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 OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 
 
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 WEBSTER’S GUINEA DICTIONARY 
 
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 D.D., of Yale College. 
 
 The peculiar features of this volume, which render it perhaps the most useful 
 
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 1 . Completeness. —It contains 114,000 
 words—more by 10,000 than any other 
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 explanation of which a Dictionary Is moat 
 wanted. 
 
 2. Accuracy of Definition. — In this 
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 were most valuable, In correcting the faulty 
 and redundant definitions of I)r. Johnson, 
 which had previously been almost univer¬ 
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 the definitions have been carefully and 
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 with the assistance and under the super¬ 
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 3. Scientific and Technics! Terms.— 
 
 In order to secure the utmost, completeness j 
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 4. Etymology. —The eminent philo¬ 
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 possible on Fixed Principles. In all cases 
 qf doubt an alternative spelling is given. 
 
 6. Pronunciation. —This has been en¬ 
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 8. The Synonyms.— These are sub¬ 
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 and are very complete, i 
 
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 Principles of Pronunciation. By 
 
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 “ Seventy years passed before Johnson was followed by Webster, an 
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 • # • • 
 
 “ His laborious comparison of twenty languages, though never pub¬ 
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BOHN'S NOVELISTS' LIBRARY. 
 
 THE 
 
 ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 WILSON ANNEX 
 
 From the collection 
 of 
 
 Alfred Garvin Engstrcm 
 and 
 
 Mary Claire Randolph 
 Engstrcm 
 
THE HISTORY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS, 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS FRIEND MR ABR AH AM ADAMS. 
 
 WA 
 
 P/13454 
 
 ,JU 
 HB 
 
 BY HENRY FIELDING, ESQ. 
 
 WITH A SHOUT BIOGRAPHY BY THOMAS ROSCOE, REVISED, 
 
 AND FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. 
 
 THf: LIBRARY 
 
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 1882 . 
 
 
$5 it n g a u 
 
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 PRINTERS. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 This reprint of Henry Fielding’s first novel is a repro¬ 
 duction of the fifth edition, which appeared in the year 1751, 
 and was the last published in the author’s lifetime. It will 
 be observed that the old-fashioned methods of spelling many 
 words have been retained; and in this respect it shows fre¬ 
 quent variations from other editions published since the 
 author’s death, in which not only the orthography has been 
 altered in accordance with the views of editors, but also 
 whole words and phrases have been unreasonably tampered 
 with. 
 
 The same exactitude of editing is not claimed with respect 
 to the preliminary memoir. It is substantially that written 
 by Thomas Eoscoe for his well-known edition of Fielding’s 
 works; hut it may be hoped that it has been improved by 
 the omission of some irrelevant matter, and by the insertion, 
 in notes, of sundry details which have hitherto been over¬ 
 looked. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 - PAGE 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS OF HENRY FIELDING . . . . i 
 
 PREFACE •• •• •• • • •• •• 1 
 
 BOOK L —CHAPTER I. 
 
 Of writing Lives in general, and particularly of Pamela ; with a 
 word by the bye of Colley Cibber and others . . . . S 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Of Mr Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, education, and 
 great endowments ; with a word or two concerning ancestors 11 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Of Mr Abraham Adams the curate, Mrs Slipslop the chamber¬ 
 maid, and others . . . . . . . . . . 14 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 What happened after their journey to London . . . . 18 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and 
 mournful behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of 
 Joseph Andrews . . . . . . . . . . 20 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 How Joseph Andrews writ a letter to his sister Pamela 
 
 « • 
 
 23 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Sayings of wise men. A dialogue between the lady and her 
 maid ; and a panegyric, or rather satire, on the passion of 
 love, in the sublime style 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 In which, after some very fine writing, the history goes on, and 
 relates the interview between the lady and Joseph ; where the 
 latter hath set an example which we despair of seeing followed 
 by his sex in this vicious age 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 What passed between the lady and Mrs Slipslop ; in which we 
 prophesy there are some strokes which every one will not truly 
 comprehend at the first reading 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Joseph writes another letter: his transactions with Mr Peter 
 Pounce, etc., with his departure from Lady Booby . . 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Of several new matters not expected 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Containing many surprizing adventures which Joseph Andrews 
 met with on the road, scarce credible to those who have never 
 travelled in a stage-coach . . . . . . 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with 
 the curious discourse between him and Mr Barnabas, the 
 parson of the parish . . 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Being very full of adventures which succeeded each other at the 
 
 inn •• •• •• •• •• •• 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Showing how Mrs Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how 
 officious Mr Barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the 
 thief: with a dissertation accounting for their zeal, and that 
 of many other persons not mentioned in this history . . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 27 
 
 31 
 
 36 
 
 40 
 
 42 
 
 45 
 
 52 
 
 56 
 
 61 
 
CONTEXTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The escape of the thief. Mr Adams’s disappointment. The 
 arrival of two very extraordinary personages, and the intro¬ 
 duction of Parson Adams to Parson Barnabas 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the bookseller, 
 which was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the 
 inn, which produced a dialogue between Mrs Tow-wouse and 
 her maid of no gentle kind 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of what 
 occasioned the violent scene in the preceding chapter . . 
 
 BOOK II.-CHAPTER I. 
 
 & 
 
 Of divisions in authors . . 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A surprizing instance of Mr Adams’s short memory, with the 
 unfortunate consequences which it brought on Joseph . . 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, 
 with Mr Adams’s inquiry into the religion of his host 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn where the com¬ 
 pany dined, with its bloody consequences to Mr Adams . . 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A very short chapter, in which Parson Adams went a great way 
 
 PAGE 
 
 65 
 
 74 
 
 80 
 
 83 
 
 86 
 
 91 
 
 97 
 
 113 
 
 121 
 
 126 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A notable dissertation by Mr Abraham Adams; wherein that 
 gentleman appears in a political light 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 In which the gentleman descants on bravery and heroic virtue, 
 till an unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse . . 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding 
 adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities; and 
 who the woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity 
 to his victorious arm . . 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 What happened to them while before the justice. A chapter 
 very full of learning . . 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as 
 to the good-natured reader 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A dissertation concerning high people and low people, with Mrs 
 Slipslop’s departure in no very good temper of mind, and the 
 evil plight in which she left Adams and his company . . 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 An interview between Parson Adams and Parson Trulliber . . 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 An adventure the consequence of a new instance which Parson 
 Adams gave of his forgetfulness 
 
 CHAPTER 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 . . 
 
 CHAPTER 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 
 return of the lovers 
 
 t 
 
 PAGE 
 
 129 
 
 132 
 
 137 
 
 142 
 
 149 
 
 153 
 
 159 
 
 V 
 
 165 
 
 168 
 
 • • 
 
 176 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK III.—CHAPTER I. 
 
 Matter prefatory in praise of biography 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A night-scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befel 
 Adams and his fellow-travellers 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 In which the gentleman relates the history of his life . . 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A description of Mr Wilson’s way of living. The tragical ad¬ 
 venture of the dog, and other grave matters 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A disputation on schools held on the road by Mr Abraham 
 Adams and Joseph; and a discovery not unwelcome to them 
 both 
 
 CPIAPTER VI. 
 
 Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews ; with the hunting adven¬ 
 ture, and Parson Adams’s miraculous escape 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste 
 and times 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Which some readers will think too short and others too long . . 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Containing as surprizing and bloody adventures as can- be found 
 in this or perhaps any other authentic history 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in 
 this history but to divert the redder . . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 182 
 
 187 
 
 197 
 
 219 
 
 224 
 
 228 
 
 237 
 
 245 
 
 249 
 
 254 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Containing the exhortations of Parson Adams to his friend in 
 affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of 
 the reader 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 More adventures, which we hope will as much please as surprize 
 the reader 
 
 CHAPTER 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 
 
 BOOK IV.-CHAPTER I. 
 
 The arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at Booby-liall . . 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A dialogue between Mr Abraham Adams and Lady Booby . . 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 What passed between the lady and lawyer Scout 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 A short chapter, but very full of matter; particularly the arrival 
 of Mr Booby and his lady 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Containing justice business; curious precedents of depositions, 
 and other matters necessary to be perused by all justices of 
 the peace and their clerks 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Of which you are desired to read no more than you like . . 
 
 CHAPTER 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 
 
 PAGE 
 
 258 
 
 262 
 
 269 
 
 272 
 
 277 
 
 280 
 
 283 
 
 285 
 
 291 
 
 297 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A discourse which happened between Mr Adams, Mrs Adams, 
 Joseph, and Fanny; with some behaviour of Mr Adams 
 which will be called by some few readers very low, absurd, and 
 unnatural 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite friend paid 
 to the parson 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The history of two friends, which may afford an useful lesson to 
 all those persons who happen to take up their residence in 
 married families . . 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 In which the history is continued 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Where the good-natured reader will see something which will 
 give him no great pleasure 
 
 CHAPTER 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 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 Containing several curious night-adventures, in which Mr Adams 
 fell into many hair-breadth ’scapes, partly owing to his good¬ 
 ness, and partly to his inadvertency 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The arrival of Gaffar and Gammar Andrews, with another person 
 not much expected; and a perfect solution of the difficulties 
 raised by the pedlar 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 305 
 
 311 
 
 315 
 
 321 
 
 325 
 
 328 
 
 333 
 
 339 
 
 Being the last. In which this true history is brought to a 
 happy conclusion . . . . 
 
 344 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF HENRY FIELDING . . . . FRONTISPIECE. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PARSON ADAMS AND THE HOG’s PUDDING 
 ADAMS’S VISIT TO PARSON TRULLIBER 
 
 THE AMBASSADOR . 
 
 BEAU DIDAPPER . . 
 
 114 
 
 160 
 
 244 
 
 321 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 To few only is it given to ‘ write for all time; ’ to have 
 their memories cherished, their thoughts embalmed in the 
 heart of distant posterity. But if few, they have been em¬ 
 phatically designated the ‘ salt of the earth who season human¬ 
 kind,’ who sustain the intellectual spirit of man, who at once 
 elevate and vindicate the character of humanity in our eyes. 
 Without its Homer, the poetic mind of Greece must long 
 have lain dormant—a comparative blank ; without Dante, 
 Shakspeare, Milton, Pope, Swift, and Fielding, all, in their 
 several walks, the great teachers and censors of the world,— 
 who wrote in harmony with the glorious light of the Gospel 
 truth, where were Italy’s fame, and where that sterling worth, 
 that moral might and splendour, of England’s literature, trans¬ 
 fused through every clime and city of the habitable globe ? 
 
 If it be granted that we are to estimate the degrees of 
 celebrity enjoyed by men of letters, according to the influence 
 exercised by their genius upon their own and succeeding 
 times—the surest test perhaps of comparative merit —not many, 
 we opine, will be bold enough to question the claims of one 
 of the most profound investigators of human nature, of the 
 most delightful yet correct interpreters of her character and 
 language, to take precedence among the writers of English 
 
11 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 prose fiction. Should we meet with one critical exception, 
 it might be enough to reply by inquiring amidst whom, 
 amidst what splendid galaxy of superior minds, the light of 
 Fielding’s genius asserted its power; by how many wits of 
 our luminous Augustan era he was preceded, and by how 
 many more he was followed; a host of gigantic intellects, 
 whose varied powers and brilliant talent still yield obeisance 
 to his master-knowledge of Nature in all her complicated 
 movements and varieties'! 
 
 If we recur to the testimony of rival contemporaries, or 
 even of envious detractors, headed by Horace Walpole, to 
 that of admiring successors, confirmed by the award of un¬ 
 erring time ) or to the unbiassed judgment of the muse of 
 Byron, who summed up both by pronouncing Fielding 
 ‘ the prose Homer of human nature,’ we find him in each 
 successive era regarded as pre-eminent among his fellows at 
 once for the extent and the versatility of his powers. In 
 him—whose brilliant but chequered career, whose invaluable 
 but ill-requited services to his country, whose elastic and in¬ 
 defatigable spirit as an author, a magistrate, and a public 
 character, we now attempt to exhibit in more important 
 points of view, and to challenge for him higher honours than 
 have hitherto been assigned—we recognise not only the dis¬ 
 tinguished novelist, but the man of sound sense and judg¬ 
 ment, and the author of many excellent plans, adopted, with¬ 
 out giving him either credit or remuneration, by successive 
 governments \ in him we find that union of happy invention, 
 
 ‘ wild wit and fancy ever new,’ rendered infinitely more fas¬ 
 cinating by keen penetration into the recesses of the heart, 
 by the closest observation and the widest range of experience, 
 —with a festive yet beneficent spirit, without which the no¬ 
 velist presents us with little more than the £ dry bones, the 
 tame sketches and tamer details of character and incident, 
 to which the living spirit is denied. 
 
 It was his generous love of truth, freedom, and the liappi- 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ness of man ; his uncompromising magnanimous exposure of 
 the vices and errors of the great, and the admirable skill and 
 courage which directed all his efforts in analysing the beau¬ 
 tiful—in exposing the false and corrupt, which rendered 
 Fielding the favourite of Byron’s leisure hours, which dis¬ 
 armed the critical Goethe, and which have made his works 
 the travel companions of the aged and the young.* 
 
 The popular voice seldom errs; from the verdict of a 
 whole people, pronounced by the most impartial of all judges, 
 time—there is no appeal; and if estimated by this rule, 
 Fielding must be allowed to have possessed the complete art 
 of reading those sibyl leaves of Nature before unread; of 
 communing with her in all her varying moods ; of revealing 
 the secret sources of man’s motives, passions, and actions; of 
 opening new views of moral truth and character, in which 
 he drew with equal skill and pathos pictures of joy or sor¬ 
 row, and entertained us at once with a mimic world of reality 
 and a creation of his own. Another, and perhaps not the 
 least, of his titles to rank highest in the scale of novelists, is 
 the deep wisdom which pervades his entire works, the ad¬ 
 mirable and varied knowledge which he combines with the 
 liveliest and the warmest passion ; the most startling and ter¬ 
 rific pictures intermingled with scenes of perfect humour, or of 
 pleasing repose. If we wished to advance still further re¬ 
 commendations we might find them in the charms of a nar¬ 
 rative unequalled in point of interest, which absorbs us while 
 it allures, and which, amidst its most glowing and festive 
 scenes, its boldest expressions and representations of high 
 
 * Our popular novels are even translated into Spanish. ‘ Tom Jones,’ 
 indeed, has long been a favourite in Spain. It may be remarked that the 
 most intensely national works acquire the widest reputation. Hogarth is 
 as well known and as much admired in Germany as in England, and yet 
 he is John Bull all over. The Scotch novels were published in French 
 and German as soon as they appeared in Edinburgh. The fancy and 
 imagination of Britain are leavening the whole mind of Europe, and in 
 the commerce of letters we are no longer, as heretofore, an importing 
 nation. (Hartley Coleridge’s Introduction to Massinger and F ord.) 
 
IV 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 and low, ever keeps in view the purest and noblest moral. 
 It is the happy union, the rich contrast, of lights and shadows 
 which renders this great artist’s works (for they are splendid 
 emanations of art, and artistical —as Goethe correctly ex¬ 
 presses it—in the true sense of the word), so enduring in re¬ 
 putation, so eagerly read, and so unceasingly new and pleasing. 
 Though truth and nature may pall for a season, the taste for 
 them cannot die, and as surely as it revives, will their repre¬ 
 sentations from the hand of this great master continue to he 
 admired. 
 
 They display, indeed, that depth of study, rare invention, 
 natural grouping, correct and beautiful composition, with a 
 lively fancy and vigour of execution, not to he met with in 
 any single painter of his times; and these, when more trivial 
 and perishable records fail to perpetuate his name, w ill con¬ 
 stitute the best and most lasting monument of his genius. 
 
 Henry Fielding was bom April 22nd, 1707, at Sharpham 
 Park, near Glastonbury, in Somersetshire. His family, 
 although distinguished in point of ancestry and rank, was 
 far from being wealthy; his father possessing little heredi¬ 
 tary income, and owdng what fortune he obtained chiefly to 
 his promotion in a military career. He served some time 
 under the conqueror of Blenheim, and at length attained the 
 rank of lieutenant-general towards the close of the reign of 
 George I. and the commencement of George II. The General 
 was also grandson to an Earl of Denbigh, nearly related to the 
 Dukes of Kingston and other families of repute, which are 
 stated to boast one common origin with a line of monarclis. 
 Gibbon, whose prepossessions in favour of high birth led him 
 to dwell on the subject with so much complacency, alludes 
 to this circumstance wdien speaking of the noblq descent of 
 the poet Spenser, in the following words, containing a splen¬ 
 did eulogium on the genius of Fielding :—‘ The nobility of 
 the Spensers has been illustrated and enriched by the trophies 
 of Marlborough, but I exhort them to consider the ‘ Faery 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 Y 
 
 Queen ’ as the most precious jewel of their coronet. Our 
 immortal Fielding was of the younger branch of the Earls of 
 Denbigh, who drew their origin from the Counts of Haps- 
 burg, the lineal descendants of Eltrico, in the seventh century 
 dukes of Alsace. Far different have been the fortunes of the 
 English and German divisions of the family of Hapsburg; 
 the former, the knights and sheriffs of Leicestershire, have 
 slowly risen to the dignity of a peerage; the latter, the em¬ 
 perors of Germany and kings of Spain, have threatened the 
 liberty of the Old and invaded the treasures of the New 
 World. The successors of Charles V. may disdain their 
 brethren of England ; but the romance of ‘ Tom Jones,’ that 
 exquisite picture of human manners, will outlive the palace 
 of the Escurial, and the imperial eagle of Austria .’—Gibbons 
 Miscellaneous Works. 
 
 The mother of our author was a daughter of Judge Gold, 
 one of whose immediate descendants, Sir Henry Gold, was 
 likewise a baron of the exchequer. 
 
 Besides one brother, Edmund, who became an officer of 
 marines, the great novelist had four sisters—Catherine, 
 Ursula, Sarah, and Beatrice. The third of these, Sarah, 
 gave early proofs of talent, and soon became favourably 
 known in the literary world for her spirited letters, and a 
 work entitled 4 David Simple,’ of both which Fielding him¬ 
 self entertained no mean opinion, having written prefaces to 
 each, in which he speaks of them in a liberal yet just spirit 
 of criticism. These tributes of fraternal affection display a 
 strength of feeling as well as judgment, which entered largely 
 into the social and domestic character of the author, who, 
 from some traits that will be given, seems to have been re¬ 
 markably attached to children and young people, and to 
 have considered, like the great Nelson, ‘ that though glory 
 was a fine name, and honour a pretty bauble, youth and 
 innocence were a happier possession.’ 
 
 The earlier part of Henry Fielding’s education was com- 
 
VI 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 mittecl to the care of a clergyman, the Rev. Mr Oliver, who 
 resided at the family mansion, in the capacity of a private 
 tutor, and is supposed to have sat more than once to our 
 young painter of ‘ living manners ’ for his portrait, as it is 
 executed to the life in the novel of ‘ Joseph Andrews/ under 
 the title of Parson Trulliber. Prom this it may be inferred 
 that, in after life, the pupil estimated lightly the character 
 and services of his teacher, particularly if we are to give 
 credit to the likeness exhibited in some of the adventures. 
 We may conclude also, from the author’s own observations, 
 that he received from his clerical Mentor little more than the 
 rudiments of the commonest education before he quitted 
 home for the more congenial sphere of Eton ; for here, it is 
 ascertained that he soon distinguished himself by remarkable 
 quickness and aptitude of parts, as well as by steady appli¬ 
 cation to the study of the best Greek and Roman models. 
 
 It was scarcely of less utility to him, more particularly in 
 maturer life, that he there contracted an intimacy with many 
 of his fellow-pupils afterwards so celebrated as public men at 
 the bar, or in the senate, including Lord Lyttleton, Mr Fox, 
 Mr Pitt, Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, Mr Wilmington; 
 with some of whom he continued in habits of friendly inter¬ 
 course during life, and from others received that occasional 
 sympathy and support which adverse circumstances and 
 broken health rendered peculiarly acceptable, towards the 
 close of his chequered career. 
 
 So satisfactory, it would appear, was the young student’s 
 progress in classical learning before he had entered his six¬ 
 teenth year, that he was considered, both by his masters and 
 by the school, not only as possessing a sound knowledge of 
 the languages of Greece and Rome, but as well versed in the 
 perusal of their choicest writers. This truth, we think, and 
 his continued admiration of the works of the best ancient 
 authors, especially of the great prose writers, are abundantly 
 evidenced by the manner in which they are alluded to in his 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 Y1I 
 
 own .) and we may conclude that his successful application at 
 this early period was as agreeable to his father as to himself, 
 from the fact that, on his removal from Eton and his early 
 friendships, of which he was often heard to speak with fond 
 regret, no objection was made to his instantly proceeding to 
 prosecute his farther studies under the able and learned pro ¬ 
 fessors of the University of Leyden. There he had every 
 advantage which a student so advanced, and prepared as he 
 was for still more successful ehorts, could be expected to 
 derive from associating with men of first-rate abilities; and 
 though young (being then only in his eighteenth year), full of 
 vivacity, and constitutionally fond of pleasure, he lost no 
 time in placing himself under the tuition of the celebrated 
 Vitriarius, Professor of Civil Law, and the author of a Latin 
 work distinguished for its ability and learning, with the 
 laudable resolution to inform and improve his mind to the 
 utmost of his power. He was regular in his attendance upon 
 the different lectures ; appears to have taken notes, and even 
 thus early to have omitted no opportunities of making his 
 remarks and observations upon what he heard and saw 
 much of which he was doubtless enabled, subsequently, to 
 turn to good account. Without discontinuing his attention 
 to the classical and ancient writers, he now also devoted 
 himself, with assiduity, to the study of the Civil Law, and, 
 with a marked proficiency which, while it won the approba¬ 
 tion of the learned, promised, at no distant day, to laise him 
 to eminence in that path, should he pursue it professionally, 
 or in any other which he might choose for the exertion of his 
 brilliant talents. 
 
 It is to be regretted that, while thus laudably engaged in 
 completing a course of liberal studies, such as, with the ad¬ 
 vantages of birth and station, might have raised him to 
 eminence in public life, Eielding’s residence at Leyden should 
 have been disagreeably interrupted by circumstances over 
 which he had no control. Before he had attained his 
 
Till 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 twentieth year his pecuniary supplies began to fail him; for 
 though a kind and considerate parent, General Fielding was 
 unable to support his son in a manner becoming the younger 
 branch of a noble family. Hence the fruitful source of the 
 author’s early embarrassments, and of his subsequent suffer¬ 
 ings and misfortunes. Having been brought up with views 
 of life opposed to everything like restricted economy or sordid 
 cares, and influenced by a spirit and love of gaiety perhaps 
 exceeding the usual temperament of genius, he could never 
 forget that he occupied the position of an educated man and 
 a gentleman. To him, therefore, the second marriage con¬ 
 tracted by General Fielding (he married four times, and had 
 families as large as King Priam),* and the rapidly-increasing 
 claims by which it was followed, was an event of serious im¬ 
 port : the Leyden scholar was thrown almost at once upon 
 his own resources; and in the year 1727 he found himself 
 compelled to return rather suddenly to England. 
 
 But Fielding’s was not a disposition to be dismayed by 
 difficulties ; and this elasticity of mind, which rose with 
 vigorous reaction from the pressure of circumstances, is, 
 perhaps, one of the most remarkable traits in his character, 
 and essentially connected with the production of some of his 
 ablest works. No author has drawn more largely upon his 
 own personal experience, his actual position in society, his 
 constant observation, his social character and relations, even 
 to the chief incidents and adventures of his life. 
 
 Upon his arrival in England he almost immediately re¬ 
 paired to London; and, though still a minor, found himself 
 comparatively his own master, and left, with slight assistance, 
 to chalk out his own path to distinction. He now renewed 
 his intercourse with some of his early friends : Lord Lyttle- 
 ton, in particular, became attached to his society ; the viva¬ 
 city of his wit, his playful fancy and rich humour, combined 
 with his love of social enjoyment and the pleasures peculiar 
 
 * Six sons by the second marriage, all of whom died young except one. 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 IX 
 
 to his age, rendering his conversation highly agreeable no less 
 to persons of rank than to the chief literary men and dra¬ 
 matists of the day. Within a very few months after he 
 became known to the celebrated Garrick, and to the sur¬ 
 vivors of that brilliant epoch which still cast its splendour 
 over the Georgian era, he commenced as a regular writer for 
 the stage, and while yet in his twentieth year (in 1727), 
 produced his first comedy of ‘ Love in several Masques. 5 To 
 this he was, in fact, compelled by the extreme scantiness of 
 his finances j for though he was nominally allowed £200 per 
 annum, it was a well-known observation of the author, who 
 could be humorous even at his own expense, that ‘ it was 
 an allowance which anybody might pay who would.’ It is 
 evident, indeed, that he considered his youthful profession 
 of a dramatist rather as a resource than a matter of choice, 
 by his observation in after life—that he abandoned the 
 writing of comedies exactly at the time when he ought first 
 to have turned his attention that way. From one of the 
 prefaces to these juvenilia , in which he relates some anecdotes 
 of himself and Garrick (as in that of ‘The Fatheis, of 
 which the great actor wrote the prologue, besides interesting 
 himself warmly in its success), it would appear that fielding 
 had not embraced the profession con amove; and in his 
 warm eulogies on the comic talent of Mrs Centlivre it seems 
 as if he were conscious of his inferiority, especially in the 
 points of spirited repartee and bold witty dialogue. 
 
 His first effort, nevertheless, was not unsuccessful, though 
 its representation immediately followed that of the popular 
 comedy of the ‘ Provoked Husband; ’ and the author made 
 it his boast ‘ that none had ever appeared so early on the 
 stage.’ He had to contend with difficulties which seemed 
 rather ‘ to require,’ he says, ‘ the superior force of a Wycherly 
 or a Congreve, than of a raw and unexperienced pen. How¬ 
 ever, such was the candour of the audience, the play was 
 received with greater satisfaction than I should have pro- 
 
X 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 raised myself, from its merit, had it even preceded the “ Pro¬ 
 voked Husband.” ’ 
 
 Prom that period the young dramatist, yet scarcely in his 
 twenty-first year, devoted himself assiduously to the comic 
 muse, and annually ‘ produced a crop of pieces,’ both come¬ 
 dies and farces, few of which, however, became favourites, 
 or obtained a permanent footing upon the stage. As 
 necessitous as he was witty, and, like Goldsmith, eager to 
 obtain fresh supplies for the gratification of his social 
 pleasures, he threw them off with a rapidity and consequent 
 carelessness as little favourable to their correctness as to 
 their future celebrity. His second play, the ‘ Temple Beau,’ 
 which appeared in 1728, was also well received ; though 
 very imperfect, it possessed spirit and real humour; and he 
 thus became permanently connected with the theatres up to 
 the time of his first marriage. 
 
 While it must be acknowledged that Pielding’s genius was 
 not decidedly dramatic, it was something that he escaped 
 disapprobation, though he was at times received with in¬ 
 difference. His success was not always brilliant; still less 
 was it adequate to support him on that scale of expense 
 which his social habits, fashionable company, and not un- 
 frequently his kindness and generosity to others, rendered an 
 absolute want, especially in a man of strong animal spirits, 
 sound constitution, ardour of pursuit, and extreme vivacity 
 of disposition. In those temporary embarrassments, to which 
 he was often liable, even at this early period, added to the 
 interruption of his annual stipend, and his own want of 
 prudential considerations, he was compelled to receive 
 assistance from men of rank, to whom his family connec¬ 
 tions, and still more his conversational powers and rare 
 humour, had introduced him. Not a few of these, like Lord 
 Lyttleton, were among his early acquaintances; and how 
 justly, at this time, that nobleman and his friends must 
 have appreciated the talents of the young author, appears 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XI 
 
 from an observation subsequently made by him, speaking of 
 Pope, Swift, and other wits of that age, namely, that ‘ Harry 
 Fielding had more wit and humour than all the persons they 
 had been speaking of put together.’ It is not extraordinary, 
 then, that his society should now have been sought by men 
 of rank and talent, or that he should have been treated in 
 the same generous and distinguished manner by the Duke of 
 Richmond, the Duke of Roxburgh, and John Duke of Argyle. 
 In fact, during his entire dramatic career (between the years 
 1727 and 1736), in which nearly all his comedies and farces 
 were composed, Fielding continued to enjoy the friendship 
 and partronage of his noble contemporaries, and, befoie his 
 thirtieth year, had produced no less than eighteen theatrical 
 pieces, including plays and farces, besides a few which 
 appeared at a subsequent period. Though unequal, and 
 deficient in some of the peculiar requisites for distinguished 
 success upon the stage, they gave promise of riper powers. 
 His ‘ Pasquin,’ alone, is a masterpiece of satire in its class. 
 
 It has been well remarked, indeed, of Fielding’s dramatic 
 character, that though the plan of his pieces is not always 
 regular, yet he is often happy in his style and diction, and 
 in every group that he has exhibited there are to be seen 
 particular delineations that will amply recompense the 
 attention bestowed upon them. Though no man, in the 
 opinion of that ingenious and discriminating biographer, Dr 
 Aikin, had a stronger perception of the ludicrous in diame¬ 
 ters, and though he painted the detached scenes with humour, 
 yet a want of true delicacy to distinguish between the comic, 
 or the grotesque and extravagant, and defect of care and 
 judgment in the business of the drama, prevented him from 
 obtaining excellence in this species of composition. 
 
 It is most probable, however, that his inferiority as a 
 dramatist is partly to be attributed to the rapid manner in 
 which he composed his plays, and to the unfavourable 
 situation in which he was placed, as well as to the dis- 
 
Xll 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 advantage of his having commenced so difficult a species of 
 composition at too early a period of life. Perhaps, also, he 
 possessed greater talent for painting in detail, than for plac¬ 
 ing a variety of characters before the spectator, by a few 
 hold decided strokes of the pencil; for it is thought, that 
 two different classes of mind are required for these distinct 
 species of production, and the same writer, it has been 
 remarked, rarely succeeds in both. It would appear equally 
 true of a sister art, for the ingenious Eetsch, who is con¬ 
 sidered so incomparable in his dramatic outlines, is very 
 inferior to himself in respect to finished composition. From 
 the haste, moreover, in which Fielding wrote to supply his 
 continually recurring necessities, without even revising or 
 correcting many of his pieces, he may he said to have furn¬ 
 ished rather the materials than the wrought productions of 
 art, calculated for brilliant scenic effect. He was known 
 frequently to enter into an engagement over-night with some 
 manager, to bring him a play at a certain hour, and then to 
 go to his lodgings after spending the evening at a tavern 
 (the club assembly of the day), and write a scene on the ' 
 papers in which he had wrapped his tobacco ", and to be 
 ready with his composition for the players next morning to 
 rehearse it. We must remember, at the same time, with 
 regard to these extempore efforts, that not a few of Fielding’s 
 pieces are little more than free translation, or adaptations 
 from the French, and among these, perhaps, that of 
 ‘ L’Avare ’ of Molibre, presented under the title of ‘ The 
 Miser,’ was one of the most successful. In some of his 
 satirical passages, the author touched (too freely for a corrupt 
 court and ministry) upon political topics, and he was one of 
 the writers who, by indulging their bold and caustic vein, 
 particularly in the cutting satire of his ‘ Pasquin,’ contributed 
 to the Act for limiting the number of theatres, and sub¬ 
 mitting dramatic performances to the cruel process of the 
 pruning knife, in the hands of the Lord Chamberlain. The 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 Xlll 
 
 satire of Fielding’s comedy is exceedingly keen and severe 
 on the characters of ‘ the great/ as he ironically calls them, 
 and on the habits of fashionable life; and for this reason, 
 perhaps, they would have been eminently adapted, with 
 greater care and revision, to appear with advantage before 
 the public. ‘ If the comedy of “ Pasquin,” ’ says Mr Murphy, 
 ‘ were restored to the stage, it would be a more favourite 
 entertainment with our audiences than the much admired 
 “ Rehearsal.” * A more rational one it certainly would be, 
 as it must undoubtedly be better understood. Though its 
 success was considerable, it never shone forth with a lustre 
 equal to its merit ; and yet it is a composition that might 
 have done honour to the Athenian stage, when the middle 
 comedy, under the authority of the laws, made use of 
 fictitious names to satirise vice and folly, however disguised 
 by honours and employments. But the middle comedy did 
 not flourish long at Athens ; the archness of its aim, and the 
 poignancy of its satire, soon became offensive to the officers 
 of state ; a law was made to prohibit those oblique strokes of 
 wit; and the comic muse was restrained from all indulgences 
 of personal satire, however humorously drawn under the 
 appearance of imaginary characters. The same fate attended 
 the use of the middle comedy in England; and it is said, 
 that the wit and humour of our modern Aristophanes, whose 
 quarry in some of his pieces, particularly the ‘ Historical 
 Register,’ was higher game than in prudence he should 
 have chosen, were principal instruments in provoking that 
 law under which the British theatre has groaned ever since. 
 It has been also observed by Warburton, the author of the 
 ‘ Divine Legation,’ that comic satire is like a two-edged 
 sword, and is susceptible of great abuse ; which lie illustrates 
 by an anecdote of the court of Charles II. ‘ This weapon, 
 in the dissolute times of Charles II., completed the ruin of 
 the best minister of that age. The historians tell us that 
 chancellor Hyde was brought into his Majesty’s contempt by 
 
XIV 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 this odd court argument; they mimicked his walk and 
 gesture, with a hre-shovel and bellows for the mace and purse. 
 Thus, it being the representation, and not the object re¬ 
 presented, which strikes the fancy, vice and virtue must fall 
 indifferently before it.’ 
 
 The objects, however, of Fielding’s satire were always of a 
 legitimate kind • and in no part of his works do we find 
 anything like a sneer, either against religion or virtue. His 
 farces partook all of the same character; they were admirable 
 burlesque representations, and they were almost invariably 
 successful. The production only of two or three mornings, 
 and struck off in the heat of the moment, they nevertheless 
 pleased the public, and still continue to enliven our winters 
 on the stage, by the exquisite manner in which they hit the 
 object at which they are aimed. ‘ The representations, says 
 Bishop Hurd, ‘ of common nature may either be taken 
 accurately, so as to reflect a faithful and exact image of their 
 original, which alone is that I should call comedy \ or they 
 may be forced or overcharged above the simple and just pro¬ 
 portions of nature, as when the excesses of a few are given 
 for standing characters; when not the man in general, but 
 the passion is described, or when, in the draught of the man, 
 the leading feature is extended beyond measure; and in 
 these cases, the representation holds of the province of farce.’ 
 This is a just and accurate definition, and the farces of 
 Fielding comprehend all that is required : the mock tragedy 
 of ‘ Tom Thumb ’ is considered replete with as fine a parody 
 as perhaps has ever been written \ the ‘ Lotteiy, The 
 Intriguing Chambermaid,’ and the 1 Virgin Unmasked, 
 besides the real entertainment they afford, had also, on their 
 first appearance, the merit of bringing out the comic genius 
 of some of our best actresses. Of Mrs Clive in particular, 
 the author observes in one of his prefaces— 1 1 cannot help 
 reflecting that the town has one obligation to me, who made 
 the first discovery of your just capacity, and brought you 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XV 
 
 earlier forward on the theatre than the ignorance of some, 
 and the envy of others, would otherwise have permitted. I 
 shall not here dwell on anything so well known as your 
 theatrical merit; which one of the finest judges, and the 
 greatest man of his age, hath acknowledged to exceed, in 
 humour, that of any of your predecessors in his time.’ 
 
