretches ? the law
makes us provide for too many already. We shall have thirty or
forty poor wretches in red coats shortly."—"My dear," cries Tow-
wouse, "this man has been robbed of all he has."—" Well, then,"
says she, "where's his money to pay his reckoning? Why does
not snch a fellow go to an alehouse ? I shall send him packing as
soon as I am up, I assure you."—" My dear," said he, " common
charity won't suffer you to do that."—" Common charity," says
she: " common chanty teaches us to provide for ourselves and
our families; and I and mine won't be ruined by your charity, I
assure you."—"Well," says he, "my dear, do as you will when
you are up; you know I never contradict you."—" No," says she,
" if the devil was to contradict me, I would make the house too
hot to hold him."
With such like discourses they consumed near half an hour,
whilst Betty provided a shirt from the ostler, who was one of her
sweethearts, and put it on poor Joseph. The surgeon had like-
wise at last visited, him, and washed and dressed his wounds, and
was now come to acquaint Mr. Tow-wouse, that his guest was in
such extreme danger of his life, that he scarce saw any hopes of
his recovery. " Here's a pretty kettle of fish," cries Mrs. Tow-
wouse, " you have brought upon us! We are like to have a fune-
ral at our own expense." _ Tow-wouse, who, notwithstanding his
charity, would have given his vote, as freely as ever he did at an elec-
tion, that any other house in the kingdom should have quiet posses-
sion of his guest, answered, "My dear, I am not to blame: ne was
brought hither by the stage-coach; and Betty had put him to bed
before I was stirring."—" I'll Betty her," says she: at which, with
half her garments on, the other half under her arm, she sallied
out in quest of the unfortunate Betty, whilst Tow-wouse and the
surgeon went to pay a visit to poor Joseph, and inquire into the
circumstances of this melancholy affair.
32
JOSEPH AXDBEHTS.
Chap. XIII.—What happened to Joseph during his Sickness at the Inn; with
the curious Discourse between him and Mr. Barnabas, the Parson of the
Parish.
As soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history of the
robbery, together with a short account of himself and his intended
journey, he asked the surgeon if he apprehended him to be in any
danger, to which the surgeon very honestly answered, he feared
he was ; for that his pulse was very exalted and feverish, and if
his fever should prove more than symptomatic, it would be
impossible to save him. Joseph, fetching a deep sigh, cried,
"Poor Fanny, I would I could have lived to see thee! but God's
will be done."
The surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly affairs to
settle, that he would do it as soon as possible: for though he
hoped he might recover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint
him he was in great danger; and if the malign concoction of his
humours should cause a suscitation of his fever, he might soon
grow delirious, and incapable to make his will. Joseph answered,
that it was impossible for any creature in the universe to be in a
poorer condition than himself; for since the robbery, he had not
one thing of any kind whatever which he could call his own. "I
had," said he, " a poor little piece of gold, which they took away,
that would have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions; but
surely, Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I have thy
dear image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence."
Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but they were
refused him ; and he was advised to use all his endeavours to com-
pose himself. They then left him; and Mr. Tow-wouse sent to a
clergyman to come and administer his good offices to the soul
of poor Joseph, since the surgeon despaired of making any
successful applications to his body.
Mr. Barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) came as soon
as sent for; and having first drunk a dish of tea with the landlady,
and afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to
the room where Joseph lay; but finding him asleep, returned
to take the other sneaker; which when he had finished, he again
crept softly up to the chamber-door, and. having opened it, heard
the sick man talking to himself in the following manner :—
" 0 most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sister! whose example
could alone enable me to withstand all the temptation^ of riches
and beauty, and to preserve my virtue pure and chaste for the
arms of my dear Fanny, if it had pleased Heaven that I should
.Joseph's despondency. 33
ever kave come unto them: what riches, or honours, or pleasures,
can make amends for the loss of innocence ? Does not that alone
afford us more consolation than all worldly acquisitions ? What
but innocence and virtue could give any comfort to such a miser-
able wretch as I am ? Yet these can make me prefer this sick and
painful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in my lady's.
These can make me face death without fear; and though I love my
Danny more than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me
to resign myself to the divine will without repining. 0, thou
delightful, charming creature ! if Heaven had indulged thee to my
arms, the poorest, humblest state would have been a paradise: I
could have lived with thee in the lowest cottage, without envying
the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any man breathing. But
I must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest angel! I must
think of another world; and I heartily pray thou mayest meet
comfort in this."
Barnabas thought he had heard enough; so down stairs he went,
and told Tow-wouse he could do his guest no service, for that he
was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a rhapsody of
nonsense all the time he stayed in the room.
The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his patient in
a higher fever, as he said, that when he left him, though not
delirious; for notwithstanding Mr. Barnabas's opinion, he had not
been once out of his senses since his arrival at the inn.
Mr. Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty pre-
vailed on to make another visit. As soon as he entered the room,
he told Joseph, he was come to pray by him, and to prepare him
for another world : in the first place, therefore, he hoped he had
repented of all his sins. Joseph answered, he hoped he had: but there
was one thing which he knew not whether he could call a sin: if it
was, he feared he should die in the commission of it; and that was,
the regret of parting with a young woman, whom he loved as ten-
derly as he did his heart-strings. Barnabas bade him be assured,
that any repining at the divine will was one of the greatest sins he
could commit; that he ought to forget all carnal affections, and
think of better things. Joseph said, that neither in this world nor
the next he could forget his Danny; and that the thought, how-
ever grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not half so
tormenting as the fear of what she would suffer when she
knew his misfortune.
Barnabas said, that such fears argued a diffidence and despond-
ence very criminal; that he must divest himself of all human
passions, and fix his heart above. Joseph answered, that was
what he desired to do, and should be obliged to him if he would
enable him to accomplish it. Barnabas replied, that must be done
by grace. Joseph besought him to discover how he might attain
it, Barnabas answered, by prayer and faith. He then questioned
D
34 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
him concerning his forgiveness of the thieves. Joseph answered,
he feared that was more than he could do; for nothing would
give him more pleasure than^to hear they were taken. _ " That,"
cries Barnabas, "is for the sake of justice."—" Yes," said Joseph,
" but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I should attack
them, and kill them too, if I could.''—" Doubtless," answered
Barnabas, " it is lawful to kill a thief: but can you say, you
forgive them as a Christian ought?" Joseph desired to know
what that forgiveness was. "That is," answered Barnabas, " to
forgive them as—as—it is to forgive them as—in short, it is to
forgive them as a Christian." Joseph replied, he forgave them as
much as he could. " Well, well," said Barnabas, "that will do."
He then demanded of him, if he remembered any more sins
nnrepented of; and if he did, he desired him to make haste and
repent of them as fast as lie could; that they might repeat
over a few prayers together. Joseph answered, he could not
recollect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he
had committed he was sincerely sorry for. Barnabas said that was
enough, and then proceeded to prayer with all the expedition he
was master of; some company then waiting for him below in the
parlour, where the ingredients for punch were all in readiness; but
no one would squeeze the oranges till he came.
Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little tea: which
Barnabas reported to Mrs. Tow-wouse, who answered, she had
just done drinking it, and could not be slopping all day: but
ordered Betty to carry him up some small beer.
Betty obeyed her mistress's command; but Joseph, as soon as
he tasted it, said, he feared it would increase his fever, and that he
longed very much for tea; to which the good-natured Betty
answered, he should have tea, if there was any in the land: she
accordingly went and bought some herself, and attended him with
it; where we will leave her and Joseph together for some time, to
entertain the reader with other matters.
Chap. XIV.—Being very Ml of Adventures, which succeeded each other
at the Inn.
It was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave person
rode into the inn, and, committing his horse to the ostler, went
directly into the kitchen, and having called for a pipe of tobacco,
took his place by the fireside, where several other persons were
likewise assembled.
The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was com-
mitted the night before, and on the poor wretch who lay above,
THE DOCTOR AND THE STRANGER. 35
in the dreadful condition in which we have already seen him.
Mrs. Tow-wouse said, she wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell
meant, by bringing such guests to her house, when there were so
many alehouses on the road proper for their reception: but she
assured him, if he died, the parish should be at the expense of
the funeral. She added, nothing would serve the fellow's turn
but tea, she would assure him! Betty, who was just returned
from her charitable office, answered, she believed he was a gen-
tleman, for she never saw a finer skin in her life. " Pox on his
skin ! " replied Mrs. Tow-wouse: " I suppose that is all we are
like to have for the reckoning. I desire no such gentlemen should
ever call at the Dragon," which, it seems, was the sign of the inn.
The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of emotion
at the distress of this poor creature, whom he observed to be
fallen not into the most compassionate hands. And, indeed, if
Mrs. Tow-wouse had given no utterance to the sweetness of her
temper, Nature had taken such pains in her countenance, that
Hogarth himself never gave more expression to a picture.
Her person was short, thin, and crooked: her forehead projected
in the middle, and thence descended in a declivity to the top of
her nose, which was sharp and red, and would have hung over
her lips, had not Nature turned up the end of it: her lips were
two bits of skin, which, whenever she spoke, she drew together
in a purse: her chin was peaked; and, at the upper end of that
skin which composed her cheeks, stood two bones, that almost hid
a pair of small red eyes. Add to this, a voice most wonderfully
adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being both loud and
hoarse.
It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had conceived a
greater dislike for his landlady, or compassion for her unhappy
guest. He inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, who was
now come into the kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his
recovery: he begged him to use all possible means towards it,
telling him, it was the duty of men of all professions to apply
their skill gratis for the relief of the poor and necessitous. The
surgeon answered, he should take proper care: but he defied all
the surgeons in London to do him any good. " Pray, sir," said the
gentleman, "what are his wounds ? "—" Why, do you know any-
thing of wounds ?" says the surgeon, winking upon Mrs. Tow-
wouse. " Sir, I have a small smattering in surgery," answered
the gentleman. " A smattering ? ho, ho, ho!" said the surgeon,
" I believe it is a smattering indeed."
The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor,
who was what they call a dry fellow, expose the gentleman.
He began, therefore, with an air of triumph, " I suppose, sir,
yon have travelled?"—"No, really, sir," said the gentleman.
Ho! then you have practised in the hospitals, perhaps ?
d 2
16 JOSEPH ADDJREWS.
"No, sir." "Hum! not that neither? Whence, sir, then, if I
may be so hold to inquire, have you got your knowledge in
surgery ? "—" Sir," answered the gentleman, " I do not pretend
to much; hut the little I know I have from books." " Books!"
cries the doctor: "What, I suppose you have—you have read
Galen and Hippocrates <?"—" No, sir," said the gentleman.
" How! you understand surgery," answers the doctor, " and
not read Galen and Hippocrates ? "—" Sir," cries the other, " I
believe there are many surgeons who have never read these
authors." " I believe so too," says the doctor, " more shame
for them; but, thanks to my education, I have them by heart, and
very seldom go without them both in my pocket.''—" They are
pretty large books," said the gentleman. " Ay," said the doctor,
'I believe I know how large they are better than you." At
which he fell a winking, and the whole company burst into a
laugh.
_ The doctor, pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman if he
did not understand physic as well as surgery. "Rather better,"
answered the gentleman. " Ay, like enough," cries the doctor,
with a wink: " why, I know a little of physic, too."—" I wish I
knew half so much," said Tow-wouse, " I'd never wear an apron
again."—"Why, I believe, landlord," cries the doctor, "there are
few men, though I say it, within twelve miles of the place, that
handle a fever better. Veniente accurrite morbo: that is my
method. I suppose, brother, you understand Latin ?"—" A
ittle," says the gentleman. " Ay, and Greek now, I'll warrant
?ou: Ton dapomibominos polufiosboio thalasses. But I have almost
orgot these things: I could have repeated Homer by heart once."'
—" Ifags! the gentleman has caught a tartar," says Mrs. Tow-
wouse; at which they all fell a laughing.
The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, very
contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, whichne did
with no small satisfaction; and having sufficiently sounded his
depth, told him, he was thoroughly convinced of his great learn-
ing and abilities; and. that he would be obliged to him, if he
would let him know his opinion of his patient's case above stairs.
"Sir," says the doctor, "his case is that of a dead man. The
contusion on his head has perforated the internal membrane of
the occiput, and divellicatea that radical small minute invisible
nerve, which coheres to the pericranium; and this was attended
with a fever at first symptomatic, then pneumatic; and he is at
length grown deliruus, or delirious, as the vulgar express it."
He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mightv noise
interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighbourhood had
taken one of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn.
Betty ran up-stairs. with this news to Joseph, who begged they
might search fox a little piece of broken gold, which had a riband
THE DOCTOR AND THE PARSON. 37
tied to it, and which he could swear to amongst all the hoards oC
the richest men in the universe.
Notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his innocence, the
mqb were very busy in searching him, and presentlv, among other
things, pulled out the piece of gold just mentioned; which Betty
no sooner saw, than she laid violent hands on it, and conveyed it
up to Joseph, who received it with raptures of joy, and, hugging
it in his bosom, declared he could now die contented.
Within a few minutes afterwards, came in some other fellows,
with a bundle which they had found in a ditch; and which was,
indeed, the clothes which had been stripped off from Joseph, and
the other things they had taken from him.
The gentleman no sooner saw the coat, than he declared he
knew the livery; and, if it had been taken from the poor creature
above stairs, desired he might see him; for that he was very well
acquainted with the family to whom that livery belonged.
He was accordingly conducted up by Betty; but what, reader,
was the surprise on both sides, when he saw Joseph was the
Eerson in bea: and when Joseph discovered the face of his good
•iend Mr. Abraham Adams!
It would be impertinent to insert a discourse which chiefly
turned on the relation of matters already well known to the
reader; for, as soon as the curate had satisfied Joseph concerning
the perfect health of his Banny, he was, on his side, very inquisi-
tive into all the particulars which had produced this unfortunate
accident.
To return, therefore, to the kitchen, where a great variety of
company were now assembled from all the rooms of the house, as
well as the neighbourhood; so much delight do men take in con-
templating the countenance of a thief.
Mr. Tow-wouse began to rub his hands with pleasure, at seeing
so large an assembly; who would, he hoped, shortly adjourn into
several apartments, m order to discourse over the robbery, and
drink a health to all honest men: but Mrs. Tow-wouse, whose
misfortune it was commonly to see things a little perversely,
began to rail at those who brought the fellow into her house;
telling her husband they were very likely to thrive, who kept a
house of entertainment for beggars and thieves.
The mob had now finished their search, and could find nothing
about the captive likely to prove any evidence; for as to the
clothes, though the mob were very well satisfied with that proof,
yet, as the surgeon observed, they could not convict him, because
they were not found in his custody; to which Barnabas agreed,
and added, that these were bona waviata, and belonged to the lord
of the manor.
" How," says the surgeon, " do you say these goods belong to
the lord of the manor ? "—'c I do," cried B^nabas- " Then I
38 v JOSEPH ANDREWS.
deny it," says tlie surgeon: "what can the lord of the manor have
to do in the case? "Will any one attempt to persuade me that
what a man finds is not his own?"—"I nave heard," says an old
fellow in the corner, " Justice Wiseone say, that if every man had
his right, whatever is found belongs to the king of London."—
" That may be true," says Barnabas, " in some sense; for the law
makes a difference between things stolen and things found; for a
thing may be stolen that is never found, and a thing may be
found that never was stolen: now, goods that are both stolen and
found are waviata, and they belong to the lord of the manor."—
" So the lord of the manor is the receiver of stolen goods !" says
the doctor; at wliich there was a universal laugh, being first begun
by himself.
While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had almost
(as there was no evidence against him) brought over Barnabas,
the surgeon, Tow-wouse, and several others to his side, Betty
informed them, that they had overlooked a little piece of gold,
which she had carried up to the man in bed; and which he offered
to swear to amongst a million, ay, amongst ten thousand. This
immediately turned the scale against the prisoner; and every one
now concluded him guilty. It was resolved, therefore, to keep
him secured that night, and early in the morning to carry him
before a justice.
Chap. XV.—Showing how Mrs. Tow-wouse was a little mollified ; and how
officious Mr. Barnabas and the Surgeon were to prosecute the Thief; with
a Dissertation, accounting for their Zeal, and that of many other Persons
not mentioned in this History.
Betty told her mistress, she believed the man in bed was a greater
man than they took him for; for, besides the extreme whiteness
of his skin, and the softness of his hands, she observed a very
great familiarity between the gentleman and him; and added, she
was certain they were intimate acquaintance, if not relations.
This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs. Tow-wouse's coun-
tenance. She said, God forbid she should not discharge the duty
of a Christian, since the poor gentleman was brought to her house:
she had a natural antipathy to vagabonds, but could pity the mis-
fortunes of a Christian as soon as another. Tow-wouse said, "If
the traveller be a gentleman, though he has no money about him
now, we shall, most likely, be paid hereafter; so you may begin to
score whenever you will." Mrs. Tow-wouse answered, "Hold your
simple tongue, and don't instruct me in my business : I am sure I
am sorry for the gentleman's misfortune with all my heart; and I
hope the villain who has used him so barbarously will be hanged.
JOSEPH'S GRATITUDE. 39
Betty, go see'what he wants. God forbid lie should want anything
in my house."
Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph, to satisfy them-
selves concerning the piece of gold. Joseph was with difficulty
prevailed upon to,show it them; but would by no entreaties be
brought to deliver it out of his own possession. He however
attested this to be the same which had been taken from him; and
Betty was ready to swear to the finding it on the thief.
The only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this gold
before the justice; for, as to carrying Joseph himself, it seemed
impossible, nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from
him; for he had fastened it with a riband to his arm, and solemnly
vowed that nothing but irresistible force should ever separate
them; in which, Mr. Adams, clenching a fist rather less than the
knuckle of an ox, declared he would support hiim
A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence, not very
necessary to be related here; after which, the surgeon dressed
Mr. Joseph's head; still persisting in the imminent danger in
which his patient lay; but concluding, with a very important look,
that he began to have some hopes; that he should send him a
sanative soporiferous draught, and would see him in the morning.
After which, Barnabas and he departed, and left Mr. Joseph and
Mr. Adams together.
Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey which
he was making to London, namely, to publish three volumes of
sermons; being encouraged, as he said, by an advertisement lately
set forth by the society of booksellers, who proposed to purchase
any copies offered to them, at a price to be settled by two persons:
but, though he imagined he should get a considerable sum of
money on this occasion, which his family were in urgent need of,
he protested he would not leave Joseph in his present condition *.
finally, he told him, he had nine shillings ana three-pence half-
penny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as he pleased.
Tins goodness of Parson Adams brought tears into Joseph's
eyes: he declared, he had now a second reason to desire life, that
he might show his gratitude to such a friend. Adams bade him
be cheerful; for that he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his
ignorance, desired to make a merit of curing him, though the
wounds in his head, he perceived, were by no means dangerous;
that h'e was convinced he had no fever, and doubted not but he
would be able to travel in a day or two.
These'words infused a spirit into Joseph: he said, he found
himself very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to think any
of his bones injured, or that he had received any harm in his inside,
unless that he felt something very odd in his stomach; but he knew
not whether that might not arise from not having eaten one morsel
for above twenty-four hours. Being then asked if he had any
40 JOSEEH AMDIIEWS.
inclination to eat, lie answered in the affirmative. Then Parson
Adams desired him to name what he had the greatest fancy for;
whether a poached egg or chicken broth: he answered, he could
eat both very well, but he seemed to have the greatest appetite
for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage.
Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he had not
the least fever; but advised him to a lighter diet for that evening.
He accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl,—1 never could with
any tolerable certainty discover which; after this, he was, by
Mrs. Tow-wouse's order, conveyed into a better bed, and equipped
with one of her husband's shirts.
In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to the
inn, in order to see the thief conveyed before the justice. They
had consumed the whole night in debating what measures they
should take to produce the piece of gold in evidence against him;
for they were ooth extremely zealous in the business, though
neither of them were in the least interested in the prosecution;
neither of them had ever received any private injury from the
fellow, nor had either of them ever been suspected of loving the
public well enough to give them a sermon or a dose of physic for
nothing.
To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible to account
for this zeal, we must inform him that, as this parish was so
unfortunate as to have no lawyer in it, there had been a constant
contention between the two doctors, spiritual and physical, con-
cerning their abilities in a science, in which, as neither of them
professed it, they had equal pretensions to dispute each other's
opinions. _ These disputes were carried on with great contempt
on both sides, and had almost divided the parish; Mr. Tow-wouse
and one half of the neighbours inclining to the surgeon, and
Mrs. Tow-wouse, with the other half, to the parson. The surgeon
drew his knowledge from those inestimable fountains, called
"The Attorney's Pocket Companion," and Mr. Jacob's Law
Tables; Barnabas trusted entirely to Wood's Institutes. It
happened, on this occasion, as was pretty frequently the case, that
these two learned men differed about the sufficiency of evidence;
the doctor being of opinion that the maid's oath would convict
the prisoner, without producing the gold; the parson e contra,
totis viribus. To display their parts, therefore, before the
justice and the parish, was the sole motive, which we can discover,
to this zeal, which both of them pretended to have for public
justice.
0 Vanity, how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy opera-
tions discerned! How wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under
different disguises! Sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity,
sometimes of generosity; nay, thou hast the assurance even to
put on those glorious ornaments which belong only to heroic
THE WATCHFUL KEEPERS. 41
virtue. Thou odious, deformed monster, whom priests have railed
at, philosophers despised, and poets ridiculed,—is there a wretch
so abandoned as to own thee for an acquaintance in public ? yet.
how few will refuse to enjoy thee in private ! nay, thou art the
pursuit of most men through their lives. The greatest villanies
are daily, practised to please thee; nor is the meanest thief below,
or the greatest hero above, thy notice. Thy embraces are often
the sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery and the plun-
dered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot! that we
attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to with-
hold from them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves.
Avarice itself is often no more than thy handmaid, and even Lust
thy pimp. The bully Fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and
Joy and Grief hide their heads in thy presence.
I know thou wilt think, that whilst I abuse thee, I court thee,
and that thy love has inspired me to write this sarcastical panegyric
on thee; but thou art deceived: I value thee not of a farthing; nor
will it give me any pain, if thou shouldst prevail on the reader to
censure this digression as arrant nonsense; for know, to thy con-
fusion, that I have introduced thee for no other purpose than to
lengthen out a short chapter; and so I return to my history.
Chap. XVI.—The Escape of the Thief; Mr. Adams's Disappointment; the
Arrival of two very extraordinary Personages; and the Introduction of
Parson Adams to Parson Barnabas.
Barnabas and the surgeon being returned, as we have said, to
the inn, in order to convey the thief before the justice, were greatly
concerned to find a small accident had happened, which somewhat
disconcerted them; and this was no other than the thief's escape,
who had modestly withdrawn himself by night, declining all
ostentation, and not choosing, in imitation of some great men,
to distinguish himself at the expense of being pointed at.
When the company had retired the evening before, the thief
was detained in a room, where the constable, and one of the
young fellows who took him, were planted as his guard. About
the second watch, a general complaint of drought was made both
by the prisoner and his keepers; among whom it was at last
agreed that the constable should remain on duty, and the young
fellow call up the tapster; in which disposition the latter appre-
bended not the least danger, as the constable was well armed,
and could besides easily summon him back to his assistance, if the
prisoner made the least attempt to gain his liberty.
The young fellow had not long left, the room, before it came
42 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
into the constable's head, that the prisoner might leap on him by
surprise, and thereby preventing him of the use of his weapons,
especially the long staff, in which he chiefly confided, might
deduce the success of a struggle to an equal chance. He wisely,
"therefore, to prevent this inconvenience, slipped out of the room
himself, and locked the door, waiting without with his staff in his
hand, ready lifted, to fell the unhappy prisoner, if by ill fortune he
should attempt to break out.
But human life, as has been discovered by some great man or
other (for I would by no means be understood to affect the honour of
making any such discovery), very much resembles a game at chess;
for as in the latter, while a gamester is too attentive to secure
himself very strongly on one side the board, he is apt to leave an
unguarded opening on the other; so does it often happen in life;
and so did it happen on this occasion; for whilst the cautious
constable with such wonderful sagacity had possessed himself of
the door, he most unhappily forgot the window.
The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner perceived
this opening, than he began to move that way; and finding the
passage easy, he took with him the young fellow's hat, and
without any ceremony stepped into the street, and made the best
of his way.
The young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong beer,
was a little surprised to find the constable at the door; but much
more so when, the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner
had made his escape, and which way. He threw down the beer,
and without uttering anything to the constable, except a hearty
curse or two, he nimbly leaped out of the window, and went
again in pursuit of his prey • being very unwilling to lose the
reward which he had assured himeelf of.
The constable has not been discharged of suspicion on this
account: it has been said, that not being concerned ill the taking
the thief, he cchild not have been entitled to any part of the
reward, if he had been convicted; that the thief had several guineas
in his pocket; that it was unlikely he should have been guilty
of such an oversight • that his pretence for leaving the room was
absurd; that it was his constant maxim, that a wise man never
refused money on any conditions: that at every election he always
had sold his vote to both parties, &c.
But notwithstanding these and many other such allegations, I
am sufficiently convinced of his innocence ; having been positively
assured of it by those who received their information from his
own mouth; which, in the opinion of some moderns, is the best
and indeed only evidence.
All the family were now up, and with many others assembled in
the kitchen, where Mr. Tow-wouse was in some tribulation; the
surgeon having declared, that by law he was liable to be indicted
PARSON ADAMS'S EXPEDIENT. 43
for the thief's escape, as it was out of his house; he was a little
comforted, however, by Mr. Barnabas's opinion, that, as the escape
was by night, the indictment would not lie.
Mrs. Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following words:" Sure
never was such a fool as my husband! Would any other person
living have left a man in the custody of such a drunken drowsy
blockhead as Tom Suckbribe ?" (which was the constable's name);
" and if he could be indicted without any harm to his wife and chil-
dren, I should be glad of it." (Then the bell rang in Joseph's
room.)
"Why, Betty, John, Chamberlain, where the devil are you
all? Have you no ears, or no conscience, not to tend the
sick better ? See what the gentleman wants. Why don't you
go yourself, Mr. Tow-wouse ? But any one may die for you; you
have no more feeling than a deal board. If a man lived a fort-
night in your house without spending a penny, you would never
put him in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea or coffee for
breakfast."
"Yes, my dear," cried Tow-wouse. She then asked the
doctor and Mr. Barnabas what morning's draught they chose,
who answered, they had a pot of cider-and at the fire; which we
will leave them merry over, and return to Joseph.
He had rose pretty early this morning; but though his wounds
were far from threatening any danger, he was so sore with the
bruises, that it was impossible for him to think of undertaking a
journey yet ; Mr. Adams, therefore, whose stock was visibly
decreased with the expenses of supper and breakfast, and which
could not survive that day's scoring, began to consider how it was
possible to recruit it. At last he cried, he had luckily hit on a
sure method, and though it would oblige him to return himself
home together with Joseph, it mattered not much. He then sent
for Tow-wouse, and taking him into another room told him
he wanted to borrow three guineas, for which he would put ample
security into his hands. Tow-wouse, who expected a watch, or
ring, or something of double the value, answered, he believed he
could furnish him; upon which Adams, pointing to his saddle-bag,
told him, with a face and voice full of solemnity, that there were
in that bag no less than nine volumes of manuscript sermons, as
well worth a hundred pound as a shilling was worth twelve pence,
and that he would deposit one of the volumes in his hands by
way of pledge, not doubting but that he would have the honesty
to return it on his repayment of the money; for otherwise he
must be a very great loser, seeing that every volume would at
leastbring him ten pounds, as he had been informed by a neigh-
bouring clergyman in the country; " for," said he, " as to my own
part, having never yet dealt in printing, I do not pretend to
ascertain the exact value of such things."
44 JOSEPH AUDKEWS.
Tow-wouse, who was a little surprised at the pawn, said, and
npt without some truth, that he was no judge of the price of such
kind of goods ; and as for money, he really was very short. Adams
answered, certainly he would not scruple to lend him three
fguineas on what was undoubtedly worth at least ten. The land-
ord replied, he did not believe he had so much money in the
house; and besides, he was to make up a sum. He was very
confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily sorry
it did not suit him. He then cried out, "Coming, sir!" though
nobody called, and ran down stairs without any fear of breaking
his neck.
Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this diappointment, nor
knew he what farther stratagem to try. He immediately applied
to his pipe, his constant friend and comfort in his afflictions; and,
leaning over the rails, he devoted himself to meditation, assisted
by the inspiring fumes of tobacco.
He had on a nightcap drawn over his wig, and a short great-
coat, which half covered his cassock; a dress, which, added to
sometning comical enough in his countenance, composed a figure
likely to attract the eyes of those who were not overgiven to
observation.
_ Whilst he was smoking his pipe in this posture, a coach and
six, with a numerous attendance, drove into the inn. There
alighted from the coach a young fellow, and a brace of pointers,
after which another young fellow leaped from the box, and shook
the former by the hand; and both, together with the dogs, were
instantly conducted by Mr. Tow-wouse into an apartment; whither,
as they passed, they entertained themselves with the following
short facetious dialogue:—
"You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack!" says he from
the coach; " you had almost overturned us just now."—" Devil
take you!" says the coachman; "if I had only broken your neck,
it would have been, saving somebody else the trouble : but I should
have been sorry for the pointers."—"Why, you son of a b—,"
answered the other, " if nobody could shoot better than you, the
pointers would be of no use."—" D—n me," says the coachman,
1 will shoot with you, for five guineas a shot."—" You be hanged,"
says the other; "for five guineas you shall shoot at my a—."—
" Done," says the coachman: " I'll pepper you better than ever
you was peppered by Jenny Bouncer."—"Pepper your grand-
mother!" says the other: "here's Tow-wouse will let you shoot
at him for a shilling a time."—"I know his honour better," cries
Tow-wouse: " I never saw a surer shot at a partridge. Every
man misses now and then; but if I could shoot half as well as his
honour, I would desire no better livelihood than 1 could get by
my gun."—"Plague on you," said the coachman, "you demolish
more game now than your head's worth. There's a bitch, Tow-
MR. BAJRNABAS'S CIVILITY. 4>5
wouse: by G— she never blinked* a bird in her life."—"I have a
puppy, not a year old, shall hunt with her for a hundred," cries the
other gentleman. " Done," says the coachman: "but you will be
poxed before you make the bet."—"If you have a mind for a bet,"
cries the coachman, " I will match my spotted dog with your white
bitch for a hundred, play or pay."—"Done," says the other:
"and I'll run Baldface against Slouch with you for another."—
" No," cries he from the box; " but I'll venture Miss Jenny against
Baldface, or Hannibal either."—" Go to the devil," cries he from
the coach: " I will make every bet your own way, to be sure! I
will match Hannibal with Slouch for a thousand, if you dare; and
I say Done first."
They were now arrived; and the reader will be very contented
to leave them, and repair to the kitchen; where Barnabas, the
surgeon, and an exciseman, were smoking their pipes over some
cider-and; and where the servants, who attended the two noble
gentlemen we have just seen alight, were now arrived.
"Tom," cries one of the footmen, "there's Parson Adams smok-
ing his pipe in the gallery."—" Yes," says Tom; " I pulled off my
hat to him, and the parson spoke to me."—"Is the gentleman a
clergyman, then?" says Barnabas; for his cassock had been tied
up when he first arrived. "Yes, sir," answered the footman;
" and one there be but few like."—" Ay!" said Barnabas: "if I
had known it sooner, I should have desired his company; I would
always show a proper respect for the clothbut _what say you,
doctor ? shall we adjourn into a room, and invite him to take part
of a bowl of punch ?"
This proposal was immediately agreed to, and executed; and
Parson Adams accepting the invitation, much civility passed
between the two clergymen, who both declared the great honour
they had for the cloth. They had not been long together before
they entered into a discourse on small tithes, which continued a
full hour, without the doctor or exciseman's having one opportunity
to offer a word.
It was then proposed to begin a general conversation, and the
exciseman opened on foreign affairs; but a word unluckily dropping
from one ot them, introduced a dissertation on the hardships
suffered by the inferior clergy; which, after a long duration, con-
eluded with bringing the nine volumes of sermons on the carpet.
Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams: he said, the age was
so wicked, that nobody read sermons. "Would you think it, Mr.
Adams ?" said he: "I once intended to print a volume of sermons
myself, and they had the approbation of two or three bishops; but
what do you think a bookseller offered me ?"—"Twelve guineas,
* To clink, is a term used to signify the dog's passing by a bird without
pointing at it.
46 JOSEPH AHDHEWS.
perhaps," cried Adams. "Not twelve pence, I assure you,"
answered Barnabas: " nay, the dog refused me a Concordance in
exchange. At last I offered to give him the printing them, for the
sake of dedicating them to that very gentleman who just now
drove his own coach into the inn; and, I assure you, be had the
impudence to refuse my offer; by which means I lost a good living,
that was afterwards given away in exchange for a pointer, to one
who but I will not say anything against the cloth. So you
may guess, Mr. Adams, what you are to expect; for if sermons
would have gone down, I believe 1 will not be vain; but
to be concise with you, three bishops said they were the best that
ever were written: but indeed there are a pretty moderate number
printed already, and not all sold yet."
" Pray, sir," said Adams, " to what do you think the numbers
may amount ? "—" Sir," answered Barnabas, " a bookseller told
'me, he believed five thousand volumes at least."—"Bive thou-
sand!" quoth the surgeon: " what can they be written upon ? I
remember, when I was a boy, I used to read one Tillotson's ser-
mons; and, I am sure, if a man practised half so much as is in one
of those sermons, he will go to heaven."
" Doctor," cried Barnabas, " you have a profane way of talking,
for which 1 must reprove you. A man can never have his duty
too frequently inculcated into him; and as for Tillotson, to be
sure he was a good writer, and said things very well; but com-
parisons are odious: another man may write as well as he: I
believe there are some of my sermons;" and then he applied the
candle to his pipe. " And I believe there are rsome ot my dis-
courses," cries Adams, " which the bishops would not think totally
unworthy of being printed; and I have been informed, I might
procure a very large sum, indeed an immense one, on them."
"I doubt that," answered Barnabas: "however, if you desire
to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell them by
advertising the manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately deceased,
all warranted originals, and never printed; and now I think of it,
I should be obliged to you, if there be ever a funeral one among
them, to lend it me: for I am this very day to preach a funeral
sermon, for which I have not penned a line, though I am to have
a double price."
Adams answered, he had but one, which he feared would not
serve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magistrate,
who had exerted himself very singularly in the preservation of the
morality of his neighbours, insomuch that he had neither alehouse
nor lewd woman in the parish where he lived. "No," replied
Barnabas, " that will not ao quite so well; for the deceased, upon
whose virtues I am to harangue, was a little too much addicted to
liquor, and publicly kept a mistress. I believe I must take a
common sermon, and trust to my memory to introduce something
Joseph's recovery. 47
handsome on him."—"To your invention, rather," said the
doctor: your memory will be apter to put you out; for no man
livmg' remembers anything good of him."
With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied the bowl
of punch, paid their reckoning, and separated: Adams and the
doctor went up to Joseph, Parson Barnabas departed to celebrate
the aforesaid deceased, and the exciseman descended into the cellar
to gauge the vessels.
Joseph was now ready to sit down to a loin of mutton, and
waited for Mr. Adams, when he and the doctor came in. The
doctor having felt his pulse, and examined his wounds, declared
him much better, which he imputed to that sanative soporiferous
draught; a medicine, whose virtues, he said, were never to be
sufficiently extolled. And great indeed they must be, if Joseph
was so much indebted to them as the doctor imagined; since
nothing more than those effluvia which escaped the cork could
have contributed to his recovery; for the medicine had stood un-
touched in the window ever since its arrival.
Joseph passed that day, and the three following, with his friend
Adams, in which nothing so remarkable happened as_ the swift
{irogress of his recovery. As he had an excellent habit of body,
lis wounds were now almost healed; and his bruises gave him so
little uneasiness, that he pressed Mr. Adams to let him depart;
told him he should never be able to return sufficient thanks for
all his favours; but begged that he might no longer delay his
journey to London.
Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he conceived it, of
Mr. Tow-wouse, and the envy (for such he thought it) of Mr.
Barnabas, had great expectations from his sermons : seeing, there-
fore, Joseph in so good a way, he told him he woulft agree to his
setting out the next morning in the stage-coach; that he believed
he should have sufficient, after the reckoning was paid, to procure
him one day's conveyance1 in it, and afterwards he would oe able
to get on on foot, or might be favoured with a lift in some neigh-
hour's waggon, especially as there was then to be a fair in the
town whither the coach would carry him, to which numbers from
his parish resorted; and as to himself, he agreed to proceed tc
the great city.
They were now walking in the inn-yard, when a fat, fair, short
person rode in, and alighting from his horse, went directly up to
Barnabas, who was smoking his pipe on a bench. The parson
and the stranger shook one another very lovingly by the hand, and
went into a room together.
The evening now coming on, Joseph retiredtohis chamber, whither
the good Adams accompanied him; and took this opportunity to
expatiate on the great mercies God had lately shown him, of which
he ought not only to have the deepest inward sense, but likewise
48 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
to express outward thankfulness for them. They therefore fell
both on their knees, and spent a considerable time in prayer and
thanksgiving.
They had just finished, when "Betty came in and told Mr. Adams,
Mr. Barnabas desired to speak to him on some business of conse-
quence below stairs. Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him
long, he would let him know it, that he might go to bed, which
Adams promised, and in that case they wished one another good
night.
Chap. XVII.—A pleasant Discourse between the two Parsons and the Book-
seller, which was broken off by an unlucky Accident happening in the Inn j
which produced a Dialogue between Mrs. Tow-wouse and her Maid, of no
gentle kind.
.As soon as Adams came into the room, Mr. Barnabas introduced
him to the stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would
be as likely to deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever.
Adams, saluting the stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was
very much obliged to him; that nothing could be more convenient,
for he had no other business to the great city; and was heartily
desirous of returning with the young man, who was just recovered
of his misfortune. He then snapped his fingers, as was usual with
him, and took two or three turns about the room in an ecstasy;
and to induce the' bookseller to be as expeditious as possible, as
likewise to offer him a better price for his commodity, he assured
them their meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for that he
had the mosf pressing occasion for money at that time, his own
being almost spent, and having a friend then, in the same inn,
who was just recovered from some wounds he had received from
robbers, and was in a most indigent condition: " so that nothing,"
says he, " could be so opportune^ for the supplying both our
necessities, as my making an immediate bargain with you."
As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in these
words : " Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engagmg in what
my friend Mr. Barnabas recommends; but sermons are mere
drugs. The trade is so vastly stocked with them, that really,
unless they come out with the name of Whitfield or Wesley, or
some other such great man, as a bishop, or those sort of people, I
don't care to touch ; unless now it was a sermon preached on the
30th of January; or we could say in the title-page, published at the
earnest request of the congregation, or the inhabitants; but truly,
for a drv piece of sermons, I had rather be excused; especially as
my hands are so full at present. However, sir, as Mr. Barnabas
mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take the manuscript
A fliFASANT DISCOURSE. 49
with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very short
time."
;" 0," said Adams, " if you desire it, I will read two or three
discourses as a specimen." This, Barnabas, who loved sermons
no better than a grocer does figs, immediately objected to, and
advised Adams to let the bookseller have his sermons; telling
him, if he gave him a direction, he might be certain of a speedy
answer; adding, he need not scruple trusting them in his posses-
sion. "No," said the bookseller: "if it was a play that had been
acted twenty nights together, I believe it would be safe."
Adams did not at all relish the last expression : he said he was
sorry to hear sermons compared to plays. " Not by me, I assure
you," cried the bookseller- "though I don't know whether the
licensing act may not shortly bring them to the same footing: but I
have formerly known a hundred guineas given for a play."—" More
shame for those who gave it," cried Barnabas. " Why so ?"
said the bookseller: " for they got hundreds by it."—" But is
there no difference between conveying good or ill instruction to
mankind ?" said Adams : " would not an honest mind rather lose
money by the one than gain it by the other ?"—" If you can find
any such, I will not be their hinderance," answered the bookseller;
" out I think those persons who get by preaching sermons, are
the properest to lose by printing them: for my part, the copy that
sells best will be always the best copy in my opinion: I am no
enemy to sermons, but because they don't sell; for I would as
soon print one of Whitfield's as any farce whatever."
" Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged,"
said Barnabas. " Sir," said he, turning to Adams, " this fellow's
writings (I know not whether you have seen them) are levelled at
the clergy. He would reduce us to the example of the primitive
ages, forsooth • and would insinuate to the people, that a clergy-
man ought to be always preaching and praying. He pretends to
understand the Scripture literally; and would make mankind
believe, that the poverty and low estate, which was recommended
to the church in its infancy, and was only a temporary doctrine,
adapted to her under persecution, was to be preserved in her
flourishing and established state. Sir, the principles of Toland,
Woolston, and all the freethinkers, are not calculated to do
half the mischief, as those professed by this fellow and his
followers."
"Sir," answered Adams, "if Mr. Whitfield had carried his
doctrine no farther than you mention, I should have remained,
as I once was, his well-wisher. I am, myself, as great an enemy
to the luxury and splendour of the clergy as he can be : I do not,
more than he, by the flourishing estate of the church, understand
the palaces, equipages, dress, furniture, rich dainties, and vast
fortunes, of her ministers. Surely those things, which savour so
s
50 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
strongly of this world, become not the servants of one who pro-
fessea his kingdom was not of it. But when he began to call
nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the detestable
doctrine of faith against good works, I was his friend no longer;
for surely that doctrine was coined in hell, and one would think
none but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach it.
Eor can anything be more derogatory to the honour of God, than
for men to imagine that the all-wise Being will hereafter say to
the good and virtuous, Notwithstanding< the purity of thy life,
notwithstanding that constant rule of virtue and goodness, in
which thou walkedst upon earth, still, as thou didst not believe
everything in the true orthodox manner, thy want of faith shall
condemn thee ? Or, on the other side, can any doctrine have a
more pernicious influence on society, than a persuasion, that it
will be a good plea for the villain, at the last day, Lord, it is true,
I never obeyed one of thy commandments; yet punish me not,
for I believe them all ? "
" I suppose, sir," said the bookseller, " your sermons are of a
different kind."—" Ay, sir," said Adams: "the contrary, I thank
heaven, is inculcated in almost every page, or I should belie my
own opinion, which has always been, that a virtuous and good
Turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the sight of their
Creator, than a vicious and wicked Christian, though his faith was
as perfectly orthodox as St. Paul's himself."—"I wish you sue-
cess," says the bookseller, " but must beg to be excused, as my
hands are so very full at present; and, indeed, I am afraid you
will find a backwardness in the trade to engage in a book which
the clergy would be certain to cry down."
"Godforbid," says Adams, "any books should be propagated
which the clergy would cry down; but if you mean by the clergy,
some few designing, factious men, who have it at heart to establish
some favourite schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and
the very essence of religion, it is not in the power of such persons
to decry any book they please; witness that excellent book, called
'A plain Account of the Nature and End of the Sacrament;' a
book written, if 1 may venture on the expression, with the pen of
an angel, and calculated to restore the true use of Christianity,
and of that sacred institution: for what could tend more to the
noble purposes of religion than frequent cheerful meetings among
the members of a society, in which they should, in the presence of
one another, and in the service of the Supreme Being, make
promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each other ?
Now, this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccess-
fully."
At these words Barnabas fell a ringing with all the violence
imaginable ; upon which a servant attending, he bid him bring a
bill immediately: for that he was in company, for aught he knew,
AN UNLUCKY INCIDENT. 51
with the devil himself; and he expected to hear the Alcoran,
Leviathan, or Woolston, commended, if he stayed a few minutes
longer. Adams desired, as he was so much moved at his men*
tioning a book, which he did without apprehending any pos-
sibility of offence, that he would be so kind to propose any objec-
tions he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer. "I
propose objections!" said Barnabas: " I never read a syllable in
any such wicked book: I never saw it in my life, I assure you."
Adams was going to answer, when a most hideous uproar began
in the inn! Mrs. Tow-wouse, Mr. Tow-wouse, and Betty, all
lifting up their voices together; but Mrs. Tow-wouse's voice, like
a bass viol in a concert, was clearly and distinctly distinguished
among the rest, and was heard to articulate the following sounds.
" 0 you d—ned villain ! is this the return to all the care I have
taken of your family ? This the reward of my virtue ? Is this
the manner in which you behave to one who brought you a
fortune, and preferred you to so many matches, all your betters ?
To abuse my bed, my own bed, with my own servant! but I'll
maul the slut; I'll tear her nasty eyes out. Was ever such a
Eitiful dog, to take up with such a mean trollop ? If she had
een a gentlewoman, hke myself, it had been some excuse; but a
beggarly, saucy, dirty servant-maid! Get out of my house, you
w !" to which she added another name, which we do not
care to stain our paper with: it was a monosyllable beginning
with a b—, and indeed was the same, as if she had pronounced
the words she-dog; which term we shall, to avoid offence, use on
this occasion, though, indeed, both the mistress and maid uttered
the above-mentioned b—, a word extremely disgustful to females
of the lower sort.
Betty had borne all hitherto with patience, and had uttered
only lamentations; but the last appellation stung her to the
quick. "I am a woman as well as yourself," she roared out,
" and no she-dog; and if I have been a little naughty, I am not
the first; if I have been no better than I should be," cries she,
sobbing, " that's no reason you should call me out of my name :
my be-betters are wo-orse than me."
"Hussy, hussy," says Mrs. Tow-wouse, "have you the im-
pudence to answer me ? Did I not catch you, you saucy ,"
and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to female
ears.
" I can't bear that name," answered Betty: " if I have been
wicked, I am to answer for it myself in the other world; but I
have done nothing that's unnatural; and I will go out of your
house this moment; for I will never be called she-dog by any
mistress in England."
Mrs. Tow-wouse then armed1 herself with the spit, but was pre-
rented from executing any dreadful purpose by Mr. Adams, who
E 9
53
JOSEPH AKDBEWS.
confined her arms with the strength of a wrist which Hercules
would not have been ashamed of. Mr. Tow-wouse being caught,
as our lawyers express it, with the maner, and having 110 defence
to make, very prudently withdrew himself: and Betty committed
herself to the protection of the ostler, who, though she could not
conceive him pleased with what had happened, was, in her opinion,
rather a gentler beast than her mistress.
Mrs. Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr. Adams, and finding
the enemy vanished, began to compose herself, and at length
recovered the usual serenity of her temper, in which we will
leave her, to open to the reader the steps which led to a cata-
strophe, common enough, and comical enough too, perhaps, in
modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and well-being of
families, and the subject of many tragedies, both in life and on
the stage.
Chap. XVIII.—The History of Betty the Chambermaid, and an Account of
what occasioned the violent Scene in the preceding Chapter.
Betty, who was the occasion of all this hurry, had some good
qualities: she had good-nature, generosity, and compassion; but
unfortunately her constitution was composed of those warm ingre-
dients which, though the purity of courts or nunneries might have
happily controlled them, were by no means enabled to endure
the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at an inn; who is daily
liable to the solicitations of lovers of all complexions; to the dan-
gerous 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-eoachmen, and
drawers: all of whom employ the whole artillery of kissing, flat-
" ' 1 ' 1 J1 which is to be found in
I now lived three years in
tills dangerous situation, during which she had escaped pretty well.
An ensign of foot was the first person who made an impression on
her heart: he did, indeed, raise a flame in her, which required the
care of a surgeon to cool.
While she burned for him, several others burned for her.
Officers of the army,_ young gentlemen travelling the western
circuit, inoffensive squires, and some of graver character, were set
A-fire by her charms.
At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first
unhappy passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual
chastity. She was long deaf to all the sufferings of her lovers, till
one day, at a neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the ostler,
JOSEPH'S CHASTITY. 53
with a new straw hat and a pint of wine, made a second conquest
over her.
She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this occasion
which had been the consequence of her former amour; nor, indeed,
those other ill effects which prudent young women very justly
apprehend from too absolute an indulgence to the pressing
endearments of their lovers. This latter, perhaps, was a little
owing to her not being entirely constant to John, with whom she
permitted Tom Whipwell, the stage-coachman, and now and then
a handsome young traveller, to share her favours.
Mr. Tow-wouse had for some time cast the languishing eyes of
affection on this young maiden : he had laid hold on every oppor-
tunity of saying tender things to her, squeezing her by the hand,
and sometimes kissing her lips; for as the violence of his passion
had considerably abated to Mrs. Tow-wouse, so, like water which
is stopped from its usual current in one place, it naturally sought
a vent in another. Mrs. Tow-wouse is thought to have perceived
this abatement, and probably it added very little to the natural
sweetness of her temper; for though she was as true to her
husband as the dial to the sun, she was rather more desir-
ous of being shone on, as being more capable of feeling his
warmth.
_ Ever since Joseph's arrival, Betty had conceived an extraordinary
liking to him, which discovered itself more and more, as he grew
better and better, till that fatal evening when, as she was warming
his bed, her passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly mas-
tered both her modesty and her reason, that, after many fruitless
hints and sly insinuations, she at last threw down the warming-
pan, and, embracing him with great eagerness, swore he was the
handsomest creature she had ever seen.
Joseph, in great confusion, leaped from her, and told her he was
sorry to see a young woman cast off all regard to modesty; but
she had gone too far to recede, and grew so very indecent, that
Joseph was obliged, contrary to_ his_ inclination, to use some
violence to her; and, taking her in his arms, he shut her out of
the room, and locked the door.
How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is always in his own
power; that if he has sufficient strength of mind, he has always
a competent strength of body to defend himself: and cannot, like
a poor weak woman, be ravished against his will!
Betty was in the most violent agitation at this disappointment.
Rage and lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different
ways. One moment she thought of stabbing Joseph; the next, of
taking him in her arms, and devouring him with kisses ; but the
latter passion was far more prevalent. Then she thought of
revenging his refusal on herself; but whilst she was engaged in
this meditation, happily ^resented himself to her in so
54 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Many shapes of drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c., that hei
iistracted mind could resolve on none.
In this perturbation of spirit, it accidentally occurred to her
memory that her master's bed was not made: she therefore went
directly to his room, where he happenened at that time to be
engaged at his bureau. As soon as she saw him, she attempted to
retire; but he called her back, and taking her by the hand,
squeezed her so tenderly, at the same time whispermg so many
soft things into her ears, and then pressed her so closely with hi?
kisses, that the vanquished fair one, whose passions were alreadj
raised, and which were not so whimsically capricious that one man
only could lay them—though perhaps she would have rather pre-
ferred that one—the vanquished fair one quietly submitted, I say,,
to her master's will, who had just attained the accomplishment of
his bliss, when Mrs. Tow-wouse unexpectedly entered the room,
and caused all that confusion which we have before seen, and
which it is not necessary at present to take any farther notice of,
since, without the assistance of a single hint from us, every reader
of any speculation or experience, though not married himself, may
easily conjecture that it concluded with the discharge of Betty, the
submission of Mr. Tow-wouse, with some things to be performed
on his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness in being
reconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any
more in the like manner, and, lastly, his quietly and contentedly
bearing to be reminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance,
once or twice a day, during the residue of ms life.
mysteries oe authorship.
65
BOOK II.
Chap. i.—Of Divisions in Authors.
There are certain, mysteries or secrets in all trades, from tlie
highest to the lowest, from that of prime-ministering to this of
authoring, which are seldom discovered, unless to members of the
same calling. Among those used by us gentlemen of the latter
occupation, I take this of dividing our works into hooks and
chapters to be none of the least considerable. Now, fog want of
being truly acquainted with this secret, common readers imagine,
that, by this art of dividing, we mean only to swell our works to a
much larger bulk than they would otherwise be extended to:
these several places, therefore, in our paper, which are filled with
our books and chapters, are understood as so much buckram, stays,
and staytape, in a tailor's bill, serving only to make up the sum
total, commonly found at the bottom of our first page, and of his
last. But, in reality, the case is otherwise; and in this, as well as
in all other instances, we consult the advantage of our reader, not
our own; and, indeed, many notable uses arise to him from this
method: for, first, those little spaces between our chapters may be
looked upon as an inn or resting-place, where he may stop and take
a glass, or any other refreshment, as it pleases him. Nay, our fine
readers will, perhaps, be scarce able to travel farther than through
one of them m a day.
As to those vacant pages which are placed between our books,
they are to be regarded as those stages, where, in long journeys,
the traveller stays some time to repose himself, and consider of
what he has seen in the parts he has already passed through; a
consideration, which I take the liberty to recommend a little to
the reader; for, however swift his capacity may be, I would not
advise him to travel through these pages loo fast; for if he does,
he may probably miss the sec'ng some curious productions of
nature, which will be observed by the slower and more accurate
reader. A volume, without any such places of rest, resembles the
opening of wilds or seas, which tires the eye and fatigues the
spirit when entered upon.
Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter, but
66 JOSEPH AWDHEWS.
io many inscriptions over the gates of inns, to continue the same
metaphor, informing the reader what entertainment he is to
expect, which if he hke not he may travel on to the next ? for, in
biography, as we are not, tied down to an exact concatenation
equally with other historians; so a chapter or two (for instance,
this I am now writing) may he often passed over without any
injury to the whole. And in these inscriptions I have been as
faithful as possible; not imitating the celebrated Montaigne, who
promises you one thing and gives you another; and some title-
page authors, who promise a great deal, and produce nothing at all.
There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several others,
which our readers enjoy from this art of dividing; though perhaps
most of them too mysterious to be presently understood by any
who are not initiated into the science of authoring. To mention
therefore but one which is most obvious, it prevents spoiling the
beauty of a book by turning down its leaves; a method otherwise
necessary to those readers, who, though they read with great im-
provement and advantage, are apt, when they return to their
study, after half an hour's absence, to forget where they left off.
These divisions have the sanction of great antiquity. Homer not
only divided his great work into twenty-four books, in compliment
perhaps to the twenty-four letters, to which he had very particular
obligations, but, according to the opinion of some very sagacious
critics, hawked them all separately, delivering only one book at a
time, probably by subscription. He was the first inventor of the
art, which has so long lain dormant, of publishing by numbers; an
art now brought to such perfection, that even dictionaries are
divided and exhibited piecemeal to the public; nay, one bookseller
has, to encourage learning, and ease the public, contrived to give
them a dictionary, in this divided manner, for only fifteen shillings
more than it would have cost entire.
# Virgil has given us his poem in twelve books,—an argument of
his modesty: for by that, doubtless, he would insinuate that he
pretends to no more than half the merit of the Greeks: for the
same reason, our Milton went originally no farther than ten; till,
being puffed up by the praise of his friends, he put himself on the
same footing with the llornan poet.
I shall not however enter so deep into this matter as some very
learned critics have done, who have, with infinite labour and acute
discernment, discoverd what books are proper for embellishment,
and what require simplicity only, particularly with regard to similes,
which I think are now generally agreed to become any book but
-the first.
I will dismiss this chapter with the following observation; that
it becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it does a
butcher to joint his meat; for such assistance is of great help to
both the reader and the carver. And now, having indulged myself
MR. ADAMS SllOlvf MEMORY. 57
a little, I will endeavour to indulge the curiosity of my reader,
who is no doubt impatient to know what he will find in the subse-
quent chapters of this book.
Chap. II.—A surprising Instance of Mr. Adams' Short Memory, with the
unfortunate Consequences which it brought on Joseph.
Mr. Adams and Joseph were now ready to depart different ways,
when an accident determined the former to return with his friend,
which Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been able
to do. This accident was, that those sermons, which the parson
was travelling to London to publish, wTere, O my good reader!
left behind; what he had mistaken for them in the saddle-bags
being no other than three shirts, a pair of shoes, and some other
necessaries, which Mrs. Adams, who thought her husband would
want shirts more than sermons on his journey, had carefully
providedhim.
This discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of Joseph
at the opening of the saddle-bags; who, having heard his friend
say he carried with him nine volumes of sermons, and not being of
that sect of philosophers who can reduce all the matter of the
world into a nutshell, seeing there was no room for them in the
bags, where the parson had said they were deposited, had the
curiorityto cry out, "Bless me, sir, where are your sermons?"
The parson answered, " There, there, child; there they are, under
my shirts." Now it happened that he had taken forth his last
smrt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty. " Sure, sir," says
Joseph, " there is nothing in the bags." Upon which Adams,
starting, and testifying some surprise, cried, " Hey! fie, fie upon
it! they are not here, sure enough. Ay, they are certainly left
behind."
Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he appre-
bended his friend must feel from this disappointment: he begged
him to pursue his journey, and promised he would himself return
with the books to him with the utmost expedition. " No, thank
you, child," answered Adams; " it shall not be so. What would
it avail me to tarry in the great city, unless I had my discourses
with me, which are, ut ita dicam, the sole cause, the aitia monotate,
of my peregrination ? No, child: as this accident has happened,
I am resolved to return back to my cure, together with you • which
indeed my inclination sufficiently leads me to. This disappointment
may perhaps be intended for my good." He concluded with a verse
out of Theocritus, which signifies no more than that sometimes
it rains, and sometimes the sun shines.
58 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the inclina-
tion which the parson expressed of returning with him; and now
the bill was called for, which, on examination, amounted within a
shilling to the sum which Mr. Adams had in his pocket. Perhaps
the reader may wonder how he was able to produce a sufficient
sum for so many days : that he may not be surprised, therefore, it
cannot be unnecessary to acquaint him that lie had. borrowed a
guinea of a servant belonging to the coach and six, who had been
formerly one of his parishioners, and whose master, the owner of
the coach, then lived within three miles of him; for so good was
the credit of Mr. Adams, that even Mr. Peter, the Lady Booby's
steward, would have lent him a guinea with very little security.
Mr. Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting out,
having agreed to ride and tie • a method of travelling much used
by persons who have but one horse between them, and is thus per-
formed. The two travellers set out together, one on horseback,
the other on foot: now, as it generally happens that he on horse-
back outgoes him on foot, the custom is, that when he arrives at
the distance agreed on, he is to dismount, tie the horse to some
gate, tree, post, or other thing, and then proceed on foot; when
the other comes up to the horse, unties him, mounts, and gallops
on; till, having passed by his fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives
at the place of tying. And this is that method of travelling so
much in use among our prudent ancestors, who knew that horses
had months as well as legs, and that they could not use the latter,
without being at the expense of suffering the beasts themselves to
use the former. This was the method in use in those days, when,
instead of a coach and six, a member of parliament's lady used to
mount a pillion behind her husband; and a grave serjeant-at-law
condescended to amble to Westminster on an easy pad, with his
clerk kicking his heels behind him.
Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted on Joseph's
beginning the journey on horseback, and Joseph had his foot in
the stirrup, when the ostler presented him a bill for the horse's
board during his residence at the inn. Joseph said Mr. Adams
had paid all; but this matter being referred to Mr. Tow-wouse,
was by him decided in favour of the ostler, and indeed with truth
and justice; for this was a fresh instance of that shortness of
memory, which did not arise from want of parts, but that continual
hurry in which Parson Adams was always involved.
Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely puzzled
him. The sum due for horse-meat was twelve shillings (for
Adams, who had borrowed the beast of his clerk, had ordered him
to be fed as well as they could feed him), and the cash in his
pocket amounted to sixpence, for Adams had divided the last
shilling with him. Now, though there have been some ingenious
persons who have contrived to pay twelve shillings with sixpence,
JOSEPH rsr A DILEMMA. 59
Joseph, was not one of them. He had never contracted a debt in
his life, and was consequently the less ready at an expedient to
extricate himself. Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit till
next time, to which Mrs. Tow-wouse would probably have con-
sented; for such was Joseph's beauty, that it had made some
impression even on that piece of flint which that good woman wore
in her bosom by way of heart. Joseph would have found there-
fore, very likely, the passage free, had he not, when he honestly
discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out that little piece
of gold which we have mentioned before. This caused Mrs. Tow-
wouse's eyes to water: she told Joseph, she did not conceive a
man could want money whilst he had gold in his pocket. Joseph
answered, he had such a value for that little piece of gold, that ne
would not part with it for a hundred times the riches which the
greatest esquire in the country was worth.
"A pretty way, indeed," said Mrs. Tow-wouse, " to run in debt,
and then refuse to part with your money, because you have a
value for it. I never knew any piece of gold of more value than
as many shillings as it would change for."—"Not to preserve my
life from starving, nor to redeem it from a robber, would I part
with this dear piece!" answered Joseph. "What," says Mrs.
Tow-wouse, " I suppose it was given you by some vile trollop,
some miss or other! If it had been the present of a virtuous
woman, you would not have had such a value for it. _ My husband
is a fool 'if he parts with the horse without being paid for him."—
"No, no, I can't part with the horse, indeed, till I have the
money," cried Tow-wouse; a resolution highly commended by a
lawyer then in the yard, who declared Air. Tow-wouse might
justify the detainer.
As we cannot, therefore, at present get Air. Joseph out of the
inn, we shall leave him in it, and carry our reader on after Parson
Adams, who, his mind being perfectly at ease, fell into a contem-
plation on a passage in JEschylus, which entertained him for three
miles together, without suffering him once to reflect on his fellow-
traveller.
At length, having spun out his thread, and being now at the
summit of a hill, he cast his eyes backwards, and wondered that he
could not see any sign of Joseph. As he left him ready to mount
the horse, he could not apprehend any mischief had happened,
neither could he suspect that he missed his way, it being so broad
and plain: the only reason which presented itself to him was, that
he had met with an acquaintance, who had prevailed with him to
delay some time in discourse.
He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not doubting
but that he should be shortly overtaken; and soon came to a large
water, which filling the whole road, he saw no method of passing
unless by wading through, which he accordingly did up to his
60 JOSfit'fi ANDREWS.
middle; but was no sooner got to the other side, than he perceived,
if he had looked over the hedge, he would have found a footpath
capable of conducting him without wetting his shoes.
His surprise at Joseph's not coming up grew now very trouble-
some; he oegan to fear he knew not what; and as he determined
to move no farther, and, if he did not shortly overtake him, to
return back, he wished to find a house of public entertainment,
where he might dry his clothes, and refresh himself with a pint;
but seeing no such (for no other reason than because he did not
cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards), he sat himself down on a
stile, and pulled out his iEschylus.
A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him if he could
direct him to an alehouse. The fellow, who had just left it, and
perceived the house and sign to be within sight, thinking lie had
jeered him, and being of a morose temper, bade him follow his nose
and be d—d. Adams told him he was a saucy jackanapes; upon
which the fellow turned about angrily; but perceiving Adams clench
his fist, he thought proper to go on, without taking any farther notice.
A horseman following immediately after, and being asked the
same question, answered, " Friend, there is one within a stone's
throw; I believe you may see it before you." Adams, lifting up
his eyes, cried, "I protest, and so there is;" and, thanking his
informer, proceeded directly to it.
Chap. III.—The Opinion of two Lawyers concerning the same Gentleman,
with Mr. Adams's Inquiry into the Religion of his Host.
He had just entered the house, had called for his pint, and seated
himself, when two horsemen came to the door, and, fastening their
horses to the rails, alighted. They said there was a violent shower
of rain coming on, which they intended to weather there, and went
into a little room by themselves, not perceiving Mr. Adams.
One of these immediately asked the other, if he had seen a more
comical adventure a great while ? Upon which the other said, he
doubted whether, by law, the landlord could justify detaining the
horse for his corn and hay : but the former answered, "Undoubt-
edly he can; it is an adjudged case, and I have known it tried."
Adams, who though he w?is, as the reader may suspect, a little
inclined to forgetfulness, never wanted more than a hint to remind
him, overhearing their discourse, immediately suggested to himself
that this was his own horse, and that he had forgot to pay for him,
which, upon inquiry, he was certified of by the gentlemen; who
added, that the horse was likely to have more rest than food,
unless he was paid for.
The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, though
LAWYERS* OPINIONS. 61
he knew no more than Joseph how to procure his horse his
liberty; he was, however, prevailed on to stay under cover, till the
shower, which was now very violent, was over.
The three travellers then sat down together over a mug of
good beer; when Adams, who had observed a gentleman's house
as he passed along the road, inquired to whom it belonged; one
of the horsemen had no sooner mentioned the owner's name, than
the other began to revile him in the most opprobrious terms. The
English language scarce affords a single reproachful word which
he did not vent on this occasion. He charged him, likewise, with
many particular facts. He said, he no more regarded a field of
wheat when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he
had injured several poor farmers by trampling their com under
his horse's heels; ana if any of them begged him with the utmost
submission to refrain, his horsewhip was always ready to do them
justice. He said that he was the greatest tyrant to the neigh-
hours in every other instance, and would not suffer a farmer to
keep a gun, though he might justify it by law; and in his own
family so cruel a master, that he never kept a_ servant a twelve-
month. " In his capacity as a justice," continued he, " he be-
haves so partially, that he commits or acquits just as he is in the
humour, without any regard to truth or evidence; the devil may
carry any one before him for me; I would rather be tried before
some judges, than be a prosecutor before him; if I had an estate
ill the neighbourhood, I would sell it for half the value rather
than live near him."
Adams shook his head, and said, he was sorry such men were
suffered to proceed with impunity, and that riches could set any
man above the law. The reviler, a little after, retiring into the
vard, the gentleman who had first mentioned his name to Adams,
began to assure him that his companion was a prejudiced person.
"It is true," says he, "perhaps, that he may have sometimes
pursued his game over a field of corn, but he has always made the
party ample satisfaction; that so far from tyrannizing over his
neighbours, or taking away their guns, he himself knew several
farmers, not qualified, who not only kept guns, but killed game
with them; that he was the best of masters to his servants, and
several of them had grown old in his service; that he was the
best justice of peace in the kingdom, and, to his certain know-
ledge, had decided many difficult points, which were referred to
him, with the greatest equity, and the highest wisdom; and he
verily believed, several persons would give a year's purchase more
for an estate near him, than under the wings of any other great
man." He had just finished his encomium, when his companion
returned, and acquainted him the storm was over. Upon which
they presently mounted their horses and departed.
Adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those different cha-
62 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
racters of the same person, asked his host if he knew the gentle-
man: for he began to imagine they had by mistake been speaking
of two several gentlemen. "No, no, master," answered the host,
a shrewd, cunning fellow: "I know the gentleman very well of
whom they have been speaking, as I do the gentlemen who spoke
of him. As for riding over other men's corn, to my knowledge
he has not been on horseback these two years. I never heard he
did any injury of that kind; and, as to making reparation, he is
not so free of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever
hear of his taking away any man's gun; nay, I know several who
have guns in tJieir houses; but as for killing game with' them, no
man is stricter; and I believe he would ruin any who did. _ You
heard one of the gentlemen say, he was the worst master in the
world, and the other that he is the best; but for my own part,
I know all his servants, and never heard from any of them, that
he was either one or the other."
" Ay, ay!" says Adams; " and how does he behave as a justice,
Eray p "—"Faith, friend," answered the host," I question whether
e is in the commission: the only cause I have heard he has
decided a great while, was one between those very two persons
who just went out of this house; and I am sure he determined
that justly, for I heard the whole matter."—" Which did he
decide it in favour of?" quoth Adams. "I think I need not
answer that question," cried the host, " after the different charac-
ters you have heard of him. It is not my business to contradict
gentlemen, while they are drinking in my house; but I knew
neither of them spoke a syllable of truth."—" God forbid," said
Adams, " that men should arrive at such a pitch of wickedness to
belie the character of their neighbour from a little private affec-
tion, or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. I rather believe
we have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons; for
there are many houses on the road."
"Why, prythee, friend," cries the host, "dost thou pretend
never to have told a lie in thy life ? "—" Never a malicious one, I
am certain," answered Adams, " nor with a design to injure the
reputation of any man living."—" Pugh! malicious ; no, no,"
replied the host; "not malicious, with a design to hang a man,
or bring him into trouble; but surely, out of love to one's self,
one must speak better of a friend than an enemy ? "—" Out of love
to yourself, you should confine yourself to truth," says Adams,
"for by doing otherwise you injure the noblest part of yourself,
your immortal soul. I can hardly believe any man such an idiot
to risk the loss of that by any trifling gain; and the greatest
gain in this world is but dirt in comparison of what shall be
revealed hereafter."
Upon which the host, taking up the cup, with a smile, drank'
a health to hereafter; adding, he was for something present.
THE PARSON AND HIS HOST. 63
"'Why," says Adams, very gravely, "do you not believe in another
world ? " To which the host answered, yes; he was no atheist.
"And you believe you haye an immortal soul? " cries Adams. He
answered, God forbid he should not. "And heaven and hell?"
said the parson. The host then bid him not to be profane: for
those were things not to be mentioned nor thought of but in church.
Adams asked him, why he went to church, if what he learned
there had no influence on his conduct in life ? " I go to church,"
answered the host, "to say my prayers, and behave godly."—
"And dost not thou," cried Adams, "believe what thou hearest
at church?"—"Most part of it, master," returned the host.
" And dost not thou then tremble," cries Adams, " at the thought
of eternal punishment?"—"As for that, master," said he, "I
never once thought about it; but what signifies talking about
matters so far off? The mug is out; shall I draw another ?"
Whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage-coach drove up
to the door. The coachman coming into the house, was asked by
the mistress, what passengers he had in his coach ? "A parcel of
squinny-gut b s," says he; "I have a good mind to overturn
them; you won't prevail upon them to drink anytliing, I assure
you." Adams asked him, if he had not seen a young man on
horseback on the road, describing Joseph. " Ay," said the coach-
man, "a gentlewoman in my coach, that is his acquaintance,
redeemed him and his horse: he would have been here before this
time, had not the storm driven him to shelter."—" God bless
her!'' said Adams, in a rapture; nor could he delay walking out
to satisfy himself who this charitable woman was; but what was
his surprise when he saw his old acquaintance Madam Slipslop ?
Hers, indeed, was not so great, because she had been informed
by Joseph that he was on the road.
Very civil were the salutations on both sides; and Mrs. Slip-
slop rebuked the hostess for denying the gentleman to be there
when she asked for him ■ but indeed the poor woman had not
erred designedly; for Mrs. Slipslop asked for a clergyman,
and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a person travelling
to a neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or some Other
such operation; for he marched in a swinging great but short
white coat with black buttons, a short wig, and a hat, which,- so
far from having a black hatband, had nothing black about it.
Joseph was now come up, and Mrs. Slipslop would have had him
quit his horse to the parson, and come himself into the coach; but he
absolutely refused, saying, he thanked heaven he was well enough
recovered to be very able to ride; and added, he hoped he knew
his duty better than to ride in a coach, while Mr. Adams was on
horseback.
Mrs. Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a lady in the
coach put a short end to the dispute, by refusing to suffer a fellow
64 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
in a livery to ride in the same coach with herself; so it was at
length agreed that Adams should fill the vacant place in the coach,
and Joseph should proceed on horseback.
They had not proceeded far before Mrs. Slipslop, addressing
herself to the parson, spoke thus: " There has been a strange
alteration in our family, Mr. Adams, since Sir Thomas's death."—
" A strange alteration indeed!" says Adams, " as I gather from
some hints which have dropped from Joseph."—"Ay," says she," I
could never have believed it; but the longer one lives in the world,
the more one sees. So Joseph has given you hints ?"—" But of
what nature, will always remain a perfect secret with me," cries
the parson: " this he forced me to promise, before he would com-
munioate anything. I am, indeed, concerned to find her ladyship
behave in so unbecoming a manner. I always thought her in the
main a good lady, and should never have suspected her of thoughts
so unworthy a Christian, and with a young lad, her own servant."
" These things are no secrets to me, I assure you," cries Slipslop,
" and I believe they will be none anywhere shortly; for ever since
the boy's departure, she has behaved more like a mad woman than
anything else."—" Truly, I am heartily concerned," said Adams;
"for she was a good sort of a lady. Indeed, I have often wished she
had attended a little more constantly at the service, but she has done
a great deal of good in the parish."—" 0, Mr. Adams," says Slip-
slop, " people that don't see all, often know nothing. Many things
have been given away in our family, I do assure you, without her
knowledge. I have heard you say in the pulpit we ought not to
brag; but, indeed, I can't avoid saying, if she had kept the keys
herself, the poor would have wanted many a cordial wliich I have
let them have. As for my late master, he was as worthy a man as
ever lived, and would have done infinite good if he had not been
controlled; but he loved a quiet life, Heavens rest his soul! I am
confidous he is there, and enjoys a quiet life, which some folks
would not allow him here." Adams answered, he had never heard
this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for he remembered
she used to commend her mistress and blame her master) had not
formerly been of another opinion. " I don't know," replied she,
" what I might once think • but now I am confidous matters are
as I tell you: the world will shortly see who has been deceived:
for my part, I say nothing, but that it is wondersome how some
people can carry all things with a grave face."
Thus Mr. Adams and she discoursed, till they came opposite to
a great house, which stood at some distance from the road. A
lady in the coach, spying it, cried, " Yonder lives the unfortunate
Leonora, if one can justly call a woman unfortunate, whom wfc
must own at the same time guilty, and the author of her_ own
calamity." This was abundantly sufficient to awaken the curiosity
of Mr. Adams, as indeed it did that of the whole company, who
HISTORY OP LEONORA. 66
jointly solicited the lady to acquaint them with Leonora's history,
since it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something very
remarkable.
The lady, who was perfectly well-bred, did not require many
entreaties; and having only wished their entertainment might
make amends for the company's attention, she began in the fol-
lowing manner.
Chap. IV.—The History of Leonora, or the unfortunate Jilt.
"Leonora was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune: she was
tall and well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance,
which often attracts beyond more regular features, joined with an
insipid air: nor is this kind of beauty less apt to deceive than
allure; the good humour which it indicates bemg often mistaken
for good nature, and the vivacity for true understanding.
"Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with an
aunt of hers, in a town in the north of England. She was an
extreme lover of gaiety; and very rarely missed a ball or any other
public assembly; where she had frequent opportunities of satis-
tying a greedy appetite of vanity, with the preference which was
given her by the men to almost every other woman present.
"Among many young fellows who were particular in their gal-
lantries towards her, Horatio soon distinguished himself in her
eyes beyond all his competitors: she danced with more than
ordinary gaiety when he happened to be her partner; neither the
fairness of the evening, nor the music of the nightingale, could
lengthen her walk like his company. She affected no longer to
understand the civilities of others ; whilst she inclined so attentive
an ear to every compliment of Horatio, that she often smiled ev(
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 god
foinily, bred to the law, and had been some few years called to tlj
degree of a barrister. His face and person were such as th
generality allowed handsome; but he had a dignity in his air vei}
rarely to be seen. His temper was of the saturnine complexion
and without the least taint of moroseness. He had wit ana
humour, with an inclination to satire, which he indulged rather
too much.
" This gentleman, who had contracted the most violent passion
for Leonora, was the last person who perceived the probability of
its success. The whole town had made the match for him, before
he himself had drawn a confidence from her actions sufficient to
F
66 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
mention his passion to her; for it was his opinion, and perhaps
he was there m the right, that it is highly impolitic to talk seriously
of love to a woman, before you have made such a progress in her
affections, that she herself expects and desires to hear it.
" But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may create, which
are apt to Magnify every favour conferred on a rival, and to see
the little advances towards themselves through the other end of-
the perspective; it was impossible that Horatio's passion should
so blind his discernment, as to prevent his conceiving hopes from
the behaviour of Leonora, whose fondness for him was now
as visible to an indifferent person in their company, as his for
her." *
" I never knew any of these forward sluts come to good," says
the lady who refused Joseph's entrance into the coach; "nor shall
1 wonder at anything she does in the sequel."
The lady proceeded in her story thus : " It was in the midst of
a gay conversation in the walks one evening, when Horatio whis-
pered Leonora, that he was desirous to take a turn or two with
her in private; for that he had something to communicate to her
of great consequence. ' Are you sure it is of consequence ?' said
she, smiling. 'I hope,' answered he, 'you will think so too, since
the whole future happiness of my life must depend on the event.'
" Leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, would
have deferred it till another time; but Horatio, who had more
than half conquered the difficulty of speaking by the first motion,
was so very importunate, that she at last yielded, and, leaving the
rest of the company, they turned aside into an unfrequented
walk.
" They had retired far out of sight of the company, both main-
taining a strict silence. At last, Horatio made a full stop, and
taking Leonora, who stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand,
he fetched a deep sigh, and then, looking on her eyes with all the
tenderness imaginable, he cried out, in a faltering accent, '0
Leonora! is it necessary for me to declare to you on what the
future happiness of my life must be founded P Must I say, there
Ts something belonging to you which is a bar to my happiness, and
which, unless you will part with, I must be miserable !'—'What
*an that be?' replied Leonora. 'No wonder,' said he, 'you are
surprised that I should make an objection to anything which is
yours : yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the
riches of the world, if they were mine, should purchase of me.
O, it is that which you must part with to bestow all the rest!
Can Leonora, or rather, will she, doubt longer? Let me, then,
whisper it in her ears.—It is your name, madam. It is by parting
with that, by your condescension to be for ever mine, which must
at once prevent me from being the most miserable, and will render
me the happiest of mankind.'
HISTORY OP LEONORA. 67
" Leonora, covered with, blushes, and with as angry a look as
she could possibly put on, told him, that had she suspected what
his declaration would have been, he should not have decoyed he*
from her company: that he had so surprised and frighted her,
that she begged him to convey her back as quick as possible;
which he, trembling very near as much as herself, did."
" More fool he," cries Slipslop: " it is a sign he knew very
little of our sect."—" Truly, madam," said Adams, " I think you
are in the right: I should have insisted to know a piece of her
mind, when I had carried matters so far." But Mrs. Graveairs
desired the lady to omit all such fulsome stuff in her story, for
that it made her sick.
"Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible," said the
lady, " many weeks had not passed after this interview, before
Horatio and Leonora were what they call on a good footing
together. All ceremonies, except the last, were now over; the
writings were now drawn, and everything was in the utmost
forwardness, preparative to the putting Horatio in possession of
all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a letter from each
of them, which I have got by heart, and which will give you no
small idea of their passion on both sides."
Mrs. Graveanv, oojected to hearing these letters; but, being
put to the vote, it was carried against her by all the rest in the
coach; Parson Adams contending for it with the utmost vehe-
mence.
" Horatio to Leonora.
" How vain, mc~A adorable creature, is the pursuit of pleasure
in the absence of object to which the mind is entirely devoted,
unless it has some relation to that object! I was last night con-
demned to the society of men of wit and learning, which, however
agreeable it might have formerly been to me, now only gave me a
suspicion that they imputed my absence in conversation to the
true cause. Bor which reason, when your engagements forbid me
the ecstatic happiness of seeing you, I am always desirous to be
alone; since my sentiments for Leonora are so delicate, that I
cannot bear the apprehension of another's prying_ into those
delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a
lover will sometimes indulge him, and which I suspect my eyes
then betray. _ To fear this discovery of our thoughts may, perhaps,
appear too ridiculous a nicety to minds not susceptible of all the
tenderness of this delicate passion: and surely we shall suspect
there are few such, when we consider, that it requires every human
virtue to exert itself in its full extent; since the beloved, whose
happiness it ultimately respects, may give us c harming opportunities
of heing brave in her defence, generous to hex wants, compassionate
to her afflictions, grateful to her kindness; and, in the same manner,
68
JOSEPH ANDREWS.
of exercising every other virtue, which he, who would not do to
any degree, and that with the utmost rapture, can never deserve
the name of a lover. It is, therefore, with a view to the delicate
modesty of your mind, that I cultivate it so purely in my own;
and it is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the uneasiness
I hear from those liberties, which men, to whom the world allow
politeness, will sometimes give themselves on these occasions.
" Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival of that
blessed day, when I shall experience the falsehood of a common
assertion, that the greatest human happiness consists in hope'?—
a doctrine, which no person had ever stronger reason to believe,
than myself at present, since none ever tasted such bliss as fires
my bosom with the thoughts of spending my future days with such
a companion, and that every action of my life will have the glorious
satisfaction of conducing to your happiness."
"The refinement of your mind has been so evidently proved by
every word and action, ever since I had first the pleasure of know-
ing you, that I thought it impossible my good opinion of Horatio
could have been heightened to any additional proof of merit. This
+TirvncrTif was mw qmnspmpnt: wlipn T rpppivpil vnnr* lnaf lpf+pr
x „ '
could come even from you (although I know all the generous
principles human nature is capable of are centred in your breast)
that words cannot paint what I feel on the reflection that my
happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your actions.
0, Horatio! what a life must that be, where the meanest
domestic cares are sweetened by the pleasing consideration; that
the man on earth who best deserves, and to whom you are most
inclined to give your affections, is to reap either profit or pleasure
from all you do! In such a case, toils must be turned into diver-
sions, and nothing but the unavoidable inconveniences of life can
make us remember that we are mortal.
" If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of keeping
them undiscovered, make even the conversation of men of wit ana .
learning tedious to you, what anxious hours must I spend, who am
condemned by custom to the conversation of women, whose natural
curiosity leads them to pry into all my thoughts, and whose envy
ean never suffer Horatio's heart to be possessed by any one, without
forcing them into malicious designs against the person who is so
happy as to possess it? But, indeed, if ever envy can possibly
k*ve any excuse, or even alleviation, it is in this case, where the
• This letter was written by a young lady, on reading the former.
" Leonora to Horatio *
HISTORY OF LEONORA. 69
good is so great, that it must be equally natural to all to wish for
it for themselves • nor am I ashamed to own itand to your merit,
Horatio, I am obliged, that prevents my being in that most uneasy
of all the situations I can figure in my imagination, of being led by
inclination to love the person whom my own judgment forces me
to condemn."
" Matters were in so great forwardness between this fond couple,
that the day was fixed for their marriage, and was now within a
fortnight, when the sessions chanced to be held for that county in
a town about twenty miles' distance from that which is the scene
of our story. It seems, it is usual for the young gentlemen of the
bar to repair to these sessions, not so much for the sake of
profit, as to show their parts, and learn the law of the justices of
peace; for which purpose one of the wisest and gravest of all the
justices is appointed speaker, or chairman as they modestly call it,
and he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in the true know-
ledge of the law."
, _ " You are here guilty of a little mistake," says Adams, " which,
if you please, I will correct: I have attended at one of the quarter-
sessions, where I observed the counsel taught the justices, instead
of learning anything of them."
"Itis not very material," said the lady. "Hither repaired
Horatio, who, as he hoped by his profession to advance his fortune,
which was not at present very large, for the sake of his dear
Leonora, resolved to spare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of
improving or advancing himself in it.
"The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora
stood at her window, a coach and six passed by, which she declared
to be the completest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever saw;
adding these remarkable words0, I am in love with that
equipage!' which, though her friend Tlorella at that time did not
greatly regard, she has since remembered.
" In the evening an assembly was held, which Leonora honoured
with her company; but intended to pay her Horatio the compli-
ment of refusing to dance in his absence. 0, why have not women
as good resolution to maintain their vows, as they have often good
inclinations in making them!
"The gentleman who owned the coach and six came to the
assembly. His clothes were as remarkably fine as his equipage
could be. He soon attracted the eyes of the company; all the
smarts, all the silk waistcoats with silver and gold edgings, were
eclipsed in an instant."
" Madam," said Adams, " if it be not impertinent, I should be
glad to know how this gentleman was dressed."
• " Sir," answered the lady, " I have been told he had on a cut
velvet coat of a cinnaiqcn ccIgui, .* piuk satin, embroid
A) JOSEPH ANDREWS.
ered all oyer with gold: his waistcoat, which was cloth of silver,
was embroidered with gold likewise. I cannot be particular as to
the rest of his dress; but it was all in the French fashion; tor
Bellarmine, that was his name, was just arrived from Paris.
" This line figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of every
lady in the assembly, than Leonora did his. He had scarce beheld
her, but he stood motionless, and fixed as a statue, or at least
would have done so if good breeding had permitted him. # How-
ever, he carried it so far, before he had power to correct himself,
that every person in the room easily discovered where his admira-
tion was settled. The other ladies began to single out their former
partners, all perceiving who would be Bellarmine's choice, which
they however endeavoured by all possible means to prevent; many
of them saying to Leonora,' 0 madam ! I suppose we sha'n't have
the pleasure of seeing you dance to-night!' and then crying out,
in Bellarmine's hearing, ' 0, Leonora will not dance, I assure you:
her partner is not here.' One maliciously attempted to prevent
her, by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her; that so she might
be obliged either to dance with him, or sit down; but this scheme
proved abortive.
" Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, and envied
by every woman present. Her little heart began to flutter within
her, and her head was agitated with a convulsive motion; she
seemed as if she would speak to several of her acquaintance, but had
nothing to say : for as she would not mention her present triumph,
so she could not disengage her thoughts one moment from the
cqntcmplation of it. She had never tasted anything like this hap-
piness. She had before known what it was to torment a single
woman; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a whole assembly,
was a joy reserved for this blessed moment. As this vast profusion of
ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there was nothing so
foolish as her behaviour: she played a thousand childish tricks,
distorted her person into several shapes, and her face into several
laughs, without any reason. In a word, her carriage was as absurd
as her desires, which were to affect an insensibility of the stranger's
admiration, and a\, same time a triumph, from that admiration,
over every woman in the rooA.
" In this temper of mind, Bellarmir.0- having inquired who she
was, advanced to her, and with a low' bow begged the honour
of dancing with her, which she, with as low a courtesy, immediately
granted. She danced with him all night, and enjoyed perhaps the
ighest pleasure that she was capable of feeling."
At these words Adams fetched a deep groan, which frighted the
ladies, who told him they hoped he was not ill. He answered, he
groaned only for the folly of Leonora.
"Leonora retired," continued the lady, " about six in the morn-
ing, but not to rest; she tumbled and tossed in her b*A. with very
HISTORY OP LEONORA. 71
short intervals of sleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the
equipage and fine clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, and
riaottos, which had been the subject of their conversation.
" In the afternoon, Bellarmine, in the dear coach and six, came
to wait on her. He was indeed charmed with her person, and was,
on inquiry, so well pleased with the circumstances of her father,'
—for he himself, notwithstanding all his finery, was not quite
so rich as a Croesus or an Attalus, "
"Attalus!" says Mr. Adams: "but pray how came you acquainted
with these names ? "
The lady smiled at the question, and proceeded"He was so
pleased, I say, that he resolved to make his addresses to her
directly. He did so accordingly, and that with so much warmth
and briskness, that he quickly baffied her weak repulses, and
obliged the lady to refer him to her father, who, she knew, would
quickly declare in favour of a coach-and-six.
"Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love and tender-
ness, been so long obtaining, the Trench-English Bellarmine with
gaiety and gallantry possessed himself of in an instant: in other
words, what modesty had employed a full year in raising, impudence
demolished in twenty-four hours."
Here Adams groaned a second time; but the ladies, who began
to smoke him, took no notice.
" Erom the opening of the assembly till the end of Bellarmine's
visit, Leonora had scarce one thought of Horatio; but he now
began, though an unwelcome guest, to enter into her mind. She
wished she had seen the charming Bellarmine and his charming
equipage, before matters had gone so far. ' Yet why,' says she,
e should I wish to have seen him before ? or what signifies it that I
have seen him now ? Is not Horatio my lover, almost my hus-
band ? Is he not as handsome, nay handsomer, than Bellarmine ?
Ay, but Bellarmine is the genteeler and the finer man; yes, that
he must be allowed: yes, yes, he is that, certainly. But did not I,
no longer ago than yesterday, love Horatio more than all the
world ? Ay, but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. But does
not Horatio dote on me, and may he not in despair _ break his
his heart if I abandon him ? Well, and has not Bellarmine a heart
to break too ? Yes, but I promised Horatio first; but that was
poor Bellarmine's misfortune; if I had seen him first, I should
certainly have preferred him. Did not the dear creature prefer
me to every woman in the_ assembly, when every she was laying
out for him ? When was it in Horatio's power to give me such an
instance of affection? Can he give me an equipage, or any of
those things which Bellarmine will make me mistress of? How
vast is the difference between being the wife of a poor counsellor,
and the wife of one of Bellarmine's fortune! If I marry Horatio,
I shall triumph over no more than one rival i but by marrying
78 JOSEPH ANHBEWS.
Bellarmine, I shall be the envy of all my acquaintance. What
happiness! _ But can I suffer Horatio to die ? for he has 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, Bellar-
mine may be as miserable for me too.' She was thus arguing with
herself, when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a
little relieved her anxiety for the present.
" The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in presence
of her aunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his passion for
Leonora. He was no sooner withdrawn, than the old lady began
to advise her niece on this occasion. ' You see, child,' says she,
' what fortune has thrown in your way; and I hope you will not
withstand your own preferment.' Leonora, sighing, begged her
not to mention any such thing, when she knew her engagements
to Horatio. ' Engagements to a fig!' cried the aunt; ' you
should thank Heaven, on your knees, that you have it in your
power to break them. Will any woman hesitate a moment, whether
she shall ride in a coach, or walk on foot all the days of her life ?
But Bellarmine drives six, and Horatio not even a pair.'—' Yes,
but, madam, what will the world say ?' answered. Leonora; c will
not they condemn me ?'—' The world is always' on the side of
prudence,' cries the aunt, ' and would surely condemn you, if you
sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. O, I know the
world very well; and you show your ignorance, my dear, by your
objection. On my conscience, the world is wiser: I have lived
longer in it than you; and, 1 assure you, there is not anything
worth our regard besides money; nor did I ever know one person
who married from other considerations, who did not afterwards
heartily repent it. Besides, if we examine the two men, can you
prefer a sneaking fellow, who has been bred at the university, to a
fine gentleman just come from his travels ? All the world must allow
Bellarmine to be a fine gentleman,—positively a fine gentleman,
and a handsome man.'—' Perhaps, madam, I should not doubt, ir
I knew how to be handsomely off with the other.'—' O, leave that
to me,' says the aunt.- ' you know your father has not been
acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for my part, I thought it
might do well enough, not dreaming of such an offer; but I'll dis-
engage you: leave me to give the fellow an answer. I warrant you
shall have no farther trouble.' _
" Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's reasoning; and
Bellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed he should
the next morning go to her father and propose the match, which
she consented should be consummated at his return.
" The aunt retired soon after supper; and the lovers being left
together, Bellarmine began in the following manner:—' Yes,
madam; this coat, I assure you, was made at Paris, and I defy the
best English tailor even to imitate it. There is not one of them
HISTORY OP LEONORA. 73
can cut, madam; they can't cut. If you observe how this skirt is
turned, and this sleeve; a clumsy English rascal can do nothing
like it. Pray, how do you like my liveries ?' .Leonora answered,
she thought them very pretty. 'All French,5 says he, 'I assure
you, except the great coats: I never trust anything more than a
great coat to an Englishman. You know one must encourage out
own people what one can, especially as before I had a place, I was
in the country interest: he, lie, he ! But for myself, I would see
the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear a single
rag of English work about me; and 1 am sure, after you have
made one tour to Paris, you will be of the same opinion with
regard to your own clothes. You can't conceive what an addition
a French dress would be to your beauty: I positively assure yqu,
at the first opera I saw since I came over, I mistook the English
ladies for chambermaids: he, he, he!'
"With such sort of polite discourse did the gay Bellarmine
entertain his beloved Leonora, when the door opened on a sudden,
and Horatio entered the room. Here it is impossible to express
the surprise of Leonora."
"Poor woman! " says Mrs. Slipslop, "what a terrible quandary
she mu-0-* ^ *■»'"—"Not at all," says Miss . "such
sluts can never oe confounded."—"She must have then more
than Corinthian assurance," says Adams: "ay, more than Lais
herself."
"A long silence," cqntinued the lady, "prevailed in the whole
company. If the familiar entrance of Horatio struck the greatest
astonishment into Bellarmine, the unexpected presence of Bellar-
mine no less surprised Horatio. At length Leonora, collecting all
the spirit she was mistress of, addressed herself to the latter, and
pretended to wonder at the reason of so late a visit. ' 1 should,
indeed,' answered he, 'have made some apology for disturbing
you at this hour, had not my finding you in company assured me I
do not break in upon your repose.'
"Bellarmine rose from his chair, traversed the room in a minuet
step, and hummed an opera-tune; while Horatio, advancing to
Leonora, asked her, in a whisper, if that gentleman was not a
relation of hers; to which she answered with a smile, or rather
sneer, 'No, he is no relation yet;' adding, she could not guess the
meaning of his question. Horatio told her softly, it did not arise
from jealousy.—'Jealousy ! I assure you, it would be very strange
in a common acquaintance to give himself any of those airs.'
" These words a little surprised Horatio ; but before he had time
to answer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady, and told her, he
feared he interrupted some business between her and the gentle-
man. 'I have no business,' said she, 'with the gentleman, nor
any other, which need be any secret to you.'—' You'll pardon me/
6aid Horatio,' if I desire to know who this gentleman is, who is
74 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
to be entrusted with, all our secrets.'—'You'll know soon enough,'
cries Leonora; 'but I can't guess what secrets can ever pass
between us of such mighty consequence.'—'No, madam!' cries
Horatio: 'I'm sure you would not have me understand you in
earnest.'—"Tis indifferent to me,' says she, 'how you understand
me; but I think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be under
stood at all, at least when people find one engaged; though one's
servants do not deny one, one may expect a well-bred person
should soon take the hint.'—'Madam,' said Horatio, 'I did not
imagine any engagement with a stranger, as it seems this gentle-
man is, would have made my visit impertinent, or that any such
ceremonies were to be preserved between persons in our situa-
tion.'—' Sure you are in a dream,' says she,' or would persuade me
that I am in one. I know no pretensions a common acquaintance
can have to lay aside the ceremonies of good breeding.'—' Sure,'
says he, ' I am in a dream; for it is impossible I should be really
esteemed a common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has
passed between us.'—' Passed between us ! Do you intend to
affront me before this gentleman?'—'D—n me, affront the lady?'
says Bellarmine, cocking his hat, and strutting up to Horatio:
'does any man dare affront this lady before me, d—n me?'—
' Harkee, sir,' says Horatio, 'I would advise you to lay aside that
fierce air; for I am mightily deceived if this lady has not a violent
desire to get your worship a good drubbing.'—' Sir,' said Bellar-
mine, ' 1 have the honour to be her protector; and d—n me, if I
understand your meaning.'—'Sir,' answered Horatio, 'she is
rather your protectress: but give yourself no more airs, for you
see I am prepared for you (shaking his whip at him). eOh!
serviteur Ires humble,' says Bellarmine: ' jevous entendparfaitement
bien.'
"At which time, the aunt, who had heard of Horatio's visit,
entered the room, and soon satisfied all his doubts. She con-
vinced him that he was never more awake in his life, and that
nothing more extraordinary had happened in his three days'
absence, than a small alteration in the affections of Leonora, who
now burst into tears, and wondered what reason she_ had given
him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desired Bellar-
mine to withdraw with him ; but the ladies prevented it, by laying
violent hands on the latter; upon which the former took his leave
without any great ceremony, and departed, leaving the lady with
his rival to consult for his safety, which Leonora feared her indis-
cretion might have endangered; but the aunt comforted her with
assurances, that Horatio would not venture his person against so
accomplished a cavalier as Bellarmine: and that, being a lawyer,
he would seek revenge in his own way, and the most they had to
apprehend from him was an action.
" They at length therefore agreed to cermit Bellarmine to retire
HISTORY OF LEONORA. 75
to his lodgings, having first settled all matters relating to the jour-
ney which he was to undertake in the morning, and their prepara-
tions for the nuptials at his return. But, alas ! as wise men have
observed, the seat of valour is not the countenance; and many a
grave and plain man will, on a just provocation, betake himself to
that mischievous metal, cold iron; while men of a fiercer brow,
and sometimes with that emblem of courage, a cockade, will morp
prudently decline it.
"Leonora was awaked in the morning, from a visionary coach
and six, with the dismal account that Bellarmine was run through
the body by Horatio; that he lay languishing at an inn, and the
surgeon had declared the wound mortal. # She immediately leaped
out of the bed, danced about the room in a frantic manner, tore
her hair and beat her breast in all the agonies of despair; in which
sad condition her aunt, who likewise arose at the news, found her.
The good old lady applied her utmost art to comfort her niece.
She told her, while there was life there was hope; but that if he
should die, her affliction would be of no service to Bellarmine, and
would only expose herself, which might probably keep her some
time without any future offer ; that as matters had happened, her
wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, but to
endeavour to regain the affections of Horatio.
" ' Speak not to me,' cried the disconsolate Leonora; ' is it not
owing to me that poor Bellarmine has lost his life ? Have not
these cursed charms' (at which words she looked steadfastly in the
glass) ' been the ruin of the most charming man of this age ? Can
I ever bear to contemplate my own face again ?' (with her eyes
still fixed on the glass). 'Am I not the murderess of the finest
gentleman? No other woman in the town could have made any
impression on him.'—'Never think of things past,' cries the aunt:
'think of regaining the affections of Horatio.'—'What reason,'
said the niece, ' have I to hope he would forgive me ? No, I have
lost him as well as the other, and it was your wicked advice which
was-the occasion of all: you seduced me, contrary to my inclina-
tions. to abandon poor Horatio' (at which words she burst into
tears); ' you prevailed upon me, whether I would or no, to give up
my affections for him : had it not been for you, Bellarmine never
would have entered into my thoughts : had not his addresses been
.backed by your persuasions, they never would have made any
impression on me: I should have defied all the fortune and equi-
page in the world: but it was you, it was you, who got the better
of my youth and simplicity, and forced me to lose my dear Horatio
for ever.'
" The aunt was almost borne down with this torrent of words;
she, however, rallied all the strength she could; and, drawing her
mouth up in a purse, began:—' I am not surprised, niece, at this
ingratitude. Those, who advise young women for their interest,
76 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
must always expect such a return: I am convinced my brothel
will thank me for breaking off your match with Horatio at any
rate.5—' That may not be in your power yet,5 answered Leonora,
'though it is very ungrateful in you to desire rf-» attempt it, after
the presents you have received from him/ Bih' indeed true it is,
that many presents, and some pretty valuable ones, had passed
from Horatio to the old lady; but as true it is, that Bellarmine.
when he breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented
her with a brilliant from his finger, of much greater value than all
she had touched of the other.
" The aunt's gall was 011 float to reply, when a servant brought
a letter into the room; which Leonora, hearing it came from
Bellarmine, with great eagerness opened, and read as follows:—
'Most divine Creature,—The wound which I fear you have
heard I received from my rival is not like to be so fatal as those
shot into my heart, which have been fired from your eyes, tout
brilliant. Those are the only cannons by which I am to fall; for,
my surgeon gives me hopes of being soon able to attend your
ruelle : till when, unless you would do me an honour which I have
scarcely the hardiesse to think of, your absence will be the
greatest anguish which can be felt by, madam, avec tout le respect,
in the worla, your most obedient, most absolute devote,
'Bellarmine.'
" As soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of Bellarmine's
recovery, and that the gossip Bame had, according to custom, so
enlarged his danger, she presently abandoned all farther thoughts
of Horatio, and was soon reconciled to her aunt, who received her
again into favour with a more Christian forgiveness than we
generally meet with. Indeed, it is possible she might be a little
alarmed at the hints which her niece had given her concerning the
presents: she might apprehend such rumours, should they get
abroad, might injure a reputation, which, by frequenting church
twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigour and strictness
in her countenance and behaviour for many years, she had
established.
"Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine with greater
force, after its small relaxation, than ever. She proposed to her
aunt to make him a visit in his confinement, which the old lady,
with great and commendable prudence, advised her to decline:
|Bor,' says she, 'should any accident intervene to prevent your
intended match, too forward a behaviour with this lover may
injure you in the eyes of others. Every woman, till she is married,
ought to consider of, and provide against, the possibility of the
affair's breaking off.' Leonora said she should be indifferent to
whatever might happen in such a case: for she had now so
THE HISTORY INTERRUPTED. 77
absolutely placed ber affections on this dear man (so she called
him), that, if it was her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever
abandon all thoughts of mankind. She therefore resolved to visit
him, notwithstanding all the prudent advice of her aunt to the
contrary, and that very afternoon executed her resolution."
The lady was proceeding in her story, when the coach drove
into the inn where the company were to dine, sorely to the
dissatisfaction of Mr. Adams, whose ears were the most hungry
part about him; he being, as the reader may perhaps guess, of an
insatiable curiosity, and heartily desirous of hearing the end of
this amour, though he professed he could scarce wish success to a
lady of so inconstant a disposition.
Ckap. V.—A dreadful Quarrel, which happened at the Inn where the Company
dined; with its bloody Consequences to Mr. Adams.
As soon as the passengers had alighted from the coach, Mr.
Adams, as was his custom, made directly to the kitchen, where
he found Joseph sitting by the fire, and the hostess anointing his
leg; for the horse, which Mr. Adams had borrowed of his clerk,
had so violent a propensity to kneeling, that one would have
thought it had been his trade as well as his master's: nor would
he always give any notice of such his intention: he was often
found on his knees, when the rider least expected it. This foible,
however, was of no great inconvenience to the parson, who was
accustomed to it: and, as his legs almost touched the ground
when he bestrode the beast, he had but a little way to fall, and
threw himself forward on such occasions with so much dexterity,
that he never received any mischief: the horse and he frequently
rolling many paces] distance, and afterwards both getting up, ana
meeting as good friends as ever.
Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle,
though an excellent horseman, did not so happily disengage
himself; but falling with his leg under the beast, received a
violent contusion, to which the good woman was, as we have said,
applying a warm hand, with some camphorated spirits, just at the
tame when the parson entered the kitchen.
He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph's misfortune,
before the host likewise entered: he was by no means of Mr.
Tow-wouse's gentle disposition; and was, indeed, perfect master
of his house, and everything in it, but his guests.
This surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to the
appearance of a traveller, from " God bless your honour," down
to plain " Coming presently," observing liis wife on her knees to a
78 JOSEPH ANDSEWS.
footman, cried out, without considering his circumstances, " What
a plague is the woman about P Why don't you mind the company
in the coach ? Go, and ask them what they will have for dinner."
—" My dear," says she, " you know they can have nothing but
what is at the fire, which will be ready presently; and really the
poor man's leg is very much bruised." At which words she fell
to chafing more violently than before: the bell then happening to
ring, he d—ned his wife, and bade her go into the company, and
not stand rubbing there all day; for he did not believe the young
fellow's leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, within
twenty miles he would find a surgeon to cut it off.
Upon these words, Adams, fetching two strides across the room,
and snapping his fingers over his head, muttered aloud, he would
excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for he believed the
devil had more humanity. These words occasioned a dialogue
between Adams and the host, in which there were two or three
sharp replies, till Joseph bade the latter know how to behave
himself to his betters. At wbich the host (having first strictly
surveyed Adams), scornfully repeating the word betters, flew into
a. rage, and telling Joseph, he was as able to walk out of his house
as he had been to walk into it, offered to lay violent hands on him;
which perceiving, Adams dealt him so sound a compliment over
his face with his fist, that the blood immediately gushed out of his
nose in a stream. The host, being unwilling to be outdone in
courtesy, especially by a person of Adams's figure, returned the
favour with so much gratitude, that the parson's nostrils began to
look a little redder than usual; upon which he again assailed his an-
tagonist, and with another stroke laid him sprawling on the floor.
The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband
deserved, seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along,
hastened presently to his assistance, or rather to revenge the blow,
which, to all appearance, was the last he would ever receive: when,
lo! a pan full of hog's blood, which unluckily stood on the dresser,
presented itself first to her hands. She seized it in her fury, and,
without any reflection, discharged it into the parson's face; and
with so good an aim, that much the greater part first saluted his
countenance, and trickled thence in so large a current down to his
beard, and all over his garments, that a more horrible spectacle
was hardly to be seen, or even imagined; all which was perceived
by Mrs. Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant.
This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely
cool and patient, as perhaps was required to ask many questions
on this occasion, flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap^
which, together with some of her hair, she plucked from her head
in a moment, giving her, at the same time, several hearty cuffs is
the face; which, by frequent practice on the inferior servants, she
had learned an excellent knack of delivering with a good grace.
SANGUINARY QUARREL. 79
Poor'Joseph could hardly rise from his chair; the parson was
employed in wiping the blood from his eyes, which had entirely
blinded him; ana the landlord was but just beginning to stir ■ whilst
Mrs. Slipslop, holding down the landlady's face with her left hand,
made so dexterous a use of her right, that the poor woman began
to roar in a key which alarmed all the company in the inn.
There happened to be in the inn, at this time, besides the ladies
who arrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen who were
Eresent at Mr. Tow-wouse's, when Joseph was detained for his
orse's meat, and whom we have before mentioned to have stopped
at the alehouse with Adams. There was likewise a gentleman
just returned from his travels to Italy: all whom the horrid
outcry of murder presently brought into tne kitchen, where the
several combatants were found in the postures already described.
It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the con-
querors being satisfied with the vengeance they had taken, and
the conquered having no appetite to renew the fight. The prin-
cipal figure, and which engaged the eyes of all, was Adams, who
was all over covered with blood, which the whole company con-
eluded to be his own, and consequently imagined him no longer
for this world. But the host, who had now recovered from his blow,
and was risen from the ground, soon delivered them from this
apprehension, by d—ning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings,
and telling her, all would have been very well, if she had not
intermeddled, like a b— as she was; adding, he was very glad
the gentlewoman had paid her, though not half what she deserved.
The poor woman had indeed fared much the worst; having, be-
sides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a quantity of hair, which
Mrs. Slipslop in triumph held in her left hand.
The traveller, addressing himself to Miss Graveairs, desired her
not to be frightened: for here had been only a little boxing, which
he said, to their disgracia, the English were accustomata to;
adding, it must he, however, a sight somewhat strange to him,
who was just come from Italy; the Italians not being addicted to
the cuffardo, but bastonza, says he. He then went up to Adams, and
telling him he looked like the ghost of Othello, bade him not
shake his gorv locks at him, for he could not say he did it. Adams
very innocently answered, " Sir, I am far from accusing you." He
then returned to the lady and cried, " I find the bloody gentleman
is uno insipido del nullo senso. Dammati di me, if I have seen
such a spectaculo in my way; from Viterbo."
One of the gentlemen having learnt from the host the occasion
of this bustle, and being assured by him that Adams had struck
the first blow, whispered in his ear, he'd warrant he would re-
cover. " Recover, master!" said the host, smiling; "yes, yes,
1 am not afraid of dying with a blow or two, neither: I am not
such a chicken as tha± "—" Pugh!" said the gentleman, " 1 mean
80 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
you will recover damages in that action, which, undoubtedly,
you intend to bring, as soon as a writ can be returned from
London; for you look like a man of too much spirit and courage
to suffer any one to beat you without bringing your action against
him: he must be a scaudalous fellow indeed, who would put up
with a drubbing, whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides, he
has drawn blood from you, and spoiled your coat; and the jury
will give damages for that too. An excellent new coat, upon my
word, and now not worth a shilling! I don't care," continued he,
" to intermeddle in these cases ; but you have a right to my evi-
deuce • and, if I am sworn, I must speak the truth. I saw you
sprawling on the floor, and the blood gushing from your nostrils.
You may take your own opinion; but was I in your circumstances,
every drop of my blood should convey an ounce of gold into my
pocket; remember, I don't advise you to go to law; but if your
jury were Christians, they must give swinging damages; that's
all."
"Master," cried the host, scratching his head, "I have no
stomach to law, I thank you. I have seen enough of that in the
parish, where two of my neighbours have been at law about a
house, till they have both lawed themselves into a jail." At which
word, he turned about, and began to inquire again after his hog's
Euddings; nor would it probably have been a sufficient excuse for
is wife, that she spilt them in his defence, had not some awe of
the company, especially of the Italian traveller, who was a person
of great dignity, withheld his rage.
Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was employed,
as we have seen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was
no less hearty on the side of Mr. Adams, whom he advised to
bring his action immediately. He said, the assault of the wife
was in law the assault of the husband, for they were but one
person; and he was liable to pay damages, which he said must be
considerable, where so bloody a disposition appeared.
Adams answered, if it was true that they were but one person,
he had assaulted the wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck
the husband the first blow. " I am sorry you own it too," cries
the gentleman; "for it could not possibly appear t9 the court,;
for here was no evidence present, but the lame man in the chair,
whom I suppose to be your friend, and would jGHse^ivwitly say
nothing but what made for you."
"How, sir?" says Adams, "do you take me lor a villain who
Would prosecute revenge in cold blood, and use unjustifiable
means to obtain it ? If you knew me and my order, I should think
you affronted both." At the word order, the gentleman stared,
for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of knights;
and, turning hastily about, said, every man knew his own business.
Matters oeing now composed, the company retired to their
OFFENDED DIGNIT*. 81
several apartments; the two gentlemen congratulating each other
on the success of their good offices in procuring a perfect recon-
ciliation between the contending parties; and the traveller went
to his repast, crying, as the Italian poet says,—
Je voi very well, que tuta e p~ce;
So send up dinner, good Boniface.
The coachman now began to grow importunate with his passon-
gers, whose entrance into the coach was retarded by Miss Grave-
airs insisting, against the remonstrance of all the rest, that she
would not admit a footman into the coach; for poor Joseph was
too lame to mount a horse. A young lady, who was, as it seems,
an earl's granddaughter, begged it, with almost tears in her eyes.
Mr. Adams prayed, and Mrs. Slipslop scolded; but all to' no
purpose. She said she would not demean herself to ride with a
footman; that there were waggons on the road; that if the
master of the coach desired it, she would pay for two places, but
would suffer no such fellow to come in. " Madam," says Slipslop,
"I am sure no one can refuse another coming into a stage-coach."
—" I don't know, madam," says the lady, "I am not much used
to stage-coaches; I seldom travel in them."—"That may be,
madam," replied Slipslop: " very good people «do; and some
people's betters, for ought I know." Miss Graveairs said, some
folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty to some people
that were their betters, which did not become them; for her
part, she was not used to converse with servants. Slipslop re-
turned, some people kept no servants to converse with ; for her
part, she thanked heaven she lived in a family where there were a
Seat many; and had more under her own command, than any paltry
tie gentlewoman in the kingdom. Miss Graveairs cried, she
believed her mistress would not encourage such sauciness to her
betters. "My betters!" says Slipslop, "who is my betters,
pray?"—"I am your betters," answered Miss Graveairs, "and
I'll acquaint your mistress." At which Mrs. Slipslop laughed
aloud, and told her, her lady was one of the great gentry; and
such little paltry gentlewomen, as some folks, who travelled in
stage-coaches, would not easily come at her.
This smart dialogue between some people and some folks was
going on at the coach-door, when a solemn person riding into the
inn, and seeing Miss Graveairs, immediately accosted her with
" Dear child, how do you do ? " She presently answered, " O,
Eapa, I am glad you have overtaken me."—" So am I," answered
e; "for one of our coaches is just at hand; and there being room
fqr you in it, you shall go no farther in the stage, unless you desire
it."—" How can you imagine I should desire it ? " says she; so
bidding Slipslop ride with b*" follow if she pleased, she took her
82 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
father by the hand, who was just alighted, and walked with him
into a room.
Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, if he knew
who the gentleman was. The coachman answered, he was now a
gentleman, and kept his horse and man; " but times are altered,
master," says he: "Iremember when he was no better born than,
myself."—" Ay, ay!" says Adams. " My father drove the squire's
coach," answered he, " when that very man rode postilion; but
he is now> his steward, and a great gentleman." Adams then
snapped his fingers, and cried, he thought she was some such
trollop.
Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs. Slipslop with this good news,
as he imagined it; but it found a reception different from what he
expected. The prudent gentlewoman, who despised the anger of
Miss Graveairs whilst she conceived her the daughter of a gentleman
of small fortune, now she heard her alliance with the upper ser-
yants of a great family in her neighbourhood, began to fear her
hterest with the mistress. She wished she had_ not carried the
jispute so far, and began to think of endeavouring to reconcile
herself to the young lady before she left the inn; when, luckily,
the scene at London, which the reader can scarce have forgotten,
presented itself to her mind, and comforted her with such assur-
ance, that she no longer apprehended any enemy with her
mistress.
Everything being now adjusted, the company entered the coach*
which was just on its departure, when one lady recollected she had
left her fan; a second, her gloves; a third, a snuff-box; and a fourth,
a smelling-bottle, behind her; to find all which occasioned some
delay, and much swearing, to the coachman.
As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women all together
fell to the character of Miss Graveairs, whom one of them declared
she had ssispected to be some low creature, from the beginning of
then* journey; and, another affirmed, had not even the looks of a
gentlewoman; a third warranted she was no better than she should
e, and, turning to the lady who had related the story in the coach,
said, "Did you ever hear, madam, anything so prudish as her
remarks ? Well, deliver me from the censoriousness of such a
prude!" The fourth added, " 0 madam, all these creatures are
censorious; but for my part, I wonder where the wretch was
bred: indeed, I must own I have seldom conversed with these
mean kind of people; so that it may appear stranger to me: but
to refuse the general desire of a whole company had something in
it so astonishing, that, for my part, I own I shcrald hardly believe
it, if my own ears had not been witnesses to it."—" Yes, and so
handsome a young fellow," cries Slipslop: "the woman must have
no compulsion in her: I believe she is more of a Turk than a
Christian: I am certain if she had any Christian woman's blood
HISTORY OP LEONORA. CONTINUED. 8?
in her veins, the sight of such a young fellow must have warme
it. Indeed, there are some wretched, miserable old objects, thfc-
turn one's stomach; I should not wonder if she had refused such
a one; I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no more
than herself for the company of stinking old fellows : but, hold up
thy head, Joseph, thou art none of those; and she who has not
compulsion for thee, is a Myhummetman, and I will maintain it."
Tnis conversation made Joseph uneasy, as well as the ladies,
who, perceiving the spirits which Mrs. Slipslop was in (for indeed,
she was not a cup too low), began to fear the consequence: one of
them, therefore, desired the lady to conclude the story. "Ay,
madam," said Slipslop, "I beg your ladyship to give us that story
you commensated in the morning;" which request that well-bred
woman immediately complied with.
Chap. VI.—Conclusion of the unfortunate Jilt.
"Leonora, having once broken through the bounds which custom
and modesty impose on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indulgence
to her passion. Her visits to Bellarmine were more constant, as
well as longer, than his surgeon's: in a word, she became abso-
lutely his nurse; made his water-gruel, administered him his
medicines, and, notwithstanding the prudent advice of her aunt
to the contrary, almost entirely resided in her wounded lover's
apartment.
_ " The ladies of the town began to take her conduct under con-
sideration: it was the chief topic of discourse at their tea-tables,
and was severely censured by the most part, especially by Linda-
mira, a lady, whose discreet and starch carriage, together with a
constant attendance at church three times a day, had utterly
defeated many malicious attacks on her own reputation; for such
was the envy that Lindamira's virtue had attracted, that, notwith-
standing her own strict behaviour, and strict inquiry into the lives
of others, she had not been able to escape being the mark of some
arrows herself, which, however, did her no injury; a blessing,
perhaps, owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief male
companions, and with two or three of whom she had been bar-
oarously and unjustly calumniated."
" ^ unjustly neither, perhaps," says Slipslop, " for the
clf^y are men, as well as other folks."
" The extreme delicacy of Lindamira's virtue was cruelly hurt
by those freedoms which Leonora allowed herself: she said, it was
an affront to her sex; that she did not imagine it consistent
with any woman's honour to speak to the creature, or to he seen
g 2
84 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
in her company; and that, for her part, she should always refuse
to dance at an assembly with her, for fear of contamination by
taking her by the hand. But to return to my story : as soon'as
Bellarmine was recovered, which was somewhat within a month
from his receiving the wound, he set out, according to agreement,
for Leonora's father, in order to propose the match, and settle all
matters with him, touching settlements, and the like.
" A httle before his arrival, the old gentleman had received an
intimation of the affair by the following letter, which I can repeat
verbal im, and which, they say, was written neither by Leonora nor
her aunt, though it was in a woman's hand. The letter was in
fhese words:—
"'Sir,—I am sorry to acquaint you, that your daughter
Leonora has acted one of the basest, as well as most simple parts,
with a young gentleman to whom she has engaged herself' and.
whom she has (pardon the word) jilted for another of inferior
fortune, notwithstanding his superior figure. You may take what
measures you please on this occasion: I have performed what I
thought my duty; as I have, though unknown to you, a very great
respect for your family.'
"The old gentleman did not give himself the trouble to answer
this kind epistle; nor did he take any notice of it after he had
read it, till he saw Bellarmine. He was, to say the truth, one of
those fathers who look on children as an unhappy consequence of
their youthful pleasures • which, as he would have been delighted
not to have had attended them, so was he no less pleased with any
opportunity to rid himself of the encumbrance. He passed, in
the world's language, as an exceeding good father; being not only
so rapacious as to rob and plunder all mankind to the utmost of
his power, but even to deny himself the conveniences, and almost
necessaries, of life; which his neighbours attributed to a desire of
raising immense fortunes for his children; but, in fact, it was not
so: he heaped up money for its own sake only, and looked on his
children as his rivals, who were to enjoy his beloved mistress
when he was incapable of possessing her; and which he would haye
iieen much more charmed with the power of carrying along with
him : nor had his children any other security of being his heirs,
than that the law would constitute them such without a will, and
that he had not affection enough for any one living to take the
trouble of writing one.
" To this gentleman came Bellarmine on the errand I have men-
tioned. His person, his equipage, his family, and his estate,
seemed to the father to make him, an advantageous match for his
daughter; he, therefore, verv readily accepted his proposals: but
HISTOEY OP LEONOKA CONTINUED. 85
when Bellarmine imagined the principal affair concluded, and
began to open the incidental matters of fortune, the old gentleman,
presently changed his countenance, saying, he resolved never to
marry his daughter on a Smithfield match; that whoever had love
for her to take her, would, when he died, find her share of his
fortune in his coffers; but he had seen such examples of unduti
fulness happen from the too early generosity of parents, that he had
made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived. He com-
mended the saying of Solomon,' He that spareth the rod, spoileth
the child but added, he might have likewise asserted, that he
that spares the purse, saves the child. He then ran into a dis-
course on the extravagance of the youth of the age; whence he
launched into a dissertation on horses; and came at lenad^ ^
commend those Bellarmine drove.
" That fine gentleman, who at another season would nave oeen
well enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very
eager to resume the circumstance of fortune. He said, he had a
very high value for the young lady, and would receive her with less
than he would any other whatever; but that even his love to her
made some regard to worldly matters necessary; for it would be a
most distracting sight for him to see her, when he had the honour
to be her husband, in less than a coach and six.
" The old gentleman answered ' Pour will do; four will do;' and
then took a turn from horses to extravagance, and from extra-
vagance to horses, till he came round to the equipage again;
whither he was no sooner arrived, than Bellarmine brought him
back to the point; but all to no purpose: he made his escape from
that subject in a minute; till at last the lover declared, that, in the
present situation of his affairs, it was impossible for him, though he
loved Leonora more than tout le monde, to marry her without any
fortune. To which the father answered, he was sorry then his
daughter must lose so valuable a match : that if he had an inclina-
tion, at present it was not in his power to advance a shilling: that
he had had great losses, and been at great expenses on projects,
which, though he had great expectations from them, had yet pro-
duced him nothing: that he did not know what might happen
hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such accident; but he would
make no promise, nor enter into any article; for he would not
break his vow for all the daughters in the world.
"In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, Bellarmine,
having tried every argument and persuasion which he could invent,
and finding them all ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in
order to return to Leonora: he proceeded directly to his own seet,
whence, after a few days' stay, he returned to Paris, to the great
delight of the Prench and the honour of the English nation. But
as soon as he arrived at his home, he presently despatched a mes-
senger with the following epistle to Leonora:—
86 joseph andrews.
" 'adorable and charmante,—i am sorry to have the honour
to tell you I am not the heureux person destined for your divine
arms. Your papa has told me so with a politesse not often seen
on this side Paris : you may, perhaps, guess his manner of refusing
me. Ah, mon Dieu! you will certainly believe me, madam,
incapable myself of delivering this triste message, which I intend
to try the French air, to cure the consequence of. A jamais!
Coeur! Ange! Audiable! If your papa obliges you to a marriage,
I hope we shall see you at Paris ; till when, the wind that flows
from thence will be the warmest dans le monde, for it will consist
almost entirely of my sighs. Adieu, ma princesse! Ah l'amour!
'bellarmine.'
" I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's condition,
when she received this letter: it is a picture of horror, which I
should have as little pleasure in drawing as you in beholding. She
immediately left the place, where she was the subject of conversa-
Hon and ridicule, and retired to that house I showed you when I
began the story); where she has ever since led a disconsolate life, and
deserves, perhaps, pity for her misfortunes, more than our censure
for a behaviour, to which the artifices of her aunt very probably con-
tributed, and to which veiy young women are often rendered too
liable by that blamable levity in the education of our sex."
" If I was inclined to pity her," said a young lady in the coach,
"it would be for the loss of Horatio; for I cannot discern any
misfortune in her missing such a husband as Bellarmine."—" Why,
I must own," says Slipslop, "the gentleman was a little false-
hearted; but howsumever, it was hard to have two lovers, and get
never a husband at all. But pray, madam, what became of Our-
asho ?"—" He remains," said the lady, " still unmarried; and has
applied himself so strictly to his business, that he has raised, I
hear, a very considerable fortune. And what is remarkable, they
say he never hears the name of Leonora without a sigh, nor has
ever uttered one syllable to charge her with her ill conduct
towards him."
ADAMs's ABSENCE OF MIND.
87
Chap. VII.—A very short Chapter, in which Parson Adams went a
great Way.
The lady, having finished her story, received the thaiiks of the
company; and mw Joseph, putting his head out of the coach, cried
out, "Never believe me, it yonder be not our Parson Adams walk-
ing along without his horse."—" On my word, and so he is," says
Slipslop: " and as sure as twopence he has left him behind at the
inn." Indeed, true it is the parson had exhibited a fresh instance
of his absence of mind: for he was so pleased with having got
Joseph into the coach, that he never once thought of the beast in the
stable; and finding his legs as nimble as he desired, he sallied
out, brandishing a crabstick, and had kept on before the coach,
mending and slackening his pace occasionally; so that he had
never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile distant
from it.
Mrs. Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he
attempted, but in vain; for the faster he drove, the faster ran the
{) arson, often crying out, "Ay, ay, catch me if you can;" till at
ength the coachman swore he would as soon attempt to drive after
a greyhound; and giving the parson two or three hearty curses,
he cried, " Softly, softly, boys!" to his horses, which the civil
beasts immediately obeyed. But we will be more courteous to our
reader than he was to Mrs. Slipslop; and, leaving the coach and its
company to pursue their journey, we will carry our reader on after
Parson Adams, who stretched forwards without once looking
behind him; till, having left the ooach full three miles in his rear,
he came to a place, where, by keeping the extremest track to the
right, it was just barely possible for a human creature to miss his
way. This track however did he keep, as indeed he had a wonder-
fal capacity at these kinds of bare possibilities; and travelling in it
about three miles over the plain, he arrived at the summit of a hill,
whence, looking a great way backwards, and perceiving no coach
in sight, he sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling out his
iEschylus, determined to wait here for its arrival.
He had not sat long here, before a gun going off very near a little
startled him : he looked up and saw a gentleman within a hundred
fcaces taking up a partridge, which he had just shot.
Adams stood up, and presented a figure to the gentleman which
would have moved laughter in many; for his cassock had just again
fallen down below his great-coat, that is to say, it reached his knees;
whereas the skirts of his great-coat descended no lower than halt-
way down his thighs; but the gentleman's mirth gave way to hia
surprise at beholding such a personage in such a place.
88 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Adams, advancing to tlie gentleman, told liim he hoped he had
good sport, to which the other answered, " Very little."—" I see,
sir," says Adams, "you have smote one partridge ;"to which the
sportsman made no reply, but proceeded to charge his piece.
Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in silence, which
he at last broke, by observing, that it was a delightful evening.
The gentleman, who had at first sight conceived a very distasteful
opinion of the parson, began, on perceiving a book in his hand, and
smoking likewise the information of the cassock,_ to change his
thoughts, and made a small advance to conversation on his side,
by saying, " Sir, I suppose you are not one of these parts ?"
Adams immediately told him, no; but he was a traveller, and
invited by the beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little,
and amuse himself with reading. " I may as well repose myself
too," said the sportsman; " for I have been out this whole after-
noon, and the devil a bird have I seen till I came hither."
"Perhaps then the game is not very plenty hereabouts," cries
Adams. No, sir," said the gentleman: "the soldiers, who are
quartered in the neighbourhood, have killed it all."—" It is very
probable," cries Adams; " for shooting is their profession."—" Ay,
shooting the game," answered the other; " but I don't see they
are so forward to shoot our enemies. I don't like that affair of
Carthagena: if I had been there, I believe I should have done
other guess things, d—n me. What's a man's life, when his
country demands it ? A man who won't sacrifice his life for his
country, deserves to be hanged, d—n me."
Which words he spoke with so violent a gesture, so loud a voice,
so strong an accent, and so fierce a countenance, that he might
have frightened a captain of train-bands at the head of his company.
But Mr. Adams was not greatly subject to fear: he told him
intrepidly, that he very much approved his virtue, but disliked his
swearing, and begged him not to addict himself to so bad a custom,
without which he said lie might fight as bravely as Achilles did.
Indeed he was charmed with this discourse : he told the gentleman,
he would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his
fenerous way of thinking: that if he pleased to sit down, he should
e greatly delighted to commune with him; for though he was a
clergyman, he would himself be ready, if thereto called, to lay
down his life for his country.
The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; and then the
latter began, as in the following chapter, a discourse, which we
have placed by itself, as it is not only the most curious in this, but
perhaps in any other book.
A POLITICAL DISSERTATION.
Chap. VIII.—A notable Dissertation by Mr. Abraham Adams, wherein that
Gentleman appears in a Political Light.
" I do assure you, sir," says he, taking the gentleman by the
hand, " I am heartily glad to meet with a man of your kidney; for
though I am a poor parson, I will be bold to say I am an honest
man, and would not do an ill thing to be made a bishop; nay, though
it has not fallen in my way to offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not
been without opportunities of suffering for the sake of my con-
science, I thank Heaven for them ; for I have had relations, though
I say it, who made some figure in the world; particularly a nephew,
ivho was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a corporation: he was a
ood lad, and was under my care when a bov ; and I believe would
o what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like extreme
vanity in me, to affect being a man of such consequence as to have
so great an interest in an alderman; but others have thought so
too, as manifestly appeared by the rector, whose curate I formerly
was, sending for me qn the approach of an election, and telling me,
if I expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephevj
to vote for one Colonel Courtly, a gentleman whom I had never
heard tidings of till that instant. I told the rector I had no power
over my nephew's vote • (God forgive me for such prevarication !)
that I supposed he would give it according to his conscience; that
I would by no means endeavour to influence him to give it other-
wise. He told me it was in vain to equivocate; that he knew I
had already spoken to him in favour of Squire Tickle, my neigh-
bour; and, indeed, it was true I had; for it was at a season when
the church was in danger, and when all good men expected
they knew not what would happen to us all. I then answered
boldly, if he thought I had given my promise, he affronted me in
proposing any breach of it.
"Not to be too prolik, I persevered, and so did my nephew, in the
squire's interest, who was chosen chiefly through his means ; and
so I lost my curacy. Well, sir, but do you think the squire ever
mentioned a word of the church ? Ne verbum^quidem, ut it a dicam:
within two years he got a place, and has ever since lived in London;
Where, I have been informed (but God forbid I should believe
■ ftiat) that he never so much as goes to church. I remained, sir, a
considerable time without any cure; and lived a full mouth on
one funeral sermon, which I preached on the indisposition of a
clergyman: but this by-and-by.
" At last, when Mr. Fickle got his place, Colonel Courtly stood
again; and who should make interest for him but Mr. Fickle him-
90 JOSEPH ANDKBTTS.
self! That very identical Mr. Tickle, who had formerly told mo
that the colonel was an enemy to both the church and state, had
the confidence to solicit my nephew for him; and the colonel himself
offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, which I refused in
favour of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us he would sacrifice every-
thing to his country; and I believe he would, except his hunting,
which he stuck so close to, that in five years together^he went but
twice up to parliament; and one of these times, I have been told,
never was within sight of the house. However, he was a worthy
man, and the best friend I ever had; for, by his interest with
a bishop, he got me replaced in my curacy, and gave me eight
pounds out of his own pocket to buy me a gown and cassock, and
furnish my house. He had our interest while he lived, which was
not many years.