 Notwithstanding the indisputable merit of some of his 
 comic productions, Fielding’s finances continued still in a 
 dilapidated condition ; for the remuneration he obtained was 
 decidedly inadequate to his expenses. When we consider 
 that by his own account he gained by the ‘ Wedding Day,’ 
 which was performed six nights with unremitted applause, 
 only fifty pounds, we are not surprised that he should have 
 required the occasional assistance of his friends. And, for¬ 
 tunately, he now extended his acquaintance, with a few 
 persons of merit as well as distinction; and the refinement 
 of modern clubs being unknown, the grand resort of literary 
 wit and fashion, and too often of dissipation, were the 
 favourite taverns of the day.* 
 
 But in the midst of his dramatic career, surrounded by the 
 witty, the gay, and the idle, both in the green-room and in pri¬ 
 vate circles, he was happily rescued from his growing habits 
 of a reckless unsettled life, by the force of a virtuous attach¬ 
 ment. t Towards the end of 1734, when, in the 27th year of 
 
 * That young Harry Fielding, like Burns, and a few of that ‘ vivacious 
 species/ was admirably gifted to do the honours of the Bacchanalian 
 rites, to the infinite delight of Momus and his crew, ‘ making night 
 jovial / there is little reason from all contemporary authorities to doubt; 
 and as little we apprehend that early dissipation, want of regular habits, 
 and excesses so difficult for genius to guard against, laid the ground¬ 
 work of disease, and of that premature decay to which, in the prime of 
 life, he fell a victim. 
 
 f The biographers of Fielding make no allusion to a previous attach¬ 
 ment of the novelist to a lady (said to be his cousin) who resided at Lyme 
 Begis, Dorset, with her guardian, Mr Tucker. This was shortly after 
 his return from Leyden. The lady was Miss Sarah Andrews, an heiress. 
 The match would appear to have been discouraged by her guardian, and 
 an attempt at abduction took place. From a communication made to the 
 Athenveum in 1855, by Mr George Huberts, formerly Mayor of Lyme, it 
 
XVI 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 liis age, he became acquainted with a young lady from Salis¬ 
 bury, a Miss Cradock, whose beauty and accomplishments at 
 once attracted and riveted his affections. She was possessed 
 of little fortune, not exceeding fifteen hundred pounds; yet 
 that was no bar to their immediate union ; for where his feel¬ 
 ings were deeply interested, Fielding was always a poor cal¬ 
 culator of future expectancies. Nearly at the same time, by 
 the death of his mother,* he succeeded to a small estate at 
 Stour, in Dorsetshire, which produced an income of rather 
 more than two hundred a year; a sum sufficient, together 
 with the strenuous and well-directed exertion of his talents, 
 to have secured him from anxiety, with regard to the important 
 step which he had taken. After a brief residence in town, it is 
 not surprising that he consulted his young bride’s wishes, 
 though scarcely in unison with his own, in retiring to their 
 little estate in the country ; he made indeed serious resolu¬ 
 tions to abandon his town connections, to bid adieu to the 
 lighter pursuits and gaieties of his youth, and withdrawing 
 entirely from the theatres (with the exception of such pieces 
 as he had already in progress,) to add to his still restricted 
 income, by undertaking works which might obtain a more 
 permanent hold upon the public favour. He was ardently 
 attached to his wife, and in fact resolved, from that time, to 
 
 appears that some record of the attempt exists in the corporate annals, 
 and that the conduct of Fielding and his servant had rendered the guard¬ 
 ian apprehensive of violence to himself. The Tucker family hold a tradi¬ 
 tion that Miss Andrews was the prototype of Sophia Western, and her 
 portrait is in existence at Bellair, near Exeter, a mansion which belongs 
 to the Rhodes family, one of whose ancestors she married after her 
 removal from Lyme, to keep her out of the way of Henry Fielding. 
 
 * Fielding’s mother died in 1718, at which period General Fielding 
 was residing at East Stour; this is evidently a mistake into which Roscoe, 
 Scott, and other biographers have been led from the statement in 
 Murphy’s Memoir. Sir W. Scott, singularly enough, makes East Stour 
 to be situated in Derbyshire ! As it is generally admitted that Fielding 
 drew his characters from the life, and in his works recorded many of his 
 own experiences during his brief sojourn in the country, it is somewhat 
 remarkable that a biographer who was so familiar with dialects should 
 fall into this error. Squire Western is unmistakeably ‘ Zummerzet. ’ 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XVII 
 
 become a prudent man (and few had stronger sense, or a 
 more sound and penetrating judgment) ; to seek happiness 
 where only it was to he found, in the performance of social 
 duties, and the cultivation of domestic affections : add to 
 these motives, the absorbing charms of study (for like Cer¬ 
 vantes, he was passionately attached to reading, and extend¬ 
 ing his ideas by all means within his reach), and of literary 
 composition, and there appeared every prospect of rational 
 happiness, and even of an enviable life. But, alas! for the 
 weakness of human vows, and the inconstancy of human 
 wishes !—early habits, arising from his family connections 
 and mode of education, had cast their chains too firmly round 
 him, and he was a remarkable example of the truth of our 
 great moral poet’s melancholy but too well-founded senti¬ 
 ment, derived from close knowledge of the infirmity of the 
 best natural disposition, however free from the worldly char¬ 
 acter : 
 
 * "Weak and irresolute is man ; 
 
 The purpose of to-day, 
 
 Woven with pains into his plan, 
 
 To-morrow rends away.’— Cowper. 
 
 And thus it was with Fielding, whose rare abilities, and inti¬ 
 mate knowledge of life,—which he had often drawn and 
 exposed with all its vices and weaknesses,—and whose power 
 of penetrating character gave him a pre-eminence in know¬ 
 ledge over other men : to use his own words, while ‘ he saw 
 and approved the best, he still followed the most dangerous 
 path.’ Unfortunately, too, he was surrounded by neighbours 
 whose superior wealth and studied ostentation, perhaps ming¬ 
 led with little oversights, and real or imaginary neglect, may 
 have piqued his family pride, and gradually urged him into 
 expenses and an appearance of ease and independence which 
 his fortune was ill calculated to support. It is probable that 
 he saw all the consequences of his conduct while attempt¬ 
 ing to vie in some degree with the landed gentry of the 
 
 b 
 
XV111 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 country, and to visit them on equal terms. He encumbered 
 himself with a retinue of livery servants, and kept his dogs 
 and horses, with an improvidence seldom heard of even in the 
 annals of authorship. Had he come into possession of more 
 thousands than he had hundreds at command, he could not 
 have assumed more gentlemanly confidence, more ease and 
 equality in his intercourse with men of rank; and there is little 
 doubt that, if circumstances had favoured him, no man was 
 more eminently calculated, by his superior abilities and many 
 estimable qualities, to have adorned a much higher and a 
 more influential station. As a lord-lieutenant of a county, as 
 a j udge or supreme magistrate, his sterling sense, his extensive 
 knowledge of the world, and of the characters and motives of 
 men, would have rendered him an invaluable public officer. 
 But it is more than probable that the world would then have 
 been deprived of those inimitable masterpieces upon which 
 his reputation so broadly rests; for it is evident that their 
 peculiar merit consists in being perfect transcripts of the 
 author’s own heart and mind, of his individual and original 
 character and power of observation; that they were, in fact, 
 the genuine productions of the great school of experience and 
 adversity. Both in ‘Joseph Andrews ’ and in ‘ Amelia ’ he 
 may be said to have given us the real history of his life, 
 with all its chequered incidents and events : its continual 
 cares and anxieties ; its brief impassioned intervals of social 
 hilarity and enjoyment. In the retired country gentleman 
 of ‘ Joseph Andrews,’ who relates his adventures to parson 
 Adams; and in his hero Booth, he has ingeniously and feel¬ 
 ingly blended his own adventures, his own weaknesses and 
 good qualities as a man. When Booth dwells upon his con¬ 
 jugal affection, upon his imprudence, and his fears for the life 
 of his Amelia, it is still Henry Fielding who speaks. And 
 we have also the authority of Bichardson for asserting that 
 his first wife sat for the favourite ‘ Amelia’ of the author. 
 When he describes Booth’s fondness, from a boy, for driving 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XIX 
 
 a coacli; his extending his farm, and forgetting the excellent 
 advice of Dr Harrison, he evidently reflects upon his own 
 imprudence in yielding to his natural disposition for a social 
 and independent style of living, in accordance rather with 
 his early education and wishes than with prudential con¬ 
 siderations. In other words ‘ he set up his coach,’ and with 
 admirable strokes of ironical humour, he describes the result. 
 
 ‘ The consequence of setting up this poor old coach is incon¬ 
 ceivable. Before this, as my wife and myself had very little 
 distinguished ourselves from the other farmers and their 
 wives, either in our dress or our way of living, they treated 
 us as their equals; hut now they began to consider us as 
 elevating ourselves into a state of superiority, and imme¬ 
 diately began to envy, hate, and declare war against us. 
 The neighbouring little squires, too, were uneasy to see a 
 poor renter become their equal in a matter in which they 
 placed so much dignity; and not doubting but it arose in me 
 from the same ostentation, the}" began to hate me likewise, 
 and turn my equipage into ridicule, asserting that my horses, 
 which were as well matched as any in the kingdom, were of 
 different colours and sizes, with much more of that kind of 
 wit the only basis of which is lying.’ 
 
 The foregoing is an admirably wrought picture, and exactly 
 describes Fielding’s own position during his three years’ re¬ 
 sidence in the country after his marriage. Unable wholly to 
 shut out the rustic world around him, he could scarcely have 
 appeared in a less congenial sphere ; he occupied no decided 
 station; and as a small landed proprietor, with the high feel¬ 
 ings and accomplishments of a gentleman and a man of 
 letters, he was a kind of anomaly in the world of property, 
 and may be said to have had no equals, no superiors, no 
 inferiors, much less friends or companions with whom he 
 could associate upon agreed and appropriate terms. 
 
 In this dilemma, Fielding adopted the expedient recom¬ 
 mended to the traveller ‘ of doing as they do at Borne ;’ as 
 
XX 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 the best recipe for making time pass less disagreeably. For¬ 
 getting his judicious resolves, and unsatisfied with rural and 
 literary pursuits calculated to add something to his restricted 
 income, though, at the same time, fondly attached to his 
 family, and delighting in the pastimes of children,—‘ his 
 chief pleasure,’ we are told, ‘ consisted in society and con¬ 
 vivial mirth hospitality threw open his doors, and in less 
 than three years, entertainments, hounds, and horses entirely 
 devoured a little patrimony which might have secured him 
 independence and a character free from those imputations 
 which mankind generally put upon the actions of a man 
 whose imprudence has led him into difficulties. ♦ 
 
 When once it has become the fashion to condemn, few, it 
 has been remarked, * are willing to distinguish between the 
 impulses of necessity and the inclinations of the heart.’ But 
 let those who wish to estimate at its real worth the character 
 and conduct of our great novelist, read the vindication of him, 
 written after his death, by his friend Lord Lyttleton ; and 
 they will cease to judge the actions of a man possessed of 
 genius and sensibility like his too closely by the standard set 
 up as rules for the direction of common minds. If the world 
 will try genius by its own rules, and wish to reduce it to its 
 own level of morality and mental quietude, that world has 
 no right to bask in the sunny smiles of its fancy; to warm 
 its torpid feeling in the flashes of its wit; to exult in the 
 triumph and share in the spoils of its all-conquering intellect. 
 For genius may be said, in the words of our greatest poet, to 
 be ‘ like the imagination itself, all compact;’ the world should 
 be content and grateful to take it as it is ; and wise and 
 charitable enough to reflect that had Fielding been the 
 cool and calculating money-maker, the quiet country farmer, 
 eager only to increase his store, he might indeed have died 
 ‘ worth something,’ in the world’s acceptation of the term, 
 but might never have been impelled by the force of circum¬ 
 stances, acting upon his inventive and vigorous powers, to 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XXI 
 
 produce masterpieces capable of entertaining and instructing 
 that world through countless generations. If genius, more¬ 
 over, carried away by some of the finest and strongest im¬ 
 pulses of our nature, is apt to err, it is often its own worst 
 enemy ; its regrets are rendered more acute by keener sensi¬ 
 bility, and its offences are visited by the world which it 
 cheers and enlightens with the bitter penalties of a stern, 
 unrelenting severity. It is the war of Plutus and Mammon 
 against superior intellect,—of darkness against light. The 
 punishment which genius, like that of Burns and Fielding, 
 almost invariably inflicts upon itself, by omitting to walk 
 with the worldly-wise, and plodding, to take advantage of 
 the tide of fortune; compelled to pass the remainder of its 
 days like those of our author, amidst heroic but unavailing 
 efforts; is not thought sufficient without the sneers of the 
 proud and wealthy, the envy of meaner minds, the jealousy 
 of contemporaries, and the poisoned shafts of surviving 
 malice.* 
 
 With a mind and magnanimity above wasting its energies 
 in vain complaints and repinings, and of which many a more 
 worldly-minded man would have been incapable, Fielding 
 now resolved to resume the study of the law, which he had 
 pursued with such unremitting assiduity at the University of 
 Leyden. With this view, he immediately returned to London, 
 and, at the age of thirty, entered himself a student of the 
 Liner Temple.t Lager to retrieve his dilapidated fortune, 
 
 * Of the unjust and disparaging manner in which Swift, Bolingbroke, 
 and that age of wits, spoke of Fielding’s early efforts, and were succeeded 
 by Horace Walpole, ltichardson, and his partisans, who attacked, not 
 only his more matured labours, but his character, not a few instances 
 have been preserved in the annals of literary scandal. They form, per¬ 
 haps, the best criterion of his superiority. 
 
 f In the entry in the hooks of the Middle Temple, which records his 
 admission as a student at Michaelmas Term, 1737, he is described as 
 Henry F'ielding, of Fast Stour, Dorset, son and heir-apparent of Brigadier- 
 general Edmund Fielding. General Fielding appears to have died 
 (according to the record in the ‘ Gentleman’s Magazine,’ June, 1/41), 
 about a year after his son ivas called to the bar, but apparently his 
 decease did not confer any patrimony on his son. 
 
XXII 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 lie applied liimself, with exemplary diligence, to his legal 
 studies, regularly kept his terms, and omitted no occasion of 
 forming professional connections. At the same time, with a 
 laudable anxiety to mitigate the consequences of his own im¬ 
 prudence, he resumed his compositions for the stage; he also 
 connected himself with the few public prints then in exist¬ 
 ence : projected new publications ; and, besides his numerous 
 prefaces, poems, and other pieces, which he subsequently 
 published under the title of ‘ Miscellanies,’ wrote essays and 
 tracts upon political and other subjects. Never, perhaps, 
 was there a stronger example of industry and energy of heart 
 and mind; no toil, no difficulties deterred him; and there 
 seems little doubt that, had not his health given ’way under 
 such intense application, he would soon have become a dis¬ 
 tinguished ornament of the English bar. 
 
 It is gratifying, however, to reflect that his honourable 
 toils (for few perhaps who have once lost their property, 
 willingly again encounter the labour necessary to regain it,) 
 were still cheered by the smiles of an approving conscience, 
 and by his affection for a wife and children to whom he was 
 tenderly attached. The proofs of friendship also which he 
 met with from men of professional rank and abilities, both 
 at this and at a subsequent period, must have encouraged him 
 in his arduous efforts ; they formed the best answer to the 
 calumnies of his enemies, and did lasting honour to his 
 memory. Notwithstanding the temptations to former gaiety 
 and levity, especially in the dramatic world, and in bringing 
 forward some new performance, or amidst occasional dissipa¬ 
 tions, nothing could repress his thirst for knowledge and the 
 delight he felt in acquiring fresh stores from which he em¬ 
 bellished his inimitable pictures of life; and with such 
 intense ardour did he follow up his favourite studies, in 
 addition to his legal acquisitions, that lie was frequently 
 known to retire late at night from a convivial meeting and 
 proceed to read and make extracts from the most abstruse 
 
OP HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XX111 
 
 authors before he retired to rest ; and in this habit he con¬ 
 tinued while the vigour of his constitution and his indefati¬ 
 gable energy supported him. But the sword was fast wearing 
 out the scabbard. 
 
 At length the time of his probation expired, and Henry 
 Fielding was called to the bar; not having kept his terms 
 merely for the sake of form, he was eager to make his legal 
 studies useful to his family, and to leave no means untried 
 to advance himself in practice. With sufficient learning, 
 strong natural ability, and a good head, as it is termed, 
 for the law, he had now a fair prospect of retrieving 
 his affairs; was regular in his attendance at Westminster, 
 and on the Western Circuit, where he soon became 
 favourably known. We are told by Chalmers, that a tradi¬ 
 tion respecting the new barrister had been preserved amongst 
 the members of the Western Circuit, and though not quite 
 consistent with the account given by Murphy, it is perfectly 
 in accordance with the idea entertained of his humour and 
 character. Having attended circuit two or three years, it 
 seems, without the least prospect of success, Fielding pub¬ 
 lished proposals for a new law book; and this being . circu¬ 
 lated about the country, the young barrister was at the 
 ensuing assizes loaded with briefs at every town in the 
 circuit. But it is added that his practice, thus suddenly 
 increased, was observed almost as suddenly to leave him. 
 It is true that his success was of very short duration, though 
 the real cause for it is not here assigned. Fielding had 
 already begun to feel his way, and had produced a favourable 
 impression of his abilities and skill as a pleader, when his 
 dearest hopes and prospects were suddenly blighted. Re¬ 
 peated attacks of the gout had already undermined a consti¬ 
 tution naturally strong; and early dissipation, late hours, 
 severe study, with the exertion of vigorous intellect in lite¬ 
 rary composition always upon the spur, added to family 
 anxieties, had produced premature lassitude, the symptoms 
 
XXIV 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 of which he had too long neglected. Still he did not relax 
 his efforts to turn his legal acquisitions to account. Pos¬ 
 sessing a sound knowledge of jurisprudence, he directed his 
 research to crown law, and prepared a voluminous Digest of 
 the Statutes at Large, in two folio volumes, wdiich evince the 
 industry and perseverance of which he was capable ; hut 
 they failed to supply his present exigencies, and remained 
 unpublished in the hands of his brother, Sir John Fielding, 
 who succeeded him in his offi.ce of a Middlesex magistrate. 
 Nothing, in fact, could overcome the disadvantage of his 
 continued absence from the courts ; and again, with fortune 
 and reputation almost within his grasp, Fielding was com¬ 
 pelled to relinquish his hopes derived from publications on 
 the law, and to renew his applications to the comic muse, in 
 the person of the managers of the theatres. Far from being 
 enabled to engage in several important works which he had 
 projected, he was now obliged to find a substitute for the 
 law, and to provide for the morrow as it came. There were 
 few subjects of the day upon which he did not exercise his 
 well-practised pen ; and it was at this time that he contributed 
 largely to the 1 Champion,’ a paper chiefly indebted for its 
 reputation to his support. Many of its best articles, on a 
 great variety of topics, bear intrinsic evidences of his hand, 
 though it would be difficult at this time to adopt them with 
 certainty in an edition of his works ; nor could they perhaps 
 add anything to a reputation like his. But the best proof 
 of his talent for periodical writing was the manner in which 
 that journal fell in public esteem when placed under other 
 auspices, and the fact that none of the essays were repub¬ 
 lished, except two volumes, which included the exact time 
 when Fielding was the principal author of the work. 
 
 In speaking of this eventful period of his life it is impos¬ 
 sible to withhold the expression of our admiration, in com¬ 
 mon with all his biographers, of the singular force and 
 vigour of his mind : when under the most discouraging cir- 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XXV 
 
 cumstances—the loss of comparative fortune—of health—of 
 the fruits of years of successful toil, his body lacerated, as 
 Mr Murphy describes it, by the acutest pains, with a family 
 looking up to him for immediate support, he was still capable, 
 with a degree of Christian fortitude almost unexampled, of 
 producing, as it were extempore , a play, a farce, a pamphlet, or 
 a newspaper. NTay, like Cervantes, whom he most resembled 
 in his wit as well as genius, he could jest upon his misfor¬ 
 tunes, and make his own sufferings a source of entertainment 
 to the rest of the world. One of these harmless satires upon 
 himself—ironical hits at his own evil fortune, by which only 
 wits can revenge themselves upon her malice, we possess 
 from the pen of Fielding, in the form of an epistle to Sir 
 ftobert Walpole ; and we give it here, as forcibly applying 
 to his actual position, and as a humorous concentration 
 upon one object of all ‘the slings and arrows of outrageous 
 fortune ’ at once :— 
 
 ‘While at the helm of state you ride, 
 
 Our nation’s envy, and its pride ; 
 
 While foreign courts with wonder gaze, 
 
 And curse those councils which they praise ; 
 
 Would you not wonder, sir, to view 
 Your bard a greater man than you ? 
 
 Which that he is, you cannot doubt, 
 
 When you have read the sequel out. 
 
 You know, great sir, that ancient fellows, 
 
 Philosophers, and such folks, tell us, 
 
 No great analogy between 
 Greatness and happiness is seen. 
 
 If then, as it might follow straight, 
 
 Wretched to be, is to be great; 
 
 Forbid it, gods, that you should try 
 What ’tis to be so great as 1 ! 
 
 The family that dines the latest 
 Is in our street esteem’d the greatest; 
 
 But latest hours must surely fall 
 ’Fore him who never dines at all. 
 
 Your taste in architect, you know, 
 
 Hath been admired by friend and foe; 
 
 But can your earthly domes compare 
 With all my castles—in the air ? 
 
XXVI 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 We’re often taught, it doth behove us 
 To think those greater, who’re above us ; 
 
 Another instance of my glory, 
 
 Who live above you, twice two story ; 
 
 And from my garret can look down 
 On the whole street of Arlington.* 
 
 Greatness by poets still is painted 
 With many followers acquainted : 
 
 This too doth in my favour speak : 
 
 Your levee is but twice a week ; 
 
 From mine I can exclude but one day, 
 
 My door is quiet on a Sunday. 
 
 Nor in the manner of attendance 
 
 Doth your great bard claim less ascendance : 
 
 Familiar you to admiration 
 
 May be approach’d by all the nation; 
 
 While I, like the Mogul in Indo, 
 
 Am never seen but at my window. 
 
 If, with my greatness, you’re offended, 
 
 The fault is easily amended ; 
 
 For I’ll come down, with wondrous ease, 
 
 Into whatever place you please. 
 
 I’m not ambitious ; little matters 
 Will serve us great, but humble creatures. 
 
 Suppose a secretary o’ this isle, 
 
 Just to be doing with a while ; 
 
 Admiral, gen’ral, judge, or bishop 
 Or I can foreign treaties dish up. 
 
 If the good genius of the nation 
 Should call me to negociation, 
 
 Tuscan and French are in my head, 
 
 Latin I write, and Greek—I read. 
 
 If you should ask, what pleases best ? 
 
 To get the most, and do the least. 
 
 What fittest for ?—You know, I’m sure, 
 
 I’m fittest for—a sine-cure.’ 
 
 While on the subject of the author’s poetical and miscel¬ 
 laneous pieces, it will be interesting perhaps to give his own 
 opinions contained in a very amusing preface, where he justly 
 describes them as treating of subjects which hear not the 
 least relation to each other. ‘ Perhaps,’ he adds, ‘ what 
 Martial says of his epigrams may he applicable to these 
 several productions: Hunt bona, sunt qucedam mediocria, 
 
 * Where Sir Eobert lived. 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XXV11 
 
 sunt mcda plura ; ’ and it must be admitted that tbe latter 
 designation is the most appropriate with reference to the 
 correctness, wit, or other merits, of some of his poetical 
 compositions. Still we ought not to forget they were written, 
 when very young, by a student in his gayer hours, and were 
 productions of the heart rather than of the head, b either 
 then nor subsequently did the author profess to make poetry 
 his pursuit j his occasional essays were of the slightest tex¬ 
 ture—.were chiefly the garnish of his comedies and farces, or 
 mere jeux-cV espvit thrown off in the spirit of the moment. 
 In few instances were they of a serious turn, though his 
 adaptation of part of the'sixth satire of Juvenal (originally 
 sketched out before he was twenty), and a very spirited 
 version, is a proof that he possessed considerable talent for 
 satirical composition. It has been supposed that this imita¬ 
 tion was intended as a satirical reflection upon one of his 
 female acquaintance ; but if we may believe the author s own 
 interpretation of its object, it was not so : 4 lor my part, he 
 says, 4 1 am much more inclined to panegyric on that amiable 
 sex which I have always thought treated with a very unjust 
 severity by ours, who censure them for faults (if they aie 
 truly such) into which we ourselves allure and betray them 
 —a sentiment as amiable and generous as it is just. 
 
 It is equally amusing and instructive to trace the author s 
 views as described by himself in his prefatory remarks on 
 other subjects. Speaking of his 4 Essay on Conversation, he 
 observes, 4 that his design in it will at least be allov eel good, 
 being to ridicule out of society one of the most pernicious 
 evils which attends it—pampering the gross appetites of 
 selfishness and ill-nature with the shame and disquietude of 
 others, whereas I have endeavoured in it to show that true 
 good breeding consists in contributing with our utmost power 
 to the satisfaction and happiness of all around us.’ I he author 
 displays throughout the same just and discriminating taste, 
 with intimate knowledge of character and manners as met with 
 
XXV111 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 in the world. In his ‘Essay on the Knowledge of the Charac¬ 
 ters of Men ’ he endeavoured, he says, to expose a second 
 great evil, namely, hypocrisy—the bane ot all virtue, morality, 
 and goodness; and to arm as well as he could the honest, 
 undesigning, open-hearted man, who is generally the prey oi 
 this monster, against it. He maintained with honest zeal 
 that most mischiefs (especially those which fall on the 
 worthiest part of mankind) owe their original to this detest¬ 
 able vice. 
 
 On the subject of a ‘Journey from this World to the 
 Next,’ he says, it would be paying a very mean compliment 
 to the human understanding to suppose him under the 
 necessity of vindicating himself from designing in an allegory 
 of that kind to oppose any present system, or to erect a new 
 one of his own. ‘ Perhaps,’ he continues, ‘ the fault may lie 
 rather in the heart than in the head, and I may be misrepre¬ 
 sented without being misunderstood. If there be any such 
 men I am sorry for it; the good-natured reader will not, I 
 believe, want any assistance from me to disappoint their 
 malice.’ The author further adds this remarkable observation 
 —‘ I profess fiction only ; ’ which, if we apply it to his pro¬ 
 ductions generally, shows how well he estimated the peculiar 
 powers which he possessed, and which he was now preparing 
 more fully to develope. 
 
 In adverting to the origin of his comedy of the ‘ Good- 
 natured Man,’ the author gives also some particulars of his 
 acquaintance with the celebrated Garrick, whose kind offices 
 and skilful exertions in favour of his comic muse he has so 
 often gratefully acknowledged. ‘ Mr Garrick, whose abilities 
 as an actor will, I hope, rouse up better writers for the stage 
 than myself, asked me one evening if I had any play by me, 
 telling me he was desirous of appearing in a new part. I 
 answered him I had one almost finished ; but I conceived 
 it so little the manager’s interest to produce anything new 
 on his stage this season, that I should not think of oilering 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 it him, as I apprehended he would find some excuse to refuse, 
 and adhere to the “theatrical politics ” of never introducing 
 new plays on the stage but when driven to it by absolute 
 necessity. Mr Garrick’s reply was so warm and friendly 
 that, as I was full as desirous of putting words into his 
 mouth as he could appear to be of speaking them, I men¬ 
 tioned the play the very next morning to Mr Fleetwood, 
 who embraced my proposal so heartily that an appointment 
 was immediately made to read it to the actors who were 
 principally to be concerned in it. When I came to revise 
 this play, which had likewise lain by some years, though 
 formed on a much better plan and at an age when I was 
 much more equal to the task than the former, I found I had 
 allowed myself too little time for the perfecting it; but I was 
 resolved to execute my promise, and accordingly, at the ap¬ 
 pointed day, I produced five acts, which were entitled “ The 
 Good-natured Man.” ’ 
 
 Of the extreme haste and rapidity with which he com¬ 
 posed some of his comedies, when a manager’s commission 
 and a speedy remuneration stimulated his exertions, we may 
 form a pretty accurate idea from the following passage 
 relating to one of his earliest comedies. ‘ I accordingly sat 
 down with a resolution to work night and day during the 
 short time allowed me, which was about a week, in altering 
 md correcting this production of my more juvenile years : 
 when, unfortunately, the extreme danger of life into which 
 a person very dear to me (his first wife) was reduced, rendered 
 me incapable of executing my task. To this accident alone 
 I have the vanity to apprehend the play owes most of the 
 glaring faults with which it appeared. However, I resolved 
 rather to let it take its chance, imperfect as it was, with the 
 assistance of Mr Garrick, than to sacrifice a more favourite, 
 and, in the opinion of others, a much more valuable, per¬ 
 formance, and which could have had very little assistance 
 from him.’ 
 
XXX 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 ‘ I then acquainted Mr Garrick,’ he continues, ‘ with my 
 design, and read it to him and Mr Macklin; Mr Fleetwood 
 agreed to the exchange, and thus the “ Wedding Day ” was 
 destined to the stage. 
 
 ‘ Perhaps it may he asked me, why then did I suffer 
 a piece which I myself knew was imperfect to appear 1 I 
 answer honestly and freely, that reputation was not my in¬ 
 ducement ; and that I hoped, faulty as it was, it might 
 answer a much more solid, and in my unhappy situation, a 
 much more urgent, motive. If it will give my enemies any 
 pleasure to know that they totally frustrated my views, 
 I will he kinder to them, and give them a satisfaction which 
 they denied me; for though it was acted six nights, I re¬ 
 ceived not 50 1. from the house for it.’ 
 
 In his history of ‘ Jonathan Wild ’ the author declares that 
 it was not his inten tion to enter the lists with that excellent 
 historian who, from authentic papers and records, hath 
 already given so satisfactory an account of the life and 
 actions of this great man. ‘ My narrative,’ he says, £ is rather 
 of such actions which he might have performed, or would or 
 should have performed, than what he really did; and may 
 in reality as well suit any other such great man, as the person 
 himself whose name it hears.’ 
 
 ‘ I solemnly protest,’ he further observes, ‘ I do by no 
 means intend, in the character of my hero, to represent hu¬ 
 man nature in general. Such insinuations must be attended 
 with very dreadful conclusions ; nor do I see any other tend¬ 
 ency they can naturally have but to encourage and sooth men 
 in their villanies, and to make every well-disposed man dis¬ 
 claim his own species and curse the hour of his birth into 
 such a society. For my part, I understand those writers who 
 describe human nature in this character, as speaking only of 
 such persons as Wild and his gang; and I think it may be 
 justly inferred that they do not find in their own bosoms any 
 deviation from the general rule. Indeed, it would be insuf- 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 ferable vanity in them to conceive themselves as the only 
 exception to it. 
 
 ‘ But without considering Newgate as no other than human 
 nature with its mask off, which some very shameful writers 
 have done—a thought which no price should purchase me to 
 entertain—I think we may he excused for suspecting that the 
 splendid palaces of the great are often no other than New¬ 
 gate with the mask on. Nor do I know anything which can 
 raise an honest man’s indignation higher than that the same 
 morals should he in one place attended with all imaginary 
 misery and infamy, and in the other with the highest luxury 
 and honour. Let any impartial man in his senses he asked 
 for which of these two places a composition of cruelty, lust, 
 avarice, rapine, insolence, hypocrisy, fraud, and treachery, 
 was hest fitted, surely his answer must he certain and imme¬ 
 diate. And yet I am afraid all these ingredients, glossed over 
 with wealth and a title, have heen treated with the highest 
 respect and veneration in the one, while one or two of them 
 have heen condemned to the gallows in the other. 
 
 ‘ If there are, then, any men of such morals who dare to 
 call themselves great, and are so reputed or called, at least by 
 the deceived multitude, surely a little jnivate censure by the 
 few is a very moderate tax for them to pay, provided no 
 more was to he demanded; hut I fear this is not the case. 
 However the glare of riches may dazzle and terrify the vulgar 
 —nay, however hypocrisy may deceive the more discerning 
 —there is still a judge in every man’s breast, which none can 
 cheat nor corrupt, though perhaps it is the only uncorrupt 
 thing about him. And yet, inflexible and honest as this 
 judge is—however polluted the bench on which he sits—no 
 man can, in my opinion, enjoy any applause which is not 
 adjudged to he his due. 
 
 ‘ Nor hath goodness less advantage in the article of plea¬ 
 sure than of honour over this kind of greatness. The same 
 righteous judge always annexes a hitter anxiety to the pur- 
 
XXX11 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 chases of guilt, whilst it adds a double sweetness to the en¬ 
 joyments of innocence and virtue : for fear, which all the 
 wise agree is the most wretched of human evils, is in some 
 degree always attending on the former, and never can in any 
 manner molest the happiness of the latter. 
 
 ‘ Now, as to that greatness which is totally devoid of 
 goodness, it seems to me in nature to resemble the False 
 Sublime in poetry, whose bombast is, by the ignorant and 
 ill-judging vulgar, often mistaken for solid wit and eloquence, 
 while it is in effect the very reverse. Thus pride, ostenta¬ 
 tion, insolence, cruelty, and every kind of villany, are often 
 construed into true greatness of mind, which always includes 
 an idea of goodness. 
 
 ‘ This bombast greatness, then, is the character I intend to 
 expose ; and the more this prevails in and deceives the world, 
 taking to itself not only riches and power, but often honour, 
 or at least the shadow of it, the more necessary to strip the 
 monster of these false colours, and show it in all its native 
 deformity. Tor by suffering vice to possess the reward of 
 virtue, we do a double injury, by encouraging the former, and 
 taking away the chief incentive to the latter. Nay, though 
 it is, I believe, impossible so give vice a true relish of honour 
 and glory, even though we confer riches and power to en¬ 
 hance the enjoyment of them, yet it contaminates the food 
 it cannot taste, and sullies the robe which neither fits nor 
 becomes it, till virtue disdains them both.’ 
 
 In alluding to the delay which had occurred in bringing 
 his ‘ Miscellanies ’ before the public, the author thus feelingly 
 describes the cause of it—‘ the real reason of which was the 
 dangerous illness of one, from whom I draw all the solid 
 comfort of my life, during the greatest part of this winter. 
 This, as it is most sacredly true, so will it, I doubt not, suf¬ 
 ficiently excuse the delay to all who know me. 
 
 ‘ Indeed, when I look back a year or two, and survey the 
 accidents which have befallen me, and the distresses I have 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XXX11I 
 
 waded through while engaged in these works, I could almost 
 challenge some philosophy to myself for having been able to 
 finish them as I have; and, however imperfectly that may 
 he, I am convinced the reader, were he acquainted with the 
 whole, would want ver} r little good-nature to extinguish his 
 disdain at any faults he meets with. 
 
 ‘ But this hath dropt from me unawares; for I intend not 
 to entertain my reader with my private history; nor am I 
 fond enough of tragedy to make myself the hero of one.’ 
 
 To the severity with which he had been attacked by some 
 of his contemporaries, and especially some anonymous libel¬ 
 lers, envious at once of his reputation and the consistency 
 and integrity of his public principles, he replied by the fol¬ 
 lowing just strictures. They furnish a triumphant answer to 
 base insinuations like those of a Walpole. 
 
 ‘ However, as I have been very unjustly censured, as well 
 on account of what I have not written, as for what I have, I 
 take this opportunity to declare, in the most solemn manner, 
 I have long since (as long as from June, 1741) desisted from 
 writing one syllable in the “ Champion ,” or in any other pub¬ 
 lic paper; and, that I never was, nor will be, the author of 
 anonymous scandal on the private history or family of any 
 person whatever. 
 
 ‘ Indeed there is no man who speaks or thinks with more 
 detestation of the modern custom of libelling. I look on the 
 practice of stabbing a man’s character in the dark to be as 
 bad and as barbarous as that of stabbing him with a poniard 
 in the same manner, nor have I ever been once in my life 
 guilty of it.’ 
 
 In allusion to this subject, he farther remarks in a tone of 
 deep feeling: ‘ The reader will pardon my having dwelt on 
 this particular, since it is so especially necessary in this age, 
 when almost all the wit we have is employed in this way; 
 and when I have already been a martyr to such unjust sus¬ 
 picions ; of which I will relate one instance. While I was 
 
XXXIV 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 last winter laid up in the gout, with a favourite child dying 
 in one bed, and my wife in a condition very little better on 
 another, attended with other circumstances which served as 
 very proper decoration to such a scene, I received a letter 
 from a friend, desiring me to vindicate myself from two very 
 opposite reflections which two opposite parties thought fit to 
 cast upon me, namely, the one of writing in the “ Champion ” 
 (though I had not then wrote in it for upwards of half a 
 year) 3 the other of writing in the “ Gazetteer ,” in which I 
 never had the honour of inserting a single word.’ 
 
 Of the manner in which his private sufferings, as here 
 described, the loss of a favourite child, and the declining 
 health of his wife, had affected the author’s mind, and inter¬ 
 rupted his once active labours, we have the following ac¬ 
 count in his own words :— 
 
 ‘ To defend myself, therefore, as well as I can from all 
 past, and to enter a caveat against all future censure of this 
 kind 3 I once more solemnly declare that' since the end of 
 June, 1741,1 have not, besides “ Joseph Andrews ,” published 
 one word, except the “ Opposition a vision; “ A Defence of 
 the Duchess of Marlborough's Book ; ” “ Miss Lucy in Town ” 
 (in which I had a very small share). And I do farther pro¬ 
 test that I will never hereafter publish any book or pamphlet 
 whatever, to which I will not put my name 3 —a promise 
 which, as I shall sacredly keep, so will it, I hope, be so far 
 believed, that I may henceforth receive no more praise or 
 censure, to which I have not the least title.’ 
 
 The author of this interesting and valuable transcript of 
 his own views and feelings, while bearing up against sorrows 
 and difficulties, added to the inroads of serious disease, which 
 rendered his latter days so painful, and consigned him to an 
 early grave, always expresses himself in a tone of cheerful 
 resignation, which strongly reminds us of the mode in which 
 his great predecessor, Cervantes, in nearly similar circum¬ 
 stances, takes leave of his readers :— 1 And now, my good- 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 natured reader, recommending my works to your candour, I 
 bid you heartily farewell; and take this with you, that you 
 may never he interrupted in the reading of these “ Miscel¬ 
 lanies” with that degree of heartache which hath often dis¬ 
 composed me in the writing them.’ 
 
 Among the poetical pieces contained in the 1 Miscellanies,’ 
 hut not given in Murphy’s edition of his works, his epistle 
 on ‘True Greatness,’ his 'Address to Liberty,’ and his lines 
 to a friend ‘ On the Choice of a Wife,’ are distinguished by 
 elevated and generous sentiment, and by considerable power 
 of versification, though deficient in that higher polish and 
 correctness which only severe study and revision can give. 
 
 That Fielding’s merits, nevertheless, have in this respect 
 been passed over and even studiously underrated by preced¬ 
 ing biographers, the following specimens from his works will, 
 we think, clearly establish. First, as a witty and amusing 
 commentary upon the conduct of the Walpole ministry, hit 
 off, doubtless, in one of the author’s most genial and facetious 
 hours, when he could turn his occasional embarrassments into 
 a subject of witticism for the entertainment of his friends, 
 and intended to convey, perhaps, a serious reproach and com¬ 
 plaint of the minister, we may instance the following lines, 
 addressed also to Sir Robert Walpole (1731) : 
 
 ‘ Great Sir, as on each levee day 
 I still attend you—still you say— 
 
 I’m busy now, to-morrow come ; 
 
 To-morrow, sir, you’re not at home ; 
 
 So says your porter, and dare I 
 Give such a man as him the lie ? 
 
 In imitation, sir, of you, 
 
 I keep a mighty levee too ; 
 
 Where my attendants, to their sorrow, 
 
 Are bid to come again to-morrow: 
 
 To-morrow they return, no doubt, 
 
 And then, like you, sir, I’m gone out. 
 
 So says my maid ; but they, less civil, 
 
 Give maid and master to the d—1; 
 
XXXVI 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 And then with menaces depart, 
 
 Which could you hear would pierce your heart. 
 
 Good sir, do make my levee fly me, 
 
 Or lend your porter to deny me.’ 
 
 There is both spirit and wit, as well as something of the 
 gay and gallant humour which marked the times of the 
 Surreys, the Baleighs, the Wallers, and the better part of 
 the reign of the second Charles, in the following lines, writ¬ 
 ten extempore ‘ On a Half-penny, which a Young Lady gave 
 a Beggar, and the Author redeemed for Half-a-Crown : ’— 
 
 ‘ Dear little, pretty, favourite ore, 
 
 That once increased Gloriana’s store ; 
 
 That lay within her bosom*blest— 
 
 Gods might have envied thee thy rest! 
 
 I’ve read, imperial Jove of old 
 For love transform’d himself to gold ; 
 
 And why for a more lovely lass 
 May he not now have lurk’d in brass ? 
 
 Oh ! rather than from her he’d part 
 He’d shut that charitable heart, 
 
 That heart whose goodness nothing less 
 Than his vast power could dispossess. 
 
 From Gloriana’s gentle touch 
 Thy mighty value now is such, 
 
 That thou to me art worth alone 
 More than his medals are to Sloane,’ 
 
 Perhaps the following lines, from an epistle on ‘ Good 
 Nature,’ will convey a just idea of the author’s powers, while 
 the spirit in which they are written—their deep moral truth 
 and beauty, must raise the character of the poet in our eyes. 
 After describing the wretched state of man, produced by the 
 pursuance of a selfish and anti-social policy by the different 
 governments of the world, and the higher orders that ad¬ 
 minister class laws, he thus fervently exclaims :— 
 
 ‘ Must it not wond’rous seem to hearts like thine, 
 
 That God, to other animals benign, 
 
 Should unprovided Man alone create, 
 
 And send him hither but to curse his fate ? 
 
 Is this the being for whose use the earth 
 Sprung out of nought, and animals had birth. ? 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XXXV11 
 
 This he whose hold imagination dares 
 Converse with Heav’n, and soar beyond the stars ? 
 Poor reptile ! wretched in an angel’s form, 
 
 And wanting that which nature gives the worm. 
 
 Far other views our kind Creator knew 
 When Man, the image of himself, he drew. 
 
 So full the stream of Nature’s bounty flows, 
 
 Man feels no ill hut what to man he owes: 
 
 The earth abundant furnishes a store 
 To sate the rich and satisfy the poor. 
 
 These would not want, if those did never hoard; 
 Enough for Irus falls from Dives’ board. 
 
 And dost thou, common son of nature, dare 
 From thy own brother to withhold his share ? 
 
 To vanity, pale idol, offer up 
 
 The shining dish and empty golden cup ! 
 
 Or else in caverns hide the precious ore, 
 
 And to the bowels of the earth restore 
 What for our use she yielded up before ? 
 
 Behold and take example how the steed 
 Attempts not selfish to engross the mead. 
 
 See now the lowing herd and bleating flock 
 Promiscuous graze the valley or the rock ; 
 
 Each tastes his share of Nature’s general good, 
 
 Nor strives from others to withhold their food. 
 
 But say, 0 Man ! would it not strange appear, 
 
 To see some beast (perhaps the meanest there) 
 
 For his repast the sweetest pastures choose, 
 
 And e’en the sourest to the rest refuse. 
 
 Would’st thou not view with scornful wond’ring eye 
 The poor contented starving herd stand by ? 
 
 All to one beast a servile homage pay, 
 
 And, boasting, think it honour to obey!’ 
 
 In his poem on ‘ Liberty,’ there are many detached pas¬ 
 sages of great beauty ; and a generous love of what is truly 
 great and good gives animation to the whole. It is ad¬ 
 dressed to his friend Lord Lyttleton :— 
 
 ‘ See Liberty, bright goddess, comes along ! 
 
 Roused at thy name, she animates the song ! 
 
 Thy name, which Lacedemon had approved, 
 
 Rome had adored, and Brutus’ self had loved. . 
 
 Come, then, bright maid, my glowing heart inspire, 
 Breathe in my lines, and kindle all thy fire. 
 
 “ Behold,” she cries, “the groves, the woods, the plains, 
 Where Nature dictates see how Freedom reigns! 
 
 The herd promiscuous o’er the mountain straps; 
 
 Nor begs this beast the others leave to giaze. 
 
XXXV111 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Each freely dares his appetite to treat, 
 
 Nor fears the steed to neigh, the flocks to hleat. 
 
 Did God, who freedom to these creatures gave, 
 
 Form his own image, Man, to be a slave ? 
 
 But men it seems to laws of compact yield. 
 
 While Nature only governs in the field. 
 
 Curse on all laws which liberty subdue, 
 
 And make the many wretched for the few. 
 
 ‘ u However deaf to shame, to reason blind, 
 
 Men dare assert all falsehoods of mankind ; 
 
 The public never were, when free, such elves 
 To covet laws pernicious to themselves. 
 
 Presumptuous Power assumes the public voice,, 
 
 And what it makes our Fate, pretends our choice. 
 
 To whom did power original belong ? 
 
 Was it not first extorted by the strong ? 
 
 And thus began, where it will end, in wrong. 
 
 These scorn’d to power another claim than might, 
 
 And in ability establish’d right. 
 
 At length a second nobler sort arose, 
 
 Friends to the weak and to oppression foes; 
 
 With warm humanity their bosoms glow’d, 
 
 They felt to nature their great strength they owed : 
 
 And as some elder born of noble rate 
 To whom devolves his father’s rich estate, 
 
 Becomes a kind protector to the rest, 
 
 Nor sees unmoved the younger branch distress’d ; 
 
 So these with strength whom nature deign’d to grace, 
 
 Became the guardians of their weaker race ; 
 
 Forced tyrant power to bend his stubborn knee, 
 
 Broke the hard chain and set the people free. 
 
 O’er abject slaves they scorn’d inglorious sway, 
 
 But taught the grateful freedman to obey ; 
 
 And thus by giving liberty, enjoy’d 
 
 What the first hoped from Liberty destroy’d.” 5 
 
 The slight evidences of unstudied versification which 
 appear in this, as in other poems of Fielding, are more than 
 compensated by the manly vigour, the generous tone of sen¬ 
 timent, and the just and argumentative views which he takes 
 of human motives and character in the social and political 
 government of the world. He traces the causes of the cor¬ 
 ruption of governments with the hand of a master, and 
 philosophises in the true spirit of the old poets, once regarded 
 as the prophets, as well as the teachers and censors of man- 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 kind. The spirit of philosophical history seems to have in¬ 
 spired its ardent votary in the following lines : 
 
 ‘ For now tlie savage host, o’erthrown and slain, 
 
 New titles by new methods kings obtain ; 
 
 To priests and lawyers soon their arts apply d, 
 
 The people these, and those the gods bely’d. 
 
 The gods, unheard, to power successors name, 
 
 And silent crowds their rights divine proclaim. 
 
 Hence all the evils which mankind have known, 
 
 The priest’s dark mystery, the tyrant s throne ; 
 
 Hence lords and ministers, and such sad things ; 
 
 And hence the strange Divinity of Kings ! 
 
 Hail, Liberty ! boon worthy of the skies, 
 
 Like fabled Venus fair, like Pallas wise. 
 
 Through thee the citizen braves war’s alarms, 
 
 Though neither bred to fight, nor pay’d for arms , 
 
 Through thee the laurel crown’d the victor’s brow 
 Who served before his country at the plough ; 
 
 Through thee (what most must to thy praise appear) 
 
 Proud senates scorn’d not to seek Virtue there. 
 
 The author concludes this spirited address to the guardian 
 genius of the British isles in the following terse and patri¬ 
 otic lines, which contain also a solemn truth and warning, of 
 which modern statesmen in most countries would do well to 
 avail themselves :— 
 
 ‘ But thou, great Liberty, keep Britain free, 
 
 Nor let men use us as we use the bee ; 
 
 Let not base drones upon our honey thrive, 
 
 And suffocate the maker in his hive.’ 
 
 There are also very correct views of life, and some just and 
 pleasing sentiments expressed in a tone ot alternate mirth and 
 deep feeling, in the author’s poem addressed to a friend 
 < On the Choice of a Wife ; ’ which do still greater honour to 
 the poet’s heart than to his head. After dwelling on the 
 common motives by which so many are directed in deciding 
 on a step every way so fraught with important consequences, 
 he touches on the views and feelings of his friend, in lan¬ 
 guage at once of advice and commendation. 
 
 ‘ But thou, whose honest thoughts the choice intend 
 Of a companion, and a softer friend ; 
 
LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 *1 
 
 A tender heart which, while thy soul it shares, 
 
 Augments thy joys and lessens all thy cares ; 
 
 One who by thee while tenderly carest, 
 
 Shall steal that godlike transport to thy breast, 
 
 The joy to find you make another blest. 
 
 Thee in thy choice let other maxims move. 
 
 They wed for baser passions; thou for love. ... 
 
 Two sorts of women never should be woo’d, 
 
 The wild coquette and the censorious prude ; 
 
 From love both chiefly seek to feed their pride, 
 
 Those to effect it strive, and these to hide. 
 
 Each gay coquette would be admired alone 
 By all, each prude be thought to value none. 
 
 Floretta, so weak vanities enthrall, 
 
 She’d leave her eager bridegroom for a ball. 
 
 Chloe, the darling trifle of the town, 
 
 Had ne’er been won but by her wedding gown ; 
 
 While in her fond Myrtillo’s arms caress’d, 
 
 She cloats on that, and wishes to be dress’d. 
 
 Like some poor bird, just pent within the cage, 
 
 Whose rambling heart in vain you would engage , 
 
 Cold to your fondness it laments its chain, 
 
 And, wanton, longs to range the fields again! ’ 
 
 In the following reflective lines, more remarkable for their 
 truth than their poetry, the risks incurred in matrimony by 
 a false system of education are emphatically pointed out; 
 and we recommend them to the serious attention of the 
 future government inspectors of our youngdady schools. 
 
 * Some sterner foes to marriage bold aver 
 That in this choice a man must surely err: 
 
 Nor can I to this lottery advise ; 
 
 A thousand blanks appearing to a prize. 
 
 Women by nature form’d too prone to ill, 
 
 By education are made proner still, 
 
 To cheat, deceive, conceal each genuine thought, 
 By mothers and by mistresses are taught. 
 
 The face and shape are first the mother’s care, 
 The dancing-master next improves the air. 
 
 To these perfections add a voice most sweet, 
 
 The skill’d musician makes the nymph complete. 
 Thus with a person well equipp’d, her mind, 
 Left, as when first created, rude and blind, 
 
 She’s sent to make her conquest on mankind. 
 
 But first inform’d the studied glance to aim, 
 Where riches show the profitable game: 
 
 How with unequal smiles the jest to take, 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 xli 
 
 "When princes, lords, or squires, or captains speak; 
 
 These lovers careful shun, and those create , 
 
 And merit only see in an estate. 
 
 But tho’ too many of this sort we find, 
 
 Some there are surely of a nobler kind ; 
 
 Nor can your judgment want a rule to choose, 
 
 If by these maxims guided you refuse. 
 
 His wishes then give Fidus to declare, 
 
 And paint the chief perfections of the fair. 
 
 May she thus prove who shall thy lot befall, 
 
 Beauteous to thee, agreeable to all. 
 
 Nor wit, nor learning, proudly may she boast, 
 
 No low-bred girl, nor gay fantastic toast, 
 
 Her tender soul good nature must adorn, 
 
 And vice and meanness be alone her scorn. 
 
 Fond of thy person, may her bosom glow 
 With passions thou hast taught her first to know; 
 
 A warm partaker of the genial bed, 
 
 Thither by fondness, not by lewdness led. 
 
 Superior judgment may she own thy lot; 
 
 Humbly advise but contradict thee not; 
 
 Thine to all other company prefer; 
 
 May all thy troubles find relief from her! 
 
 If fortune gives thee such a wife to meet, ^ 
 
 Earth cannot make thy blessings more complete.’ 
 
 In the short satirical pieces which Fielding occasionally 
 threw off, like Swift, in a moment of spleen and irritation, 
 occasioned by his disappointments, by a keen sense of neg¬ 
 lected services, and the violation of actual pi onuses on the 
 part of ‘ a succession of artful ministers and great men,’ who 
 fasten themselves on the brain of genius, and, like the fly 
 that feeds on that of the elk, exhaust its powers for their 
 own pleasure and support, we perceive with what delight he 
 threw off the incubus of factitious society and false 4 great¬ 
 ness/ as he ironically termed it, and recuned to the highei 
 and purer feelings of truth and nature. The lines addressed 
 < To Celia ’ seem to have been composed under some im¬ 
 pression of this kind ; and, though not to be compared, in 
 point of caustic satire, with some of his great predecessor 
 (Swift), they may perhaps be pronounced inferior only to 
 his. At the same time, their peculiar character of wit and 
 humour, as well as their style and the kind of excellence at 
 
xlii 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 which they aimed, are so widely different, that they can 
 perhaps scarcely he brought into fair juxta-position; and to 
 award to either the palm of wit would he much like deciding 
 on the superiority of flavour in a pine-apple or a peach,—a 
 verdict that must always be questioned while a variety of 
 taste exists. And of the two, perhaps Swift could less have 
 become the successful rival of Fielding, than the latter of the 
 singular and unexampled kind of genius which pervades the 
 prose satires of the Dean of St Patrick. ‘ Each did well in 
 his degree/ The following lines appear to have been written 
 about the period when the author was paying his addresses 
 to the lady whom he subsequently espoused, and whose vir¬ 
 tues and accomplishments were so enthusiastically dwelt upon 
 in the character of Booth, whose attachment to his Amelia, 
 like that of Fielding, never seems to have experienced the 
 least abatement:— 
 
 ‘TO CELIA 
 
 ‘ I hate the town, and all its ways ; 
 
 Bidottos, operas, and plays ; 
 
 The ball, the ring, the mall, the court, 
 Wherever the “ Beau Monde ” resort; 
 Where beauties lie in ambush for folks, 
 Earl Str.iffords and the Duke of Norfolks; 
 All coffee-houses, and their praters, 
 
 All courts of justice and debaters ; 
 
 All taverns and the sots within ’em ; 
 
 All bubbles and the rogues that skin ’em. 
 
 I hate all critics; may they burn all, 
 
 From Bentley to the Grub-street Journal; 
 All bards as Dennis hates a pun : 
 
 Those who have wit and who have none. 
 All nobles of whatever station ; 
 
 And all the parsons in the nation. 
 
 All quacks and doctors read in physick, 
 Who kill or cure a man that is sick. 
 
 All authors who were ever heard on, 
 
 From Bavius up to Tommy Gordon; 
 Tradesmen with cringes ever stealing, 
 
 And merchants whatsoe’er they deal in. 
 
 I hate the blades professing slaughter, 
 More than the d—1 holy water. 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 xliii 
 
 I hate all scholars, beaux, and squires ; 
 
 Pimps, puppies, parasites, and liars; 
 
 All courtiers with their looks so smooth ; 
 
 And players from Boheme to Booth. 
 
 I hate the world cramm’d all together, 
 
 From beggars, up the Lord knows whither! 
 
 Ask you then, Celia, if there be 
 The thing I love ? My charmer, thee. 
 
 Thee more than light, than life adore, 
 
 Thou dearest, sweetest creature, more 
 Than wildest raptures can express, 
 
 Than I can tell, or thou canst guess. 
 
 Then though I bear a gentle mind, 
 
 Let not my hatred of mankind 
 Wonder within my Celia move, 
 
 Since she possesses all I love.’ 
 
 In the author’s 4 Epitaph on Butler’s Monument,’ the same 
 feeling of bitterness and indignation at the treatment which 
 that most ‘extraordinary of all English wits’ had experienced, 
 after the most solemn promises, from an abandoned and un¬ 
 grateful court, is expressed with an admirably cutting point. 
 
 ‘ What tho’, alive, neglected and undone, 
 
 0 let thy spirit triumph in this stone! 
 
 No greater honour could men pay thy parts, 
 
 For when they give a stone they give their hearts. ’ 
 
 A number of the most pleasing and well-written poems in 
 his ‘ Miscellanies,’ are those which Fielding repeatedly ad¬ 
 dresses, under the assumed names of ‘ Strephon and Celia,’ 
 to the lady of his first choice. How well he could design a 
 poetic fable as well as one in prose, and adapt himself to the 
 easy familiar style of poetic narrative, with less terseness, 
 indeed, but not with less spirit than the ‘ immortal author of 
 Gulliver,’ the following humorous yet tender lines will afford 
 ample proof. ‘To Celia’ (occasioned by her apprehending 
 her house would be broken open ; and having an old fellow 
 to guard it who sat up all night with a gun without any 
 ammunition). 
 
xliv 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 ‘ CUPID CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 
 
 ‘ Last night as my unwilling mind 
 To rest, dear Celia, I resign’d ; 
 
 For how should I repose enjoy 
 While any fears your breast annoy ? 
 
 Forbid it, Heaven, that I should be 
 From any of your troubles free; 
 
 Oh, would kind fate attend my prayer, 
 Greedy I’d give you not a share. 
 
 Last night, then, in a wretched taking, 
 
 My spirits just ’twixt sleep and waking, 
 
 I dreamt (ah ! what so frequent themes 
 As you and Venus of my dreams!) 
 
 That she, bright glory of the sky, 
 
 Heard from below her darling’s cry : 
 
 Saw her pale cheeks, her bosom heave, 
 
 And heard a distant sound of “ Thieve ! ” 
 Not so you look when at the ball 
 Envy’d you shine, outshining all; 
 
 Not so at chuTch when priest perplex’d 
 Beholds you and forgets the text. 
 
 The goddess, frighten’d, to her throne 
 Summon’d the little god her son, 
 
 And him in passion thus bespoke— 
 
 “ Where, with that cunning urchin’s look, 
 Where from thy colours hast thou stray’d ? 
 Unguarded left my darling maid ? 
 
 Left my lov’d citadel of beauty 
 With none hut Sancho upon duty ! 
 
 Did I for this a numerous band 
 Of loves send under thy command, 
 
 Bid thee still have her in thy sight, 
 
 And guard her beauties day and night ? 
 Were not th’ Hesperian gardens taken? 
 
 The hundred eyes of Argus shaken ? 
 
 What dangers will not men despise 
 T’ obtain this much superior prize ? 
 
 And didst thou trust what Jove had charm’d 
 To a poor centinel unarm’d ? 
 
 A gun indeed the wretch had got, 
 
 But neither powder, ball, nor shot. 
 
 Come tell me, urchin, tell no lies; 
 
 Where was you hid, in Vince’s eyes ? 
 
 Did you fair Bennet’s breast importune ? 
 
 (I know you dearly love a fortune).” 
 
 Poor Cupid now began to whine ; 
 
 Mamma, it was no fault of mine. 
 
 I in a dimple lay perdue. 
 
 That little guard-room chose by you. 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 xlv 
 
 A hundred loves (all arm’d) did grace 
 The beauties of her neck and face; 
 
 Thence by a sigh I, dispossest, 
 
 Was blown to Harry Fielding’s breast ; 
 
 Where I was forced all night to stay, 
 
 Because I could not find my way. 
 
 But did mamma know there what work 
 I’ve made—how acted like a Turk ; 
 
 What pain—what torments he endures, 
 
 Which no physician ever cures, 
 
 She would forgive.” The goddess smil’d, 
 
 And gently chuck’d her wicked child, 
 
 Bid him go back and take more care, 
 
 And give her service to the Fair.’ 
 
 But tlie. playful and happy vein which the poet has here 
 ’ displayed is exceeded, perhaps, in a little poem, which shows 
 still more invention, combined with a fresh and sparkling 
 spirit, which, while strictly moral, reminds us of some of the 
 best specimens of Swift or Prior. It seems to have been 
 addressed to the Misses Cradock, to one of whom Fielding 
 was subsequently united, and it has thus the additional merit 
 of throwing light on the disposition and sentiments of the 
 writer at that interesting period of his literary career. 
 
 ‘ The Queen of Beauty, t’other day, 
 
 (As the Elysian journals say,) 
 
 To ease herself of all her cares, 
 
 And better carry on affairs, 
 
 By privy-council mov’d above, 
 
 And Cupid, minister of Love, 
 
 To keep the earth in due obedience, 
 
 .Resolv’d to substitute vicegerents, 
 
 To canton out her subject lands 
 And give the fairest the commands. 
 
 She spoke, and to the earth’s far borders 
 Young Cupid issued out her orders : 
 
 That every nymph in bis dimensions 
 Should bring or send up her pretensions 
 Like light’ning swift the order Hies, 
 
 Or swifter glance trom Celia’s eyes; 
 
 Like wit from sparkling Wortley’s tongue, 
 
 Or harmony from Pope or Young. 
 
 Why should I sing what letters came ? 
 
 Who boasts her face or who her frame, 
 
 From black and brown, and red and fair.. 
 
 With eyes, and teeth, and lips, and hair r 
 
xlvi 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 One fifty hidden charms discovers, 
 
 A second boasts as many lovers; 
 
 This beauty all mankind adore, 
 
 And this all women envy more. 
 
 This witnesses by billets-doux 
 A thousand praises, and all true; 
 
 While that by jewels makes pretences 
 To triumph over kings and princes ; 
 Bribing the goddess by that pelf 
 By which she once was brib’d herself; 
 
 So borough towns, elections brought on, 
 E’er yet corruption bill was thought on, 
 
 Sir knight, to gain the voters’ favour, 
 Boasts of his former good behaviour ; 
 
 Of speeches in the senate made — 
 
 Love for his country and its trade, 
 
 And for a proof of zeal unshaken 
 Distributes bribes he once had taken. 
 
 "What matters who the prizes gain 
 In India, Italy, or Spain ; 
 
 Or who requires the crown commanders 
 Of Holland, Germany, and Flanders. 
 
 Thou, Britain, on my labours smile, 
 
 The Queen of Beauty’s favour’d isle; 
 Whom she long since hath priz’d above 
 The Paphian or the Cyprian grove, 
 
 And here, who asks the Muse to tell, 
 
 That the court lot to Bichmond fell ? 
 
 Or who so ignorant as wants 
 
 To know that S—per’s chose for Hants ? 
 
 Sarum, thy candidates be nam’d, 
 
 Sarutn, for beauties ever fam’d, 
 
 Whose nymphs excel all beauty’s flowers, 
 As thy high steeple doth all towers. 
 
 The court was plac’d in manner fitting. 
 Venus upon the bench was sitting; 
 
 Cupid was secretary made ; 
 
 The cryer an “ 0 yes ” display’d, 
 
 Like mortal cryer’s loud alarum, 
 
 “ Bring in petitions from New Sarum." 
 When lo, in bright celestial state, 
 
 Jove came and thunder’d at the gate. 
 
 “ And can you, daughter, doubt to whom 
 (He cried) belongs the happy doom, 
 
 While Cradocks yet make bless’d the earth 
 Cradocks, whom long before their birth 
 I, by your own petition mov’d, 
 
 Decreed to he by all belov’d?* 
 
 * Part of this poem (written when the author was very young) was 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 xlvii 
 
 Cradocks, to whom, celestial dower, 
 
 I gave all beauties in my power ; 
 
 To form whose lovely minds and faces 
 I stript half heaven of its graces. 
 
 Oh let them bear an equal sway, 
 
 So shall mankind, well pleas’d, obey.” 
 The god thus spoke, the goddess bow’d, 
 Her rising blushes straight avow’d 
 Her hapless memory and shame, 
 
 And Cupid, glad, writ down their name.” 
 
 We may form some idea, from the foregoing specimens, 
 what Fielding’s success would have been had he more 
 strenuously directed his talents to poetical composition; and 
 it is evident, indeed, from -the decided superiority of his later 
 comedies, of his essays, and even his occasional poems, that 
 his mind at this period, when compelled to renounce his 
 hopes of the law, had acquired greater compass and vigour. 
 He displays more sustained powers, and a closer knowledge of 
 mankind, not only as a comic writer, hut as a philosophical 
 student of character and manners, as he subsequently drew 
 them with all the variations and anomalies of the human heart. 
 It was not, however, till the appearance of his ‘Tom Jones,’ 
 that Fielding’s genius was justly appreciated. In the earlier 
 part of his career, his character as a dramatist and a public 
 writer had been systematically assailed not less by a tribe of 
 ephemeral wits than by men of first-rate talent, while he was 
 held up to ridicule in his poetical character by him whom he 
 afterwards commemorated as the ‘ immortal author of Gulli¬ 
 ver.’ But Swift was not aware that he was exercising his 
 satiric vein on the future author of ‘Tom Jones’ and 
 < Amelia,’ when he attacked his youthful contemporary for 
 want of excellence in an art to which he had never advanced 
 any serious pretensions. 
 
 filled with, tbe names of several young ladies, who might perhaps be un¬ 
 easy at seeing themselves in print. That part, therefore, is left out; the 
 rather, as some freedoms, though gentle ones, were taken with little 
 foibles in the amiable sex, whom to affront in print is, we conceive, mean 
 in any man, and scandalous in a gentleman .—Author s Note. 
 
xlviii 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 ‘ For instance, when you rashly think 
 No rhymer can like Wellsted sink. 
 
 His merits balanc’d, you shall find 
 That Fielding leaves him far behind.’ 
 
 But this satire is evidently unjust, and Fielding the poet, 
 he forgot, was not Fielding the public writer and the novel¬ 
 ist. ‘ Little did Swift imagine,’ says Dr Warton, ‘ that this 
 very Fielding would hereafter equal him in works of humour, 
 and excel him in drawing and supporting characters, and in 
 the artful conduct and plan of a comic epopee. It is curi¬ 
 ous to observe how far the estimate formed of contemporary 
 merit differs from that given by the impartial verdict of 
 posterity, when we see writers like Swift and Richardson 
 endeavouring to convince the world of Fielding’s short-lived 
 title to regard, while men like. Aaron Hill flattered their 
 self-complacency with the idea that they should he remem¬ 
 bered when both Pope and Fielding would he known no 
 more. ’—(. Richardson's Correspondence.) 
 
 We have seen the spirit in which Fielding uniformly met 
 the anonymous attacks and libels of his detractors. Con¬ 
 scious of his own powers, he seldom retaliated, except in 
 general terms, and in the language of gentlemanly reproof, in¬ 
 dicative rather of magnanimity and contempt than the too 
 common expression of spite and anger. Indeed, this gener¬ 
 ous sentiment, added to a Christian spirit and philosophy, to 
 which he generally had recourse in all the great emergencies 
 of his life, was not the least remarkable feature in our 
 author’s character ; and in many passages of his works he has 
 passed deserved eulogy upon the very man who had aspersed 
 him : a sufficient proof, perhaps, that he felt his own reputa¬ 
 tion could afford it. And so far from having sustained any 
 injury, it is evident that this lofty disregard of such attacks, 
 and his acknowledgment of the merits of his adversaries, 
 particularly of Swift, in ‘ Joseph Andrews,’ has served to 
 place his own in a more distinct and forcible point of view ; 
 for, though both holding the most distinguished position in 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 their several ways, no two writers could be less fairly op¬ 
 posed, or considered as rivals to each other. 
 
 Such was the preparatory school in which, as a dramatist, 
 an essayist, and public writer, the talents of Fielding were 
 formed and matured, and such the disposition and feelings 
 by which he was actuated before he entered on the composi¬ 
 tion of his novels. It is from the same source, perhaps, that 
 we may trace the amiable qualities with which he has in¬ 
 vested many of his principal characters, in which he excels 
 all his contemporaries, and is so far superior to his immediate 
 followers, without excepting his pupil and rival Smollett. 
 
 Before considering his masterpieces of prose fiction, how¬ 
 ever, we shall refer to his other minor productions in the 
 order in which they appeared. IN ext to the Fssays, already 
 mentioned, we must notice the ‘ Journey from this World to 
 
 the Next/ which abounds in satirical humour, and many ad¬ 
 mirable hits at the follies and vices of great personages, and 
 the prevailing errors and foibles of the time. 1 lioagh in 
 this, as in all his works, no one had more sincerely at heart 
 the interests of religion and morality, it is seldom that 
 weapons like these reach their mark, without inflicting 
 wounds which were not intended; and in exposing the mis¬ 
 
 conduct of men of power and title, and the still baser in¬ 
 famies of their creatures, it is questionable how far such pic¬ 
 tures are calculated to attain the noble end he had in view. 
 Such a course could not fail therefore to draw down upon its 
 author the utmost virulence of his enemies. In their e flu i ts 
 to pervert his meaning, they broadly charged him with an 
 intention to subvert the cause of truth and religion, which it 
 was his object to promote, and for which he invariably enter¬ 
 tained the greatest reverence and respect, let he had 
 assured them that he did not intend in this allegorical piece 
 to oppose any prevailing system, or to erect a new one of hit> 
 o W n. ‘ With greater justice/ he observes, * he might be 
 arraigned of ignorance for having, in the relation which he 
 
 d 
 
1 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 has put into the mouth of Julian, whom they call the apos¬ 
 tate, done many violences to history and mixed truth and 
 falsehood with much freedom. Eut he professed fiction; 
 and though he chose some facts out of history to embellish 
 his work, and fix a chronology to it, he has not, however, 
 confined himself to nice exactness, having often ante-dated 
 and sometimes post-dated the matter which he found in the 
 Spanish history, and transplanted into his work.’ 
 