" On his death I had fresh applications made to me; for all the
world knew the interest I had with mv good nephew, who now was
a leading man in the corporation : and Sir Thomas Booby, buying
the estate which had been Sir Oliver's, proposed himself as a can-
didate. He was then a young gentleman just come from his
travels; and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs, which,
for my part, I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a thousand
votes, he should have had them all. I engaged my nephew in
his interest, and he was elected; and a very fine parliament
man he was. They tell me he made speeches of an hour long,
and, I have been told, very fine ones 5 but he could never per-
suade the parliament to be of his opinion. N011 omnia possumus
omnes.
" He promised me a living, poor man • and I believe I should have
had it, but an accident happened, wliich was, that my lady had
promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I never heard
till afterwards; for my nephew, who died about a month before the
incumbent, always told me I might be assured of it. Since that
time, Sir Thomas, poor man, had always so much business, that he
never could find leisure to see me: I believe it was partly my
lady's fault too, who did not think my dress good enough for the
gentry at her table. However, I must do him the justice to say
he never was ungrateful; and I have always found his kitchen, and
his cellar too, open to me : many a time after service on a Sunday,
(for I preach at four churches) have I recruited my spirits with a
glass of his ale. Since my nephew's death, the corporation is in
other hands; and I am not a man of that consequence I was
formerly. I have now no longer any talents to lay out in the
service of my country; and to whom nothing is given, of him can
nothing be required.
" However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach of an
election, I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I
have the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas, and
DISCOURSE Ojn BRAVERY. 91
the other honest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promise/
me these five years to procure an ordination for a son of mine, who
is now near thirty, has an infinite stock of learning, and is, I thank
Heaven, of ah unexceptionable life; [though, as he was never at a
university, the bishop refuses to ordain him. Too much care
cannot indeed be taken in admitting any to the sacred office-
though I hope he will never act so as to be a disgrace to any order,
but will serve his God and his country to the utmost of his'power,
as I have endeavoured to do before him; nay, and will lay down
his life whenever called to that purpose. I am sure I have
educated him in those principles; so that I have acquitted my duty
and shall have nothing to answer for on that account. But I do
not distrust him, for he is a good boy; and if Providence should
throw it in his way to be of as much consequence in a public light
as his father once was, I can answer for him he will use his talents
as honestly as I have done."
Chap. IX.—In which the Gentleman descants on Bravery and Heroic Virtue,
tiU an unlucky Accident puts an End to the Discourse.
The gentleman highly commended Mr. Adams for his good reso-
lutions, and told him, he hoped his son would tread in his steps;
adding, that if he would not die for his country, he would not be
worthy to live in it. " Pd make no more of shooting a man that
would not die for his country, than Sir," said he, " I have
disinherited a nephew, who is in the army, because he would not
exchange his commission, and go to the West Indies. I believe
the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in love, forsooth.
I would have all such fellows hanged, sir; I would have them
hanged."
Adams answered, that would be too severe : that men did not
make themselves; and if fear had too much ascendency in the mind,
the man was rather to be pitied than abhorred; that reason and
time might teach him to subdue it. He said, a man might be a
coward at one time and brave at another. " Homer," says he,
" who so well understood and copied nature, has taught us this
lesson; for Paris fights and Hector runs aways. Nay, we have
a mighty instance of this in the history of latter ages, no longer
ago than the 705th year of Home, when the great Pompey, who
had won so many battles and been honoured with so many
triumphs, and of whose valour several authors, especially Cicerc
and Paterculus, have formed such eulogiums; this very Pompey
left the battle of Pharsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to
his tent, where he sat like the most nusillanimous rascal in a fit
92 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
of despair, and yielded a victory, which was to determine the
empire of the world, to Caesar. I am not much travelled in the
history of modern times, that is to say, these last thousand years:
but those who are, can, I make no question, furnish you with
parallel instances." He concluded, therefore, that had he taken
any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he would
consider better and retract them. ■>
The gentleman answered with great warmth, and talked much
of courage and his country, till, perceiving^ it grew late, he asked
Adams, what place he intended for that night ? He told him he
waited there for the stage coach. " The stage coach sir! " said
the gentleman: " they are all past by long ago. You may see
the last yourself almost three miles before us."—"I protest, and
so they are," cries Adams: " then I must make haste and follow
them."
The gentleman told him, he would hardly be able to overtake
them; and that, if he did not know his way, he would be in
danger of losing himself on the Downs: for it would be presently
dark; and he might ramble about all night, and perhaps find'
himself farther from his journey's end in the morning than he was
now. He advised him, therefore, to accompany him to his house,.
which was very little out of his way; assuring him, that he would
find some country fellow in his parish, who would conduct him for
sixpence to the city where he was going.
Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, the
gentleman renewing his discourse on courage, and the infamy of
not being ready at all times to sacrifice our lives to our country.
Night overtook them much about the same time as they arrived
near some bushes; whence, on a sudden,they heard the most violent
shrieks imaginable in a female voice. Adams offered to snatch the
gun out of his companion's hand. " What are you doing ? " said
he. " Doing!" says Adams: " I am hastening to the assistance
of the poor creature whom some villains are murdering."—"You
are not mad enough, I hope," says the gentleman, trembling:
" do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that the
robbers arc more probably furnished with pistols loaded with
bullets ? This is no business of ours : let us make as much haste
as possible out of the way, or we may fall into their hands our-
selves."
The shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but
snapped his fingers, and, brandishing his crabstiek, made directly
to the place whence the voice issued; and the man of courage
made as_ much expedition towards his own home, whither he
escaped in a, very shcgt time without once looking behind
where we will leave bi.n to contemplate his own braverv, an(* to
censure the want of it in others; and return to the good Adams,
who, on coming up to the place whence the noise proceeded,
THE PARSON IN DOUBT. 93
found a woman struggling with a man, who had thrown her on
the ground and had almost overpowered her.
The great abilities of Mr. Adams were not necessary to have
formed a right judgment of this affair on the first sight. He did
not therefore want the entreaties of the poor wretch to assist her;
but, lifting up his crabstick, he immediately levelled a blow at
that part of the ravisher's head, where, according to the opinion
of the ancients, the brains of some persons are deposited, and
which he had undoubtedly let forth, had not Nature (who, as wise
men have observed, equips all creatures with what is most expe-
dient for them) taken a provident care (as she always does with
those she intends for encounters) to make this part of the head
three times as thick as those of ordinary men, who are designed to
exercise talents which are vulgarlv called rational, and for whom,
as brains are necessary, she is obliged to leave some room for
them in the cavity of the skull; whereas, those ingredients being
entirely useless to persons of the heroic calling, she has an
opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it less subject
to any impression, or liable to be cracked or broken; and, indeed,
in some who_ are predestined to the command of armies and
empires, she is supposed sometimes to make that part perfectly
solid.
As a game-cock, when engaged in amorous toying with alien,
if perchance he espies another cock at hand, immediately quits his
female, and opposes himself to his rival: so did the ravisher, on the
information ot the crabstick, immediately leap from the woman, and
hasten to_ assail the man. He had no weapons but what Nature
had furnished him with: however, lie clenched his fist, and pre-
sently darted it at that part of Adams's breast where the heart is
lodged. Adams staggered at the violence of the blow, when,
■throwing away his staff, he likewise clenched that fist which we
have before commemorated, and would have discharged it full in
the breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it viiih
his left hand, at the same time darting his head (which some
modern heroes of the lower class use, like the battering-ram of
the ancients, for a weapon of offence; another reason to admire
the cunningness of Nature, in composing it of those impenetrable
materials) • dashing his head, I say, into the stomach of Adams,
he tumbled liirn on his back; and not having any regard to the
laws of heroism, which would have restrained him from any
further attack on Ills enemy till he was again on his legs, he threw
himself upon him, and laying hold on the ground with his left
hand, he with his right belaboured the body of Adams till he was
weary, and, indeed, till he concluded, to use the language of
fighting, that he had done his business: or in the language of
poetry, that he had sent him to the shades below; in plain
English that he was dead.
y4 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear a drubbing as
well as any boxing champion in the universe, lay still only to
watch his opportunity; and now perceiving his antagonist to pant
with his labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and 'with
such success, that he overturned him and became his superior;
when, fixing one of his knees on his breast, he cried out, in an
exulting voice, "It is my turn now;" and after a few minutes'
constant application, he gave him so dexterous a blow just under
his chin, that the fellow no longer retained any motion, and Adams
began to fear he had struck him once too often; for he often
asserted, he should be concerned to have the blood of even the
wicked upon him.
Adams got up, and called aloud to the young woman. "Be of
good cheer, damsel," said he; "you are no longer in danger of your
ravisher, who, I am terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet; but God
forgive me for what I have done in defence of innocence." The
poor wretch, who had been some time in recovering strength
enough to rise, and had afterwards, during the engagement, stood
trembling, being disabled by fear even from running away, hearing
her champion was victorious, came up to him, but not without
apprehensions even of her deliverer; which, however, she was
soon relieved from by his courteous behaviour and gentle words.
They were both standing by the body, which lay motionless"on
the ground, and which Adams wished to see stir much more than
the woman did, when he earnestly begged her to tell him by what
misfortune she came, at such a time of night, into so lonely a
place.
She acquainted him she was travelling towards London,
and had accidentally met with the person from whom he had
delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his journey to the
same place, and would keep her company; an offer which, sus-
pecting no harm, she had accepted; that he told her they were at
a small distance from an inn where she might take up her lodging
that evening, and he would show her a nearer way to it than -by
following the road; that if she had suspected him (which she did
not, he spoke so kindly to her), being alone on these Downs in
the dark, she had no human means to avoid him; that therefore
she put her whole trust in Providence, and walked on, expecting
every moment to arrive at the inn: when, on a sudden, being
some to those bushes, he desired her to stop; and after some rude
kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties, which she rejected,
he laid violent hands on her, and was attempting to execute his
wicked will, when, she thanked God, he timely came up and
prevented him.
Adams encouraged her for saying she had put her whole trust
in Providence, and told her, lie doubted not but Providence had
sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. He wished,
ADAMS ENCOUNTERS A RAVISHER. 95
indeed, lie had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but God's
will be done. He said, he hoped the goodness of his intention
would excuse him in the next world, and he trusted in her evidence
to acquit him in this. He was then silent, and began to consider
with himself whether it would be more proper to make his escape,
or to deliver himself into the hands of justice; which meditation
ended, as the reader will see, in the next chapter.
Chap. 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.
Tke silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night, and
loneliness of the place, struck dreadful apprehensions into the
poor woman's mind: she began to fear as great an enemy in her
deliverer as he had delivered her from; ana as she had not light
enough to discover the age of Adams, and the benevolence visible
in his countenance, she suspected he had used her as some very_
honest men have used their country, and had rescued her out of
the hands of one rifler in order to rifle her himself. Such were
the suspicions she drew from his silence; but, indeed, they were
ill grounded. _ He stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely weigh-
ing in his mind the objections which might be made to either
of the two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter,
his judgment sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to
the other; for both seemed to him so equally advisable, and so
equally dangerous, that probably he would have ended his days, at
least, two or three of them, on that very spot, before he had taken
any resolution: at length he lifted up his eyes, and spied a light
at a distance, to which he instantly addressed himself with " Hetis
tu, traveller, heus tu !"
He presently heard several voices, and perceived the light ap-
proachmg toward him. The persons who attended began some to
laugh, others to sing, and others to halloo, at which the woman
testified some fear, for she had concealed her suspicions of the
parson himself; but Adams said, "Be of good cheer, damsel, and
repose thy trust in the same Providence which has hitherto pro-
tected thee, and never will forsake the innocent."
These people, who now approached, were no other, reader, than
a set of young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit of a
diversion which they call bird-baiting. This, if thou art ignorant
of it (as perhaps, if thou hast never travelled beyond Kensington,
Islington, Hackney, or the Borough, thou mayest be), I will inform
96 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
thee, is performed by holding a large clap-net before a lantern, and
at the same time beating the bushes; for the birds, when they are
disturbed from their places of rest, or roost, immediately make to
the light, and so are enticed within the net.
Adams immediately told them what had happened, and desired
them to hold the lantern to the face of the man on the ground, for
lie feared he had smote him fatally. But, indeed, his fears were
frivolous; ftr the fellow, though he had been stunned by the last
blow he received, had long since recovered his senses, and finding
himself quit of Adams, had listened attentively to the discourse
between him and the young woman, for whose departure he
had patiently waited, that he might likewise withdraw himself,
having no longer hopes of succeeding in his desires, which were,
moreover, almost as well cooled by Mr. Adams, as they could have
been by the young woman herself, had he obtained his utmost
wish.
This fellow, who had a readiness at improving any accident,
thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man;
and, accordingly, the moment the candle was held to his face, he
leaped up, ana, laying hold on Adams, cried out, "No, villain, I
am not dead, though you and your wicked w might well think
me so, after the barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me.
Gentlemen," said he, " you are luckily come to the assistance of a
poor traveller, who would otherwise have been robbed and mur-
aered by this vile man and woman, who led me hither out of my
way from the high-road, and both falling on me have used me as
you see."
Adams was going to answer, when one of the young fellows
cried, "D—n them, let's cany them both before the justice."
The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his voice,
but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him, and one
holding the lantern to his face, they all agreed he had the most
villanous countenance they ever beheld; an attorney's clerk, who
was of the company, declared, he was sure he had remembered
him at the bar. As to the woman, her hair was dishevelled in the
struggle, and her nose had bled, so that they could not perceive
whether she was hanusome or ugly; but they said, her fright
plainly discovered her guilt; and searching her pockets, as they
aid those of Adams, for money, which the fellow said he had lost,
?hey found in her pocket a purse with some gold in it, which
abundantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offered to
swear to it. Mr. Adams was found to have no more than one half-
penny about him. This, the clerk said, was a great presumption
lhat he was an old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to
the woman • to which all the rest readily assented.
This accident promising them better sport than what they had
proposed, they quitted their intention of catching birds, andunani.
ADAMS ACCUSED OF ROBBERY. 97
mously resolved to proceed to the justice with the offenders.
Being informedwhat a desperate fellow Adams was, they tied his
hands behind him; and having hid their nets among the bushes,
and the lantern being carried before them, they placed the two
prisoners in their front, and then began their march; Adams not
only submitting patiently to his own fate, but comforting and
encouraging his companion under her sufferings.
Whilst they were on their way, the clerk informed the rest, that
this adventure would prove a very beneficial one ; for that they
would be all entitled to their proportions of £80, for apprehending
the robbers. This occasioned a contention concerning the parts
which they had severally borne in taking them; one insisting he
ought to have the greatest share, for he had first laid his hands on
Adams; another claiming a superior part for having first held the
lantern to the man's face on the ground, by which, he said, the
wfhole was discovered. The clerk claimed four-fifths of the reward,
for having proposed to search the prisoners, and likewise the car-
rying them before the justice : he said, indeed, in strict justice, he
ought to have the whole.
These claims, however, they at last consented to refer to a
future decision, but seemed all to agree that the clerk was entitled
to a moiety. They then debated what money should be allotted
to the young fellow who had been employed only in holding the
nets. He very modestly said, that he did not apprehend any large
proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would allow him
something: he desired them to consider, that they had assigned
their nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as
any in laying hold of the robbers, for so these innocent people were
called: that if he had not been occupied with the nets, some other
must; concluding, however, that he should be contented with the
smallest share imaginable, and should think that rather their
bounty than his merit: but they were all unanimous in excluding
him from any part whatever, the clerk particularly swearing, if
they gave him a shilling, they might do what they pleased with
the rest, for he would not concern himself with the affair.
This contention was so hot, and so totally engaged the atten-
tion of all the parties, that a dexterous, nimble thief, had he been
in Mr. Adams's situation, would have taken care to have given
the justice no trouble that evening. _ Indeed, it required not the
art of a1 Shepherd to escape, especially as the darkness of the
night would have so much befriended him; but Adams trusted
rather to his innocence than his heels ; and without thinking oi
flight, which was easy, or resistance, which was impossible (as
there were six lusty young fellows, besides the villain himself,
present), he walked with perfect resignation the way they thought
proper to conduct him.
Adams freaueutly vented himself in ejaculations during ;heir
H
98 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
journey; at last, poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his mind, he
could not refrain sighing forth his name; which being heard by
his companion in affliction, she cried, with some vehemence," Sure I
should know that voice: you cannot certainly, sir, be Mr. Abraham
Adams ? "—"Indeed, damsel," says he, "that is my name; there
is something also in your voice, which persuades me I have heard
it before."—"La, sir," says she, "don't yon remember poor
Fanny?"—"How,Fanny!" answered Adams; "indeed, I very well
remember you: what can have brought you hither ?"—"I have
told you, sir," replied she : " I was travelling towards London;
but I thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews; pray, what is
become of him?"—"I left him, child, this afternoon," said
Adams, "in the stage-coach, in his way towards our parish, whi-
ther he is going to see you."—" To see me! La, sir," answered
Fanny, " sure you jeer me ! "What should he be going to see me
for ? "—" Can you ask that ? " replied Adams; " I hope, Fanny,
yon are not inconstant; I assure you he deserves much better of
you."—"La, Mr. Adams," said she, "what is Mr. Joseph to me?
I am sure I never had anything to say to him, but as one fellow-
servant might to another."—"I am sorry to hear this," said
Adams ; " a virtuous passion for a young mat is what no woman
need be ashamed of. lou either do not tell me the truth, or you
are false to a very worthy man."
Adams then told her what had happened at the inn, to which
she listened very attentively: and a sigh often escaped from her,
notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to the contrary; nor
could she prevent herself from asking a thousand questions,
which would have assured any one but Adams, who never saw
farther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of a
passion she endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that
this poor girl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune by some of
the servants belonging to the coach, which we have formerly men-
tioned to have stopped at the inn while the poor youth was con-
fined to his bed, that instant abandoned the cow she was milking,
and taking with her a little bundle of clothes under her arm, and
all the money she was worth in her own purse, without consulting
any one, immediately set forward in pursuit of one whom, not-
withstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved with inex-
pressible violence though with the purest and most delicate
passion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend
her character, to all our female readers, and not greatly surprise
such of our males as are well acquainted with the younger part
of the other sex, we shall not give ourselves any trouble to
vindicate.
ADAMS BEFORE THE JUSTICE.
w
Chap. XI.—What happened to them while before the Justice—a Chapter very
full of Learning.
Their feUow:travellers were so engaged in the hot dispute con-
cerning the division of the reward for apprehending these inno-
cent people, that they attended very little to their discourse.
They were now arrived at the justice's house, and had sent one of
his servants in to acquaint his worship, that they had taken two
robbers, and brought them before him. The justice, who was
just returned from a fox-chase, and had not yet finished his
dinner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into the stable, whither
they were attended by all the servants in the house and all the
people in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see them
with as much curiosity, as if there was something uncommon to
be seen, or that a rogue did not look like other people.
The justice now, bring in the height of his mirth and his cups,
bethought himself o{- his prisoners ; and telling his company, he
believed they should have good sport in their examination, he
ordered them into his presence. They had no sooner entered the
room, than he began to revile them, saying, that robberies 011 the
highway were now grown so frequent, that people could not
sleep safely in their beds, and assured them they both should be
made examples of at the ensuing assizes. After he had gone on
some time in this manner, he was reminded by the clerk that it
would be proper to take the depositions of the witnesses against
them: which he bade him do, and he would light his pipe in the
mean time.
Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the deposition
of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice em-
1 1 1 ' ' 1 ' ' ~ or Fanny, in which he was
1 another whispered in her
ear, if she had not provided herself with a great belly, he was at
ber service; a third, said, he warranted she was a relation of
Turpin; to which one of the company, a great wit, shaking his
bead, and then his sides, answered, he believed she was nearer
related to turpis ; at which there was a universal laugh.
.. TKey were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when somebody
smoking the cassock peeping forth from under the great-coat of
Adams, cried out, " What have we here ? a parson ? "—" How,
sirrah!55 says the justice, " do you go robbing in the dress of a
clergyman ? let me tell you, your habit will not entitle you to the
benefit of the clergy."—" yes» said the witty fellow, "be will
u 3
One asked, whether she
iOO JOSEPH ANDREWS.
have one benefit of clergy, be will be exalted above the heads ol
the people:" at which there was a second laugh. And now the
witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in spirits: and,
turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verses; and provoking
him by giving the first blow, he repeated,
" Molle meum levibus cord est vilebile telis."
upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told
Aim he deserved scourging for his pronunciation. The witty
fellow answered, " What do you deserve, _ doctor, for not being
able to answer the first time ? Why, I'll give one, you blockhead,
with an S:
Si licit, ut fulvum spectatur in ignibus haurum.
What, canst not with an M neither ? Thou art a pretty fellow
for a parson! Why didst not steal some of the parson's Latin,
as well as his gown?" Another at the table then answered, "If
he had, you would have been too hard for him. I remember you
at the college a very devil at this sport; I have seen you catch a
freshman; for nobody that knew you would engage with you."
—" I have forgot those things now," cried the wit: " I believe
I could have done pretty well formerly. Let's see, what did
I end with ?—an M again, ay—
Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, vivorum.
I could have done it once."—" Ah! evil betide you, and so you
can now," said the other; " nobody in this country will undertake
you." Adams could hold no longer: "Eriend," said he, "I have
a boy, not above eight years old, who would instruct thee that the
last verse runs thus :—
Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo j virorum."
"I'll hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, throwing the
money on the table. " And I'll go your halves," cries the other.
"Done," answered Adams ; but upon applying to his pocket, he
was forced to retract, and own he baa no money about him;
which set them all a-laughing, and confirmed the triumph of his
adversary, which was not moderate; any more than the appro-
bation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he
must go a little longer to school before he attempted to attack that
gentleman in Latin.
The clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the fellow
himself as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered
them to the justice, who, having sworn the several witnesses,
without reading a syllable, ordered his clerk to make the
mittimus.
THE MAGISTRATE'S IGNORANCE. 101
Adams then said, he hoped he should not be condemned unheard'
" No, no," cries the justice, " you will be asked what you have to
say for yourself, when you come on your trial: we are not trying
you now: I shall only commit you to jail: if you can prove you*
innocence at 'size, you will be found ignoramus, and so no harnv
done."—"Is it no punishment, sir, for an innocent man to lis
several months in jail ? " cries Adams : " I beg you would at least
hear me before you sign the mittimus."—" What signifies all you
can say?" says the justice: "is it not here in black and white
against you ? I must tell you, you are a very impertinent fellow, to
take up so much of my time. So make haste with his mittimus."
_ The clerk now acquainted the justice, that, among other suspi-
cious things, as a penknife, &c. found in Adams's pocket, they had
discovered a book written, as he apprehended, in ciphers; for no
one could read a word in it. " Ay," says the justice, " the fellow
may be more than a common robber; he may be in a plot against
the government. Produce the book." Upon which, the poor
manuscript of iEschylus, which Adams had transcribed with his
own hand, was brought forth ; and the justice, looking at it, shook
his head, and turning to the prisoner, asked the meaning of those
ciphers. "Ciphers!" answered Adams; "it is a manuscript of
jEschylus."—" Who ? who ? " said the justice. Adams repeated,
"JEsehylus."—"That is an outlandish name," cried_the clerk.—
"A fictitious name rather, I believe," said the justice. One of
the company declared it looked very much like Greek. " Greek ?"
said the justice; "why, 'tis all writing."—"No," says the other,
" I don't positively say it is so; for it is a very long time since I
have seen any Greek."—" There's one," says he, turning to the
parson of the parish, who was present, " will tell us immediately."
The parson, taking up the book, and putting on his spectacles and
gravity together, muttered some words to himself, and then pro-
nounced aloud, " Ay, indeed, it is a Greek manuscript; a very fine
piece of antiquity. I make no doubt but it was stolen from the
same clergyman from whom the rogue took the cassock."—"What
did the rascal mean by his iEschylus?" says the justice.—
"Pooh!" answered the doctor, with a contemptuous grin; "do
you think that fellow knows anything of this book ? iEschylus!
ho, ho! I see now what it is—a manuscript of one of the fathers.
I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of money for such
a piece of antiquity. Ay, ay, question and answer. The begin-
ning. is the catechism in Greek. Ay, ay, Pollalci toi ? What's
your name?"—"Ay, what's your name?" says the justice_ to
Adams; who answered, " It is iEschylus, and I will maintain it."
—"O, it is ?" says the justice ; "make Mr. iEschylus his mitti-
mus. I will teach you tc banter me with a false name."
_ One of the company, having looked steadfastly at Adams, asked
him, if he did not know Lady Booby: upon which Adams, pre-
102 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
sently calling him to mind, answered in a rapture, " O squire! are
you there ? I believe you will inform his worship I am innocent."
I can indeed say," replied the squire, " that I am very much
surprised to see you in tins situation:" and then, addressing him-
self to the justice, he said, " Sir, I assure you, Mr. Adams is a
clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very good
character. I wish you would inquire a little farther into
this affair; for I am convinced of his innocence."—"Nay,"
says the justice, "if he is a gentleman, and you are sure he is
innocent, I don't desire to commit him, not I: I will commit the
woman by herself, and take your bail for the gentleman. Look
mto the book, clerk, and see how it is to take bail—come—and
make the mittimus for the woman as fast as you can."—" Sir,"
cries Adams, " I assure you she is as innocent as myself."
" Perhaps," said the squire, " there may be some mistake: pray,
let us hear Mr. Adams's relation."
"With all my heart," answered the justice; "and give the
fentleman a glass to wet his whistle before he begins. I know
ow to behave myself to a gentleman as well as another: nobody
can say I have committed a gentleman since I have been in the
commission."
Adams then began the narrative, in which, though he was very
prolix, he was uninterrupted, unless by several hums and hahs of
the justice, and his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to
him most material. When he had finished, the justice, who, on
what the squire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his
bare affirmation, notwithstanding the depositions on oath to the
contrary, began to let loose several Rogues and Rascals against
the witness, whom he ordered to stand forth, but in vain: the said
witness, long since, finding what turn matters were like to take,
had privily withdrawn without attending the issue.
The justice now flew into a violent passion, and was hardly pre-
vailed with not to commit the innocent fellows who had been
imposed on as well as himself. He swore they had best find out
ihe fellow, who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before him
within two days, or he would hind them all over to their good
behaviour. They all promised to use their best endeavours to that
purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice insisted that Mr.
Adams should sit down and take a glass with him; and the parson
of the parish delivered him back the manuscript without saying a
word; nor would Adams, who plainly discerned his ignorance,
expose it. As for Panny, she was, at her own request, recom-
mended to the care of a maid-servant of the house, who helped her
to new dress and clean herself.
The company in the parlour had not been long seated, before
they were alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the
persons who had apprehended Adams and Panny had been regaling,
ADAMS AT LIBERTY. 103
according to the custom of the house, with the justice's strong
beer. These were all fallen together by the ears, and were cuffing
each other without any mercy. The justice himself sallied out, ana
with the dignity of his presence soon put an end to the fray. On
his return into the parlour, he reported, that the occasion of the
quarrel was no other than a dispute, to whom, if Adams had been
convicted, the greater share of the reward for apprehending him
had belonged.
All the company laughed at this, except Adams, who, taking his
pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and said, he was con-
cerned to see so litigious a temper in men: that he remembered a
story something like it in one of the parishes where his cure lay:
" There was," continued he, " a competition between three young
fellows for the place of the clerk, which I disposed of, to the best
of my abilities, according to merit; that is, 1 gave it to him who
had the happiest knack at setting a psalm. The clerk was no
sooner established in his place, than a contention began between
the two disappointed candidates concerning their excellence; each
contending, on whom, had they two been the only competitors, my
election would have fallen. This dispute frequently disturbed the
congregation, and introduced a discord into the psalmody, till I
was forced to silence them both; but, alas! the litigious spirit
could not be stifled; and being no longer able to vent itself in
singing, it now broke forth in fighting. It produced many battles,
for they were very near a match, and I believe would have ended
fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity to
promote one of them to his place • which presently put an end to
the dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties."
Adams then proceeded to make some philosophical observations
on the folly of growing warm in disputes in which neither party
is interested. He then applied himself vigorously to smoking;
and a long silence ensued, which was at length broken by the jus-
tice, who began to sing forth his own praises, and to value himself
exceedingly on his nice discernment in the cause which had lately
been before him. He was quickly interrupted by Mr. Adams,
between whom and his worship a dispute now arose, whether he
ought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said
Adams; in which the latter maintained he ought to have been
committed, and the justice as vehemently held he ought not. _ This
had most probably produced a quarrel (for both were very violent
and positive in their opinions), had not Fanny accidentally heard
that a young fellow was going from the justice's house to the very
inn where the stage-coach, in which Joseph was, put up: upon
this news, she immediately sent for the parson out of the parlour.
Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though she would nut
own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces
of thcNMJ who bad susoeeted her of e crime), was as fully deter-
104 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
mined to go with her: he accordingly took leave of the justice and
company; and so ended a dispute, in which the law seemed
shamefully to intend to set a magistrate and a divine together by
the ears.
Chap. XII.—A very delightful Adventure, as well to the Persons concerned,
as to the good-natured Reader.
.(Vdams, Fanny, and the guide set out together about one in the
morning, the moon being then just risen. They had not gone above
a mile, before a most violent storm of rain obliged them to take
shelter in an inn, or rather ale-house; where Adams immediately
procured himself a good fire, a toast and ale, and a pipe, and began
to smoke with great content, utterly forgetting everything that
had happened.
Fanny sat likewise down by the fire, but was much more impa-
tient at the storm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host,
his wife, the maid of the house, and the young fellow who was
their guide: they all conceived they had never seen anything half
so handsome; and, indeed, reader, if thou art of an amorous hue,
I advise thee to skip over the next paragraph; which, to render our
history perfect, we are obliged to set down, humbly hoping that
we may escape the fate of Pygmalion; for if it should happen to
us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, we should be perhaps
in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say to ourselves
Quod petis est nusquam. Or, if the finest features in it should set
lady 's image before our eyes, we should be still in as bad a
situation, and might say to our desires, Caelum ipsum petimus
stultitia.
Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age: she was tall
and delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women,
who seem rather intended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist
than for any other purpose. On the contrary, she was so plump, that
she seemed bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part
which confined her swelling breasts. Nor did her hips want the
assistance of a hoop to extend them. The exact shape of her arms
denoted the form of those limbs which she concealed; and though
they were a little reddened by her labour, yet if her sleeves slipped
above her elbow, or her handkerchief discovered any part ot her
neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest Italian paint would be
unable to reach. Her hair was of a chestnut-brown, and nature
had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut, and on
Sundays used to curl down her neck in the modern fashion. Her
forehead was high; her eye-brows arched, and rather full than
otherwise; her eyes black and sparkling j her nose just inclining
A DELIGHTFUL ADVENTUBE. 105
to the Roman; her lips red and moist, and her under lip, according
to the opinion of the ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white,
but not exactly even. The small-pox had left one only mark on
her chin, which was so large, it misfit have been mistaken for a
dimple, had not her left cheek produced one so near a neighbour
to it, that the former served only for a foil to the latter. Her
complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, but overspread
with such a bloom, that the finest ladies would have exchanged all
their white for it: add to these, a countenance, in which, though
she was extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible;
and a sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or
description. _ To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, superior
to the acquisition of art, and which surprised all who beheld her.
This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, when
her attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room,
which sang the following song
THE SONG.
Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray
Who is by thy beauties undone ?
To wash their remembrance away,
To what distant Lethe must run ?
The wretch who is sentenced to die,
May escape and leave justice behind >
From his country perhaps he may fly,
But O, can he fly from his mind ?
O rapture, unthought of before!
To be thus of Chloe possessM;
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 j
Yet what he beheld, the fond boy
More eagerly wished in his arms.
How can it thy dear image be,
Which fills this my bosom with woe ?
Can aught bear resemblance to thee,
Which grief and not joy can bestow?
This counterfeit snatch from my heart
Ye Powers, though with torment I rave,
Though 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 flowOPS.
Ah, rogue! whilst he kisses her eyes,
More sweets from her breath he devoun.
106 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire;
But her looks were so tender and kin^
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 the fond kiss
Advances like these made me bold:
I whispered 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 1"
"Ah, Strephon," she blushing replied,
"You ne'er was so pressing before."
Adams had been ruminating all this time ona passage in^schylus,
without attending in the least to the voice, though one of the most
melodious that ever was heard; when, casting his eyes on Eanny,
he cried out, "Bless us, you look extremely pale !"—"Pale! Mr.
Adams," says she; "0 Lord!" and fell backwards in her chair
Adams jumped up, flung his iEschylus into the fire, and fell
a-roaring to the people of the house for help. He soon summoned
every one into the room, and the songster among the rest; but, 0
reader! when this nightingale, who was no other than Joseph
Andrews himself, saw his beloved Eanny in the situation we have
described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind?
If thou canst not, wave that meditation, to behold his happiness,
when, clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning
into her cheeks, when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard
her with the softest accent whisper, " Are you Joseph Andrews ?"
—" Art thou my Eanny ?" he answered eagerly; and pulling her
to his heart, he imprinted numberless kisses on her lips, without
considering who were present.
If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, they
may take their eyes off from it, and survey Parson Adams dancing
about the room in a rapture of joy. Some philosophers may
perhaps doubt whether lie was not the happiest of the three; for
the goodness of his heart enjoyed the blessings which were exult-
ing in the breasts of both the other two, together with his own.
But we shall leave such disquisitions, as too deep for us, to those
who are building some favourite hypothesis, which they will refuse
no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support: for our part, we
give it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not only
greater than the parson's, but of longer duration; for as soon as
the first tumults of Adams's rapture were over, he cast his eyes
towards the fire, where iEschylus lay expiring; and immediately
rescued the poor remains, to wit, the sheepskin covering, of his
HIGH AHD LOW PEOPLE. 107
iear friend, which was the work of his own hands, and had heen
bis inseparable companion for upwards of thirty years.
Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself, than she began
fco restrain the impetuosity of her transports: and reflecting on
what she had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she
was immediately covered with confusion; _ and pushing Joseph
gently from her, she begged him to be quiet; nor would admit
either of kiss or embrace any longer. Then seeing Mrs. Slipslop,
she courtesied, and offered to advance to her; but that high woman
would not return her courtesies ; but casting her eyes another way,
immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as she went,
she wondered who the creature was.
Chap. XIII.—A Dissertation concerning high People and low People; with
Mrs. Slipslop's Departure in no very good Temper of Mind, and the evil
Plight in which she left Adams and his Company.
It will doubtless seem extremely odd to many readers, that Mrs.
Slipslop, who had lived several years in the same house with Fanny,
should, in a short separation, utterly forget her. And indeed, the
truth is, that she remembered her very well. As we would not
willingly, therefore, that anything should appear unnatural in this
our history, we will endeavour to explain the reasons of her
conduct; nor do we doubt being able to satisfy the most curious
reader that Mrs. Slipslop did not in the least deviate from the
common road in this behaviour; and indeed, had she done otherwise,
she must have descended below herself, and would have very
justly been liable to censure.
Be it known, then, that the human species are divided into two
sorts of people, to wit, high people and low people. As by high
people 1 would not be understood to mean persons literally bork
higher in their dimensions than the rest of the species, nor meta-
phorically those of exalted characters or abilities; so by low people
I cannot be construed to intend the reverse : high people signify no
other than people of fashion, and low people those of no fashion.
Now this word fashion has by long use lost its original meaning, from
which at present it gives us a very different idea; for I am deceived,
if by persons of fashion we do not generally include a conception
of birth and accomplishments superior to the herd of mankind;
whereas, in reality, nothing more was originally meant by a person of
fashion, than a person who dressed himself in the fashion of the
times ; and the word really and truly signifies no more at this day.
Now the world being thus divided into people of fashion and
people of no fashion, a fierce contention arose between them; nor
108
Joseph Andrews.
would those of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publicly to
speak to those of the other, though they often held a very good
correspondence in private. In this contention, it is difficult to say
which party succeeded; for whilst the people of fashion seized
several places to their own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas,
balls, &c.; the people of no fashion, besides one royal place, called
his Majesty's Bear-garden, have been in constant possession of all
hops, fairs, revels, &c. Two places have been agreed to be divided
between them, namely, the church and the playhouse, where they
segregate themselves from each other in a remarkable manner; for
as the people of fashion exalt themselves at church over the head?
of the people of no fashion, so in the playhouse they abase them-
selves in the same degree under their feet.
This distinction I have never met with any one able to account
for: it is sufficient, that so far from looking on each other as
brethren in the Christian language, they seem scarce to regard
each other as of the same species. This the terms, " strange per-
sons," " people one does not know," " the creatures," " wretches,"
" beasts," " brutes," and many other appellations, evidently demon-
strate; -which Mrs. Slipslop, having often heard her mistress use,
thought she had also a right to use in her turn: and perhaps she
was not mistaken ; for these two parties, especially those bordering
nearly on each other, to wit, the lowest of the high, and the highest
of the low, often change their parties according to place and time;
for those who are people of fashion in one place, are often people of
no fashion in another.
And with regard to time, it may not be unpleasant to picture
dependence like a kind of ladder: as, for instance, early in the
morning arises the postillion, or some other boy, which great
families, no more than great ships, are without, and falls to brush-
ing the clothes and cleaning the shoes of John the footman ; who,
being dressed himself, applies his hands to the same labour for Mr.
Second-hand, the squire's gentleman: the gentleman, in the like
manner, a little later in the day, attends the squire ; the squire is
no sooner equipped, than he attends the levee of my lord; -which
is no sooner over, than my lord himself is seen at the levee of the
favourite, who, after the hour of homage is at an end, appears him-
self to pay homage to the levee of his sovereign.
Nor is there, perhaps, in this whole ladder of dependence, any one
step at a greater distance from the other than the first from the
second: so that to a philosopher the question might only seem, whe-
ther you would choose to be a great man at six in the morning, or at
two in the afternoon. And yet there are scarce two of these who do
net think the least familiarity with the persons below them a con-
descension, and if they were to go one step further, a degradation.
And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this long digression,
which seemed to me necessary to vindicate the great character of
MRS. SLIPSLOP LECTURES ADAMS.
109
Mrs. Slipslop, from what low people, who have never seen high
people, might think an absurdity; hut we, who know them, must
nave daily found very high persons know us in one placer and not
in another, to-day and not to-morrow; all which it is difficult to
account for, otherwise than I have here endeavoured: and perhaps,
if the gods, according to the opinion of some, made men only to
laugh at them, there is no part of our behaviour which answers the
end of our creation better than this.
But to return to our history: Adams, who knew no more of this
than the cat which sat on the table, imagining Mrs. Slipslop's
memory had been much worse than it really was, followed her into
the next room, crying out, " Madam Slipslop, here is one of your
old acquaintance : do but see what a fine woman she is grown since
she left Lady Booby's service."—"I think I reflect something of
her," answered she, with great dignity; " but I can't remember all
the inferior servants in our family."
She then proceeded to satisfy Adams's curiosity, by telling him,
when she arrived at the inn, she found a chaise ready for her ; that
her lady being expected very shortly in the country, she was
obliged to make the utmost haste; and, in commensuration of
Joseph's lameness, she had taken him with her; and lastly, that the
excessive virulence of the storm had driven them into the house
where he found them: after which, she acquainted Adams with his
having left Ins horse; and expressed some wonder at his having
strayed so far out of his way, and at meeting him, as she said,
11 .y of that wench, who she feared was no better than
The horse was no sooner put into Adams's head, but he was
immediately driven out by this reflection on the character of
Panny. He protested, he believed there was not a chaster damsel
in the universe. "I heartily wish, I heartily wish," cried he,
snapping his fingers, " that all her betters were as good." He then
Eroceeded to inform her of the accident of their meeting; but when
e came to mention the circumstance of delivering her from the
rape, she said, she thought him properer for the army than the
clergy; that it did not become a clergyman to lay violent hands on
any one: that he should have rather prayed that she might be
strengthened. Adams said, he was very far from being ashamed
what he had done: she replied, want of shame was not the
curry curistic of a clergyman.
This dialogue might have probably grown warmer, had not
Joseph opportunely entered the room, to ask leave of Madam
Slipslop to introduce Panny • but she positively refused to admit
any such trollops, and told him she would have been burnt, before
she would have suffered him to get into a chaise with her, if she
had once respected him of having his sluts way-laid on the road for
him; adding, that Mr. Adams acted a very pretty part, and she did
110 JOSEPH ANDBEWS.
not doubt but to see Kim a bisbop. He made the best bow
he could, and cried out "I thank you, madam, for that right-
reverend appellation, which 1 shall take all honest means to
deserve."—' Very honest means," returned she with a sneer, "to
bring people together!"
At these words Adams took two or three strides across the
room, when the coachman came to inform Mrs. Slipslop, that the
storm was over, and the moon shone very bright. She then sent
for Joseph^ who was sitting without with his Fanny, and would
have had him go with her; but he peremptorily refused to leave
Fanny behind, which threw the good woman into a violent rage.
She said she would inform her lady what doings were carrying on,
and did not doubt but she would rid the parish of all such people:
and concluded a long speech, full of bitterness and very hard
words, with some reflections on the clergy, not decent to repeat:
at last, finding Joseph unmovable, she flung herself into the chaise,
casting a look at Fanny as she went, not unlike that which
Cleopatra gives Octavia in the play.
To say the truth, she was most disagreeably disappointed by the
presence of Fanny: she had, from her first seeing Joseph at the
inn, conceived hopes of something which might have been accom-
plished at an alehouse as well as a palace. Indeed it is probable
Mr. Adams had rescued more than Fanny from the danger of a
rape that evening.
When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slipslop, Adams,
Joseph, and Fanny, assembled over the fire, where they had a
great deal of innocent chat, pretty enough; but as, possibly, it
would not be very entertaining to the reader, we shall hasten to the
morning, only observing that none of them went to bed that
night. Adams, when he had smoked three pipes, took a comfort-
able nap in a great chair, and left the lovers, whose eyes were too
well employed to permit any desire of shutting them, to enjoy by
themselves, during some hours, a happiness, of which none of my
readers who have never been in love are capable of the least con-
ception, though we had as many tongues as Homer desired to
describe it with; and which all true lovers will represent to their
own minds, without the least assistance from us.
_ Let it suffice, then, to say, that Fanny, after a thousand entrea-
ties, at last gave up her whole soul to Joseph; and, almost fainting
in his arms, with a sigh infinitely softer, and sweeter too, than
any Arabian breeze, she whispered to his lips, which were then
close to hers, "0, Joseph, you have won me: I will be yours
for ever."
Joseph, having thanked her on his knees, and embraced her
with an eagerness which she now almost returned, leaped up in a
rapture, and. awakened the parson, earnestly begging him that he
would that instant join their hands together. Adams rebuked him
AN AWKWAKD DILEMMA. Ill
for his request, and told him, he would by no means consent to
anything contrary to the forms of the church; that he had no
license, nor indeed, would he advise him to obtain one; that the
church had prescribed a form,—namely, the publication of banns,
with which all good Christians ought to comply, and to the omis-
sion of which he attributed the many miseries which befel great
folks in marriage; concluding, as many as are joined together
otherwise than God's word does allow, are not joined together by
God, neither is their matrimony lawful.
Fanny agreed with the parson, saying to Joseph, with a blush,
she assured him she would not consent to any such thing, and
that she wondered at his offering it. In which resolution she was
comforted and commended by Adams ; and Joseph was obliged to
wait patiently till after the third publication of the banns, which,
however, he obtained the consent of Fanny, in the presence of
Adams, to put in at their arrival.
The sun had been now risen some hours, when Joseph, finding
his leg had surprisingly recovered, proposed to walk forwards-
but when they were all ready to set out, an accident a little retarded
them. This was no other than the reckoning, which amounted to
seven shillings : no great sum, if we consider the immense quan-
tity of ale which Mr. Adams poured in. Indeed, they had no objec-
tion to_ the reasonableness of the bill, but many to the probability
of paying it; for the fellow who had taken poor Fanny's purse
had unluckily forgotten to return it; so that the account stood
thus :—
£ s. d.
Mr. Adams and company, Dr. 0 7 0
In Mr. Adams's pocket . . 0 0 6|
In Mr. Joseph's 000
In Mrs. Fanny's .000
Balance . . 0 6 5f
They stood silent some few minutes, staring at each other, when
Adams whipped out on his toes, and asked the hostess if there was
no clergyman in that parish ? She answered? there was. " Is he
wealthy?" replied he; to which she likewise answered in the
affirmative. Adams then, snapping his fingers, returned overjoyed
to his companions, crying out, " Heureka! heureka!" which not
being understood, he told them, in plain English, they need give
themselves no trouble; for he had a brother in the parish who
would defray the reckoning, and that he would just step to his
house and fetch the money, and return to them instantly.
112
JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Chap. XIV.—An Interview between Parson Adams and Parson Trulliber.
Parson Adams came to the house of Parson Trulliber, whom he
found stripped to his waistcoat, with an apron on, and a pail in his
hand, just come from serving his hogs ; for Mr. Trulliber was a
parson on Sundays, but all the other six days might more properly
be called a farmer. He occupied a small piece of land of his own,
besides which, he rented a considerable deal more. His wife
milked his cows, managed his dairy, and followed the markets with
butter and eggs. The hogs fell chiefly to his care, which he care-
fully waited on at home, and attended to fairs ; on which occasion
he was liable to many jokes, his own size being, with much ale,
rendered little inferior to that of the beasts he sold. He was,
indeed, one of. the largest men you should see, and could have
acted the part of Sir John Palstaff without stuffing. Add to this,
that the rotundity of his belly was considerably increased by the
shortness of his stature, his shadow ascending very near as far in
height when he lay on his back, as when he stood on his legs.
His voice was loud and hoarse, and his accent extremely broad. To
complete the whole, he had a stateliness in his gait, when he walked,
not unlike that of a goose, only he stalked slower.
Mr. Trulliber being informed t'hat somebody wanted to speak
with him, immediately slipped off his apron, and clothed himself
in an old night-gown, being the dress in which he always saw his
company at home. His wife, who informed him of Mr. Adams's
arrival, had made a small mistake ; for she told her husband, she
believed here was a man come for some of his hogs. This sup-
position made Mr. Trulliber hasten with the utmost expedition to
attend his guest. He no sooner saw Adams, than, not in the least
doubting the cause of his errand to be what his wife imagined, he
told him he was come in very good time; that he expected a
dealer that very afternoon; and added, they were all pure and fat,
and upwards of twenty score apiece.
Adams answered, he believed he did not know him. "Yes,
yes," cried Trulliber, " I have seen you often at fair: why, we
have dealt before now, mun, I warrant you. Yes, yes," cries he:
"I remember thy face very well, but won't mention a word more
till you have seen them, though I have never sold thee a flitch of
such bacon as is now in the sty." Upon which, he laid violent
hands on Adams, and dragged him into the hog-sty, which was
indeed but two steps from his parlour-window. They were no
sooner arrived there, than he cried out, " Do but handle them :
step in, friend: art welcome to handle them, whether dost buy or
A PIG-DEALING PAESON. 113
no." At which, words, opening the gate, he pushed Adams into a
pig-sty, insisting on it that he should handle them before he would
talk one word with him.
Adams, whose natural complaisance was beyond any artificial,
was obliged to comply before he was suffered to explain himself;
and, laying hold of one of their tails, the unruly beast gave such a
sudden spring, that he threw poor Adams all along in the mire.
Trulliber, instead of assisting him to get up, _ burst into a fit of
laughter, and, entering the sty, said to Adams, with some contempr,
"Why, dost not know how to handle a hog ? " and was going to
lay hold of one himself; but Adams, who, though he had carried
his complaisance far enough, was no sooner on his legs, than he
escaped out of the reach of the animals, and cried out, "Nil habeo
cumporcis: I am a clergyman, sir, and am not come to buy hogs."
Trulliber answered, he was sorry for the mistake, but that he
must blame his wife: adding, she was a fool, and always com-
mitted blunders.
He then desired him to walk in and clean himself: that he would
only fasten up the sty, and follow him. Adams aesired leave to
dry his great coat, wig, and hat by the fire, which Trulliber granted.
Mrs. Trulliber would have brought him a basin of water to wash
his face, but her husband bid her be quiet like a fool as she was,
or she would commit more blunders; and then directed Adams to
the pump.
While Adams was thus employed, Trulliber, conceiving no
great respect for the appearance of his guest, fastened the par-
four-door, and now conducted him into the kitchen, telling him,
he believed a cup of drink would do him no harm, and whispered
his wife to draw a little of the worst ale.
After a short silence, Adams said, " I fancy, sir, you already
perceive me to be a clergyman."—"Ay, ay," cries Trulliber grin-
ning, " I perceive you have some cassock: I will not venture to
caale it a whole one." Adams answered, it was, indeed, none of
the best; but he had the misfortune to tear it about ten years ago
in passing over a stile.
Mrs. Trulliber, returning with the drink, told her husband, she
fancied the gentleman was a traveller, and that he would be glad
to eat a bit. Trulliber bid her hold her impertinent tongue, and
asked her, if parsons used to travel without horses; adding, he
supposed the gentleman had none, by his having no boots on.
"Yes, sir, yes," says Adams; " I have a horse, but I have left him
behind me."—"I am glad to hear you have one," says Trulliber;
" for I assure you I don't love to see clergymen on foot; it is not
seemly, nor suiting the dignity of the cloth." Here Trulliber
made a long oration on the dignity of the cloth (or rather gown,J
not much worth relating, till his wife had spread the table, and set
a mess of porridge on it for his breakfast. He then said to Adams,
*
1U JOSEPH ANDREWS.
"I dqn't know, friend, how you came to caale on me: however, as
you are here, if you think proper to eat a morsel, you may."
Adams accepted the invitation, and the two parsons sat down
together; Mrs. Trulliber waiting_behind her husband's chair, as
was, it seems, her custom. Trulliber ate heartily, but scarce put
anything into his mouth without rinding fault with his wife's cookery,
all which the poor woman bore patiently. Indeed, she was so
absolute an admirer of her husband's greatness and importance, of
which she had frequent hints from his own mouth, that she almost
carried her adoration to an opinion of his infallibility.
To say the truth, the parson had exercised her more ways than
one ; and the pious woman had been so well edified by her husband's
sermons, that she had resolved to receive the bad things of this
world together with the good. She had indeed been at first a little
contentious; but he had long since got the better; partly by her
love for this, partly by her fear of that; partly by her religion;
partly by the respect lie paid himself, and partly by that which he
received from the parish. She had, in short, absolutely submitted,
and now worshipped her husband, as Sarah did Abraham, calling
him not lord, but master. Whilst they were at table, her husband
gave her a fresh example of his greatness; for as she had jus$
delivered a cup of ale to Adams, he snatched it out of his hand,
and crying out, " I caal'd vurst," swallowed down the ale. Adams
denied it; it was referred to the wife, who, though.her conscience
was on the side of Adams, durst not give it against her husband.
Upon which lie said, " No, sir, no: I should not have been so rude
to have taken it from you, if you had caal'd vurst; but I'd have
you know I'm a better man than to suffer the best he in the king-
dom to drink before me in my own house, when I caale vurst."
As soon as their breakfast _ was ended, Adams began in tlm
following manner : " I think, sir, it is high time to inform you of ■
the business of my embassy. I am a traveller, and am passing this'
way in company with two young people, a lad and a damsel, my
parishioners, towards my own cure ^ we stopped at a house_ of
hospitality in the parish, where they directed me to you, as having
the cure."—"Though I am but a curate," says Trulliber, "1
believe I am as warm as the vicar himself, or perhaps the rector of
the next parish too: I believe I could buy them.both."—" Sir," cries
kdams, "I rejoice thereat. Now, sir, my business is, that we are
by various accidents stripped of our money, and are not able to
pay our reckoning, being seven shillings. 1 therefore request you
to assist me with the loan of those seven shillings, and also seven
shillings more, which, peradventure, I shall return to you; but if
not, I am convinced you will joyfully embrace such an opportunity
of laying up a treasure in a better phme than any this world
>ffords."
Suppose a stranger who entered the chambers of a lawyer,
a parson's charity. 115
being imagined a client, when the lawyer was preparing his palm
for the fee, should pull out a writ against him. Suppose an apo-
thecary, at the door of a chariot containing some greater doctor of
eminent skill, should, instead of directions to a patient, present
him with a potion for himself. Suppose a minister should, instead
■if a good round sum, treat my lord , or sir , or squire
, with a good broomstick. Suppose a civil companion, or a
led captain should, instead of virtue, and beauty, ana parts, and
admiration, thunder vice, and infamy, and ugliness, and folly, and
contempt, in his patron's ears. Suppose, when a tradesman first
carries in his bill, the man of fashion should pay it; or suppose, if
he did so, the tradesman should abate what he had overcharged
on the supposition of waiting. In short,—suppose what you will,
you never can nor will suppose anything equal to the astonishment
which seized on Trulliber, as soon as Adams had ended his speech.
Awhile he rolled his eyes in silence! sometimes surveying Adams,
then his wife; then casting them on the ground, then lifting them
up to heaven. _ At last he burst forth in the following accents:—
" Sir, I believe I know where to lay up my little treasure as.
well as another: I thank God, if I am not so warm as some, I am
content;_that is a blessing greater than riches; and he, to whom
that is given, need ask no more. To be content with a little, is
greater than to possess the world; which a man may possess
without being so. Lay up my treasure! what matters where a
man's treasure is, whose heart is in the Scriptures ? there is the
the treasure of a Christian."
At these words the water ran from Adams's eyes; and, catching
Trulliber by the hand in a rapture, " "Brother," says he, " Heavens
bless the accident by which I came to see you! I would have
walked many a mile to have communed with you; and believe me,
I will shortly pay you a second visit; but my friends, I fancy, by
this time wonder at my stay; so let me have the moneyimmediately."
Trulliber then put on a stern look, and cried out, " Thou dost
not intend to rob mt f" At which the wife, bursting into tears,
fell on her knees, and roared out, " 0 dear sir ! for heaven's sake
^ don't yob my master: we are but poor people."—" Get up for a
' fool as thou art, and go about thy business," said Trulliber: " dost
think tiie man will venture his life ? he is a beggar, and no robber."
—"Yerytrue, indeed," answered Adams. "I wish with all my
\eart the tithing-man was here," cries Trulliber: " I would have
thee punished as a vagabond for thy impudence. Fourteen shillings
indeed! I won't give thee a farthing. I believe thou art no more
a clergyman than the woman there" (pointing to his wife); " but if
thou art, dost deserve to have thy gown stripped over thy shoulders,
for running about the country in such a manner."
"I forgive your suspicions," says Adams: "but suppose I am
cot a clergyman, I am nevertheless thv brother; and thou, as a
I 2
116
JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Christian, much more as a clergyman, art obliged to relieve my
distress."—"Dost preach to me ?" replied Trulliber: " dost pre-
tend to instruct me in my duty?"—"Ifacks, a good story," cries
Mrs. Trulliber, "to preach to my master!"—" Silence, woman,"
cries Trulliber: " I would have thee know, friend," addressing
himself to Adams, " I shall not learn my duty from such as thee.
I^know what charity is, better than to give to vagabonds."—
to Adams, he told him, he would give him nothing. " I am sorry,"
answered Adams, "that you do not know what charity is, since
vou practise it no better: I must tell you if you trust to your
knowledge for your justification, you will find yourself deceived,
though you should add faith to it, without good works."
"bellow," cries Trulliber, " dost thou speak against faith in my
house ? Get out of my doors: I will no longer remain under the
same roof with a wretch who speaks wantonly of faith and the
Scriptures."—" Name not the Scriptures," says Adams. " How!
not name the Scriptures ! Do you disbelieve the Scriptures ?"
cries Trulliber. "No ; but you do," answered Adams, "if I may
reason from your practice; for their commands are so explicit, and
their rewards and punishments so immense, that it is impossible a
man should steadfastly believe, without obeying. Now there is no
command more express, no duty more frequently enjoined, than
charity. Whoever, therefore, is void of charity, I make no scruple
of pronouncing that he is n® Christian."
" I would not advise thee," says Trulliber, "to say that lam
no Christian: I won't take it of you; for I believe I am as good a
man as thyself:" and, indeed, though he was now rather too
corpulent for athletic exercises, he had, in his youth, been one of
the best boxers and cudgel-players in the county. His wife, seeing
him clench his fist, interposed, and begged him not to fight, but
show himself a true Christian, and take the law of him. As
nothing could provoke Adams to strike, but an absolute assault
on himself or his friend, he smiled at the angry look and gestures
of Trulliber; and, telling him he was sorry to see such men
orders, departed without further ceremony
ADAMS'S FORGETFULNESS.
117
Chap. XV.—An Adventure, the Consequence of a new Instance which Paison
Adams gave of his Forgetfulness.
When lie came back to the inn, he found Joseph and Fanny
sitting together. They were so far from thinking his absence
long, as he had feared they would, that they never once missed or
thought of him. Indeed, I have been often assured by both, that
they spent these hours in a most delightful conversation ; but as
I lieyer could prevail on either to relate it, so I cannot com-
municate it to the reader.
Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success of his enter-
prise. They were all greatly confounded, none being able to
propose _ any method of departing, till Joseph at last advised
calling in the hostess, and desiring her to trust them; which
Fanny said she despaired of her doing, as she was one of the
sourest-faced women she had ever beheld. But she was agreeably
disappointed • for the hostess was no sooner asked the question,
than she readily agreed; and, with a courtesy and smile, wished
them a good journey. However, lest Fanny's skill in physiog-
nomy should be called into question, we will venture to assign
one reason which might probably incline her to this confidence
and good-humour. When Adams said he was going to visit his
brother, he had unwittingly imposed on Joseph and Fanny, who
both believed he meant his natural brother, and. not his brother
in divinity; and so informed the hostess, on her inquiry after him.
Now Mr. Trulliber had, by his professions of piety, by his
gravity, austerity, reserve, and the opinion of his great wealth, so
great an authority in his parish, that they all lived in the utmost
fear and apprehension of him. It was therefore no wonder that
the hostess, who knew it was in his option whether she should ever
sell another mug of drink, did not dare to affront his supposed
brother, by denying him credit.
They were now just on their departure, when Adams recollected
he had left his great-coat and hat at Mr. Trulliber's. As he was
not desirous of renewing Ids visit, the hostess herself, having no
servant at home, offered to fetch them.
This was an unfortunate expedient; for the hostess was soon
undeceived in the opinion she had entertained of Adams, whom
Trulliber abused in the grossest terms, especially when_ he heard
he had had the assurance to pretend to be his near relation.
At her return, therefore, she entirely changed her note^ She
said folks might be ashamed of travelling about, and pretending to
be what they were not: that taxes were high, and for her part she
118 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
was obliged to pay for what she had; she could not, therefore,
possibly, nor would she, trust anybody; no, not her own father:
that money was never scarcer, ana she wanted to make up a sum:
that she expected, therefore, they should pay their reckoning
before they left the house.
Adams was now greatly perplexed; but as he knew that he
could easily have borrowed such a sum in his own parish, and as
he knew he would have lent it himself to any mortal in distress,
so he took fresh courage, and sallied all round the parish? but to
no purpose: he returned as penniless as he went, groaning and
lamenting, that it was possible, in a country professing Christianity,
for a wretch to starve in the midst of his fellow-creatures who
abounded.
Whilst he was gone, the hostess, who stayed as a sort of guard
with Joseph and Fanny, entertained them with the goodness of
Parson Trulliber: and, indeed, he had not only a very good
character as to other qualities in the neighbourhood, but he was
reputed a man of great charity; for though he never gave a
farthing, he had always that word in his mouth.
Adams was no sooner returned the second time, than the storm
grew exceeding high, the hostess declaring, among other things,
that, if they offered to stir without paying her, she would soon
overtake them with a warrant.
Plato and Aristotle, or somebody else, has said, that when the
most exquisite cunning fails, chance often hits the mark, and that
by means the least expected. Yirgil expresses this very boldly;—
Turne, quod optanti Pivum promittere nemo
Auderet, volvenda dies, en ! attulit ultro.
I would quote more great men if I could: but- mv memory not
permitting me, I will proceed to exemplify these observations by
the following instance:—
There chanced (for Adams had not cunning enough to contrive
it) to be at that time in the alehouse, a fellow, who had been
formerly a drummer in an Irish regiment, and now travelled the
country as a pedlar. This man, having attentively listened to the
discourse of the hostess, at last took Adams_ aside, and asked him
what the sum was for which they were detained. _ As soon as he
was informed, he sighed, and said he was sorry it was so much;
for that he had no more than six shillings and sixpence in his
pocket, which he would lend them with all his heart. Adams
gave a caper, and cried out it would do, for that he had sixpence
himself. And thus these poor people, who could not engage the
compassion of riches and piety, were at length delivered out of
their distress by the charity of a poor pedlar.
I shall refer it to my reader to make what observations he pleases
A KIND INVITATION. 119
on this incident: it is sufficient for me to inform him, that, after
Adams and his companions had returned him a thousand thanks,
and told him where he might call to be repaid, they all sallied out
of the house without any compliments from their hostess, 01
indeed without paying her any ; Adams declaring he would tak«
particular care never to call there again; and she, on her side
assuring them she wanted no such guests.
Chap. XVI.—A very curious Adventure, in which Mr. Adams gave a much
greater Instance of the honest Simplicity of his Heart, than of his Experience
in the Ways of this World.
Our travellers had walked about two miles from that inn, which
they had more reason to have mistaken for a castle than Don
Quixote ever had any of those in which he sojourned, seeing they
had met with such difficulty in escaping out of its walls, when
they came to a parish, and beheld a sign of invitation hanging out.
A gentleman sat smoking a pipe at the door; of whom Adams
inquired the road, and received so courteous and obliging an
answer, accompanied with so smiling a countenance, that the good
arson, whose heart was naturally disposed to love and affection,
egan to ask several other questions, particularly the name of the
parish, and who was the owner of a large house whose front they
then had in prospect. The gentleman answered as obligingly as
before; and as to the house, acquainted him it was his own. He
then proceeded in the following manner :—
" Sir, I presume by your habit you are a clergyman; and as you
are travelling on foot, I suppose a glass of good beer will not be
disagreeable to you; and I can recommend my landlord's within,
as some of the best in all this country. What say you, will you
halt a little, and let us take a pipe together ? there is no better
tobacco in the kingdom."
This proposal was not displeasing to Adams, who had allayed
his thirst that day with no better liquor than what Mrs. Trulliber's
cellar had produced; and which was indeed little superior, eiiher
in richness'or flavour, to that which distilled from those grains
her generous husband bestowed on his hogs. Having therefore
abundantly thanked the gentleman for his kind invitation, and bid
Joseph and Danny follow him, he entered the alehouse, where a
large loaf and cheese and a pitcher of beer, which truly answered
the character given of it, being set before them, the three travel-
lers fell to eating, with appetites infinitely more voracious than
are to be found at the most exquisite eating-houses in the parish
of St. James's.
120 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
The gentleman expressed great delight in the hearty and
cheerful behaviour of Adams, and particularly in the familiarity
with which he conversed with Joseph and Fanny, whom he often
called his children; a term he explained to mean no more than his
parishioners; saying, he looked on all those whom God had in-
trusted to his care, to stand to him in that relation. The gentle-
man, shaking him oy the hand, highly applauded these sentiments.
" They are, indeed," says he, " the true principles of a Christian
divine; and I heartily wish they were universal • hut, on the
contrary, I am sorry to say, the parson of our parish, instead of
esteeming his poor parishioners as a part of his family, seems
rather to consider them as not of the same species with himself.
He seldom speaks to any, unless some few of the richest of us;
nay, indeed, ne will not move his hat to the others. I often laugh
when I behold him on Sundays, strutting along the churchyard,
like a turkey-cock, through rows of his parishioners, who how to
him with as much submission, and are as unregarded, as a set of
servile courtiers by the proudest prince in Christendom. But if
such temporal pride is ridiculous, surely the spiritual is odious
and detestable ; if such a puffed-up empty human bladder, strut-
ting in princely robes, justly moves one's derision, surely in the
habit of a priest it must raise our scorn."
"Doubtless," answered Adams, your opinion is right; hut I
hope such examples are rare. The clergy^ whom I have the
honour to know, maintain a different behaviour ; and you will
allow me, sir, that the readiness which too many of the laity show
to contemn the order, may be one reason of their avoiding too
much humility."—"Very true, indeed," says the gentleman: "I
find, sir, you are a man of excellent sense, and am happy in this
opportunity of knowing you; perhaps our accidental meeting may
not be disadvantageous to you neither._ _At present, I shall only
say to you, that the incumbent of this living is old and infirm, and
that it is in my gift. Doctor, give me your hand; and assure
yourself of it at his decease."