 In this singular production, the design of which, and some 
 portions of the dialogues, appear to have been adopted from 
 Quevedo and other Spanish writers, the reader will find a 
 rich fund of humour intermingled with sound views and an 
 intimate acquaintance with the ancient authors no less than 
 with modern society and character, in all their varieties. One 
 proof of his refined study of the classics is shown in the 
 amusing incident where he introduces Mr Addison hearing 
 for the first time of the Eleusinian Mysteries in the sixth 
 book of the iEneid, while it conveys a well-merited compli 
 ment to the author, who traced with so much felicity the 
 analogy between Virgil’s system and those mysterious rites. 
 To the observer of human life, to the philosophical student, 
 or citizen of the world, few productions will afford more 
 gratification than the ‘ Journey from this World to the 
 hText; ’ though it is oddly enough remarked by Chalmers 
 that it does not clearly appear what Mr Fielding’s real design 
 was in this work, which breaks off abruptly, either for want 
 of materials, or a wish to convey satire in some more regular 
 form ; an observation which would apply with more justness 
 to the author’s history of ‘ Jonathan Wild.’ Of this able 
 but imperfect fragment, full of keen satire and far-sighted 
 views into the characters and motives of men, we have 
 already given the author’s own ideas and the design and ob¬ 
 ject with which it was written. Incomplete and unstudied 
 as it is, it can hardly be called the first of Fielding’s novels, 
 though in many parts it shows the germs of that creative and 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 li 
 
 imaginative power which he afterwards so successfully devel¬ 
 oped. Notwithstanding the startling views of society, and 
 what is termed civilised life, which it exhibits, and the still 
 more fearful truths which it forces upon the mind, the 
 author’s real sentiments, his genuine regard for the reformation 
 and happiness of mankind, and his admirable courage in stig¬ 
 matizing the vices and follies of their oppressors, cannot for 
 a moment he mistaken. 
 
 On the other side, it is equally clear that he was as de¬ 
 cidedly opposed to every species of lawless violence ; and 
 being as deeplv read in constitutional law as in all its minor 
 branches, he was enabled, to avail himself of this knowledge 
 in his pictures of life with inimitable skill, and for the best 
 purposes. He never commits the fault we see in many novel¬ 
 ists of drawing false conclusions from the revolting characters 
 and facts which he places before the reader ; he never makes 
 the vicious interesting or amiable, but awards strict poetical 
 justice; and while he exhibits Wild as a great man, in the 
 Newgate acceptation of the term, he conducts him to Tyburn 
 as he would, with evident pleasure, other ‘ great men ’ who 
 belong to the same innumerable family, but are eager to dis¬ 
 claim all relationship with him. 
 
 The author, at the same time, discriminates justly between 
 the respective powers of good and evil, and while he de¬ 
 nounces some prevailing doctrines and fashions, ever makes 
 retributive justice fall where it ought to hill; reserves the real 
 delights of life, true peace and happiness, for the virtuous 
 and beneficent; nor for a moment allows the dark void of 
 infidelity or the chilly gloom of misanthropy to overcloud his 
 clear strong vision, or interrupt the calm effulgent beauty ol 
 his closing prospects. 
 
 It has been justly remarked by Mr Murphy, that Fielding 
 wrote the history of ‘ Jonathan Wild ’ for a noble purpose, 
 and one of the highest importance to society. A satire like 
 this strips off the spurious ornaments of hypocrisy, shows 
 
lii 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 the beauty of the moral character, and will always be worthy 
 the attention of the reader who desires to rise wiser or better 
 from the book he peruses. ‘ Jonathan Wild,’ however, may 
 be pronounced deficient in that higher order of composition 
 attained by the author in his maturer years. In all that he 
 had hitherto accomplished, Fielding seemed only to be 
 preluding to some bolder and more masterly undertaking, 
 in which his vast knowledge and experience, his pro¬ 
 found reading and observation, illustrated too by his 
 erudition, should all tend to one end, the ornament of 
 his original imaginative pictures and rich inventions. 
 If we add an infinite variety of character and incident, an 
 exquisite judgment, the charm of propriety and grace in the 
 several parts, and the harmony and congruity of the whole, 
 we shall appreciate the chief qualities which he developed in 
 his ‘ Joseph Andrews,’ and which bore away the palm of 
 excellence in his ‘ Tom Jones.’ 
 
 It should be premised with reference to these compositions, 
 that there seems to have been three distinct periods in the 
 progress of this highly gifted writer’s powers. In the first, 
 his genius broke forth with a wildness and luxuriance com¬ 
 paratively untutored and unchecked, without that justness 
 of thought and moral discrimination which he afterwards 
 evinced. Hence his earlier productions exhibit frequent 
 proofs of haste and negligence, from which the author with 
 difficulty cleared himself in the most studied and finished 
 of his subsequent works. To this cause must also be attri¬ 
 buted the partial failure of his comedies, which, in the outset, 
 were the efforts of a minor, while he happily entered on the 
 composition of his novels, like the author of ‘ Waverley,’ at a 
 time when his judgment was fully matured, and his know¬ 
 ledge and experience of life widely expanded. Even in the 
 second epoch we trace an immense accession of varied acqui¬ 
 sitions and effective talent, when the luxuriances of his style, 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 liii 
 
 his frequent negligences and errors were effectually corrected, 
 when liis essays and his almost innumerable literary and 
 political tracts, by gradually exhausting the fervour and 
 taming the strength of his genius, had improved his natural 
 style, and matured the expression of his thoughts and feel¬ 
 ings. 
 
 To this period belong his miscellaneous pieces ; his criti¬ 
 cisms, his prefaces, his contributions to the ‘ True Patriot , 
 and other journals ; and, perhaps among the most entertain¬ 
 ing. his ‘ Papers proper to be read before the Loyal Society, 
 and his ‘ Dialogue between Alexander the Great and Dio¬ 
 genes the Cynic ; ’ ‘ On the Remedy of Affliction for the Loss 
 of Friends;’ ‘ The First Olynthiac of Demosthenes,’ &c., 
 most of which preceded the composition of his ‘ 1 om Jones 
 and ‘ Amelia.’ 
 
 The third and most distinguished epoch of Fielding’s 
 genius may date from the composition of these unrivalled 
 works, and from the numerous productions connected with 
 law and politics which marked the period of his magistracy, 
 and which were chiefly directed to the reform of our criminal 
 code, to the establishment of a more effective police, com¬ 
 prehending plans of an extensively useful character, beyond 
 the range of those official duties which he so conscientiously 
 
 discharged. 
 
 First, as relates to his ‘ Joseph Andrews,’ the author him¬ 
 self informs us in an ingenious and amusing preface, that it 
 was intended for an imitation of the style and mannei of 
 Cervantes; and ‘how delightfully,’ says one of his biogra¬ 
 phers (Murphy), ‘ he has copied the humour, the gravity, and 
 the fine ridicule of his master, they can witness who are ac¬ 
 quainted with both writers.’ Another critic, on the other 
 hand (Chalmers), supporting his opinion on an observation 
 of Dr Warton, ‘ tb ,t it was difficult to say why Fielding 
 should call this novel an imitation of that truly original 
 
liv 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 author,’ questions the correctness of the preceding assertion, 
 and maintains that Fielding’s ridicule is of a very different 
 species from that of the Spanish novelist. Perhaps the au¬ 
 thority of his biographer, Dr Aikin, may he allowed its 
 weight in coming to a decision on a point so little open to 
 dispute after the author’s own declaration, but on which 
 learned doctors contrive so easily to disagree ; and he too 
 speaks of ‘ the grave Cervantic style adopted in the novel of 
 “ Joseph Andrews.” ’ It would appear, also, from the author’s 
 own preface, as well as from numerous passages in his works, 
 that he was an enthusiastic admirer of his great predecessor; 
 while, however, it is highly probable that he had Cervantes 
 in his eye, it is certain that the satiric and burlesque portion 
 of ‘Joseph Andrews’ was suggested to him by the perusal 
 of Richardson’s ‘Pamela,’ on the over-wrought refinement and 
 strained sentiment of which it affords a humorous comment¬ 
 ary in the adventures of her professed brother, the hero. 
 Besides its intrinsic wit and excellence, it has thus a two¬ 
 fold attraction in the comic and burlesque spirit it main¬ 
 tains throughout, in the same way as the adventures of the 
 Spanish knight and his squire, however ludicrous in them¬ 
 selves, are relished with a double zest from the contrast they 
 offer to the dignified bearing and marvellous deeds of the old 
 Paladins. How exquisitely Fielding has caught the humour, 
 assumed gravity, and delicate satire of his prototype, they 
 who have compared the two master-pieces will readily admit, 
 and that he loses nothing in point of originality. 
 
 Perhaps of all human compositions an excellent comic epic 
 is the most difficult; and Fielding succeeded well in putting 
 into full effect the rules laid down in his ingenious preface. 
 The truth is, he had now discovered that species of compo¬ 
 sition for which his natural talents, matured by long practice 
 and by painful experience, were most peculiarly adapted. 
 The character of Parson Adams alone, to say nothing of the 
 incidents of the story and the rich humour in which it in 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lv 
 
 other respects abounds, would sufficiently establish bis reput¬ 
 ation as an original and admirable writer. The humanity, 
 benevolence, and goodness of heart so conspicuous in Mr 
 Adams ; bis unswerving integrity; bis zeal in the cause of 
 the oppressed ; bis unaffected nature, independent of his 
 talent and learning, win our esteem and respect, even while 
 his virtuous simplicity provokes oar smiles : and the little 
 predicaments into which he falls, owing to his absence of 
 mind, are such as excite our mirth without a shadow of 
 derision or malevolence. When the knight of La Mancha 
 mistakes the barber’s basin for Mambrino’s helmet, we are 
 not more alive to a sense of the truly ludicrous than when 
 we see Parson Adams travelling to the great metropolis to 
 sell a set of sermons, thinking his fortune was made, and 
 snapping his fingers with delight on being introduced to a 
 London bookseller. Then, after running in ecstasy two or 
 three times round the room, he puts his hand into his pocket, 
 and finding the precious MSS. neither there nor anywhere else, 
 he exclaims with infinite simplicity and good humour, ‘I pro¬ 
 fess I believe I left them behind me .’—(Essay on the Life 
 and Genius of Fielding.) 
 
 It is stated, by one of Pielding’s early biographers, that the 
 Rev. Mr Young ,'* a learned and much-esteemed friend of the 
 author’s, was the original of the excellent and amusing parson. 
 It is added that the likeness is very remarkable; Mr Young had 
 as close an intimacy with the Greek authors, and as passion¬ 
 ate a veneration for iEschylus, as Adams himself; the over¬ 
 flowings of his benevolence were as strong ; his fits of reverie 
 were as frequent, and occurred, too, upon the most interesting 
 occasions. When he was chaplain, for instance, in a regiment 
 serving in Planders, he thought proper, one fine summer’s 
 evening, to indulge himself in a walk, during which, struck 
 with the charms of the landscape, and perhaps with some 
 
 * Editor of an edition of Ainsworth’s Thesaurus.— Nichols' Literary 
 Anecdotes. 
 
Ivi 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 appropriate passage in his beloved iEschylus, he extended his 
 meditations till he arrived very quickly within the enemy's 
 lines, and was only brought to a stand by the repeated chal¬ 
 lenge of ‘ Qui va laV I he officer in command, on hearing the 
 merits of the case, and finding the unpremeditated nature of 
 the visit, and the unaffected simplicity of his prisoner, gave 
 him leave to pursue his classical researches in a walk home 
 again. Indeed, it is not too much to say that the celebrated 
 character of an absent man, by La Bruy ere, is, in every point, 
 inferior to that true and just resemblance to nature with which 
 our author has delineated the peculiarities of Adams : ‘ the 
 former,’ it is remarked, 1 has been carried to a degree of 
 pleasant extravagance, while the latter abounds in the finest 
 lights and shadows of real life.’ 
 
 Still, with all its merit and promise of higher things, this 
 admirable work, the favourite of Fielding himself, has been 
 strangely pronounced by Mr Murphy as the sunrise only of 
 our author’s genius. ‘In the plan of the work,’ he says, ‘ Mi- 
 Fielding did not form to himself a circle wide enough for the 
 abundance of his imagination ; the main action was too 
 trivial and unimportant to admit of the variety of characters 
 and events which the reader generally looks for in such pro¬ 
 ductions- the attainment of perfection in this kind of writing 
 was in reserve for Mr Fielding in a future work.’ 
 
 In reply to this mistaken opinion it would be enough to 
 refer the reader to the author’s observations in his preface, 
 and to the admirably varied character and incidents displayed 
 in the novel itself. Even were this not so, were the entire 
 plan and execution of the story of the restricted character 
 here mentioned, it would not be the less perfect on that 
 account, and Fielding would still have succeeded in the pur¬ 
 pose which he had proposed to attain. In point of fact the 
 two works are dissimilar in their design, aim at different 
 objects, are effected by opposite means ; nor can they fairly, 
 perhaps, be compared, much less can one be considered in- 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lvii 
 
 ferior, as a work of art, to the other. On the contrary, the 
 distinct character thus pointed out has been claimed for his 
 ‘Joseph Andrews’ hy the author himself, when he says, 
 
 ‘ Having thus distinguished “ Joseph Andrews ” from the 
 productions of romance-writers on the one hand, and burlesque 
 writers on the other, and given some few very short hints 
 (for I intended no more) of this species of writing, which I 
 have affirmed to be hitherto unattempted in our language, I 
 shall leave to my good-natured reader to apply my piece to 
 my observations, and will detain him no longer than with a 
 word concerning the characters in this work.’ 
 
 It is clear, from the foregoing passage, that the author 
 deprecates the idea of placing his work in juxta-position, or 
 in comparison, with other productions; and there is little 
 doubt he would have observed the same rule with reference 
 to its successors. Something, however, of his real object, and 
 the means by which he effected it, may be gathered from the 
 conclusion of his interesting preface ; and it serves to show 
 the high and unexceptionable motives by which the author 
 was invariably actuated: ‘ And here I solemnly protest I 
 have no intention to vilify or asperse any one; for though 
 everything is copied from the book of Hature, and scarce a 
 character or action produced which I have not taken from 
 my own observations and experience, yet I have observed the 
 utmost care to obscure the persons by such different circum¬ 
 stances, degrees, and colours, that it will be impossible to guess 
 at them with any degree of certainty ; and if it ever happens 
 otherwise, it is only where the feeling characterised is so 
 minute, that it is a foible which the party himself may laugh 
 at as well as any other.’ 
 
 In his conception of the character of Adams, the author 
 appears, from his own words, to have studied to make it as 
 
 perfectly original as it is amiable and amusing. 
 
 4 As to the character of Adams, as it is the most glaring 
 of the whole, so I conceive it is not to be found in any book 
 
lviii 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 now extant. It is designed a character of perfect simplicity: 
 and, as the goodness of his heart will recommend him to the 
 good-natured, so I hope it will excuse me to the gentlemen 
 of his cloth ; for whom, while they are worthy of their sacred 
 order, no man can possibly have a greater respect. They 
 will therefore excuse me, notwithstanding the low adventures 
 in which he is engaged, that I have made him a clergyman; 
 since no office could have given him so many opportunities 
 of displaying his worthy inclinations.’ 
 
 ‘ Joseph Andrews ’ appeared in the year 1742, a short time 
 previous to the publication of the author’s ‘ Miscellanies.’ 
 As was to be expected, it was assailed by a host of pretended 
 wits and critics, and by none more than the friends and ad¬ 
 mirers of Richardson. The assumed relationship between the 
 hero and Pamela was by no means felt as a compliment; the 
 implied satire was at once recognised, more particularly in the 
 latter chapters, where the lady is made to assume a conduct 
 and language little becoming a person of quality, or in the 
 words of Chalmers, ‘ she enacts the beggar on horseback in a 
 very superior manner.’ This, it is asserted, Richardson never 
 forgave. Whenever in his correspondence he has occasion 
 to mention Fielding, it is with rancour or affected contempt; 
 and his correspondents, who seem to have conspired to flatter 
 him into dotage, repeat his sentiments with profound ac¬ 
 quiescence ! 
 
 From this period (1742-3) the author of ‘ Joseph Andrews’ 
 gradually detached himself from the study and practice of 
 the law, a profession that never can be pursued by fits and 
 starts, and devoted himself to his literary avocations with re¬ 
 newed ardour. He revised some of his early comedies ; and 
 the ‘ Wedding Hay,’ which appeared on the stage, and ‘ The 
 Fathers ’ may be referred to this time, in addition to his un¬ 
 remitted efforts to derive some aid from contributions to a 
 restricted periodical press, then so little remunerative. It was 
 nevertheless difficult to find any adequate substitute for the 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lix 
 
 losses lie had sustained by the long study and subsequent 
 abandonment of the law. To these discouraging circumstances 
 were to be added his own continued illness, and the still 
 more painful infliction of beholding a wife, whom he tenderly 
 loved, fast sinking into an early tomb. The fortitude which 
 had borne him through all other trials is said to have deseited 
 him here : though naturally of a high, unbending spiiit, he 
 was possessed of extreme sensibility had a heait almost 
 morbidly alive to the sufferings of others ; was one of the 
 most affectionate of husbands and fathers ; and the death of 
 her whom he had selected as the pattern of his Amelia, 
 coming upon him in the -midst of his other afflictions, pro¬ 
 duced such paroxysms of grief that fears were entertained for 
 his reason ; and it was long before he rallied from the severity 
 of his sufferings/" His friend, Lord Lyttleton, had sustained 
 a similar loss ; and the sentiments so exquisitely described by 
 him in his c Monody/ are those also of the author of Amelia. 
 That Christian philosophy, however, of which Fielding was 
 so sincere a disciple, at length came to his relief, and, sup¬ 
 ported by his unfailing trust in an All-wise Providence, a noble 
 feature in his character and sentiments, he began to prepare 
 
 * Lady Mary Worthy Montagu states that ‘he loved her passionately.’ 
 She was the standing model from which he drew his most attractive female 
 characters,—the Mrs Wilson of ‘Joseph Andrews,’ the Sophia of ‘ Tom 
 Jones,’ and above all ‘ Amelia.’ Even the glowing .language he employed 
 did not, according to Lady Mary, do more than justice to her amiable 
 qualities and beautv. ‘ If/ she says, ‘he painted an accurate picture of 
 himself in Mr Booth, he must often have tried sorely the patience of his 
 angel.’ But as his irregularities never produced in him indifference, as 
 he°al\vays brought back with him from his tavern-revels his affection and 
 allegiance, she never denied him that place in her heart which she pos¬ 
 sessed in his. The truth is that his fondness for his wife, and his addic¬ 
 tion to conviviality, were both intense, and each was probably in the 
 ascendant, according as he chanced to he at home or abroad.. It might, 
 had he once sat down to it, have been as impossible to entice him from 
 that celebrated little supper of hashed mutton, which his truant ways 
 compelled his Amelia to eat in mournful solitude, as it was difficult for 
 him when away, to resist the solicitations of Captain Brent and his com¬ 
 panions to pass the evening at the King’s Arms.— Quarterly llevieiv, 
 Dec. 1855. 
 
lx 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 for fresh struggles with fortune. He felt that his days 
 were numbered ; and, with laudable spirit, he resolved to 
 devote them, by the fullest exertion of his literary talents, to 
 the benefit of his surviving family, through the medium of 
 serving his country and affording entertainment to the public ; 
 a species of martyrdom of which no common mind is ever 
 capable. He has himself told us that he studiously persevered 
 in this high resolve to the last; and can we doubt that it in¬ 
 disputably tended to accelerate his end ? A strong anti¬ 
 jacobin, he resolved, notwithstanding the neglect and ingrati¬ 
 tude of a Whig ministry (in all times consistently emulous 
 of a corrupt Walpole’s fame), upon setting up a new periodi¬ 
 cal to defend the cause of the reigning family against the 
 efforts of the Pretender and his rapidly increasing partisans. 
 The paper v r as entitled 4 The True Patriot; ’ and, as few 
 men could be found so well qualified to conduct a work of 
 this kind as Fielding, there appeared every probability of its 
 ultimate celebrity and success. A similar project had been 
 set on foot by Addison thirty years before (1715), and he 
 had also the example of Swift, and other great wits on the 
 other side. Addison’s 4 Freeholder ’ is doubtless an admirably 
 written paper, abounding in powerful satire and argument, 
 agreeably relieved by a delicate vein of wit and raillery. 
 But in 4 The True Patriot ,’ is displayed a solid knowledge of 
 the British laws and government, as well as brilliant sallies 
 of humour, which would have appeared to no disadvantage 
 among the political compositions of his most distinguished 
 predecessors. In fact it contributed greatly to strengthen the 
 Hanoverian cause and the Walpole ministry, by bringing the 
 unsuccessful party into contempt; and actually, by dint of 
 following up victory with repeated strokes of ridicule and 
 wit, gradually effacing them, not only from the conversation, 
 but from the very minds of men :— 
 
 1 Jokes, repartees, and laugh, and pun polite, 
 
 Are the true test to prove a man is right.’—P etron. 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxi 
 
 Some passages of the Editor’s address (5th November, 1745) 
 afford an amusing picture of the periodical literature of the age, 
 and his opinion regarding his own qualifications for the task 
 he had undertaken. ‘ Of all mankind,’ he says, ‘ there are 
 none whom it so absolutely imports to conform to this golden 
 rule of following fashion as an author ; by neglecting this 
 Milton himself lay long in obscurity, and the world had 
 nearly lost the best poem which, perhaps, it hath ever seen. 
 On the contrary, by adhering to it, Tom Durfey, whose name 
 is almost forgotten, and many others who are quite forgotten, 
 flourished most notably in their respective ages, wrote and 
 were read very plentifully by their contemporaries. In strict 
 obedience to this sovereign power, being informed by my 
 bookseller, a man of great sagacity in his business, that no¬ 
 body at present read anything but newspapers, I determined 
 to conform myself to the reigning taste. The number 
 indeed of these writers at first a little staggered us both ; 
 but, upon perusal of their works, I fancied I had discovered 
 two or three little imperfections in them, all which somewhat 
 diminished the force of this objection, and gave me hopes 
 that the public will expel some of them to make room for 
 their betters. The first little imperfection in these, writings 
 is, that there is scarcely a syllable of truth in any of them. 
 If this be admitted to be a fault, it requires no other evidence 
 than themselves, and the perpetual contradictions that occur, 
 not only on comparing one with the other, but the same 
 author with himself at different days. Secondly, there is no 
 sense in them: to prove this, likewise, I appeal to their 
 works. Thirdly, there is, in reality, nothing in them at all. 
 And this also must be allowed by their readers, if paragraphs 
 which contain neither wit, nor humour, nor sense, nor the 
 least importance, may be properly said to contain nothing. 
 And here I cannot agree with my bookseller, that their emi¬ 
 nent badness recommends them. The true reason is, I be¬ 
 lieve, simply the same which I once heard an economist 
 
lxii 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 assign for the content and satisfaction with which his family 
 drank water-cyder ; namely, because they could procure no 
 other liquor. Indeed, I make no doubt hut that the under¬ 
 standing, as well as the palate, though, it may, out of 
 necessity, swallow the worse, will in general prefer the 
 better.’ 
 
 The author proceeds to observe, that though it was not 
 usual for those of superior eminence in their profession to 
 hang out their names on the sign-post, yet that, to raise some 
 expectation in his readers, and aid their conjectures, he should 
 do so. c And first, I faithfully promise him that I do not live 
 within a mile of Grub-street; nor am I acquainted with a 
 single inhabitant of that place. Secondly, I am of no party ; 
 a word which I hope by these my labours to eradicate out of 
 our constitution ; this being indeed the true source of all 
 those evils which we have reason to complain of. Thirdly, 
 I am a gentleman; a circumstance from which my reader 
 will reap many advantages ; for, at the same time that he 
 may peruse my paper without any danger of seeing himself 
 or his friends traduced with scurrility, so he may expect, by 
 means of my intercourse with people of condition, to find 
 here many articles of importance concerning the affairs and 
 transactions of the great world (which can never reach the 
 ears of vulgar news-writers), not only in matters of state and 
 politics, but amusement. All routs, dinners, and assemblies, 
 will fall under my immediate inspection ; and the adventures 
 which happen at them.will be inserted in my paper, with 
 due regard, however, to the character which I here profess, 
 and with strict care to give no offence to the parties concerned. 
 Lastly, as to my learning, knowledge, and other qualifications 
 for the office I have undertaken, I shall be silent, and leave 
 the decision to my reader’s judgment, of whom I desire no 
 more than that he would not desjhse me before he is ac¬ 
 quainted with me.’ 
 
 Having informed his readers what he is, he proceeds to 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxiii 
 
 supply them with a few ingenious conjectures as to who he 
 is. ‘ First, then, it is very probable I am Lord B—ke. 
 This I collect from my style of writing and knowledge in 
 politics. Again, it is probable that I am the bishop of . . . 
 from my zeal for the Protestant religion. When I consider 
 these, together with the wit and humour which will diffuse 
 themselves through the whole, it is more than possible 
 
 I mav be Lord C- himself, or at least he may have 
 
 some share in my paper. From some or all of these 
 reasons I am very likely Mr W—n, Mr D—n, Mr L—n, 
 Mr Y —y, I—n, or indeed any other person who hath ever 
 distinguished himself in the republic of letters ! ’ In alluding 
 to the price, he as humorously insists on the superior value 
 of his paper to that of all others. ‘ I conclude the whole in 
 the words of the fair and honest tradesman: “ Gentlemen, 
 upon my word and honour, I can afford it no cheaper * and 
 I believe there is no shop in town will use you better for 
 the price.” ’ 
 
 The c True Patriot ’ was followed by the ‘ Jacobite 
 Journal ,’ edited by John Trott Plaid, Esquire, which, by a 
 rich vein of satiric humour and irony, aimed at covering the 
 party against whom it was directed with still greater igno¬ 
 miny. The 15th number (March 12th, 1748) consists of a 
 translation sent by a correspondent of a pretended poem, 
 entitled ‘ De Arte Jacobinica,’ very happily adapted from 
 Horace’s ‘ Art of Poetry.’ The first rule which this curious 
 essay contains, is to learn the art of lying and misrepresent¬ 
 ing. ‘ Fling dirt enough, and some will certainly stick. 
 You may venture to abuse the king himself ; but do this with 
 caution for the sake of your ears and head. But spare not 
 his ministers : give a wrong turn to their most plausible 
 actions. The next thing you are to remember is, to feign a 
 love to your country and religion ; the less you have of both, 
 the better you can feign both. “ 0 liberty ! 0 virtue ! 0 my 
 country ! ” Bemember to have such expressions as these 
 constantly in your mouth ! ’ 
 
lxiv 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Though, severely pressed by circumstances, it would he 
 hardly fair to infer that Fielding, in pursuance of his own 
 ironical advice, projected these periodicals, instigated only by 
 hope that his services would obtain for him some official 
 situation from the court. He knew the world, and especially 
 the world of intrigue and faction, too well ; but he was 
 naturally accused by his enemies of entertaining only the 
 most interested views. It was not so : his ambition at least 
 was laudable; for he never prostituted his pen to power, 
 though of the temptations to do so, only the man who has 
 long struggled with adverse fate—with a series of evil cir¬ 
 cumstances calculated to render their victim an object of 
 persecution, of scorn, filled perhaps with unavailing regrets, 
 and the haunting dread that Fortune may not yet have shot 
 all her bolts—can form even a remote idea.* Instead of a 
 handsome provision for his last days, however, he was left to 
 perish by the government he had so essentially served; and 
 it was only by the extreme exertions and influence of Lord 
 Lyttleton that he was appointed in his forty-fourth year, with 
 a constitution already broken, to the bench of acting magis¬ 
 trates at Westminster ; a situation requiring robust health 
 and strength, though one for which his talents eminently 
 qualified him. Involved as he now was, in a series of arduous 
 duties, which he discharged with zeal and ability, he did 
 not confine his attention to the routine of official business. 
 He extended his inquiries into the state of the penal laws ; 
 and published several tracts which display his enlightened 
 views, and contain judicious proposals for their reform and 
 consolidation. His ‘ Charge to the Grand Jury’ delivered at 
 Westminster, on the 29th of June, 1749, may be regarded, 
 for that time, as a very able and valuable state paper. He 
 
 * Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se 
 Quam quod ridiculos homines facit.—(Juv.) 
 
 Nor for the poor hath fate a keener sting 
 Than the fell woes which scorn and malice bring'. 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxv 
 
 traces the history of grand juries from their origin ; shows 
 their beneficent operation in leading to just decisions, in the 
 detection of crime, and for the safety of the subject. His 
 inquiry into the ‘ Increase and Cause of Robberies ’ did him 
 equal credit for legal knowledge and sagacity, and was held 
 in high estimation by the most eminent barristers and the 
 judges presiding in Westminster Hall. ‘ A Proposal for the 
 Maintenance of the Poor ’ evinced much diligent research 
 into that difficult subject: and among other useful hints and 
 suggestions, some of which have since been acted upon, this 
 valuable little treatise contains the first recommendation of a 
 county workhouse, in which the different objects of industry 
 and reformation might be united. Another interesting 
 tract, which shows the extent to which he carried his 
 inquiries, and how far, in the midst of his corporeal suffer¬ 
 ings, he retained an active and inquisitive mind, is entitled 
 ‘ Examples of the Interposition of Providence in the 
 Detection and Punishment of Murder, with an Introduction 
 and Conclusion.’ This production he repeatedly advertised 
 in the ‘ Covent Garden Journal with a view of giving 
 it greater publicity; having conceived great hopes of its 
 general utility, and its good effect, more especially among 
 the lower orders. The public mind, it is stated, was at 
 that period much disturbed by murders committed with a 
 degree of barbarity neither usual nor characteristic, it was 
 remarked, of this country. Indeed, few controversial topics 
 of the day escaped him : he wrote a pamphlet on the case of 
 Elizabeth Canning, which was answered by Sir John Hill, 
 between whom and its ingenious author there is said to have 
 occurred a sharp and frequent interchange of animosities, to 
 the no small disgrace and discomfiture of the former. All 
 these productions do honour to Fielding, as a magistrate ; 
 and the result, as they were, of brief intervals between his 
 active duties, must have cost him intense application, insti¬ 
 gated by an ardent zeal for the service of the community, 
 
lxvi 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 added to the exigency of his own affairs. Still, amidst these 
 various avocations his inventive genius found room to display 
 itself, and for some time past he had amused his leisure mo¬ 
 ments—few as they were, with the composition of ‘ Tom 
 Jones,’ the progress and completion of which embraced a 
 large space of time. It was commenced in the midst of his 
 political conflicts, and finished amidst all the turmoil of his 
 magisterial duties—and in a continually declining state of 
 health. 
 
 With regard to this amusing work, justly, perhaps, con¬ 
 sidered his master-piece,—it may not he uninteresting to give 
 the opinions of different writers, some of whom were nearly 
 contemporary with the author. In extolling the uniform 
 and regular plan on which it is conducted, Murphy observes 
 that ‘ no author has introduced a greater diversity of charac¬ 
 ters, or displayed them more fully or in more various .attitudes. 
 All worthy is the most amiable picture in the world of a man 
 who does honour to his species ; in his own heart he finds 
 constant propensities -to the most benevolent and generous 
 actions, and his understanding conducts him with discretion 
 in the performance of whatever his goodness suggests to him. 
 And though it is apparent that the author laboured this 
 portrait con amove, and meant to offer it to mankind as a just 
 object of imitation, he has soberly restrained himself within 
 the bounds of probability; nay, it may be said of strict 
 truth, as, in the general opinion, he is supposed to have 
 copied here the features of a worthy character still in being.’ 
 The person here alluded to was Ralph Allen, Esquire, of 
 Prior Park, and we learn from ‘Groves’s Anecdotes’ that 
 Pielding, while engaged in writing this novel, lived at 
 Tiverton, in the neighbourhood, and even dined every day at 
 Allen’s table. (Chalmers.) 1 Nothing can be more enter¬ 
 taining than Western ; his rustic manners, his natural un¬ 
 disciplined honesty, his half-enlightened understanding, with 
 the self-pleasing shrewdness which accompanies it, and the 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxvii 
 
 Lias of his mind to mistaken politics, are all delineated with 
 precision and line humour. The sisters of these two gentle¬ 
 men are aptly introduced, and give rise to many agreeable 
 scenes. “ Tom Jones ” will always he a line lesson to young- 
 men of good tendencies to virtue, who yet suffer the impe¬ 
 tuosity of their passions to hurry them away. . . . Thwackum 
 and Square are excellently opposed to each other ! In short, 
 all the characters down to Partridge, and even to a maid or 
 hostler at an inn, are drawn with truth and humour ; and, 
 indeed, they abound so much, and are so often brought for¬ 
 ward in a dramatic manner, that everything may be said to 
 be here in action ; everything has manners, and the very 
 manners which belong to it in human life : they look ; they 
 act ; they speak to our imaginations just as they appear to 
 us in the world. 
 
 ‘ It may be added that in many parts of “ Tom Jones ” we 
 find our author possessed the softer graces of character¬ 
 painting, and of description ; many situations and sentiments 
 are touched with a delicate hand, and throughout the work 
 he seems to feel as much delight in describing the amiable 
 part of human nature, as in his early days he had in ex¬ 
 aggerating the strong and harsh features of turpitude and 
 deformity. This circumstance breathes an air of philanthropy 
 through his work, and renders it an image of truth, as the 
 Poman orator calls a comedy. And hence it arose from this 
 truth of character, which prevails in “Tom Jones, - ’ in con¬ 
 junction with the other qualities of the writer above set 
 forth, that the suffrage of the most learned critic of this 
 nation (Dr Warburton) was given to our author, when he 
 says, “ Monsieur de Marivaux, in France, and Mr Fielding, 
 in England, stand the foremost among those who have given 
 a faithful and chaste copy of life and manners ; and by en¬ 
 riching their romance with the best part of the comic art, 
 may be said to have brought it to perfection.” Such a 
 favourable decision from so able a judge will do honour to 
 
Ixviii 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Mr Fielding with posterity ; and the excellent genius of the 
 person with whom he has paralleled him will reflect the 
 truest praise on the author who was capable of being his 
 illustrious rival! ’ * [Murphy.) 
 
 That elegant writer and judicious critic, Dr Beattie, who 
 had no personal animosities to gratify in trying to depreciate 
 a character like Fielding’s, carries his enthusiasm in his 
 favour still farther. ‘ Since the days of Homer,’ he says, 
 ‘ the world has not seen a more artful epic fable. The 
 characters and adventures are wonderfully diversified; yet 
 the circumstances are all so natural, and rise so easily from 
 one another, and co-operate with so much regularity in 
 bringing on, even while they seem to retard, the catastrophe, 
 that the curiosity of the reader is always kept awake, and, 
 instead of flagging, grows more and more impatient as the 
 story advances, till at last it becomes downright anxiety. 
 And when we get to the end, and look back on the whole 
 contrivance, we are amazed to find that of so many incidents 
 there should be so few superfluous ; that in such a variety of 
 fiction there should be so great a probability, and that so 
 complex a tale should be so perspicuously conducted, and 
 with perfect unity of design.’ 
 
 It is also justly remarked by Chalmers, ‘ that the comic 
 romance since the days of Fielding has been declining apace 
 from simplicity and nature. The cause of his superiority 
 is to be sought in his wit and humour, of which he had an 
 inexhaustible fund : ’ an opinion confirmed by the most im¬ 
 partial and enlightened among his contemporaries, not ex¬ 
 cepting Lord Lyttleton and his friends, intimately acquainted 
 
 * 1 Lady Mary had a great regard for Fielding ; she pitied his misfor¬ 
 tunes, excused his failings, and warmly admired his writings ; above all 
 “Tom Jones;” in her own copy of which she wrote, Ne j olus ultra. 
 Nevertheless, she frankly said she Avas sorry he did not himself perceive 
 that he had made Tom Jones a scoundrel; alluding to the adventure with 
 Lady JBellaston.’— Lady Louisa Stuart's Anecdotes prefixed to the Letters 
 of Lady Mary Worthy Montague (written in 1837). 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxix 
 
 with him ns they were from the outset of liis cmeer. Al¬ 
 though in this, as well as in other writings of the author,’ 
 says Dr Aikin, ‘ the scenes are chiefly drawn from low life, 
 and display too much of the vices and crimes of mankind, 
 yet they are relieved by considerable admixture of nobler 
 matter, and contain many affecting pictures of moral ex¬ 
 cellence. Indeed it cannot be doubted the writer’s intentions 
 were to favour the cause of virtue ; and probably the majoiity 
 of readers, judging from their feelings in the perusal, will 
 pronounce that he has effected his purpose. A rigid moralist 
 will object to him the common fault of many writers of 
 fiction, that of sheltering gross deviations from rectitude of 
 conduct under that vague goodness of heart which is so little 
 to be relied upon as the guide of life; yet he has not been 
 inattentive to poetical justice in making misfortune the con¬ 
 stant concomitant of vice, though perhaps he has not nicely 
 
 adjusted the degree of punishment to the crime. 
 
 The author’s third novel, ‘ Amelia,’ was published in 1751,* 
 and in point of general excellence it has commonly been con¬ 
 sidered, no less by critics, perhaps, than by the public, as 
 decidedly inferior to ‘ Tom Jones.’ In variety and invention 
 it assuredly is so. Its chief merit depends less on its artful 
 and elaborate construction than on the interesting series 
 it presents of domestic paintings, drawn, as we have remarked, 
 from his own family history. 
 
 It has more pathos, more moral lessons, with far less vigour 
 and humour, than either of its predecessors. But we agree 
 with Chalmers, that those who have seen much of the errors 
 
 * The following anecdote is recorded of Millar the publisher. He had 
 paid a thousand pounds for the copyright of ‘ Amelia, and when he iegan 
 to suspect that the work would be judged interior to its pred.ecessm!s e 
 employed the following stratagem to push it upon the tiade At s 
 made to the Booksellers previous to its pubheatmn Miflar offe ed to Jus 
 friends his other publications on the usual terms ot discount, but i c 
 came to ‘ Amelia,’ he laid it aside, as a work in such great demand that 
 he couid no™afford to deliver it to the trade in the usual manner. I he 
 ruse succeeded, the impression was anxiously bough I, 
 lisher relieved from any apprehension ot a slow sale. 
 
lxx 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 and distresses of domestic life, will probably feel tliat tlie 
 author’s colouring in this work is more just as well as more 
 chaste than in any of his other novels. The appeals to the 
 heart are far more forcible. 
 
 The whole of Miss Matthews’s narrative abounds in exqui¬ 
 site touches of nature and passion ; but what may be referred 
 to with most confidence are Chapter YI. of Book X. and 
 Chapter VIII. of Book XI. Where do we find the conse¬ 
 quences of imprudence or guilt represented with such irre¬ 
 sistible tenderness 1 The f Amelia ’ is, indeed, a beautiful 
 and almost perfect work of its kind, but throughout preserves 
 the features, in which that very beauty consists, distinct from 
 either of the novels which preceded it. Upon this ground 
 of difference, by many considered as a mark of inferiority, 
 and by his enemies as a decay of the author’s powers, it is 
 unpleasing to observe how eagerly Richardson and his cor¬ 
 respondents renew their attacks, although the entire story 
 abounds with incident and detail taken from his own life, 
 and which ought to have disarmed all criticism, while the 
 author was fast sinking into the grave, oppressed with 
 misfortunes, and at the early age of forty-eight. The effects, 
 perhaps, of literary jealousy and personal prejudice were 
 never more forcibly and painfully displayed. 
 
 What is the language of Mrs. Donellan, so grateful, doubt¬ 
 less, to the ear of him to whom it was addressed 1 ‘ Will 
 
 3 r ou leave us to Captain Booth and Betty Thoughtless for our 
 example 1 As for poor Amelia, she is so great a fool, we pity 
 her, but cannot be humble enough to desire to imitate her.’ 
 In his reply, Richardson, betraying his characteristic little¬ 
 ness and vanity, repeats, with infinite self-complacency, 
 ‘ Will I leave you to Captain Booth 1 Captain Booth, 
 madam, has done his business. Mr Fielding has over-written 
 himself, or rather under-written; and, in his own journal, 
 seems ashamed of his last piece, and has promised that the 
 same muse shall write no more for him. The piece, in short, 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 Ixxi 
 
 is as dead as if it had been published forty years ago as to 
 sale. You guess I have not read “ Amelia ” ? Indeed I have 
 read hut the first volume.’ Contemporary criticism, written 
 in this spirit, requires no comment. It does no honour to 
 the name of the author of i Clarissa and Sii Charles 
 
 Grandison.’ 
 
 While immersed in the avocations of business and the toil 
 of incessant literary composition, Fielding, it appears, had 
 contracted a second marriage.* His salary had proved in¬ 
 adequate to the support of his family ; and though he laboured 
 under increasing infirmities, such was the activity of his 
 mind, that no sooner had he completed one literary under¬ 
 taking than another was projected.f Declining as he was, 
 
 * ‘ His biographers seem to have been shy of disclosing that after toe 
 death of this charming woman he married her maid. And yet the act 
 was not so discreditable to his character as it may sound, the maid had 
 few personal charms, but was an excellent creature, devotedly attached to 
 her mistress, and almost broken-hearted for her loss. In the first agonies 
 of his own grief, which approached to frenzy, he found no relief but from 
 weeping along with her ; nor solace when a degree calmer, but m talking 
 to her of the angel they mutually regretted. This made her bis habitual 
 confidential associate ; and in process of time he began to think he could 
 not, o-ive his children a tenderer mother, or secure tor himself a more 
 faithful housekeeper and nurse. At least this was what he told his 
 friends, and it is certain that her conduct as his wife, confirmed it, and 
 fully iustified his good opinion .’—Lacly Louisa Stuart s Anecdotes. 
 
 Her name was Mary Macdaniel. She survived him nearly halt a cen¬ 
 tury and died at Canterbury, 11th May, 1802, at a very advanced age. 
 
 f ’The first volume of the first edition of ‘Amelia’ (1752), the preface 
 of which is dated Dec. 12, 1751, contains on the last leaf an advertise¬ 
 ment of a ‘ Universal Register Office,’ which would appear to have 
 been a speculation in which Fielding had some pecuniary interest, as he 
 takes several opportunities of puffing it in the novel. It was probably a 
 failure, and had to be abandoned at the same time as the Covent Gaiden 
 Journal, which was published on the same premises. ‘Amelia, as it appears 
 in Murphy’s collected edition, is said to have been printed from a copy 
 corrected in the author’s own handwriting, and the variation from the 
 original text has hitherto passed unnoticed, as well as the omission of the 
 chapter containing ‘ much physical matter.’ As a lost fragment of b lelding 
 this latter will be found (in parenthesis) in its place m the text of this 
 
 edition of ‘ Amelia.’ 
 
 The advertisement runs as follows: . 
 
 ‘ At the Universal Register Office, opposite to Cecil Street, in the 
 
 Strand. 
 
lxxii 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 his efforts to support his new paper, ‘ The Covent Garden 
 Journal , by Sir Alexander Drawcansir, Knight, Censor- 
 General of Great Britain,’ had been unceasing. But at 
 length the announcement that the author’s health would 
 no longer enable him to carry on the work—a work 
 which had conduced so much to the entertainment of 
 the public—was received with a feeling of general regret, 
 little complimentary to the critical acumen of Bichardson 
 and his supporters. In fact, the mental and bodily 
 exertion which he compelled himself to endure had made 
 fatal inroads on his constitution, and the most alarming’ 
 
 ‘Estates and houses, either to he sold or Lett, in any part of Great Bri¬ 
 tain ; Lodgings to be Lett, either in town or country. Perpetual ad vow- 
 sons and next presentations. Offices either civil or military. Money 
 to be lent on all kinds of security, from £100 to £100,000, Annuities to 
 be bought and sold. Insurances on Lives, Ships, and Merchandizes, 
 Curiosities and Animals of all kinds, etc. etc. etc. 
 
 ‘ Masters in all the arts and sciences ; Apprentices in all trades ; and 
 servants in all capacities are registered; and a vast variety to he heard of 
 at this office. 
 
 ‘ Note. This office corresponds with that in Dublin ; and will shortly 
 open an office at the corner of Cornhill, next to Bishopsgate Street. Ai.d 
 the public are desired to take notice, that all other offices are counterfeits, 
 and have no correspondence with us. 
 
 ‘ All persons who intend to take in the Covent-Garden Journal, which 
 will he certainly published on Saturday, the 4th of January next, price 2>d., 
 are desired to send their names, and places of abode, to the above office, 
 opposite Cecil Street, in the Strand, and the said paper will then be 
 delivered at their houses.’ 
 
 Iwo of the paragraphs calling attention to the same occur as follows, 
 the words in parenthesis being omitted in Murphy’s reprint. Book 
 VII. ch. v. par. 13 reads: ‘After many fruitless enquiries Mr Ben- 
 net [was at last informed of an office lately erected opposite Cecil Street, 
 in the Strand, called 1 he Universal Register, where he was assured he 
 might probably have his choice of above a hundred different curacies in 
 different parts of the kingdom ; this greatly pleased him] and he resolved,’ 
 &c. 
 
 And Book VII. ch.. vi. par. 13, ends : ‘ The distance was near seventy 
 miles, [and a post-chaise seemed the pleasantest, as well as the most ex¬ 
 peditious method ; hut my husband objected to the expense ; upon this 
 I lecollected that I had seen something about this matter in the plan of 
 the Register Office. By my advice therefore he repaired thither, where 
 he found a companion registered to go within a few miles of the same 
 place, and by the best of luck this companion was his old acquaintance 
 and fellow collegiate].’ 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxxiii 
 
 symptoms of dropsy were now added to his other sufferings. 
 For some time he struggled to bear up against a complication 
 of diseases which baffled the skill of medicine, and gave 
 warning that the life of Fielding was drawing to a close. 
 His strength grew every day less, and the sole chance now 
 left was to try the effect of a change of climate, which was 
 earnestly recommended by his physician and his friends. 
 He yielded to their solicitations ; but it was without hope. 
 
 Portugal was the country most likely to afford him relief. 
 He accordingly took his passage for Lisbon, on the 26 th of 
 June, 1754. The account he has left us of his ‘ Voyage’ is 
 exceedingly interesting; and, while his body was borne down 
 by disease, shows the perfect serenity and freedom, as well as 
 the wonderful activity, of his mind. ‘ On this day,’ his 
 journal opens, £ the most melancholy sun I had ever beheld 
 arose and found me awake at my house at Fordhook. By 
 the light of the sun, I was, in my own opinion, last to behold 
 and take leave of those creatures on whom I doated with a 
 mother-like fondness, guided by Nature and passion, and 
 uncured and unhardened by all the doctrine of that philoso¬ 
 phical school where I had learned to bear pains and to despise 
 death. In this situation, as I could not conquer Nature, I 
 submitted entirely to her, and she made as great a fool of me 
 as she had ever done of any woman whatsoever : under pre¬ 
 tence of giving me leave to enjoy, she drew me in to suffer 
 the company of my little ones during eight hours; and I 
 doubt not whether, in that time, I did not undergo more 
 than in all my distemper. At twelve o’clock precisely my 
 coach was at the door, which was no sooner told me than I 
 kissed my children round, and went into it with some little 
 resolution. My wife, who behaved more like a heroine and 
 philosopher, though at the same time the tenderest mother in 
 the world, and my eldest daughter followed me ; some friends 
 went with us, and others took their leave, and I heard my 
 behaviour applauded, with many murmurs and praises to 
 
Ixxiv 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 which I well knew I had no title, as all other such philoso¬ 
 phers may, if they have any modesty, confess on the like 
 occasion/ 
 
 In the introduction to his ‘ Voyage,’ which still emits 
 gleams of native wit and humour, he alludes not only to the 
 great exertions he made in his magisterial capacity, hut to his 
 voluntary efforts for the improvement of the police, and for 
 the detection of hands of depredators, and even murderers, 
 who had escaped the fangs of the law. ‘ I had delayed my 
 Bath journey for some time, contrary to the repeated advice 
 of my physician and the ardent desires of my warmest 
 friends, though my distemper was now turned to a deep 
 jaundice, in which case the Bath waters are generally reputed 
 to he almost infallible. But I had the most eager desire of 
 abolishing this gang of villains and cut-throats, which I was 
 sure of accomplishing the moment I was enabled to pay a 
 fellow who had undertaken for a small sum to betray them 
 into the hands of a set of thief-takers, whom I had enlisted 
 into the service ; all men of known and approved fidelity, 
 truth, and intrepidity. 
 
 ‘ After some weeks the money was paid at the Treasury, 
 and, within a few days after two hundred pounds of it had 
 come into my hands, the whole gang of cut-throats was 
 entirely dispersed; seven of them were in actual custody, and 
 the rest driven, some out of the town, and others out of the 
 kingdom. 
 
 This was, indeed, conferring a public service of the most 
 invaluable nature, and displays Fielding’s sagacity and vigour 
 of mind in the most prominent light. He may truly claim 
 a patriotism of the highest kind ; for he devoted his last 
 fleeting moments to a service which could no longer benefit 
 him. ‘ Though my health,’ he says, ‘ was now reduced to 
 the last extremity, I continued to act with the utmost vigour 
 against these villains, in examining whom and taking the 
 depositions I have often spent whole days, nay, sometimes 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxxv 
 
 whole nights; especially when there was any difficulty in 
 procuring sufficient evidence to convict them, which is a very 
 common case in street robberies, even when the guilt of the 
 party is sufficiently apparent to satisfy the most tender con¬ 
 science. But courts of justice know nothing of a cause more 
 than what is told them on oath by a witness; and the most 
 flagitious villain upon earth is tried in the same manner as a 
 man of the best character who is accused of the same crime.’ 
 
 How effectually he completed the business he had under¬ 
 taken will appear from the following extract: 4 Meanwhile, 
 amidst my fatigues and distresses, I had the satisfaction to 
 find my endeavours attended with such success that this 
 hellish society was almost entirely extirpated. Instead of 
 reading of murders and street-robberies in the news almost 
 every morning, there was, in the remaining part of the month 
 of November, and in all December, not only no such thing 
 as a murder, but not even a street-robbery committed. Some 
 such, indeed, were mentioned in the public papers, but they 
 were all found, on the strictest enquiry, to be false. In this 
 entire freedom from street-robberies no man will, I believe, 
 scruple to acknowledge that the winter of 1753 stands un¬ 
 rivalled during a course of many years ; and this may, 
 probably, appear the more extraordinary to those who recol¬ 
 lect the outrages with which it begun.’ With a mind thus 
 intently devoted to purposes of public utility, he, at the 
 same time, expressed, with that frankness so remarkable in 
 him, how deeply he felt interested in the fate of his youthful 
 family, whom he was shortly about to leave for ever. ‘ I 
 begun in earnest to look on my case as desperate, and I had 
 vanity enough to rank myself with those heroes who, of old 
 times, became voluntary sacrifices to the good of the public. 
 But lest the reader should be too eager to catch at the word 
 vanity , and should be unwilling to indulge me with so sublime 
 a gratification (for I think he is not too apt to gratify me), 
 I will take my key a pitch lower, and will frankly own that 
 
Ixxvi 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 I had a stronger motive than the love of the public to push 
 me on. I will, therefore, confess to him that my private 
 affairs, at the beginning of the winter, had hut a gloomy 
 aspect; for I had not plundered the country or the poor of 
 those sums which men, who are always ready to plunder both 
 as much as they can, have been pleased to suspect me of taking; 
 on the contrary, by composing, instead of inflaming, the 
 quarrels of porters and beggars (which I blush when I say 
 hath not been universally practised) ; and by refusing to take 
 a shilling from a man who most undoubtedly would not have 
 had another left, I had reduced an income of about five 
 hundred pounds a-year of the dirtiest money upon earth, to 
 little more than three hundred pounds ; a considerable por¬ 
 tion of which remained with my clerk; and, indeed, if the 
 whole had done so, as it ought, he would have been hut ill 
 paid for sitting, above sixteen hours in the twenty-four, in 
 the most unwholesome as well as nauseous air in the universe, 
 and which hath, in his case, corrupted a good constitution 
 without contaminating his morals ! ’ 
 
 From these statements, made by the author when he stood 
 upon the brink of eternity, it is only just to infer that he 
 performed his duties conscientiously; and that, in all the 
 relations of life he was guided by that Christian philanthropy, 
 which considers the good of others as the basis of its own. 
 
 Unfortunately, the air of Lisbon produced no favourable 
 change in the patient’s health; the voyage had been 
 deferred too long; he arrived at his destination a dying 
 man; and after lingering about two months with little 
 suffering, but in utter prostration of strength, Fielding 
 breathed his last on the 8th of October, 1754, and in the 
 forty-eighth year of his age. He left behind him his second 
 wife and four children, who were all generously provided for 
 by his friend, Mr Allen,* to whom also the latter were 
 
 *'Sir John Fielding, his half-brother, who had for some time-acted 
 as his assistant at flow Street, and in whose favour he resigned his office 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxxvii 
 
 indebted for their education and their future respectability 
 and welfare. On his death he bequeathed to Mrs Fielding 
 and her children one hundred pounds a-year each, after 
 
 as Magistrate (this is the ‘Justice Fielding’ mentioned in Frances 
 Burney’s Evelina, letter 13), is also said to have contributed to the sup¬ 
 port of his widow and family. Mrs Fielding survived her husband forty- 
 eight years. Three only of the children were living at the time of Mr 
 * Allen’s death, in 1762. William, the eldest son, was brought, up to the 
 Law, and became a Barrister of some reputation, and afterwards was ap¬ 
 pointed a Police Magistrate. Of him W. Hazlitt says, ‘ I have often 
 seen him, escaped from the noisy repulsive scene, sunning himself in the 
 adjoining Walks of St James’s Park, and with mild aspect, and lofty but 
 unwieldy mien, eyeing the verdant glades and lengthening vistas where 
 perhaps his childhood loitered. He had a strong resemblance to his 
 father, the immortal author of “ Tom Jones.” I never passed him that I 
 did not take off my hat to him in spirit.’—See Hazlitt, ‘ The Plain 
 Speaker,' 1 Essay on the Spirit of Obligations. 
 
 The second son entered the Church and died at Canterbury. 
 
 The collected edition of Fielding’s Works is dedicated to Ralph Allen, 
 Esq., of Prior Park, Bath, the friend of Pope, and patron and benefactor 
 of Fielding. He is spoken of, in many quarters, as the original of 
 Squire Allworthy ; a three-quarter length portrait of him exists in the 
 board-room of the Devon ana Exeter Hospital, which, by common consent 
 of the inhabitants of the locality, who knew his character and the con¬ 
 nection which existed between him and the novelist, is called a portrait 
 of Allworthy; Fielding, in fact, states that from him and Lyttleton he 
 bad copied the portrait of Allworthy, whose name was meant for an epi¬ 
 tome of the characters of these benevolent friends. 
 
 Lady Mary Worticy Montagu , in a Letter dated Feb. 22, 1755, says— 
 * I am sorry for II. Fielding’s death ; not only as I shall read no more of 
 his writings, but I believe he lost more than others, as no man enjoyed 
 life more than he did, though few had less reason to do so; the highest 
 of his preferment being raking in the lowest sinks of vice and misery. I 
 should think it a nobler and less nauseous employment to be one of 
 the staff officers that conduct the nocturnal weddings. . . . His happy 
 constitution (even when he had with great pains half demolished it) 
 made him forget everything when he was before a venison pasty, or over 
 a flask of champagne : and I am persuaded he has known more happy 
 moments than any prince on earth. His natural spirits gave him rapture 
 with his cookmaid (his second wife) and cheerfulness when he was fluxing 
 in a garret. There was a great, similitude between his character and that 
 of Sir Richard Steele. He (Fielding) had the advantage both in learn¬ 
 ing and, in my opinion, genius ; they both agreed in wanting money, in 
 spite of all their friends, and would have wanted it if their hereditary 
 lands had been as extensive as their imagination ; yet each of them was 
 so formed for happiness it is pity he was not immortal.’—Lady Mary 
 Wortley Montagu was daughter of the Duchess ot Kingston—(nee Mary 
 Fielding), who was granddaughter of the Earl ot Desmond, and first 
 cousin to General Fielding. 
 
lxxviii 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 having survived the immortal novelist just ten years from 
 the period when he had quitted England. 
 
 Fielding, having died in a foreign land, w r as beholden to 
 the admiration of a foreigner, the Chevalier de Meyrionnet, 
 French Consul at Lisbon, for the last tribute of respect and 
 reverence due to exalted genius in every clime. He attended 
 his remains to the grave; he wrote his epitaph; and the 
 example was not lost upon others, for the English factory 
 soon afterwards erected a monument, which is still to be seen, 
 to the memory of Henry Fielding.* 
 
 Comparatively few anecdotes have been preserved con¬ 
 cerning a man so celebrated in the republic of letters, and 
 whose social disposition, genuine wit, and peculiar humour, 
 brought him into contact with all parties and men of every 
 condition in life. Such, however, as have survived by the 
 care of his successors, rather than of his contemporaries, are 
 apparently genuine, and highly characteristic of' his temper 
 and genius. He is well known to have been on terms of 
 
 O 
 
 intimacy with Garrick • and, on the first appearance of the 
 comedy of ‘ The Wedding Day,’ an amusing scene took place 
 between the great actor and the author, to the no little 
 diversion of the green-room. Fielding could not bear his 
 dialogues to be cut down to lit the taste and comprehension 
 of that hydra-lieaded monster, the critical rabble, more 
 especially, 4 the gods and goddesses; ’ and insisted on retain¬ 
 ing some particular passage which the actor declared would 
 injure the effect of the piece. He added, that a repulse 
 would flurry him so much he should not be able to do justice 
 to the part. 4 Out with it; speak it all! ’ exclaimed the 
 
 * This having fallen into decay was replaced by subscription in 1830 ; 
 it bears the inscription: 
 
 HENRICUS FIELDING 
 
 LUGET BRITANNIA GREMIO NON DATUM 
 FOVERE NATUM. 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxxix 
 
 aufjior; ‘if the scene is not a good one, let them find 
 that out! ’ Just as was foreseen, the house made a violent 
 uproar on hearing the obnoxious words ; and the performer, 
 uneasy at the rising storm, tried to quell it by retiring to the 
 green-room, where the author was supporting his spirits with 
 a bottle of champagne. Turning his eye upon the discom¬ 
 fited actor’s rueful countenance as he entered, Fielding, with 
 an expression of face peculiar to him, said, ‘ What is the 
 matter, Garrick %—are they hissing me now ? ’—‘ Yes !—-just 
 the same passage that I wanted you to retrench : I knew it 
 would not do; and they have frightened me horribly into the 
 bargain ; I shall not be right again the whole night.’ £ Oh ! 
 d—n ’em,’ replied the author, ‘ I did not give them credit for 
 it,—they have found it out, have they % ’ Another has been 
 preserved of a more amiable and flattering description. (In 
 the Gentleman’s Magazine for 1786.) Some parochial taxes 
 for Fielding’s house, in Beaufort Buildings, being unpaid, 
 and for which demands had been made again and again, he 
 was at length told by the collector, who had an esteem for 
 him, that no further delay could be permitted. In this 
 dilemma, by no means an unfrequent one, Fielding had re¬ 
 course to Jacob Tonson, and, mortgaging some sheets of a 
 work which he had in hand, received the sum he wanted— 
 some ten or twelve guineas. When he was near his own 
 house he met with an old college friend, of whom he had lost 
 sight for many years; and Fielding, finding that he had 
 been still more unfortunate than himself, on hearing his 
 narrative, gave him up the whole sum he had just obtained 
 from the bookseller. Returning home in the full enjoyment 
 of his benevolent disposition, he was told that the collector 
 had called twice for the taxes. Fielding’s reply was as 
 laconic as it was memorable : ‘ Friendship has called for 
 the money, and has had it; let the collector call again.’ A 
 second application to the bookseller, it is pleasant to know, 
 enabled "him to satisfy the collector’s demands. 
 
Ixxx 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 One other we must relate, which exhibits that happy turn 
 of wit in few words which does not often occur. Being one 
 day in company with the Earl of Denbigh, and it being 
 noticed that Fielding was also of the Denbigh family, the 
 earl asked him the reason why they spelled their names differ¬ 
 ently ; the earl spelling it with the e first (Feilding), and 
 Henry Fielding with the i first: ‘ I can’t tell, my lord/ was 
 the author’s reply, ‘ except it he that my branch of the 
 family first learned how to spell! ’ 
 
 In the letters of Horace Walpole we also find some curious 
 notices of Fielding, though evidently written in a had spirit; 
 the anecdotes are of a more doubtful character, the strong 
 colouring of which seems to have had its origin in depreciating 
 genius and manly character, which the writer did not him¬ 
 self possess; and indulging that petty love of carping and 
 sneering at all who enjoyed a superior reputation, for which 
 his court-born gossip is so remarkable.* 
 
 In 1778, twenty-four years after Fielding’s decease, there 
 was brought to light a comedy entitled ‘ The Fathers, or, 
 the Good-natured Man,’ the history of which is something 
 curious. The author had showed it to his friend Mr Garrick ; 
 and entertaining a high esteem for the critical discernment of 
 Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, he sent the MS. to that 
 gentleman for his opinion. Sir Charles being at that time 
 appointed Envoy Extraordinary to the court of Bussia, had 
 not leisure to examine the play before he left England. 
 Whether it travelled with the envoy to Russia, or was left 
 behind, was not known. Sir Charles died in Russia, and 
 the MS. was lost. The author had often mentioned the 
 
 * An anecdote has been published by Fielding’s previous biographers, 
 which, as they give it, reflects severely on his habits and conduct in busi¬ 
 ness. But on turning to the authority, viz. Walpole, it is found that the 
 story also compromises his moral character. It is expunged in this 
 edition, firstly, because it bears the manifest impress of being mere scandal, 
 and, secondly, because Walpole’s unsupported statement can, in no case, be 
 trusted. The curious will hud the anecdote in Letters of Horace Walpole , 
 date May 18, 1749. 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxxxi 
 
 affair, and many inquiries were made, after liis death, of 
 several branches of Sir Charles’s family, hut no tidings 
 of the comedy could he obtained. At length Thomas Johnes, 
 Esq., member for Cardigan, received from a young friend as 
 a present a tattered MS. play. The young gentleman spoke 
 very contemptuously of it. Mr Johnes determined to obtain 
 Mr Garrick’s opinion of it; accompanied with an inquiry if 
 he knew whether a play had ever been written by the late 
 Sir C. Hanbury Williams 1 No sooner had Mr Garrick cast 
 his eyes over the MS., than in a manner which evinced the 
 most friendly regard for the memory of the author, he cried 
 out, ‘The lost sheep is found!—this is Harry Fielding’s 
 comedy.’ Mr Johnes immediately restored it to the family 
 of Mr Fielding; and under the patronage of Mr Garrick and 
 Mr Sheridan, jun., it was acted at Drury Jane, in 1778. The 
 prologue and epilogue were written by the great actor, and 
 the play itself is said to have been re-touched by the pen of 
 Mr Sheridan.—( Nichols ’ Literary Anecdotes.) 
 
 Upon one occasion we learn that Fielding, who found 
 himself perplexed sometimes to conclude his comedies, on 
 being asked for a toast, said, he would drink confusion to 
 the memory of him who first invented ‘fifth acts.' On the 
 same authority we are told that, in 1736, Fielding’s name 
 occurs as the manager of the Haymarket theatre, on the occa¬ 
 sion of the performance of Lillo’s tragedy of the ‘ Fatal Curi¬ 
 osity,’ in which a friend of the manager, Mr Thomas Davies, 
 performed the part of Young Wilmot. Sir John Fielding, 
 in his dedication of the play of ‘ The Fathers ’ to the Duke 
 of Northumberland, asserts that ‘his brother was an upright 
 as well as a useful and distinguished magistrate.’ But Sir 
 John Hawkins, another of the Walpole tribe, attacked the 
 author of ‘ Tom Jones ’ in a similar spirit; while men, like 
 the poet Gray, Lord Monboddo, Harris (in his Philological 
 Inquiries), were as loud in this great writer’s praise. 
 
 Lord Lyttleton, in one of his amusing Dialogues of the 
 
 ‘f 
 
lxxxii 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Dead (between Plutarch and a Bookseller), makes tlie latter 
 observe, ‘ We have another writer of those imaginary his¬ 
 tories, one who has not long since descended to these regions ; 
 his name is Fielding ; and his works, as I have heard the 
 best judges say, have a true spirit of comedy, and an exact 
 representation of nature, with fine moral touches. He has not 
 indeed given lessons of pure and consummate virtue : but has 
 exposed vice and meanness with all the powers of ridicule.’ 
 
 With regard to his personal appearance, Fielding was 
 strongly built, robust, and in height rather exceeding six 
 feet; he was also remarkably active, till repeated attacks of 
 the gout had broken down the vigour of a fine constitution. 
 Naturally of a dignified presence, he was equally impressive 
 in his tone and manner, which added to his peculiarly marked 
 features ; his conversational powers and rare wit must have 
 given him a decided influence in general society, and not a 
 little ascendancy over the minds of common men. A rather 
 amusing instance of this he has himself related in his ‘ Yoy- 
 age to Lisbon,’ where the captain of the ship as usual tried 
 to play the bashaw : a collision took place between the magis¬ 
 trate and the sea-king, when, after a sharp dialogue, Field¬ 
 ing’s manner was so resolute, and his threats to hale him 
 over when on shore, as well as instantly to quit the vessel, 
 so decided, that the captain at last, he says, ‘ fell upon his 
 knees, and sued in the most abject terms for his forgiveness ! ’ 
 
 It may be considered somewhat extraordinary, that no 
 genuine and undoubted portrait of such a man should have 
 been taken during his lifetime, especially when we reflect how 
 intimately he was acquainted with many first-rate artists, and 
 in what high respect he was held by them. He had often, 
 it is believed, engaged to sit to his friend Hogarth, for whose 
 genius he entertained the highest admiration, and has given 
 many testimonials of it in various parts of his writings.*' But 
 
 * Fielding, in common with other writers, has probably been indebted 
 to the great character artist for the first ideas of many of his personifica- 
 
OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 lxxxiii 
 
 though no painting of him by any celebrated artist is known 
 to exist, mention is made by Mr Chalmers (but on what 
 authority does not appear) of a miniature likeness, said to he 
 in the possession of the author’s granddaughter, Miss Sophia 
 Fielding.* For any just idea, therefore, of the features of 
 the author of ‘ Tom Jones,’ of a man who has filled Europe 
 with his fame, and who may he said to have lived only the 
 other day, we are indebted wholly to the happy recollection 
 of a genius not uncongenial with his own. 
 
 It is stated by Murphy that 4 after the author’s death, his 
 friend Hogarth, with a view of perpetuating some traces of 
 his countenance, availed himself of a profile cut by a lady 
 with a pair of scissors, which gave the distances and propor¬ 
 tions of the face with sufficient exactness to restore his lost 
 ideas of him. Mr Hogarth,’ it is added, ‘ caught at this 
 outline with pleasure, and worked with all the attachment of 
 friendship, till he finished that excellent drawing which 
 stands at the head of this work (Murphy’s Edition), and re¬ 
 calls to all who have seen the original, a corresponding image 
 of the man ! ’ 
 
 % % >k >k >k 
 
 tions. . In ‘Toni Jones,’ Book I. chap, xi., he alludes to the picture 
 ‘ Morning 1 by Hogarth as giving the portrait of Miss Bridget Allworthy; 
 and the passage in Book I. chap, ix., describing the occupation of the de¬ 
 graded woman, ‘beating hemp in the house of correction in a silk gown/ 
 was suggested undoubtedly by the 4th plate of the Harlot’s Progress. 
 Partridge’s wife also (Ibid. Bk II. chap, iii.) is said to exactly resemble 
 the woman pouring out her mistress’ tea, in plate 3 of the same series. 
 
 Amongst Hogarth’s prints we find a benefit ticket for the ‘Mock 
 Doctor/ and another for ‘ Pasquin,’ engraved for the author; these, and 
 a curious plate containing a collection of heads called ‘Characters and 
 Caricaturas,’ with note at foot, ‘for further explanation see Preface to 
 “Joseph Andrews/ ’ serve to show that they were to some measure asso¬ 
 ciated in their labours. 
 
 * A portrait of Henry Fielding has since been engraved ‘ from a min¬ 
 iature it appears in Nichols’ Literary A.necdotes, The picture is in 
 profile, facing the left side ; but the position is the same as in the original 
 outline by Hogarth, and the features and dress are very similar. It is 
 probable therefore that all the engravings of Fielding are derived from 
 Hogarth’s, including that prefixed to this volume. 
 
lxxxiv 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS OF HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 It will not, perhaps, be out of place to conclude this 
 memoir, written by an ardent admirer of the great novelist, 
 with the more recent verdict of another, who, whilst ap¬ 
 preciating the merits of his character no less, did not ignore 
 its superficial blemishes, and whose opinion, moreover, must 
 weigh as that of one of the greatest followers of Fielding in 
 the special path of literature in which he led the way and 
 still holds the first place. 
 
 ‘I cannot offer,’ says Thackeray, ‘ or hope, to make 
 a hero of Henry Fielding. Why hide his faults 1 Why 
 conceal his weaknesses in a cloud of periphrasis '1 Why 
 not show him, like as he is, not robed in a marble toga, 
 and draped and polished in a heroic attitude, but with 
 inked ruffles and claret stains on his tarnished laced coat, 
 and on his manly face the marks of good fellowship, of 
 illness, of kindness, of care, and wine : stained as you 
 see him, and worn by care and dissipation, that man re¬ 
 tains some of the most precious human qualities and endow¬ 
 ments. He has an admirable natural love of truth, the 
 keenest instinctive antipathy to hypocrisy, the happiest 
 satirical gift of laughing it to scorn. His wit is wonderfully 
 wise and detective : it flashes upon a rogue, and lightens upon 
 a rascal, like a policeman’s lantern. He is one of the man 
 liest and kindliest of human beings : in the midst of all his 
 imperfections, he respects female innocence and infantine 
 tenderness, as you would suppose such a great-hearted cour¬ 
 ageous soul would respect and care for them. He could not 
 be brave, generous, truth-telling as he is, were he not infi¬ 
 nitely merciful, pitiful, and tender. He will give any man 
 his purse—he can’t help kindness and profusion. He may 
 have low tastes, but not a mean mind—he admires with all 
 his heart good and virtuous men, stoops to no flattery, bears 
 no rancour, disdains all disloyal acts, does his duty uprightly, 
 is fondly loved by his family, and dies at his work. 
 