Adams told liirn he was never more confounded in his life, than
at his utter incapacity to make any return to such noble and
unmerited generosity. " A mere trifle, sir," cries the gentleman,
" scarce worth your acceptance : a little more than three hundred
a year. I wish it was double the value, for your sake." Adams
bowed, and cried from the emotions of gratitude; when the other
asked him if he was married, or had any children besides those in
the spiritual sense he had mentioned.
, " Sii-," replied the parson, " I have a wife and six at your ser-
vice."—"This is unlucky," says the gentleman; "for I would
otherwise have taken you into my own house as my chaplain:
however, I have another in the parish (for the parsonage-house is
not good enough), which I will furnish for you. Pray, does youi
DISAPPOINTMENT. 121
wife understand a dairy?"—"I can't profess she does," says
Adams. "Iam sorry for it," quoth the gentleman; "I would
have given you half a dozen cows, and very good grounds to have
maintained them."—" Sir," said Adams, in an ecstasy, you are too
liberal, indeed you are."—" Not at all," cries the gentleman : "I
esteem riches only as they give me an opportunity of doing good;
and I never saw one whom I had a greater inclination to serve."
At which he shook him heartily by the hand, and told him, he had
sufficient room in his house to entertain him and his friends.
Adams begged he might give him no such trouble; that they
eould be very well accommodated in the house where they were;
forgetting they had not a sixpenny-piece among them. The gen-
tleman would not be denied; ana informing himself how far they
were travelling, he said it was too long a journey to take on foot,
and begged that they would favour him, by suffering him to lend
them a servant and horses; adding withal, that if they would do
him the pleasure of their company only two days, he would furnish
them with his coach and six.
. Adams, turning to Joseph, said, "How lucky is this gentleman's
goodness to you, who, I am afraid, would be scarce able to hold
out on your lame leg ? " And then, addressing the person who
made him these liberal promises, after much bowing, he cried out,
"Blessed be the hour which first introduced me to a man of your
oharity: you are indeed a Christian of the true primitive kind,
and an honour to the country wherein you live. I would willingly
have taken a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to have beheld you:
for the advantages which we draw from your goodness give me
little pleasure, in comparison of what I enjoy for your own sake,
when I consider the treasures you are by these means laying up
for yourself in a country which passes not away. We will, there-
fore, most generous sir, accept your goodness; as well the enter-
tainment you have so kindly offered us at your house this evening,
as the accommodation of your horses to-morrow morning."
He then began to search for his hat, as did Joseph for his; and
both they and Fanny were in order of departure, when the gentle-
man, stopping short, and seeming to meditate by himself for the
space of a minute, exclaimed thus: " Sure never anything was so
unlucky! I had forgot that my housekeeper was gone abroad,
and has locked up all my rooms; indeed, I would break them
open for you, but shall not be able to furnish you with a bed:
for she has likewise put away all my linen. I am glad it entered
into my head, before I had given you the trouble of walking
there; besides, I believe you will find better accommodations here
than you expected. Landlord, you can provide good beds for
these people, can't you ? " Yes, an please your worship," cries
the host, "and such as no lord or justice of the peace in the
kingdom need be ashamed to lie in."—" ] am heartily sorry,"
122 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
said the gentleman, " for the disappointment. I am resolved I
will never suffer her to carry away the keys again."—" Pray, sir,
let it not make you uneasy," cries Adams; "we shall do very
well here; and the loan of your horses is a favour we shall be
incapable of making any return to."—"Ay," said the squire,
" the horses shall attend you here, at what hour in the morning
you please."
And now, after many civilities too tedious to enumerate, many
squeezes by the hand, with most affectionate looks and smiles at
eacli other, and after appointing the horses at seven the next
morning, the gentleman took his leave of them, and departed
to his own house; Adams and his companions returned to the
table, where the parson smoked another pipe, and then they all
retired to rest.
Mr. Adams rose very early, and called Joseph out of his bed,
between whom a very fierce dispute ensued, whether Panny shoilla
ride behind Joseph or behind the gentleman's servant ; Joseph
insisting on it that he was perfectly recovered, and was as capable
of taking care of Panny as any other person could be; but Adams
would not agree to it, and declared he would not trust her behind
him ; for that he was weaker than he imagined himself to be.
This dispute continued a long time, and had begun to be very
hot, when a servant arrived from their good friend, to acquaint
them, that he was unfortunately prevented from lending them
any horses; for that his groom had, unknown to him, put his
whole stable under a course of physic.
This advice presently struck the two disputants dumb. Adams
cried out, "Was ever anything so unlucky as this poor gentle-
man! I protest I am more sorry on his account than my own.
You see, Joseph, how this goodnatured man _ is treated by his
servants; one locks up his liuen, another physics his horses, and,.
I suppose, by his being at this house last night, the butler had
locked up his cellar. Bless us! how goodnature is used in this
world! I protest I am more concerned, on his account than my
own."
" So am not I," cries Joseph: "not that I am much troubled
about walking on foot; all my concern is, how shall we get out
of the house, unless God sends another pedlar to redeem us. But
certainly this gentleman has such an affection for you, that he
would lend you a larger sum than we owe here, which is not
above four or five shillings."
_ "Very true, child," answered Adams : " I will write a letter to
him, and will even venture to solicit him for three half-crowns;
there will be no harm in having_ two or three shillings in our
Dockets; as we have full forty miles to travel, we may possibly
have occasion for them."
Panuy being now risen, Joseph paid her a visit, and left Adams
JOSEPH INSTETJCTS ADAMS. 13?
to write Ms letter; winch, having finished, he despatched a hoy
with it to the gentleman, and then seated himself by the door,
lighted his pipe, and betook himself to meditation.
The hoy staying longer than seemed to be necessary, Joseph,
who with Fanny was now returned to the parson, expressed some
apprehensions that the gentleman's steward had locked up his
purse too. To which Adams answered, it might very possibly be;
and he should wonder at no liberties which the devil might put
into the head of a wicked servant to take with so worthy a
master; but added, that as the sum was so small, so noble a
gentleman would be easily able to procure it in the parish, though
ne had it not in his own pocket. " Indeed.," says he, " if it was
four or five guineas, or any such large quantity of money, it might
be a different matter."
They were now sat down to breakfast, over some toast and ale,
when the boy returned, and informed them that the gentleman
vyas not at home. " Very well," cries Adams; "but why, child,
did you not stay till his return ? Go back again, my good boy,
and wait for his coming home; he cannot be gone far, as his
horses are all sick; and, besides, lie had no intention to go
abroad, for he invited us to spend this day and to-morrow at
his house. Therefore, go back, child, and tarry till his return
home."
The messenger departed, and was back again with great expe-
dition, bringing an account that the gentleman was gone a long
journey, and would not be at home again this month. At these
words, Adams seemed greatly confounded, saying, " This must be
a sudden accident, as the sickness or death of a relation, or some
such unforeseen misfortune;" and then turning to Joseph, cried,
" I wish you had reminded me to have borrowed this money last
night."
Joseph, smiling, answered, he was very much deceived, if the
gentleman would not have found some excuse to avoid lending it.
'I own," says he, "I was never much pleased with his professing
so much kindness for you at first sight; for I have heard the
gentlemen of our cloth, in London, tell many such stories of their
masters; but when the boy brought the message back of his not
being at home, I presently knew what would follow; for whenever
a man of fashion does not care to fulfil his promises, the custom
is, to order his servants that he will never be seen at home to the
person so promised. In London, they call it denying him; I have
myself denied Sir Thomas Booby above a hundred times; and
when, the man has danced attendance for about a month, or some-
times longer, he is acquainted, in the end, that the gentleman is
gone out of town, and could do nothing in the business."
" Good Lord !" says Adams, "what wickedness is there in the
Christian world ! I profess, almost equal to what I have read of
124 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
the heathens. But surely, Joseph, your suspicions of this gentle-
man must be unjust; for what a silly fellow must he be, who
would do the devil's work for nothing! and canst thou tell me
any interest he could possibly propose to liimself by deceiving us
in his professions ? "
, "It is not for me," answered Joseph, "to give reasons for what
men do, to a gentleman of your learning."—"You say right,"
quoth Adams; " knowledge of men is only to be learned from
books: Plato and Seneca for that: and those are authors, I am
afraid, child, you never read."—"Not I, sir, truly," answered
Joseph; " all I know is, it is a maxim among the gentlemen of
our cloth, that those masters who promise the most perform the
least; and I have often heard them say, they have found the
largest vails in those families where they were not promised any.
But, sir, instead of considering any farther these-matters, it would
be our wisest way to contrive some method of getting out of this
house; for the generous gentleman, instead of doing us any
service, has left us the whole reckoning to pay."
Adams was going to answer, when their host came in, and, with
a kind of jeering smile, said, " Well, masters ! the squire has not
sent his horses for you yet. Lord help me! how easily some folks
make promises! "—" How! " says Adams; " have you ever known
him do anything of this kind before ? "—" Ay, marry have I,"
answered the host; " it is no business of mine, you know, sir,
to say anything to a gentleman to_ his face; but now he is not
here, I will assure you, he has not his fellow within the three next
market towns. I own I could not help laughing, when I heard
him offer vou the living; for thereby hangs a good jest: 1 thought
he would have offered you my house next, for one is no more his
to dispose of than the other."
At these words, Adams, blessing himself, declared he had never
read of such a monster. "But what vexes me most," says he, "i?
that he has decoyed us into running up a long debt with you,
which we are not able to pay, for we have no money about us;
and, what is worse, live at such a distance, that if you should trust
us, I am afraid you would lose your money, for want of our finding
any conveniency of sending it."—" Trust you, master ? " says the
host; " that I will with all my heart. I honour the clergy too
much, to deny trusting one of them for such a trifle; besides, I
like your fear of never paying me. I have lost many a debt in my
life-time; but was promised to be paid them all in a very short
time. I will score this reckoning for the novelty of it: it is the
first, I do assure you, of its kind. But what say you, master!
shall we have t'other pot before we part ? It will waste but a
little chalk more; and, if you never pay me a shilling, the loss will
not ruin me."
Adams liked the invitation very well, especially as it was
A WORTHY HOST. 125
delivered with so hearty an accent: he shook his host by the hand,
and, thanking him, said, he would tarry another pot, rather for the
pleasure of such worthy company, than for the liquor; adding, he
was glad to find some Christians left in the kingdom, for that he
almost began to suspect that he was sojourning in a country
inhabited only by Jews and Turks.
The kind host produced the liquor, and Joseph with Panny
retired into the garden; where, while they solaced themselves with
amorous discourse, Adams sat down with his host; and, both
filling their glasses and lighting their pipes, they began that
dialogue, which the reader will find in the next chapter.
Chap. XVII.—A Dialogue "between Mr. Abraham Adams and his Host, which,
by the Disagreement in their Opinions, seemed to threaten an unlucky
Catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented by the Lovers.
" Sir," said the host, " I assure you, you are not the fiist to
whom our squire has promised more than he has performed. He
is so famous for this practice, that his word will not be taken for
much by those who know him. I remember a young fellow, whom
he promised his parents to make an exciseman. The poor people,
who could ill afford it, bred their son to writing and accounts, and
other learning, to qualify him for the place; and the boy held up
his head above his condition with these hopes; nor would he go to
plough, nor to any other kind of work; and went constantly
aresssd as fine as could be, with two clean Holland shirts a week,
and this for several years ; till at last he followed the squire up to
London, thinking there to mind him of his promises; but could
never get sight of him: so that being out of money and business,
he fell into evil company, and wicked courses; and in the end
came to a sentence of transportation, the news of which broke the
mother's heart. I will tell you another true story of him.
" There was a neighbour of mine, a farmer, who had two sons,
whom he bred up to the business. Pretty lads they were. Nothing
would serve the squire, but that the youngest must be made
a parson: upon which, he persuaded the father to send him to
school, promising that he would afterwards maintain him at tne
university; and, when he was of a proper age, give him a living.
But after the lad had been seven years at school, and his father
brought him to the squire, with a letter from his master, that he
was fit for the university • the squire, instead of minding- his pro-
mise, or sending him thither at his expense, only told his father
that the young man was a fine scholar, and it was pity he could
not afford to keep him at Oxford for four or five years more, by
126 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
which time,^ if he could get him a^fcuracy, he might have him
ordained. The fanner said, he was not a»man sufficient to do any
such tiling. ' Why then,' answered the squire, c I am very sorry you
hav^f given him so much learning; for if he cannot get his living
oy that, it will rather spoil him for anything else ; and your other
son, who can hardly write his name, will do more at ploughingand
sowing; and is in a better condition than he.'
"And indeed so it proved ; for the poor lad, not finding friends to
maintain him in his learning, as he had expected, and being unwil-
ling to work, fell to drinking, though he was a very sober lad
before; and in a short time, partly with grief, and partly with
good liquor, fell into a consumption, and died. Nay, I can tell you
more still: There was another, a young woman, and the handsomest
in all this neighbourhood, whom he enticed up to London, promising
to make her a gentlewoman to one of your women or quality;
but inst ead of keeping his word, we have since heard, after having
a child by her himself, she became a common w ; then kept a
coffee-house in Covent-Garden; and a little after died of theJFrench
distemper in a jail.
" I could tell you many more stories : but how do you imagine he
served me myself ? You must know, sir, I was bred a seafaring
man, and have been many voyages; till at last I came to be master
of a ship myself, and was in a fair way of making a fortune, when
I was attacked by one of those cursed guarda-costas who took our
ships before the beginning of the war; and, after a fight, wherein
I lost the greater part of my crew, my rigging being all demolished,
and two shots received between wind and water, I was forced to
strike.
" The villains carried off my ship,; a hrigantine of 150 tons,—a
pretty creature she was, and put me, a man, and a boy, into a little
bad pink, in which, with much ado, we at last made Falmouth;
though I believe the Spaniards did not imagine she could possibly
live a day at sea. Upon my return hither, where my wife, who was
of this country, then lived, the squire told me he was so pleased
with the defence I had made against the enemy, that he did not .
fear getting me promoted to a lieutenancy of a man-of-war, if I
would accept of it; which I thankfully assured him I would.
"Well, sir, two or three years passed, during which, I had
many repeated promises, not only from the squire, but, as he told
me, from the Lords of the Admiralty. He never returned from
London, but I was assured I might be satisfied now, for I was
certain of the first vacancy; and what surprises me still, when I
reflect on it, these assurances were -given me with no less confi-
dence, after so many disappointments, than at first.
"At last, sir, growing weary,^and somewhat suspicious, aftei
so nufch delay, I wrote to a friend in London, who I knew had,
°ome acquaintance at the best house in the Admiralty, and desired
DISAGREEMENT IN OPINIONS. 127
him to back the squire's interest; for, indeed, I feared lie had
solicited the affair with more coolness than he pretended. _ And
what answer do you. think my friend sent me ? Truly, sir, he
acquainted me that the squire had never mentioned my name at
the Admiralty in his life; and, unless I had much faithfuller in-
terest, advised me to give over my pretensions; which J imme-
diately did, and, with the concurrence of my wife, resolved to set
up an ale-house, where you are heartily welcome; and so, my
service to you; and may the s tuire, and all such sneaking rascals,
go to the devil together."
" 0 fie!" says Adams, " 0 fie ! He is, indeed, a wicked man;
but God will, I hope, turn his heart to repentance. Nay, if ho
could but once see the meanness of this detestable vice, would he
but once reflect that he is one of the most scandalous, as well
as pernicious, liars, sure he must despise himself to so intoler-
able a degree, that it would be impossible for him to continue a
moment in such a course: and, to confess the truth, notwith-
standing the baseness of this character, which he has too well
deserved, he has in his countenance sumcient^svmptoms of that
bona indoles, that sweetness oi disposition, which furnishes out a
good Christian."
"Ah, master, master !" says ihe host, "if you had travelled as
far as I have, and conversed with the many nations where I have
traded, you would not give w;T credit to a man's coimtenance.
Symptoms in his countenance, quotha! I would look there,
perhaps, to see whether a man had had the small-pox, but for
nothing else." ...
He spoke this with so little regard to the parson's observation,
that it a good deal nettled him; and, taking the pipe hastily from
his mouth, he thus answered : " Master of mine, perhaps I have
travelled a great deal farther than you, without the assistance of
a ship. Do you imagine sailing by different cities or countries is
travelling ? No,
Ccelum, non animum mutant, qui trans mare currant.
I can go farther in an afternoon, than you in a twelvemonth.
What! I suppose you have seen the Pillars of Ilerculcs, ami
perhaps the walls of Carthage. Nay, you may have heard Scyhu,
and seen Charybdis; you may have entered the closet when:
Archimedes was found at the taking of Syracuse. I suppose you
have sailed among the Cyclad s, and passed the famous straits
which take their name from the unfortunate Helle, whose fate 13
sweetly described by Apollonius lthodius; you have passed the
very spot, I conceive, where DaHalus fell into that sea, his waxen
wings being melted by the sun; you have traversed the Euxine
Sea, I make no doubt; nay, you may have beeD on the banks of
128 JOSEPH" ANDREWS.
the Caspian, and called at Colchis, to see if there is ever another
golden fleece."
" Not I, truly, master," answered the host; " I never touched
at any of these places."—" But I have been at all these," replied
Adams. " Then, I suppose," cries the host, " you have been at
the East Indies ; for there are no such, I will be sworn, either in
the West or the Levant."—"Pray, where is the Levant ?" quoth
Adams : "that should be in the East Indies by right."—" 0 ho! you
are a pretty traveller," cries the host, "and not know the Levant!
My service to you, master; you must not talk of these things
with me; you must not tip us the traveller,—it won't go here."
" Since thou art so dull to misunderstand me still," quoth
Adams, " I will inform thee, the travelling I mean is in books, the
only way of travelling by which any knowledge is to be acquired.
Erom them I learn what I asserted just now, that nature gene-
rally imprints such a portraiture of the mind in the countenance,
that a skilful physiognomist will rarely be deceived. I presume
you have never read the story of Socrates to this purpose, and
therefore I will tell you: A certain physiognomist asserted of
Socrates, that he plainly discovered by his features that he was
a rogue in his nature. A character so contrary to the tenour of all
this great man's actions, and the generally received opinion con-
cerning him, incensed the boys of Athens, so that they threw stones
at the physiognomist, and would have demolished him for his igno-
ranee, nad not Socrates himself prevented them by confessing the
truth of his observations, and acknowledging that, though he
corrected his disposition by philosophy, he was, indeed, naturally
as inclined to vice as had been predicted of him. Now, pray,
resolve me,—How should a man know this story if he had not
read it?"
"Well, master," said the host, "and what signifies it whether
a man knows it or no ? He who goes abroad as I have done,
will always have opportunities enough of knowing the world,
without troubling his head with Socrates, or any such fellows."—
"Eriend," cries Adams, "if a man should sail round the world,
and anchor in every harbour of it, without learning, he would
return home as ignorant as he went out."
"Lord help you!" answered the host: "there was my boat-
swain, poor fellow ! he could scarce either write or read, and yet
he would navigate a ship with any master of a man-of-war; and a
very pretty knowledge of trade he had too."—" Trade," answered
Adams, " as Aristotle proves in his first chapter of Politics, is
below a philosopher, and unnatural, as it is managed now."
_ The host looked steadfastly at Adams, _ and, after a minute's
Bilence, asked him, if he was one of the writers of the Gazetteers:
"fori have heard," says he, "they are written by parsons."—
" Gazetteers!" answered Adams: " what is that ?"—" It is a dirty
THE TRAVELLERS RESUMETHEIR JOURNEY. 129
newspaper,"_ replied the host, "which has been given away all
over the nation for these many years, to abuse trade and honest
men; which I would not suffer to lie on my table, though it has
been offered me for nothing."
"Not I, truly," said Adams: "I never write anything bui
sermons; and I assure you I am no enemy to trade, whilst it is
consistent with honesty; nay, I have always looked on the trades-
man as a valuable member of society, and, perhaps, inferior to
none but the man of learning."
"No, I believe he is not, nor to him neither," answered the
host: "of what use would learning be in a country without trade?
What would all you parsons do to clothe your backs and feed your
bellies ? Who fetches you your silks, and your linens, and your
wines, and all the other necessaries of life ? I speak chiefly with
regard to the sailors."
"You should say the extravagancies of life," replied the par-
son: "but admit they were the necessaries, there is something
more necessary than life itself, which is provided by learning; I
mean, the learning of the clergy. Who clothes you with piety,
meekness, humility, charity, patience, and all the other Christian
virtues ? Who feeds your souls with the milk of brotherly love,
and diets them with aH the dainty food of holiness, which at once
cleanses them of all impure carnal affections, and fattens them
with the truly rich spirit of grace ? Who does this ?"
"Ay, who indeed?" cries the host; "for I do not remember
ever to have seen any such clothing, or such feeding. And so,
in the mean time, master, my service to you."
Adams was jgoing to answer with some severity, when Joseph
and Fanny returned, and pressed his departure so eagerly, that he
would not refuse them; and so, grasping his crabstick, he took
leave of his host (neither of them being so well pleased with each
other as they had been at their first sitting down together), and
with Joseph and Eanny, who both expressed much impatience-
departed, and now all together resumed their journey.
K
JOSEPH ANDEEWS.
BOOK III.
Chap. i.—Matter Prefatory in praise of Biography.
Notwithstanding the preference which may be vulgarly given to
the authority of those romance writers, who entitle their books,
The History of England, The History of Erance, of Spain, &c.
it is most certain, that truth is to be found only in the works of
those who celebrate the lives of great men, and are commonly
called biographers: as the others should indeed be termed topo-
graphers, or chorographers words which might well mark the dis-
tinction between them; it being the business of the latter chiefly
to describe the countries and cities, which, with the assistance of
maps, they do pretty justly, and may be depended upon; but as
to the actions and characters of men, their writings are not quite
so authentic; of which there needs no other proof than those
eternal contradictions occurring between two topographers who
undertake the history of the same country; for instance, between
my Lord Clarendon and Mr. Whitlocke, between Mr. Echard and
Ttapin, and many others; where facts being set forth in a different
light, every reader believes as he pleases; and, indeed, the more
judicious and suspicious very justly esteem the whole as no other
than a romance, in which the writer has indulged a happy and
fertile invention.
But though these widely differ in the narrative of facts; some
ascribing victory to the one, and others to the other party,; some
representing the same man as a rogue, while others give him a
great and honest character; yet all agree in the scene where the
fact is supposed to have happened; and where the person, who
is both a rogue and an honest man, lived. Now with us biogra-
pliers the case is different; the facts we deliver may be relied on,
though we often mistake the age and country wherein they hap-
pened; for though it may be worth the examination of critics,
whether the shepherd Chrysostom, who, as Cervantes informs us,
died for love of the fair Marcella, who hated him, was ever in
Spain, will any one_ doubt but that such a silly fellow has really
existed ? Is there in the world such a sceptic as to disbelieve the
madness of Cardenio, the perfidy of Eerdinand, the impertinent
curiosity of Anselmo, the weakness of Camilla, the irresolute
friendship of Lothario ? though perhaps, as to the time and place
where those several persons lived, that good historian may be
PREFATORY OBSERVATIONS. 131
deplorably deficient. But the most known instance of this kind is
in the true history of Gil Bias, where the inimitable biographer
has made a notorious blunder in the country of Dr. Sangrado, who
used his patients as a vintner does his wine-vessels, by letting out
their blood, and filling them up with water. Does not every one,
who is the least versed in physical history, know that Spain was
not the country in which this doctor lived ?
_ The same writer has likewise erred in the country of his arch-
bishop, as well as that of those great personages, whose under-
standings were too sublime to taste anything but tragedy, and in
many others. The same mistakes may likewise be observed in
Scarron, the Arabian Nights, the History of Marianne, and Le
Paysan Parvenu, anri^perhaps some few other writers of this class,
whom I have not read, or do not at present recollect: for I would
by no means be thought to comprehend those persons of surpris-
ing genius, the authors of immense romances, or the modern novel
and Atalantis writers; who, without any assistance from nature
or history, record persons who never were or will be, and facts
which never did, nor possibly can, happen; whose heroes are of
their own creation, and their brains the chaos whence all the
materials are selected.
Not that such writers deserve no honour; so far otherwise,
that perhaps they merit the highest: for what can be nobler than
to be as an example of the wonderful extent of human genius P
One may apply to them what Balzac says of Aristotle, that they
are a second nature, for they have no communication with the
first; by which authors of an inferior class, who cannot stand
alone, are obliged to support themselves, as with crutches; but
these of whom I am now speaking seem to be possessed of those
stilts, which the excellent Voltaire tells us, in his Letters, "carry
the genius far off, but with an irregular pace;" indeed, far out of
the sight of the reader,
Beyond the realms of Chaos and old Night.
But, to return to the former class, who are contented to copy
nature, instead of forming originals from the confused heap of
matter in their own brains; is not such a book as that which
records the achievements 01 the renowned Don Quixote, more
worthy the name of a history than even Mariana's ? for whereas
the latter is confined to a particular period of time, and to a par-
ticular nation; the former is the history of the world in general,
at least, that part which is polished by laws, arts, and sciences,
and of that, from the time it was first polished to this day; nay,
and forwards, as long as it shall so remain.
I shall now proceed to apply these observations to the work
before us; for, indeed, I have set them down principally to obviate
some constructions, which the good-nature of mankind, who are
k 2
132 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
always forward to see their friends' virtues recorded, may put to
particular parts. I question not but several of my readers will
know the lawyer in the stage-coach the moment they hear his
voice : it is likewise odds but the wit and the prude meet with
some of their acquaintance, as well as the rest of my characters.
To prevent therefore any such malicious applications, I declare
here once for all, I describe not men, but manners; not an indi-
vidual, but a species.
Perhaps it will be asked, "Are not the characters then taken
from life ?" to which I answer in the affirmative; nay, I believe I
might aver, that I have written little more than I have seen. The
lawyer is not only alive, but has been so these four thousand
vears; and I hope God will indulge his life as many yet to come.
He has not indeed confined himself to one profession, one religion,
or one country; but when the first mean selfish creature appeared
on the humanstage, who made self the centre of the whole crea-
tion, would give himself no pain, incur no danger, advance no-
money, to assist or preserve liis fellow-creatures, then was our
lawyer bom; and whilst such a person as I have described exists-
on earth, so long shall he remain upon it. It is therefore doing-
him little honour, to imagine he endeavours to mimic some little
obscure fellow, because ne happens to resemble him in one par-
ticular feature, or perhaps in his profession; whereas his appear-
ance in the world is calculated for much more general and noble
purposes; not- to expose one pitiful wretch to the small and con-
temptible circle of his acquaintance; but to hold the glass to
thousands in their closets, that they may contemplate their defor-
mity, and endeavour to reduce it; and thus, bv suffering private
mortification, may avoid public shame. This places the boundary
between, and distinguishes the satirist from the libeller; for the
former privately corrects the fault for the benefit of the person,
like a parent; the latter publicly exposes the person himself as an
example to others, like an executioner.
There are besides little circumstances to be considered; as the
drapery of a picture, which though fashion varies at different times,
the resemblance of the countenance is not by those means dimin-
ished. Thus I believe we may venture to say Mrs. Tow-wouse is
coeval with our lawyer; and though perhaps, during the changes
which so long an existence must have passed through, she may in
her turn have stood behind the bar at an inn; I will not scruple
to affirm, she has likewise in the revolution of ages sat on a throne.
In short, where extreme turbulency of temper, avarice, and an
insensibility of human misery, with a degree of hypocrisy, have
united in a female composition, Mrs. Tow-wouse was that woman:
and where a good inclination, eclipsed by a poverty of spirit ana
understanding, has glimmered forth in a man, that man Has been
no other than her sneaking husband.
PICTURES PROM LIFE. *S3
I shall detain my reader no longer than to give him o:ifci cantion
more of an opposite kind: for as in most of our particular chtirac-
ters we mean not to lash individuals, but all of the like sort; so in
our general descriptions, we mean not universals, but would be
understood with many exceptions: for instance, in our description
of high people, we cannot be intended to include such as, whilst
they are an honour to their high rank, by a well-guided condescen-
sion make their superiority as easy as possible to those whom
fortune has chiefly placed below them. Of this number I could
name a peer no less elevated by nature than by fortune; who,
whilst he wears the noblest ensigns of honour on his person, bears
the truest stamp of dignity on his mind, adorned with greatness,
enriched with knowledge, and embellished with genius. I have
seen this man relieve with generosity while he has conversed with
freedom, and be to the same person a patron and a companion.
I could name a commoner, raised higher above the multitude by
superior talents than is in the power of his prince to exalt him;
whose behaviour to those he has obliged is more amiable than the
obligation itself • and who is so great a master of affability, that, if
he could divest himself of an inherent greatness in his manner, he
would often make the lowest of his acquaintance forget who was
the master of that palace in which they are so courteously enter-
tained.
These are pictures which must be, I believe, known: I declare
they are taken from the fife, and not intended to exceed it. By
those high people therefore whom I have described, I mean a set
of wretches, who, while they are a disgrace to their ancestors, <
whose honours and fortunes they inherit (or perhaps a greater to
their mother, for such degeneracy is scarce credible), have the
insolence to treat those with disregard, who are at least equal to
the founders of their own splendour. It is, I fancy, impossible to
conceive a spectacle more worthy of our indignation, than that of
a fellow, who is not only a blot in the escutcheon of a great family,
but a scandal to the human species, maintaining a supercilious
behaviour to men, who are an honour to their nature, and a disgrace
to their fortune.
And now, reader, taking these hints along with you, you may, if
you please, proceed to the sequel of this our true history.
134
JOSEPH ANDBEWS.
Chap. II.—A Night-Scene, wherein several wonderful Adventures befell
Adams and his Fellow-Travellers.
It was so late when our travellers left the inn or ale-house (for it
might be called either), that they had not travelled many miles
before night overtook them, or met them, which you please. The
reader, must excuse me, if I am not particular as to the way they
took; for as we are now drawing near the seat of the Boobies, ana
as that is a ticklish name, which malicious persons may apply,
according to their evil inclinations, to several worthy country
squires, a race of men whom we look upon as entirely inoffensive,
and for whom we have an adequate regard;—we shall lend no
assistance to any such malicious purposes.
Darkness had now overspread the hemisphere, when Danny
whispered Joseph, that she begged to rest herself a little; for that
she was so tired that she could walk no farther. Joseph immedi-
ately prevailed with Parson Adams, who was as brisk as a bee, to
stop. He had no sooner seated himself, than he lamented the loss
of his dear iEschylus; but was a little comforted, when reminded,
that, if he had it in his possession, he could not see to read.
The sky was so clouded, that not a star appeared: it was indeed,
according to Milton, " darkness visible." This was a circumstance,
however, very favourable to Joseph; for Danny not suspicious 01
being overseen by Adams, gave a loose to her passion, which she had
never done before; and, reclining her head on his bosom, threw
her arm carelessly round him, and suffered him to lay his cheek
close to hers. All this infused such happiness into Joseph, that
he would not have changed his turf for the finest down in the finest
palace in the universe.
Adams sat at some distance from the lovers, and being unwilling
to disturb them, applied himself to meditation; in which he had
not spent much time, before he discovered a light at a distance,
that seemed approaching towards him. He immediately hailed it;
but, to his sorrow and surprise, it stopped for a moment, and then
disappeared. He then called to Joseph, asking him, if he had not
seen the light. _ Joseph answered, he had. "And did you not
mark how it vanished ?" returned he: " though I am not afraid of
ghosts, I do not absolutely disbelieve them."
He then entered into a meditation on those unsubstantial beings;
which was soon interrupted by several voices, which he thought
almost at his elbow, though in fact they were not so extremely
near: however, he could di&Bneikj- hear them agree on the murder
PRECIPITATE FLIGHT. 135
of any one they met; and a little afterwards heard one of them
say, he had killed a dozen since that day fortnight.
Adams now fell on his knees, and committed himself to the care
of Providence; and poor Eanny, who likewise heard those terrible
words, embraced Joseph so closely, that had not he, whose ears
were also open, been apprehensive on her account, he would have
thought no danger which threatened only himself too dear a price
for such embraces.
Joseph now drew forth his penknife, and Adams, having finished
his ejaculations, grasped his crabstick, his only weapon, and coming
up to Joseph, wpuld have had him quit Fanny, and place her in
tile rear: but his advice was fruitless; she clung closer to iiim,
not at all regarding the presence of Adams, and in a spothing voice
declared, she would die in his arms. Joseph, clasping her with
inexpressible eagerness, whispered her, that he preferred death is
hers to life out £ them. Aaams, brandishing his crabstick, said^
he despised death as much as any man, and then repeated aloud,
Est hie, est animus lucis contemptor, et ilium,
Qui vita bene credat emi, quo tendis, honorem.
TJpon this the voices ceased for a moment, and then one of them
called out, "D you, who is there?" To which Adams was
prudent enough to make no reply; and of a sudden he observed
naif a dozen lights, which seemed to rise all at once from the
ground and advance briskly towards him. This he immediately
concluded to be an apparition; and now beginning to conceive
that the voices were of the same kind, he called out, " In the name
of the L—d, what wouldst thou have ?"
He had no sooner spoken, than he heard one of the voices
cry out, " D them, here they comeand soon after heard
several hearty blows, as if a number of men had been engaged at
quarter-staff. He was just advancing towards the place of
combat, when Joseph, catching him by the skirts, begged him
that they might take the opportunity of the dark to convey awav
Fanny from the danger which threatened her. He presently
complied; and Joseph lifting up Fanny, they all three made the
best of their way; and, without looking behind them, or being
overtaken, they had travelled full two miles, poor Fanny not once
complaining of being tired, when they saw far off several lights
scattered at a small distance from each other, and at the same
time found themselves on the decent of a very steep hill.
Adams's foot slipping, he instantly disappeared, which greatly
frightened both Joseph and Fanny: indeed, if the light had per-
mitted them to see it, they would, scarce have refrained laughing
to see the parson rolling down the hill; which he did from top to
bottom, without receiving any harm. He then hallooed as loud
as be could, to inform them of his safety, and relieve them from
136 JOSEPH AHDHEWS.
the fears which they had conceived for him. Joseph and Eanny
halted some time, considering what to do; at last they advanced
a few paces; where the declivity seemed least steep; and then
Joseph, taking his Eanny in his arms, waUced firmly down the
hill, without making a false step; and at length landed ber at the
bottom, where Adams soon came to them.
Learn hence, my fair countrywomen, to consider your own
weakness, and the many occasions on which the strength of a
man may be useful to you: and duly weighing this, take care that
you match not yourselves with the spindle-shanked beaux and
peiit-maUres of the age, who, instead of being able, like Joseph
Andrews, to carry you in lusty arms through the rugged ways
and downhill steeps of life, will rather want to support their
feeble limbs with your strength and assistance.
Our travellers now moved forwards where the nearest light
presented itself; and having crossed a common field, they came to
a meadow, where they seemed to be at a very little distance from
the light, when, to their grief, they arrived at the banks of a river.
Adams here made a full stop, and declared he could swim, but
doubted how it was possible to get Eanny over: to which Joseph
answered, if they walked along its banks, they might be certain of
soon finding a bridge, especially as by the number of lights they
might be assured a parish was near. " Odso, that's true, indeed,"
said Adams; " I did not think of that."
Accordingly, Joseph's advice being taken, they passed over two
meadows, and came to a little orchard, which led them to a house.
Eanny begged of Joseph to knock at the door, assuring him she
was so weary that she could hardly stand on her feet. Adams, who
was foremost, performed this ceremony; and the door being
immediately opened, a plain kind of man appeared at it. Adams
acquainted him that they had a young woman with them, who was
so tired with her journey, that he should he much obliged to him
if he would suffer her to come in and rest herself.
The man, who saw Eanny by the light of the candle which he
held in his hand, perceiving her innocent and modest look, and
having no apprehensions, from the civil behaviour of Adams,
presently answered, that the young woman was very welcome to
rest herself in his house, and so were her company. He then
ushered them into a very decent room, where his wife was sitting
at a table : she immediately rose up, and assisted them in setting
forth chairs, and desired them to sit down; which they had no
sooner done, than the man of the house asked them if they would
have anything to refresh themselves with. Adams thanked him,
and answered, he should be obliged to him for a cup of his ale,
which was likewise chosen by Joseph and Eanny.
Whilst he was gone to fill a very large jug with tips liquor, his
wife told Eanny she seemed greatly fatigued, and desired her to
the.host's suspicion. 137
take something stronger than ale; but she refused with many
thanks, saying, it was true she was very much tired, but a little
rest she hoped would restore her. As soon as the company were
all seated, Mr. Adams, who had filled himself with ale, and by
public permission had lighted his pipe, turned to the master of
the house, asking him, if evil spirits did not use to walk in that
neighbourhood; to which receiving no answer, he began to inform
him of the adventure which they had met with on the Downs : nor
had he proceeded far in his story, when somebody knocked very
hard at the door. The company expressed some amazement, and
fanny and the good woman turned pale : her husband went forth •
and whilst he was absent, which was some time, they all remained
silent, looking at one another, and heard several voices discoursing
pretty loudly.
Adams was fully persuaded that spirits were abroad, and began
to meditate some exorcisms ; Joseph a little inclined to the same
opinion • Fanny was more afraid of men; and the good woman
herself began to suspect her guests, and imagined those without
were rogues belonging to their gang. At length the master of the
house^returned, and, laughing, told Adams he had discovered his
apparition; that the murderers were sheepstealers, and the
twelve persons murdered were no other than twelve sheep ; that
the shepherds had got the better of them, had secured two, and
were proceeding with them to a justice of peace. This account
greatly relieved the fears cf the whole company; but Adams
murmured to himself, he was convinced of the truth of appa-
ritions for all that.
They now sat cheerfully round the fire, till the master of the
house, having surveyed his guests, and conceiving that the
cassock, which, having fallen down, appeared under Adams's
great-coat, and the shabby livery on Joseph Andrews, did not well
suit with the familiarity between them, began to entertain some
suspicions, not much to their advantage: addressing himself,
therefore, to Adams, he said, he perceived he was a clergyman by
his dress, and supposed that honest man was his footman. " Sir,"
answered Adams, "lama clergyman, at your service; but as to
that young man, whom you have rightly termed honest, he is at
present in nobody's service: he never lived in any other family
than that of Lady Booby, from whence he was discharged, I
assure you, for no crime."
Joseph said, he did not wonder the gentleman was surprised to
see one of Mr. Adams's character condescend to so much goodness
with a poor man. " Child," says Adams, " I should be ashamed
of my cloth, if I thought a poor man, who is honest, below my
notice or my, familiarity. I know not how those who think other-
wise can profess themselves followers and servants of Him, who
made no distinction, unless, peradventure, by preferring the poor
138 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
to the rich. Sir," said he, addressing himself to the gentleman,
" these two poor young people are my parishioners, and I look on
them and love them as my children. There is something singular
enough in their history, but I have not now time to recount it."
_ The master of the house, notwithstanding the simplicity -which
discovered itself in Adams, knew too much of the world to give a
hasty belief to professions: he was not yet quite certain that
Adams had any more of the clergyman in him than his cassock.
To try him therefore farther, he asked him, if Mr. Pope had lately
published anything new.
Adams answered, he had heard great commendations of that
poet, but that he had never read, nor knew, any of his works.
Ho, ho! " says the gentleman to himself, "have I caught you?
What," says he, "have you never seen his Homer?" Adams
answered, he had never read any translation of the classics." Why,
truly," replied the gentleman, " there is a dignity in the Greek
language, which I think no modern tongue can reach."—"Do
you understand Greek, sir?" said Adams, hastily. "A little,
sir," answered the gentleman. "Do you know, sir," cried
Adams, " where I can buy an JEschylus ? an unlucky misfortune
lately happened to mine."
iEschylus was beyond the gentleman, though he knew him very
well by name; he, therefore, returning back to Homer, asked
Adams, what part of the Iliad he thought most excellent.
Adams returned, his question would be properer, What kind of
beauty was the chief in poetry? for that Homer was equally
excellent in them all. "And, indeed," continued he, "what
Cicero says of a complete orator, may well be applied to a great
poet: he ought to comprehend all perfections. Homer did this in
the most excellent degree; it is not without reason, therefore,
that the philosopher, in the twenty-second chapter of his Poetics,
mentions him by no other appellation than that of the Poet. He
was the father of the drama, as well as the epic; not of tragedy
only, but of comedy also; for his Margites, which is deplorably
lost, bore, says Aristotle, the same analogy to comedy, as his
Odyssey and Iliad to tragedy. To him, therefore, we owe Aristo-
phanes, as well as Euripides, Sophocles, and my poor jEschylus.
Put if you please, we will confine ourselves, at least for the
present, to the Iliad, his noblest work; though neither Aristotle
nor Horace give it the preference, as I remember, to the Odyssey.
Eirst then, as to his subject, can anything be more simple, and at
the same time more noble ? He is rightly praised by the first of
those judicious critics, for not choosing the whole war, which,
though he says it has a complete beginning and end, would have
been too great for the understanding to comprehend at one view.
I have therefore often wondered why so correct a writer as Ho-
race should, in his epistle to Lollius, call him the Trojani belli
A. LEAHNED DISCOUJISE. 139
scriptorem. Secondly, his action, termed by Aristotle, Pragmaton
Systasis: is it possible for the mind of man to conceive an idea of
such perfect unity, and at the same time so replete with great-
ness ? And here I must observe, what I do not remember to
have seen noticed by any, the Harmotton, that agreement of bis
action to his subject; for as the subject is anger, bow agreeable is
bis action, which is war! from which every incident arises, and
to which every episode immediately relates. Thirdly, his manners,
which Aristotle places second in his description of the several
parts of tragedy, and which he says are included in the action.
l am at a loss whether I should rather admire the exactness of
his judgment in thd nice distinction, or the immensity of his
imagination in their variety. For, as to the former of these, how
accurately is the sedate, injured resentment of Achilles, dis-
tinguished from the hot, insulting passion of Agamemnon! how
widely does the brutal courage of Ajax differ from the amiable
bravery of Diomedes! and the wisdom of Nestor, which is the
result of long reflection and experience, from the cunning of
Ulysses, the effect of art and subtlety only! If we consider
their variety, we may cry out with Aristotle, in his twenty-fourth
chapter, that no part of this divine poem is destitute of manners.
Indeed, I might affirm, that there is scarce a character in human
nature untouched in some part or other; and as there is no
passion which he is not able to describe, so is there none in his
reader which he cannot raise. If he has any superior excellence
to the rest, I have been inclined to fancy it is in the pathetic.
I am sure I never read with dry eyes tne two episodes where
Andromache is introduced; in the former lamenting the danger,
and in the latter the death of Hector: the images are so extremely
tender in these, that I am convinced the poet had the worthiest
and best heart imaginable. Nor can I help observing how So-
phocles falls short of the beauties of the original, in that imitation
of the dissuasive speech of Andromache, which he has put into
the mouth of Tecmessa; and yet Sophocles was the greatest
genius who ever wrote tragedy; nor have any of his successors in
that art (that is to say, neither Euripides nor _ Seneca the trage-
dian) been able to come near him. As to his sentiments and
diction, I need say nothing; the former are particularly remark-
able for the utmost perfection on that head, namely, propriety;
and as to the latter, Aristotle, whom doubtless you have read over
and over, is very diffuse. I shall mention but one thing more,
which that great critic, in his division of tragedy, calls Opsis, or
the scenery; and which is as proper to the epic as to the drama,
with this difference; that in the former it falls to the share of the
poet, and in the latter to that of the painter. But did ever
painter imagine a scene like that in the thirteeenth and fourteenth
Tliads ? where the reader sees at one view the prospect of Troy,
140 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
with the army drawn np before it; the Grecian army, camp, and
fleet ■ Jupiter sitting on mount Ida, with his head wrapped in a
cloud, and a thunderbolt in his hand, looking towards Thrace;
Neptune driving through the sea, which divides on each side to
permit his passage, and. then seating himself on mount Samos;
the heavens opened, and the deities all seated on their thrones
This is sublime! This is poetry! "
Adams then rapped cut a hundred Greek verses, and with such
a voice, emphasis, and action, that he almost frightened the
women; and as for the gentleman, he was so far from entertaining
any further suspicion of Adams, that he now doubted whethei
he had not a bishop in his house. He ran into the.most extra^
vagant encomiums on his learning; and the goodness of his lieart
began to dilate to all the strangers. He said he had great com-
passion for the poor young woman, who looked pale and faint with
the journey: and in truth he conceived a much higher opinion of
her quality than it deserved. He said he was sorry he could
not accommodate them all: but if they were contented with his
fireside, he would sit up with the men, and the young woman
might, if she pleased, partake his wife's bed, which he advised
her to do; for that they must walk upwards of a mile to any
house of entertainment, and that not very good neither.
Adams, who liked his seat, his ale, his tobacco, and his company,
Eersuaded Fanny to accept this kind proposal, in which solicitation
e_ was seconded by Joseph. Nor was she very difficultly pre-
vailed on; for she had slept but little the last night, and not at all
the preceding: so that love itself was scarce able to keep her
eyes open any longer. The offer therefore being kindly accepted,
the good woman produced everything eatable in her house on the
table; and the guests being heartily invited, as heartily regaled
themselves, especially Parson Adams. As to the other two, they
were examples of the truth of that physical observation, that love,
like other sweet things, is no whetter of the stomach.
Supper was no sooner ended, than Fanny, at her own request,
retired, and the good woman bore her company. The man of the
house, Adams and Joseph, who would modestly have withdrawn,
had not the gentleman insisted on the contrary, drew round the
fireside, where Adams, to use his own words, replenished his pipe,
and the gentleman produced a bottle of excellent beer, being the
best liquor in his house.
The modest behaviour of Joseph, with the gracefulness of his
person, the character which Adams gave of him, and the friend-
ship he seemed to entertain for him, began to work on the gentle-
man's affections, and raised in him a curiosity to know the singu-
larity which Adams hadmentioned in his history. This curiosity
Adams was no sooner informed of, than, with Joseph's consent,
he agreed to gratify it; and accordingly related all he knew, with
THE gentleman's history. 143
as much tenderness as was possible for the character of Lady
Booby; and concluded with the long, faithful, and mutual passion
between him and Panny, not concealing the meanness of her
birth and education. These latter circumstances entirely cured a
jealousy which had lately risen in the gentleman's mind: that
Panny was the daughter of some person of fashion, and that
Joseph had run away with her,, and Adams was concerned in the
plot. He was now enamoured of his guests, drank their healths
with great cheerfulness, and returned many thanks to Adams, who
had spent much breath, for he was a circumstantial teller of a
story.
Adams told him it was now in his power to return that favour;
for his extraordinary goodness, as well as that fund of literature
he was master of,* which he aid not expect to find under such a
roof, had raised in him more curiosity than he had ever known.
" Therefore," says he, " if it be not too troublesome, sir, your his-
tory, if you please."
The gentleman answered, he could not refuse him what he had
so much right to insist on; and after some of the common apologies,
which are the usual preface to a story, he thus began.
Chap, III.—In which the Gentleman relates the History of his Life.
" Sir, I am descended of a good family, and was born a gentle-
man. My education was liberal, and at a public school, in which
I proceeded so far as to become master of the Latin, and to be
tolerably versed in the Greek language. My father died when
I was sixteen, and left me master of myself. He bequeathed me a
moderate fortune, which he intended I should not receive till
I attained the age of twenty-five ; for he constantly asserted that
was full early enough to give up any man entirely to the guidance
of his own discretion. However, as this intention was so obscurely
* The author has by some been represented to have made a blunder here,
Jbr Adams had, indeed, shown some learning1, say they, perhaps all the author
had; but the gentleman has shown none, unless his approbation of Mr. Adams
be such: but surely it would be preposterous in him to call it so. I have,
however, notwithstanding this criticism, which I am told came from the
mouth of a great orator, in a public coffee-house, left this blunder as it stood
in the first edition. I wiU not have the vanity to apply to anything in this
work the observation which M. Dacier makes in her preface to her Aristophanes:
"Je tiens pour une maxime constante qu'une beaute mediocre plait plus
generalement qu'une beaute sans defaut." Mr. Congreve has made such
another blunder in his " Love for Love," where Tattle tells Miss Prue, she
should admire him as much for the beauty he ewromend* in her if h* him
self was possessed of it.
142 JOSEPH AWDEEWS.
worded in Ms will, that the lawyers advised me to contest the
point with my trustees, I own I paid so littleregard to the incli-
nations of my dead father, which were sufficiently certain to me,
that I followed their advice, and soon succeeded, for the trustees
did not contest the matter very obstinately on their side."
" Sir," said Adams, " may I crave the favour of your name ? "
The gentleman answered, Ms name was Wilson, and then
proceeded.
" I stayed a very little while at school after Ms death; for, being
a forward youth, I was extremely impatient to be in the world,
for which I thought my parts, knowledge, and manhood thorougMy
qualified me. And to this early introduction into life without
a guide I impute all my future misfortunes; for besides the obvious
miscMefs which attend this, there is one which has not been so
generally observed: the first impression which mankind receives of
you will be very difficult to eradicate. How unhappy, therefore,
must it be to fix your character in life, before you can possibly
know its value, or weigh the consequences of those actions wMch
are to establish your future reputation!
"A little under seventeen I left my school, and went to London,
with no more than six pounds in my pocket: a great sum, as I then
conceived; and wMch I was afterwards surprised to find so soon
consumed.
" The character I was ambitious of attaining was that of a fine
fentleman; the first requisites to which, I apprehended, were to
e supplied by a tailor, a periwig-maker, and some few more
tradesmen, who deal in furnishing out the human body. Not-
withstanding the lowness of my purse, I found credit with them
more easily than I expected, and was soon equipped to my wish.
This I own then agreeably surprised me; but I have since learned,
that it is a maxim among many tradesmen at the polite end of the
town, to deal as largely as they can, reckon as high as they can,
and arrest as soon as they can.
" The next qualifications, namely, dancing, fencing, riding the
great horse, and music, came into my head: but as they required
expense and time, I comforted myself, with regard to dancing, that
1 had learned a little in my youth, and could walk a minuet
genteelly enough: as to fencing, I thought my good-humour would
preserve me from the danger of a quarrel; as to the horse, I hoped
it would not be thought of; and for music, I imagined I could
easily acquire the reputation of it, for I had heard some of my
schoolfellows pretend to knowledge in operas, without being able
to sing or play on the fiddle.
" Knowledge of the town seemed another ingredient: tMs I
thought I should arrive at by frequenting public places. Accord-
ingly I paid constant attendance to them all; by which means
T was soon master of the fasMonable phraises, lenraed to cry up the
the gentleman's histoey. 143
fashionable diversions, and knew the names and faces of the most
fashionable men and women.
"Nothing now seemed to remain but an intrigue, which I was
resolved to have immediately; I mean the reputation of it: and
indeed I was so successful, that in a very short time I had half a
dozen with the finest women in town."
_ At these words Adams fetched a deep groan; and then, blessing
himself, cried out, "Good Lord! what wicked times these
are!"
" Not so wicked as you imagine," continued the gentleman; " for
I assure you, they were all vestal virgins for anything which I
knew to the contrary. The reputation of intriguing with them
was all I sought, and was what I arrived at: and perhaps I only
flattered myself even in that; for very probably the persons,
to whom I showed their billets, knew as well as I that they were
counterfeits, and that I had written them to myself."
"Write letters to yourself! " said Adams, staring.
" 0 sir," answered the gentleman, " it is the very error of the
times. Half our modern plays have one of these characters in
them. It is incredible the pains I have taken, and the absurd
methods I employed, to traduce the characters of women of
distinction. When another had spoken in raptures of any one, I
have answered, d— her, she ? We shall have her at H—'s very
soon. When he has replied, he thought her virtuous, I have
answered, Ay, thou wilt always think a woman virtuous till she is
in the streets : but you and I, Jack or Tom (turning to another in
company), know better. At which I have drawn a paper out of
my pocket, perhaps a tailor's bill, and kissed it, crying at the same
time, By G—, I was once fond of her."
"Proceed, if you please, but do not swear any more," said
Adams.
" Sir," said the gentleman, " I ask your pardon. Well, sir, in
this course of life I continued full three years."
" What course of life ?" answered Adams: "I do not remember
you have mentioned any."
"Your remark is just," said the gentleman, smiling: "I should
rather have said, in this course of doing nothing. I remember
some time afterwards I wrote the journal of one day, which would
serve, I believe, as well for any other during the whole time. I
will endeavour to repeat it to you.
" In the morning I arose, took my great stick, and walked out
in my green frock, with my hair in papers [a groan from Adams],
and sauntered about till ten. Went to the auction; told Lady
she had a dirty face; laughed heartily at something Captain ——
said, I can't remember what, for I did not very well hear it; whis-
!)ered Lord ; bowed to the duke of ; and was going to bid
or a snuff-box, but did not, for fear I should have had it.
144 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
"Prom 2 to 4, dressed myself. [A groan.]
4 to 6, dined. [A groan.]
6 to 8, coffee-house.
8 to 9, Drury-lane playhouse.
9 to 10, Lincoln's-inn-fields.
10 to 12, drawing-room. [A great groan.]
At all which places nothing happened worth remark."
At which Adams said, with some vehemence, " Sir, this is below
the life of an animal hardly above vegetation; and I am surprised
what could lead a man of your sense into it."
"What leads us into more follies than you imagine, doctor,"
answered the gentleman,—" vanity: for as contemptible a creature
as I was, and I assure you yourself cannot have more contempt,
for such a wretch than I now have, I then admired myself, and
should have despised a person of your present appearance (von
will pardon me) with all your learning, and those excellent
qualities which I have remarked in you."
_ Adams bowed, and begged him to proceed. "After I had con-
tinued two years in this course of life," said the gentleman, " an
accident happened, which obliged me to change the scene. As I
was one day in St. James's coffee-house, making very free with the
character of a young lady of quality, an officer of the guards, who
was present, thought proper to give me the lie. 1 answered I
might possibly be mistaken; but I intended to tell no more than
the truth: to which he made no reply, but by a scornful sneer.
After this, I observed a strange coldness in all my acquaintance:
none of them spoke to me first, and very few returned me even the
civility of a bow. The company I used to dine with, left me out;
and within a week I found myself in as much solitude at St.
James's, as if I had been in a desert. An honest, elderly man,
with a great hat and long sword, at last told me, he had a com-
passion for my youth, ana therefore advised me to show the world
I was not such a rascal as they thought me to be. I did not at
first understand him; but he explained himself, and ended with
telling me, if I would write a challenge to the captain, he would,
out of pure charity, go to him with it."
"A very charitable person, truly !" cried Adams.
"I desired till the next day," continued the gentleman, "to con-
sider on it: and, retiring to my lodgings, I weighed the conse-
quences on both sides as fairly as I could. On the one, I saw the
risk of this alternative, either losing my own life, or having on my
hands the blood of a man with whom I was not in the l&ast angry.
I soon determined that the good which appeared on the other was
not worth this hazard : I therefore resolved to quit the scene, and'
presently retired to the Temple, where I took chambers. Here I
Boon got a fresh set of acquaintance, who knew nothing of what
THE GENTLEMAN S HISTORY. 145
had happened to me: indeed, they were not greatly to my appro-
bation, for the beaux of the Temple are only the shadows of the
others : they are the affectation of affectation. The vanity of these
is still more ridiculous, if possible, than of the others. Here •
met with smart fellows, who drank with lords they did not know
and intrigued with women they nevex; saw. Covent Garden was
now the farthest stretch of my ambition; where I shone forth in
the balconies at the playhouses, visited w—s, made love to orange
wenches, and damned plays. This career was soon put a stop_ to
by my surgeon, who convinced me of the necessity of confining
myself to my room for a month; at the end of which, having had
leisure to reflect, I resolved to quit all farther conversation with
beaux and smarts of every kind, and to avoid, if possible, any
occasion of returning to this place of confinement."
"1 think," said Adams, "the advice of a month's retirement
and reflection was very proper: I should rather have expected it
from a divine than a surgeon."
The gentleman smiled at Adams's simplicity; and, without
explaining himself farther on such an odious subject, went on
thus : "I was no sooner perfectly restored to health, than I found
my passion for women, which I was afraid to satisfy as I had done,
'made me very uneasy; I determined, therefore, to keep a mistress.
Nor was I long before I fixed my choice on a young woman, who
had before been kept by two gentlemen, and to whom I was
recommended by a celebrated bawd. I took her home to my
chambers, and made her a settlement during cohabitation. _ This
would, perhaps, have been very ill paid: however, she did not
suffer me to be perplexed on that account; for, before quarter-day,
I found her at my chambers in too familiar conversation with a
young fellow, who was dressed like an officer, but was, indeed, a
city apprentice. Instead of excusing her inconstancy, she rapped
out half a dozen oaths; and, snapping her fingers at me, swore she
scorned to confine herself to the best man in England. Upon
this we parted, and the same bawd presently provided her another
keeper. I was not so much concerned at our separation, as I found
within a day or two I had reason to be for our meeting; for I was
obliged to pay a second visit to my surgeon. I was now forced to
do penance for some weeks, during which time, I contracted an
acquaintance with a beautiful young girl, the daughter of a gen-
tleman, who, after having been forty years in the army, and in all
the campaigns under the duke of Marlborough, died a lieutenant
on half-pay, and had left a widow with this only child, in very
distressed circumstances: they had only a small pension from the
government, with what little the daughter could add to it by her
work ; for she had great excellence at her needle. This girl was,
at my first acquaintance with her, solicited in marriage by a young
fellow in good circumstances : he was apprenticed to a linen-draper,
h
146 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
and had a little fortune, sufficient to set up his trade. The mother
was greatly pleased with this match, as, indeed, she had sufficient
reason: however, I soon prevented it. I represented him in so
low a light to his mistress, and made so good a use of flattery,
promises, and presents, that, not to dwell longer on this subject
than is necessary, I prevailed with the poor girl, and conveyed her
away from her mother: in a word—I debauched her."
At which words Adams started up, fetched three strides across
the room, and then replaced himself in the chair.
"You are not more affected with this part of my story than
myself: I assure you, it will never be sufficiently repented of in
my own opinion; but if you already detest it, how much more will
your indignation be raised when you hear the fatal consequences of
this barbarous, this villanous action! If you please, therefore, I
will here desist."
"By no means," cries Adams; "go on, I beseech you; and
Heaven grant you may sincerely repent of this, and many other
things you have related."
" I was now," continued the gentleman, " as happy as the pos;
session of a fine young creature, who had a good education, and
was endued with many agreeable qualities, could make me. We
lived some months, with vast fondness, together, without any
company or conversatipn, more than we found in one another:
but this could not continue always; and though I still preserved
great affection for her, I began more and more to want the relief
of other company, and consequently to leave her by degrees, at
last, whole days, to herself. She failed not to testify some un-
easiness on these occasions, and complained of the melancholy life
she led; to remedy which, I introduced her into the acquaintance
of some other kept mistresses, with whom she used to play at
cards, and frequent plays and other diversions. She had. not lived
long in this intimacy, before I perceived a visible alteration in her
behaviour; all her modesty and innocence vanished by degrees,
till her mind became thoroughly tainted. She affected the com-
pany of rakes, gave herself all manner of airs, was never easy
but abroad, or when she had a party at my chambers; she was
rapacious of money, extravagant to excess, loose in her conversa-
tion; and if ever I demurred to any of her demands, oaths, tears,
and fits, were the immediate consequences.
" As the first raptures of fondness were long since over, this
behaviour soon estranged my affections from her; I began to
reflect with pleasure that she was not my wife, and to conceive an
intention of parting with her; of which, having given her a hint,
she took care to prevent me the pains of turning her out of doors,
and accordingly departed herself, having first broken open my
escritoire, and taken with her all she could find, to the amount of
about £200. In the first heat of mv resentment-1 resolved to
THE GENTLEMAN'S HISTORY. 147
pursue her "with all the vengeance of the law; but as she had the
good luck to escape me during that ferment, my passion afterwards
cooled; and having reflected that I had been the first aggressor,
and had done her an injury for which I could make her no repar-
ation, by robbing her of the innocence of her mind; and hearing
at the same time that the poor old woman, her mother, had broken
her heart on her daughter's elopement from her, I, concluding
myself her murderer " ("As you very well might," cries
Adams, with a groan:) "——was pleased that God Almighty had
taken this method of punishing me, and resolved quietly to sub-
mit to the loss. Indeed, I could wish I had never heard more of the
poor creature, who became in the end an abandoned profligate;
and, after being some years a common prostitute, at last ended her
miserable life in Newgate."
Here the gentleman fetched a deep sigh, which Mr. Adams
echoed very loudly; and both continued silent, looking on each
other for some minutes. At last the gentleman proceeded thus:
"I had been perfectly constant to this girl during the whole time
I kept her; but she had scarce departed, before I discovered more
marks of her infidelity to me than the loss of my money. In short,
I was forced to make a third visit to my surgeon, out of whose
hands I did not get a hasty discharge.
"I now forswore all future dealings with the sex, complained
loudly that the pleasure did not compensate the pain, and railed
at the beautiful creatures in as gross language as Juvenal himself
formerly reviled them in. I looked on all the town harlots with a
detestation not easy to be conceived; their persons appeared to
me as painted palaces, inhabited by disease and death; nor could
their beauty make them more desirable objects in my eyes, than
gilding could make me covet a pill, or golden plates a coffin. But
though I was no longer the absolute slave, I found some reasons
to own myself still the subject of love. My hatred for women
decreased daily; and I am not positive but time might have
betrayed me again to some common harlot, had I not been secured
by a passion for the charming Sapphira, which having once entered
upon, made a violent progress in my heart. Sapphira was wife to
a man of fashion and gallantry, and one who seemed, I own, every
way worthy of her affections; which, however, he had not the
reputation of having. She was indeed a coquette achevee."
" Pray, sir," says Adams, " what is a coquette ? I have met
with the word in French authors, but never could assign any idea
to it. I believe it is the same with me sotte ; Anglice, a fool."
"Sir," answered the gentleman, "perhaps you are not much
mistaken; but as it is a particular kind of folly, I will endeavour
to describe it. Were all creatures to be ranked in the order of
creation according to their usefulness, I know few animals that
not take place ot a coquette; nor indeed has tins creature
148 JOSEPH ANDBEWS.
much pretence to anything beyond instinct; for though sometimes
we might imagine it was animated by the passion of vanity, yet
the greatbr part of its actions fall beneath even that low motive;
for instance, several absurd gestures and tricks, infinitely more
foolish than what can be observed in the most ridiculous birds and
beasts, and which would persuade the beholder that the silly
wretch was aiming at our contempt. Indeed, its characteristic is
affectation, and this led and governed by whim only; for as beauty,
wisdom, wit, _ good-nature, politeness, and health are sometimes
affected by this creature, so are ugliness, folly,_ nonsense, ill-nature,
ill-breeding, and sickness likewise put on by it in their turn. Its
life is one constant lie; and the only rule by which you can form
any judgment of them is, that they are never what they seem. If
it was possible for a coquette to love (as it is not: for if ever it
attains this passion, the coquette ceases instantly), it would wear
the face of indifference, if not of hatred, to the beloved object: you
may therefore be assured, when they endeavour to persuade you
of their liking, that they are indifferent to you at least. And,
indeed, this was the case of my Sapphira, who no sooner saw me
in the number of her admirers, than she gave me what is commonly
called encouragement: she would often look at me; and, when she
perceived me meet her eyes, would instantly take them off, discover-
mg at the same time as much surprise and_ emotion as possible.
" These arts failed not of the success she intended; and as I grew
more particular to her than the rest of her admirers, she advanced,
in proportion, more directly to me than to the others. She affected
the low voice, whisper, lisp, sigh, start, laugh, and many other
indications of passion, which daily deceive thousands. When I
played at whist with her, she would look earnestly at me, and at
the same time lose deal or revoke; then burst into a ridiculous
laugh, and cry, 'La! I can't imagine what I was thinking of.' To
detain you no longer, after I had gone through a sufficient course
of gallantry, as I thought, and was thoroughly convinced I had
raised a violent passion in my mistress, I sought an opportunity of
coming to an eclaircissement with her. She avoided this as much >
as possible; however, great assiduity at length presented me
one.
"I will not describe all the particulars of this interview; let it
suffice, that when she could no longer pretend not to see my drift,
she first affected a violent surprise, and immediately after as vio-
lent a passion: she wondered what I had seen in her conduct
which could induce me to affront her in this manner; and breaking
from me the first moment she could, told me I had no other way
to escape the consequence of her resentment, than by never seeing,
or at least speaking to her more. I was not contented with this
answer; I still pursued her, but to no purpose ; and was at length
convinced that her husband had the sole possession of her person,
THE GENTLEMAN'S HISTORY. 149
and that neither he nor any other had made any impression on her
heart.
" I was taken off from following this ignis-fatuus by some
advances which were made me by the wife of a citizen, who,
though neither very young nor handsome, was yet too agreeable to
be rejected by my amorous constitution. I accordingly soon satis<
fled her that she had not cast away her hints on a barren or cold
soil; on the contrary, they instantly produced her an eager and
desiring lover. Nor did she give me any reason to complain; she
met the warmth she had raised with equal ardour. I had no
longer r 'Coquette to deal with, but one who was wiser than to pros-
titute tl-j noble passion of love to the ridiculous lust of vanity
We presently understood one another; and as the pleasures we
sought lay in a mutual gratification, we soon found and enjoyed
them. I thought myself at first greatly happy in the possession of
this new mistress, whose fondness would have quickly surfeited a
more sickly appetite • but it had a different effect on mine; she
carried my passion higher by it than youth or beauty had been able.
But my happiness could not long continue uninterrupted. The
apprehensions we lay under from the jealousy of her husband gave
me great uneasiness."
" Poor wretch! I pity him," cried Adams.
_ "He did indeed deserve it," said the gentleman; "for he loved
his wife with great tenderness; and I assure you, it is a great
satisfaction to me, that I was not the man who first seduced her
affections from him. These apprehensions appeared also too well
grounded ; for in the end he discovered us, and procured witnesses
of our caresses. He then prosecuted me at law, and recovered
£3,000 damages, which much distressed my fortune to pay; and
what was worse, his wife being divorced, came upon my hands. I
led a very uneasy life with her; for, besides my passion was now
much abated, her excessive jealousy was very troublesome. At
length death rid me of an inconvenience, which the consideration
of my having been the author of her misfortunes would neve?
suffer me to take any other method of discarding.
" I now bade adieu to love, and resolved to pursue other less
dangerous and expensive pleasures. I fell into the acquaintance
if a set of jolly companions, who slept all day, and drank all night;
fellows who might rather be said to consume time _ than to live.
Their best conversation was nothing but noise : singing, hallooing,
wrangling, drinking, toasting, smoking, were the chief ingredients
of our entertainment. And yet, bad as they were, they were more
tolerable than our graver scenes, which were either excessive
tedious narratives of dull common matters of fact, or hot disputes
about trifling matters, which commonly ended in a wager. This
way of life the first serious reflection put a period to; and I
became a member of a club frequented by young men of great
150 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
abilities: tbe bottle was now only called in to the assistance of
our conversation, whicb rolled on the deepest points of philo-
sopby.
"These gentlemen were engaged in a search after truth, in the
pursuit of which they threw aside all the prejudices of education,
and governed themselves only by the infallible guide of human
reason. This great guide; after having shown them the falsehood
of that very ancient but simple tenet, that there is such a being as
a Deity in the universe, helped them to establish in his stead a
certain rule of right, by adhering to which they all arrived at the
utmost purity of morals. Reflection made me as much delighted
with this society, as it had taught me to despise and detest the
former.
"I began now to esteem myself a being of a higher order than I
had ever before conceived; and was the more charmed with this
rule of right, as I really found in my own nature nothing repug-
nant to it. 1 held in utter contempt all persons who wanted any
other inducement to virtue, besides her intrinsic beauty and
excellence: and had so high an opinion of my present companions,
with regard to their morality, that I would have trusted them
with whatever was nearest and dearest to me.
" Whilst I was engaged in this delightful dream, two or three
accidents happened successively, which at first much surprised
me - for one of our greatest philosophers, or rule-of-right men,
withdrew himself from us, taking with him the wife of one of his
most intimate friends: secondly, another of the same society left
the club without remembering to take leave of his bail: a third,
having borrowed a sum of money of me. for which I received no
security, when I asked him to repay it, absolutely denied the loan.
These several practices, so inconsistent with our golden rule, made
me begin to suspect its infallibility; but when I communicated my
thoughts to one of the club, he said there was nothing absolutely
food or evil in itself; that actions were denominated good or ba?
y the circumstances of the agent: that possibly the man who ran
away with his neighbour's wife might be one of very good inclina-
tions, but over-prevailed on by the violence of an unruly passion,
and, in other particulars, might be a very worthy member of
society; that if the beauty of any woman created in him an uneasi-
ness, he had aright, from nature, to relieve himself; with many
other things, which I then detested so much, that I took leave of
the society that very evening, and never returned to it again.
" Being now reduced to a state of solitude, which I did not like,
I became a great frequenter of the playhouses, which indeed was
always my favourite diversion; ana most evenings passed away
two or three hours behind the scenes, where I met with several
poets, with whom I made several engagements at the taverns.
Some of the players were likewise of our parties. At these meet-
THE GENTLEMAN'S HISTORY. J-5J-
togs we were generally entertained by the poets with reading theii
performances, and by the players with repeating their parts: upon
which occasions, I observed the gentleman who furnished our
entertainment was commonly the best pleased of the company:
who, though they were pretty civil to him to his face, seldom failed
to take the first opportunity of his absence to ridicule him. Now
I made some remarks, which probably are too obvious to be worth
relating."
" Sir," says Adams, " your remarks, if you please."
_ " First, then," says he, " I concluded that the general observa-
tion, that wits are most inclined to vanity, is not true. Men are
equally vain of riches, strength, beauty, honours, &c. But these
appear of themselves to the eyes of the beholders, whereas the
poor wit is obliged to produce his performance to show you his
perfection; and on his readiness to do this, that vulgar opinion I
nave before mentioned is grounded: but does not the person, who
expends vast sums in the furniture of his house or the ornaments
of his person, who consumes much time and employs great pains in
dressing himself, or who thinks himself paid for self-denial, labour,
or even villany, by a title or a riband, sacrifice as much to vanity,
as the poor wit, who is desirous to read you his poem or his play?
" My second remark was, that vanity is the worst of passions,
and more apt to contaminate the mind than any other: for as
selfishness is much more general than we please to allow it; so it
is natural to hate and envy those who stand between us and the
good we desire. Now, in lust and ambition these are few, and
even in avarice we find many who are no obstacles to our pursuits:
but the vain man seeks pre-eminence; and everything which is
excellent or praiseworthy in another renders him the mark of his
antipathy."
Adams now began to fumble in his pockets, and soon cried out,
" 0 la! I have it not about me."
Upon this the gentleman asking him what he was searching for,
he said he searched after a sermon, which he thought his master-
Siece, against vanity. " Fie upon it, fie upon it!" cries he, " why
o I ever leave that sermon out of my pocket? I wish it was
within five miles, I would willingly fetch it, and read it to you."
The gentleman answered, that there was no need, for he was
cured of the passion. " And for that very reason," quoth Adams,
" I would read it, for I am confident you would admire it: indeed,
I have never been a greater enemy to any passion than that silly
one of vanity."
The gentleman smiled, and proceeded:—" From this society I
easily passed to that of the gamesters, where nothing remarkable
happened but the finishing my fortune, which those gentlemen
soon helped me to the end of. This opened scenes of lite hitherto
unknown: poverty and distress, with their horrid train of duns,
152 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
attorneys, bailiffs, haunted me day and night. My clothes greV
shabby, my credit bad, my friends and acquaintance of all kinds
cold. In this situation, the strangest thought imaginable cams
into my head; and what was this but to write a play ? for I had
sufficient leisure: fear of bailiffs confined me every day to my
room; and having always had a little inclination, and something of
a genius that way, I set myself to work, and within a few months
froduced a piece of five acts, which was accepted of at the theatre.
remembered to have formerly taken tickets of other poets for
their benefits, long before the appearance of their performances;
and resolving to follow a precedent which was so well suited to my
present circumstances, I immediately provided myself with a large
number of little papers. Happy indeed would be the state of
poetry, would these tickets pass current at the bakehouse, the ale-
house, and the chandler's shop : but, alas! far otherwise; no tailor
will take them in payment for buckram, canvas, stay-tape; nor no
bailiff for civility-money. They are, indeed, no more than a pass-
port to beg with; a certificate that the owner wants five shillings,
which induces well-disposed Christians to charity.
" I now experienced what is worse than poverty, or rather what is
the worst consequence of poverty—I mean attendance and depend-
ence on the great. Many a morning have I waited hours in the
cold parlours of men of quality; where, after seeing the lowest
rascals in lace and embroidery, the pimps and buffoons in fashion,
admitted, I have been sometimes told, on sending in my name,
that my lord could not possibly see me this morning; a sufficient
assurance that I should never more get entrance into that house.
Sometimes I have been at last admitted; and the great man has
thought proper to excuse himself, by telling me he was tied up."
" Tied up!" says Adams: "pray, what's that?"
" Sir," says the gentleman, " the profit which booksellers allowed
authors for the best works, was so very small, that certain men of
birth and fortune, some years ago, who were the patrons of wit
and learning, thought fit to encourage them farther, by entering
into voluntary subscriptions for their encouragement. Thus Prior,
Howe, Pope, and some other men of genius, received large sums
for their labours from the public. This seemed so easy a method
of getting money, that many of the lowest scribblers of the times
ventured to publish their works in the same way; and many had
the assurance to take in subscriptions for what was not written,
nor ever intended. Subscriptions in this manner growing infinite,
and a kind of tax on the pubhc, some persons, finding it not so
easy a task to discern good from bad authors, or to know what
genius was worthy encouragement and what was not, to. prevent
the expense of subscribing to so many, invented the method to
excuse themselves from all subscriptions whatever ; and this was
to receive a small sum of money in consideration of giving a large
THE GENTLEMAN'S HISTORY. 153
one if ever tliey subscribed; which many have done, and many more
have pretended to have done, in order to silence all solicitation.
The same method was likewise taken with playhouse tickets, which
were no less a public grievance; and this is what they call being
tied up from subscribing."
" 1 can't say but the tdrm is apt enough, and somewhat typical,"
says Adams: " for a man of large fortune, who ties himself up, as
you call it, from the encouragement of men of merit, ought to be
tied up in reality."
_ " Well, sir," says the gentleman, " to return to my story. Some-
times I have received a guinea from a man of quality, given with
as ill a grace as alms are generally to the meanest beggar; and
Eurchased too with as much time spent in attendance, as, if it had
een spent in honest industry, might have brought me more profit
with infinitely more satisfaction. After about two months spent
in this disagreeable way, with the utmost mortification, when I was
pluming my hopes on the prospect of a plentiful harvest from my
play, upon applying to the prompter, to know when it came into
rehearsal, he informed me, he had received orders from the managers
to return me the play again, for that they could not possibly act it
that season; but if I would take it and revise it against the next,
they would be glad to see it again. I snatched it from him with
great indignation, and retired to my room, where I threw myself
on the bed in a fit of despair."
"You should rather have thrown yourself on your knees,"
says Adams ; " for despair is sinful."
" As soon," continued the gentleman, " as I had indulged the
first tumult of my passion, I began to consider coolly what course
I should take, in a situation without friends, money, credit, or
reputation of any kind. After revolving many things in my mind,
I could see no other possibility of furnishing myself with the
miserable necessaries of life than to retire to a garret near the
Temple, and commence hackney-writer to the lawyers; for which
I was well qualified, being an excellent penman. This purpose I
resolved on, and immediately put it in execution. I had an
acquaintance with an attorney, who had formerly transacted affairs
for me, and to him I applied; but instead of furnishing me with
any business, he laughed at my undertaking, and told me, he was
afraid I should turn his deeds into plays, and he should expect to
. see them on the stage.
" Not to tire you with instances of this kind from others, I found
that Plato himself did not hold poets in greater abhorrence than
these men of business do. Whenever I durst venture to a coffee-
house, which was on Sundays only, a whisper ran round the room,
which was constantly attended with a sneer—' That's poet Wilson 1'
for I know not whether you have observed it; but there is a
malignity in the nature of man, which, when not weeded out, or
154
JOSEPH ANDREWS.
at least covered, by a good education and politeness, delights in
making another uneasy or dissatisfied with himself^ This abun-
dantly appears in all assemblies, except those which are filled
by people of fashion; and especially among the younger people
of both sexes, whose birth and fortunes place them just without
the polite circles; I mean the lower class of the gentry, and the
higher of the mercantile world, who are, in reality, the worst-
bred part of mankind.
"Well, sir, whilst I continued in this miserable state with
scarce sufficient business to keep me from starving, the repu-
tation of a poet being my bane, I accidentally became acquainted
with a bookseller, who told me, it was a pity a man of my
learning and genius should be obliged to such a method of
getting his livelihood: that he had a compassion for me; and if I
would engage with him, he would undertake to provide handsomely
for me. A man in my circumstances « tip vprv wpll knpw haH
ditions, which were none of the most J
lating with all my might. I had no longer reason to lament the
want of business; for he furnished me with so much, that in half
a year I almost wrote myself blind: I likewise contracted a
distemper by my sedentary life, in which no part of my body was
exercised but my right arm, which rendered me incapable of
writing for a long time. This unluckily happening to delay the
publication of a work, and my last performance not having sold
well, the bookseller declined any farther engagement, and
aspersed me to his brethren, as a careless, idle fellow. I had,
however, by having half-worked and half-starved myself to
death, during the time I was in his service, saved a few guineas,
with which I bought a lottery-ticket, resolving to throw myself
into Fortune's lap, and try if she would make me amends for the
injuries she had done me at the gaming-table.
" This purchase being made left me almost penniless; when, as
if I had not been sufficiently miserable, a bailiff in woman's clothes
fot admittance to my chamber, whither he was directed by the
ookseller. He arrested me at my tailor's suit for thirty-five
pounds, a sum for which I could not procure bail: and was,
therefore, conveyed to his house, where 1 was locked up in an
upper chamber. I had now neither health (for I was scarce
recovered from my indisposition), liberty, money, nor friends;
and had abandoned all hopes, and even the desire of life."
" But this could not last long," said Adams: " for doubtless
the tailor released you the moment he was truly acquainted with
your affairs, and knew that your circumstances would not permit
you to pay him."
" 0, sir," answered the gentleman, " he knew that before he
arrested me; nay, he knew that nothing but incapacity could
no choice. I accordingly accepted
THE GENTLEMAN'S HISTORY. 155
prevent me paying my debts; for I had been his customer many
years, had spent vast sums of money with him, and had always paid
most punctually in my prosperous days: but when I reminded
him of this, with assurances, that if he would not molest my
endeavours, I would pay him all the money I could by my
utmost labour and industry procure, reserving only what was suffi-
cient to preserve me alive • he answered his patience was worn
out; that I had put him off from time to time; that he wanted
the money; that he had put it into a lawyer's hands; and if I did
not pay him immediately, or find security, I must lie in jail, and
expect no mercy."
" He may expect mercy," cries Adams, starting from his chair,
"where he will find none. How can such a wretch repeat the
Lord's prayer; where the word, which is translated, I know not
for what reason, trespasses, is, in the original, debts ? And as
surely as we do not forgive others their debts, when they are unable
to pay them, so surely shall we ourselves be unforgiven, when we
are in no condition of paying."
He ceased and the gentleman proceeded: " While I was in this
deplorable situation, a former acquaintance, to whom I had com-
municated my lottery-ticket, found me out, and making me a
visit, with great delight in his countenance, shook me heartily by
the hand, and wished me joy of my good fortune: for, says he,
your ticket is come up a prize of £3,000."
Adams snapped his fingers at these words in an ecstacy of joy,
which, however, did not continue long; for the gentleman thus
proceeded: " Alas! sir, this was only a trick of Fortune to sink
me the deeper; for I had disposed of this lottery-ticket two days
before, to a relation, who refused lending me a shilling without it,
in order to procure myself bread. As soon as my friend was
acquainted with my unfortunate sale, he began to revile me, and
remind me of all the ill conduct and miscarriages of my life.
He said I was one whom Fortune could not save, if she would;
that I was now ruined without any hopes of retrieval, nor must
expect any pity from my friends : that it would be extreme weak-
ness to compassionate the misfortunes of a man who ran headlong
to his own destruction. He then painted to me, in as lively
colours as he was able, the happiness I should have now enjoyed^
had I not foolishly disposed of my ticket. I urged the plea of
necessity; but he made no answer to that, and began again to
revile me; till I could bear it no longer, and desired him to finish
his visit.
"I soon exchanged the bailiff's house for a prison; where, as I
had not money sufficient to procure me a separate apartment, !
Was crowded in with a great number of miserable wretches, _ in
common with whom I was destitute of every convenience of life,
even that which all the brutes enjoy wholesome air. In these
156 , JOSEPH ANDREWS,
dreadful circumstances, I applied by letter to several of my old
acquaintance, and such to whom I had formerly lent money,
without any great prospect of its being returned, for their assist-
ance; but in vain. Am excuse, instead of a denial, was the
gentlest answer I received. Whilst I languished in a condition
too horrible to be described, and, which, in a land of humanity,
and what is much more, Christianity, seems a strange punishment
for a little inadvertency and indiscretion; whilst I was in this con-
dition, a fellow came into the prison, and, inquiring me out,
delivered me the following letter:—
" Sir,—My father, to whom you sold your ticket in the last
lottery, died the same day in which it came up a prize, as you have
possibly heard, and left me sole heiress of all his fortune. I am
so much touched with your present circumstances, and the uneasi-
ness you must feel at having been driven to dispose of what might
have made you happy, that I must desire your acceptance of the
enclosed, and am your humble servant,
"Harriet Hearty."
" And what do you think was enclosed ? "
"I don't know," cries Adams: "not less than a guinea, 1
hope."
" Sir, it was a bank-note for two hundred pounds."
" Two hundred pounds ! " says Adams, in a rapture.
"No less, I assure you," answered the gentleman : " a sum 1
was not half so delighted with, as with the dear name of the
generous girl that sent it me; and who was not only the best,
but the handsomest creature in the universe; and for whom I had
long had a passion, which I never durst disclose to her. I kissed
her name a thousand times, my eyes overflowing with tenderness
and gratitude; I repeated——. But not to detain you with these
raptures, I immediately acquired my liberty; and, having paid"all
my debts, departed, with upwards of fifty pounds in my pocket,
to thank my kind deliverer. She happened to be then out of
'own; a circumstance, which, upon reflection, pleased me; for
by that means I had an opportunity to appear before her hi a
more decent dress. At her return to town, within a day or two,
I threw myself at her feet with the most ardent acknowledg-
ments; which she rejected with an unfeigned greatness of mind,
and told me I could not oblige her more, than by never mention*,
ing, or if possible thinking, on a circumstance which must bring
to my mind an accident that might be grievous to me to think on.
" She proceeded thus : ' What I have done, is in my own eyes
a trifle, and perhaps infinitely less than would have become me to
do : and if you think of engaging in any business, where a larger
sum may be serviceable to you, I shall not be over-rigid, either as
THE GENTLEMAN'S HISTORY. 157
to the security or interest.' I endeavoured to express all the grati-
tude in my power to this profusion of goodness, though perhaps it
was my enemy, and began to afflict my mind with more agonies
than all the miseries I had underwent: it affected me with severer
reflections than poverty, distress, and prisons united, had been
able to make me feel; for, sir, these acts and professions of kind-
ness, which were sufficient to have raised in a good heart the most
violent passion of friendship to one of the same, or to age and ugli-
ness in a different sex, came to me from a woman, a young and
' beautiful woman; one whose perfections 1 had long known, and
for whom I had long conceived a violent passion, though with
a despair, which made me endeavour rather to curb and conceal,
than to nourish or acquaint her with it. In short, they came upon
me united with beanty, softness, and tenderness: such bewitching
smiles!
_" 0 Mr. Adams, in that moment I lost myself; and, forgetting our
different situations, noi considering what return I was making to
her goodness, by desiring her, who had given me so much, to
bestow her all, I laid gently hold on her hand, and, conveying it to
my lips, I pressed it with inconceivable ardour; then, lifting up my
swimming eyes, I saw her face and neck overspread with one
blush: she offered to withdraw her hand, yet not so as to deliver
it from mine, though I held it with the gentlest force. We both
stood trembling; her eyes cast on the ground, and mine steadfastly
fixed on her. Good God, what was then the condition of my soul!
burning with love, desire, admiration, gratitude, and every tender
passion, all bent on one charming object ?
"Passion at last got the better of both reason and respect; and,
softly letting go her hand, I offered madly to clasp her in my
arms; when, a little recovering herself, she started from me, asking
me, with some show of anger, if she had any reason to expect this
treatment from me. I then fell prostrate before her, and told her,
if I had offended, my life, was absolutely in her power, which I
would in any manner lose for her sake. ' Nay, madam,' said I, ' you
shall not be so ready to punish me as I to suffer. I own my guilt:
I detest the reflection, that I would have sacrificed your happiness
to mine. Believe me, I sincerely repent my ingratitude; yet,
believe me too, it was my passion my unbounded passion for you,
which hurried me so far: I have loved you long and tenderly, and
the goodness you have shown me has innocently weighed down a
wretch undone before. Acquit me of all mean, mercenary views;
and before I take my leave of you for ever, which I am resolved
instantly to do, believe me, that Portune could have raised me to
no height to which I could not have gladly lifted you. 0, cursed
be Portune!'
"' Do not,' says she, interrupting me with the sweetest voice, ' do
not curse Portune. since she has made me happy; and, if she has
158 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
put your happiness in my power, I have told you you shall ask
nothing in reason which I will refuse.'—'Madam,' said I, 'you
mistake me, if you imagine, as you seem, my happiness is in the
Eower of Fortune now. You have obliged me too much already: if
ave any wish, it is for some blessed accident, by which I may
contribute with my life to the least augmentation of your felicity.
As for myself, the only happiness I can ever have, will be hearing
of yours; and if Fortune will make that complete, I will forgive
her all ner wrongs to me.'—'You may, indeed,' answered she,
smiling; ' for your own happiness must be included in mine. I
have long known your worth; nay, I must confess, said she, blush-
ing, I have long discovered that passion for me you profess, not-
withstanding those endeavours, which I am convinced were
unaffected, to conceal it; and if all I can give with reason will not
suffice,—take reason away,—and I believe you cannot ask me what
I will deny.'
" She uttered these words with a sweetness not to be imagined.
I immediately started; my blood, which lay freezing at my heart,
rushed tumuituously through every vein. I stood for a moment
silent; then, flying to her, I caught her in my arms, no longer
resisting, and softly told her, she must give me then herself. 0,
sir! can I describe her look ? She remained silent, and almost
motionless, several minutes. At last, recovering herself a little,
she insisted on my leaving her, and in such a manner that I
instantly obeyed: you may imagine, however, I soon saw her again.
But I ask pardon: I fear I have detained you too long in relating
the particulars of the former interview."
" So far otherwise," says Adams, licking his lips, " that I could
willingly hear it over again."
"Weil, sir," continued the gentleman, "to be as concise as pos-
siblewithin a week she consented to make me the happiest of
mankind. We were married shortly after; and when I came to
examine the circumstances of my wife's fortune, which, I do assure
you, I was not presently at leisure enough to do, I found it
amounted to about six thousand pounds, most part of which lay
in effects; for her father had been a wine-merchant; and she
seemed willing, if I liked it, that I should carry on the same trade.
I readily, and too inconsiderately, undertook it; for not having
been bred to the secrets of the business, and endeavouring to deal
with the utmost honesty and uprightness, I soon found our fortune
in a declining way, and my trade decreasing by little and little;
for my wines, which I never adulterated after their importation, and
were sold as neat as they came over, were universally decried by
the vintners, to whom I could not allow them quite as cheap as
those who gained double the profit by a less price.
" 1 soon began to despair of improving our fortune by these means:
nor was I at ail easy at the visits and familiarity of many who had
THE GENTLEMAN'S HISTORY CONCLUDED. 159
been my acquaintance in my prosperity, but denied and shunned
me in my adversity, and now very forwarcuy renewed their acquaint-
ance with me. In short, I had sufficiently seen, that the pleasures
of the world are chiefly folly, and the business of it mostly knavery,
and both nothing better than vanity; the men of pleasure tearing
one another to pieces, from the emulation of spending money; ana
the men of business, from envy in getting it. My happiness con-
sisted entirely in my wife, whom I loved with an inexpressible
fondness, which was perfectly returned; and my prospeets were no
other than to provide for our growing family; for she was now big
of her second child: I therefore took an opportunity to ask her
opinion of entering into retired life, which, after hearing my reasons,
and perceiving my affection for it, she readily embraced. We soon
put our small fortune, now reduced under three thousand pounds,
into money, with part of which we purchased this little place,
whither we retired soon after her delivery, from a world full of
bustle, noise, hatred, envy, and ingratitude, to ease, quiet, and
love. We have here lived almost twenty years, with little other
conversation than our own, most of the neighbourhood taking us
for very strange people; the squire of the parish representing me
as a madman, ana the parson as a Presbyterian, because I will not
hunt with the one, nor drink with the other."
" Sir," says Adams, _ " Portune has, I think, paid you all her
debts in this sweet retirement."
" Sir," replied the gentleman, " I am thankful to the great
Author of all things for the blessings I here enjoy. I have the
best of wives, and three pretty children, for whom I have the true
tenderness of a parent. But no blessings are pure in this world:
within three years of my arrival here I lost my eldest son."—
Here he sighed bitterly.
_ " Sir," said Adams, " we must submit to Providence, and con-
sider death as common to all."
"We must submit, indeed," answered the gentleman: "and
if he had died, I could have borne the loss with patience; but,
alas! sir, he was stolen away from my door, by some wicked
travelling people, whom they call gipsies; nor could I ever, with
the most diligent search, recover Mm. Poor child! he had the
sweetest look! the exact picture of his mother:" at which some
tears unwittingly dropped from his eyes, as did likewise from
those of Adams, who always sympathized with his friends on
those occasions. "Thus, sir," said the gentleman, "I have
finished my story, in which, if I have been too particular, I ask
your pardon; and now, if you please, I will fetch you another
bottle;" which proposal the parson thankfully accepted.
160
JOSEPH ANDEEWS.
Chap. IV.—A Description of Mr. Wilson's Way of Living—the tragical
Adventure of the Dog, and other grave Matters.
The gentleman returned with the bottle, and Adams and he sat
sometime silent; when the former started up, and cried, "No,
that won't do." The gentleman inquired into his meaning; he
answered, he had been considering that it was possible the late
famous King Theodore might have been the very son whom he
had lost; but added, that his age could not answer that imagina-
tion. " However," says he, " God disposes all things for the
best: and very probably he may be some great man, or duke; and
may, one day or other, revisit you in that capacity." The gentle-
man answered, he should know him amongst ten thousand, for he
had a mark on his left breast of a strawberry, which his mother
had given him by longing for that fruit.
That beautiful young lady, the Morning, now rose from her
bed; and with a countenance blooming with fresh youth and
sprightliness, like Miss with soft dews hanging on her
pouting lips, began to take her early walk over the eastern hills;
and presently alter, that gallant person, the Sun, stole softly from
his wife's chamber to pay his addresses to her; when the gentle-
man asked his guest if he would walk forth and survey his little
garden, which he readily agreed to: and Joseph, at the same
time awaking from a sleep, in which he had been two hours
buried, went with them. No parterres, no fountains, no statues,
embellished this little garden. Its only ornament was a short
walk, shaded on each side by a filbert hedge, with a small alcove
at one end, whither in hot weather the gentleman and his wife
used to retire and divert themselves with their children, who
played _ in the; walk before them. But though vanity had no
votary in this little spot, here was variety of fruit, and everything
useful for the kitchen; which was abundantly sufficient to catch
the admiration of Adams, who told the gentleman he had certainly
a good gardener.,
" Sir," answered he, " that gardener is now before you; what-
ever you see here, is the work solely of my own hands. Whilst
I am providing necessaries for my table, I likewise procure myself
an appetite for them. In fair seasons, I seldom pass less than
six hours of the twenty-four in this place, where I am not idle;
and by these means I have been able to preserve my health, ever .
since my arrival here, without assistance from physic. Hither
* Whoever the reader pleases.
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 161
I generally repair at the dawn, and exercise myself whilst my
wife dresses her children and prepares our breakfast; after which
we are seldom asunder during the residue of the day; for when
the weather will not permit them to accompany me here, I am
usually within with them; for I am neither ashamed of conversing
with my wife nor of playing with my children; to say the truth, I
do not perceive that inferiority of understanding, which the levity
of rakes, the dulness of men of business, or the austerity of the
learned, would persuade us of in women. As for my woman, 1
declare I have found none of my own sex capable of making
juster observations on life, or of delivering them more agreeably;
nor do I believe any one possessed of a faithfuller or braver friend.
And sure, as this friendship is sweetened with more delicacy and
tenderness, so is it confirmed by dearer pledges than can attend
the closest male alliance; for what union can be so fast as our
common interest in the fruits of our embraces? Perhaps, sir,
you are not yourself a father; if you are not, be assured you
cannot conceive the delight I have in my little ones. Would you
not despise me, if you saw me stretched on the ground, and my
children playing round me ? "
"I should reverence the sight," quoth Adams; "I myself am
now the father of six, and have been of eleven; and I can say,
I never scourged a child of my own, unless as his schoolmaster;
and then have felt every stroke on my own posteriors. And as
to what you say concerning women, I have often lamented my own
wife did not understand Greek."
The gentleman smiled, and answered, he would not be appre-
hended to insinuate that his own had an understanding above the
care of her family; "on the contrary," says he, "my Harriet, J.
assure you, is a notable housewife, and few gentlemen's house-
keepers understand cookery or confectionery better; but these
are arts which she has no great occasion for now; however, the
wine you commended so much last night at supper was of her
own making, as is indeed all the liquor in my house, except my
beer, which falls to my province."
"And I assure you, it is as excellent," quoth Adams, "as ever
I tasted."
"We formerly kept a maidservant; but since my girls have
been growing up, she is unwilling to indulge them in idleness; for
as the fortunes 1 shall give them will be very small, we intend not
to breed them above the rank they are likely to fill hereafter, nor to
teach them to despise or ruin a plain husband. Indeed, I could
wish a man of my own temper, and a retired life, might fall to
their lot; for I have experienced that calm, serene happiness,
which is seated in content, is inconsistent with the hurry and
bustle of the world."
He was proceeding thus, when the little things, being just risen
ai
162 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
ran eagerly towards him, and asked his blessing. They were shy
to the strangers; but the eldest acquainted their father, that hei
mother and the young gentlewoman were up, and that breakfast
was ready.
They all went in, where the gentleman was surprised at the
beauty of Fanny, who had now recovered herself from her fatigue,
and was entirely clean dressed; for the rogues, who had taken
away her purse, had left her her bundle. But if he was so much
amazed at the beauty of this young creature, his guests were no
less charmed at the tenderness which appeared in the behaviour
of the husband and wife to each other and to their children, and
at the dutiful and affectionate behaviour of these to their parents.
These instances pleased the well-disposed mind of Adams,
equally with the readiness which they expressed to oblige their
guests, and their forwardness to offer them the best of everything
in their house; and what delighted him still more, was an instance
or two of their charity; for whilst they were at breakfast, the
good woman was called forth to assist her sick neighbour, which
she did with some cordials made for the public use; and the good
man went into his garden, at the same time, to supply another
with something which he wanted thence; for they had nothing
which those who' wanted it were not welcome to. 1
These good people were in the utmost cheerfulness, when they
heard the report of a gun; and immediately afterwards a little
dog, the favourite of the eldest daughter, came limping in, all
bloody, and laid himself at his mistress's feet; the poor girl, who
was about eleven years old, burst into tears at the sight; and
presently one of the neighbours came in, and informed them, that
the young squire, the son of the lord of the manor, had shot him
as he passed by, swearing at the same time he would prosecute
the master of him for keeping a spaniel, for that he had given
notice he would not suffer one in the parish. The dog, whom his
mistress had taken into her lap, died m a few minutes, licking her
hand. She expressed great agony at his loss, and the other
children began to cry for their sister's misfortune; nor could
Fanny herself refrain.
Whilst the father and mother attempted to comfort her, Adams
grasped his crabstick, and would have sallied out after the squire,
had not Joseph withheld him. He could not, however, bridle his
tongue: he pronounced the word rascal with great emphasis:
said he deserved to be hanged more than a highwayman, and
wished he had the scourging him.
The mother took her child, lamenting and carrying the dead
favourite in her arms, out of the room; when the gentleman said,
this was the second time this squire had endeavoured to kill the
little wretch, and had wounded him smartly once before; adding,
he could have no motive but ill-nature, for the little thing, which
A DISPUTATION ON SCHOOLS. 185
was not near as big as one's fist, bad never been twenty yards
from the bouse in the six years bis daughter bad had it. He said
be bad done nothing to deserve this usage; but bis father bad too
great a fortune to contend with: that be was as absolute as any
tyrant in the universe, and had killed all tbe dogs, and taken away
all tbe guns in tbe neighbourhood; and not'only that, but be
trampled down hedges, and rode over corn and gardens, with no
more rfegard than if they were tbe highway.
" I wish I could catch him in my garden," said Adams; "though
I would rather forgive him riding through my house, than such an
ill-natured act as this."
The cheerfulness of the conversation being interrupted by this
accident, in which the guests could be of no service to their kind
entertainer; and as the_ mother was taken up in administering
consolation to the poor girl, whose disposition was too good hastily
to forget the sudden loss of her little favourite, which had been
fondling with her a few minutes before; and as Joseph and Fanny
were impatient to get home, and begin those previous ceremonies
to their happiness which Adams had insisted on, they now offered
to take theirleave. The gentleman importuned them much to stay
dinner; but when he found their eagerness to depart, he sum-
moned his wife, and, accordingly, having performed all the usual
ceremonies of bows and curtsies, more pleasant to be seen than
to be related, they took their leave; the gentleman and his wife
heartily wishing them a good journey, and they as heartily thanking
them for their kind entertainment. They then departed, Adams
declaring that was the manner in which the people had lived in
the golden age.
Chap. V.—A Disputation on Schools, held on the Road, between Mr.
Abraham Adams and Joseph; and a Discovery not unwelcome to them
both.
Our travellers having well refreshed themselves at the gentleman's
house, Joseph and Fanny with sleep, and Mr. Abraham Adams
with ale and tobacco, renewed their journey with great alacrity;
and, pursuing the road in which they were directed, travelled many
miles before they met with any adventure worth relating. In this
interval, we shall present our readers with a very curious dis-
course, as we apprehend it, concerning public schools, which passed
between Mr. Joseph Andrews and Mr. Abraham Adams.
They had not gone far before Adams, calling to Joseph, asked
him, if he had attended to the gentleman's story: he answered, To
all the former part. " And don't you think," says he, "he was a
very unhappy man in his youth ?"
m 2
164 JOSEPH JLNDREWS.
" A very unhappy man indeed," answered the other.
" Joseph," cries Adams, screwing up his mouth, " I have found
it; I have discovered the cause of all the misfortunes which befell
him: a public school, Joseph, was the cause of all the calamities
which he afterwards suffered. Public schools are the nurseries of
all vice and immorality. All the wicked fellows whom I remember
at the university, were bred at them. Ah, Lord! 1 can remember,
as well as if it was but yesterday, a knot of them; they called
them King's Scholars, I forget why—very wicked fellows ! Joseph,
you may thank the Lord you were not bred at a public school: you
would never have preserved your virtue as you have. The first
care I always take is of a boy's morals : I had rather he should be
a blockhead than an Atheist or a Presbyterian. What is all the
learning of the world, compared to his immortal soul ? What
shall a man take in exchange for his soul ? But the masters of
freat schools trouble themselves about no such thing. I have
nown a lad of eighteen at the university, who has not been able to
say his catechism; but for my own part, I always scourged a lad
sooner for missing that than any other lessom Believe me, child,
all that gentleman's misfortunes arose from his being educated at
a public school."
" It does not become me," answered Joseph, " to dispute any-
thing, sir, with you, especially a matter of this kind; for, to be
sure, you must be allowed by all the world to be the best teacher
of a school in all our county."
"Yes, that," says Adams, "I believe, is granted me; that I
may, without much vanity, pretend to; nay, I believe I may go to
the next county too: but gloriari non est meum."
" However, sir, as you are pleased to bid me speak," says Joseph,
" you know my late master, Sir Thomas Booby, was bred at a
public school, and he was the finest gentleman in all the neigh-
bourhood; and I have often heard him say, if he had a hundred
boys he would breed them all at the same place. It was his
opinion, and I have often heard him deliver it, that a boy, taken
from a public school, and carried into the world, will leam more in
one year, than one of a private education will in five. He used to
say, the school itself initiated him a great way (I remember that
was his very expression); for great schools are little societies,
where a boy of any observation may see in epitome what he will
afterwards find in the world at large."
"Hinc illce lacrymce ! for that very reason," quoth Adams, "I
prefer a private school, where boys may be kept in innocence and
ignorance; for, according to that fine passage in the play of Cato,
the only English tragedy I ever read,
If knowledge of the world must make men villains,
May Juba e,rer live in ignorance*
ADAMs's BLIND aiDfi. 165
Wlio would not rather preserve the purity of his child, than wish
him to attain the whole circle of arts and sciences ? which, by the
bye, he may learn in the classes of a private school: for I would
not be vain; but I esteem myself to be second to none, nulli
secundum,, in teaching these things; so that a lad may have as
much learning in a private as in a public education."
" And, with submission " answered Joseph, " he may get as
much vice : witness several country gentlemen, who were educated
within five miles of their own houses, and are as wicked as if they
had known tfie world from their infancy. I remember when I was
in the stable, if a young horse was vicious in his nature, no cor-
rection would make him otherwise: I take it to be equally the
same among men: if a boy be of a. mischievous, wicked inclination,
no school, though ever so private, will ever make him good; on
the contrary, if he be of a righteous temper, you may trust him to
London, or wherever else you please: he will be in no danger of
being corrupted. Besides, I have often heard my master say, that
the discipline practised in public schools was much better than that
in private."
"You talk like a jackanapes," says Adams, "and so did your
master. Discipline, indeed! Because one man scourges twenty
or thirty boys more in a morning than another, is he therefore a
better disciplinarian ? ' I do presume to confer in this point with
all who have taught, from Chiron's time to this day; and, if I was
master of six boys only, I would preserve as gopd discipline
amongst them, as the master of the greatest school in the world.
I say nothing, young man; remember, I say nothing; but if Sir
Thomas himself had been educated nearer home, and under the
tuition of somebody—remember, I name nobody—it might have
been better for him; but his father must institute him in the
knowledge of the world. Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit."
> Joseph, seeing him run on in this manner, asked pardon many
times, assuring him he had no intention to offend.
" I believe you had not, child," said he, " and I am not angry
with you: but for maintaining good discipline in a school; for
this " And then he ran on as before, named all the masters
who are recorded in old books, and preferred himself to them all.
Indeed, if this good man had an enthusiasm, or what the vulgar
call a blind side, it was this,—he thought a schoolmaster the
greatest character in the world, and himself the greatest of all
schoolmasters ; neither of which points he would have given up
to Alexander the Great at the head of his army.
Adams continued his subject till they came to one of the most
beautiful spots of ground in the universe. It was a kind of
natural amphitheatre formed by the winding of a small rivulet,
which was planted with thick woods; and the trees rose gradually
above each other, by the natural ascent of the ground they stood
166 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
on; which ascent as they hid with their boughs^ they seemed to
have been disposed by the design of the most skilful planter. The
soil was spread with a verdure which no paint could imitate; and
the whole place might have raised romantic ideas in elder minds
than those of Joseph and Tanny, without the assistance of love.
Here they arrived about noon, and Joseph proposed to Adams
that they should rest awhile in this delightful place, and refresh
themselves with some provisions which the good-nature of Mrs.
Wilson had provided them with. Adams made no objection to
the proposal: so down they sat, and pulling out a cold fowl, and a
bottle of wine, they made a repast with a cheerfulness which might
have attracted the envy of more splendid _tables._ I should not
omit, that they found among their provision a little paper, con-
taining a piece of gold, which Adams, imagining had been put
there by mistake, would have returned back to restore it; but he
was at last convinced by Joseph, that Mr. Wilson had taken this
handsome way of furnishing them with a supply for their journey,
on his having related the distress which they had been in when
they were relieved by the generosity of the pedlar.
Adams said he was glad to see such an instance of goodness,
not so much for the conveniency which it brought them, as for the
sake of the doer, whose reward would be great in heaven. He
likewise comforted himself with a reflection that he should shortly
have an opportunity of returning it him; for the gentleman was
within a week to make a journey into Somersetshire, to pass
through Adams's parish, and had faithfully promised to call on
him; a circumstance which we thought too immaterial to men-
tion before; but which those who have as great an affection for
that gentleman as ourselves will rejoice at, as it may give them
hopes of seeing him again.
Then Joseph made a speech on charity, which the reader, if he
is so disposed, may see in the next chapter; for we scorn to betray
him into any such reading, without first giving him warning.
Chap. VI.—Moral Reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the Hunting
Adventure, and Parson Adams's miraculous Escape.
"I have often wondered, sir," said Joseph, "to observe so few
instances of charity among mankind; for though the goodness of
jl man's heart did not incline him to relieve the distresses of his
fellow-creatures, methinks the desire of honour should move him
to it. "What inspires a man to build fine houses, to purchase fine
furniture, pictures, clothes, and other things, at a great expense,
but an ambition to be respected more than other people ? Now!
A. SPEECH ON CHARITY. 167
would not one great act of charity, one instance of redeeming a
poor family from all the miseries of poverty, restoring an unfortu-
nate tradesman, by a sum of money, to the means of procuring a
livelihood by his industry, discharging an undone debtor from his
debts or a jail, or any such like example of goodness, create a man
more honour and respect than he could acquire by the finest house,
furniture, pictures, or clothes, that were ever beheld! Tor not
only the object himself who was thus relieved, but all who heard
the name of such a person, must, I imagine, reverence him infi-
nitely more than the possessor of all those other things; which,
when we so admire, we rather praise the builder, the workman,
the painter, the lace-maker, the tailor, and the rest, by whose
ingenuity they are produced, than the person who by his money
makes them his own. Tor my own part, when I have waited
behind my lady in a room hung with fine pictures, while I have
been looking on them I hare never once thought of their owner,
nor has any one else, as I ever observed; for when it has been
asked whose picture that was, it was never once answered, the
master's of the house; but Ammyconni, Paul Varnish, Hannibal
Scratchi, or Hogarthi, which I suppose were the names of the
painters; but if it was asked, Who redeemed such a one out of
prison ? Who lent such a ruined tradesman money to set up ?
"Who clothed that family of poor small _ children ? it is very
plain what must be the answer. And besides, these great folks
are mistaken, if they imagine they get any honour at all by these
means; for I do not remember I ever was with my lady at any
house where she commended the house or furniture; but I have
heard her, at her return home, make sport, and jeer at whatever
she had before commended; and I have been told by other gentle-
men in livery, that it is the same in their families; but I defy the
wisest man in the world to turn a truly good action into ridicule:
I defy him to do it He, who should endeavour it, would be
laughed at himself, instead of making others laugh. Nobody
scarce does any good, yet they all agree in praising those who do.
Indeed, it is strange that all men should consent in commending
goodness, and no man endeavour to deserve that commendation;
whilst, on the contrary, all rail at wickedness, and all are as eager
to be what they abuse. This I know not the reason of; but it is
as plain as daybght to those who converse in the world, as I have
done these three years."
"Are all the great folks wicked, then?" says Panny. "To be
sure there are some exceptions," answered Joseph.
" Some gentlemen of our cloth report charitable actions done by
their lords and masters; and I have heard Squire Pope, the great
poet, at my lady's table, tell stories of a man that lived at a place
called Ross, and another at the Bath, one A1—A1— 1 forget his
name, but it is in the book of verses. This gentleman has built
168 JOSEPH AXDBEWS.
up a stately house too, which the squire likes very well; but his
charity is seen farther than his house, though it stands on a hill;
ay, and brings him more honour too. It was his charity that put
him in the book, where the squire says he puts all those who
deserve it; and to be sure, as he lives among all the great people,
if there were any such, he would know them."
This was all of Mr. Joseph Andrews' speech which I could get
him to recollect, which I have delivered as near as possible in his
own words, with a very small embellishment. But I believe the
reader has not been a little surprised at the long silence of Parson
Adams, especially as so many occasions offered themselves to exert
his curiosity and observation. The truth is, he was fa6t asleep,
and had so been from the beginning of the preceding narrative;
and indeed, if the reader considers that so many hours had passed
since he had closed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repose,
though even Henley himself, or as great an orator, if any sucn
be, had been in his rostrum or tub before him.
Joseph, who, whilst he was speaking, had continued in one atti-
tude, with his head reclining on one side, and his eyes cast on the
ground, no sooner perceived, on looking up, the position of Adams,
who was stretched on his back, and snored louder than the usual
braying of an animal with long ears, than, he turned towards
Panny, and, taking her by the hand, began a dalliance, which,
though consistent with the purest innocence and decency,
neither he would have attempted nor she permitted before any
witness.
Whilst they amused themselves in this harmless and delightful
manner, they heard a pack of hounds approaching in full cry
towards them, and presently afterwards saw a hare pop forth from
the wood, and, crossing the water, land within a few yards of them
in the meadows. The hare was no sooner on shore, than it seated
itself on its hinder legs, and listened to the sound of the pursuers.
Panny was wonderfully pleased with the little wretch, and eagerly
longed to have it in her arms, that she might preserve it from the
dangers which seemed to threaten it; but the rational part of the
creation do not always aptly distinguish their friends from their
foes ; what wonder then if this silly creature, the moment it beheld
her, fled from the friend who would have protected it, and travers-
ing the meadows again, passed the little rivulet on the opposite
side. _ It was, however, so spent and weak, that it fell down twice
or thrice in its way. This affected the tender heart of Panny, who
exclaimed, with tears in her eyes, against the barbarity of worry-
ing a poor, innocent, defenceless animal out of its life, and putting
it to the extremest torture for diversion. She had not much time
to make reflections of this kind; for, on a sudden, the hounds
rushed through the wood, which resounded with their throats and
the throats of their retinue, who attended them on horseback.
HUNTING ADVENTCKE. 169
The dogs now passed the rivulet, and pursued the footsteps of
the hare: five horsemen attempted to leap over, three of whom
succeeded, and two were in the attempt thrown from their saddles
into the water; their companions, ana their own horses too, pro-
ceeded after their sport, and left their friends and riders to invoke
the assistance of Fortune, or employ the more active means of
strength and agility for their deliverance. Joseph, however, was
not so unconcerned on this occasion: he left Fanny for a moment
to herself, and ran to the gentlemen, who were immediately on
their legs, shaking their ears, and easily, with the help of his hand,
obtained the bank (for the rivulet was not at all deep); and, with-
out staying to thank their kind assister, ran dripping across the
meadow, calling to their brother sportsmen to stop their horses ;
but they heard them not.
The hounds were now very little behind their poor, reeling,
staggering prey, which, fainting almost at every step, crawled
through the wood, and had almost got round to the place where
Fanny stood, when it was overtaken by its enemies, and, being
driven out of the covert, was caught, and instantly torn to pieces
before Fanny's face, who was unable to assist it with any aicf more
powerful than pity: nor could she prevail on Joseph, who had
been himself a sportsman in his youth, to attempt anything con-
trary to the laws of hunting in favour of the hare, which he said
was killed fairly.
The hare was caught within a yard or two of Adams, who lay
asleep at some distance from the lovers; and the hounds, in
devouring it, and pulling it backwards and forwards, had drawn it so
close to him, that some of them (by mistake perhaps for the hare's
skin) laid hold of the skirts of his cassock; others, at the same time,
applying their teeth to his wig, which he had with a handkerchief
fastened to his head, began to pull him about; and had not the
motion of his body had more effect on him than seemed to be
wrought by the noise, they must certainly have tasted his flesh,
which delicious flavour might have been fatal to him ; but being
roused by these tuggings; he instantly awaked, and with a jerk
delivering his head from his wig, he with most admirable dexterity
recovered his legs, which now seemed the only members he coula
intrust his safety to. Having, therefore, escaped likewise from at
least a third part of his cassock, which he willingly left as his
exnvice, or spoils, to the enemy, he fled with the utmost speed he
could summon to his assistance.
Nor let this be any detraction from the bravery of his character:
let the number of the enemies, and the surprise in which he was
taken, be considered ; and if there be any modern so outrageously
brave that he cannot admit of flight in any circumstances whatever,
I say (but I whisper that softly, and I solemnly declare without
any intention of giving offence to any brave man in the nation), I
170 JOSEPH AUDKEWS.
say, or ratter I whisper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and has
never read Homer nor Yirgil, nor knows he anything of Hector or
Turnus; nay, he is unacquainted with the history of some great
men living, who, though as brave as lions, ay, as tigers, have run
away, the Lord knows how far, and the Lord knows why, to the
surprise of their friends and the entertainment of their enemies.
But if persons of such heroic disposition are a little offended at
the behaviour of Adams, we assure them they shall be as much
pleased with what we shall immediately relate of Joseph Andrews.
The master of the pack was just arrived, or, as the sportsmen call
it, come in, when Adams set out as we have before mentioned.'
This gentleman was generally said to be a great lover of humour;
but, not to mince the matter, especially as we are upon this subject,
he was a great hunter of men: indeed, he had hitherto followed
the sport only with dogs of his own species; for he kept two or
three couple of barking curs for that use only. However, as he
thought he had now found a man nimble enough, he was willing
to indulge himself with other sport; and accordingly crying out,
"Stole away," encouraged the hounds to pursue Mr. Adams,
swearing it was the largest jack-hare he ever saw; at_ the same
time hallooing and hooping as if a conquered foe was flying before
him; in which he was imitated by those two or three couple of
human, or rather two-legged, curs on horseback, which we have
mentioned before.
Now thou, whoever thou art, whether a Muse, or by what other
name soever thou choosest to be called, who presidest over bio-
graphy, and hast inspired all the writers of lives m these our times:
thou, who didst infuse such wonderful humour into the pen of im-
mortal Gulliver; who hast carefully guided the judgment, whilst thou
hast exalted the nervous, manly style, of thy Mallet: thou, who
hast no hand in that dedication ana preface, or the translations,
which thou wouldst willingly have struck out of the life of Cicero;
lastly, thou, who, without the _ assistance of the least spice of
1 terature, and even against his inclination, hast, in some pages of
his book, forced Colley Cibber to write English; do thou assist me
in what I find myself unequal to. Do thou introduce on the plain,
the young, the gay, the brave Joseph Andrews, while men shall
view him with admiration and envy, tender virgins with love and
anxious concern for his safety.
No sooner did Joseph Andrews perceive the distress of his
friend, when first the quick-scenting dogs attacked _ him, than he
frasped his cudgel in his right hand • a cudgel which his father
ad of his grandfather, to whom a mighty strong man of Kent had
given it for a present in that day when he broke three heads on the
stagp. It was a cudgel of mighty strength and wonderful art,
made by one of Mr. Deard's best workmen, whom no other artificer
can equal, and who has made all those sticks which the beaux have.
Joseph's bravery. 171
lately walked with about the Park in a morning; but this was
far his masterpiece. On its head was engraved a nose and chin,
which might have been mistaken for a pair of nut-crackers. The
learned have imagined it designed to represent the Gorgon; but it
was in fact copied from the face of a certain long English baronet,
of infinite wit, humour, and gravity. He did intend to have
engraved here many histories -. as the first night of Captain B 's
play, where you would have seen critics in embroidery, trans-
planted from the boxes to the pit, whose ancient inhabitants were
exalted to the galleries, where they played on catcalls. He did
intend to have painted an auction-room, where Mr. Cock would
have appeared aloft in his pulpit, trumpeting forth the praises of a
china basin, and with astonishment wondering that, "Nobody bids
more for that fine, that superb—" He did intend to have engraved
many other things, but was forced to leave all out for want of
room.
No sooner had Joseph grasped his cudgel in his hand, than
'lightning darted from his eyes; and the heroic youth, swift of
foot, ran with the utmost speed to his friend's assistance. He
overtook him just as Hockwood had laid hold of the skirt of his
cassock, which, being torn, hung to the ground.
Header,'we would make a simile on this occasion, but for two
reasons: the first is, it would interrupt the description, which
should be rapid in this part; but that does not weigh much,
many precedents occurring for such an interruption: the second,
and much the greater reason, is, that we could find no simile ade-
quate to our purpose: for, indeed, what instance could we bring,
to set before our reader's eyes at once the idea of friendship,
courage, youth, beauty, strength, and swiftness ? all which blazed
in the person of Joseph Andrews. Let those therefore that describe
lions and tigers, and heroes fiercer than both, raise their poems or
plays with the simile of Joseph Andrews, who is himself above the
reach of any simile.
Now Hockwood had kid fast hold on the parson's skirts, and
stopped his flight; which Joseph no sooner perceived, than he
levelled his cudgel at his head, and laid him sprawling. Jowler
and Hingwood then fell on his great-coat, and had undoubtedly
brought niin to the ground, had not Joseph, collecting all his force,
fiven Jowler such a rap on the back, that, quitting his hold, he ran
owling over the plain. A harder fate remained for thee, 0 Hing-
wood! Hingwood, the best hound that ever pursued a hare; who
never threw his tongue but where the scent was undoubtedly true;
good at trailing, and sure in a highway; no babbler, nor over-
runner; respected by the whole pack, who, whenever he opened,
knew the game was at hand; he fell by the stroke of Joseph.
Thunder and Plunder, and Wonder and Blunder, were the next
victims of his wrath, and measured their lengths on the ground.
172 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Then Fairmaid, a bitch which Mr. John Temple had bred up in his
house, and fed at his own table, and lately sent the squire fifty
miles for a present, ran fiercely at Joseph, and bit him by the leg:
no dog was ever fiercer than she, being descended from an Ama-
zonian breed, and had worried bulls in her own country, but now
waged an unequal fight; and had shared the fate of those we have
mentioned before, had not Diana (the reader may believe or not as
he pleases) in that instant interposed, and, in the shape of the
huntsman, snatched her favourite up in her arms.
The parson now faced about, and with his crabstick felled many
to the earth, and scattered others, till he was attacked by Caesar,
and pulled to the ground. Then Joseph flew to his rescue, and
with such might fell on the victor, that, G eternal blot to his
name ! Caesar ran yelping away.
The battle now raged with the most dreadful violence, when,
lo! the huntsman, a man of years and dignity, lifted his voice,
and called his hounds from the fight; telling them, in a language
they understood, that it was in vain to contend longer, for that
fate had decreed the victory to their enemies.
Thus far the Muse has, with her usual dignity, related -this
prodigious battle,—a battle, we apprehend, never equalled by any
poet, romance or life-writer whatever : and, having brought it to
a conclusion, she ceased: we shall therefore proceed, in ouT
ordinary style, with the continuation of this history.
The squire and his companions, whom the figure of Adams and
the gallantry of Joseph had at first thrown into a violent fit of
laughter, and who had hitherto beheld the engagement with more
delight than any chase, shooting-match, race, cock-fighting, bull
or bear-baiting, had ever given them, began to apprehend the
danger of their hounds, many of which lay sprawling m the fields.
The squire, therefore, having first called nis friends about him, as
fuards for the safety of his person, rode manfully up to the com-
atants, and, summoning all the terror he was master of into his
countenance, demanded, with an authoritative voice of Joseph,
what he meant by assaulting his dogs in that manner.
Joseph answered, with great intrepidity, that they had first
fallen on his friend; and if they had belonged to the greatest
man in the kingdom, he would have treated them in the same
way; for whilst his veins contained a single drop of blood, he
would not stand _ idle by, and see that gentleman (pointing to
Adams) abused either by man or beast; and having so said, both
he and Adams brandished their wooden weapons, and put them-
selves into such a posture, that the squire and his company
thought proper to preponderate, before they offered to revenge the
cause of their four-footed allies.
At this instant, Fanny, whom the apprehension of Joseph's
danger had alarmed so much, that, forgetting her own, she liad
PRAISE OF PARSON-HUNTING. 175
made the utmost expedition, came up. The squire and all the
horsemen were so surprised with her beauty, that they imme-
diately fixed both their eyes and thoughts solely on her, every one
declaring he had never seen so charming a creature. Neither
mirth nor anger engaged them a moment longer, but all sat in
silent amaze. The huntsman only was free from her attraction,
who was busy in cutting the ears of the dogs, and endeavouring
to recover them to life; in which he succeeded so well, that only
two of no great note remained slaughtered on the field of action:
upon this the huntsman declared, 'twas well it was no worse : for
his part, he could not blame the gentleman, and wondered his
master would encourage the dogs to hunt Christians; that it was
the surest way to spoil them, to make them follow vermin instead
of sticking to a hare.
The squire, being informed of the little mischief that had been
done, and perhaps having more mischief of another kind in his
head, accosted Mr. Adams with a more favourable aspect than
before: he told him he was sorry for what had happened;
that he had endeavoured all he could to prevent it the moment
he was acquainted with his cloth; and greatly commended the
courage of his servant, for so he imagined Joseph to be.
He then invited Mr. Adams to dinner, and desired the young
woman might come with him. Adams refused a long while; but
the invitation was repeated with so much earnestness and
courtesy, that at length he was forced to accept it. His wig and
hat, and other spoils of the field, being gathered together by
Joseph (for otherwise, probably, they would have been forgotten),
he put himself into the best order he could; and then the horse
and foot moved forward in the same pace towards the squire's
house, which stood at a very little distance.
Whilst they were on the road, the lovely Eanny attracted the
eyep of all: they endeavoured to outvie one another in encomiums
on her beauty, which the reader will pardon my not relating, as
they had not anything new or uncommon in them: so must he
likewise my not setting down the many curious jests which were
made on Adams; some of them declaring, that parson-hunting
was the best sport in the world: others commending his standing
at bay, which they said he had done as well as any badger • with
such like merriment, which, though it would ill become the dignity
of this history, afforded much laughter and diversion to the
squire and his facetious companions.
174
JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Chap. VII.—A Scene of Roasting, very nicely adapted to the present Taste
and Times.
They arrived at the squire's house just as his dinner was ready.
A little dispute arose on the account of Fanny, whom the squire,
who was a bachelor, was desirous to place at his own table; but
she would not consent, nor would Mr. Adams permit her to be
parted from Joseph; so that she was at length with him consigned
over to the kitchen, where the servants were ordered to make Mm
drunk; a favour wMch was likewise intended for Adams; wMch
design being executed, the squire thought he should easily accom-
plish what he had, when he first saw her, intended to perpetrate
with Fanny.
It may not be improper, before we proceed farther, to open a
little the character of tMs gentleman, and that of his friends.
The master of tMs house, then, was a man of a very considerable
fortune; a bachelor, as we have said, and about forty years of
age: he had been educated, if we may use the expression, in the
country, and at his own home, under the care of Ms mother and a
tutor, who had orders never to correct him, nor to compel him to
learn more than he liked, wMch it seems was very little, and that
only in Ms childhood; for from the1 age of fifteen he addicted Mm-
self entirely to hunting and other rural amusements, for wMch his
mother took care to equip Mm with horses, hounds, and all other
necessaries; and Ms tutor, endeavouring to ingratiate himself with
Ms young pupil, who would, he knew, be able handsomely to
provide for Mm, became his compamon, not only at these exercises,
but likewise over a bottle, wMch the young squire had a very early
relish for.
At the age of twenty, Ms mother began to think she had not
fulfilled the duty of a parent; she therefore resolved to persuade
her son, if possible, to that wfdch she imagined would well supply
all that he might have learned at a public school or uMversity;—
tMs is, what they commonly call travelling; wMch, with the help
of the tutor, who was fixed on to attend Mm, she easily succeeded
in. He made in three years the tour of Europe, as they term it,
and returned home well furnished with French clothes, phrases,
and servants, with a hearty contempt for Ms own country; espe-
cially what had any savour of the plain spirit and honesty of our
ancestors.
His mother greatly applauded herself at Ms return. And now,
being master of his own fortune, he soon procured Mmself a, seat
PRACTICAL JOKING. 175
in parliament, and was in the common opinion one of the finest
gentlemen of his age; but what distinguished him chiefly was a
strange delight which he took in everything which is ridiculous,
odious, and absurd in his own species; so that he never chose a
companion without one or more of these ingredients : and those
who were marked bv nature in the most eminent degree with
them, were most his favourites.
If he ever found a man who either had not or endeavoured to
Conceal these imperfections, he took great pleasure in inventing
methods of forcing him into absurdities which were not natural to
him, or in drawing forth and exposing those that were; for which
purpose he was always provided with a set of fellows, whom we
have before called curs, and who did, indeed, no great honour
to the canine kind: their business was to hunt out and display
everything that had any savour of the above-mentioned qualities,
and especially in the gravest and best characters; but if they
failed in their search, they were to turn even virtue and wisdom
themselves into ridicule, for the diversion of their master and
feeder. The gentlemen of curlike disposition who were now at
his house, and whom he had brought from London, were an old
half-pay officer, a player, a dull poet, a quack doctor, a scraping
fiddler, and a lame German dancing-master.
As soon as dinner was served, while Mr. Adams was saying
grace, the captain conveyed his chair from behind him; so that
when he endeavoured to seat himself, he fell down on the ground;
and thus completed joke the first, to the great entertainment of
the whole company. The second joke was performed by the poet,
who sat next him on the other side, and took an opportunity,
while poor Adams was respectfully drinking to the master of the
house, to overturn a plate of soup into his breeches; which, with
the many apologies he made, and the parson's gentle answers,
caused much mirth to the company. Joke the third was served
up by one of the waiting-men, who had been ordered to convey
a quantity of gin into Mr. Adams's ale, which he declaring to be
the best liquor he ever drank, but rather too rich of the malt,
■ contributed again to their laughter.
Mr. Adams, from whom we had most of this relation, could not
recollect all the jests of this kind practised on him, which the
inoffensive disposition of his own heart made him slow in disco-
vering; and indeed, had it not been for the information which we
received from a servant of the family, this part of our history,
which we take to be none of the least curious, must have been
deplorably imperfect; though we must own it probable, that some
more jokes were, as they call it, cracked during their dinner; but
we have by no means been able to come at the knowledge of
them.
When dinner was removed, the poet began to repeat some
176 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
verses, which, he said, were made extempore. The following is a
copy of them, procured with the greatest difficulty
AN EXTEMPORE POEM ON PARSON ADAMS.
Dd ever mortal such a parson view,
His cassock old, his wig- not over new ?
Well might the hounds have him for fox mistaken,
In smell more like to that than rusty bacon.*
But would it not make any mortal stare,
To see this parson taken for a hare ?
Could Phoebus err thus grossly, even he
For a good player might have taken thee.
At which words the bard whipped off the player's wig, and
received the approbation of the company, rather perhaps for the
dexterity of his hand than his head. The player, instead of re-
torting the jest on the poet, began to display his talents on the
same subject. He repeated many scraps of wit out of plays,
reflecting on the whole body of the clergy, which were received
with great acclamations by all present.
It was now the dancing-master's turn to exhibit his talents; he
therefore, addressing himself to Adams in broken English, told
him he was a man ver well made for de dance, and he suppose,
by his walk, cht he had learn of some great master. He said, it
was ver pretty quality in clergyman to dance; and concluded with
desiring him to dance a minuet, telling him, his cassock would
serve for petticoats; and that he would himself be his partner.
_ At which words, without waiting for an answer, he pulled out
his gloves, and the fiddler was preparing his fiddle. The company
aU offered the dancing-master wagers that the parson out-danced
him, which he refused, saying, he believed so too; for he had
never seen any man in his life who looked de dance so well as de
gentleman • he then stepped forwards to take Adams by the hand,
which the latter hastily withdrew; and at the same time clenching
his fist, advised him not to carry the jest too far, for he would
not endure being put upon.
The dancing-master no sooner saw the fist, than he prudently
retired out of its reach, and stood aloof, mimicking Adams, whose
eyes were fixed on him, not guessing what he was at, but to
avoid his laying hold on him, which he had once attempted. In
the mean while, the captain, perceiving an opportunity, pinned a
cracker or_ devil to the cassock, and then lighted it with their
little smoking-candle. Adams, being a stranger to this sport, and
believing he had been blown up in reality, started from his chair,
and jumped about the room to the infinite joy of the beholders,
who declared he was the best dancer in the universe.