 * Thackeray, ‘ Lectures on the English Humourists, 
 
THE HISTOEY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS, 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS FRIEND MR ABRAHAM ADAMS. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 As it is possible the mere English reader may have a dif¬ 
 ferent idea of romance with the author of these little* 
 volumes, and may consequently expect a kind of entertain¬ 
 ment not to he found, nor which was even intended, in the 
 following pages; it may not he improper to premise a few 
 words concerning this "kind of writing, which I do not re¬ 
 member 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 us a pattern of both these, though that of the 
 latter kind is entirely lost; which Aristotle tells us, bore the 
 same relation to comedy which his Iliad bears to tragedy. 
 And perhaps, that we have no more instances of it among 
 the writers of antiquity, is owing to the loss of this great 
 pattern, which, had it survived, would have found its imi¬ 
 tators 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 enumer¬ 
 ates in the constituent parts of an epic poem, namely metre; 
 
 * Joseph Andrews was originally published in 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 ‘ 1 
 
9 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 yet, when any kind of writing contains all its other parts, 
 such as fable, action, characters, sentiments, and diction, and 
 is deficient in metre only ; it seems, I think, reasonable to 
 refer it to the epic; at least, as no critic hath thought proper 
 to range it under any other head, or to assign it a particular 
 name to itself. 
 
 Thus the Telemachus of the archbishop of Cambray appears 
 to me of the epic kind, as well as the Odyssey of Homer ; in¬ 
 deed, 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 innumerable 
 others, which contain, as I apprehend, very little instruction 
 or entertainment. 
 
 How, a comic romance is a comic epic poem in prose ; dif¬ 
 fering 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 ridicul¬ 
 ous : it differs in its characters by introducing persons of 
 inferior rank, and consequently, of inferior manners, whereas 
 the grave romance sets the highest before us : lastly, in its 
 sentiments and diction; by preserving the ludicrous instead 
 of the sublime. In the diction, I think, burlesque itself may 
 be sometimes admitted ; of which many instances will occur 
 in this work, as in the description of the battles, and some 
 other places, not necessary to be pointed out to the classical 
 reader, for whose entertainment those parodies or burlesque 
 imitations are chiefly calculated. 
 
 But, though we have sometimes admitted this in our dic¬ 
 tion, we have carefully excluded it from our sentiments and 
 characters; for there it is never properly introduced, unless 
 in writings of the burlesque kind, which this is not intended 
 to be. Indeed, no two species of writing can differ more 
 widely than the comic and the burlesque; for as the latter 
 is ever the exhibition of what is monstrous and unnatural, 
 and where our delight, if we examine it, arises from the sur- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 3 
 
 prising absurdity, as in appropriating the manners of the 
 highest to the lowest, or e converso; so in the former we 
 should ever confine ourselves strictly to nature, from the 
 just imitation of which will flow all the pleasure we can this 
 way convey to a sensible reader. And perhaps there is one 
 reason why a comic writer should of all others be the least 
 excused for deviating from nature, since it may not be always 
 so easy for a serious poet to meet with the great and the ad¬ 
 mirable ; but life everywhere furnishes an accurate observer 
 with the ridiculous. 
 
 I have hinted this little concerning burlesque, because I 
 have often heard that name given to performances which 
 have been truly of the comic kind, from the author’s having 
 sometimes admitted it in his diction only; which, as it is 
 the dress of poetry, doth, like the dress of men, establish 
 characters (the one of the whole poem, and the other of the 
 whole man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater 
 excellences : but surely, a certain drollery in 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 
 burlesque agrees with mine, when lie asserts, There is no such 
 thing to be found in the writings of the ancients. But per¬ 
 haps I have less abhorrence than he professes for it; and 
 that, not because I have had some little success on the stage 
 this way, but rather as it contributes more to exquisite mirth 
 and laughter than any other; and these are probably more 
 wholesome physic for the mind, and conduce better to purge 
 away spleen, melancholy, and ill affections, than is generally 
 imagined. Nay, I will appeal to common observation, 
 whether the same companies are not found more full of good- 
 humour and benevolence, after they have been sweetened for 
 two or three hours with entertainments of this kind, than 
 when soured by a tragedy or a grave lecture. 
 
 But to illustrate all this by another science, in which, per¬ 
 haps, 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 
 
4 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 the exactest copying of nature; insomuch that a judicious 
 eye instantly rejects anything outre, any liberty which the 
 painter hath taken with the features of that alma mater; 
 whereas in the Caricatura we allow all licence,—its aim is to 
 exhibit monsters, not men; and all distortions and exaggera¬ 
 tions whatever are within its proper province. 
 
 Now, what Caricatura is in painting, Burlesque is in writ¬ 
 ing ; 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 
 Bidiculous to describe than paint. 
 
 And though perhaps this latter species doth not in either 
 science so strongly affect and agitate the muscles as the other ; 
 yet it will be owned, I believe, that a more rational and use¬ 
 ful pleasure arises to us from it. He who should call the 
 ingenious Hogarth a burlesque painter, would, in my opinion, 
 do him very little honour; for sure it is much easier, much 
 less the subject of admiration, to paint a man with a nose, 
 or any other feature, of a preposterous size, or to expose him 
 in some absurd or monstrous attitude, than to express the 
 affections of men on canvas. It hath been thought a vast 
 commendation of a painter to say his figures seem to breathe; 
 but surely it is a much greater and nobler applause, that they 
 appear to think. 
 
 But to return. The Bidiculous only, as I have before said, 
 falls within my province in the present work. Nor will 
 some explanation of this word be thought impertinent by the 
 reader, if he considers how wonderfully it hath been mis¬ 
 taken, even by writers who have professed it: for to what 
 but such a mistake can we attribute the many attempts to 
 ridicule the blackest villanies, and, what is yet worse, the 
 most dreadful calamities h What could exceed the absurdity 
 of an author, who should write the comedy of Nero, with 
 the merry incident of ripping up his mother's belly h 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 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 5 
 
 fond and free of definitions, hath not thought proper to define 
 the Ridiculous. Indeed, where he tells us it is proper to 
 comedy, he hath remarked that villany is not its object: hut 
 he hath not, as I remember, positively asserted what is. Nor 
 doth the Abbe Bellegarde, who hath written a treatise on this 
 subject, though he shows us many species of it, once trace it 
 to its fountain. 
 
 The only source of the true Ridiculous (as it appears to 
 me) is affectation. But though it arises from one spring only, 
 when we consider the infinite streams into which this one 
 branches, we shall presently cease to admire at the copious 
 field it affords to an observer. Now, affectation proceeds from 
 one of these two causes, vanity or hypocrisy : for as vanity 
 puts us on affecting false characters, in order to purchase ap¬ 
 plause ; so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavour to avoid censure, 
 by concealing our vices under an appearance of their opposite 
 virtues. And though these two causes are often confounded 
 (for there is some difficulty in distinguishing them), yet, as 
 they proceed from very different motives, so they are. as 
 clearly distinct in their operations : for indeed, the affectation 
 which arises from vanity is nearer to truth than the other, as 
 it hath not that violent repugnancy of nature to struggle with, 
 which that of the hypocrite hath. It may be likewise noted, 
 that affectation doth not imply an absolute negation of those 
 qualities which are affected ; and, therefore, though, when it 
 proceeds from hypocrisy, it be nearly allied to deceit; yet 
 when it comes from vanity only, it partakes of the nature of 
 ostentation: for instance, the affectation of liberality in a vain 
 man differs visibly from the same affectation in the avaricious \ 
 for though the vain man is not what he would appear, or hath 
 not the virtue he affects, to the degree he would be thought 
 to have it; yet it sits less awkwardly on him than on the 
 avaricious man, who is the very reverse of what he would 
 seem to be. 
 
 From the discovery of this affectation arises the Ridiculous, 
 which always strikes the reader with surprize and pleasure ; 
 and that in a higher and stronger degree when the affectation 
 arises from hypocrisy, than when from vanity; for to discover 
 any one to be the exact reverse of what he affects, is more 
 surprizing, and consequently more ridiculous, than to find 
 him a little deficient in the quality he desires the reputation 
 
6 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 of. I might observe that our Ben Jonson, who of all men 
 understood the Ridiculous the best, hath chiefly used the 
 hypocritical affectation. 
 
 Row, from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities 
 of life, or the imperfections of nature, may become the objects 
 of ridicule. Surely he hath a very ill-framed mind who can 
 look on ugliness, infirmity, or poverty, as ridiculous in them¬ 
 selves : nor do I believe any man living, who meets a dirty 
 fellow riding through the streets in a cart, is struck with an 
 idea of the Ridiculous from it; but if he should see the same 
 figure descend from his coach and six, or bolt from his chair 
 with his hat under his arm, he would then begin to laugh, 
 and with justice. In the same manner, were we to enter a 
 poor house and behold a wretched family shivering with cold 
 and languishing with hunger, it would not incline us to 
 laughter (at least we must have very diabolical natures if it 
 would); but should we discover there a grate, instead of 
 coals, adorned with flowers, empty plate or china dishes on 
 the sideboard, or any other affectation of riches and finery, 
 either on their persons or in their furniture, we might then 
 indeed be excused for ridiculing so fantastical an appearance. 
 Much less are natural imperfections the object of derision; 
 but when ugliness aims at the applause of beauty, or lameness 
 endeavours to display agility, it is then that these unfortunate 
 circumstances, which at first moved our compassion, tend 
 only to raise our mirth. 
 
 The poet carries this very far :— 
 
 None are for being what they are in fault, 
 
 But for not being what they would be thought. 
 
 Where if the metre would suffer the word Ridiculous to close 
 the first line, the thought would be rather more proper. 
 Great vices are the proper objects of our detestation, smaller 
 faults, of our pity ; but affectation appears to me the only true 
 source of the Ridiculous. 
 
 But perhaps it may be objected to me, that I have against 
 my own rules introduced vices, and of a very black kind, into 
 this work. To which I shall answer : first, that it is very 
 difficult to pursue a series of human actions, and keep clear 
 from them. Secondly, that the vices to be found here, are 
 rather the accidental consequences of some human frailty or 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 7 
 
 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 pro¬ 
 duce the intended evil. 
 
 Having thus distinguished Joseph Andrews from the pro¬ 
 ductions of romance writers on the one hand and burlesque 
 writers on the other, and given some few very short hints 
 (for I intended no more) of this species of writing, which I 
 have affirmed to be hitherto unattempted in our language; I 
 shall leave to my good-natured reader to apply my piece to 
 my observations, and will detain him no longer than with a 
 word concerning the characters in this work. 
 
 And here I solemnly protest I have no intention to vilify 
 or asperse any one ; for though everything is copied from the 
 book of nature, and scarce a character or action produced 
 which I have not taken from my own observations and ex¬ 
 perience ; yet I have used the utmost care to obscure the 
 persons by such different circumstances, degrees, and colours, 
 that it will be impossible to guess at them with any degree 
 of certainty ; and if it ever happens otherwise, it is only 
 where the failure characterized is so minute, that it is a 
 foible only which the party himself may laugh at as well as 
 any other. 
 
 As to the character of Adams, as it is the most glaring in 
 the whole, so I conceive it is not to be found in any book 
 now extant. It is designed a character of perfect simplicity; 
 and as the goodness of his heart will recommend him to the 
 good-natured, so I hope it will excuse me to the gentlemen 
 of his cloth; for whom, while they are worthy of their sacred 
 order, no man can possibly have a greater respect. They 
 will therefore excuse me, notwithstanding the low adventures 
 in which he is engaged, that I have made him a clergyman; 
 since no other office could have given him so many oppor¬ 
 tunities of displaying his worthy inclinations. 
 
BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF WRITING LIVES IN GENERAL, AND PARTICULARLY OF 
 
 PAMELA ; WITH A WORD BY THE BYE OF COLLEY 
 
 CIBBER AND OTHERS. 
 
 It is a trite but true observation, that examples work 
 more forcibly on the mind than precepts : and if this be just 
 in what is odious and blameable, it is more strongly so in 
 what is amiable and praiseworthy. Here emulation most 
 effectually operates upon us, and inspires our imitation in an 
 irresistible manner. A good man therefore is a standing 
 lesson to all his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that 
 narrow circle than a good book. 
 
 But as it often happens that the best men are but little 
 known, and consequently cannot extend the usefulness of 
 their examples a great way; the writer may be called in aid 
 to spread their history farther, and to present the amiable 
 pictures to those who have not the happiness of knowing the 
 originals; and so, by communicating such valuable patterns 
 to the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive service to 
 mankind than the person whose life originally afforded the 
 pattern. 
 
 In this light I have always regarded those biographers 
 who have recorded the actions of great and worthy persons 
 of both sexes. Hot 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 9 
 
 CH. I.] 
 
 Plutarch, Hepos, and others which I heard of in my youth ; 
 our own language affords many of excellent use and instruc¬ 
 tion, finely calculated to sow the seeds of virtue in youth, 
 and very easy to he 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 his¬ 
 tory of those seven worthy personages, the Champions o± 
 Christendom. In all these delight is mixed with instruc¬ 
 tion, and the reader is almost as much improved as enter¬ 
 tained. 
 
 But I pass by these and many others to mention two 
 books lately published, which represent an admirable pattern 
 of the amiable in either sex. The former of these, which 
 deals in male virtue, was written by the great person himself, 
 who lived the life he hath recorded, and is by many thought 
 to have lived such a life only in order to write it. The 
 other is communicated to us by an historian who borrows his 
 lights, as the common method is, from authentic papers 
 and records. The reader, I believe, already conjectures, I 
 mean the lives of Mr Colley Cibber and of Mrs Pamela 
 Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by insinuating 
 that he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in 
 Church and State, teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur ! 
 how strongly doth he inculcate an absolute submission to 
 our superiors ! Lastly, how completely doth he arm us 
 against so uneasy, so wretched a passion as the fear of shame ! 
 how clearly doth he expose the emptiness and vanity of that 
 phantom, reputation! 
 
 What the female readers are taught by the memoirs of 
 Mrs Andrews is so well set forth in the excellent essays or 
 letters prefixed to the second and subsequent editions of that 
 work, that it would be here a needless repetition. The 
 authentic history with which I now present the public is an 
 instance of the great good that book is likely to do, and of 
 the prevalence of example which I have just observed: since 
 it will appear that it was by keeping the excellent pattern of 
 his sister’s virtues before his eyes, that Mr Joseph Andrews 
 was chiefly enabled to preserve his purity in the midst of 
 
10 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk L 
 
 such great temptations. I shall only add that this cha¬ 
 racter of male chastity, though doubtless as desirable and 
 becoming in one part of the human species as in the other, 
 is almost the only virtue which the great apologist hath 
 not given himself for the sake of giving the example to his 
 readers. 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 11 
 
 CH. I.] 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OE MR JOSEPH ANDREWS, HIS BIRTII, PARENTAGE, EDUCA¬ 
 TION, AND GREAT ENDOWMENTS j WITH A WORD OR 
 TWO CONCERNING ANCESTORS. 
 
 Mr Joseph Andrews, the hero of our ensuing history, 
 was esteemed to he the only son of Gaffar and Gammer 
 Andrews, and brother to the illustrious Pamela, whose virtue 
 is at present so famous. As to his ancestors, we have searched 
 with great diligence, hut- little success; being unable to 
 trace them farther than his great-grandfather, who, as an 
 elderly person in the parish remembers to have heard his 
 father say, was an excellent cudgel-player. Whether he 
 had any ancestors before this, we must leave to the opinion 
 of our curious reader, finding nothing of sufficient certainty 
 to rely on. However, we cannot omit inserting an epitaph 
 which an ingenious friend of ours hath communicated : 
 
 Stay, traveller, for underneath, this pew 
 Lies fast asleep that merry man Andrew: 
 
 When the last day’s great sun shall gild the skies, 
 
 Then he shall from his tomb get up and rise. 
 
 Be merry while thou canst: for surely thou 
 Shalt shortly be as sad as he is now. 
 
 The words are almost out of the stone with antiquity. But 
 it is needless to observe that Andrew here is writ without 
 an s, and is, besides, a Christian name. My friend moreover, 
 conjectures this to have been the founder of that sect of 
 laughing philosophers since called Merry-andrews. 
 
 To wave, therefore, a circumstance, which, though men¬ 
 tioned in conformity to the exact rules of biography, is not 
 greatly material, I proceed to things of more consequence. 
 Indeed, it is sufficiently certain that he had as many ancestors 
 as the best man living, and, perhaps, if we look five or six 
 hundred years backwards, might be related to some persons 
 of very great figure at present, whose ancestors within half 
 the last century are buried in as great obscurity. But sup- 
 
12 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 pose, for argument’s sake, ve should admit that he had no 
 ancestors at all, hut had sprung up, according to the modern 
 phrase, out of a dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they 
 themselves did from the earth, would not this autokopros # 
 have been justly entitled to all the praise arising from his 
 own virtues Would it not be hard that a man who hath 
 no ancestors should therefore he rendered incapable of ac¬ 
 quiring honour; when we see so many who have no virtues 
 enjoying the honour of their forefathers 'l At ten years old 
 (by which time his education was advanced to writing and 
 reading) he was hound an apprentice, according to the statute, 
 to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr Booby’s by the 
 father’s side. Sir Thomas having then an estate in his 
 own hands, the young Andrews was at first employed in 
 what in the country they call keeping birds. His office 
 was to perform the part the ancients assigned to the god 
 Priapus, which deity the moderns call by the name of 
 Jack o’ Lent; but his voice being so extremely musical, 
 that it rather allured the birds than terrified them, he was 
 soon transplanted from the fields into the dog-kennel, where 
 he was placed under the huntsman, and made what the 
 sportsmen term a whipper-in. For this place likewise the 
 sweetness of his voice disqualified him; the dogs prefer¬ 
 ring the melody of his chiding to all the alluring notes of 
 the huntsman; who soon became so incensed at it, that he 
 desired Sir Thomas to provide otherwise for him, and con¬ 
 stantly laid every fault the dogs were at to the account of 
 the poor boy, who was now transplanted to the stable. Here 
 he soon gave proofs of strength and agility beyond his years, 
 and constantly rode the most spirited and vicious horses to 
 water, with an intrepidity which surprized every one. While 
 he was in this station, he rode several races for Sir Thomas, 
 and this with such expertness and success, that the neigh¬ 
 bouring gentlemen frequently solicited the knight to permit 
 little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their matches. The 
 best gamesters, before they laid their money, always inquired 
 which horse little Joey was to ride; and the bets were rather 
 proportioned by the rider than by the horse himself; especi¬ 
 ally after he had scornfully refused a considerable bribe to 
 pday booty on such an occasion. This extremely raised his 
 
 * In English, sprung from a dunghill. 
 
CH. II.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 13 
 
 character, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that she desired to 
 have him (being now seventeen years of age) for her own 
 footboy. Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend 
 on his lady, to go on her errands, stand behind her chair, 
 wait at her tea-table, and carry her prayer-book to church; 
 at which place his voice gave him an opportunity of distin¬ 
 guishing himself by singing psalms : he behaved likewise in 
 every other respect so well at Divine service, that it recom¬ 
 mended 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. 
 
14 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF MR ABRAHAM ADAMS THE CURATE, MRS SLIPSLOP THE 
 CHAMBERMAID, AND OTHERS. 
 
 Mr Abraham Adams was an excellent scholar. He was 
 a perfect master of the Greek and Latin languages ; to which 
 he added a great share of knowledge in the Oriental tongues ; 
 and could read and translate French, Italian, and Spanish. 
 He had applied many years to the most severe study, and 
 had treasured up a fund of learning rarely to he met with in 
 a university. He was, besides, a man of good sense, good 
 parts, and good nature ; hut was at the same time as entirely 
 ignorant of the ways of this world as an infant just entered 
 into it could possibly he. 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; hut sim¬ 
 plicity was his characteristic: he did no more than Mr 
 Colley Cibber apprehend any such passions as malice and 
 envy to exist in mankind ; which was indeed less remarkable 
 in a country parson than in a gentleman who hath passed 
 his life behind the scenes,—a place which hath been seldom 
 thought the school of innocence, and where a very little 
 observation would have convinced the great apologist that 
 those passions have a real existence in the human mind. 
 
 His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered 
 him equal to his office, so they made him an agreeable and 
 valuable companion, and had so much endeared and well 
 recommended him to a bishop, that at the age of fifty he was 
 provided with a handsome income of twenty-three pounds 
 a-year; which, however,, he could not make any great figure 
 with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a little in- 
 cumbered with a wife and six children. 
 
 It was this gentleman, who having, as I have said, ob¬ 
 served 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 15 
 
 sSH. III.] 
 
 were tliey 1 ? liow 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 jus¬ 
 tices of the peace could probably have done. 
 
 Mr Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what 
 time, and by what opportunity, the youth became acquainted 
 with these matters : Joey told him that he had very early 
 learnt to read and write by the goodness of his father, who, 
 though he had not interest enough to get him into a charity 
 school, because a cousin of his father’s landlord did not vote 
 on the right side for a churchwarden in a borough town, yet 
 had been himself at the expense of sixpence a week for his 
 learning He told him likewise, that ever since he was in 
 Sir Thomas’s family he had employed all his hours of leisure 
 in reading good books; that he had read the Bible, the 
 Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas a Kempis; and that as 
 often as he could, without being perceived, he had studied a 
 great book which lay open in the hall window, where he had 
 read, ‘ as how the devil carried away half a church in ser¬ 
 mon-time, without hurting one of the congregation; and as 
 how a field of corn ran away down a hill with all the trees 
 upon it, and covered another man’s meadow.’ This suf¬ 
 ficiently assured Mr Adams that the good book meant could 
 be no other than Baker’s Chronicle. 
 
 The curate, surprized to find such instances of industry 
 and application in a young man who had never met with the 
 least encouragement, asked him, If he did not extremely 
 regret the want of a liberal education, and the not having 
 been born of parents who might have indulged his talents 
 and desire of knowledge *? To which he answered, ‘ He 
 hoped he had profited somewhat better from the books he 
 had read than to lament his condition in this world. That, 
 for his part, he was perfectly content with the state to which 
 he was called; that he should endeavour to improve his 
 talent, which was all required of him; but not repine at his 
 own lot, nor envy those of his betters.’ ‘Well said, my lad,’ 
 replied the curate; ‘ and I wish some who have read many 
 more good books, nay, and some who have written books 
 themselves, had profited so much by them.’ 
 
 Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady than 
 through the waiting-gentlewoman ; for Sir Thomas was too 
 
16 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 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 education, and never spoke of any of her country 
 neighbours by any other appellation than that of the brutes. 
 They both regarded the curate as a kind of domestic only, 
 belonging to the parson of the parish, who was at this time 
 at variance with the knight; for the parson had for many 
 years lived in a constant state of civil war, or, which is per¬ 
 haps as bad, of civil law, with Sir Thomas himself and the 
 tenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel was a 
 modus, by setting which aside an advantage of several shil¬ 
 lings 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 plea¬ 
 sure (which he used indeed frequently to say w T as no small 
 one) of reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the 
 poor tenants, though he had at the same time greatly im¬ 
 poverished himself. 
 
 Mrs Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, being herself the 
 daughter of a curate, preserved some respect for Adams : she 
 professed great regard for his learning, and would frequently 
 dispute with him on points of theology; but always insisted 
 on a deference to be paid to her understanding, as she had 
 been frequently at London, and knew more of the world 
 than a country parson could pretend to. 
 
 She had in these disputes a particular advantage over 
 Adams : for she was a mighty affecter of hard words, which 
 she used in such a manner that the parson, who durst not 
 offend her by calling her words in question, was frequently 
 at some loss to guess her meaning, and would have been 
 much less puzzled by an Arabian manuscript. 
 
 Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after a 
 pretty long discourse with her on the essence (or, as she 
 pleased to term it, the incence) of matter, to mention the 
 case of young Andrews; desiring her to recommend him to 
 her lady as a youth very susceptible of learning, and one 
 whose instruction in Latin he would himself undertake ; by 
 which means he might be qualified for a higher station than 
 that of a footman ; and added, she knew it was in his mas¬ 
 ter’s power easily to provide for him in a better manner. He 
 
CH. III.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 17 
 
 therefore desired that the hoy might he left behind under 
 his care. 
 
 ‘ La! Mr Adams/ said Mrs Slipslop, ‘ do you think my 
 lady will suffer any preambles about any such matter 1 She 
 is going to London very concisely, and I am confidous would 
 not leave Joey behind her on any account; for he is one of 
 the genteelest young fellows you may see in a summer’s day; 
 and I am confidous she would as soon think of parting with 
 a pair of her grey mares, for she values herself as much on 
 one as the other.’ Adams would have interrupted, hut she 
 proceeded : c And why is Latin more necessitous for a foot¬ 
 man than a gentleman ? It is very proper that you clergy¬ 
 men must learn it, because you can’t preach without it: hut 
 I have heard gentlemen say in London, that it is fit for 
 nobody else. I am confidous my lady would he angry with 
 me for mentioning it; and I shall draw myself into no such 
 delerny.’ At which words her lady’s hell rung, and Mr 
 Adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a second 
 opportunity with her before their London journey, which 
 happened a few days afterwards. However, Andrews be¬ 
 haved very thankfully and gratefully to him for his intended 
 kindness, which he told him he never would forget, and at 
 the same time received from the good man many admonitions 
 concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and his per¬ 
 severance in innocence and industry. 
 
 2 
 
IS 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk T. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THEIR JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 Ho sooner was young Andrews arrived at London than he 
 began to scrape an acquaintance with his party-coloured 
 brethren, who endeavoured to make him despise his former 
 course of life. His hair was cut after the newest fashion, 
 and became his chief care; he went abroad with it all the 
 morning in papers, and drest it out in the afternoon. They 
 could not however teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any 
 other genteel vice the town abounded with. He applied 
 most of his leisure hours to music, in which he greatly im¬ 
 proved 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 uncorrupted, though he was at the same time 
 smarter and genteeler than any of the beaux in town, either 
 in or out of livery. 
 
 His lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the 
 handsomest and genteelest footman in the kingdom, but that 
 it was pity he wanted spirit, began now to find that fault no 
 longer; on the contrary, she was frequently heard to cry out, 
 4 Aye, there is some life in this fellow.' She plainly saw the 
 effects which the town air hath on the soberest constitutions. 
 She would now walk out with him into Hyde Park in a 
 morning, and when tired, which happened almost every 
 minute, would lean on his arm, and converse with him in 
 great familiarity. Whenever she stept out of her coach, she 
 would take him by the hand, and sometimes, for fear of 
 stumbling, press it very hard; she admitted him to deliver 
 messages at her bedside in a morning, leered at him at table, 
 
CH. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 19 
 
 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 he walking arm-in-arm with Joey one morning in Hyde 
 Park, when Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentally by 
 in their coach. ‘ Bless me/ says Lady Tittle, ‘ can I believe 
 my eyes ? Is that Lady Booby ? ’— 4 Surely,’ says Tattle. 
 ‘ But what makes you surprized 1 ’— 1 Why, is not that her 
 footman 1 ’ replied Tittle. At which Tattle laughed, and 
 cried, ‘ An old business, I assure you: is it possible you 
 should not have heard it ? The whole town hath known it 
 this half-year.’ The consequence of this interview was a 
 whisper through a hundred visits, which were separately 
 performed by the two ladies* the same afternoon, and might 
 have had a mischievous effect, had it not been stopt by two 
 fresh reputations which were published the day afterwards, 
 and engrossed the wdiole talk of the town. 
 
 But, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous inclina¬ 
 tion of detainers might entertain of Lady Booby’s innocent 
 freedoms, it is certain they made no impression on young 
 Andrews, who never offered to encroach beyond the liberties 
 which his lady allowed him,—a behaviour which she im¬ 
 puted to the violent respect he preserved for her, and which 
 served only to heighten a something she began to conceive, 
 and which the next chapter will open a little farther. 
 
 * 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. 
 
20 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS BOOBY, WITH THE AFFECTION¬ 
 ATE AND MOURNFUL BEHAVIOUR OF HIS WIDOW, AND 
 
 THE GREAT PURITY OF JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 At this time an accident happened which pnt a stop to 
 those agreeable walks, which probably would have soon 
 puffed up the cheeks of Paine, 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 con¬ 
 quest of you 1 ’ 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. 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 21 
 
 CH. V.] 
 
 ‘ for that sometimes may he impertinent: hut pray answer 
 me this question. Suppose a lady should happen to like 
 you; suppose she should prefer you to all your sex, and 
 admit you to the same familiarities as you might have hoped 
 for if you had been born her equal, are you certain that no 
 vanity could tempt you to discover her ? Answer me hon¬ 
 estly, Joseph; have you so much more sense and so much 
 more virtue than you handsome young fellows generally 
 have, who make no scruple of sacrificing our dear reputation 
 to your pride, without considering the great obligation we 
 lay on you by our condescension and confidence ? Can you 
 keep a secret, my Joey ? ’ ‘ Madam,’ says he, ‘ I hope your 
 
 ladyship can’t tax me with ever betraying the secrets of the 
 family; and I hope, if you was to turn me away, I might 
 have that character of you.’ ‘ I don’t intend to turn you 
 away, Joey,’ said she, and sighed; ‘I am afraid it is not in 
 my power.’ She then raised herself a little in her bed, and 
 discovered one of the whitest necks that ever was seen; at 
 which Joseph blushed. ‘ La ! ’ says she, in an affected sur¬ 
 prize, ‘ what am I doing % I have trusted myself with a man 
 alone, naked in bed; suppose you should have any wicked 
 intentions upon my honour, how should I defend myself % ’ 
 Joseph protested that he never had the least evil design 
 against her. ‘ No,’ says she, ‘ perhaps you may not call your 
 designs wicked; and perhaps they are not so.’—He swore 
 they were not. ‘ You misunderstand me,’ says she; ‘ I 
 mean if they were against my honour, they may not be 
 wucked; but the world calls them so. But then, say you, the 
 world will never know anything of the matter; yet would not 
 that be trusting to your secrecy ? Must not my reputation 
 be then in your power ? Would you not then be my mas¬ 
 ter ? ’ 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, with¬ 
 out 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 con¬ 
 fidence to appear before a court of justice; and you know, 
 Joey, I am of a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don’t you 
 
92 
 
 JmJ 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I« 
 
 think I should forgive you ? ’—‘ Indeed, madam,’ says Joseph, 
 
 4 1 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 youD 
 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 innocence 
 cannot impose on me.’—‘ Madam,’ said Joseph, ‘ I would not 
 have your ladyship think any evil of me. I have always 
 endeavoured to be a dutiful servant both to you and my 
 master.’—‘ 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 writ that letter which the 
 reader will find in the next chapter. 
 
CH. VI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 23 
 
 CHAPTEK YI. 
 
 HOW JOSEPH ANDREWS WRIT A LETTER TO HIS SISTER 
 
 PAMELA. 
 
 1 To Mrs Pamela Andrews , living with Squire Booby* 
 
 ‘Dear Sister, —Since I received your letter of your good 
 lady’s death, we have had a misfortune of the same kind in 
 our family. My worthy master Sir Thomas died about four 
 days ago • and, what is worse, my poor lady is certainly gone 
 distracted. None of the servants expected her to take it so 
 to heart, because they quarrelled almost every day of their 
 lives : but no more of that, because you know, Pamela, I 
 never loved to tell the secrets of my master’s family ; but to 
 be sure you must have known they never loved one another \ 
 and I have heard her ladyship wish his honour dead above a 
 thousand times; but nobody knows what it is to lose a 
 friend till they have lost him. 
 
 ‘ Don’t tell anybody what I write, because I should not 
 care to have folks say I discover what passes in our family; 
 but if it had not been so great a lady, I should have thought 
 she had had a mind to me. Dear Pamela, don’t tell any¬ 
 body ; but she ordered me to sit down by her bed-side, when 
 she was naked in bed \ and she held my hand, and talked 
 exactly as a lady does to her sweetheart in a stage-play, 
 which I have seen in Covent Garden, while she wanted him 
 to be no better than he should be. 
 
 ‘ If madam be mad, I shall not care for staying long in the 
 family; so I heartily wish you could get me a place, either 
 at the squire’s, or some other neighbouring gentleman s, 
 unless it be true that you are going to be married to parson 
 Williams, as folks talk, and then I should be very willing to 
 be his clerk; for which you know I am qualified, being able 
 to read and to set a psalm. 
 
 ‘ I fancy I shall be discharged very soon; and the moment 
 I am, unless I hear from you, I shall return to my old 
 master’s country-seat, if it be only to see parson Adams, who 
 
24 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 is the best man in the world. London is a bad place, and 
 there is so little good fellowship, that the next-door neigh¬ 
 bours don’t know one another. Pray give nry service to all 
 friends that enquire for me. So 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 good maid ever since. She was not 
 at this time remarkably handsome ; being very short, and 
 rather too corpulent in body, and somewhat red, with the 
 addition of pimples in the face. Her nose was likewise 
 rather too large, and her eyes too little ; nor did she resemble 
 a cow so much in her breath as in two brown globes which 
 she carried before her; one of her legs was also a little 
 shorter than the other, which occasioned her to limp as she 
 walked. This fair creature had long cast the eyes of affection 
 on Joseph, in which she had not met with quite so good 
 success as she probably wished, though, besides the allure¬ 
 ments of her native charms, she had given him tea, sweet¬ 
 meats, wine, and many other delicacies, of which, by keeping 
 the keys, she had the absolute command. Joseph, however, 
 had not returned the least gratitude to all these favours, not 
 even so much as a kiss; though I would not insinuate she 
 was so easily to be satisfied ; for surely then he would have 
 been highly blameable. The truth is, she was arrived at an 
 age when she thought she might indulge herself in any 
 liberties with a man, without the danger of bringing a third 
 person into the world to betray them. She imagined that 
 by so long a self-denial she had not only made amends for 
 the small slip of her youth above hinted at, but had likewise 
 laid up a quantity of merit to excuse any future failings. In 
 a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorous inclina¬ 
 tions, 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 
 
CH, VI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 25 
 
 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 :— 
 
 4 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, 
 Wes, 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 1 ’ 
 ‘Madam,’ answered Joseph, ‘I don’t understand your hard 
 words; but I am certain you have no occasion to call me 
 ungrateful, for, so far from intending you any wrong, I 
 have always loved you as well as if you had been my own 
 mother.’ ‘ How, sirrah 1 ’ says Mrs Slipslop in a rage ; ‘ your 
 own mother! Do you assinuate that I am old enough to be 
 your mother! I don’t know what a stripling may think, but 
 I believe a man would refer me to any green-sickness silly 
 girl whatsomdever : but I ought to despise you rather than 
 be angry with you, for referring the conversation of girls to 
 that of a woman of sense.’—‘ Madam,’ says Joseph, ‘ I am 
 sine 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 compli¬ 
 ment to her learning, ‘ If you had a value for me,; you 
 certainly would have found some method of showing it me ; 
 for I am convicted you must see the value I have for you. 
 Yes, Joseph, my eyes, whether I would or no, must have 
 declared a passion I cannot conquer.—Oh ! Joseph ! ’ 
 
 As when a hungry tigress, who long has traversed the 
 woods in fruitless search, sees within the reach of her claws 
 a lamb, she prepares to leap on her prey; or as a voracious 
 
26 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 pike of immense size, surveys through the litpiid element a 
 roach or gudgeon, which cannot escape her jaws, opens them 
 wide to swallow the little fish ; so did Mrs Slipslop prepare 
 to lay her violent amorous hands on the poor Joseph, when 
 luckily her mistress’s hell rung, and delivered the intended 
 martyr from her clutches. She was obliged to leave him 
 abruptly, and to defer the execution of her purpose till some 
 other time. We shall therefore return to the Lady Looby, 
 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. 
 