* All hounds that will hunt foxes or other vermin, will hunt a piece of rusty
bacon trailed on the ground.
ADAM.S S SPEECH. 177
> As soon as the devil had done tormenting him, and he had a
little recovered his confusion, he returned to the table, standing
up in the posture of one who intended to make a speech. They
all cried out, " Hear him, hear him;" and he then spoke in the
following manner:—
" Sir, I am sorry to see one, to whom Providence has been so
bountiful in bestowing his favours, make so ill and ungrateful
a return for them: for though you have not insulted me yourself,
it is visible you have delighted in those that do it, nor have once
discouraged the many rudenesses which have been shown towards
me; indeed, towards yourself, if you rightly understood them;
for I am vour guest, and by the laws of hospitality entitled to
your protection. One gentleman has thought proper to produce
some poetry upon me, of which I shall only say, that I had rather
be the subject than the composer. He has pleased to treat me
with disrespect as a parson. I apprehend my order is not the
object of scorn, nor that I can become so, unless by being a
disgrace to it, which I hope poverty will never be called. Another
gentleman, indeed, has repeated some sentences, where the order
itself is mentioned with contempt; he says they are taken from
plays: I am sure such plays are a scandal to the government
which permits them, and cursed will be the nation where they are
represented. How others have treated me, I need not observe;
they themselves, when they reflect, must allow the behaviour to
be as improper to my years as to my cloth._ You found me, sir,
travelling with two of my parishioners (I omit your hounds falling
on me; for I have quite forgiven it, whether it proceeded from
the wantonness or negligence of the huntsman^; my appearance
might very well persuade you, that your invitation was an act of
charity, though, in reality, we were well provided ; yes, sir, if we
had had a hundred miles to travel, we had sufficient to bear our
expenses in a noble manner."
At which words he produced the half-guinea which was found
in the basket. " I do not show you this out of ostentation of
riches, but to convince you I speak truth. Your seating me gt
your table was an honour which I did not ambitiously affect':
when I was here, I endeavoured to_ behave towards you with the
utmost respect: if I have failed, it was not with design; nor
could I certainly, so far be guilty, as to deserve the insults I have
suffered. If they were meant, therefore, either to my orde: j r
my poverty (and you see I am not very poor), the shame does
lie at my door, and I heartily pray that the sin may be avert pf
from yours."
He thus finished, and received a general clap from the who
company.
Then the gentleman of the house told him he was sorry for what
had happened; that he could not accuse him of any share in
178 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
it; that the verses were, as himself had well observed, so bad,
that he might easily answer them; and for the serpent, it was
undoubtedly a very great affront done him by the dancing-master,
for which, if he well thrashed him, as he deserved, he should be
very much pleased to see it, in which, probably he spoke the
truth.
Adams answered, whoever had done it, it was not his profession
to punish him that way; but for the person whom he had accused,
"I am a witness," says he, "of his innocence; for I had my eye
on him all the while. Whoever he was, God forgive him, and
bestow on him a little more sense, as well as humanity."
The captain answered, with a surly look and accent, that he
hoped he did not mean to reflect upon him; d—n him, he had as
much humanity as another; and if any man said he had not, he
would convince him of his mistake by cutting his throat.
Adams, smiling, said, he believed he had spoken right by acci-
dent. To which the captain returned, " What do you mean by my
speaking right ? If you was not a parson, I would not take these
words ; but your gown protects you. If any man who wears a
sword had said so much, I had pulled him by the nose before
this."
Adams replied, if he attempted any rudeness to his person, he
would _ not and any protection for himself in his gown; and,
clenching his fist, declared he had thrashed many a stouter man.
The gentleman did all he could to encourage this warlike disposi-
tion in Adams, and was in hopes to have produced a battle, but
he was disappointed; for the captain made no other answer, than, (
" It is very well you are a parson;" and so, drinking off a bumper
to old Mother Church, ended the dispute.
Then the doctor, who had hitherto been silent, and who was
the gravest, but the most mischievous dog of all, in a very
pompous speech highly applauded what Adams had said, and as
much discommended the behaviour to him. He proceeded to
encomiums on the church and poverty; and, lastly, recommended
forgiveness of what had passed to Adams, who immediately an-
swered, that everything was forgiven; and in the warmth of his
goodness, he filled a bumper of strong beer (a liquor he preferred
to wine), and drank a health to the whole company, shaidng the
captain and the poet heartily by the hand, and addressing himself
with great respect to the doctor, who, indeed, had not laughed
outwardly at anything that passed, as he had a perfect command
of his muscles, and could laugh inwardly without betraying the
least symptoms in his countenance.
The doctor now began a second formal speech, in which he
declaimed against all levity of conversation, and what is usually
called mirth: lie said, there were amusements fitted for persons
of all ages and degrees, from the rattle to the discussing a point
A GREAT MAN'S DIVERSION. 179
of philosophy; and that men discovered themselves in nothing
more than in the choice of their amusements; " for," says he.
" as it must greatly raise our expectation of the future conduct in
life of boys, whom, in their tender years, we perceive, instead of
taw, or balls, or other childish playthings, to choose at their leisure
hours to exercise their genius in contentions of wit, learning, and
such like; so must it inspire one with equal contempt of a man,
if we should discover him playing at taw, or other childish play."
Adams highly commended the doctor's opinion, and said, lie had
often wondered at some passages in ancient authors, where Scipio,
Lselius, and other great men were represented to have passed
many hours in amusements of the most trifling kind. The doctor
replied, he had by him an old Greek manuscript, where a favourite
diversion of Socrates was recorded. "Ay," says the parson
eagerly: _" I should be most infinitely obliged to you for the favour
of perusing it."
The doctor promised to send it him, and further said, that he
believed he could describe it. " I think," says he, " as near as I
can remember, it was thus :—' There was a throne erected, on one
side of which sat a king, and on the other a queen, with their
guards and attendants ranged on both sides; to them was intro-
dueed an ambassador, which part Socrates always used to perform
himself; and when he was led up to the footsteps of the throne,
he addressed himself to the monarchs in some grave speech, full
of virtue, and goodness, and morality, and such like; after which,
he was seated between the king and queen, and royally entertained:
this, I think, was the chief part. Perhaps I may have forgotten
some particulars; for it is long since I read it."
Adams said, it was, indeed, a diversion worthy the relaxation of
so great a man; and thought something resembling it should be
instituted among our great men, instead of cards and other idle
pastime, in which, he was informed, they trifled away too much of
their lives. He added, the Christian religion was a nobler subject
for these speeches, than any Socrates could have invented.
The gentleman of the house approved what Mr. Adams said,
and declared, he resolved to perform the ceremony this very even-
ing: to which the doctor objected, as no one was prepared with a
speech; "unless," said he (turning to Adams, with a gravity of
countenance which would have deceived a more knowing man),
" you have a sermon about you, doctor."—" Sir," says Adams, " I
never travel without one, for fear_of what may happen."
He was easily prevailed on by his worthy friend, as he now called
the doctor, to undertake the part of the ambassador; so that the
gentleman sent immediate orders to have the throne erected,
which was performed, before they had drunk two bottles: and
perhaps the reader will hereafter have no great reason to admire
tiie nimbleness of the servants. Indeed, to confess the truth, tlie
180 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
throne was no more than this: there was a great tub of water
revised, on each side of which were placed two stools, raised
igher than the surface of the tub, and over the whole was laid a
blanket; on these stools were placed the king and queen, namely,
the master of the house and the captain.
And now the ambassador was introduced between the poet and
the doctor; who, having read his sermon, to the great entertain-
ment of all present, was led up to his place, and seated between
their majesties. They immediately rose up; when the blanket,
wanting its supports at either end, gave way, and soused Adams
over head and ears in the water. _ The captain made his escape;
but, unluckily, the gentleman himself not being as nimble as
he ought, Adams caught hold of him before he descended from
his throne, and pulled him in with him, to the entire secret satis-
faction of all the company.
Adams, after ducking the squire twice or thrice, leaped out of
the tub, and looked sharp for the doctor, whom he would certainly
have conveyed to the same place of honour, but he had wisely
withdrawn: he then searched for his crabstick; and, having found
that, as well as his fellow-travellers, he declared he would not stay
a moment longer in such a house.
He then departed, without taking leave of his host, whom he had
exacted a more severe revenge on than he intended ; for, as he did
not use sufficient care to dry himself in time, he caught a cold by
the accident, which threw him into a fever that had like to have
cost him his life.
Chap. VIII.—Which some Readers will think too Short, and others
too Long.
Adams and Joseph, who was no less enraged than his friend, at the
treatment he met with, went out with their sticks in their hands,
and carried off Fanny, notwithstanding the opposition of the ser-
vants, who did all, without proceeding to violence, in their power
to detain them. They walked as fast as they could, not so mucli
from any apprehension of being pursued, as that Mr. Adams mighty
by exercise, prevent any harm from the water. The gentleman,
who had given such orders to his servants concerning Fanny, that
lie did not in the least fear her getting away, no sooner heard
that she was gone, than he began to rave, and immediately de-
spalched several with orders, either to bring her back or never
return. The poet, the player, and all but the dancing-master and
doctor, went 011 this errand.
The night was very dark in which our friends began their
journey; however, they made such expedition, that they soon
REFLECTIONS ON RICHES 181
arrived at an inn which was at seven miles' distance. Here they
unanimously consented to pass the evening, Mr. Adams being now
as dry as he was before he set out on his embassy.
This inn, which indeed we might call an ale-house, had not the
words "The New Inn" been written on the sign, afforded them
no better provisions than bread and cheese and ale; on which,
however, they made a very comfortable meal; for hunger is better
than a Trench cook.
They had no sooner supped, than Adams, returning thanks to
the Almighty for his food, declared he had ate his homely commons
with much greater satisfaction than his splendid dinner; and
expressed great contempt for the folly of mankind, who sacrificed
their hopes of heaven to the acquisition of vast wealth, since so
much comfort was to be found in the humblest state and the lowest
provision.
" Very true, sir," says a grave man, who sat smoking his pipe by
the fire, and who was a traveller as well as himself: " I have often
been as much surprised as you are, when I consider the value which
mankind in general set on_ riches; since every day's experience
shows us how little is in their power; for what, indeed, truly desir-
able, can they bestow on us? Can they give beauty to the
deformed, strength to the weak, or health to the infirm ? Surely,
if they could, we should not see so many ill-favoured faces haunt-
ing the assemblies of the great, nor would such numbers of feeble
wretches languish in their coaches and palaces. No, not the wealth
of a kingdom can purchase any paint to dress .pale ugliness in the
bloom of that young maiden, nor any drugs to equip disease_with
the vigour of that young man. Do not riches bring us solicitude
instead of rest, envy instead of affection, and danger instead of
safety ? Can they prolong their own possession, or lengthen his
days who enjoys them? So far otherwise, that the sloth, the
luxury, the care which attend them, shorten the lives of millions,
and bring them with pain and misery to an untimely grave.
Where then is their value, if they can neither embellish nor
strengthen our forms, sweeten nor prolong our lives? Again:
can they adorn the mind more than the body ? Do they not rather
swell the heart with vanity, puff up the cheeks with pride,_ shut
our ears to every call of virtue, and our bowels to every motive of
compassion ?"
"Give me your hand, brother," said Adams in a rapture; "for
I suppose you are a clergyman."
" No, truly," answered the other: indeed he was a priest of the
church of Rome; but those who understand our laws, will not
wonder he was not over-ready to own it.
"Whatever you are," cries Adams, "you have spoken my senti-
ments: I believe I have preached every syllable of your speech
twenty times over; for it has always appeared to me easier for a
182 JOSEPH AHDHEWS.
cable rope (wliicli by the way is tbe true rendering of tliat word
we have translated camel) to go through the eye of a needle, than
for a rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven."
"That, sir," said the other, "will be easily granted you by
divines, and is deplorably true: but as the prospect of our good
at a distance does not so forcibly affect us, it might be of some
service to mankind to be made thoroughly sensible,—which I
think they might be with very little serious attention,—that even
the blessings of this world are not to be purchased with riches;—
a doctrine, in my opinion, not only metapnysically, but, if I may so
say, mathematically demonstrable; and which I have been always
so perfectly convinced of, that I have a contempt for nothing so
much as for gold."
Adams now began a long discourse; but as most which he said
occurs among many authors who have treated this subject, I shall
omit inserting it. During its continuance Joseph and Fanny retired
to rest, and the host likewise left the room. When the English
parson had concluded, the Romish resumed the discourse, which
he continued with great bitterness and invective; and at last
ended by desiring Adams to lend him eighteen-pence to pay his
reckoning; promising, if he never paid him, he might be assured
of his prayers. The good man answered, that eighteen-pence
would be too little to carry him any very long journey; that he
had half a guinea in his pocket, which he would divide with him.
He then fell to searching his pockets, but could find no money;
for indeed the company with whom he dined had passed one jest
upon him which we did not then enumerate, and had picked his
pocket of all that treasure which he had so ostentatiously
produced.
" Bless me," cried Adams, " I have certainly lost it: I can never
have spent it. Sir, as I am a Christian, I had a whole half-guinea
in my pocket this morning, and have not now a single halfpenny of
it left. Sure the devil must have taken it from me."
" Sir," answered the priest, smiling, " you need make no excuses:
if you are not willing to lend me the money, I am contented."
" Sir," cries Adams, " if I had the greatest sum in the world,—
ay, if I had ten pounds about me,—I would bestow it all to rescue
any Christian from distress. I am more vexed at my loss on your
account than my own. Was ever anything so unlucky ? because I
have no money in my pocket, I shall be suspected to be no Christian."
" I am more unlucky," quoth the other, " if you are as generous
as you say; for really a crown would have made me happy, and
conveyed me in plenty to the place I am going, which is not above
twenty miles off, and where 1 can arrive by to-morrow night. I
assure you I am not accustomed to travel penniless. I am but
just arrived in England • and we were forced by a storm in our
passage to throw all we had overboard. I don't suspect but this
SURPRISING ADVENTURES. 183
fellow will take my word for the trifle I owe him; but I hate to
appear so mean as to confess myself without a shilling to such
people; for these, and indeed too many others, know little differ-
ence in their estimation between a beggar and a thief."
However, he thought he should deal better with the host that
evening than the next morning: he therefore resolved to set out
immediately, notwithstanding the darkness; and accordingly, a?
soon as the host returned, he communicated to him the situation
of his affairs; upon which the host, scratching his head, answered,
"Why, I do not know, master; if it be so, and you have no
money, I must trust, I think, though I had rather always have
ready money if I could; but, marry, you look like so honest a gen-
tleman, that I don't fear your paying me, if it was twenty times as
much."
The priest made no reply; but taking leave of him and Adamr
as fast as he could, not without confusion, and perhaps with some
distrust of Adams' sincerity, departed.
He was no sooner gone, than the host fell a shaking his head,
and declared, if he had suspected the fellow had no money, he
would not have drawn him a single drop of drink; saying, he de-
spaired of ever seeing his face again, for that he looked like a con-
founded rogue. "Rabbit the fellow," cries he: "I thought, by
his talking so much about riches, that he had a hundred pounds at
least in his pocket."
Adams chid him for his suspicions, which he said were not
becoming a Christian; and then, without reflecting on his loss, or
considering how he himself should depart in the morning, he retired
to a very homely bed, as_ his companions had before: however,
health and fatigue gave him a sweeter repose than is often in the
power of velvet and down to bestow.
Chap. IX.—Containing as surprising and bloody Adventures as can be found
in this, or perhaps any other authentic History.
It was almost morning, when Joseph Andrews, whose eyes the
thoughts of his dear Fanny had opened, as he lay fondly meditating
on that lovely creature, heard a violent knocking at the door over
which he lay. He presently jumped out of bed, and, opening the
window, was asked, if there were no travellers in the house; and
presently by another voice, if two men and a young woman had
not taken up their lodging there that night.
Though he knew not the voices, he began to entertain a suspicion
of the truth; for indeed he had received some information from
one of the servants of the squire's house of his design, and answered
in the negative. One of the servants, who knew the host well,
184 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
called out to him by his name, juet as he had opened another
window, and asked him the same question; to -which he answered
in the affirmative. " 0 ho!" said another, " have we found you ?"
and ordered the host to come down and open his door.
Fanny, who was as wakeful as Joseph, no sooner heard all
this, than she leaped from her bed, and, hastily putting on her
gown and petticoats, ran as fs»t as possible to Joseph's room, who
then was almost dressed, fie immediately let her m, and embrac-
ing her with the most passionate tenderness, bid her fear nothing,
for he would die in her defence. " Is that a reason why I should
not fear," says she, " when I should lose what is dearer to me than
the whole world ?" _
Joseph then, kissing her hand, said, he could almost thank the
occasion which had extorted from her a tenderness she would
never indulge him with before. He then ran and waked his bed-
fellow Adams, who was yet fast asleep, notwithstanding many
calls from Joseph; but was no sooner made sensible of their
danger, than he leaped from his bed, without considering the pre-
sence of Fanny, who hastily turned her face from him, and enjoyed
a double benefit from the dark, which, as it would have prevented
any offence to an innocence less pure, or a modesty less delicate,
so it concealed even those blushes which were raised in her.
Adams had soon put on all his clothes but his breeches, which
in the hurry he forgot; however, they were pretty well supplied
by the length of his other garments; and now, the house-door
being opened, the captain, the poet, the player, and three servants
came in. The captain told the host, that two fellows, who were
in his house, had run away with a young woman, and desired to
know in winch room she lay.
The host, who presently believed the story, directed them ; and
instantly the captain and poet, jostling one another, ran up. The
poet, who was the nimblest, entering the chamber first, searched
the bed and every other part, but to no purpose: the bird was
flown, as the impatient reader, who might otherwise have been in
pain for her, was before advertised. They then inquired where
the men lay, and were approaching the chamber, when Joseph
roared out in a loud voice, that he would shoot the first man who
offered to attack the door.
The captain inquired what firearms they had; to which the host
answered, he believed they had none- nay, he was almost con-
vinced 01 it, for he had heard one ask the other in the evening
what they should have done if they had been overtaken, when
they had no arms ; to which the other answered, they would have
defended themselves with their sticks as long as they were able,
and God would assist in a just cause. This satisfied the captain,
but not the poet, who prudently retreated down stairs, saymg it
was his business to record great actions, and not to do them.
THE BATTLE. 185
The captain was no sooner well satisfied that there were no fire-
arms, than, bidding defiance to gunpowder, and swearing he loved
the smell of it, he ordered the servants to follow him; and, march-
ing boldly up, immediately attempted to force the door, which the
servants soon helped him to accomplish.
When it was opened, they discovered the enemy drawn up three
deep; Adams in the front, and Eanny in the rear. The captain
tola Adams, that if they would go all back to the house again, they
should be civilly treated; but unless they consented, he had orders
to carry the young lady with him, whom there was great reason to
believe they had stolen from her parents; for, notwithstanding
her disguise, her air, which she could not conceal, sufficiently
discovered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs.
Fanny, bursting into tears, solemnly assured him he was mis-
taken; that she was a poor helpless foundling, and had no relations
in the world, which she knew of; and, throwing herself on her
knees, begged that he would not attempt to take her from her
friends, who she was convinced would die before they would lose
her; which Adams confirmed with words not far from amounting
to an oath.
The captain swore he had no leisure to talk; and, bidding them
thank themselves for what happened, he ordered the servants to
fall on, at the same time endeavouring to pass by Adams, in order
to lay hold on Fanny; but the parson, interrupting him, received
a blow from one of them, which, without considering whence it
came, he returned to the captain, and gave him so dexterous a
knock in that part of the stomach which is vulgarly called the pit,
that he staggered some paces backwards.
The captain, who was not accustomed to this kind of play, and
who wisely apprehended the consequence of such another blow,
two of them seeming to him equal to a thrust through the body,
drew forth his hanger, as Adams approached him ; and was level-
ling a blow at his head, which would probably have silenced the
Ereacher for ever, had not Joseph in that instant lifted up a certain
uge stone pot of the chamber with one hand, which six beaux
could not have lifted with both, and discharged it, together with
the contents, full in the captain's face. The uplifted hanger
dropped from his hand, and he fell prostrate on the floor with a
lumpish noise, and his halfpence rattled in his pocket: the red
liquour which his veins contained, and the white liquor which the
pot contained, ran in one stream down his face and his clothes.
Nor had Adams quite escaped, some of the water having in its
passage shed its honours on his head, and began to trickle down
the wrinkles, or rather furrows of his cheeks, when one of the ser-
vants, snatching a mop out of a pail of water, which had already
done its duty m washing the_ house, pushed it in the parson's
face: yet could not he bear him down; for the parson, wresting
186 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
the mop from the fellow with one hand, with his otbei brought
the enemy as low as the earth, having given him a stroke over that
part of the face, where, in some men of pleasure, the natural and
artificial noses are conjoined.
Hitherto Fortune seemed to incline the victory on the travellers'
side, when, according to her custom, she began to show the fickle-
ness of her disposition; for now the host entering the field, or
rather chamber, of battle, flew directly at Joseph, and darting his
head into his stomach (for he was a stout fellow, and an expert
boxer), almost staggered him; but Joseph, stepping one leg back,
did with his left hand so chuck him under the chin that he reeled.
The youth was pursuing his blow with his right hand, when he
received from one of the servants such a stroke with a cudgel on
his temples, that it instantly deprived him of sense, and he mea-
sured his length on the ground.
Fanny rent the air with her cries, and Adams was coming to the
assistance of Joseph; but the two serving-men and the host now
fell on him, and soon subdued him, though he fought like a mad-
man, and looked so black with the impression he had received
from the mop, that Don Quixote would certainly have taken him
for an enchanted Moor.
But now follows the most tragical part: for the captain was
risen again, and seeing Joseph on the floor, and Adams secured,
he instantly laid hold on Fanny, and, with the assistance of the
poet and player, who, hearing the battle was over, were now come
up, dragged her, crying and tearing her hair, from the sight of her
Joseph; and, with a perfect deafness to all her entreaties, carried
her down stairs by violence, and fastened her on the pfeyer's horse:
and the captain, mounting his own, and leading that on which this
poor miserable wretch was, departed, without any more consider-
ation of her cries than a butcher has of those of a lamb; for indeed
his thoughts were entertained only with the degree of favour
which he promised himself from the squire on the success of this
adventure.
The servants, who were ordered to secure Adams and Joseph as
safe as possible, that the squire might receive no interruption to
his design on poor Fanny, immediately, by the poet's advice, tied
Adams to one of the bedposts, as they did Joseph on the other
side, as soon as they could bring him to himself; and then leaving
them together, back to back, and desiring the host not to set
them at liberty, nor to go near them till he had further orders,
they departed towards their master; but happened to take a
different road from that which the captain had fallen into.
poet and player.
187
Chap. X.—A Discourse between the Poet and Player, of no other use in this
History but to divert the Reader.
Before we proceed any farther in this tragedy, we shall leave
Mr. Joseph and Mr. Adams to themselves, and imitate the wise
conductors of the stage, who, in the midst of a grave action, enter
tain yon with some excellent piece of satire or humour called
a dance: which piece indeed is therefore danced, and not spoken,
as it is delivered to the audience by persons whose thinking
faculty is by most people held to lie in their heels; and to whom,
as well as heroes, who think with their hands, Nature has only
given heads for the sake of conformity, and as they are of use in
dancing, to hang their hats on.
The poet, addressing the player, proceeded thus: " As I was
saying" (for they had been at this discourse all the time of the
engagement above stairs), " the reason you have no good new plays
is evident; it is from your discouragement of authors. Gentlemen
will not write, sir, they will not write, without the expectation of
fame or profit, or perhaps both. Plays are like trees, which will
not grow without nourishment; but, like mushrooms, they shoot
up spontaneously, as it were, in a rich soil. The Muses, like vines,
may be pruned, but not with a hatchet. The town, like a peevish
child, knows not what it desires, and is always best pleased with a
rattle. A farce-writer has indeed some chance of success; but
they have lost all taste for the sublime; though I believe one
reason of their depravity is the badness of the actors. If a man
writes like an angel, sir, those fellows know not how to give a
sentiment utterance."
"Not so fast," says the player: " the modern actors are as good
at least as their authors; nay, they come nearer their illustrious
predecessors; and I expect a Booth on the stage again, sooner
than a Shakspeare or an Otway; and indeed I may turn your
observation against you, and with truth say, that the reason no
actors are encouraged, is because we have no good new plays."
"I have not affirmed the contrary," said the poet; "but I am
surprised you grow so warm: you cannot imagine yourself
interested in this dispute • I hope you have a better opinion of my
taste, than to apprehend I squinted at yourself. No, sir, if we had
six such actors as you, we should soon rival the Bettcrtons and
Sandfords of former times; for, without a compliment to you, I
think it impossible for any one to have excelled you in most of your
parts. Nay, it is solemn truth • and I have heard many, and all great
judges, express as much; and you will pardon me if I tell you, I
think every time I have seen you lately, you have constantly
188 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
acquired some new excellence, like a snowball. You have deceived
me in my estimation of perfection, and have outdone what I thought
inimitable."
" You are as little interested," answered the player, " in what 1
have said of other poets; for d—n me if there are not many
strokes, ay, whole scenes, m your last tragedy, which at least equal
Shakspeare. There is a delicacy of sentiment, a dignity of expres-
sion in it, which I will own many of our gentlemen did not db
adequate justice too. To confess the truth, they are bad enough;
and I pity an author who is present at the murder of his works."
"Nay, it is but seldom that it can happen," returned the poet:
" the works of most modern authors, like dead-born children, cannot
be murdered. It is such wretched, half-begotten, half-written,
spiritless, low, grovelling stuff, that I almost pity the actor who
is obliged to get it by heart, wnich must be almost as difficult to
remember as words in a language you do not understand."
"I am sure," said the player, "if the sentences have little
meaning when they are written, when they are spoken they have
less. I know scarce one who ever lays an emphasis right, and
much less adapts his action to his character. I have seen a tender
lover in an attitude of fighting with his mistress, and a brave hero
suing to his enemy with his sword in his hand. I don't care
to abuse my profession; but, rot me, if in my heart I am not
inclined to the poet's side."
" It is rather generous in you than just," said the poet; " and
though I hate to speak ill of anyperswi's production,—nay, I never
do it, nor will,—but yet, to do justice to the actors, what could
Booth or Betterton have made of such horrible stuff as Benton's
" Mariamne," Erowd's " jPhilotas," or Mallet's " Eurydice" or
those low, dirty, last-dying speeches, which a fellow in the city, or
Mapping, your DilJo or Lillo, what was his name, called tragedies?"
" Very well," says the player: " and, pray, what do you think of
such fellows as Quin and Delane, or that face-making puppy
voung Cibber, that ill-looked dog Macklin, or that saucy slut
Mrs. Clive ? What work would they make with your Shaks-
peares, Otways, and Lees! How would those harmonious lines of
the last come from their tongues !
No more; for I disdain
All pomp when thou art by : far be the noise
Of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls
Our kinder fates have steer'd another way.
Free as the forest birds, we'll pair together,
Without remembering who our fathers were;
Fly to the arbours, grots, and flowery meads 5
There, in soft murmurs, interchange our souls;
Together drink the crystal of the stream,
Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields :
And, when the golden evening calls us home,
Wing to our downy nests, and sleep till morn.
IOET AND PLATER. 189
Or how would this disdain of Otway—
Who'd be that foolish, sordid thing, call'd man ?
"Hold! hold! hold!" said the poet: "do repeat that tender
speech in the third act of my play which you made such a
figure in."
"I would willingly," said the player, " but I have forgotten it."
" Ay, you was not quite perfect enough in it when you played
it," cries the poet, " or you would have had such an applause as
was never given on the stage; an applause I was extremely con-
cerned for your losing."
" Sure," says the player, " if I remember, that was hissed more
.than any passage in the whole play."
" Ay, your speaking it was hissed," said the poet.
"My speaking it!" said the player.
"I mean your not speaking it," said the poet: "you was out,
and then they hissed."
" They hissed, and then I was out, if I remember," answered the
player; " and I must say this for myself; that the whole audience
allowed I did your part justice: so don't lay the damnation of your
play to my account."
"I don't know what you mean by damnation," replied the
poet.
" Why, you know it was acted but one night," cried the player.
"No," said the poet, "you and the whole town were enemies:
the pit were all my enemies; fellows that would cut my throat, if
the fear of hanging did not restrain them: all tailors, sir, all
tailors."
. "Why should the tailors be so angry with you?" cries the
player: " I suppose you don't employ so many in making your
clothes."
"I admit your jest," answered the poet; "but you remember
the affair as well as myself: you know there was a party in the
pit and upper gallery would not suffer it to be given out again;
though much, ay, infinitely, the majority, all the boxes in parti-
cular, were desirous of it; nay, most of the ladies swore they never
would come to the house till it was acted again. Indeed, 1 must
own their policy was good, in not letting it be given out a second
time; for the rascals knew if it had gone a second night, it would
have run fifty; for if ever there was distress in a tragedy, 1 am
not fond of my own performance; but if I should tell you what the
best of judges said of it—. Nor was it entirely owing to my enemies
neither, that it did not succeed on the stage as well as it has since
among the polite readers; for you can't say it had justice done it
by the performers."
"I think," answered the player, "the performers did the dis-
tress of it justice; for I am sure we were in distress enough, who
190 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
were pelted with oranges all the last act: we all imagined if would
have Been the last act of our lives."
The poet, whose fury was now raised, had just attempted to
answer, when they were interrupted, and an end put to their dis-
course, by an accident; which, if the reader is impatient to know,
he must skip over the next chapter, which is a sort of counterpart
to this, and contains some of the best and gravest matters in the
whole book; being a discourse between Parson Abraham Adams
and Mr. Joseph Andrews.
Chap. XI.—Containing the Exhortations of Parson Adams to his Friend
in Affliction; calculated for the Instruction and Improvement of the
Reader.
Joseph no sooner came perfectly to himself, than perceiving his
mistress gone, he bewailed her loss with groans which would have
pierced any heart but those which are possessed by some people,
and are made of a certain composition, not unlike flint in its hard-
ness and other properties • for you may strike fire from them,
which will dart through the eyes, but they can never distil one
drop of water the same wav. His own, poor youth, was of a
softer composition; and at those words, " 0 my dearPanny! 0
my love! shall I never, never see thee more ? " his eyes over-
flowed with tears, which would have become anything but a hero.
In a word, his despair was more easy to be conceived than related.
Mr. Adams, after many groans, sitting with his back to Joseph,
began thus in a sorrowful tone:—" You cannot imagine, my good
child, that I entirely blame these first agonies of your grief • for
when misfortunes attack us by surprise, it must require infinitely
more learning than you are master of to resist them; but it is the
business of a man and a Christian to summon reason as quickly as
he can to his aid; and she will presently teach him patience and
submission. Be comforted, therefore, child; I say, be comforted.
It is true, you have lost the prettiest, kindest, loveliest, sweetest
young woman; one, with whom you might have expected to have
lived in happiness, virtue, and innocence; by whom you might
have promised yourself many little darlings, who would have been
the delight of your youth, and the comfort of your age. You have
not only lost her, but have reason to fear the utmost violence
which lust and power can inflict upon her. Now, indeed, you
may easily raise ideas of horror which might drive you to despair."
" 0, I shall run mad!" cries Joseph: " 0, that I could but
command my hands to tear my eyes out, and my flesh off! "
"If you would use them to such purposes, I am glad you
ADAMS'S CONSOLATION. 191
can't",'Answered Adams: "I have stated your misfortunes as
strong as I possibly can; but, on the other side, you are to con-
sider you are a Christian; that no accident happens to us without
the divine permission • and that it is the duty of a man and a
Christian to submit. We did not make ourselves; but the same
Power which made us rules over us, and we are absolutely at his
disposal: he may do with us what he pleases, nor have we any
right to complain. A second reason against our complaint is our
ignorance; for as we know not future events, so neither can we
tell to what purpose any accident tends; and that which at first
threatens us with evil, may in the end produce our good. I should
indeed have said our ignorance is twofold, but I have not at present
time to divide properly; for as we know not to what purpose any
event is ultimately directed, so neither can we affirm from what
cause it originally sprung. You are a man, and consequently a
sinner; and this may_ be a punishment to you for your sins:
indeed in this sense it may be esteemed as a good, yea, as the
greatest good, which satisfies the anger of Heaven, and averts
that wrath which cannot continue without our destruction.
Thirdly, our impotency of relieving ourselves demonstrates the
folly and absurdity of our complaints: for whom do we resist, or
against whom do we complain, but a Power, from whose shafts no
armour can guard us, no speed can fly;—a Power, which leaves
us no hope but in submission ?"
"0, sir," cried Joseph, "all this is very true and very fine,
and I could hear you all day, if I was not so grieved at heart, as
now I am."
"Would you take physic," says Adams, "when you are well,
and refuse it when you are sick ? Is not comfort to be admi-
nistered to the afflicted, and not to those who rejoice, or those
who are at ease ?"
"0, you have not spoken one word of comfort to me yet!"
returned Joseph.
"No!" cries Adams; "what am I then doing? what can I say
to comfort you ?"
" 0, tell me," cries Joseph, " that Panny will escape back to my
arms; that they shall again enclose that lovely creature, with ail
her sweetness, all her untainted innocence about her!"
"Why, perhaps you may," cries Adams; "but I can't promise
you what's to come. You must with perfect resignation wait
the event: if she be restored to you again, it is your duty to be
thankful, aud so it is if she be not. Joseph, if you are wise, and
truly know your own interest, you will peaceably and quietly
submit to all the dispensations of Providence; being thoroughly
assured, that all the misfortunes, how great soever, which happen
to the righteous, happen to them for their own good. Nay, it is
nCSt your interest only, but your duty, to abstain from immoderate
192 JOSEPH ANDEEWS.
grief; which if you indulge, you are not worthy the name of a
Christian."
He spoke these last words with an accent a little severer than
usual: upon which Joseph begged him not to be angry, saying,
he mistook him if he thought he denied it was his duty, for he had
known that long ago. " What signifies knowing yonr duty if you do
not perform it ?" answered Adams : "your knowledge increases
your guilt. 0 Joseph! I never thought you had this stubbornness
in your mind."
Joseph replied, he fancied he misunderstood him; "which, I
assure you," says he, " you do, if you imagine I endeavour to
grieve: upon my soul I don't."
Adams rebuked him for swearing, and then proceeded to
enlarge on the folly of grief; telling him, all the wise men and
philosophers, even among the heathens, had written against it,
quoting several passages from Seneca, and the Consolation,
which, though it was not Cicero's, was, he said, as good almost as
any of his works ; and concluded all by hinting, that immoderate
grief in this case might incense that Power, which alone could
restore him his Panny.
This reason, or indeed rather the idea which it raised, of the
restoration of his mistress, had more effect than all which the
parson had said before, and for a moment abated his agonies; but
when his fears sufficiently set before his eyes the danger that poor
creature was in, his grief returned again with repeated violence,
nor could Adams in the least assuage it; though it may be
doubted, in his behalf, whether Socrates himself could have
prevailed any better.
They remained some time in silence, and groans and sighs
issued from both: at length, Joseph burst out into the following
Boliloquy:—
Yes, I win bear my sorrows like a man,
But I must also feel them as a man.
I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me.
Adams asked him what stuff that was he repeated; to which he
answered, they were some lines he had gotten by heart out of a
play. "Ay, there is nothing but heathenism to be learned from
plays," replied he : "I never heard of any plays fit for a Christian
to read, but Cato and the Conscious Lovers ; and I must own, in
the latter there are some things almost solemn enough for a
sermon." But we shall now leave them a little, and inquire after
the subject of their conversation.
MOKE ADVENTURES.
193
Chap. XII.—More Adventures, which we hope will as much Please as
Surprise the Reader.
Neither the facetious dialogue which passed between the poet
and the player, nor the grave and truly solemn discourse of Mr.
Adams, will, we conceive, make the reader sufficient amends for
the anxiety which he must have felt on the account of poor Eanny,
whom we left in so deplorable a condition. We shall, therefore,
now proceed to the relation of what happened to that beautiful
and innocent virgin, after she fell into the wicked hands of the
captain.
The man of war having conveyed his charming prize out of the
inn a little before day, made the utmost expedition in his power
towards the squire's house, where this delicate creature was to be
offered up a sacrifice to the lust of a ravisher. He was not only
deaf to all her bewailings and entreaties on the road, but accosted
her ears with impurities, which, having been never before accus
tomed to them, she happily for herself very little understood.
At last he changed this note, and attempted to soothe am
mollify her, by setting forth the splendour and luxury which wouli
be her fortune with a man, who would have the inclination and
power too, to give her whatever her utmost wishes could desire;
and told her, he doubted not but she would soon look kinder on
him, as the instrument of her happiness, and despise that pitiful
fellow, whom her ignorance only could make her fond of.
She answered, she knew not whom he meant; she never was
fond of any pitiful fellow. " Are you affronted, madam," says he,
" at my calling him so ? But what better can be said of one in a
livery, notwithstanding your fondness for him ?"
She returned, that she did not understand him; that the man
had been her fellow-servant, and she believed was as honest a
creature as any alive; but as for fondness for men "—"I
warrant ye," cries the captain, " we shall find means to persuade
you to be fond; and I advise you to yield to gentle ones, for you
may be assured that it is not in your power, by any struggles
whatever, to preserve your virginity two hours longer. It will be
your interest to consent; for the squire will be much kinder to
you if he enjoys you willingly, than by force."
At which words she began to call aloud for assistance, for it
was now open day; but finding none, she lifted her eyes to
heaven, and supplicated the divine assistance to preserve her
innocence. The captain told her, if she persisted in her vocife-
o
194 JOSEPH ANDKEWS.
ration, lie would find a means of stopping lier mouth. And now
the poor wretch, perceiving no hopes of succour, abandoned her-
self to despair; and, sighing out the name of "Joseph! Joseph \"
a river of tears ran down her lovely cheeks, and wetted the hand-
kerchief which covered her bosom.
A horseman npw appeared in the road, upon which the captain
threatened her violently if she complained; however, the moment
they approached each other, she Begged him, with the utmost
earnestness, to relieve a distressed creature who was in the hands
of a ravisher._ The fellow stopped at those words; but the captain
assured him it was his wife, and that he was carrying her home
from her adulterer; which so satisfied the fellow, who was an old
one, and perhaps a married one too, that he wished him a good
journey, and rode on.
He was no sooner passed, than the captain abused her violently
for breaking his commands, and threatened to gag her, when two
more horsemen, armed with pistols, came into the road just before
them. She again solicited their assistance, and the captain told
the same story as before. Upon which one said to the other,
" That's a charming wench, Jack; I wish I had been in the
fellow's place, whoever he is." But the other, instead of an-
swering him, cried out, " Zounds, I know her:" and then, turn-
ing to her, said, " Sure you are not Eanny Goodwill?"—"Indeed,
indeed, I am," she cried; "0 John! I know you now; Heaven
has sent you to my assistance, to deliver me from this wicked
man, who is carrying me away for his vile purposes. 0, for God's
sake, rescue me from him!"
A fierce dialogue immediately ensued between the captain and
these two men, who being both armed with pistols, and the chariot
which they attended being now arrived, the captain saw both force
and stratagem were vain, and endeavoured to make his escape; in
which, however, he coula not succeed. The gentleman who rode
in the chariot ordered it to stop, and with an air of authority,
examined into the merits of the cause; of which being advertised
by Eanny, whose credit was confirmed by the fellow who knew
her, he ordered the captain, who was all bloody, from his encoun-
ter at the inn, to be conveyed as a prisoner behind the chariot,
and very gallantly took Eanny into it; for, to say the truth, this
gentleman, who was no other than the celebrated Mr. Peter
Pounce, and who preceded the lady Booby only a few miles, by
setting out earlier m the morning, was a very gallant person, ana
loved a pretty girl better than anything, besides his own money
or the money of other people.
The chariot now proceeded towards the Am, which, as Eanny
was informed, lay in their way, and where it arrived at that very
time when the poet and player were disputing below stairs, ana
Adams and Joseph were diseajirring back to back above. Just
THE MEETING. 19?
at that period, to which we brought them both in the two pre-
ceding chapters, the chariot stopped at the door, and in an instant
Fanny, leaping from it, ran up to her Joseph.
0 reader! conceive if thou canst the joy which fired the breasts
of these lovers on this meeting; and if thy own heart does not
sympathetically assist thee in this conception, I pity thee sincerely
from my own; for, let -the hard-hearted villain know this: that
there is a pleasure in a tender sensation beyond any which he is
!i?eter being informed by_ Panny of the presence of Adams,
stopped to see him, and receive his homage: for, as Peter was a
hypocrite (a sort of people whom Mr. Adams never saw through),
the one paid that respect to his seeming goodness, which the other
believed to be paid to his riches: hence Mr Adams was so much
his favourite, that he once lent him four pounds thirteen shillings
and sixpence, to prevent his going to jail, on no greater security
than a bond and judgment, which probably he would have made
no use of, though the money had not been, as it was, paid exactly
at the time.
# It is not perhaps easy to describe the figure of Adams; he had
risen in such a hurry, that he had neither breeches, garters, nor
stockings; nor had he taken from his head a red spotted hand-
kerchief, which by night bound his wig, turned inside out, around
his head. He had on his torn cassock, and his great-coat; but as
the remainder of his cassock hung down below his great-coat,
so. did a snmll stripe of white, or rather whitish linen, appear
below that; to which we may add the several colours which ap-
peared in his face, where a long beard served to retain the. liquor
of the stone pot, and that of a blacker hue, which distilled from
the mop. This figure, which Panny had delivered from its cap-
tivitv, was no sooner spied by Peter, than it disordered the com-
posed gravity of his muscles; however, he advised him imme-
aiately to make himself clean, nor would accept his homage in
that pickle.
The poet and player no sooner saw the captain in captivity,
than they began to consider of their own safety, of which flight
presented itself as the only means; they therefore both of them
mounted the poet's horse, and made the most expeditious retread
in their power.
The host, who well knew Mr. Pounce, and Lady Booby's livery,
was not a little surprised at this change of the scene; nor was his
confusion much helped by his wife, who was now just risen; and,
having heard from him the account of what had passed, comforted
him with a decent number of fools and blockheads: asked him
why he did not consult her: and told him he would never leave
following the nonsensical dictates of his own numskull, till shr
and her family were ruined.
o 3
196 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Joseph, being informed of the captain's arrival, and seeing hia
"Fanny now in safety, quitted her a moment, and running down,
stairs, went directly to him, and, stripping off his coat, challenged
him to fight; but the captain refused, saying, he did not under-
stand boxing. He then grasped a cudgel m one hand, and, catch-
ing the captain by the collar with the other, gave him a most
severe drubbing; and ended with telling him, he had now had
some revenge for what his dear Fanny had suffered.
_ "When Mr. Pounce had a little regaled himself with some pro-
vision which he had in his chariot and Mr. Adams had put on the
best appearance his clothes would allow him, Pounce ordered the
captain into his presence; for he said he was guilty of felony, and
the next justice of peace should commit him: but the servants,
whose appetite for revenge is soon satisfied, being sufficiently
contented with the drubbing which Joseph had inflicted on him,
and which was indeed of no very moderate kind, had suffered him
to go off, which he did, threatening a severe revenge against
Joseph, which I have never heard he thought proper to take.
Tne mistress of the house made her voluntary appearance before
Mr. Pounce, and, with a thousand curtsies, told him, she hoped
his honour would pardon her husband, who was a very nonsense
man, for the sake of his poor family; that indeed, if he could be
ruined alone, she should be very willing of it; for because as why,
his worship very well knew he deserved it: but she had _ three
poor small children, who were not capable to get their own living;
and if her husband was sent to jail, they must all come to the
parish; for she was a poor weak woman, continually a-breeding,
and had no time to work for them. She therefore hoped his
honour would take it into his worship's consideration, and forgive
her husband this time; for she was sure he never intended any
harm to man, woman, or child; and if it was not for that block-
head of his own, the man in some things was well enough, for
she had had three children by him in less than three years, and
was almost ready to cry out the fourth time. She would har^
proceeded in this manner much longer, had not Peter stopped her
tongue, by telling her he had nothing to say to her husband nor
her neitherSo as Adams and the rest had assured her of forgive-
ness, she cried and curtsied out of the room.
Mr. Pounce was desirous that Panny should continue her journey
with him in the chariot; but she absolutely refused, saying, she
would ride behind Joseph, on a horse which one of Lady Booby's
servants had equipped him with. But, alas ! when the horse ap-
peared,it was found to be no other than that identical beast which
Mr. Adams had left behind him at the inn, and which these honest
fellows, who knew him, had redeemed. Indeed, whatever horse
they had provided for Joseph, they would have prevailed with him
to mount none, no, not even to ride before his beloved Fanny, till
JOSEPH AND FANNY. 197
the parson was supplied; much less would he deprive his friend
of the beast which belonged to him, and which he knew the
moment he saw, though Adams did not: however, when he was
reminded of the affair, and told that they had brought the horse
with them which he left behind, he answered—"Bless me! and
so I did."
Adams was very desirous that Joseph and Fanny should mount
this horse, and declared he could very easily walk home. " If I
walked alone," said he, " I would wager a shilling that the pedes-
trian outstripped the equestrian travellers; but as I intend to take
the company of a pipe, peradventure I may be an hour later." One
of the servants whispered Joseph to take him at his word, and
suffer the old put to walk if he would: this proposal was an-
swered with an angry look and a peremptory refusal by Joseph,
who, catching Fanny up in his arms, averred he would rather
carry her home in that manner, than take away Mr. Adams's
horse, and permit him to walk on foot.
Perhaps, reader thou hast seen a contest between two gentlemen
or two ladies, quickly decided, though they have both asserted
they would not eat such a nice morsel, and each insisting on the
other's accepting it; but, in reality, both were very desirous to
swallow it themselves. Do not, therefore, conclude hence, that
this dispute would have come to a speedy decision: for here both
parties were heartily in earnest; and it is very probable they would
have remained in the inn-yard to this day, had not the good Peter
Pounee put a stop to it; for, finding he had no longer hopes
of satisfying his old appetite with Fanny, and being desirous of
having some one to whom he might communicate his grandeur, he
told the parson he would convey him home in his chariot. This
favour was, by Adams, with many bows and acknowledgements,
accepted, though he afterwards said, he ascended the chariot rather
that he might not offend, than from any desire of riding in it;
for that in his heart he preferred the pedestrian even to the
vehicular expedition.
All matters being now settled, the chariot, in which rode Adams
and Pounce, moved forwards; and Joseph having borrowed a
pillion from the host, Fanny had just seated herself thereon, and
nad laid hold of the girdle which her lover wore for that purpose,
when the wise beast, who concluded that one at a time was suf-
ficient, that two to one were odds, &c., discovered much uneasi-
ness at his double load, and began to consider his hinder as his
fore legs, moving the direct contrary way to that which is called
forwards; nor could Joseph, with all his horsemanship, persuade
him to advance; but, without having any regard to the lovely part
of the lovely girl which was on his back, he used such agitations
that, had not one of the men come immediately to her assistance*
she had, in plain English, tumbled backwards on the ground.
198 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
This inconvenience was presently remedied by an exchange
of horses; and then, Fanny being again placed on her pillion, on
a better-natured, and somewhat better-fed beast, the parson's
horse, finding he had no longer odds to contend with, agreed to
march; and the whole procession set forwards for Booby Hall,
where they arrived in a few hours, without anything remarkable
happening on the road, unless it was a curious dialogue between
the parson and the steward; which, to use the language of a late
apologist, a pattern to all biographers, " waits for the reader in the
next chapter."
Chap. XIII.—A curious Dialogue which passed between Mr. Abraham Adams
and Mr. Peter Pounce, better worth Reading than all the works of Colley
Cibber, and many others.
The chariot had not proceeded far, before Mr. Adams observed it
was a very fine day. "Ay, and a very fine country too," answered
Pounce. " I should think so more," returned Adams, " if I had
not lately travelled over the Downs, which 1 take to exceed this
and all other prospects in the universe."—"A fig for prospects,"
answered Pounce : " one acre here is worth ten there; and, for my
own part, I have no delight in the prospect of any land but my
own."—" Sir," said Adams, " you can indulge yourself with many
fine prospects of that kind."—"I thank Gou I have a little,"
replied the other, " with which I am content, and envy no man:
I have a little, Mr. Adams, with which I do as much good as I •
can." Adams answered, that riches without charity were nothing
worth; for that they were a blessing only to him who made them
a blessing to others.
" You and I," said Peter, " have different notions of charity.
I own, as it is generally used, I do not like the word, nor do I
think it becomes one of us gentlemen; it is a mean parson-like
quality ; though I would not infer many parsons have it neither."
"Sir," said Adams, "my definition of charity is, a generous
disposition to relieve the distressed."—" There is something in
that definition," answered Peter, "which I like well enough; it
is, as you say, a disposition, and does not so much consist m the
act as in the disposition to do it; but alas ! Mr. Adams, who are
meant by the distressed ? Believe me, the distresses of mankind
are mostly imaginary, and it would be rather folly than goodness
to relieve them."
" Sure, sir," replied Adams, " hunger and thirst, cold and naked-
ness, and other distresses which attend the poor, can never be
said to be imaginary evils."—" How can any man complain of
hunger," said Peter "in a country where such excellent salads
POUNCE AND ADAMS. 199
are to be gathered in almost every field ? or of thirst, where every
river and stream produces such delicious potations ? And as for
cold and nakedness, they are evils introduced by luxury and cus-
torn. A man naturally wants clothes no more than a horse or any
other animal; and there are whole nations who go without them:
but these are things, perhaps, which you, who do not know the
world "
"You will pardon me, sir," returned Adams; "I have read of t
the Gymnosophists."—"A plague of your Jehosophats," cried
Peter; " the greatest fault in our constitution is the provision
made for the poor, except that perhaps made for some others. Sir,
I have not an estate which does not contribute almost as much-
again to" the poor as to the land tax; and I do assure you, I
expect to come myself to the parish in the end."
To which Adams giving a dissenting smile, Peter thus pro-
ceeded:—"I fancy, Mr. Adams, you are one of those who imagine
I am a lump of money; for there are many who, I fancy, believe,
that not only my pockets, but my whole clothes, are lined with
bank-bills; but I assure you, you are all mistaken; I am not the
man the world esteems me. If I can hold my head above water,
it is all I can. I have injured myself by purchasing: I have been
too liberal of my money. Indeed, I fear my heir will find my
affairs in a worse situation than they are reputed to be. Ah"!
Ke will have reason to wish I had loved money more, and land
less. Pray, my good neighbour, where should I have that quan-
tity of riches the world is so liberal to bestow on me ? T\ here
could I possibly, without I had stolen it, acquire such a treasure?"
"Why, truly," says Adams, "I have been always of your
opinion; I have wondered as well as yourself with what confi-
dence they could report _ such things of you, which have to me
appeared as mere impossibilities; for you know, sir, and I have
often heard you say it, that your wealth is of your own acqui-
sition; and can it be credible that in your short time you should
have amassed such a heap of treasure as these people will have you
worth? Indeed, had you inherited an estate like Sir Thomas
Booby, which had descended in your family for many generations,
they might have had a colour for their assertions."
" Why, what do they say I am worth ? " cries Peter, with a
malicious sneer. " Sir," answered Adams, " I have heard some
aver you are not worth less than twenty thousand pounds." At
1 which Peter frowned. "Nay, sir," said Adams, "you ask me only
the opinion of others: for my own part I have always denied it,
nor did I ever believe you could possibly be worth half that sum."
" However, Mr. Adams," said he, squeezing him by the hand,
" I would not sell them all I am worth for double that sum; and
as to what you believe, or they believe, I care not a fig,—no, not a
feather. I am not poor bewnMus you think me so, nor because you
800 JOSEPH ANDBEWS.
attempt to undervalue me in the country. I know the envy of
mankind very well; but, I thank Heaven, I am above them. It
is true, my wealth is of my own acquisition. I have not an estate
like Sir Thomas Booby, that has descended in my family through
many generations; hut I know heirs of such estates, who are
forced to travel about the country, like some people, in torn cas-
socks, and might be glad to accept of a pitiful curacy for what I
know: yes, sir, as shabby fellows as yourself, whom no man of my
figure, without that vice of good-nature about him, would suffer to
ride in a chariot with him."
" Sir," said Adams, " I value not your chariot of a rush: and if
I had known you had intended to affront me, I would have walked
to the world's end on foot, ere I would have accepted a place in
it. However, sir, I will soon rid you erf that inconvenience;" and
so saying, he opened the chariot-door, without calling to the coach-
man, and leaped out into the highway, forgetting to take his hat
along with him; which, however, Mr. Pounce threw after him
with great violence. Joseph and Panny stopped to hear him
company the rest of the way, which was not above a mile.
LADY BOOBY'S ABR1YAL. SfiOl
BOOK IV.
Chap. I.—The Arrival of Lady Booby and the rest, at Booby Hall.
The coach-and-six, in which Lady Booby rode, overtook the other
travellers as they entered the parish. She no sooner saw Joseph,
than her cheeks glowed with red, and immediately after became
as totally pale. She had in her surprise almost stopped her coach,
but recollected herself timely enough to prevent it. She entered
the parish amidst the ringing of bells, and the acclamations of the
poor, who were rejoiced to see their patroness returned after so
long an absence, during which time all her rents had been drafted
to London, without a shilling being spent among them, which
tended not a little to their utter impoverishing; for if the court
would be severely missed in such a city as London, how much
more must the absence of a person of great fortune be felt in a
little country village, for whose inhabitants such a family finds
constant employment and supply; and with the offals of whose
table, the infirm, aged, and infant poor are abundantly fed, with a
generosity which has scarcely a visiole effect on their benefactors'
pockets.
But if their interest inspired so public a joy into every counte-
nance, how much more forcibly did the affection which they bore
Parson Adams operate upon all who beheld his return! They
flocked about him like dutiful children round an indulgent parent,
and vied with each other in demonstrations of duty and love. The
parson on his side shook every one by the hand, inquired heartily
after the healths of all that were absent, of their children and rela-
tions ; and expressed a satisfaction in his face,_ which nothing but
benevolence, made happy by its objects, could infuse.
Nor did Joseph and Panny want a hearty welcome from all who
saw them. In short, no three persons could be more kindly
received, as, indeed, none ever more deserved to be universally
beloved.
Adams carried his fellow-travellers home to his house, where he
insisted on their partaking whatever his wife, whom, with his
children, he found in health and joy, could provide; where we
shall leave them, enjoying perfect happiness over a homely meal, to
view scenes of greater splendour, but infinitely less bliss.
202 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Our more intelligent readers will doubtless suspect, by this
second appearance of Lady Booby on the stage, that all was not
ended by the dismission of Joseph; and, to be honest with them,
they are in the right: the arrow had pierced deeper than she
imagined; nor wras the wound so easily to be cured. The removal
<)f the object soon cooled her rage, but it had a different effect oijj
ier love: that departed with his person, but this remained lurking
(n her mind with his image. Restless interrupted slumbers, ana
confused horrible dreams, were her portion the first night. In the
morning, fancy painted her a more delicious scene, but to delude,
not delight her; for before she could reach the promised happi-
ness it vanished, and left her to curse, not bless, the vision.
She started from her sleep, her imagination being all on fire with
the phantom, when her eyes accidentally glancing towards the
spot where yesterday the real Joseph had stood, that little circum-
stance raised his idea in the liveliest colours in her memory. Each
look, each -word, each gesture rushed back on her mind with
charms which all his coldness could not abate. Nay, she imputed
that to his youth, his folly, his awe, his religion, to everything,
but what would instantly have produced contempt—want of pas-
sion for the sex; or that which would have roused her hatred,—
want of liking to her.
Reflection then hurried her farther, and told her, she must see
this beautiful youth no more; nay, suggested to her, that she her-
'self had dismissed him for no other fault than probably that of too
violent an awe and respect for herself: which she ought rather to
have esteemed a merit, the effects of which were, besides, so easily
and surely to have been removed; she then blamed, she cursed the
hasty rashness of her temper; her fury was vented all on herself,
and Joseph appeared innocent in her eyes. Her passion at length
grew so violent, that it forced her on seeking relief, and now she
thought of recalling him: but pride forbade that,—pride, which
soon drove all softer passions from her soul, and represented to
her the meanness of him she was fond of. That thought soon
began to obscure his beauties ; contempt succeeded next, and then
disdain, which presently introduced her hatred of the creature who
had given her so much uneasiness.
These enemies of Joseph had no sooner taken possession of her
mind, than they insinuated to her a thousand things in his dis-
favour ; everything but dislike of her person: a thought, which,
as it would have been intolerable to bear, she checked the moment
it endeavoured to arise. Revenge came now to her assistance;
and she considered her dismission of him, stripped, and without a
character, with the utmost pleasure. She rioted in the several
kinds of misery which her imagination suggested to her might be
his fate- and, with a smile composed of anger, mirth, and scorn,
viewed nim in the rags in which her fancy had dressed him.
LADY BOOB* AND SLIPSLOP. 20?
Mrs. Slipslop being summoned, attended ber mistress, who bad
now in ber own opinion totally subdued this passion. Whilst she
was dressing, she asked if that fellow bad been turned away
according to ber orders. Slipslop answered, she bad told ber
ladyship so, as indeed she bad. "And bow did be behave?"
replied the lady. "Truly, madam," cries Slipslop, "in such a
manner that infected everybody who saw him. The poor lad bad
but little wages to receive, for he constantly allowed bis father and
mother half bis income; so that when your ladyship's livery was
stripped off, be bad not wherewithal to buy a coat, and must have
gone naked, if one of the footmen bad not incommodated him with
one; and whilst be was standing in bis shirt (and to say the truth
he was an amorous figure), being told your ladyship would not give
him a character, he sighed, and said he had done nothing willingly
to offend; that, for his part, he should always give your ladyship
a good character wherever he went; and he prayed God to bless
you; for you was the best of ladies, though his enemies had set
you against him. I wish you had not turned him away; for I
believe you had not a faithfuller servant in the house."
"How came you, then," replied the lady, "to advise me to turn
him away?"—"I, madam!" savs Slipslop; "I am sure you will
do me the justice to say, I did all in my power to prevent it: but
I saw your ladyship was angry; and it is not the business of us
upper-servants to hmterfere on these occasions."—"And was it not
you, audacious wretch!" cried the lady, "who made me angry?
"Was it not your tittle-tattle, in which I believe you belied the poor
fellow, which incensed me against him ? He may thank you for
all that has happened; and so may I for the loss of so good a
servant, and one who probably had more merit than all of you.
Poor fellow! I am charmed with his goodness to his parents. Why
did you not tell me of that, but suffer me to dismiss so good a
creature without a character? I see the reason of your whole
behaviour now as well as your complaint; you was jealous of the
wenches."—"I jealous!" says Slipslop; "'I assure you I look
upon myself as his betters; I am not meat for a footman, I hope."
These words threw the lady into a violent passion, and she sent
Slipslop from her presence, who departed, tossing her nose, and
crying, " Marry come up ! there are some people more jealous than
1,1 believe."
> Her lady affected not to hear these words, though in reality she
did, and understood them too. Now ensued a second conflict, ss.
like the former, that it might savour of repetition to relate it
minutely. It may suffice to say, that Lady Booby found good
reason to doubtwhether she had so absolutely conquered her passion
as she had flattered herself; and in order to accomplish it quite, _
took a resolution more common than wise, to retire immediately
into the country. The reader has long ago seen the arrival of Mrs.
204? JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Slipslop, whom no pertness could make her mistress resolve to
part with; lately, that of Mr. Pounce, her forerunners; and, lastly,
that of the lady herself.
The morning after her arrival, being Sunday, she went to church,
to the great surprise of everybody, who wondered to see her ladv-
ship, being no very constant church-woman, there so suddenly
upon her journey. Joseph was likewise there; and I have heard
it was remarked, that she fixed her eyes on him much more than on
the parson; but this I believe to be only a malicious rumour.
When the prayers were ended, Mr. Adams stood up, and with a
loud voice pronounced: "I publish the banns of marriage between
Joseph Andrews and Frances Goodwill, both of this parish," &c.
Whether this had any effect on Lady Booby or no, who was then
in her pew, which the congregation could not see into, I could
never discover: but certain it is, that in about a quarter of an
hour she stood up, and directed her eyes to that part of the church
where the woman sat, and persisted in looking that way, during
the remainder of the sermon, in so scrutinising a manner, and with
so angry a countenance, that most of the women were afraid she
was offended at them.
The moment she returned home, she sent for Slipslop into her
chamber, and told her, she wondered what that impudent fellow
Joseph did in that parish. Upon which Slipslop gave her an
account of her meeting Adams with him on the road, and likewise
the adventure with Fanny: at the relation of which the lady often
changed her countenance; and when she had heard all, she ordered
Mr. Adams into her presence, to whom she behaved as the reader
will see in the next cnapter.
Chap. II.—A Dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and the Lady Booby.
Mr. Adams was not far off; for he was drinking her ladyship's
health below in a cup of her ale. He no sooner came before her,
then she began in the following manner: " I wonder, sir, after the
many great obligations you have had to this family" (with all
which the reader has in the course of this history been minutely
acquainted), "that you will ungratefully show any respect to a
fellow who has been turned out of it for his misdeeds : nor does
it, 1 can tell you, sir, become a man of your character, to run about
the country with an idle fellow and wench. Indeed, as for the
girl, I know no harm of her. Slipslop tells me she was formerly
bred up in my house, and behaved as she ought, till she hankered
after this fellow, and he spoiled her. Nay, she may still, perhaps,
LADY BOOBY AND ADAMS. 205
do very well, if he will let her alone. You are therefore doing a
monstrous thing in endeavouring to procure a match between these
two people, which will be to the ruin of them both."
"Madam," says Adams, "if your ladyship will but hear me
speak, I protest I never heard any harm of Mr. Joseph Andrews ;
if I had, I should have corrected him for it; for I never have, nor
will encourage the faults of those under my cure. As for the
young woman, I assure your ladyship, I have as good an opinion of
her as your ladyship yourself, or any other can have. She is the
sweetest-tempered, honestest, worthiest young creature: indeed, as
to her beauty, I do not commend her on that account, though all
men allow she is the handsomest woman, gentle or simple, that
ever appeared in the parish."
"You are very impertinent," _says she, "to talk such fulsome
staff to me. It is mighty becoming truly in a clergyman to trouble
himself about handsome women; and you are a delicate judge of
beauty, no doubt. _ A man who has lived all his life in such a parish
as this, is a rare judge of beauty. Ridiculous! Beauty indeed!
a country wench a beauty ! I shall be sick whenever I hear beauty
mentioned again. And so this wench is to stock the parish with
beauties, I hope. But, sir, our poor is numerous enough already:
I will have no more vagabonds settled here."
"Madam," says Adams, "your ladyship is offended with me, I
protest, without any reason. This couple were desirous to con-
summate long ago, and I dissuaded them from it; nav, I may
venture to say, I believe I was the sole cause of their delaying it."
"Well," says she, "and you did very wisely and honestly too,
notwithstanding she is the greatest beauty in the parish."
"And now, madam," continued he, "I only perform my office
to Mr. Joseph."
" Pray don't mister such fellows to me," cries the lady.
" He," said the parson, " with the consent of Eanny, before my
face put in the banns."
"Yes," answered the lady, "I suppose the slut is forward
enough: Slipslop tells me how her head runs upon fellows; that is
one of her beauties, I suppose. But if they have put in the banns,
I desire you will publish them no more without my orders."
" Madam," cries Adams, " if any one puts in sufficient caution,
and assigns a proper reason against them, I am willing to
surcease."
" I tell you a reason," says she; "he is a vagabond, and he shall
not settle here, and bring a nest of beggars into the parish: it will
make us but little amends that they will be beauties."
" Madam," answered Adams, " with the utmost submission to
your ladyship, I have been informed by lawyer Scout, that any
person who serves a year gains a settlement in the parish where
he serves."
206 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
" Lawyer Scout," replies the lady, " is an impudent coxcomb:
I will have no lawyer Scout interfere with me. I repeat to you
again, I will have no more encumbrances brought on us: so I
desire you will proceed no farther."