CH. VII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 27- 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SAYINGS OE WISE MEN. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE LADY 
 
 AND HER MAID ; AND A PANEGYRIC, OR RATHER SATIRE, 
 
 ON THE PASSION OE LOVE, IN THE SUBLIME STYLE. 
 
 It is tlie observation of some ancient sage, whose name I 
 have forgot, that passions operate differently on the human 
 mind, as diseases on the body, in proportion to the strength 
 or weakness, soundness or rottenness, of the one and the 
 other. 
 
 We hope, therefore, a judicious reader will give hnnselt 
 some pains to observe, what we have so greatly laboured to 
 describe, the different operations of this passion of love in 
 the gentle and cultivated mind of the Lady Booby, from 
 those which it effected in the less polished and coarsei dis¬ 
 position of Mrs Slipslop. 
 
 Another philosopher, whose name also at present escapes 
 my memory, hath somewhere said, that resolutions taken in 
 the absence of the beloved object are very apt to vanish, in 
 its presence; on both which wise sayings the following 
 
 chapter may serve as a comment. 
 
 Ho sooner had Joseph left the room in the manner.we 
 have before related than the lady, enraged at her disappoint¬ 
 ment, began to reflect with severity on her conduct. Her 
 love was noiv changed to disdain, which pride assisted to 
 torment her. She despised herself for the meanness of her 
 passion, and Joseph for its ill success. However, she had 
 now got the better of it in her own opinion, and determined 
 immediately to dismiss the object. After much tossing and 
 turning in her bed, and many soliloquies, which if we had 
 no better matter for our reader we would give him, she at 
 last rung the bell as above mentioned, and was presently 
 attended by Mrs Slipslop, who was not much bettei pleased 
 
 with Joseph than the lady herself. ? 
 
 ‘ Slipslop,’ said Lady Booby, 4 when did you see Joseph ? 
 The poor woman was so surprized at the unexpected sound 
 
28 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 of his name at so critical a time, that she had the greatest 
 difficulty to conceal the confusion she was under from her 
 mistress ; whom she answered, nevertheless, with pretty good 
 confidence, though not entirely void of fear of suspicion, 
 that she had not seen him that morning. ‘ I am afraid,’ said 
 Lady Booby, ‘he is a wild young fellow.’—‘ That he is,’ said 
 Slipslop, ‘ and a wicked one too. To my knowledge he 
 games, drinks, swears, and fights eternally ; besides, he is 
 horribly indicted to wenching.’—‘Ay !’ said the lady, I 
 never heard that of him.’—‘ 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 in him, to be so foolishly fond as they are ; in my eyes, 
 he is as ugly a scarecrow as I ever upheld.’—‘ Nay,’ said the 
 lady, ‘ the boy is well enough.’—‘ La ! ma’am,’ cries Slipslop, 
 
 ‘ I think him the ragmaticallest fellow in the family.’— 
 
 ‘ Sure, Slipslop,’ says she, ‘ you are mistaken : but which of 
 the women do you most suspect ? ’—‘ Madam, says Slipslop, 
 
 ‘ there is Betty the 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 1 ?’ 
 cries Slipslop, ‘ for perhaps, when Betty is gone he may 
 mend: and really the boy is a good servant, and a strong 
 healthy luscious boy enough.’—‘ This morning,’ answered 
 the lady with some vehemence. ‘ I wish, madam, cries 
 Slipslop, ‘ your ladyship would be so good as to try him a 
 little longer.’—‘ I will not have my commands disputed, 
 said the lady; ‘sure you are not fond of him yourself.’ ‘ I, 
 madam ! ’ cries Slipslop, reddening, if not blushing, ‘ I should 
 be sorry to think your ladyship had any reason to respect me 
 of fondness for a fellow; and if it be your pleasure, I shall 
 fulfil it with as much reluctance as possible.’—‘ As little, I 
 suppose you mean,’ said the lady; ‘ and so about it instant¬ 
 ly.’ Mrs Slipslop went out, and the lady had scarce taken 
 two turns before she fell to knocking and ringing with great 
 violence. Slipslop, who did not travel post haste, soon re¬ 
 turned, and was countermanded as to Joseph, but ordered to 
 send Betty about her business without delay. She went out 
 
CH. VII.] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 29 
 
 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 hell, 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 abso¬ 
 lutely resolved to turn away Joseph; which she ordered her 
 to do immediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of her 
 lady’s temper, and would not venture her place for any 
 Adonis or Hercules in the universe, left her a third time ; 
 which she had no sooner done, than the little god Cupid, 
 fearing he had not yet done the lady’s business, took a fresh 
 arrow with the sharpest point out of his quiver, and shot it 
 directly into her heart; in other and plainer language, the 
 lady’s passion got the better of her reason. She called back 
 Slipslop once more, and told her she had resolved to see the 
 boy, and examine him herself; therefore bid her send him 
 up. This wavering in her mistress’s temper probably put 
 something into the waiting-gentlewoman’s head not necessary 
 to mention to the sagacious reader. 
 
 Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could 
 not prevail with herself. The next consideration therefore 
 was, how she should behave to Joseph when he came in. 
 She resolved to preserve all the dignity of the woman of 
 fashion to her servant, and to indulge herself in this last 
 view of Joseph (for that she was most certainly resolved it 
 should be) at his own expense, by first insulting and then 
 discarding him. 
 
 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 de¬ 
 light ! Their sighs make thee laugh, and their pangs are thy 
 merriment! 
 
 Not the great Bich, who turns men into monkeys, wheel¬ 
 barrows, and whatever else best humours his fancy, hath so 
 strangely metamorphosed the human shape ; nor the great 
 Cibber, who confounds all number, gender, and breaks 
 through every rule of grammar at his will, hath so distorted 
 the English language as thou dost metamorphose and distort 
 the human senses. 
 
30 the adventures of [bk I. 
 
 Thou puttest out our eyes, stoppest up our ears, and takest 
 away the power of our nostrils; so that we can neither see 
 the largest object, hear the loudest noise, nor smell the most 
 poignant perfume. Again, when thou pleasest, thou canst 
 make a molehill appear as a mountain, a Jew’s-harp sound 
 like a trumpet, and a daisy smell like a violet. Thou canst 
 make cowardice brave, avarice generous, pride humble, and 
 cruelty tender-hearted. In short, thou turnest the heart of 
 man inside out, as a juggler doth a petticoat, and bringest 
 whatsoever pleaseth thee out from it. If there be any one 
 who doubts all this, let him read the next chapter. 
 
CH. VIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 31 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN WHICH, AETER SOME VERY EINE WRITING, THE HIS¬ 
 TORY GOES ON, AND RELATES THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN 
 THE LADY AND JOSEPH ; WHERE THE LATTER HATH SET 
 AN EXAMPLE WHICH WE DESPAIR OE SEEING EOLLOWED 
 BY HIS SEX IN THIS VICIOUS AGE. 
 
 How the rake Hesperus had called for his breeches, and, 
 having well rubbed his drowsy eyes, prepared to dress him¬ 
 self for all night; by whose example his brother rakes on 
 earth likewise leave those beds in which they had slept away 
 the day. How Thetis, the good housewife, began to put on 
 the pot, in order to regale the good man Phoebus after his 
 daily labours were over. In vulgar language, it was in the 
 -evening when Joseph attended his lady’s orders. 
 
 But as it becomes us to preserve the character of this lady, 
 who is the heroine of our tale ; and as we have naturally a 
 wonderful tenderness for that beautiful part of the human 
 species called the fair sex; before we discover too much of 
 her frailty to our reader, it will be proper to give him a lively 
 idea of the vast temptation, which overcame all the efforts of 
 a modest and virtuous mind; and then we humbly hope his 
 good nature will rather pity than condemn the imperfection 
 of human virtue. 
 
 Hay, 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 inno¬ 
 cently 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. 
 
32 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk T. 
 
 Mr Joseph Andrews was now in the one-and-twentieth 
 year of his age. He was of the highest degree of middle 
 stature; his limbs were put together with great elegance, 
 and no less strength; his legs and thighs were formed in the 
 exactest proportion; his shoulders were broad and brawny, 
 but yet his arms hung so easily, that he had all the symp¬ 
 toms of strength without the least clumsiness. His hair was 
 of a nut-brown colour, and was displayed in wanton ringlets 
 down his back; his forehead was high, his eyes dark, and as 
 full of sweetness as of fire; his nose a little inclined to the 
 Roman; his teeth white and even; his lips full, red, and 
 soft; his beard was only rough on his chin and upper lip; 
 but his cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread 
 with a thick down; his countenance had a tenderness j oined 
 with a sensibility inexpressible. Add to this the most per¬ 
 fect 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 any nauseous familiarity as fellows to offer it: nay, 
 there are such in my family, but they shall not stay in it; 
 that imprudent trollop who is with child by you is dis¬ 
 charged by this time.’ 
 
 As a person who is struck through the heart with a thun¬ 
 derbolt looks extremely surprized, nay, and perhaps is so 
 
 too-thus the poor Joseph received the false accusation of 
 
 his mistress; he blushed and looked confounded, which she 
 misinterpreted to be symptoms of his guilt, and thus went on: 
 
 ‘ Come hither, Joseph: another mistress might discard 
 you for these offences; but I have a compassion for your 
 youth, and if I could be certain you would be no more guilty 
 —Consider, child,’ laying her hand carelessly upon his, 
 ‘ you are a handsome young fellow, and might do better; 
 
OH. VIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 33 
 
 you might make your fortune.’ 4 Madam,’ said Joseph, 4 1 
 do assure your ladyship I don’t know whether any maid in 
 the house is man or woman.’ 4 0 fie ! Joseph,’ answered the 
 lady, 4 don’t commit another crime in denying the truth. I 
 could pardon the first; but I hate a liar.’ 4 Madam,’ cries 
 Joseph, 4 1 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.’ 4 Kissing ! ’ said the lady 
 with great discomposure of countenance, and more redness in 
 her cheeks than anger in her eyes; 4 do you call that no 
 crime ? Kissing, Joseph, is as a prologue to a play. Can I 
 believe a young fellow of your age and complexion will he 
 content with kissing? No, Joseph, there is no woman who 
 grants that hut will grant,more; and I am deceived greatly 
 in you if you would not put her closely to it. What would 
 you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to kiss me? ’ Joseph 
 replied he would sooner die than have any such thought. 
 4 And yet, Joseph,’ returned she, 4 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 there¬ 
 fore, Joseph, if I should admit you to such freedom, what 
 would you think of me ?—tell me freely.’ 4 Madam,’ said 
 Josepli, 4 1 should think your ladyship condescended a great 
 deal below yourself.’ 4 Pugh ! ’ said she; 4 that I am to 
 answer to myself: hut would not you insist on more ? 
 Would you he contented with a kiss ? Would not your in¬ 
 clinations be all on fire rather by such a favour ? ’ 4 Madam,’ 
 said Joseph, 4 if they were, I hope I should be able to con¬ 
 trol them, without suffering them to get the better of my 
 virtue.’ You have heard, reader, poets talk of the statue of 
 Surprize; you have heard likewise, or else you have heard 
 very little, how surprize made one of the sons of Croesus 
 speak, though he was dumb. You have seen the faces, in 
 the eighteen-penny gallery, when, through the trap-door, to 
 soft or no music, Mr Bridgewater, Mr William Mills, or 
 some other of ghostly appearance, hath ascended, with a face 
 all pale with powder, and a shirt all bloody with ribbons;— 
 but from none of these, nor from Phidias or Praxiteles, if 
 they should return to life—no, not from the inimitable pencil 
 of my friend Hogarth, could you receive such an idea of 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 surprize as would have entered in at your eyes had they be¬ 
 held the Lady Booby when those last words issued out from 
 the lips of Joseph. 4 Your virtue ! * said the lady, recover¬ 
 ing after a silence of two minutes ; 4 I shall never survive it. 
 Your virtue !—intolerable confidence ! Have you the assur¬ 
 ance to pretend, that when a lady demeans herself to throw 
 aside the rules of decency, in order to honour you with the 
 highest favour in her power, your virtue should resist her 
 inclination ? that, when she had conquered her own virtue, 
 she should find an obstruction in yours 1 ’ 4 Madam,’ said 
 
 Joseph, 4 1 can’t see why her having no virtue should be a 
 reason against my having any; or why, because I am a man, 
 or because I am poor, my virtue must be subservient to her 
 pleasures.’ 4 1 am out of patience,’ cries the lady : 4 did ever 
 mortal hear of a man’s virtue 1 Did ever the greatest or the 
 gravest men pretend to any of this kind ? Will magistrates 
 who punish lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make 
 any scruple of committing it 1 And can a boy, a stripling, 
 have the confidence to talk of his virtue 1 ’ 4 Madam,’ says 
 
 Joseph, 4 that boy is the brother of Pamela, and would be 
 ashamed that the chastity of his family, which is preserved 
 in her, should be stained in him. If there are such men as 
 your ladyship mentions, I am sorry for it; and I wish they 
 had an opportunity of reading over those letters which my 
 father has sent me of my sister Pamela’s; nor do I doubt 
 but such an example would amend them.’ 4 You impudent 
 villain ! ’ cries the lady in a rage ; 4 do you insult me with 
 the follies of my relation, who hath exposed himself all over 
 the country upon your sister’s account 1 a little vixen, whom 
 1 have always wondered my late Lady John 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 w T ages imme¬ 
 diately, and you shall be stripped and turned away.’ 
 4 Madam,’ says Joseph, 4 1 am sorry I have offended your 
 ladyship, I am sure I never intended it.’ 4 Yes, sirrah,’ 
 cries she, 4 you have had the vanity to misconstrue the little 
 innocent freedom I took, in order to try whether what I had 
 heard was true. O’ my conscience, you have had the assurance 
 to imagine I was fond of you myself.’ Joseph answered, he 
 had only spoke out of tenderness for his virtue; at which 
 
CPI. VIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 35 
 
 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 hurst forth into the fol¬ 
 lowing exclamation :—‘ Whither doth this violent passion 
 hurry us 1 What meannesses do we submit to from its im¬ 
 pulse ! Wisely we resist its first and least approaches ; for 
 it is then only we can assure ourselves the victory. No 
 woman could ever safely say, so far only will I go. Have I 
 not exposed myself to the refusal of my footman ? I cannot 
 bear the reflection.’ Upon which she applied herself to the 
 bell, and rung it with 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 in¬ 
 terview with her mistress, and had waited ever since in the 
 antechamber, having carefully applied her ears to the keyhole 
 during the whole time that the preceding conversation passed 
 between Joseph and the lady. 
 
36 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THE LADY AND MBS SLIPSLOP 5 
 IN WHICH WE PROPHESY THERE ARE SOME STROKES 
 WHICH EVERY ONE WILL NOT TRULY COMPREHEND AT 
 THE EIRST READING. 
 
 ‘Slipslop,’ said the lady, ‘I find too much reason to believe 
 all thou hast told me of this wicked Joseph; I have deter¬ 
 mined to part with him instantly ; so go yon to the steward, 
 and bid him pay him his wages.’ Slipslop, who had pre¬ 
 served hitherto a distance to her lady—rather out of neces¬ 
 sity than inclination—and who thought the knowledge of 
 this secret had thrown down all distinction between them, 
 answered her mistress very pertly—‘ She wished she knew 
 her own mind; and that she was certain she would call her 
 back again before she was got half way 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 V ‘If you will turn away every footman,’ said Slip¬ 
 slop, ‘ 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 extraor¬ 
 dinary degree of freedom in which she thought proper to 
 indulge her tongue. ‘ Freedom ! ’ says Slipslop; ‘ I don’t 
 
CH. IX.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 37 
 
 know what yon call freedom, madam; servants have tongues 
 ■ as well as their mistresses.’ 4 Yes, and saucy ones too,’ an¬ 
 swered the lady; 4 but I assure you I shall bear no such 
 impertinence.’ 4 Impertinence ! I don’t know that I am 
 impertinent,’ says Slipslop. 4 Yes, indeed you are,’ cries my 
 lady, 4 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 1 
 know.’— 4 What do you know, mistress 1 ’ answered the lady. 
 4 1 am not obliged to tell that to everybody,’ says Slipslop, 
 * any more than I am obliged to keep it a secret.’ 4 I desire 
 you will provide yourself,’ answered the lady. 4 With all 
 my heart,’ replied the waiting-gentlewoman; and so de¬ 
 parted in a passion, and slapped the door after her. 
 
 The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting-gentle¬ 
 woman knew more than she would willinglv 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 to turn him out of the house that evening. 
 
 She then called Slipslop up, and, after refreshing her spirits 
 with a small cordial, which she kept in her closet, she began 
 in the following manner : 
 
 4 Slipslop, why will you, who know my passionate temper, 
 attempt to provoke me by your answers 1 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 
 
38 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 Oil your side to desire a change. I can’t help being surprized, 
 therefore, that you will take the surest method to offend me 
 —I mean, repeating my words, which you know I have 
 always detested.’ 
 
 The prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly weighed the 
 whole matter, and found, on mature deliberation, that a good 
 place in possession was better than one in expectation. As 
 she found her mistress, therefore, inclined to relent, she 
 thought proper also to put on some small condescension, 
 which was as readily accepted; and so the affair was recon¬ 
 ciled, all offences forgiven, and a present of a gown and 
 petticoat made her, as an instance of her lady’s future favour. 
 
 She offered once or twice to speak in favour of Joseph ; 
 but found her lady’s heart so obdurate, that she prudently 
 dropt all such efforts. She considered there were more 
 footmen in the house, and some as stout fellows, though not 
 quite so handsome, as Joseph; besides, the reader hath already 
 seen her tender advances had not met with the encourage¬ 
 ment she might have reasonably expected. She thought 
 she had thrown away a great deal of sack and sweetmeats on 
 an ungrateful rascal; and, being a little inclined to the 
 opinion of that female sect, who hold one lusty young fellow 
 to be nearly as good as another lusty young fellow, she at 
 last gave up Joseph and his cause, and, with a triumph over 
 her passion highly commendable, walked off with her present, 
 and with great tranquillity paid a visit to a stone-bottle, 
 which is of sovereign use to a philosophical temper. 
 
 She left not her mistress so easy. The poor lady could 
 not reflect without agony that her dear reputation was in the 
 power of her servants. All her comfort as to Joseph was, 
 that she hoped he did not understand her meaning ; at least 
 she could say for herself, she had not plainly expressed any 
 thing to him; and as to Mrs Slipslop, she imagined she could 
 bribe her to secresy. 
 
 But what hurt her most w~as, that in reality she had not 
 so entirely conquered her passion ; the little god lay lurking 
 in her heart, though anger and 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 his favour. Honour likewise eii- 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 39 
 
 CH. IX.] 
 
 deavourecl to vindicate liis crime, and Pity to mitigate his 
 punishment. On the other side, Pride and Revenge spoke 
 as loudly against him. And thus the poor lady was tortured 
 with perplexity, opposite passions distracting and tearing her 
 mind different ways. 
 
 So have I seen, in the hall of Westminster, where Serjeant 
 Bramble hath been retained on the right side, and Serjeant 
 Puzzle on the left, the balance of opinion (so equal were their 
 fees) alternately incline to either scale. Now Bramble 
 throws in an argument, and Puzzle’s scale strikes the beam ; 
 again Bramble shares the like fate, overpowered by the weight 
 of Puzzle. Here Bramble hits, there Puzzle strikes ; here 
 one has you, there t’other has you ; till at last all becomes 
 one scene of confusion in the tortured minds of the hearers ; 
 equal wagers are laid on the success, and neither judge nor 
 jury can possibly make anything of the matter, all things 
 are so enveloped by the careful serjeants in doubt and 
 obscurity. 
 
 Or, as it happens in the conscience, where honour and 
 honesty pull one way, and a bribe and necessity another. 
 
 _If it was our present business only to make similes, Ave 
 
 could produce many more to this purpose ; but a simile (as 
 well as a word) to the wise.—We shall therefore see a 
 little after our hero, for whom the reader is doubtless in 
 
 some pain. 
 
40 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 JOSEPH WRITES ANOTHER LETTER : HIS TRANSACTIONS 
 
 WITH MR PETER POUNCE, ETC., WITH HIS DEPARTURE 
 
 EROM LADY BOOBY. 
 
 The disconsolate Joseph would not have had an under¬ 
 standing sufficient for the principal subject of such a hook 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 he pleased to impute to an unwillingness in him 
 to discover what he must condemn in her as a fault. Having 
 therefore quitted her presence, he retired into his own garret, 
 and entered himself into an ejaculation on the numberless 
 calamities which attended beauty, and the misfortune it was 
 to he 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 ! 0 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 resolu¬ 
 tion and more grace than to part with my virtue to any lady 
 upon earth. 
 
 ‘ Mr Adams hath often told me, that chastity is as great a 
 virtue in a man as in a woman. He says he never knew any 
 more than his wife, and I shall endeavour to follow his ex¬ 
 ample. Indeed, it is owing entirely to his excellent sermons 
 and advice, together with your letters, that I have been able 
 to resist a temptation, which, he says, no man complies with, 
 but he repents in this world, or is damned for it in the next; 
 and why should I trust to repentance on my deathbed, since 
 I may die in my sleep 1 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. 
 
*CH. X.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 41 
 
 f I don’t doubt, dear sister, but you will have grace to pre¬ 
 serve your virtue against all trials ; and I beg you earnestly 
 to pray I may be enabled to preserve mine; for truly it is 
 very severely attacked by more than one ; but I hope I shall 
 copy your example, and that of Joseph my namesake, and 
 maintain my virtue against all temptations.’ 
 
 Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned 
 down-stairs by Mr Peter Pounce, to receive his wages ; for, 
 besides that out of eight pounds a-year he allowed his father 
 and mother four, he had been obliged, in order to furnish 
 himself with musical instruments, to apply to the generosity 
 of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent occasions, used to ad¬ 
 vance the servants their wages : not before they were due, 
 but before they were payable; that is, perhaps, half a year 
 after they were due ; and this at the moderate premium of 
 fifty per cent, or a little more : by which charitable methods, 
 together with lending money to other people, and even to 
 his own master and mistress, the honest man had, from 
 nothing, in a few years amassed a small sum of twenty 
 thousand pounds or thereabouts. 
 
 Joseph having received his little remainder of wages, and 
 having stript off his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and 
 breeches of one of the servants (for he was so beloved in the 
 family, that they would all have lent him anything) : and, 
 being told by Peter that he must not stay a moment longer 
 in the house than was necessary to pack up his linen, which 
 he easily did in a very narrow compass, he took a melancholy 
 leave of his fellow-servants, and set out at seven in the 
 evening. 
 
 He had proceeded the length of two or three streets, before 
 he absolutely determined with himself whether he should 
 leave the town that night, or, procuring a lodging, wait till 
 the morning. At last, the moon shining very bright helped 
 him to come to a resolution of beginning his journey immedi¬ 
 ately, to which likewise he had some other inducements ; 
 which the reader, without being a conjurer, cannot possibly 
 guess, till we have given him those hints which it may be 
 now proper to open. 
 
42 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OE 
 
 [be r. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 OP SEVERAL NEW MATTERS NOT EXPECTED. 
 
 It is an observation sometimes made, that to indicate our 
 idea of a simple fellow, we say, he is easily to be seen through : 
 nor do I believe it a more improper denotation of a simple 
 book. Instead of applying this to any particular perform¬ 
 ance, we choose rather to remark the contrary in this history, 
 where the scene opens itself by small degrees; and he is a 
 sagacious reader who can see two chapters before him. 
 
 For this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a matter 
 which now seems necessary to be explained; since it may be 
 wondered at, first, that Joseph mhde such extraordinary haste 
 out of town, which hath 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. 
 
 Be it known, then, that in the same parish where this seat 
 stood there lived a young girl whom Joseph (though the best 
 of sons and brothers) longed more impatiently to see than 
 his parents or his sister. She was a poor girl, who had 
 formerly been bred up in Sir John's family ; whence, a little 
 before the journey to London, she had been discarded by Mrs- 
 Slipslop, on account of her extraordinary beauty : for I never 
 could find any other reason. 
 
 This young creature (who now lived with a farmer in the 
 parish) had been always beloved by Joseph, and returned his 
 affection. She was two years only younger than our hero. 
 They had been acquainted from their infancy, and had con¬ 
 ceived a very early liking for each other; which had grown 
 to such a degree of affection, that Mr Adams had with much 
 ado prevented them from marrying, and persuaded them to 
 wait till a few years’ service and thrift had a little improved 
 their experience, and enabled them to live comfortably 
 together. 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 43 
 
 CH. XT.] 
 
 They followed this good man’s advice, as indeed his wordl 
 was little less than a law in his parish ; for as he had shown 
 his parishioners, by an uniform behaviour of thirty-five years* 
 duration, that he had their good entirely at heart, so they 
 consulted him on every occasion, and very seldom acted con¬ 
 trary to his opinion. 
 
 Nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting 
 between these two lovers. A thousand sighs heaved the bosom 
 of Joseph, a thousand tears distilled from the lovely eyes oi 
 Fanny (for that was her name). Though her modesty would 
 only suffer her to admit his eager kisses, her violent love 
 made her more than passive in his embraces; and she often 
 pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure, which, though 
 perhaps it would not have squeezed an insect to death, caused 
 more emotion in the heart of Joseph than the closest Cornish 
 hug could have done. 
 
 The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a pair should, 
 during a twelvemonth’s absence, never converse with one 
 another : indeed, there was but one reason which did or could 
 have prevented them \ and this was, that poor h anny 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 in¬ 
 quiries 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 hath wings : by 
 which they are not to understand, as some young ladies by 
 mistake have done, that a lover can fly; the writers, by this* 
 ingenious allegory, intending to insinuate no more than that 
 lovers do not march like horse-guards; in short, that they 
 put the best leg foremost; which our lusty youth, who could 
 walk with any man, did so heartily on this occasion, that 
 within four hours he reached a famous house of hospitality 
 well known to the western traveller. It presents you a lion 
 
44 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 on the sign-post: and the master, who was christened Timo- 
 theus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some have conceived 
 that he hath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he 
 doth in countenance greatly resemble that magnanimous 
 beast, though his disposition savours more of the sweetness 
 of the lamb. He is a person well received among all sorts 
 of men, being qualified to render himself agreeable to any ; 
 as he is well versed in history and politics, hath a smattering 
 in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, and plays wonderfully 
 well on the French horn. 
 
 A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take shelter in 
 this inn, where he remembered Sir Thomas had dined in his 
 way to town. Joseph had no sooner seated himself by the 
 kitchen fire than Timotheus, observing his lfvery, began to 
 condole the loss of his late master; who was, he said, his 
 very particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he 
 had cracked many a merry bottle, ay many a dozen, in his 
 time. He then remarked, that all these things were over 
 now, all passed, and just as if they had never been; and 
 concluded with an excellent observation on the certainty of 
 death, which his wife said was indeed very true. A fellow 
 now arrived at the same inn with two horses, one of which 
 he was leading farther down into the country to meet his 
 master; these he put into the stable, and came and took his 
 place by Joseph’s side, who immediately knew him to be the 
 servant of a neighbouring gentleman, who used to visit at 
 their house. 
 
 This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm; for he 
 had orders to go twenty miles farther that evening, and 
 luckily on the same road which Joseph himself intended to 
 take. He, therefore, embraced this opportunity of compli¬ 
 menting his friend with his master’s horse (notwithstanding 
 he had received express commands to the contrary), which 
 was readily accepted; and so, after they had drank a loving 
 pot, and the storm was over, they set out together. 
 
CH. XII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 45 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CONTAINING- MANY SURPRIZING ADVENTURES WHICH 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS MET WITH ON THE ROAD, SCARCE 
 CREDIBLE TO THOSE WHO HAVE NEVER TRAVELLED IN 
 A STAGE-COACH. 
 
 Nothing remarkable happened on the road till their arrival 
 at the inn to which the horses were ordered; whither they 
 came about two in the morning. The moon then shone very 
 bright; and Joseph, making his friend a present of a pint of 
 wine, and thanking him for the favour of his horse, notwith¬ 
 standing all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his 
 journey on foot. 
 
 He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hope 
 of shortly seeing his beloved Fanny, when he was met by 
 two fellows in a narrow lane, and ordered to stand and de¬ 
 liver. He readily gave them all the money he had, which 
 was somewhat less than two pounds; and told them he hoped 
 they would be so generous as to return him a few shillings, 
 to defray his charges on his way home. 
 
 One of the ruffians answered with an oath, ‘ Yes, we’ll 
 give you something presently: but first strip and be d—n’d 
 to you.’—‘ Strip,’ cried the other, ‘or I’ll blow your brains 
 to the devil.’ Joseph, remembering that he had borrowed 
 his coat and breeches of a friend, and that he should be 
 ashamed of making any excuse for not returning them, re¬ 
 plied, he hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which 
 were not worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. 
 ‘ You are cold, are you, you rascal % ’ said one of the rob¬ 
 bers : ‘ I’ll warm you with a vengeance; ’ and, damning his 
 eyes, snapped a pistol at his head; which he had no sooner 
 done than the other levelled a blow at him with his stick, 
 which Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with 
 his, and returned the favour so successfully on his adversary, 
 that he laid him sprawling at his feet, and at the same in¬ 
 stant received a blow from behind, with the butt end of a 
 
THE ANVENTURES OF 
 
 46 
 
 [bk i. 
 
 pistol, from the other villain, which felled him to the ground, 
 and totally deprived him of his senses. 
 
 The thief who had been knocked down had now recovered 
 himself; and both together fell to belabouring poor Joseph 
 with their sticks, till they were convinced they had put an 
 end to his miserable being : they then stripped him entirely 
 naked, threw him into a ditch, and departed with their 
 booty. 
 
 The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just 
 began to recover his senses as a stage-coach came by. The 
 postilion, hearing a man’s groans, stopt his horses, and told 
 the coachman he was certain there was a dead man lying in 
 the ditch, for he heard him groan. 4 Go on, sirrah,’ says the 
 coachman; 4 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 bid the postilion alight, and look into the ditch. He did 
 so, and returned, 4 that there was a man sitting upright, as 
 naked as ever he was born.’— 4 0 J—sus! ’ cried the lady; 4 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. 4 Bobbed ! ’ cries an old gen¬ 
 tleman : 4 let us make all the haste imaginable, or we shall 
 be robbed too.’ A young man who belonged to the law an¬ 
 swered, 4 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 ad¬ 
 visable 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, 4 That he should not come into the coach. 
 That if thev 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, 4 That he could not 
 suffer him to be taken in unless somebody would pay a shil¬ 
 ling for his carriage the four miles.’ Which the two gentle¬ 
 men refused to do. But the lawyer, who was afraid of some 
 
CH. XII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 47 
 
 mischief happening to himself, if the wretch was left behind 
 in that condition, saying no man could he too cautious in 
 these matters, and that he remembered very extraordinary 
 cases in the books, threatened the coachman, and bid him 
 deny taking him up at his peril \ for that, if he died, he should 
 he indicted for his murder; and if he lived, and brought an 
 action against him, he would willingly take a brief in it. 
 fhese "words had a sensible effect on the coachman, who was 
 well acquainted with the person who spoke them; and the 
 old gentleman above mentioned, thinking the naked man 
 would afford him frequent opportunities of showing his wit 
 to the lady, offered to join with the company in giving a mug 
 of beer for his fare; till, partly alarmed by the threats of 
 the one, and partly by the promises of the other, and being 
 perhaps a little moved with compassion at the poor creature’s 
 condition, who stood bleeding and shivering with the cold, 
 he at length agreed ; and Joseph was now advancing to the 
 coach, where, seeing the lady, who held the sticks of her fan 
 before her eyes, he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, 
 to enter, unless he was furnished with sufficient covering to 
 prevent giving the least offence to decency,—so jierfectly 
 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 poor Joseph, who obstinately 
 adhered to his modest resolution, must have perished, unless 
 the postilion (a lad who hath been since transported for rob¬ 
 bing a henroost) had voluntarily stript 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 shirt all his life than puffer a fellow-crea- 
 •ture to lie in so miserable a condition.’ 
 
48 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 Joseph, having put on the great-coat, was lifted into the 
 coach, which now proceeded on its journey. He declared 
 himself almost dead with the cold, which gave the man of 
 wit an occasion to ask the lady if she could not accommo¬ 
 date him with a dram. She answered, with some resent¬ 
 ment, { She wondered at his asking her such a question ; hut 
 assured him she never tasted any such thing.’ 
 
 The lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances of the 
 robbery, when the coach stopt, and one of the ruffians, put¬ 
 ting a pistol in, demanded their money of the passengers, 
 who readily gave it them; and the lady, in her fright, de¬ 
 livered up a little silver bottle, of about a half-pint size, which 
 the rogue, clapping it to his mouth, and drinking her health, 
 declared, held some of the best JSTantes he had ever tasted : 
 this the lady afterwards assured the company was the mis¬ 
 take of her maid, for that she had ordered her to fill the 
 bottle with Hungary-water. 
 
 As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, 
 it seems, a case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed 
 the company, that if it had been daylight, and he could have 
 come at his pistols, he would not have submitted to the rob¬ 
 bery : he likewise set forth that he had often met highwaymen 
 when he travelled on horseback, but none ever durst attack 
 him; concluding that, if he had not been more afraid for the 
 lady than for himself, he should not have now parted with 
 his money so easily. 
 
 As wit is generally observed to love to reside in empty 
 pockets, so the gentleman whose ingenuity we have above 
 remarked, as soon as he had parted with his money, began 
 to grow wonderfully facetious. He made frequent allusions 
 to Adam and Eve, and said many excellent things on figs 
 and fig-leaves; which perhaps gave more offence to Joseph 
 than to any other in the company. 
 
 The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests without 
 departing from his profession. He said, ‘ If Joseph and the 
 lady were alone, he would be more capable of making a con¬ 
 veyance to her, as his affairs were not fettered with any in¬ 
 cumbrance ; 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 
 
CH. XII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 49 
 
 ejectment ) with, an inundation of the like gibberish, which 
 he continued to vent till the coach arrived at an inn, where 
 one servant-maid only was up, in readiness to attend the 
 coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and a dram. 
 Joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed pre¬ 
 pared for him, which the maid readily promised to perform ■ 
 and, being a good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as 
 the lady had been, she clapt a large fagot on the fire, and, 
 furnishing Joseph with a great-coat belonging to one of the 
 hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm himself whilst 
 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 interest to borrow him a shirt; but imagining, as she 
 afterwards said, by his being so bloody, that he must be a 
 dead man, she ran with all speed to hasten the surgeon, who 
 was more than half drest, apprehending that the coach had 
 been overturned, and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon 
 as the wench had informed him at his window that it was a 
 poor foot-passenger who had been stripped of all he had, and 
 almost murdered, he chid her for disturbing him so early, 
 slipped off his clothes again, and very quietly returned to 
 bed and to sleep. 
 
 Aurora now began to show r her blooming cheeks over the 
 hills, whilst ten millions of feathered songsters, in jocund 
 chorus, repeated odes a thousand times sweeter than those of 
 our laureat, and sung both the day and the song ; when the 
 master of the inn, Mr Tow-wouse, arose, and, learning from 
 his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of his 
 poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, ‘ good-lack- 
 a-day ! ’ and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his 
 own shirts. 
 