" Madam," returned Adams, " I will obey your ladyship in
everything that is lawful; but surely the parties being poor is no
reason against their marrying. God forbid there should be any
such law. The poor have little share enough of this world already;
it would be barbarous indeed, to deny them the common privileges
and innocent enjoyments which nature indulges to the animal
creation."
" Since you understand yourself no better," cries the lady, "nor
the respect due from such as you to a woman of my distinction,
than to affront my ears by such loose discourse, I shall mention
but one short word: it is my orders to you, that you publish these
banns no more; and if you dare, I wrill recommend it to your
master, the doctor, to discard you from his service. I will, sir,
notwithstanding your poor family; and then you and the greatest
beauty in the parish may go and beg together."
" Madam," answered Adams, " I know not wdiat your ladyship
means by the terms master and service. I am in the service of a
Master who will never discard me for doing my duty; and if the
doctor (for indeed I have never been able to pay for a licence)
thinks proper to turn me from my cure, God will provide me,
I hope, another. At least, my family, as well as myself, have
hands; and He will prosper, I doubt not, our endeavours to get
our bread honestly with them. Whilst my conscience is pure, I
shall never fear what man can do unto me."
"I condemn my humility," said the lady, "for demeaning myself
to converse with you so long. I shall take other measures; for I
see you are a confederate with them. But the sooner you leave
me the better; and I shall give orders that my doors may no
longer be open to you. I will suffer no parsons, who run about
the country with beauties, to be entertained here."
" Madam," said Adams, " I shall enter into no persons' doors
against their will: but I am assured, when you nave inquired
farther into this matter, you will applaud, not blame, my proceed-
ing; and so I humbly take my leave :" which he did with many
bows, or at least many attempts at a bow.
LADY BOOBY AND SCOUT.
207
Chap. III.—What passed between the Lady and Lawyer Scout.
In the afternoon the lady sent for Mr. Scout, whom she attacked
most violently for intermeddling with her servants; which he
denied, and indeed with truth, for he had only asserted accidentally,
and perhaps rightly, that a year's service gained a settlement; ana
so far he owned he might have formerly informed the parson, and
believed it was law. " I am resolved," said the lady,' to have no
discarded servants of mine settled here; and so, if this be your
law, I shall send to another lawyer."
Scout said, if she sent to a hundred lawyers, not one nor all of
them could alter the law. The utmost that was in the power of a
lawyer, was to prevent the law's taking effect; and that he himseli
could do for her ladyship as well as any other; " and I believe,"
says he, "madam, your ladyship, not being conversant in these
matters, has mistaken a difference • for I asserted only, that a man
who served a year was settled. Now there is a material difference
between being settled in law and settled in fact; and as I affirmed
generally he was settled, and law is preferable to fact, my settlement
must be understood in law, and not in fact. And suppose, madam,
we admit he was settled in law, what use will they make of it ?
how does that relate to fact ? He is not settled in fact; and if he
be not settled in fact, he is not an inhabitant; and if he is not an
inhabitant, he is not of this parish; and then undoubtedly he
ought not to be published here; for Mr. Adams has told me your
ladyship's pleasure, and the reason, which is a very good one, to
prevent burdening us with the poor: we have too many already,
and I think we ought to have an act to hang or transport half of
them. If we can prove in evidence that he is not settled in fact, it
is another matter. What I said to Mr. Adams, was on a supposi-
tion that he was settled in fact; and indeed, if that was the case,
I should doubt."
" Don't tell me your facts and your ifs," said the lady: " I don't
understand your gibberish: you take too much upon you, and are
very impertinent, in pretending to direct in this parish : and you
shall be taught better, I assure you, you shall. But as to the
wench, I am resolved she shall not settle here: I will not suffer
Buch beauties as these to produce children for us to keep."
"Beauties indeed! your ladyship is pleased to be merry,"
answered Scout.
"Mr. Adams described her so to me," said the lady. "Pray
what sort of dowdy is it, Mr. Scout? "
208 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
"The ugliest creature almost I ever beheld; a poor airty drab;
your ladyship never saw such a wretch."
" Well, but dear Mr. Scout, let her be what she will, these ugly
women will bring children, you know; so that we must prevent
the marriage "
" True, madam," replied Scout, " for the subsequent marriage,
co-operating with the law, will carry law into fact. W hen a man
is married he is settled in fact, and then he is not removeable. _ I
will see Mr. Adams, and I make no doubt of prevailing with him.
His only objection is, doubtless, that he shall lose his fee; but that
being once made easy, as it shall be, I am confident no farther
objection will remain. No, no, it is impossible: but your ladyship
san't discommend his unwillingness to depart from his fee. Every
man ought to have a proper value for his fee. As to the matter in
question, if your ladyship pleases to employ me in it, I will venture
to promise you success. The laws of this land are not so vulgar,
to permit a mean fellow to contend with one of your ladyship's
fortune. We have one sure card, which is, to carry him before
justice Frolick, who, upon hearing your ladyship's name, will
commit him without any farther questions. As for the dirty slut,
we shall have nothing to do with her; for if we get rid of the
fellow, the ugly jade will "
" Take what measures you please, good Mr. Scout," answered
the lady: " but I wish you could rid the parish of both; for Slipslop
tells me such stories of this wench, that I abhor the thoughts of
her; and though you say she is such an ugly slut, yet you know,
dear Mr. Scout, these forward creatures, who run after men, will
always find some as forward as themselves; so that, to prevent the
increase of beggars, we must get rid of her."
" Your ladyship is very much in the right," answered Scout:
" but I am afraid the law is a little deficient in giving us any such
power of prevention: however, the justice will stretch it as far as
he is able, to oblige your ladyship. To say truth, it is a great
blessing to the country that he is in the commission; for he has
taken several poor off our hands that the law would never lay hold
on. I know some justices, who think as much of committing a
man to Bridewell, as his lordship at 'size would of hanging him;
but it would do a man good to see his worship, our justice, commit
a fellow to Bridewell, he takes so much pleasure in it; and when
once we ha'um there, we seldom hear any more o'um: he's either
starved or eat up by vermin in a month's time."
Here the arrival of a visitor put an end to the conversation; and
Mr. Scout, having undertaken the cause, and promised success,
departed.
This Scout was one qf those fellows, who, without any know-
ledge of the law, or being bred to it, take upon them, in defiance
of an act of parliament, to act as lawyers in the country, and are
AN UNEASY MIND. 209
called so. They aie the pests of society, and a scandal to a pro-
fession,_to which indeed they do not belong, and which owes to
such kind of rascallions the ill-will which weak persons bear
towards it. With this fellow, to whom a little before she would
not have condescended to have spoken, did a certain passion for
Joseph, and the jealousy and the disdain of poor innocent Fanny,
betray the Lady Booby into a familiar discourse, in which she
inadvertently confirmed many hints, with which Slipslop, whose
gallant he was, had pre-acquainted him; and whence he had taken
an opportunity to assert those severe falsehoods of little Fanny,
which possibly the reader might not have been well able to account
for, if we had not thought proper to give him this information.
Chap. IV.—A short Chapter, but very full of Matter j particularly the
Arrival of Mr. Booby and his Lady.
All that night, and the next day, the Lady Booby passed with the
utmost anxiety; her mind was distracted, and her soul tossed up
and down by many turbulent and opposite passions. She loved,
hated, pitied, scorned, admired, despised the same person by fits,
which changed in a very short interval.
On Tuesday morning, which happened to be a holiday, she went
to church, where, to her surprise, Mr. Adams published the banns
again with as audible a voice as before. It was lucky for her, that, as
there was no sermon, she had an immediate opportunity of return-
ing home to vent her rage, which she could not have concealed
from the congregation five minutes: indeed, it was not then very
numerous, the assembly consisting of no more than Adams, his
clerk, his wife, the lady, and one of her servants.
At her return, she met Slipslop, who accosted her in these
words:—" 0 meam, what does your ladvship think ? To be sure,
Lawyer Scout has carried Joseph ana Fanny both before the
justice. All the parish are in tears, and say they will certainly be
hanged; for nobody knows what it is for."
"I suppose they deserve it," says the lady: "why dost thou
mention such wretches to me?"
"O dear, madam!" answered Slipslop, "is it not a pity such a
graceless young man should die a virulent death ? I hope the
judge will take commensuration on his youth. As for Fanny, I
dor?t think; it signifies much what becomes of her; and if poor
Joseph has done anything, I could venture to swear she traduced
him to it: few men ever come to fragrant punishment but by those
nasty creatures, which are a scandal to our sect."
The lady was no more please? at this ne,ws aftev a moment's
p
210 JOSEPH ANDBEWS.
reflection, than Slipslop herself; for though she wished Fanny fax
enough, she did not desire the removal 01 Joseph, especially with
her. She was puzzled how to act, or what to say on this occasion,
when a coach and six drove into the court, and a servant acquainted
her with the arrival of her nephew Booby and his lady. She
ordered them to be conducted into a drawing-room, whither she
presently repaired, having composed her countenance as well as
she could; being a little satisfied that the wedding would by these
means be at least interrupted, and that she should have an oppor-
tunity to execute any resolutions she might take, for which she
■jaw herself provided with an excellent instrument in Scout.
The Lady Booby apprehended her servant had made a mistake,
when he mentioned Mr. Booby's lady, for she had never heard 01
his marriage; but how great was her surprise, when, at her entering
the room, her nephew presented his wife to her, saying, " Madam,
this is that charming Pamela, of whom I am convinced you have
heard so much." The lady received her with more civility than he
expected, indeed with the utmost; for she was perfectly polite,
nor had any vice inconsistent with good breeding. They passed
some little time in ordinary discourse, when a servant came and
whispered Mr. Booby, who presently told the ladies he must desert
them a little on some business of consequence; and as their dis-
course during his absence would afford little improvement or
entertainment to the reader, we will leave them for a while to
attend Mr. Booby.
Chaf. V.—Containing Justice Business; curious Precedents of Depositions,
and other Matters necessary to be perused by all Justices of the Peace and
cheir Clerks.
The young squire and his lady were no sooner alighted from their
coach, than the servants began to inquire after Mr. Joseph, from
whom they said their lady had not heard a word, to her great snr-
prise, since he had left Lady Booby's. Upon this they were
instantly informed of what had lately happened, with which they
hastily acquainted their master, who took an immediate resolution
to go himself, and endeavour to restore his Pamela her broth®,
before she even knew she had lost him.
The justice, before whom the criminals were carried, and
lived within a short mile of the lady's house, was luckily Mr.
Booby's acquaintance, by his having an estate in his neighbour-
hood. Ordering, therefore, his horses to his coach, he set out for
the judgment-seat, and arrived when the justice had almost
finished hi? business. _ He was conducted into a hall, where he
was acquainted that his wovship would wait on him in a moment;
CURIOUS DEPOSITION. 211
for lie had only a man and a woman to commit to Bridewell first.
As he was now convinced he had not a minute to lose, he insisted
on the servant's introducing him directly into the room where the
justice was then executing his office, as he called it.
Being brought thither, and the first compliments being passed
between the squire and his worship, the former asked the latter
what crime those two young people had been guilty of. "No
great crime," answered the justice; " I have only ordered them to
Bridewell for a month."—"But what is their crime?" repeated
the squire. " Larceny, an't please your honour," said Scout.
" Ay," says the justice, " a kind of felonious, larcenous thing: I
believe I must order them a little correction too, a little stripping
and whipping."
Poor Panny, who had hitherto supported all with the thoughts
of Joseph's company, trembled at that sound, but, indeed, without
reason; for none but the devil himself would have executed such
a sentence on her.
" Still," said the squire, " I am ignorant of the crime—the fact
I mean."—"Why there it is in peaper," answered the justice,
showing him a deposition, which, in the absence of his clerk,
he had written himself, of which we have with great difficulty
procured an authentic copy; and here it follows verbatim et
literatim:—
" The depusition of oames Scout, layer, andj Thomas Trotter, yeoman,
taken before me, one of his magestfs justasses of the piece for
Zumersetshire.
" These deponants saith, and first Thomas Trotter for himself
saith, that on the of this instant October, being Sabbath-day,
between the ours of 2 and 4 in the afternoon, he zeed Joseph
Andrews and Prancis Goodwill walk akross _ a certane felde
belunging to layer Scout, and out of the path which ledes thru the
said felde, and there he zede Joseph Andrews with a nife cut one
hazel-twig, of the value, as he,believes, of 3 half-pence, or there-
abouts; and he saith that the said Prancis Goodwill was likewise
walking on the grass out of the said path in the said felde, and did
receive and karry in her hand the said twig, and so was comfart-
ing, eading, and abating to the said Joseph therein. And the said
James Scout for himself says, that he verily believes the said twig
to be his own proper twig, &c."
" Jesu!" said the squire, " would you commit two persons to
Bridewell for a twig?" — "Yes," said the lawyer, "and with
great lenity too; for if we had called it a young tree, they would
have been both hanged."—"Harkee," says the justice, taking
aside the squire, "1 should not have been so severe on this
occasion, but Lady Booby desires to get them out of the parish;
212 JOSEPH ANkltEWS.
so Lawyer Scout will give the constable orders to let them run
away, if they please: but it seems they intend to marry together;
and the lady has no other means, as they are legally settled there,
to prevent their bringing an encumbrance on her own parish."
"Well," said the squire, "I will take care my aunt shall be
satisfied in this point; ana likewise I promise you, Joseph here
shall never be any encumbrance on her: I shall be obliged to you,
therefore, if, instead of Bridewell, you will commit them to my
custody."
" 0, to be sure, sir, if you desire it," answered the justice: and,
without more ado, Joseph and Panny were delivered over to Squire
Booby, whom Joseph very well knew, but little guessed how
nearly he was related to him. The justice burnt his mittimus;
the constable was sent about his business; the lawyer made no
complaint for want of justice; and the prisoners, with exulting
hearts, gave a thousand thanks to his honour, Mr. Booby, who did
not intend their obligations to him should cease here; for, ordering
his man to produce a cloak-bag, which he had caused to be
brought from Lady Booby's on purpose, he desired the justice
that he might have Joseph with him into a room • where, ordering
a servant to take out a suit of his own clothes, with linen and other
necessaries, he left Joseph to dress himself, who, not yet knowing
the cause of all this civility, excused his accenting such a favour
as long as decently he could.
Whilst Joseph was dressing, the squire repaired to the justice,
whom he found talking with Panny; for, during the examination,
she had flopped her hat over her eyes, which were also bathed in
tears, and had by that means concealed from his worship what
might, perhaps, have rendered the arrival of Mr. Booby unneces-
sary, at least for herself. The justice no sooner saw her coun-
tenancc cleared up, and her bright eyes shining through her tears,
than he secretly cursed himself for having once thought of Bride-
well for her. lie would willingly have sent his own wife thither,
to have had Panny in her place; and conceiving,almost at the
same instant desires, and schemes to accomplish them, he employed
the minutes, whilst the squire was absent with J oseph, in assuring
her how sorry he was for having treated her so roughly before he
knew her merit; and told her, that since Lady Booby was unwill-
ing that she should settle in her parish, she was heartily welcome
to his, where he promised her his protection, adding, that he
would take Joseph and her into his own family, if she liked;
which assurance lie confirmed with a squeeze by the hand. She
thanked him very kindly, and said, she would acquaint Joseph
with the offer, which he would certainly be glad to accept, for
that Lady Booby was angry with them both, though she did not
know either had done anything to offend her; but imputed it to
Madam Slipslop, who had always been her enemy.
IN A NEW DRESS.
213
The squire now returned, and prevented any farther continuance
of this conversation; and the justice, out of a pretended respect to
his guest, but in reality from an apprehension of a rival (for he
knew nothing of his marriage), ordered Fanny into the kitchen,
whither she gladly retired: nor did the squire, who declined the
trouble of explaining the whole matter, oppose it.
It would be unnecessary, if I was able, which, indeed, I am not,
to relate the conversation between these two gentlemen, which
rolled, as I have been informed, entirely on the subject of horse-
racing. Joseph was soon dressed in the plainest dress he could
find, which was a blue coat and breeches, with a gold edging, and
a red waistcoat with the same; and as this suit, which was rather
too large for the squire, exactly fitted him, so he became it so
well, and looked so genteel, that no person would have doubted
its being as well adapted to his quality as his shape; nor have
suspected, as one might, when my Lord , or Sir , or Mr.
1 he tailor's man wore
under his arm.
The squire now took leave of the justice; and, calling for
Fanny, made her and Joseph, against their wills, get into the
coach with him, which he then ordered to drive to Lady Booby's.
It had moved a few yards only, when the squire asked Joseph, if
he knew who that man was crossing the field; " for," added he,
" I never saw one take such strides before."
Joseph answered eagerly, " 0, sir, it is Parson Adams! "—" 0 la,
indeed, and so it is," said Fanny: " poor man, he is coming to do
what he could for us. Well, he is the worthiest, best-natured
creature."—" Ay," said Joseph, " God bless him ! for there is not
such another in the universe."—"The best creature living, sure!"
cries Fanny.
" Is he ?" says the squire: " then I am resolved to have the best
creature living in my coachand so saying, he ordered it to stop,
whilst Joseph, at his request, hallooed to the parson, who, well
knowing his voice, made all the haste imaginable, and soon came
up with them. He was desired by the master, who could scarce
refrain from laughter at his figure, to mount into the coach,
which he with many thanks refused, saying he could walk by its
side, and he'd warrant he kept up with it; but he was at length
over-prevailed on.
The squire now acquainted Joseph with his marriage, but he
might have spared himself that labour; for his servant, whilst
Joseph was dressing, had performed that &f?ce before. _ He con-
1 ' " - -i • i pe(j sister, and
hows, and expressed as many acknowledgments; and Parson
Adams, who now first perceived Joseph's new apparel, burst int?
should have carried
Joseph made many
214 JOSEPH AXDEEWS.
tears with joy, and fell to rubbing his hands and snapping his
fingers, as if he had been mad.
They were now arrived at the Lady Booby's; and the squire
desiring them to wait a moment in the court, walked in to his
aunt, and calling her out from his wife, acquainted her with
Joseph's arrival; saying "Madam, as I have married a virtuous
and worthy woman, I am resolved to own her relations, and show
them all a proper respect: I shall think myself, therefore, infi-
nitely obliged to all mine who will do the same. It is true, her
brother has been your servant, but he has now become my brother;
and I have one happiness, that neither his character, his behaviour,
nor appearance, give me any reason to be ashamed of calling him
so. In short, he is now below, dressed like a gentleman, in
which light I intend he shall hereafter be seen; and you will
oblige me beyond expression, if you will admit him to be of our
party; for I know it will give great pleasure to my wife, though
she will not mention it."
This was a stroke of fortune beyond the Lady Booby's hopes or
expectation: she answered him eagerly, "Nephew, you know
how easily I am prevailed on to do anything which Joseph
Andrews desires plioo, I mean which you desire me; and, as
he is now your relation, I cannot refuse to entertain him as
such."
The squire told her, he knew his obligation to her for her com-
pliance; and, going three steps, returned, and told her he had one
more favour, which he believed she would easily grant, as she had
accorded him the former. " There is a young woman —"
"Nephew," says she, " don't let my good-nature make you desire,
as is too commonly the case, to impose on me; nor think, because
I have with so much condescension agreed to suffer your brother-
in-law to come to my table, that I will submit_ to the company of
all my own servants, and all the dirty trollops in the country."
" Madam," answered the squire, "I believe you never saw this
vomm creature; I never beheld such sweetness and innocence
joined with such beauty, and withal so genteel."
"Upon my soul. I won't admit her," replied the lady in a
passion: " the whole world shan't prevail on me : I resent even
the desire as an affront, and
The squire, who knew her inflexibility, interrupted her, by
asking pardon, and promising not to mention it more: he then
returned to Joseph, and she to Pamela, He took Joseph aside,
and told him he would carry him to his sister; but could not
prevail as yet for Eanny. Joseph begged that he might see his
sister alone, and then be with his Fanny: but the squire, knowing
the pleasure his wife would have in her brother's company, would
not admit it, telling Joseph there would be nothing in so short an
absence from Panny, whilst he was assured of her safety c adding.
THE MEETING. 215
fee hoped he could not so easily quit a sister whom he had not seen
so long, and who so tenderly loved him.
Joseph immediately complied, for indeed no brother could love
a sister more; and, recommending Fanny, who rejoiced that she
was not to go before Lady Booby, to the care of Mr. Adams, he
attended the squire up stairs, whilst Fanny repaired with the parson
to his house, where she thought herself secure of a kind reception.
Chap. VI.—Of which you are desired to Read no more than you like.
The meeting between Joseph and Pamela was not without tears
of joy on both sides, and their embraces were full of tenderness
and affection: they were, however, regarded with much more plea-
sure by the nephew than by the aunt, to whose flame they were
fuel only; and this was assisted by the addition of dress, which
was indeed not wanted to set off the lively colours in which
Nature had drawn health, strength, comeliness, and youth.
In the afternoon, Joseph, at their request, entertained them with
an account of his adventures: nor could Lady Booby conceal her
dissatisfaction at those parts in which Fanny was concerned, espe-
cially when Mr. Booby launched forth into such rapturous praises
of her beauty. She said, applying to her niece, that she wondered
her nephew, who had pretended to marry for love, should think
such a subject proper to amuse his wife with; adding, that for her
part, she should be jealous of a husband who spoke so warmly in
praise of another woman. Pamela answered, indeed she thought
,she had cause; but it was an instance of Mr. Booby's aptness to
see more beauty in women than they were mistresses of.
At which words both the women fixed their eyes on two looking-
glasses; and Lady Booby replied, that men were, in general, very
ill judges of beauty; and then, whilst both contemplated only their
own faces, they paid a cross compliment to each other's charms.
When the hour of rest approached, which the lady of the house
deferred as long as decently she could, she informed Joseph
(whom for the future we shall call Mr. Joseph, he having as good
a title to that appellation as many others; I mean, that incon-
tested one of good clothes) that she had ordered a bed to be pro-
vided for him. He declined this favour to his utmost; for his
heart had long been with his Fanny: but she insisted on his
accepting it, alleging that the parsonage had no proper accommo-
dation for such a person as he was now to esteem himself.
The squire and his lady both joining with her, Mr. Joseph was
at last forced to give over his design of visiting Fanny that even-
ing, who, on her side, as impatiently expected him till midnight j
216 JOSEPH ANDBEWS.
when, in complaisance to Mr. Adams's family, who had sat np two
hours out of respect to her, she retired to bed, but not to sleep;
the thought of her love kept her waking, and his not returning,
according to his promise, filled her with uneasiness; of which,
however, she could not assign any other cause than merely that
of being absent from him.
Mr. Joseph rose early in the morning, and visited her in whom
his soul delighted. She no sooner heard his voice in the parson's
parlour, than she leaped from her bed, and, dressing herself in a
tew minutes, went down to him. They passed two hours with
inexpressible happiness together; and then, having appointed
Monday, by Mr. Adams's permission, for their marriage, Mir.
Joseph returned, according to his promise, to breakfast at the
Lady Booby's, with whose behaviour since the evening we shall
now acquaint the reader.
She was no sooner retired to her chamber, than she asked Slip-
slop, what she thought of this wonderful creature her nephew had
married ? " Madam!" said Slipslop, not yet sufficiently under-
standing what answer she was to make. " I ask you," answered
the lady, " what you think of the dowdy, my niece, I think I am
to call her ? " Slipslop, wanting no farther hint, began to pull her
to pieces, and so miserably defaced her, that it would have been
impossible for any one to have known the person. The lady gave
her all the assistance she could, and ended with saying, "I think,
Slipslop, you have done her justice; but yet, bad as she is, she is
an angel compared to this Fanny."
Slipslop then fell on Fanny, whom she hacked and hewed in the
like barbarous manner; concluding with an observation, that there
was always something in those low-life creatures, which must
eternally extinguish them from their betters.
" Really," said the lady, " I think there is one exception to your
rule: I am certain you may guess who I mean."—" Not I, upon
my word, madam," said Slipslop. " I mean a young fellow: sure
you are the dullest wretch! " said the lady. " 0 la! I am indeed.
Yes, truly, madam, he is an accession," answered Slipslop. " Ay,
is he not, Slipslop ? " returned the lady : " is he not so genteel,
that a prince might, without a blush, acknowledge him for his
son ? His behaviour is such that would not shame the best educa-
tion._ He borrows from his station a condescension in everything
to his superiors, yet unattended by that mean servility which is
called good behaviour in such persons. Everything he does has
no mark of the base motive of tear, but visibly shows some respect
and gratitude, and carries with it the persuasion of love. And
then for his virtues; such piety to his parents, such tender affec-
tion to his sister, such integrity in his friendship, such bravery,
such goodness; that if he had been born a gentleman, his wife
would have possessed the most invaluable blessing."
LADY BOOBY AND SLIPSLOP. &L7
" To be sure, ma'am," says Slipslop. "But as he is," answered
the lady, "if he had a thousand more good qualities, it must
render a woman of fashion contemptible, even to be suspected of
thinking of him: yes, 1 should despise myself for such a thought."
—"To be sure, ma'am," said Slipslop. "And why to be sure?"
replied the lady : " thou art always one's echo. Is he not more
worthy of affection than a dirty country clown, though born of a
family as old as the flood; or an idle worthless rake, or a little
puny beau of quality ? And yet these we must condemn ourselves
to, in order to avoid the censure of the world: to shun the con-
tempt of others, we must ally ourselves to those we despise; we
must prefer birth, title, and fortune to real merit. It is a tyranny
of custom, a tyranny we must comply with; for we people of
fashion are the slaves of custom."
" Marry come up !" said Slipslop, who now well knew which
party to take : "if I was a woman of your ladyship's fortune and
quality, I would be a slave to nobody."—" Me ? " said the lady:
"I am speaking, if a young woman of fashion, who had seen
nothing of the world, should happen to like such a fellow. Me,
indeed! I hope thou dost not imagine "—"No, ma'am, to be
Vire," cries Slipslop.
"No! what no?" cried the lady: "thou art always ready to
answer, before thou hast heard one. So far I must allow, he is a
charming fellow. Me, indeed ! No, Slipslop, all thoughts of men
are over with me. 1 have lost a husband, who—but if I should
reflect, I should run mad. My future ease must depend upon for-
getfulness. Slipslop, let me hear some of thy nonsense, to turn
my thoughts another way. What dost thou think of Mr.
Andrews ?"
" Why, I think," says Slipslop, " he is the handsomest, most
properest man 1 ever saw; and if I was a lady of the greatest
degree, it would be well for some folks. Your ladyship may talk
of custom, if you please; but I am confidous there is no more
comparison between young Mr. Andrews, and most of the young
gentlemem who come to your ladyship's house in London; a par-
eel of whipper-snapper sparks: I would sooner marry our old
Parson Adams. Never tell me what people say whilst I am happy
in the arms of him I love. Some folks rail against other folks,
because other folks have what some folks would be glad of."
" And so," answered the lady, " if you was a woman of con-
dition, you would really marry Mr. Andrews ? "—" Yes, I assure
your ladyship," replied Slipslop, " if he would have me."—" Pool,
idiot!" cries the lady: " if he would have a woman of fashion! is
that a question? "—"No, truly, madam," said Slipslop, " I believe
it would be none if Panny was out of the way; ana I am confi-
dous, if I was in your ladyship's place, and liked Mr. Joseph
Andrews, she should not stay in the parish a moment. I am sure
21S JOSEm A'JSDItBWS.
Lawve-* *eaut would send her a-packing, if your ladyship would
but v/.v tfie word."
Thio last speech of Slipslop raised a tempest in the mind of her
mistress. She feared Scout had betrayed her. or rather, that she
had betrayed herself. After some silence, ana a double change of
her complexion, first to pale and then to red, she thus spoke
" I am astonished at the liberty you give your tongue. Would
you insinuate that I employed Scout against this wench, on ac-
count of the fellow ? "
"La, ma'am," said Slipslop, frightened out of her wits, "I
assassinate such a thing!"—" 1 think you dare not," answered the
lady : " I believe my conduct may defy malice itself to assert so
cursed a slander. If I had ever discovered any wantonness, any
lightness in my behaviour; if I had followed the example of some
whom thou liast, I believe, seen, in allowing myself indecent
liberties, even with a husband; but the dear man who is gone
(here she began to sob), was he alive again (then she produced
tears), could not upbraid me with any one act of tenderness or
passion. No, Slipslop, all the time I cohabited with him he never
obtained even a kiss from me, without my expressing reluctance
in the granting it. I am sure, he himself never suspected how
much I loved him. _ Since his death, thou knowest, though it is
almost six weeks (it wants but a day) ago, I have not admitted
one visitor, till this fool, my nephew, arrived. I have confined
myself quite to one party of friends. And can such a conduct as
this fear to be arraigned ? To be accused not only of a passion
which I have always despised, but of fixing it on such an object, a
creature so much beneath my notice ! "
"Upon my word, ma'am," says Slipslop, "I do not understand'
your ladyship : nor know I anything of the matter."
"I believe_ indeed thou dost not understand me. These are
delicacies which exist only in superior minds; thy coarse ideas
cannot comprehend them. Thou art a low creatine, of the Andrews
(need, a reptile of a lower order, a weed that grows in the common
garden of the creation."
"1 assure your ladyship," says Slipslop, whose passions were
almost of as high an order as her lady's, "I have no more to
do with Common Garden than other folks. Really, your ladyship
talks of servants as if thev were not born of the Christian specious.
Servants have flesh and blood as well as quality; and Mr. Andrews
himself is a proof that they have as good, if not better. And for
my own part, I can't perceive my dears"*" are coarser than other
people's; and I am sure, if Mr. Andrews was a dear of mine,
I should not be ashamed of him in company with gentlemen; for
whoever has seen him in his new clothes, must confess he looks as
much like a gentleman as anybody. Coarse, quotha! I can't bear
* Meaning, perhaps, ideas.
REFLECTIONS. 219
to hear the poor young fellow ran down neither; for I will say this,
1 never heard him say an ill word of anybody in his life. I am,
sure his coarseness does not lay in his heart, for he is the best-
natured man in the world; and as_ for his skin, it is no coarser
than other people's, I am sure. His bosom, when a boy, was as
white as driven snow: and, where it is not covered with hairs, is
so still. Ifackins! if I was Mrs. Andrews, with a hundred a year,
I should not envy the best she who wears a head. A woman that
could not be happy with such a man ought never to be so; for if
he can't make a woman happy, I never yet beheld the man who
could. I say again, I wish I was a great lady for his sake. I believe,
when I had made a gentleman of him, he'd behave so, that nobody
should deprecate what I had done: and I fancy few would venture
to tell him he was no gentleman to his face, nor to mine neither."
At which words, taking up the candles, she asked her mistress,
who had been some time in her bed, if she had any farther com-
mands, who mildly answered, she had none; and, telling her she
was a comical creature, bid her good night.
Chap. vii.—Philosophical Reflections, the like not to be found in any light
French Romance—Mr. Booby's grave Advice to Joseph, and Fanny's En-
counter with a Beau.
Habit, my good reader, has so vast a prevalence over the human
mind, that there is scarce anything too strange or too strong to be
asserted of it. The story of the miser, who, from long accustom-
ing to cheat others, came at last to cheat himself; and, with great
delight and triumph, picked his own pocket of a guinea to convey
ro his hoard, is not impossible or improbable. In like manner it
fares with the practisers of deceit, who, from having long deceived
their acquaintance, gain at last a power of deceiving themselves,
and acquire that very opinion, however false, of their own abilities,
excellencies, and virtues, into which they have for years, perhaps,
endeavoured to betray their neighbours.
Now, reader, to apply this observation to my present purpose,
thou must know, that as the passion generally called love exercises
most of the talents of the female or fair world, so in this they now
and then discover a small inclination to deceit; for which thou wilt
not be angry with the beautiful creatures, when thou hast con-
sidered, that at the age of seven, or something earlier, miss is
instructed by her mother, that master is a very monstrous kind of
animal, who will, if she suffers him to corhe too near her, infallibly
eat her up, and grind her to' pieces; that, so far from kissing or
toying with him on her own accord, she must not admit him to kiss
or toy with her - and, lastly, that she must never have any affection
towards him; for if she should, all her friends in petticoats would
220 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
esteem her a traitoress, point at her, and hunt her out of their
society.
These impressions, being first received, are farther and deeper
inculcated by their schoolmistresses and companions •, so that by
the age of ten they have contracted such a dread and abhorrence
of the above-named monster, that, whenever they see him, they fly
from him as the innocent hare does from the greyhound. Hence,
to the age of fourteen or fifteen, they entertain a mighty antipathy
to master: they resolve, and frequently profess,_ that they will
never have any commerce with him ; a-nd entertain fond hopes of
passing their lives out of his reach, of the possibility of which
they have so visible an example in their good maiden aunt.
But when they arrive at this period, and have now passed their
second climacteric, when their wisdom, grown riper, begins to see
a little farther, and, from almost daily falling in master's way,
to apprehend the great difficulty of keeping out of it; and when
they observe him look often at them, and sometimes very eagerly
and earnestly too (for the monster seldom takes any notice of
them till at this age); they then begin to think of their danger;
and as they perceive they cannot easily avoid him, the wiser part
bethink themselves of providing by other means for their security.
They endeavour, by all the methods they can invent, to render
themselves so amiable in his eyes, that he may have no inclination
to hurt them : in which they generally succeed so well, that his
eyes, by frequent languishing, soon lessen their idea of his fierce-
ness, and so far abate their fears, that they venture to parley with
him; and when they perceive him so different from what he has
been described. gentleness, softness, kindness, tenderness, fond-
ness, their drea:;apprehensions vanish in a moment; and now
(it being usual with the human mind to skip from one extreme to
its opposite, as easily, and almost as suddenly, as a bird from one
bough to another) love instantly succeeds to fear : but as it hap-
pens to persons, who have in their infancy been thoroughly
frightened with certain no-persons called ghosts, that they retain
' heir dread of those beings after they are convinced that there are
110 such things; so these young ladies, though they no longer
apprehend devouring, cannot so entirely shake off all that has been
instilled into them; they still entertain the idea of that censure,
which was so strongly imprinted on their tender minds, to which
the declarations of abhorrence, they every day hear from their
companions, greatly contribute._ To avoid this censure, therefore,
is now their only care; for which purpose they still pretend the
same aversion to the monster; and the more they love him, the
more ardently they_ counterfeit the antipathy; by the continual
and constant practice of which deceit on others they at length
impose on themselves, and really believe they hate what they love.
Thus, indeed, it happened to Lady Booby, who loved Joseph
LADY BOOBY'S DESIGN. 221
long before she knew it, and now loved him much more than she
suspected. She had, indeed, from the time of his sister's arrival
in the quality of her niece, and from the instant she viewed him in
the dress ana character of a gentleman, begun to conceive secretly
a design, which Love had concealed from herself, till a dream
betrayed it to her.
She had no sooner risen, than she sent for her nephew. When
he came to her, after many compliments on his choice, she told
him, he might perceive, in her condescension to admit her own
servant to her table, that she looked on the family of Andrews as
his relations, and indeed hers; that as he had married into such a
family, it became him to endeavour by all methods to raise it as-
much as possible. At length she advised him to use all his art to
dissuade Joseph from his intended match, which would still enlarge
their relation to meanness and poverty; concluding, that by a com-
mission in the army, or some other genteel employment, he might
soon put young Mr. Andrews on the footing of a gentleman; and
that being once done, his accomplishments mffiht quickly gain him
an alliance which would not be to their discredit.
Her nephew heartily embraced this proposal; and, finding Mr.
Joseph with his wife, at his return to her chamber, he imme-
diately began thus: " My love to my dear Pamela, brother, will
extend to all her relations ; nor shall I show them less respect than
if I had married into the family of a duke: I hope I have given
you some early testimonies of this, and shall continue to give you
daily more. You will excuse me therefore, brother, if my concern
for your interest makes me mention what may be, perhaps, dis-
agreeable to you to hear; but I must insist upon it, that, if you
have any value for my alliance or my friendship, you will decline
any thoughts of engaging farther with a girl, who is, as you are a
relation of mine, so much beneath you. I know there may be at
first some difficulty in your compliance, but that will daily diminish,
and you will in the end sincerely thank me for my advice. I own
indeed the girl is handsome; but beauty alone is a poor ingredient,
and will make but an uncomfortable marriage."
" Sir," said Joseph, " I assure you her beauty is her least per-
fection; nor do I know a virtue which that young creature is not
possessed of."
" As to her virtues," answered Mr. Booby, " you can be yet but a
slender judge of them; but if she had never so many, you will find
her equal in these among her superiors in birth and fortune, which
now you are to esteem on a footing with yourself; at least I will take
care they shall shortly be so, unless you prevent me by degrading
yourself with such a match,—a match which I have hardly patience
to think of, and which would break the hearts of your parents, who
now rejoice in the expectation of seeing you make a figure in the
world."
222 JOSEPH ANDEEWS.
"I know not," replied Joseph, "that my parents have any
power over my inclinations; nor am I obliged to sacrifice my hap-
piness to their whim or ambition: besides, I shall be very sorry to
see that the unexpected advancement of my sister should so sud-
denly inspire them with this wicked pride, and make them despise
their equals. I am resolved on no account to quit my dear Fanny;
no, though I could raise her as high above her present station as
you have raised my sister."
"Your sister, as well as myself," said Booby, "are greatly
obliged to you for the comparison -. but, sir, she is not worthy to
be compared in her beauty to my Pamela, nor has she half her
merit. _ And besides, sir, as you civilly throw my marriage with
your sister in my teeth, I must teach you the wide difference
oetweenus : my fortune enabled me to please myself; and it would
have been as overgrown a folly in me to have omitted, it, as in you
to do it."
" My fortune enables me to please myself likewise," said Joseph:
" for all my pleasure is centred in Fanny: and whilst I have health,
I shall be able to support her with my labour in that station to
which she was born, and with which she is content."
" Brother," said Pamela, " Mr. Booby advises you as a friend;
and no doubt my papa and mamma will be of his opinion, and will
have great reason to be angry with you for destroying what his
goodness has done, and throwing down our family again, after he
has raised it. It would become you better, brother, to pray for
the assistance of grace against such a passion, than to indulge it."
" Sure, sister, you are not in earnest: I am sure she is your equal
at least."
" She was my equal," answered Pamela; " but I am no longer
Pamela Andrews; I am now this gentleman's lady, and, as such,
am above her. I hope I shall never behave with an unbecoming
pride; but, at the same time, I shall always endeavour to know
myself, and question not the assistance of grace to that purpose."
They were now summoned to breakfast; and thus ended their
discourse for the present, very little to the satisfaction of any of
the parties.
Fanny was now walking in an avenue at some distance from
the house, where Joseph had promised to take the first oppor-
tunity of coming to her. She had not a shilling in the world, and
had subsisted, ever since her return, entirely on the charity of
parson Adams. A young gentleman, attended by manv servants,
came up to her, and asked her, if that was not the Lady Booby's
house before him. This, indeed, he well knew; but had framed
the question for no other reason than to make her look up, and
discover if her face was equal to the delicacy of her shape. He no
sooner saw it, than he was struck with amazement. He stopped
his horse, and swore she was the most beautiful creature he ever
FANNY RESCUEP. 223
beheld: then instantly alighting, and delivering bis horse to a
servant, he rapped out half a dozen oaths that he would kiss her;
to which she at first submitted, begging he would not be rude: but
he was not satisfied with the civility of a salute, nor even with the
rudest attack he could make on her lips; but caught her in his
arms, and endeavoured to kiss her breasts, which with all her
strength she resisted; and, as our spark was not of the Herculean
race, with some difficulty prevented.
The young gentleman, being soon out of breath in the struggle,
quitted her, and, remounting his horse, called one of his servants
to him, whom he ordered to stay behind with her, and make her
any otters whatever, to prevail on her to return home with him in
the evening; and to assure her, he would take her into keeping.
He then rode on with his other servants, and arrived at the lady's
house, to whom he was a distant relation, and was come to pay a
visit.
The trusty fellow, who was employed in an office he had long
been accustomed to, discharged his part with all the fidelity and
dexterity imaginable; but to no purpose : she was entirely deaf to
his offers, and rejected them with the utmost disdain. At last, the
pimp, who had perhaps more warm blood about him than his
master, began to solicit for himself: he told her, though he was a
servant, he was a man of some fortune, which he would make her
mistress of, and this without any insult to her virtue, for that he
would marry her. She answered, if his master himself, or the
greatest lord in the land, would marry her, she would refuse him,
At last, being weary with persuasions, and on fire with charms
which would have almost kindled a flame in the bosom of an
ancient philosopher or modern divine, he fastened his horse to the
ground, and attacked her with much more force than the gentlemen
had exerted.
Poor Panny would not have been able to resist his rudeness a
long time, but the deity who presides over chaste love sent her
Joseph to her assistance. He no sooner came within sight, and,
Eerceived her struggling with a man, than, like a cannon-ball, or
ke lightning, or anything that is swifter, if anvthing be, he ran
towards her; and, coming up just as the ravisher had torn her
handkerchief from her breasts, before his hps had touched that
seat of innocence and bliss, he dealt him so lusty a blow in that
part of his neck which a rope would have become with the utmost
propriety, that the fellow staggered backwards, and, perceiving
he had to do with something rougher than the little, tender,
trembling hand of Panny, he quitted her, and, turning about, saw
his rival, with fire flashing from his eyes, again ready to assail him;
and, indeed, before he could well defend himself, or return the first
blow, he received a second, which, had it fallen on that part of the
stomach to which it was directed, would have been probably the
224 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
last he would have had any occasion for; but the ravisher lifting up
his hand, drove the blow upwards to his mouth, whence it dislodged
three of his teeth: and now, not conceiving any extraordinary
affection for the beauty of Joseph's_ person, nor being extremely
pleased with his method of salutation, he collected all his force,
and aimed a blow at Joseph's breast, which he artfully parried with
one fist, so that it lost its force entirely in air; and, stepping one
foot backward, he darted his fist so fiercely at his enemy, that had
he not caught it in his hand (for he was a boxer of no inferior
fame), it must have tumbled him on the ground. And now the
ravisher meditated another blow, which he aimed at that part of
the breast where the heart is lodged. Joseph did not catch it as
before, yet so prevented its aim, that it fell directly on his nose,
but with abated force. Joseph then, moving both fist and foot
forwards at the same time, threw his head so dexterously into the
stomach of the ravisher, that he fell a lifeless lump on the field,
where he lay many minutes breathless and motionless.
When Pannv saw her Joseph receive a blow in his face, and
blood running in a stream from him, she began to tear her hair, '
and invoke all human and divine power to his assistance. She
was not, however, long under this affliction, before Joseph, having
conquered his enemy, ran to her, and assured her he was not hurt;
she then instantly fell on her knees, and thanked God_ that he
made Joseph the means of her rescue, and, at the same time, pre-
served him from being injured in attempting it. She offered, with
her handkerchief, to wipe his blood from his face; but he, seeing
his rival attempting to recover his legs, turned to him, and asked
him if he had enough; to which the other answered, he had, for
he believed he had fought with the devil instead of a man; and,
loosening his horse, said he should not have attempted the wench,
if he had known she had been so well provided for.
Eanny now begged Joseph to return with her to Parson Adams,
and to promise that he would leave her no more. These were pro-
positions so agreeable to Joseph, that, had he heard them, he
would have given an immediate assent; but, indeed, his eyes were
now his only sense; for you may remember, reader, that the
ravisher had torn her handkerchief from Panny's neck, by which
he had discovered such a sight, that Joseph has declared, all the
statues he ever beheld were so much inferior to it in beauty, that
it was more capable of converting a man into a statue, than of
heing imitated by the greatest master of that art.
This modest creature, whom no warmth in summer could ever
induce to expose her charms to the wanton sun,—a modesty, to
which, perhaps, they owed their inconceivable whiteness,—had
stood many minutes bare-necked in the presence of Joseph, before
her apprehension of his danger, and the horror of seeing his blood,
would suffer her once to reflect on what concerned herself; till at
AN IMPORTANT DISCOURSE. 5*25
last, when the cause of her concern had vanished, an admiration at
his silence, together with observing the fixed position of his eyes,
produced an idea in the lovely maid, which brought more blood
into her face than had flowed from Joseph's nostrils. The snowy
hue of her bosom was likewise changed to vermilion at the instant
when she clapped her handkerchief round her neck. Joseph saw
the uneasiness she suffered, and immediately removed his eyes
from an object, in surveying which he had felt the greatest delight
which the organs of sight were capable of conveying to his soul;
so great was his fear of offending her, and so truly did his passion
for her deserve the noble name of love.
Fanny, being recovered from her confusion, which was almost
equalled by what Joseph had felt from observing it, again men-
tioned her request: this was instantly and glady complied with;
and together they crossed two or three fields, which brought them
to the habitation of Mr. Adams.
Ciiajp. Vlll.—A Discourse which happened between Mr. Adams, Mrs. Adams,
Joseph, and Fanny; with some Behaviour of Mr. Adams, which may be
caUed, by some few Readers, very low, absurd, and unnatural.
The parson and his wife had just ended a long dispute when the
lovers came to the door. Indeed, this young couple had been the
subject of the dispute; for Mrs. Adams was one of those prudent
people who never do anything to injure their families, or, perhaps,
one of those good mothers, who would even stretch their con
science to serve their children. She had long entertained hopes
of seeing her eldest daughter succeed Mrs. Slipslop, and of making
her eldest son an exciseman by Lady Booby's interest. These
were expectations she could not endure the thoughts of quitting;
and was therefore very uneasy to see her husband so resolute to
oppose the lady's intention in Fanny's affair. She told him, it
behoved every man to take the first care of his family; that he had
a wife and six children, the maintaining and providing for whom
would be business enough for him without intermeddling in other
folks' affairs; that he had always preuached _ submission to supe-
riors, and would do ill to give an example of the contrary behaviour
in his own conduct; that if Lady Booby did wrong, she must
answer for it herself, and the sin would not lie at their door; that
Fanny had been a servant, and bred up in the lady's own family,
and consequently she must have known more of her than they did;
and it was very improbable, if she had behaved herself well, that
the lady would have been so bitterly her enemy; that perhaps he
was too much inclined to think well of her, because she was hand-
9
226 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
some, but handsome women are often no better than tbey should
be; that God made ugly women as well as handsome ones: and
that if a woman had virtue, it signified nothing whether she hac[
beauty or no: for all which reasons she concluded he should oblige
the lady, and stop the future publication of the banns.
But all these excellent arguments had no effect on the parson,
who persisted in doing his duty without regarding the consequence
it might have on his worldly interest. He endeavoured to answer
her as well as he could; to which she had just finished her reply
(for she had always the last word everywhere but at church), when
Joseph and Fanny entered their kitchen, where the parson and his
wife then sat at breakfast over some bacon and cabbage. There
was a coldness in the civility of Mrs. Adams, which persons of
accurate speculation might have observed, but escaped her present
guests : indeed, it was a good deal covered by the heartiness of
Adams, who no sooner heard that Fanny had. neither eaten nor
drunk that morning, than he presented her a bone of bacon he had
just been gnawing, being the only remains of his provision; and
then ran nimbly to the tap, and produced a mug of small beer,
which he called ale: however, it was the best in his house.
Joseph, addressing himself to the parson, told him the discourse
which had passed between Squire Booby, his sister, and himself,
concerning Fanny: he then acquainted him with the dangers
whence he had rescued her, and communicated some apprehen-
sions on her account. He concluded, that he should never have
an easy moment till Fanny was absolutely his, and begged that he
might be suffered to fetch a license, saying he could easily borrow
the money.
The parson answered, that he had already given his sentiments
concerning a license, and that a very few days would make it
unnecessary. " Joseph," says he, " I wish this haste does not
arise rather from your impatience than your fear; but as it cer-
tainly springs from one of these causes, I will examine both. Of
each of these, therefore, in their turn; and first, for the first
of these, namely, impatience. How, child, I must inform you,
that if, in your purposed marriage with this young woman, you
have no intention but the indulgence of carnal appetites, you are
guilty of a very heinous sin. Marriage was ordained for_ nobler
purposes, as you will learn when you hear the service provided on
that occasion read to you: nay, perhaps, if you are a good lad, I,
;:hild, shall give you a sermon gratis, wherein I shall demonstrate
how little regard ought to be had to the flesh on such occasions.
The text will be Matthew the 5th, and part of the 28th verse,
' Whosoever looketh on a woman, so as to lust after her.' The
fatter part I shall omit, as foreign to my purpose. Indeed, all
such brutal lusts and affections are to be greatly subdued, if not
totally eradicated, before the vessel can be said to be consecrated
A FALSE ALARM. 227
to honour. To marry with a view of gratifying those inclinations,
is a prostitution of that holy ceremony, and must entail a curse on
all who so lightly undertake it. If, therefore, this haste arises
from impatience, you are to correct, and not give way to it. Now,
as to the second head which ^proposed to speak to, namely, fear;
it argues a diffidence highly criminal of that Power, in which alone
we should put our trust, seeing we may be well assured that He
is able, not only to defeat the designs of our enemies, but even to
turn their hearts. Instead of taking, therefore, any unjustifiable
or desperate means to rid ourselves of fear, we should resort to
prayer only on these occasions; and we may be then certain of
obtaining what is best for us. When any accident threatens us,
we are not to despair, nor, when it overtakes us, to grieve; we
must submit in all things to the will of Providence, and set our
affections so much on nothing here, that we cannot quit it without
•reluctance. You are a young man, and can know but little of this
wmid; I am older, and have seen a great deal. All passions are
criminal in their excess ; and even love itself, if it is not subservi-
ent to our duty, may render us blind to it. Had Abraham so
loved his son Isaac, as to refuse the sacrifice required, is there any
of us who would not condemn him ? Joseph, I know your many
good qualities, and value you for them; but as I am to render an
account of your soul, whicn is committed to my cure, I cannot see
any fault without reminding you of it. You are too much inclined
to passion, child; and have set your affections so absolutely on
this young woman, that if God required her at your hands, I fear
you would reluctantly part with her. Now, believe me, no
Christian ought so to set his heart on any person or thing in this
world, but that whenever it shall be required, or taken from him
in any manner by divine Providence, he may be able peaceably,
quietly, and contentedly to resign it."
At which words one came hastily in, and acquainted Mr.
Adams that his youngest son was drowned. He stood silent a
moment, and soon began to stamp about the room, and deplore
his loss with the bitterest agony. Joseph, who was overwhelmed
with concern likewise, recovered himself sufficiently to endeavour
to comfort the parson; in which attempt he used many argu-
ments, that he had at several times remembered, out of his own
discourses, both in private and public, for he was a great enemy
to the passions, and preached nothing more than the conquest of
them by reason and grace; but he was not at leisure, now to
hearken to his advice.
" Child, child," said he, "do not go about impossibilities. Had it
been any other of my children, I could have borne it with patience;
but my little prattler, the darling and comfort of my old age,—the
little wretch, to be snatched out of life just at his entrance into
it; the sweetest, best-tempered boy, who never did a thing to
q 2
228 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
offend me! It was but this morning I gave him his first lesson
in Qua Genus. This was the very book he learned: Poor child!
it is of no farther use to thee now. He would have made the best
scholar, and have been an ornament to the church: such parts
and such goodness never met in one so young." — "And the
handsomest lad too," says Mrs. Adams, recovering from a swoon
in Panny's arms. "My poor Dicky, shall I never see thee more P"
cries the parson. " Yes, surely," says Joseph, " and in a better
place, you will meet again, never to part more."
I believe the parson did not hear these words, for he paid little
regard to them, but went on lamenting, whilst the tears trickled
down into his bosom. At last he cried out, "Where is my little
darling ? " and was sallying out, when, to his great surprise and
joy, in which i hope the reader will sympathise, he met his son, in
a wet condition indeed, but alive, and. running towards him. The
person who brought the news of his misfortune had been a little
too eager, as people sometimes are, from, I believe, no very good
principle, to relate ill news ; and, seeing him fall into the river,
instead of running to his assistance, directly ran to acquaint his
father of a fate which he had concluded to be inevitable, but
whence the child was relieved by the same poor pedlar who had
relieved his father before from a less distress.
The parson's joy was now as extravagant as his grief had been
before: he kissed and embraced his son a thousand times, and
danced about the room like one frantic: but as soon as he dis-
covered the face of his old friend the pedlar, and heard the fresh
obligation he had to him, what were his sensations ? Hot those
which two courtiers feel in one another's embraces; not those
with which a great man receives the vile, treacherous engines of
his wicked purposes; not those with which a worthless younger
brother wishes his elder joy of a son, or a man congratulates his
rival on his obtaining a mistress, a place, or an honour. No,
reader, he felt the ebullition, the overflowings, of a full, honest,
open heart, towards the person who had conferred a real obliga-
tion, and of which, if thou canst not conceive an idea within, I
will not vainly endeavour to assist thee.
When these tumults were over, the parson, taking Joseph aside,
proceeded thus :—"No, Joseph, do not give too much way to thy
passions if thou dost expect happiness." - The patience of Joseph,
nor perhaps of Job, could bear no longer: he interrupted the
parson, saying, it was easier to give advice than to take it; nor
aid he perceive he could so entirely conquer himself, when he
apprehended he had lost his son, or when he found him recovered.
" Boy," replied Adams, raising his voice, " it does not become
green heads to advise grey hairs. Thou art ignorant of the tender-
ness of fatherly affection: when thou art a father, thou wilt be
capable then only of knowing what a father can feel. No man is
ADAMS REPREHENDED. 229
obliged to impossibilities; and the loss of a child is one of those
treat trials, where our grief may be allowed to become imms-
erate."—" Well, sir," cries Joseph, "and if I love a mistress as
well as you your child, surely her loss would grieve me equally."
—" Yes, but such love is foolishness, and wrong in itself, and
ought to be conquered," answered Adams: "it savours too much
of the flesh."—" Sure, sir," says Joseph, " it is not sinful to love
my wife, no, not even to dote on her to distraction!"—" Indeed,
but it is," says Adams: " every man ought to love his wife, no
doubt; we are commanded so to do; but we ought to love her
with moderation and discretion."—" I am afraid I shall be guilty
of some sin, in spite of all my endeavours," says Joseph; " for I
shall love without any moderation, I am sure." —" You tall
foolishly and childishly," cries Adams.
"Indeed," says Mrs. Adams, who had listened to the latter pan
of their conversation, " you talk more foolishly yourself. I hope,
my dear, you will never preach any such doctrine, as that
husbands can love their wives too well. If I knew you had such
a sermon in the house, I am sure I would burn it; and I declare,
if I had not been convinced you had loved me as well as you could.
I can answer for myself, I should have hated and despised you.
Marry come up ! Tine doctrine, indeed! A wife has a right to
insist on a husband's loving her as much as ever he can: and he
is a sinful villain who does not. Does he not promise to love her,
and comfort her, and to cherish her, and all that ? I am sure I
remember it all, as well as if I had repeated it over but yester-
day, and shall never forget it. Besides, I am certain you do not
preach as you practise : for you have been a loving ana a cherish-
ing husband to me, that's the truth on't • and why you should
endeavour to put such wicked nonsense into this young man's
head, I cannot devise. Don't hearken to him, Mr. Joseph* be as
jrood a husband as you are able, and love your wife with all your
body and soul too."
Here a violent rap at the door put an end to their discourse,
and produced a scene, which the reader will find in the next
chapter.
230
joseph andrews.
Chap. IX.—A Visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite Friend paid
the Parson.
The Lady Booby bad no sooner bad an account from tbe gentleman
of bis meeting a wonderful beauty near ber bouse, and perceived
the raptures with which be spoke of ber, than, immediately con-
eluding it must be Eanny; she began to meditate a design of
bringing them better acquainted; and to entertain hopes, that the
fine clothes, presents, and promises of this youth, would prevail
on ber to abandon Joseph: she therefore proposed to ber com-
pany a walk in tbe fields before dinner, when she led them towards
Mr. Adams's bouse ; and, as she approached it, told them, if they
pleased, she would divert them with one of the most ridiculous
sights they bad ever seen, which was an old, foolish parson, who,
she said, laughing, kept a wife and six brats on a salary of about
twenty pounds a year; adding, that there was not such another
ragged family in the parish.
They all readily agreed to this visit, and arrived whilst Mrs.
Adams was declaiming, as in the last chapter. Beau Didapper,
which was the name of the young gentleman we have seen riding
towards Lady Booby's, with his cane mimicked the rap of a
London footman at the door. The people within, namely, Adams,
his wife, and three children, Joseph, Banny, and the pedlar, were
all thrown into confusion by this knock : but Adams went directly
V) the door • which being opened, the Lady Booby and her com-
^any walked in, and were received by the parson with about two
iundred bows, and by his wife with as many courtesies; the latter
telling the lady, she was ashamed to be seen in such a pickle, and
that her house was in such a litter; but that if she had expected
such an honour from her ladyship, she should have found her in a
better manner. The parson made no apologies, though he was in
his half cassock, and a flannel nightcap. He said, they were
heartily welcome to his poor cottage; and, turning to Mr.
"Didapper, cried out, Non mea renidet in domo lacunar. The beau
answered, he did not understand Welsh; at which the parson
stared, and made no reply.
Mr. Didapper, or Beau Didapper, was a young gentleman about
four feet five inches in height. He wore his own hair, though the
scarcity of it might have given him sufficient excuse for a periwig.
His face was thin and pale ; the shape of his body and legs none
of the best, for he had very narrow shoulders, and no calf; and his
gait might more properly be called hopping than walking. The
qualifications of his mind were well adapted to his person. W«
BEAU DIDAPPER. 231
shall handle them first negatively. He was not entirely ignorant;
for he could talk a little Erench, and sing two or three Italian
songs: he had lived too much in the world to be bashful, and too
much at court to be proud : he seemed not much inclined to
avarice, for he was profuse in his expenses; nor had he all the
features of prodigality, for he never gave a shilling; no hater
of women, for he always dangled after them ; yet so little subject
to lust, that he had, among those who knew him best, the
character of great moderation in his pleasures; no drinking of
wine; nor so addicted tq passion, but that a hot word or two
from an adversary made him immediately cool.
Now to give him only a dash or two on the affirmative side:
though he was born to an immense fortune, he chose, for the
pitiful and dirty consideration of a place of little consequence, to
depend entirely on the will of a fellow, whom they call a great
main, who treated him with the utmost disrespect, and exacted of
him a plenary obedience to his commands, which he implicitly
submitted to, at the expense of his conscience, his honour, and of
his country, in which he had himself so very large a share: and
to finish his character; he was entirely well satisfied with his
own person and parts, so he was very apt to ridicule and laugh at
any imperfection in another. Such was the little person, or
rather thing, that hopped after Lady Looby into Mr. Adams's
kitchen.
The parson and his company retreated from the chimney-side,
where they had been seated, to give room to the lady and hers.
Instead of returning any of the courtesies or extraordinary civility
of Mrs. Adams, the lady, turning to Mr. Booby, cried out, Quelle
bete ! Quel animal! And presently after, discovering Eanny (for
she did not need the circumstance of her standing by Joseph to
assure the identity of her person), she asked the beau, whether
he did not think her a pretty girl. " Begad, madam," answered
he, " 'tis the very same I met."—"I did not imagine," replied the
lady, " you had so good a taste."—"Because I never liked you, I
warrant," cries the beau. " Ridiculous! " said shei: " you know you
were always my aversion."—" I would never mention aversion,"
answered the beau, "with that face;* dear Lady Booby, wash your
face before you mention aversion, I beseech you." He then
laughed, and turned about to coquet it with Eanny.
Mrs. Adams had been all this time begging and praying_the
ladies to sit down, a favour which she at last obtained. The little
boy, to whom the accident had happened, still keeping his place by
the fire, was chid by his mother for not being more mannerly: but
Lady Booby took his part, and commending his beauty, told the
parson he was his very picture. She then, seeing a book in his
* Lest this should appear unnatural to some readers, we think proper to
acquaint them that it is taken verbatim from very polite conversation.
232 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
hand, asked if he could read. "Yes," cried Adams, "a little
Latin, madam: he is just got into Qua Genus."—"A fig for queer
genius !" answered she: " let me hear him read a little English."
" Lege, Dick, lege" said Adams: but the boy made him no answer,
till he saw the parson knit his brows; and then cried, " I don't
understand you, father." " How, boy !" says Adams; " what does
Lego make in the imperative mood ? Legito, does it not ?"—
"Yes," answered Dick. "And what besides?" says the father.
"Lege," quoth the son, after some hesitation. "A good boy!"
says the father; " and now, child, what is the English of Lego ?"
To which the boy, after long puzzling, answered, he could not tell.
"How ! " cries Adams, in a passion; "what, has the water washed
away your learning ? Why, what is Latin for the English verb,
read? Consider before you speak." The child considered some
time, and the parson cried twice or thrice, " Le—, Le—." Dick
answered, "Lego."—" Yery well; and then, what is the English,"
says the parson, "of the verb Lego?"—"to read," cried Dick,
"very well," said the parson; "a good boy; you can do well if
you will take pains. I assure your ladyship he is not much above
eight years old, and is out of his Propria qua Maribus already.
Come, Dick, read to her ladyship;" which she again desiring, in
order to give the beau time and opportunity with Eanny, Dick
began as in the following chapter.
Chap. X.—The History of two Friends, which may afford a useful Lesson to
all those Persons who happen to take up their Residence in married
Families.
"Leonard and Paul were two friends "—"Pronounce it
Lennard, child," cried the parson. " Pray, Mr. Adams," says
Lady Booby, "let your son read without interruption." Dick
then proceeded:—" Lennard and Paul were two friends, who
having been educated together at the same school, commenced a
friendship, which they preserved a long time for each other. It
was so deeply fixed in both their minds, that a long absence, during
which they had maintained no correspondence, did not eradicate nor
lessen it: but it revived in all its force at their first meeting, which
tas not till after fifteen years' absence, most of which time
Lennard had spent in the East Indi-es."—" Pronounce it short,
Indies," says Adams. " Pray, sir, be quiet," says the lady. The
boy repeated, " In the East Indies, whilst Paul had served his
king and country in the army: in which different services, they
had found such different success, that Lennard was now married,
and retired with a fortune of thirty thousand pounds; and Paul
HISTORY OF TWO FRIENDS. 233
was arrived to the degree of a lieutenant of foot, and was not
worth a single shilling.
" The regiment, in which Paul was stationed, happened to be
ordered into quarters within a small distance from the estate
which Lennard had purchased, and where he was settled. This
latter, who was now become a country gentleman, and a justice ot
peace, came to attend the quarter-sessions in the town where
his old friend was quartered, soon after his arrival. Some affair,
in which a soldier was concerned, occasioned Paul to attend the
justices. Manhood, and time, and the change of climate, had so
much altered Lennard, that Paul did not immediately recollect the
features of his old acquaintance; but it was otherwise with
. Lennard. He knew Paul the moment he saw him; nor could he
contain himself from quitting the bench, and running hastily to
embrace him. Paul stood at first a little surprised; but had soon
sufficient information from his friend, whom he no sooner remem-
bered, than he returned his embrace with a passion which made
many of the spectators laugh, and gave to some few a much higher
and more agreeable sensation.
"Not to detain the reader with minute circumstances, Lennard
insisted on his friend's returning with him to his house that even-
ing; which request was complied with, and leave for a month's
absence for Paul obtained of the commanding officer.
" If it was possible for any circumstance to give any addition to
the happiness which Paul had proposed in this visit, he received
that additional pleasure, by finding, on his arrival at his friend's
* house, that his lady was an old acquaintance which he liadformerlv
contracted at his quarters, and who had always appeared to be of a
most agreeable temper: a character she had ever maintained among
her intimates, being of that number, every individual of which is
called quite the best sort of woman in the world.
" But good as this lady was, she was still a woman; that is to
say, an angel; and not an angel."—" You mistake, child," cries the
parson, "for you read nonsense."—" It is so in the book," answered
the son. Mr. Adams was then silenced by authority, and Dick
proceeded : " Por though her person was of that kind, to which
men attribute the name of angel, yet in her mind she was perfectly
woman^ of which a great degree of obstinacy gave the most
remarkable and perhaps most pernicious instance.
" A day or two passed after Paul's arrival, before any instances
of this appeared; but it was impossible to conceal it long. Both
she and her husband soon lost all apprehension from their friend's
presence, and fell to their disputes with as much vigour as ever.
These were still pursued with the utmost ardour and eagerness,
however trifling the_ causes were whence they first arose: nay,
however incredible it may seem, the little consequence of the
matter in debate was frequently v'von as a reason for the fierceness
2S4 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
of the contention, as tnus : If you loved me, sure you would never
dispute with me such a trifle as this. The answer to which is very
obvious; for the argument would hold equally on both sides, and
was constantly retorted with some addition, as—I am sure I have
much more reason to say so, who am in the right.
"During all these disputes, Paul always kept strict silence, and
preserved an even countenance, without showing the least visible
inclination to either party. One day, however, when madam had
left the room in a violent fury, Lennard could not refrain from
referring his cause to his friend, c Was ever anything so unreason-
able,' says he, ' as this woman ? What shall I do with her ? I dote
on her to distraction, nor have I any cause to complain of, more
than this obstinacy in her temper: whatever she asserts, she will
maintain against all the reason and conviction in the world. Pray,
give me your advice.'
" 'First,' says Paul, 'I will give my opinion, which is, flatly,
that you are in the wrong; for, supposing she is in the wrong, was
the subject of your contention any ways material ?_ What signified
it whether you were married in a red or yellow waistcoat ? for that
was your dispute. Now, suppose she was mistaken, as you love
her you say so tenderly, and I believe she deserves it, would it not
have been wiser to have yielded, though you certainly knew your-
self in the right, than to give either her or yourself any uneasiness ?
Por my own part, if ever I marry, I am resolved to enter into an
agreement with my wife, that in all disputes, especially about
trifles, that party who is most convinced they are right, shall
always surrender the victory; by which means we shall both be
forward to give up the cause.'—' I own,' said Lennard, c my dear
friend,' shaking him by the hand, ' there is great truth and reason
in what you say; and I will for the future endeavour to follow
your advice.'
" They soon after broke up the conversation, and Lennard, going
to his wife, asked her pardon, and told her, his friend had con-
vinced him he had been in the wrong. She immediately began a
vast encomium on Paul, in which he seconded her; and both
agreed he was the worthiest and wisest man upon earth.
" When next they met, which was at supper, though she had
promised not to mention what her husband had told her, she could
not forbear casting the kindest and most affectionate looks on
Paul- and asked him, with the sweetest voice, whether she should
help him to some potted woodcock ?—' Potted partridge, my dear,
you mean,' says the husband.—'My dear,' says she, 'I ask your
friend if he will eat any potted woodcock ; and I am sure I must
know, who potted it.'—'I think I should know too, who shot
them,' replied the husband: ' and I am convinced that I have not
seen a woodcock this year: however, though I know I am in the
right, I submit, and the potted partridge is potted woodcock, if
HISTORY OF TWO FRIENDS. 236
you desire to have it so.'—' It is equal to me,' says she,' whether
it is one or the other; but you would persuade one out of one's
senses; to be sure, you are always in the right in your own
opinion • but your friend, I believe, knows which he is eating.'
"Paul answered nothing, and the dispute continued, as usual,
the greatest part of the evening. The next morning, the lady,
accidentally meeting Paul, and being convinced he was her friend,
and of her side, accosted him thus :—'I am certain, sir, you have
long since wondered at the unreasonableness of my husband. He
is, indeed, in other respects, a good sort of man; but so positive,
that no woman but one of my complying temper could possibly
live with him. Why, last night now, was any creature so unrea-
sonable? I am certain you must condemn him. Pray, answer
me, was he not in the wrong ?'
"Paul, after a short silence, spoke as follows:—'I am sorry,
madam, that as good manners oblige me to answer against my
will, so an adherence to truth forces me to declare myself of a
different opinion. To be plain and honest, you were entirely in the
Wrong; the cause I own not worth disputing, but the bird was
undoubtedly a partridge.'—c 0, sir,' replied the lady, ' I cannot
Eossibly help your taste.'—'Madam,' returned Paul, 'that is very
ttle material; for had it been otherwise, a husband might have
expected submission.'—'Indeed, sir,' says she, 'I assure you, '
'Yes, madam,' cried he, 'he might, from a person of your excellent
understanding; and pardon me for saying, such a condescension
would have shown a superiority of sense even to your husband
himself.'—' But, dear sir,' said she, ' why should I submit when I
am in the right?'—'Por that very reason,' answered he; 'it
would be the greatest instance of affection imaginable: for can
anything be a greater object of our compassion than a person we
love in the wrong ?'—' Ay, but I should endeavour,' said she, ' to
set him right.'—' Pardon me, madam,' answered Paul: ' I will
apply to your own experience, if you ever found your arguments
had that effect. The more our judgments err, the less Ave are
willing to own it; for my OAvn part, I have always observed the
persons who maintain the worst side in any contest are the Avarm-
est.'—'Why,' says she, ' I must confess there is truth in what you
say, and I will endeavour to practise it.'
" The husband then coming in, Paul departed : and Lennard,
approaching his wife with an air of good-humour, told her, he was
sorry for their foolish dispute the last night: but he was now con-
vinced of his error. She answered, smiling, she believed she owed
his condescension to his complaisance; that she was ashamed to
think a word had passed on so silly an occasion, especially as she
was satisfied she had been mistaken. A little contention followed,
but with the utmost good will to each other; and was concluded
by her asserting that Paul had thoroughly convinced her she had
236 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
been in the wron^. Upon which they both united in the praises
of their common friend. ...
" Paul now passed his time with great satisfaction, these dis-
putes being much less frequent, as well as shorter than usual; but
the devil, or some unlucky accident, in which perhaps the devil
had no hand, shortly put an end to his happiness. He was now
eternally the private referee of every difference; in which, after
having perfectly, as he thought, established the doctrine of sub-
mission, lie never scrupled to assure both privately that they were
in the right in every argument, as before he had followed the
contrary method.
" One day a violent litigation happened in his absence, and both
parties agreed to refer it to his decision. The husband professing
liimself sure the decision would be in his favour, the wife answered,
he might be mistaken; for she believed his friend was convinced
how seldom she was to blame; and that if he knew all The
husband replied, ' My dear, I have no desire of any retrospect; but
I believe, if you knew all too, you would not imagine my friend so
entirely on your side.' c Nay,' says she, ' since you provoke me, I
will mention one instance. You may remember our dispute about
sending Jacky to school in cold weather, which point I gave up to
vou from mere compassion, knowing myself to be in the right; and
taul himself told me afterwards, he thought me so.' ' My dear,'
replied the husband, ' I will not scruple your veracity; but I
assure you solemnly, on my applying to him, he gave it absolutely
on my side, and said, he would have acted in the same manner.'
"They then proceeded to produce numberless other instances,
in all which Paul had, on vows of secrecy, given his opinion on
both sides. In conclusion, both believing each other, they fell
severely on the treachery of Paul, and agreed that he had been the
occasion of almost every dispute which had fallen out between
them. They then became extremely loving, and so full of con7
descension on both sides, that they vied with each other in censur-
ing their own conduct, and jointly vented their indignation on
Paul, whom the wife, fearing a bloody consequence, earnestly
entreated her husband to suffer quietly to depart the next day,
which was the time fixed for his return to quarters, and then drop
his acquaintance.
"However ungenerous this behaviour in Lennard may be
esteemed, his wife obtained a promise from him, though with
difficulty, to follow her advice; but they both expressed such
unusual coldness that day to Paul, that he, who was quick of
apprehension, taking Lennard aside, pressed him so home, that he
at last discovered the secret. Paul acknowledged the truth, but
told him the design with which he had done it, to which the other
answered, he would have acted more friendly to have let him into
the whole design; for that be might have assured himself of liis
THE HISTORY INTERRUPTED. 237
secrecy. Paul replied, with some indignation, he had given him a
sufficient proof how capable he was of concealing a secret from his
wife. Lennard returned, with some warmth, he had more reason
to upbraid him, for that he had caused most of the quarrels
between them by his strange conduct, and might, if they had not
discovered the affair to each other, have been the occasion of their
separation. Paul then said " But something now happened,
which put a stop to Dick's reading, and of which we shall treat in
the next chapter.
Chap. XI.—In which the History is continued.
Joseph Andrews had borne with great uneasiness the imperti-
nence of Beau Didapper to Eanny, who had been talking pretty
freely to her, and offering her settlements; but the respect to the
company had restrained him from interfering, whilst the beau con-
fined, himself to the use of his tongue only: but the said beau,
watching an opportunity whilst the ladies' eyes were disposed
another way, offered a rudeness to her with his hands; which
Joseph no sooner perceived, than he presented him with so sound
a box on the ear, that it conveyed him several paces from where
he stood. The ladies immediately screaming out, rose from their
chairs; and the beau, as soon as he recovered himself, drew his
hanger • which Adams observing, snatched up the lid of a pot in
his left hand; and covering himself with it as with a shield, with-
out any weapon of offence in his other hand, stepped in before
Joseph, and exposed himself to the enraged beau, who threatened
such perdition and destruction, that it frighted the women, who
were all got in a huddle together, out of their wits, even to hear
his denunciations of vengeance. Joseph was of a different com-
plexion, and begged Adams to let his rival come on; for he had a
good cudgel in his hand, and did not fear him.
Eanny now fainted into Mrs. Adams's arms, and the whole
room was in confusion, when Mr. Booby, passing by Adams, who
lay snug under the pot-lid, came up to Didapper, and insisted on
his sheathing the hanger, promising he should have satisfaction;
which Joseph declared he would give him, and fight him at any
weapon whatever.
The beau now sheathed his hanger, and taking out a pocket-
glass, and vowing vengeance all the time, readjusted his hair; the
parson deposited his shield; and Joseph, running to Eanny, soon
brought her back to life. Lady Booby chid Joseph for Ids insult
on Didapper; but he answered, he would have attacked an army
in the same cause,
"What en use" aaid the lady. "Madam." answered Joseuh.
238 JOSEPH ANDllEWSi
" he was rude to that young woman."—" What ?" says the lady,
"I suppose he would have kissed the wench ■ and is a gentleman
to be struck for such an offer? I must tell you, Joseph, these
airs do not become you."—"Madam," said Mr. Booby, "I saw
the whole affair, and I do not commend my brother: for I cannot
perceive why he should take upon him to be this girl's champion."
—" I can commend him," says Adams: " he is a brave lad; and
it becomes any man to be the champion of the innocent: and he
must be the basest coward who would not vindicate a woman
with whom he is on the brink of marriage."
" Sir," says Mr. Booby, " my brother is not a match for such a
young woman as tris."—"No," says Lady Booby; "nor do you,
Mr. Adams, act in your proper character, by encouraging any
such doings; and I am very much surprised you should concern
yourself in it. I think your wife and family your properer care."
" Indeed, madam, your ladyship says very true," answered Mrs.
Adams: "he talks a pack of nonsense, that the whole parish are
his children. I am sure I don't understand what he means by it;
it would make some women suspect he had gone astray: but I
acquit him of that. I can read Scripture as well as he, and I
never found that the parson was obliged to provide for other
folks' children; and besides, he is but a poor curate, and has little
enough, as your ladyship knows, for me and mine."
"You say very well, Mrs. Adams," quoth the Lady Booby, who
had not spoken a word to her before; " you seem to be a very
sensible woman; and I assure you, your husband is acting a very
foolish part, and. opposing his own interest, seeing my nephew is
violently set against this match; and, indeed, I can't blame him:
it is by no means one suitable to our family."
In this manner the lady proceeded with Mrs. Adams; whilst
the beau hopped about the room, shaking his head, partly from
pain and partly from anger; and Pamela was chiding Fanny for
her assurance, in aiming at such a match as her brother. Poor
Fanny answered only with her tears, which had long since begun
to wet her handkerchief; which Joseph perceiving, took her by
the arm, and, wrapping it in his, carried her off, swearing he
would own no relation to any one who was an enemy to her he
loved more than all the world. He went out with Fanny under his
left arm, brandishing a cudgel in his right, and neither Mr. Booby
nor the beau thought proper to oppose him. _ Lady Booby ana
her company made a very short stay behind him; for the lady's
bell now summoned them to dress, for which they had just time
before dinner.
Adams seemed now very much dejected, which his wife per-
ceiving, began to apply some matrimonial balsam. She told him
he had reason to be concerned; for that he had probably ruinea
family with his tricks almost; but perhaps he was grieved for
FAMILY DISAGREEMENTS. 233
the loss of his two children, Joseph ;and Fanny. His eldest
daughter went on:—"Indeed, father, it is very hard to bring1
strangers here to eat your children's bread out of their mouths.
You have kept them ever since they came home; and for anything
I see to the contrary, may keep them a month longer. Are you
obliged to give her meat, tho'f she was never so handsome ? But
I don't see she is so much handsomer than other people. If
' people were to be kept for their beauty, she would scarce fare
better than her neighbours, 1 believe. As for Mr. Joseph, I have
nothing to say: he is a young man of honest principles, and will
pay some time or other for what he has; but for the girl,—why
does she not return to her place she ran away from ? I would
not give such a vagabond slut, a halfpenny, though I had a million
of money; no, though she was starving."—" Indeed but I would,"
,cries little Dick; " and, father, rather than poor Fanny shall be
starved, I. will give lier all this bread and cheese,"—offering what
he held in his hand.
Adams smiled on the boy, and told him, he rejoiced to see he
was a Christian; and that it he had a halfpenny in his pocket, he
would have given it him; telling him it was his duty to look upon
all his neighbours as his brothers and sisters, and love them
accordingly. " Yes, papa," says he, " I love her better than my
sisters; for she is handsomer than any of them."—"Is she so,
saucebox ?" says the sister giving him a box on the ear; which the
father would probably have resented, had not Joseph, Fanny, and
the pedlar at that instant returned together.
Adams bid his wife prepare some food for their dinner: she
said, truly she could not, she had something else to do. Adams
rebuked her for disputing his commands, and quoted many texts
of Scripture, to prove that the husband is the head of the wife,
and she is to submit and obey. The wife answered, it was
blasphemy to talk Scripture out of church: that such things were
very proper to be said in the pulpit, but that it was profane to
talk them in common discourse.
Joseph told Mr. Adams, he was not come with any design to
give him or Mrs. Adams any trouble; but to desire the favour of
all their company to the George, an alehouse in the parish, where
he had bespoken a piece of bacon and greens for their dinner.
Mrs. Adams, who was a very good sort of a woman, only rather
too strict in economics, readily accepted this invitation, as did
the parson himself by her example; and away they all walked
together, not omitting little Dick, to whom Joseph gave a shilling,
when he heard of his intended liberality to Fanny.
240
JOSEPH ANDREWS.
Chap. X1T —Where the good-natured Reader will see Something which will
give him no great Pleasure.
The pedlar had been very inquisitive from the time he had first
heard that the great house in this parish belonged to the Lady
Booby; and had learned that she was the widow of Sir Thomas,
and that Sir Thomas had bought Fanny, at about the age of three
or four years, of a travelling woman; and, now their homely, but
hearty meal, was ended, he told Fanny he believed he could
acquaint her with her parents. The whole company, especially
she herself, started at this offer of the_ pedlar's. He then pro-
ceeded thus, while they all lent their strictest attention :—
" Though I am now contented with this humble way of getting
my livelihood, I was formerly a gentleman; for so all those of my
profession are called: in a word, I was a drummer in an Irish
regiment of foot. Whilst I was in this honourable station, I
attended an officer of our regiment into England, a recruiting.
In our march from Bristol to Frome (for since the decay of the
woollen trade, the clothing towns have furnished the army with a
great number of recruits), we overtook on the road a woman, who
seemed to be about thirty years old or thereabouts, not very hand-
some, but well enough for a soldier. As we came up to her, she
mended her pace, and, falling into discourse with our ladies (for
every man of the party, namely, a serjeant, two private men, and a
drummer was provided with his woman, except myself), she
continued to travel on with us. I, perceiving she must fall to
my lot, advanced presently to her, and made love to her in our
military way, and quickly succeeded to my wishes. We struck a
bargain within a mile, and lived together as man and wife to her
dying day."
" 1 suppose," says Adams, interrupting him, "you were married
with a license; for I don't see how you could contrive to have the
banns published, while you were marching from place to place."—
" No, sir," said the pedlar, " we took a license to go to bed together
without any banns."—"Ay, ay!" said the parson: "ex necessitate,
license may be allowable enough; but surely, surely, the other is
the more regular and eligible way."
The pedlar proceeded thus : " She returned with me to our regi-
ment and removed witli us from quarters to quarters, till at last,
whilst we lay at Galway, she fell ill of a fever, and died. When she
was on her death-bed, she called me to her, and, crying bitterly,
declared she could not depart this world without discovering a secret
to me,which, she said was the. only sin which sat, heavy on her heart.
LADY BOOBY'S IRENZY. *24.1
She said, she had formerly travelled in a company of gipsies, who
had made a practice of stealing away children; that for her own
part, she had been only once guilty of the crime, which, she said,
she lamented more than all the rest of her sins, since probably it
might have occasioned the death of the parents; ' for,' added she,' it
is almost impossible to describe the beauty of the young creature,
which was about a year and a half old when I kidnapped it. We
kept her (for she was a girl) about two years in our company, when
I sold her myself, for three guineas, to Sir Thomas Booby, in
Somersetshire.' Now, you know whether there are any more of
that name in this county."
" Yes," says Adams, " there are several Boobys who are squires,
but I believe no baronet now alive; besides, it answers so exactly
in every point, there is no room for doubt but you have forgotten
to tell us the parents from whom the child Was stolen."
"Their name," answered the pedlar, "was Andrews : they lived
about thirty miles from the squire : and she told me, that I might
be sure?to find them out by one circumstance; for that they had
a daughter of a very strange name, Pamela, or Pamela; some
pronounced it one way, and some the other."
Fanny, who had changed colour at the first mention of the name,
now fainted away; Joseph turned pale, and poor Dicky began to
roar; the parson fell on his knees, and ejaculated many thanks-
givings, that this discovery had been made before the dreadful sin
-of incest was committed; and the. pedlar was struck with amaze-
ment, not being able to account for all this confusion; the cause of
which was presently opened by the parson's daughter, who was the
only unconcerned person; for the mother was chafing Fanny's
temples, and talcing the utmost care of her: and indeed Fanny was
the only creature whom the daughter would not have pitied in her
situation; wherein, though we compassionate her ourselves, we
shall leave her for a little while, and pay a short visit to Lady
Booby.
Chap. XIII.—The History, returning to the Lady Booby, gives some Account
of the terrible Conflict in her Breast, between Love and Pride; with what
happened on the present Discovery.
The lady sat down with her company to dinner; but ate nothing.
As soon as the cloth was removed, she whispered Pamela, that she
was taken a little ill, and desired her to entertain her husband and
Beau Didapper. She then went up into her chamber, sent for
Slipslop, threw herself on the bed, in the agonies of love, rage, and
despair; nor could she conceal these boiling passions longer with-
out bursting. Slipslop now approached her bed, and asked her
242 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
how her ladyship did • but, instead of revealing her disorder, as she
intended, sne entered into a long encomium on the beauty and
virtues of Joseph Andrews; ending at last with expressing her
concern that so much tenderness should be thrown away on so
despicable an object as Eanny.
Slipslop, well knowing how to humour her mistress's frenzy,
Eroceeded to repeat, with exaggeration if possible, all her mistress
ad said, and concluded witli a wish that Joseph had been a gen-
tleman, and that she could see her lady in the arms of such a
husband. The lady then started from the bed, and taking a turn
or two across the room, cried out, with a deep sigh, " Sure he
would make any woman happy! "—" Your ladyship," says she,
" would be the happiest woman in the world with him. A fig for
custom and nonsense! What 'vails what people say ? Shall I be
afraid of eating sweetmeats, because people may say I have a
sweet tooth ? If I had a mind to marry a man, all the world
should not hinder me. Your ladyship has no parents to tutelar
your infections : besides, he is of your ladyship's family now, and
as good a gentleman as any in the country; and why should not a
woman follow her mind as well as a man ? Why should not your
ladyship marry the brother, as well as your nephew the sister ? I
am sure, if it was a fragrant crime, I would not persuade your
ladyship to it."
"But, dear Slipslop," answered the lady, "if I could prevail on
myself to commit sucn a weakness, there is that cursed Eanny in
(he way, whom the idiot—0 how I hate and despise him!"—
"She! a little ugly minx!" cries Slipslop • "leave her to me. I
suppose your ladyship has heard of Joseph's fitting with one of
Mr. Didapper's servants about her; and his master has ordered
them to carry her away by force this evening. _ I'll take care they
shall not want assistance. I was talking with 'this gentleman,
who was below just when your ladyship sent for me."—" Go back,"
says the Lady Booby, " this instant; for I expect Mr. Didapper
will soon be gqing. Do all you can, for I am resolved this wench
shall not be in our family.—I will endeavour to return to the
company; but let me know as soon as she is carried off."
Slipslop went away; and her mistress began to arraign her own
conduct in the following manner:—
" What am I doing ? How do I suffer this passion to creep
imperceptibly upon me ! How many days are passed since I coulcl
have submitted to ask myself the question P—Marry a footman!
Distraction ! Can I afterwards bear the eyes of my acquaintance?
But I can retire from them; retire with one, in whom I propose
more happiness than the world without him can give me ! Retire
—to feed continually on beauties, which my inflamed imagination
sickens with eagerly gazing on; to satisfy every appetite, every
desire, with their utmost wish. Ha [ and do 1 dote thus on a
STRANGE NEWS. 243
footman? I despise, I detest my passion. Yet wliy? Is he not
generous, gentle, kind ?—Kind, to whom ? to the meanest wretch,
a creature below my consideration. Does he not ?—yes, he does
prefer her. Curse his beauties, and the little low heart that pos-
sesses them; which can basely descend to this despicable wench,
and be ungratefully deaf to all the honours I do him. And can I
then love this monster ? No, I will tear his image from my bosom,
tread on him, spurn him. I will have those pitiful charms, which
now I despise, mangled in my sight; for I will not suffer the little
jade I hate to riot in the beauties I contemn. No, though I
despise him myself; though I would spurn him from my feet,
were he to languish at them;—no other shall taste the happiness!
scorn. Why do I say happiness ? To me it would be misery. To
sacrifice my reputation, my character, my rank in life, to the
indulgence of a mean and a vile appetite! How I detest the
thought. How much more exquisite is the pleasure resulting
from the reflection of virtue and prudence, than the faint relish of
what flows from vice and folly! W hither did I suffer this improper,
this mad passion to hurry me, only by neglecting to summon the
aids of reason to my assistance? "Reason, which has now set
before me my desires in their proper colours, and immediately
helped me to expel them. Yes, I thank Heaven and my pride, I have
now perfectly conquered this unworthy passion; and if there was
no obstacle in its way, my pride would disdain any pleasures, which
could be the consequence of so base, so mean, so vulgar "
Slipslop returned at this instant in a violent hurry, and with the
utmost eagerness cried out, " 0, madam! I have strange news.
Tom the footman is just come from the George, where it seems
Joseph and the rest of them are jinketting ■ and he says there is a
strange man, who has discovered that xanny and Joseph are
brother and sister."—"How, Slipslop! " cries the lady, in a sur-
prise. " I had not time, madam," cries Slipslop, " to inquire
about particles, but Tom says it is most certainly true."
This unexpected account entirely obliterated all those admirable
reflections which the supreme power of reason had so wisely made
just before. In short, when despair, which had more share in pro-
ducing the resolutions of hatred we have seen taken, began to
retreat, the lady hesitated a moment, and then, forgetting all the
purport of her soliloquy, dismissed her woman again, with orders
to bid Tom attend her in the parlour, whither she now hastened to
acquaint Pamela with the news. Pamela said, she could not
believe it; for she had never heard that her mother had lost any
child, or that she ever had any more than Joseph and herself.
. The lady flew into a violent rage with her, and talked of upstarts,
and disowning relations who had so lately been on a level with
her. Pamela made no answer; but her husband, taking up her
cause, severely reprimanded his aunt for her behaviour +-o his wife:
a 2
2J4 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
he told her, if it had been earlier in the evening, sue should not
have stayed a moment longer in her house; that he was convinced,
if this young woman could be proved her sister, she would readily
embrace her as such; and he himself would do the same. He then
desired the fellow might be sent for, and the young woman with
him, which Lady Booby immediately ordered; and thinking proper
to make some apology to Pamela for what she had said, it was
readily accepted, and all things reconciled.
The pedlar now attended, as did Panny, and Joseph, who would
not quit her : the parson likewise was induced, not only by curi-
osity, of which he had no small portion, but his duty, as he appre-
henaed it, to follow them ; for he continued all the way to exhort
them, who were now breaking their hearts, to offer up thanks-
givings, and be joyful for so miraculous an escape.
When they arrived at Booby-hall, they were presently called
into the parlour, where the pedlar repeated the same story he had
told before, and insisted on the truth of every circumstance; so
that all who heard him were extremely well satisfied of the truth,
except Pamela, who imagined, as she had never heard either of
her parents mention such an accident, that it must be certainly
false; and except the Lady Booby, who suspected the falsehood
of the story, from her ardent desire that it should be true; and
Joseph, who feared its truth, from his earnest wishes that it might
prove false.
Mr. Booby now desired them all to suspend their curiosity, and
absolute belief or disbelief, till the next morning, when he expected
old Mr. Andrews and his wife to fetch himself and Pamela home
in his coach, and then they might be certain of certainly knowing
the truth or falsehood of this relation; in which, he said, as there
were many strong circumstances to induce their credit, so he could
not perceive any interest the pedlar could have in inventing it, 01
in endeavouring to impose such a falsehood on them.
The Lady Booby, who was very little used to such company,
entertained them all—viz. her nephew, his wife, her brother and
sister, the beau, and the parson, witli great good humour at her
own table. As to the pedlar, she ordered him to be made as wel-
come as possible by her servants. All the company in the parlour,
Except the disappointed lovers, who sat sullen and silent, were full
if mirth; for Mr. Booby had prevailed on Joseph to ask Mr.
Oidapper's pardon, with which he was perfectly satisfied.
Many jokes passed between the beau and the parson, chiefly on
each other's dress ; these afforded much diversion to the company.
Pamela chid her brother Joseph for the concern which he expressed
at discovering a new sister. She said, if he loved Panny as he
ought, with a pure affection, he had no reason to lament being
related to her: upon which Adams began to discourse on Platonic
love j whence he made a quick transition to the joys in the next
DiDAP^ER DISAPPOINTED. 245
world, and concluded with strongly asserting that there was no
such thing as pleasure in this: at which Pamela and her husband
smiled on one another.
This happy pair proposing to retire (for no other person gave
the least symptom of desiring rest), they all repaired to several
beds provided for them in the same house : nor was Adams him-
self suffered to go home, it being a stormy night. Fanny indeed
often begged she might go home with the parson; but her stay
was so strongly insisted on, that she at last, by Joseph's advice,
consented.
Chap. XIV .—Containing several carious night Adventures, in which Mr.
Adams fell into many hair-breadth 'Scapes, partly owing to his Goodness,
and partly to his Inadvertency.
About an hour after they had all separated, it being now past
three in the morning, Beau Didapper, whose passion for Fanny
ptermitted him not to close his eyes, but had employed his imagi-
nation in contrivances how to satisfy his desires, at last hit on a
method by which he hoped to effect it. He had ordered his ser-
vant to bring him word where Fanny lay, and had received his
information: he therefore arose, put on his breeches and night-
gown, and stole softly along the gallery which led to her apart-
ment; and being come to the door, as he imagined it, he opened
it with the least noise possible, ana entered the chamber. A sa-
vour now invaded his nostrils, which he did not expect in the room
of so sweet a young creature, and which might have probably had
no good effect on a cooler lover. However, he groped out the bed
with difficulty, for there was not a glimpse of light; and, opening
the curtains, he whispered in Joseph's voice (for he was an excel-
lent mimic), " Fanny, my angel! I am come to inform thee that I
have discovered the falsehood, of the story we last night heard: I
am no longer thy brother, but thy lover; nor will I be delayed the
enjoyment of thee one^ moment longer. You have sufficient assu-
ranees of my constancy not to doubt my making you, and it
would be want of love to deny me the possession of thy charms."
So saying, he disencumbered himself from the little clothes he
had on, and leaping into bed, embraced his angel, as he conceived
her, with great rapture. If he was surprised at receiving no
answer, he was no less pleased to find his hug returned with equal
ardour. He remained not long in this sweet confusion; for both
he and his paramour presently discovered their error. Indeed,
it was no other than the accomplished Slipslop whom he had
engaged; but though she immediately knew the person whom she
had mistaken for Joseph, he was at a loss to guess at the repre-
246 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
sentative of Fanny. He had so little seen or taken notice of this
gentlewoman, that light itself would have afforded him no assist-
ance in his conjecture.
.Beau Didapper no sooner had perceived his mistake, than he
attempted to escape from the bed with much greater haste than
he had made to it; but the watchful Slipslop prevented him: for
that prudent woman, being disappointed of those delicious offer-
ings which her fancy had promised her pleasure, resolved to make
an immediate sacrifice to her virtue. Indeed, she wanted an
opportunity to heal some wounds, which her late conduct had, she
feared, given her reputation ; and as she had a wonderful presence
of mind, she conceived the person of the unfortunate beau' to be
luckily thrown in her way to restore her lady's opinion of her
impregnable chastity. At that instant, therefore, when he offered
to leap from the bed, she caught fast hold of his shirt, at the same
time roaring out, " 0 thou villain ! who hast attacked my chastity,
and, I believe, ruined me in my sleep; I will swear a rape against
thee; I will prosecute thee with the utmost vengeance."
The beau attempted to get loose, but she held him fast; and
when he struggled, she cried out, " Murder! murder! rape ! rob-
bery! rum!" At which words. Parson Adams, who lay in the
next chamber, wakeful, and meditating on the pedlar's discovery,-
jumped out of bed, and, without staying to put a rag of clothes on,
hastened into the apartment whence the cries proceeded. He
made directly to the bed in the dark, where, laying hold of the
beau's skin (for Slipslop had torn his shirt almost off), and finding
his skin extremely soft, and hearing him in a low voice begging
Slipslop to let him go, he no longer doubted but that this was the
young woman in danger of ravishing: and immediately falling on
the bed, and laying hold on Slipslop's chin, where he found a
rough beard, his belief was confirmed; he, therefore, rescued the
beau, who presently made his escape, and then turning towards
Slipslop, received such a cuff on his chops, that his wrath kindling
instantly, he offered to return the favour so stoutly, that had poor
Slipslop received the fist, which in the dark passed by her, and fell
on the pillow, she would most probable have given up the ghost.
Adams, missing his blow, fell directly on Slipslop, who cuffed
and scratched as well as she could 5 nor was he behind-hand with
her in his endeavours; but happily the darkness of the night
befriended her. She then cried she was a woman, but Adams
answered she was rather the devil, and if she was, he would
grapple with him: and being again irritated by anothor stroke on
his chops, he gave her such a remembrance in the g—s, that she
began to roar loud enough to be heard all over the house. Adams
then seizing her by the hair (for her double-clout had fallen off in
the scuffle), pinned her head down to the bolster and then both
called for lishts. toire.thev
NIGHT ADVENTU11E5. 24?
The Lady Booby, who was as wakeful as any of her guests, had
been alarmed from the beginning; and being a woman of a bold
spirit, she slipped on a night-gown, petticoat, and slippers; and
taking a candle, which always burnt in her chamber, inner hand,
she walked undauntedly to Slipslop's room; where she entered -
just at the instant as Adams had discovered, by the two moun-
tains which Slipslop carried before her, that he was concerned
with a female. He then concluded her to be a witch, and said,
he fancied those breasts gave suck to a legion of devils.
Slipslop, seeing Lady Booby enter the room, cried " Help, or
I am ravished," with a most audible voice; and Adams, per-
ceiving the light, turned hastily, and saw the lady, as she did him,
just as she came to the feet of the bed: nor did her modesty,
when she found the naked condition of Adams, suffer her ta
approach farther. She then began to revile the parson as the
wickedest of all men, and particularly railed at his impudence in
choosing her house for the scene of his debaucheries, and her own
woman for the object of his bestiality.
Poor Adams had before discovered the countenance of his bed-
fellow; and now first recollecting he was naked, he was no less
confounded than Lady Booby herself, and immediately whipped
under the bed clothes, whence the chaste Slipslop endeavoured in
vain to shut him out: then putting forth his head, on which, by
way of ornament, he wore a flannel nightcap, he protested his
innocence, and asked ten thousand pardons of Mrs. Slipslop for
the blows he had struck her, vowing he had mistaken her for a
witch.
Lady Booby, then casting her eyes on the ground, observed
something sparkle with great lustre, which, when she had taken
it up, appeared to be a very fine pair of diamond buttons for the
sleeves. A little farther, she saw lie the sleeve itself of a shirt
with laced ruffles. "Heyday!" says she, "what is the meaning
of this?"—"0 madam," says Slipslop, "I don't know what has
happened, I have been so terrified. Here may have been a dozen
men in the room."—"To whom belongs this laced shirt and
jewels?" says the lady. "Undoubtedly," cries the parson, "to
the young gentleman, whom I mistook for a woman on coming
into the room, whence proceeded all the subsequent mistakes^
for if I had suspected lnm for a man, I would have seized him,
had he been another Hercules, though, indeed, he seems rather to
resemble Hylas."
He then gave an account of the reason of his rising from bed,
and the rest, till the lady came into the room; at which,'ana
the figures of Slipslop and her gallant (whose heads only were
visible at the opposite corners of the bed), she could not refrain
from laughter; nor did Slipslop persist in accusing the parson of
any motions towards a rape. The lady therefore desired him to
248 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
return to his bed as soon as she was departed, and then ordering
Slipslop to rise and attend her in her own room, she returned
herself thither.
When she was gone, Adams renewed his petitions for pardon
to Mrs. Slipslop, who with a most Christian temper, not only
forgave, but began to move with much courtesy towards him,
which lie taking as a hint to be gone, immediately quitted the
bed, and made the best of his way towards his own; but unluckily,
instead of turning to the right, he turned to the left, and went to
the apartment where Fanny lay, who, as the reader may remember,
had not slept a wink the preceding night, and who was so hagged
out with what had happened to her in the day, that, notwith-
standing all thoughts ot her Joseph, she was fallen into so pro-
found a sleep, that all the noise in the adjoining room had not
been able to disturb her. Adams groped out the bed, and,
turning the clothes down softly (a custom Mrs. Adams had long
accustomed him to), crept in and deposited his carcass on the bed-
post—a place which that good woman had always assigned him.
As the cat or lap-dog of some lovely nymph, for whom ten
thousand lovers languish, lies quietly by the side of the charming
maid, and, ignorant of the scene of delight on which they repose,
meditates the future capture of a mouse, or surprisal of a plate of
bread and butter; so Adams lay by the side of Fanny, ignorant
of the Paradise to which he was so near; nor could the emanation,
of sweets which flowed from her breath overpower the fumes
of tobacco which played in the parson's nostrils. And now sleep
had not overtaken the good man, when Joseph, who had secretly
appointed Fanny to come to her at the break of day, rapped softly
at _ the chamber door, which, when he had repeated twice, Adams
cried, " Come in, whoever you are."
Joseph thought he had mistaken the door, though she had
given him the most exact directions: however, knowing his
friend's voice, he opened it, and saw some female vestments lying
on a chair. Fanny waking at the same instant, and stretching out
her hand on Adams's beard, she cried out,—" 0 heavens ! where am
IP"—"Bless me! where am I?" said the parson. Then Fanny
screamed, Adams leaped out of bed, and Joseph stood, as the
tragedians call it, like the statue of Surprise. " How came she
into my room?" cried Adams. "How came you into hers?"
cried Joseph in an astonishment. "I know nothing of the matter,"
answered Adams, " but that she is a vestal for me. As I am a
Christian, I know not whether she is a man or a woman. He is
an infidel who does not believe in witchcraft. They as surely
exist now as in the days of Saul. My clothes are bewitched
away too, and Fanny's brought into their place:" for he still
insisted he was in his own apartment; but Fanny denied it
vehemently, and said, his attempting to persuade Joseph of such
A MERRY COMPANY. 249
a falsehood, convinced her of his wicked designs. " How i" said
Joseph in a rage, " has he offered any rudeness to you?" She
answered, she could not accuse him of any more than villanously
stealing to bed to her, which she thought rudeness sufficient, and
what no man would do without a wicked intention.
Joseph's great opinion of Adams was not easily to be staggered;
and when he heard from Fanny that no harm had happened, he
grew a little cooler; yet still he was confounded, and, as he
knew the house, and that the women's apartments were on this
side Mrs. Slipslop's room, and the men's on the other, he was
convinced that he was in Fanny's chamber. Assuring Adams
therefore of this truth, he begged him to give some account how
he came there. Adams then, standing in his shirt (which did not
offend Fanny, as the curtains of the bed were drawn), related all
that had happened: and when he had ended, Joseph told him it
was plain he had mistaken, by turning to the right instead of the
left. "Odso!" cries Adams, " that's true: as sure as sixpence you
have hit on the very thing."
He then traversed the room, rubbing his hands, and begged
Fanny's pardon, assuring her he did not know whether she was
man or woman. That innocent creature firmly believing all he
said, told him she was no longer angry, and begged Joseph to
conduct him into his own apartment, where he should stay him-
self till she had put her clothes on. Joseph and Adams accord-
ingly departed, and the latter soon was convinced of the mistake
he had committed; however, whilst he was dressing himself, he
often asserted, he believed in the power of witchcraft notwith-
standing, and aid not see how a Christian could deny it.
Chap. XV.—The Arrival of Gaffer and Gammer Andrews, with another
Person not much expected; and a perfect Solution of the Difficulties raised
by the Pedlar.
As soon as Fanny was dressed, Joseph returned to her, and they
had a long conversation together, the conclusion of which was,
that if they found themselves to be really brother and sister, they
vowed a perpetual celibacv, and to live together all then days, and
indulge a Platonic friendship for each other.
The company were all very merry at breakfast, and Joseph and
Fanny rather more cheerful than the preceding night. The Lady
Booby produced the diamond button, which the beau most readily
owned, and alleged that he was very subject to walk in his sleep.
Indeed, he was far from being ashamed of his amour, and rather
endeavoured to insinuate that more than was really true had
passed between him and the fair Slipslop.
250 JOSEPH ANDEEWS.
Their tea was scarce over, when news came of the arrival of
old Mi\ Andrews and his wife. They were immediately intro-
auced, and kindly received by the Lady Booby, whose heart went
now pit-a-pat, as did those of Joseph and Fanny. They felt
perhaps little less anxiety in this interval than CEdipns himself,
whilst his fate was revealing.
Mr. Booby first opened the cause, by informing the old gentle-
man that he had a child in the company more than he knew of;
and, taking Fanny by the hand, told him, this was that daughter
of his who had been stolen away by gipsies in her infancy. Mr.
Andrews, after expressing some astonishment, assured his honour
that he had never lost a daughter by gipsies, nor ever had any
other children than Joseph and Pamela. These words were a
cordial to the two lovers, but had a different effect on Lady Booby.
She ordered the pedlar to be called, who recounted his story as he
had done before ; at the end of which, old Mrs. Andrews running
to Fanny, embraced her, crying out, " She is, she is my child!"
The company were all amazed at this disagreement between the
man and his wife; and the blood had now forsaken the cheeks of
the lovers, when the old woman, turning to her husband, who
was more surprised than all the rest, and having a little recovered
her own spirits, delivered herself as follows : "You may remember,
my dear, when you went a Serjeant to Gibraltar, you left me big
with child: you stayed abroad, you know, upwards of three years.
In your absence I was brought to bed, I verily believe, of this
daughter, whom I am sure I have reason to remember, for I
suckled her at this very breast till the day she was stolen
from me. One afternoon, when the child, was about a year or a
year and a half old, or thereabouts, two gipsy women came to the
door, and offered to tell my fortune. One of them had a child in
her lap. I showed them my hand, and desired to know if you was
ever to come home again, which, I remember as well as if it was
but yesterday, they faithfully promised me you should. I left the
girl in the cradle, and went to draw them a cup of liquor, the best
I had: when I returned with the pot (I am sure I was not absent
longer than whilst I am telling it to you), the women were gone.
I was afraid they had stolen something, and looked and looked,
but to no purpose, and Heaven knows I had very little for them to
steal. At last, hearing the child cry in the cradle, I went to take
it up ; but, 0 the living! how was I surprised to find, instead of
my own girl that I had put into the cradle, who was as fine a fat,
thriving child as you shall see in a summer's day, a poor sickly
boy, that did not seem to have an hour to live! I ran out, pulling
my hair off, and crying like any mad after the women, but
never could hear a word of them from that day to this. When I
came back, the poor infant, which is our Joseph there, as stout as
he now stands, lifted up its eyes upon me so piteously, that, to be
SOLUTION OP DIFFICULTIES. 25]
6ure, notwithstanding my passion, I could not find it in my heart
to do it any mischief. A neighbour of mine, happening to come in
at the same time, and hearing the case, advised me to take care of
this poor child, and God would perhaps one day restore me my
own. Upon which I took the child up, and suckled it to be sure,
all the world as if it had been of my own natural body: and as true
as I am alive, in a little time I loved the b9y all to nothing as if it
had been my own girl. Well, as I was saving, times growing very
hard, I, having two children, and nothing but my own work, which
was little enough, God knows, to maintain them, was obliged to
ask relief of the parish; but instead of giving it me, they removed
me, by justices' warrants, fifteen miles, to the place where I now
live, where I had not been long settled before you came home.
Joseph (for that \ »"as the name I gave him myself—the Lord
knows whether he was baptised or no, or by what name)—Joseph, I
say, seemed to me about five years old, when you returned; for I
believe he is two or three years older than our daughter here, for
l am thoroughly convinced she is the same; and when you saw
him, you said he was a chopping boy, without ever minding his
age; and so I, seeing you did not suspect anything of the matter,
thought I might e'en as well keep it to myself, for fear you should
not love him as well as I did. And all this is veritably true, and
I will take my oath of it before any justice in the kingdom."
The pedlar, who had been summoned by the order of Lady
Booby, listened with the utmost attention to Gammer Andrews'
story: and when she had finished, asked her, if the supposititious
child had no mark on its breast; to which she answered, " Yes,
he had as fine a strawberry as ever _ grew in a garden." This
Joseph acknowledged, and, unbuttoning his coat, at the inter-
cession of the company, showed it to them. "Well," says Gaffer
Andrews, who was a comical, sly old fellow, and very likely
desired to have no more children than he could keep, " you have
proved, I think, very plainly, that this boy does not belong to us;
but how are you certain that the girl is ours ? "
The parson then brought the pedlar forward, and desired him to
repeat the story which he had communicated to him the preceding
day at the alehouse, which he complied with; and related what the
reader, as well as Mr. Adams, has_ seen before. He then con-
firmed, from his wife's report, all the circumstances of the exchange,
and of the strawberry on Joseph's breast. At the repetition of the
word strawberry, Adams, who had seen it without any emotion,
started, and cried, "Bless me ! something comes into my head: "
but before he had time to bring anything out, a servant called him
forth.
When he was gone, the pedlar assured Joseph that his parents
were persons of much greater circumstances than those he had
hitherto mistaken for sucv; fsr that he had been stolen from a
252 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
entleman's house, by those whom they call gipsies, and had been
ept by them during a whole year; when, looking on him as in a
dying condition, they had exchanged him for the other healthier
child, in the manner before related. He said, as to the name of
his father, his wife had either never known, or forgotten it: but
that she had acquainted him he lived about forty miles from the
place where the exchange had been made, and which way, pro-
mising to spare no pains in endeavouring with him to discover the
place.
But Portune, which seldom does good or ill, or makes men
happy or miserable by halves, resolved to spare him this labour.
The reader may please to recollect, that Mr. Wilson had intended
a journey to the west, in which he was to pass through Mr.
Adams's parish, and had promised to call on him. He was now
arrived at the Lady Booby's gates for that purpose, being directed
thither from the parson's house; and had sent in the servant,
whom we have above seen called Mr. Adams forth. This had no
sooner mentioned the discovery of a stolen child, and had uttered
the word strawberry, than Mr. Wilson, with wildness in his looks,
and the utmost eagerness in his words, begged to be shown into
the room, where he entered, without the least regard to any of the
company but Joseph, and embracing him with a complexion all
pale and trembling, desired to see the mark on his breast: the
parson followed him, capering, rubbing his hands, and crying out,
Hie est quem quaeris ; inventus est, &c.
Joseph complied with the request of Mr. Wilson, who no
sooner saw the mark, than, abandoning himself to the most extra-
vagant rapture of passion, he embraced Joseph with inexpressible
ecstasy, and cried out, in tears of joy, " I have discovered my son;
1 have him again in my arms!" Joseph was not sufficiently ap-
prised yet to taste the same delight with his father, fop so in
reality he was; however, he returned some warmth to his em.-
braces : but he no sooner perceived, from his father's account, the
agreement of every circumstance of person, time, and place, than
he threw himself at his feet, and, embracing his knees, with tears
begged his blessing, which was given with much affection, and
received with such respect, mixed with such tenderness on both
sides, that it affected all present; but none so much as Lady
Booby, who left the room in an agony, which was but too mucn
perceived, and not very charitably accounted for, by some of the
company.
LOST CHILDREN RESTORED.
253
Chap. XVI.—Being the Last; in which this true History is brought to a happy
Conclusion.
Fanny was very little behind her Joseph in the duty she expressed
towards, her parents, and the joy she evidenced in discovering
them. Gammer Andrews kissed her, and said, she was heartily
glad to see her; hut, for her part she could never love any one
better than Joseph. Gaffer Andrews testified no remarkable
emotion: he blessed and kissed her, but complained bitterly that
he wanted his pipe, not having had a whiff that morning. _
Mr. Booby, who knew nothing of his aunt's fondness, imputed
her abrupt departure to her pride, and disdain of the family into
which he was married; he was therefore desirous to be gone with
the utmost celerityand now, having congratulated Mr. Wilson
and Joseph on the discovery, he saluted Fanny, called her sister,
and introduced her as such to Pamela, who behaved with great
decency on the occasion.
He now sent a message to his aunt, who returned that she
wished him a good'journey, but was too disordered to see any
company: he therefore prepared to set out, having invited Mr.
Wilson to his house; and Pamela and Joseph both so insisted on
his complying, that he at last consented, having first obtained a
messenger from Mr. Booby, to acquaint his wife with the news;
which, as he knew it would render her completely happy, he
could not prevail on himself to delay a moment in acquainting her
with.
The company were ranged in this manner: the two old people,
with their two daughters, rode in the coach- the squire, Mr.
Wilson, Joseph, Parson Adams, and the pedlar proceeded on
horseback.
In their way, Joseph informed his father of his intended match
with Fanny; to which, though he expressed some reluctance at
first, on the eagerness of his son's instances he consented; saying
if she was so good a creature as she appeared, and he described
her, he thought the disadvantages of birth and fortune might be
compensated. He however insisted on the match being deferred
till he had seen his mother; in which Joseph, perceiving him
Jiositive, with great duty obeyed him, to the great delight of
3arson Adams, who by these means saw an opportunity of fulfil-
ling the church forms, and marrying his parishioners without a
licence.
Mr. Adams, greatly exulting on this occasion (for such ceremo-
254 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
nies were matters of no small moment with him), accidentally gave
spurs to his horse; which the generous beast disdaining,—for he
was of high mettle, and had been used to more expert riders than
the gentleman who at present bestrode him, for whose horseman-
ship he had perhaps some contempt,—immediately ran away full
speed, and played so many antic tricks, that he tumbled the parson
from his back; which Joseph perceiving, came to his relief.
This accident afforded infinite merriment to the servants, and
no less frighted poor Fanny, who beheld him as ne passed by the
coach ; but the mirth of the one and the terror of the other were
soon determined, when the parson declared he had received no
damage.
The horse, having freed himself from his unworthy rider, as he
probably thought him, proceeded to make the best of his way :
but was stopped by a gentleman and his servants, who were
travelling the opposite way, and were now at a little distance from
the coach. They soon met; and as one of the servants delivered
Adams his horse, his master hailed him; and Adams, looking up,
presently recollected he was the justice of peace before whom he
and Fanny had made their appearance. The parson presently
saluted him very kindly; and the justice informed him that he had
found the fellow who attempted to swear against him and the.
young woman, the very next day, and had committed him to
Salisbury jail, where he was charged with many robberies.
Many compliments having passed between the parson and the
justice, the latter proceeded on his journey; and the former,
having with some disdain refused Joseph's offer of changing
horses, and declared he was as able a horseman as any in the
kingdom, remounted his beast; and now the company again pro-
ceeded, and liappily arrived at their journey's end, Mr. Adams, by
good luck rather than by good riding, escaping a second fall.
The company, arriving at Mr. Booby's house, were all received
by him in the most courteous, and entertained in the most splen-
did-manner, after the custom of the old English hospitality, which
is still preserved in some very few families in the remote parts of
England. They all passed that day with the utmost satisfaction;
it being perhaps impossible to find any set of people more solidly
and sincerely happy. Joseph and Fanny found means to be alone
upwards of two hours, which were the shortest but the sweetest
imaginable.
In the morning, Mr. Wilson proposed to his son to make a visit
with him to his mother; which, notwithstanding his dutiful incli-
nations, and a longing desire he had to see her, a little concerned
him, as he must be obliged to leave his Fanny: but the goodness
of Mr. Booby relieved him ; for he proposed to send "his own
coach-and-six for Mrs. Wilson, whom Pamela so very earnestly
invited, that Mv. Wilson at length agreed with the entreaties of
A HAPPY WEDDING. 25&
Mr. Booby and Joseph, and suffered the coach to go empty for
his wife.
On Saturday night the coach returned with Mrs. Wilson, who
added one more to this happy assembly. The reader may imagine
much better and quicker too than I can describe, the many
embraces and tears of joy which succeeded her arrival. It is
sufficient to say she was easily prevailed with to follow her lius-
band's example, in consenting to the match.
On Sunday Mr. Adams performed the service at the squire's
parish church, the curate of which very kindly exchanged duty,
and rode twenty miles to the Lady Booby's parish so to do: being
particularly charged not to omit publishing the banns, being the
third and last time.
At length the happy day arrived, which was to put Joseph in
the possession of all his wishes. He arose, and dressed himself in
a neat plain suit of Mr. Booby's, which exactly fitted him; for he
refused" all finery, as did Banny likewise, who could be prevailed
on by Pamela to attire herself in nothing richer than a white
dimity nightgown. Her shift indeed, which Pamela presented
her, was of the finest kind, and an edging of lace round the bosom.
She likewise equipped her with a pair of fine white thread stock-
ings, which were all she would accept; for she wore one of her
own short round-eared caps, and over it a little straw hat, lined
with cherry-coloured silk, and tied with a cherry-coloured
riband.
In this dress she came forth from her chamber, blushing and
breathing sweets; and was by Joseph, whose eyes sparkled fire,
led to church, the whole family attending, where Mr. Adams per-
formed the ceremony; at which nothing was so remarkable as the
extraordinary and unaffected modesty of Panny, unless the true
Christian piety of Adams, who publicly rebuked Mr. Booby and
Pamela for laughing in so sacred a place, and on so solemn an
occasion. Our parson would have done no less to the highest
prince on earth ; for though he paid all submission and deference
to his superiors in other matters, where the least spice of religion
intervened he immediately lost all respect of persons. It was his
maxim, that he was a servant of the Highest, and could not, with-
out departing from his duty, give up the least article of his
honour, or of his cause, to the greatest earthly potentate. Indeed,
he always asserted, that Mr. Adams at church with his surplice
on, and Mr. Adams without that ornament, in any other place,
were two very different persons.
When the church rites were over, Joseph led his blooming bride
back to Mr. Booby's, for the distance was so very little, they did
not think proper to use a coach: the whole company attended
them likewise on foot; and now a most magnificent entertainment
was provided, at which Parson Adams demonstrated an appetite
366 JOSEPH ANDREWS.
surprising, as well as surpassing every one present. Indeed, the
only persons who betrayed any deficiency on this occasion, were
those on whose account the feast was provided. They pampered
their imaginations with the much more exquisite repast which the
approach of night promised tliem, the thoughts of which filled
both their minds, though with different sensations; the one all
desire, while the other had wishes tempered with fears.
At length, after a day passed with the utmost merriment, cor-
rected by the strictest decency, in which, however, Parson Adams
being well filled with ale and pudding, had given a loose to more
facetiousness than was usual to him, the happy, the blessed
moment arrived, when Fanny retired with her mother, her mother-
in-law, and her sister.
She was soon undressed; for she had no jewels to deposit in
their caskets, nor fine laces to fold with the nicest exactness.
Undressing to her was properly discovering, not putting off, orna-
ments; for as all her charms were the gifts of nature, she could
divest herself of none. How, reader, shall I give thee an adequate
idea of this lovely young creature ? The bloom of roses and lilies
might a little illustrate her complexion, or their smell her sweet-
n ess; but to comprehend her entirely, conceive youth, health,
bloom, neatness, and innocence, in her bridal bed; conceive all
these in their utmost perfection, and you may place the charming
Fanny's picture before your eyes.
Joseph no sooner heard she was in bed, than he fled with the
utmost eagerness to her. A minute carried him into her arms,
where we shall leave this happy couple to enjoy the private rewards
of their constancy; rewards so great and sweet, that I apprehend
Joseph neither envied the noblest duke, nor Fanny the finest
duchess that night.
The third day, Mr. Wilson and his wife, with their son and
daughter, returned home; where they now live together in a state
of bliss scarce ever equalled. Mr. Booby has, with unprecedented
generosity, given Fanny a fortune of two thousand pounds, which
Joseph has laid out in a little estate in the same parish with his
father, which he now occupies, his father having stocked it for
him ; and Fanny presides with most excellent management in his
dairy; where, however, she is not at present very able to bustle
much, being, as Mr. Wilson informs me in his last letter, ex-
tremely big with her first child.
Mr. Booby has presented Mr. Adams with a living of one Iran-
dred and thirty pounds a-year. He at first refused it, resolving
not to quit his parishioners, with whom he had lived so long;
but, on recollecting he might keep a curate at this living, he has
been lately inducted into it.
The pedlar, besides several handsome presents both from Mr
Wilson and Mr. Booby, is, by the latter's interest, made an
BLISSFUL CONCLUSION. 257
exciseman : a trust which he discharges with such justice, that he
is greatly beloved in his neighbourhood.
As for the Lady Booby, she returned to London in a few days,
where a young captain of dragoons, together with eternal parties'
at cards, soon obliterated the memory of Joseph.
Joseph remains blessed with his Fanny, whom he dotes on with
the utmost tenderness, which is all returned on her side. The
happiness of this couple is a perpetual fountain of pleasure to
then: fond parents ; and what is particularly remarkable, he
declares he will imitate them in their retirement; nor will he be
prevailed on by any booksellers, or their authors to make hir
appearance in high life.
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AUTHORS.
Out for a Holiday with Cook.
Sketchley.
Tristram Shandy, and A Sentimental
Journey. Sterne.
The Mountaineer of the Atlas.
W. S. Mayo.
The Mysteries of Udolpho. Com-
plete Edition. Mrs Radcliffe.
Log of the " Water Lily" during
Three Cruises.
Through the Keyhole. J.M.J ephson.
King Dobbs. James Hannay.
Fairy Water.
Author of " George Geith."
The Hobbses and Dobbses.
GEORGE ROUT LEDGE &> SONS.
- NOVELS AT ONE SHE
Light and Darkness. Mrs. Crowe.
Lily Dawson. Ditto.
The Haunted House. Gerstaecker.
A Sailor's Adventures. Ditto.
Pirates of the Mississippi. Ditto.
The Duke. Mrs. Grey.
JNGr, continued.
Longbeard, King of the People.
C. Mackay
Valentine Vox. Complete Edition.
Co c eton.
Peregrine Pickle. Complete Edition.
Smollett.
NOVELS AT SIXPENCE.
Unabridged.
^ord LYTTON.
The Author's Copyright Revised
Edition, in which are given the latest
revisions and corrections made by the
Author, together with the Prefaces he
wrote to the various Editions of his
Novels published during his lifetime.
No other 64. Edition contains these Pre-
faces and Revisions.
Eugene Aram, with Three Prefaces.
Godolphin.
The Last Days of Pompeii, with
Two Prefaces.
Rienzi, with Dedication and Two
Prefaces.
Ernest Maltravers, with a Preface.
Paul Clifford, with Two Prefaces.
Leila, Calderon the Courtier, and
The Pilgrims of the Rhine, in One
Volume.
Falkland and Zicci, with a Prefatory
Note.
Pelham, with Dedication.
The Disowned, with a Preface.
Devereux, with a Preface.
Alice ; or, The Mysteries. Sequel to
" Ernest Maltravers."
New Copyright Volumes.
Night and Morning.
Zanoni. _ ^
EUGENE SUE.
The Wandering Jew.
Part i (The Transgression).
Do. Part 2 (The Chastisement).
Do. Part 3 (The Redemption).
The Mysteries of Paris.
Part x (Morning).
Ditto. Part 2 (Noon).
Ditto. Part 3 (Night).
CHARLES DICKENS,
The Pickwick Papers. 2
Parts (6d. each).
Nicholas Nickleby. 2
Parts (6d. each).
Oliver Twist.
Sketches by Boz.
HENRY FIELDING.
Tom Jones. 2 Vols. (6rf.
each).
Joseph Andrews.
Amelia.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
Roderick Random.
Peregrine Pickle. 2 Vols.
(6d. each).
Humphry Clinker.
W. H. MAXWELL.
Author's Edition.
Stories of Waterloo.
The Bivouac: Stories of
the Peninsular War.
Captain Blake.
Wild Sports of the West.
Captain MARRYAT.
Peter Simple.
The King's Own.
Newton Forster.
Jacob Faithful.
Frank Mildmay.
Pacha of Many Tales.
Japhet.
Midshipman Easy.
The Dog Fiend.
The Phantom Ship.
Olla Podrida.
The Poacher.
Percival Keene.
Monsieur Violet.
Rattlin, the Reefer.
Valerie.
The Pirate, and |The
Three Cutters.
J. F. COOPER.
The Waterwitch.
The Pathfinder. (L. 2.)
The Deerslayer. (L. 1.)
Last of Mohicans.( L.3.)
(L. 5.)
The Pilot.
The Prairie.
The Spy.
The Red Rover.
Homeward Bound.
Eve Effingham.
The Two Admirals.
Miles Wallingford.
Afloat and Ashore.
The Pioneers, j (L. 4.)
Wyandotte.
Lionel Lincoln.
The Bravo.
The Sea Lions.
The Headsman.
Precaution.
The Oak Openings.
Heidenmauer,
Mark's Reef.
Ned Myers.
Satanstoe.
The Borderers.
iack Tier,
fercedes.
L. 1 to 5 are the
Leather-Stocking Tales.
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE &• SONS.
NOVELS AT SIXPENCE, continued.
Sir WALTER SCOTT.
Guy Manoering.
The Antiquary.
Ivanhoe.
The Fortunes of Nigel.
Heart of Midlothian.
Bride of Lammermoor.
Waverley.
Rob Roy.
Kenilworth.
The Pirate.
The Monastery.
Old Mortality.
Peveril of the Peak.
Quentin Durward.
St. Ronan's Well.
The Abbot.
The Black Dwarf.
Woodstock.
Anne of Geierstein.
The Betrothe'd.
The Fair Maid of Perth.
Surgeon's Daughter.
The Talisman.
Count Robert of Paris.
Redgauntlet.
Mrs. RADCLIFFE.
Romance of the Forest.
The Italian.
Mysteries of Udolpho.
2 Parts {fid. each).
VARIOUS AUTHORS.
Robinson Crusoe. Defoe.
Colleen Bawn. Gerald Griffin.
Vicar of Wakefield. Goldsmith.
Sketch Book. Washington Irving.
Tristram Shandy. Sterne.
A Sentimental Journey. Sterne.
English Opium Eater. De Quincey.
Essays of Elia. Charles Lamb.
Notre Dame. Victor Hugo.
Gulliver's Travels. Swift.
Last Essays of Elia. C. Lamb.
The Shadowless Man.
Baron Trenck.
The Swiss Family Robinson.
Rory O'More. Lover.
The Wild Irish Girl. Lady Morgan.
The Trials of Margaret Lyndsay.
Professor Wilson.
Two Years Before the Mast; or, A
Sailor's Life at Sea. Dana.
Valentine Vox. 2 Vols, fid, each).
Frankenstein; or, The Modern Pro-
metheus. Mrs. Shelley.
The Scottish Chiefs. Jane Porter.
192 pages.
Nightside of Nature. Mrs. Crowe.
AMERICAN HUMOROUS BOOKS.
Artemus Ward, his Book.
Artemus Ward, his Travels.
The Nasby Papers.
Major Jack Downing. [each)
Biglow Papers. 1st & 2nd Series fid.
Orpheus C. Kerr.
Hans Breitmann.
Josh Billings.
Sayings and Doings of Sam Slick.
1st, 2nd, and 3rd series fid. each).
Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.
Professor at the Breakfast Table.
The Poet at the Breakfast Table.
•"-w-H".' ■ O.W.Holmes.
Celebrated Jumping Frog. M.Twain.
Luck of Roaring Camp. Bret Harte
Innocents Abroad. Mark Twain.
WIDE, WIDE WORLD SERIES.
The Prince of the House of David.
The Throne of David.
The Pillar of Fire.
The Wide, Wide World.
Queechy.
Uncle Tom's Cabin.
The Lamplighter.
ROUTLEDGE'S SIXPENNY SERIES.
Under the above title, Messrs. George Routledge & Sons are
about to produce a Series of the Cheapest Standard Books for
Youth ever published in this or in any other country. Each book will
contain from 64 to 80 large pages, in three columns, brevier type, with
from 40 to 80 Illustrations, well printed by the best London Printers,
and stitched in a durable paper cover.
1. ROBINSON CRUSOE. With 40 Illustrations by J. D. Watson. 80 pp.
2. THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON. With 40 Illustrations.
3. SANDFORD AND MERTON. With 70 Illustrations.
4. GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES. With 70 Illustrations.
5. ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES. With 60 Illustrations.
6. THE BOY'S OWN NATURAL HISTORY. With 300 Illustrations.
7. .ffiSOP'S FABLES. With 100 Illustrations.
8. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. With 40 Illustrations.
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS.
Prom the " Times.''
Among- tL- most surprising iustances of the immense revolution which has taken
fiblace of late j ■> in (opuiar literature, are the cheap publicltsions of Messrs. Rovtlbdgb
I iN3 Sows, of the ''roadway. For several years they have been' issuing the " iUitWAT
Libbaky," and In; - 3 shown an energy and enterprise in many fields of literature almost
[Unparalleled in this country. We -believe the great success which they have met With has
risen from the universally popular character of the works which they have issued; Their
books are never above and never below th^gtandard of public taste. Looking over their
.list of books, we cannot, but wish the " Railway Lib a a by " a continuation of the immense
|sale which has hitherto attended it ^ ; peg
this series, consisting of nearly 1,000 NOVELS,
At Is, and 2s. each,
Contains the best,Works of Fiction, by thej'olloiviny Authors:—
sir walter scott
lord lytton
james grant
albert smith
henry cookton
t. smollet1'
w. h. maxwell
s. richardson
jane austen
w. carleton
l. "Sterne
miss ferrier
mark twain
bret harte.
captain chamier
amelia b. edwards
gerald griffin
w: h. g. kingston
captain; marryat
miss wetherell
author of.' whitefriars !
mrs. crowe
theodore hook
w. harrison ainsworth
maria edgeworth
samuel lover
edmund yates
john banjm
jane port'ee
tiie b rot her, mayhew
h esp a st r ETL'on
eugene sue
charles lever
frank smedley
alexandre dumfs
h. fielding
mrs. gore
g. p. r. james
j. f. cooper
n. hawthorne
mrs. teollope
frede rick ■' gerstaecker
captain armstrong
lady scott
balzac
g. r. gleig
judge haliburton
james hannay
annie thomas
m. m. bell
lady charlotte bury
mrs. j. h. r1ddell
captatn mayne re id
w. g. n. neale
mrs. b. h. buxton
author of'guy livingstone'
henry kingsley
jules verne
r. m. tephson
victor hugo
m cro.mmelin
anthony trollope
and charles dickens.
london; broadway, ludgatf. fill.
NEW YORK : 9, LAFAYETTE PLACE.