 Mrs Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched out her 
 arms in vain to fold her departed husband, when the maid 
 entered the room. ‘ Who’s there ? Betty 1 ’—‘ Yes, madam.’ 
 —‘ Where’s your master ? ’—< : He’s without, madam ; he hath 
 sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 robbed and murdered.’—‘ Touch one if you dare, you slut,’ 
 said Mrs Tow-wouse : £ your master is a pretty sort of a man, 
 to take in naked vagabonds, and clothe them with his own 
 clothes. I shall have no such doings. If you offer to touch 
 anything, I’ll throw the chamber-pot at your head. Go, 
 send your master to me.’—‘Yes, madam,’ answered Betty. 
 As soon as he came in, she thus began: £ What the devil do 
 you mean by this, Mr Tow-wouse ? Am I to buy shirts to 
 lend to a set of scabby rascals 1 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 wTetches 'l The law makes us provide for too many 
 already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red 
 coats shortly.’— £ My dear,’ cries Tow-wouse, £ this man hath 
 been robbed of all he hath.’—‘ Well then,’ said she, ‘ where’s 
 his money to pay his reckoning 1 ? Why doth not such a 
 fellow go to an alehouse ? I shall send him packing as soon 
 as I am up, I assure you.’—- £ My dear,’ said he, £ common 
 charity won’t suffer you to do that.’ ‘ Common charity, a 
 f—t t ’ says she, £ common charity teaches us to provide for 
 ourselves and our families ; and I and mine won’t be ruined 
 by your charity, I assure you.’— £ Well,’ says he, £ my dear, 
 do as you will, when you are up ; you know I never contra¬ 
 dict you.’— £ No/ says she ; £ if the devil was to contradict 
 me, I would make the house too hot to hold him.’ 
 
 With such like discourses they consumed near half an 
 hour, whilst Betty provided a shirt from the hostler, who 
 was one of her sweethearts, and put it on poor Joseph. The 
 surgeon had likewise at last visited him, and washed and 
 drest his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr Tow- 
 wouse that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, 
 that he scarce saw any hopes of his recovery. £ Here’s a pretty 
 kettle of fish,’ cries Mrs Tow-wouse, £ you have brought upon 
 ns ! We are like to have a funeral at our own expense.’ 
 Tow-wouse (who, notwithstanding his charity, would have 
 given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that 
 any other house in the kingdom should have quiet possession 
 of his guest) answered, £ My dear, I am not to blame; he 
 was brought hither by the stage-coach, and Betty had put 
 him to bed before I was stirring.’— £ I’ll Betty her,’ says she. 
 
CH. XII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 51 
 
 —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. 
 
52 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOSEPH DURING- HIS SICKNESS AT 
 
 THE INN, WITH THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE BETAVEEN HIM 
 
 AND MR BARNABAS, THE PARSON OE THE PARISH. 
 
 As soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history 
 of the robbery, together Avith a short account of himself, and 
 his intended journey, he asked the surgeon if he apprehended 
 him to he in any danger : to which the surgeon very honestly 
 ansAvered, ( He feared he Avas ; for that his pulse Avas very 
 exalted and feverish, and, if his fever should prove more 
 than symptomatic, it would he impossible to save him.’ 
 Joseph, fetching a deep sigh, cried, ‘ Poor Fanny, I Avould I 
 could have lived to see thee ! hut God’s Avill 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 Avas in great danger ; and if the 
 malign concoction of his humours should cause a suscitation 
 of his fever, he might soon groAV delirious and incapable to 
 make his will. Joseph ansAvered, ‘ That it Avas 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 Avhatever Avhich he could call his OAvn.’ £ I had/ 
 said he, ‘ a poor little piece of gold, Avhich they took aAvay, 
 that Avould have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions ; 
 but surely, Fanny, I Avant 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 Avrite a letter, but they 
 were refused him ; and he was advised to use all his en¬ 
 deavours to compose himself. They then left him; and Mr 
 ToAV-AVOuse 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 
 
€11. XIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 53 
 
 soon as sent for; and, having first drank a dish of tea with 
 the landlady, and afterwards a bowl of punch with the land¬ 
 lord, 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 tempta¬ 
 tions of riches and beauty, and to preserve my virtue pure 
 and chaste for the arms of my dear Fanny, if it had pleased 
 Heaven that I should ever have come unto them. What 
 riches, or honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the 
 loss of innocence 1 Doth not that alone afford us more con¬ 
 solation than all worldly acquisitions ? What but innocence 
 and virtue could give any comfort to such a miserable 
 wretch as I and Yet these can make me prefer this sick 
 and painful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in 
 my lady’s. These can make me face death without fear ; 
 and though I love my Fanny more than ever man loved a 
 woman, these can teach me to resign myself to the Divine 
 will without repining. 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. 
 Put I must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest angel! 
 I must think of another world; and I heartily pray thou 
 may’st meet comfort in this.’—Barnabas thought he had 
 heard enough, so 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, than when he left him, 
 though not delirious; for, notwithstanding Mr Barnabas’s 
 opinion, he had not been once out of his senses since his 
 arrival at the inn. 
 
 Mr Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty 
 prevailed on to make another visit. As soon as he entered 
 the room he told Joseph ‘ He was come to pray by him, and 
 
54 
 
 THE ADVENTURES 0? 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 to prepare him for another world : ill the first place, there¬ 
 fore, he hoped he had repented of all his sms.’ Joseph an¬ 
 swered, 4 He hoped he had; hut there was one thing which 
 he knew not whether he should call a sin; if it was, he 
 feared he should die in the commission of it; and that was, 
 the regret of parting with a young woman whom he loved as 
 tenderly as he did his heart-strings.’ Barnabas hade him he 
 assured 4 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, 
 
 4 That neither in this world nor the next he could forget his 
 Danny; and that the thought, however grievous, of parting 
 from her for ever, was not half so tormenting as the fear of 
 what she would suffer when she knew his misfortune.’ 
 Barnabas said, 4 That such fears argued a diffidence and 
 despondence very criminal ; that he must divest himself of 
 all human passions, and fix his heart above.’ Joseph 
 answered, 4 That was what he desired to do, and should be 
 obliged to him if he would enable him to accomplish it.’ 
 Barnabas replied, 4 That must be done by grace.’ Joseph 
 besought him to discover how he might attain it. Barnabas 
 answered, 4 By prayer and faith.’ He then questioned him 
 concerning his forgiveness of the thieves. Joseph answered, 
 
 4 He feared that was more than he could do; for nothing 
 would give him more pleasure than to hear they were taken.’ 
 — 4 That,’ cries Barnabas, 4 is for the sake of justice.’— 4 Yes,’ 
 said Joseph, 4 but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I 
 should attack them, and kill them too, if I could.’— 4 Doubt¬ 
 less,’ answered Barnabas, 4 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. 4 That is,’ 
 answered Barnabas, 4 to forgive them as—as—it is to forgive 
 them as—in short, it is to forgive them as a Christian.’ 
 Joseph replied, 4 He forgave them as much as he could.’— 
 4 Well, well,’ said Barnabas, 4 that will do.’ He then de¬ 
 manded of him, 4 If he remembered any more sins unrepent¬ 
 ed of ; and if he did, he desired him to make haste and re¬ 
 pent of them as fast as he could, that they might repeat over 
 a few prayers together.’ Joseph answered, 4 He could not 
 recollect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that 
 those he had committed he was sincerely sorry for.’ Barna- 
 
CH. XIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 55 
 
 has 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 Avas dry, and desired a little tea; 
 which Barnabas reported to Mrs Tow-wouse, who answered, 
 ‘ she had just done drinking it, and could not be slopping 
 all day; ’ but ordered Betty to carry him up some small beer. 
 
 Betty obeyed her mistress’s commands; but Joseph, as 
 soon as he had tasted it, said, he feared it would increase his 
 fever, and that he longed very much for tea; to which the 
 good-natured Betty answered, he should have tea, if there 
 was any in the land; she accordingly went and bought him 
 some herself, and attended him with it; where we will leave 
 her and Joseph together for some time, to entertain the 
 reader with other matters. 
 
 t 
 
 ] 
 
 % 
 
56 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 BEING VERY EULL OF ADVENTURES WHICH SUCCEEDED 
 
 EACH OTHER AT THE END. 
 
 It was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave person 
 rode into the inn, and, committing his horse to the hostler, 
 went directly into the kitchen, and, having called for a pipe 
 of tobacco, took his place by the fireside, where several other 
 persons were likewise assembled. 
 
 The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was 
 committed the night before, and on the poor wretch who lay 
 above in the dreadful condition in which we have already 
 seen him. Mrs Tow-wouse said, ‘ She wondered what the 
 devil Tom Whipwell meant by bringing such guests to her 
 house, when there were so many alehouses on the road 
 proper for their reception. But she assured him, if he died, 
 the parish should be at the expense of the funeral.’ She 
 added, ‘ Nothing would serve the fellow’s turn but tea, she 
 would assure him.’ Betty, who was just returned from her 
 charitable office, answered, she believed he was a gentleman, 
 for she never saw a finer skin in her life. 4 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 ob¬ 
 served 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 ex¬ 
 pression 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 
 
€H. XIV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 57 
 
 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 un- 
 happy guest. He inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, 
 who was now come into the kitchen, whether he had any 
 hopes of his recovery 'l 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, 1 He should 
 take proper care; but he defied all the surgeons in London 
 to do him any good.’— £ Pray, sir,’ said the gentleman, £ what 
 are his wounds % ’ — £ Why, do you know anything of 
 wounds % ’ says the surgeon (winking upon Mrs Tow-wouse). 
 i Sir, I have a small smattering in surgery,’ answered the 
 gentleman. £ A smattering,—ho, ho, ho ! ’ said the surgeon; 
 
 ‘ I believe it is a smattering indeed.’ 
 
 The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the 
 doctor, who was what they call a dry fellow, expose the 
 gentleman. 
 
 He began therefore with an air of triumph : £ I suppose, 
 sir, you have travelled ? ’— £ Ho, really, sir,’ said the gentle¬ 
 man. £ Ho ! then you have practised in the hospitals per¬ 
 haps ? ’—‘ Ho, sir.’— £ Hum ! not that neither ] Whence, sir, 
 then, if I may be so bold to inquire, have you got your 
 knowledge in surgery ? ’—‘ Sir,’ answered the gentleman, £ I 
 do not pretend to much; but the little I know I have from 
 books.’— £ Books ! ’ cries the doctor. £ What, I suppose you 
 have read Galen and Hippocrates ! ’—‘ Ho, 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. 
 
 4 Aye,’ said the doctor, £ I believe I know how large they 
 
58 THE ADVENTURES OF [BK T. 
 
 are better than you.’ (At which he fell a winking, and the 
 whole company hurst into a laugh.) 
 
 The doctor, pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman, 
 
 ‘ If he did not understand physic as well as surgery.’ 4 Eather 
 better,’ answered the gentleman. 4 Aye, like enough,’ cries 
 the doctor with a wink. ‘ Why, I know a little of physic 
 too.’— 4 1 wish I knew half so much,’ said Tow-wouse, 4 I’d 
 never wear an apron again.’— 4 Why, I believe, landlord,’ 
 cries the doctor, 4 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 ? ’— 4 A little,’ says the gentle¬ 
 man. 4 Ay, and Greek now, I’ll warrant you : Ton dapomi- 
 bominos poluflosboio thalasses. But I have almost forgot 
 these things : I could have repeated Homer by heart once.’ 
 
 -- 4 1 fags ! the gentleman has caught a traitor,’ says Mrs 
 
 Tow-wouse ; at which they all fell a laughing. 
 
 The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, 
 very contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, 
 which he did with no small satisfaction ; and, having suffici¬ 
 ently sounded his depth, told him, 4 He was thoroughly con¬ 
 vinced of his great learning and abilities ; and that he would 
 be obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion of 
 his patient’s case above-stairs.’— 4 Sir,’ says the doctor, 4 his 
 case is that of a dead man—The contusion on his head has 
 perforated the internal membrane of the occiput, and clivelli- 
 cated 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 mighty 
 noise interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neigh¬ 
 bourhood 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 for a little piece of 
 broken gold, which had a ribbon tied to it, and which he 
 could swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in 
 the universe. 
 
 Notwithstanding the fellow’s persisting in his innocence, 
 the mob w^ere very busy in searching him, and presently, 
 among other things, pulled out the piece of gold just men- 
 
CH. XIV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS, 
 
 59 
 
 tionecl; 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 ; hut what, 
 reader, was the surprize on both sides, when he saw Joseph 
 was the person in bed, and when Joseph discovered the face 
 of his good friend Mr Abraham Adams ! 
 
 It would he 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 con¬ 
 cerning the perfect health of his Fanny, he was on his side 
 very inquisitive into all the particulars which had produced 
 this unfortunate accident. 
 
 lo return therefore to the kitchen, where a great variety 
 of company were now assembled from all the rooms of the 
 house, as well as the neighbourhood : so much delight do 
 men take in contemplating the countenance of a thief. 
 
 Mr Tow-wouse began to rub his hands with pleasure at 
 seeing so large an assembly; who would, he hoped, shortly 
 adjourn into several apartments, in order to discourse over 
 the robbery, and drink a health to all honest men. But Mrs 
 Tow-wouse, whose misfortune it was commonly to see things 
 a little perversely, began to rail at those who brought the 
 fellow into her house ; telling her husband, * They were 
 very likely to thrive who kept a house of entertainment for 
 beggars and thieves.’ 
 
 The mob had now finished their search, and could find 
 nothing about the captive likely to prove any evidence ; for 
 as to the clothes, though the mob were very well satisfied 
 with that proof, yet, as the surgeon observed, they could not 
 
60 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 convict him, because they were not found in his custody ; to 
 which Barnabas agreed, and added that these were bona 
 waviata , and belonged to the lord of the manor. 
 
 ' How,’ says, the surgeon, ‘ do you say these goods belong 
 to the lord of the manor % ’—‘ I do/ cried Barnabas. ‘ Then 
 I deny it,’ says the surgeon : * what can the lord of the manor 
 have to do in the case 'l Will any one attempt to persuade 
 me that what a man finds is not his own ^ ‘ I have heard, 
 
 says an old fellow in the corner, 'justice Wise-one say, that, 
 if every man had his right, whatever is found belongs to the 
 king of London.’—' That may be true,’ says Barnabas, ' in 
 some sense ; for the law makes a difference between things 
 stolen and things found; for a thing may be stolen that 
 never is found, and a thing may be found that never was 
 stolen: Now, goods that are both stolen and found are 
 waviata ; and they belong to the lord of the manor. So 
 the lord of the manor is the receiver of stolen goods,’ says 
 the doctor; at which there was an universal laugh, being 
 first begun by himself. 
 
 While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had 
 almost (as there was no evidence against him) brought over 
 Barnabas, the surgeon, Tow-wouse, and several others to bis 
 side, Betty informed them that they had overlooked a little 
 piece of gold, which she had carried up to the man in bed, 
 and which he offered to swear to amongst a million, aye, 
 amongst ten thousand. This immediately turned the scale 
 against the prisoner, and every one now concluded him 
 guilty. It was resolved, therefore, to keep him secured 
 that night, and early in the morning to carry him before a 
 justice. 
 
CH. XV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 61 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 SHOWING HOW MRS TOW-WOTJSE WAS A LITTLE MOLLI¬ 
 FIED ; AND HOW OEEICIOUS MR BARNABAS AND THE 
 SURGEON WERE TO PROSECUTE THE THIEE : WITH A 
 DISSERTATION ACCOUNTING EOR THEIR ZEAL, AND THAT 
 OE 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 ex¬ 
 treme whiteness of his skin, and the softness of his hands, 
 she observed a very great familiarity between the gentleman 
 and him; and added, she was certain they were intimate 
 acquaintance, if not relations. 
 
 This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs Tow-wouse’s 
 countenance. She said, ‘ God forbid she should not discharge 
 the duty of a Christian, since the poor gentleman was brought 
 to her house. She had a natural antipathy to vagabonds ; 
 hut could pity the misfortunes of a Christian as soon as 
 another.’ Tow-wouse said, ‘ If the traveller he a gentleman, 
 though he hath no money about him now, we shall most 
 likely he paid hereafter j so you may begin to score when¬ 
 ever you will.’ Mrs Tow-wouse answered, ‘ Hold your sim¬ 
 ple tongue, and don’t instruct me in my business. I am 
 sure I am sorry for the gentleman’s misfortune with all my 
 heart; and I hope the villain who hath used him so bar¬ 
 barously will be hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. 
 God forbid he should want any thing in my house.’ 
 
 Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to satisfy 
 themselves concerning the piece of gold; Joseph was with 
 difficulty prevailed upon to show it them, but would by no 
 entreaties be brought to deliver it out of his own possession. 
 He however attested this to be the same which had been 
 taken from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the finding 
 it on the thief. 
 
 The only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this 
 
62 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I. 
 
 gold before the justice ; for as to carrying Joseph himself, it 
 seemed impossible j nor was there any great likelihood of 
 •obtaining it from him, for he had fastened it with a ribband 
 to his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing but irresistible 
 force should ever separate them; in which resolution, Mr 
 Adams, clenching a list rather less than the knuckle ot an 
 ox, declared he would support him. 
 
 A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence not 
 very necessary to be related here ; after which the surgeon 
 dressed Mr Joseph’s head, still persisting in the imminent 
 danger in which his patient lay, but concluding, with a very 
 important look, ‘ That he began to have some hopes; that 
 he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and 
 would see him in the morning.’ After which Barnabas and 
 he departed, and left Mr Joseph and Mr Adams together. 
 
 Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey 
 which he was making to London, namely, to publish three 
 volumes of sermons ; being encouraged, as he said, by an 
 advertisement lately set forth by a society of booksellers, 
 who proposed to purchase any copies offered to them, at a 
 price to be settled by two persons ; but though he imagined 
 he should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, 
 which his family were in urgent need of, he protested he 
 would not leave Joseph in his present condition : finally, 
 he told him, ‘ He had nine shillings and threepence half¬ 
 penny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as he 
 pleased.’ 
 
 This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into Joseph’s 
 eyes; he declared, ‘ He had now a second reason to desire life, 
 that he might show his gratitude to such a friend.’ Adams 
 bade him ‘"be cheerful; for that he plainly saw the surgeon, 
 besides his ignorance, desired to make a merit of curing him, 
 though the wounds in his head, he perceived, were by no 
 means dangerous ; that he was convinced he had no fever, 
 and doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day 
 or two.’ 
 
 These words infused a spirit into Joseph; he said, ‘ He 
 found himself very sore from the bruises, but had no reason 
 to think any of his bones injured, or that he had received 
 any harm in his inside, unless that he felt something very 
 odd in his stomach ’ but he knew not whether that might 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 G3 
 
 CH. XV.] 
 
 not arise from not having eaten one morsel for above twenty- 
 four hours/ Being then asked if he had any inclination to 
 eat, he answered in the affirmative. Then parson Adams 
 desired him to ‘ name what he had the greatest fancy for; 
 whether a poached egg, or chicken-broth.’ He answered, 
 £ He could eat both very well; but that he seemed to have 
 fhe greatest appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage.’ 
 
 Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he 
 had not the least fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for 
 that evening. He accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl, 
 I never could with any tolerable certainty discover which; 
 after this he was, by Mrs Tow-wouse’s order, conveyed 
 into a better bed and equipped with one of her husband’s 
 shirts. 
 
 In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to 
 the inn, in order to see the thief conveyed before the justice. 
 They had consumed the whole night in debating what 
 measures they should take to produce the piece of gold in 
 evidence against him; for they were both extremely zealous 
 in the business, though neither of them were in the least 
 interested in the prosecution; neither of them had ever 
 received any private injury from the fellow, nor had either 
 of them ever been suspected of loving the 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, concerning their abilities in a science, in which, 
 as neither of them professed it, they had equal pretensions 
 to dispute each other’s opinions. These disputes were carried 
 on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided 
 the parish; Mr Tow-wouse and one half of the neighbours 
 inclining to the surgeon, and Mrs Tow-wouse with the other 
 half to the parson. The surgeon drew his knowledge from 
 those inestimable fountains, called The Attorney’s Pocket 
 Companion, and Mr Jacob’s Law-Tables; Barnabas trusted 
 entirely to Wood’s Institutes. It happened on this occasion, 
 as w T as 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 with- 
 
64 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I* 
 
 out producing the gold ; the parson, e contra , toils 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 
 operations discerned ! How wantonly dost thou deceive 
 mankind under different disguises ! Sometimes thou dost 
 wear the face of pity, sometimes of generosity : nay, thou 
 hast the assurance even to put on those glorious ornaments 
 which belong only to heroic virtue. Thou odious, deformed 
 monster ! whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, 
 and poets ridiculed; is there a wretch so abandoned as to 
 own thee for an acquaintance in public 1—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 be¬ 
 low, or the greatest hero above, thy notice. Tliy embraces 
 are often the sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery 
 and the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou 
 harlot, that we attempt to withdraw from others what we do 
 not want, or to withhold from them what they do. All our 
 passions are thy slaves. Avarice itself is often no more 
 than thy handmaid, and even Lust thy pimp. The bully 
 Fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and Joy and Grief hide 
 their heads in thy presence. 
 
 I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee I court 
 thee, and that thy love hath inspired me to write this sar- 
 castical panegyric on thee \ but thou art deceived . I value 
 thee not of a farthing ; nor will it give me any pain if thou 
 shouldst prevail on the reader to censure this digression as 
 arrant nonsense ; for know, to thy confusion, that I have 
 introduced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a 
 short chapter, and so I return to my history. 
 
CH. XVI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 65 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE ESCAPE OE THE THIEE. MR ADAMS’S DISAPPOINT¬ 
 MENT. THE ARRIVAL OE TWO VERT EXTRAORDINARY 
 PERSONAGES, AND THE INTRODUCTION OE 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 apprehended not the least danger, as 
 the constable was well armed, and could besides easily 
 summon him back to his assistance, if the prisoner made the 
 least attempt to gain his liberty. 
 
 The young fellow had not long left the room before it came 
 into the constable’s head that the prisoner might leap on him 
 by surprize, and, thereby preventing him of the use of his 
 weapons, especially the long staft in which he chiefly confided, 
 might reduce the success of a struggle to an ecjual chance. 
 He wisely, therefore, to prevent this inconvenience, slipt out 
 of the room himself, and locked the door, waiting without 
 with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the unhappy 
 prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt to break out. 
 
 But human life, as hath been discovered by some great 
 man or other (for I would by no means be understood to 
 
66 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 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 hoard, he is apt to leave an unguarded opening 
 on the other; so doth it often happen in life, and so did it 
 happen on this occasion; for whilst the cautious constable 
 with such wonderful sagacity had possessed himself of the 
 door, he most unhappily forgot the window. 
 
 The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner per¬ 
 ceived this opening than he began to move that way; and, 
 finding the passage easy, he took with him the young fellow's 
 hat, and without any ceremony stepped into the street and 
 made the best of his way. 
 
 The young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong 
 beer, was a little surprized to find the constable at the door; 
 but much more so when, the door being opened, he perceived 
 the prisoner had made his escape, and which way. He 
 threw down the beer, and, without uttering anything to the 
 constable except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt out 
 of the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, being 
 very unwilling to lose the reward which he had assured him¬ 
 self of. 
 
 The constable hath not been discharged of suspicion on 
 this account; it hath been said that, not being concerned in 
 the taking the thief, he could not have been entitled to any 
 part of the reward if he had been convicted; that the thief 
 had several guineas in his pocket; that it was very unlikely 
 he should have been guilty of such an oversight; that his 
 pretence for leaving the room was absurd; that it was his 
 constant maxim, that a wise man never refused money on 
 any conditions; that at every election he always had sold 
 his vote to both parties, &c. 
 
 But, notwithstanding these and many other such allega¬ 
 tions, I am sufficiently convinced of his innocence; having 
 been positively assured of it by those who received their in¬ 
 formations 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 assem¬ 
 bled in the kitchen, where Mr Tow-wouse was in some 
 tribulation; the surgeon having declared that by law he 
 was liable to be indicted for the thief’s escape, as it was out 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 67 
 
 <CH. XVI.] 
 
 of Iris house; he was a little comforted, however, by Mr 
 Barnabas’s opinion, that as the escape was by night the in¬ 
 dictment would not lie. 
 
 Mrs Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following words : 
 
 ‘ Sure never was such a fool as my husband; would any 
 •other person living have left a man in the custody of such a 
 drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom Suckbribe? (which was 
 the constable’s name) ; ‘ and if he could be indicted without 
 any harm to his wife and children, I should be glad of it. 
 (Then the bell rung in Joseph’s room.) ‘ Why Betty, John, 
 chamberlain, where the devil are you all h 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 1 But any one may die for you; you have 
 no more feeling than a deal board. If a man lived a tort- 
 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 syder- 
 and at the lire; 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, 1 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, 
 1 he believed he could furnish him.’ Upon which Adams, 
 pointing to his saddle-bag, told him, with a face and voice 
 full of solemnity, 1 that there were in that bag no less than 
 nine volumes of manuscript sermons, as well worth a hun¬ 
 dred pounds as a shilling was worth twelve pence, and that 
 
68 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I* 
 
 lie 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 payment of the money ; for otherwise he 
 must be a very great loser, seeing that every volume would 
 at least bring him ten pounds, as he had been informed by a 
 neighbouring clergyman in the country; for,’ said he, 4 as to 
 my own part, having never yet dealt in printing, I do not 
 pretend to ascertain the exact value of such things.’ 
 
 Tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, said 
 (and not without some truth), ‘that he was no judge of the 
 price of such kind of goods ; and as for money, he really was 
 very short.’ Adams answered, 4 Certainly he would not 
 scruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedly 
 worth at least ten.’ The landlord replied, 4 He did not be¬ 
 lieve 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, 4 Coming, sir ! ’ though nobody 
 called; and ran down-stairs without any fear of breaking 
 his neck. 
 
 Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this disappoint¬ 
 ment, nor knew he what further stratagem to try. He im¬ 
 mediately applied to his pipe, his constant friend and com¬ 
 fort 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 something comical enough in his countenance, com¬ 
 posed a figure likely to attract the eyes of those who were 
 not over given 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 leapt from the 
 box, and shook the former by the hand; and both, together 
 with the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr iow-wouse 
 into an apartment; whither as they passed, they entertained 
 themselves with the following short facetious dialogue : 
 
 4 You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack ! ’ says he 
 from the coach; 4 you had almost overturned us just now. 
 
CH. XVI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 69 
 
 (Pox take you ! ’ says tlie coachman; ‘ if I had only broke 
 your neck, it would have been saving somebody _ else the 
 trouble; but I should have been sorry for the pointers.— 
 
 4 Why, you son of a b—,’ answered the other, 4 if nobody 
 could shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no 
 
 use< ’ ‘D—n me,’ says the coachman, 'I will shoot with 
 
 you, five guineas a-shot.’— 4 You be hanged, says the other; 
 
 4 for five guineas you shall shoot at my a .’ 4 Done, says 
 
 the coachman; 4 I’ll pepper you better than ever you was 
 peppered by Jenny Bouncer.’— 4 Pepper your grandmother, 
 says the other: 4 Here’s Tow-wouse will let you shoot at 
 him for a shilling a-time.’— 4 1 know his honour better,’ cries 
 Tow-wouse; 4 1 never saw a surer shot at a partridge. Every 
 man misses now and then; but if I could shoot half as wel 
 as his honour, I would desire no better livelihood than 1 
 could get by my gun.’— 4 Pox on you,’ said the coachman, 
 
 4 you demolish more game now than your head’s worth. 
 There’s a bitch, Tow-wouse: by G— she never blinked * a 
 bird in her life.’— 4 1 have a puppy, not a year old, shall 
 hunt with her for a hundred,’ cries the other gentleman. 
 
 4 Done,’ says the coachman : 4 but you will be pox d before 
 you make the bet.’ 4 If you have a mind for a bet,’ cries the 
 coachman, 4 1 will match my spotted dog with your white 
 bitch for a hundred, play or pay.’— 4 Done,’ says the other : 
 
 4 and I’ll run Baldface against Slouch with you for another. 
 — 4 Ho,’ cries he from the box; 4 but I’ll venture Miss Jenny 
 against Baldface, or Hannibal either.’— 4 Go to the devil, 
 cries he from the coach : 4 1 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 con¬ 
 tented to leave them, and repair to the kitchen; where Bar¬ 
 nabas, the surgeon, and an exciseman were smoking their 
 pipes over some syder-and; and where the servants, who 
 attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen alight, 
 were now arrived. 
 
 4 Tom,’ cries one of the footmen, 4 there’s parson Adams 
 smoking his pipe in the gallery.’ 4 Yes,’ says Tom; 4 1 
 pulled off my hat to him, and the parson spoke to me. 
 
 * To blink is a term used to signify tbe dog’s passing by a bird without 
 pointing at it. 
 
70 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I- 
 
 ‘Is the gentleman a clergyman, then ’l ’ says Barnabas (for 
 his cassock had been tied up when first he arrived). ‘ Yes, 
 sir/ answered the footman; and one there he hut few like.’ 
 —‘ Aye,’ said Barnabas : 4 if I had known it sooner, I should 
 have desired his company; I would always show a proper 
 respect for the cloth: hut what say you, doctor, shall we ad¬ 
 journ into a room, and invite him to take part of a howl of 
 punch 1 ’ 
 
 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 un¬ 
 luckily dropping from one of them introduced a dissertation 
 on the hardships suffered by the inferior clergy; which, after 
 a long duration, concluded with bringing the nine volumes 
 of sermons on the carpet. 
 
 Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams; he said, ‘ the 
 age was so wicked, that nobody read sermons : would you 
 think it, Mr Adams 1 ’ 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 1 ’—‘ Twelve guineas perhaps,’ cried Adams. 
 ‘ Hot 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 dedi¬ 
 cating them to that very gentleman who just now drove his 
 own coach into the inn; and, I assure you, he had the im¬ 
 pudence to refuse my offer; by which means I lost a good 
 living, that was afterward 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 ex¬ 
 pect ; for if sermons. would have gone down, I believe—I 
 will not be vain; but to be concise with you, three bishops 
 said they were the best that ever were writ: but indeed there 
 are a pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold 
 yet.’—‘ Pray, sir,’ said Adams, ; to what do you think the 
 
CH. XVI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 71 
 
 numbers may amount % ’—‘ Sir/ answered Barnabas, a book¬ 
 seller told me, he believed five thousand volumes at least.’— 
 
 < Five thousand ! ’ quoth the surgeon : ‘ What can they be 
 writ upon % I remember, when I was a boy, I used to read 
 one Tillotson’s sermons; and, I am sure, if a man practised 
 half so much as is in one of those sermons, he will go to 
 heaven .’— 1 Doctor/ cried Barnabas, ‘ you have a profane way 
 of talking, for which I must reprove you. A man can never 
 have his duty too frequently inculcated into him. And as 
 for Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and said 
 things very well; but comparisons are odious; another man 
 
 may write as well as lie-1 believe there are some of my 
 
 sermons/-and then he applied the candle to his pipe.— 
 
 < And I believe there are some of my discourses, cries 
 
 Adams, ‘ which the bishops would not think totally un¬ 
 worthy 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 de¬ 
 sire 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, it there 
 be ever a funeral one among them, to lend it me; foi 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 t io 
 preservation of the morality of his neighbours, insomuch that 
 he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman in the parish where 
 he lived.’—‘No,’ replied Barnabas, ‘that will not do quite 
 so well; for the deceased, upon whose virtues I am to 
 harangue, was a little too much addicted to liquor, and pub¬ 
 licly kept a mistress.-1 believe I must take a common 
 
 sermon, and trust to my memory to introduce somet iing 
 handsome on him.’—‘ To your invention rather, said t le 
 doctor: ‘ your memory will be apter to put you out, foi no 
 man living remembers anything good of him.’ 
 
 With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied the 
 bowl of punch, paid their reckoning, and separated: Adams 
 and the doctor went up to Joseph, parson Barnabas depaited 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 72 
 
 [bk i. 
 
 to celebrate the aforesaid deceased, and the exciseman de¬ 
 scended 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 sana¬ 
 tive soporiferous draught, a medicine 4 whose virtues,’ he 
 said, ‘ were never to be sufficiently extolled.’ And great in¬ 
 deed they must be, if Joseph was so much indebted to them 
 as the doctor imagined; since nothing more than those 
 effluvia which escaped the cork could have contributed to 
 his recovery; for the medicine had stood untouched in the 
 window ever since its arrival. 
 
 Joseph passed that day, and the three following, with his 
 friend Adams, in which nothing so remarkable happened as 
 the swift progress of his recovery. As he had an excellent 
 habit of body, his wounds were now almost healed; and his 
 bruises gave him so little uneasiness, that he pressed Mr 
 Adams to let him depart; told him he should never be able 
 to return sufficient thanks for all his favours, but begged 
 that he might no longer delay his journey to London. 
 
 Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he conceived it, 
 of Mr Tow-wouse, and the envy (for such he thought it) of 
 Mr Barnabas, had great expectations from his sermons : see¬ 
 ing therefore Joseph in so good away, he told him he would 
 agree to his setting out the next morning in the stage-coach, 
 that he believed he should have sufficient, after the reckon¬ 
 ing paid, to procure him one day’s conveyance in it, and 
 afterwards he would be able to get on on foot, or might be 
 favoured with a lift in some neighbour’s waggon, especially 
 as there was then to be a fair in the town whither the coach 
 would carry him, to which numbers from his parish resorted 
 —And as to himself, he agreed to proceed to the great city. 
 
 They were now walking in the inn-yard, when a fat, fair, 
 short person rode in, and, alighting from his horse, went 
 directly up to Barnabas, who was 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 retired to his 
 chamber, whither the good Adams accompanied him, and 
 took this opportunity to expatiate on the great mercies God 
 
CH. XVI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 73 
 
 had lately shown him, of which he ought not only to have 
 the deepest inward sense, hut likewise to express outward 
 thankfulness for them. They therefore fell both on their 
 knees, and spent a considerable time in prayer and thanks¬ 
 giving. 
 
 They had just finished when Betty came in and told Mr 
 Adams Mr Barnabas desired to speak to him on some busi¬ 
 ness of consequence below-stairs. Joseph desired, if it was 
 likely to detain him long, he would let him know it, that he 
 might go to bed, which Adams promised, and in that case 
 they wished one another good-night. 
 
74 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I.. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A PLEASANT DISCOURSE BETWEEN THE TWO PARSONS AND 
 THE BOOKSELLER, WHICH WAS BROKE OFE BY AN UN¬ 
 LUCKY ACCIDENT IIAPPENINO IN THE INN, WHICH PRO¬ 
 DUCED A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MRS TOW-W'OUSE AND HER 
 MAID OF NO GENTLE KIND. 
 
 As soon as Adams came into the room, Mr Barnabas in¬ 
 troduced him to the stranger, who was, he told him, a book¬ 
 seller, and would be as likely to deal with him for his ser¬ 
 mons 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 re¬ 
 turning with the young man, who was just recovered of his 
 misfortune. He then snapt his fingers (as was usual with 
 him), and took two or three turns about the room in an 
 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 most pressing occasion 
 for money at that time, his own being almost spent, and 
 having a friend then in the same inn, who was just recovered 
 from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in 
 a most indigent condition. ‘ So that nothing,’ says he, 
 
 ‘ could be so opportune for the supplying both our necessities 
 as my making an immediate bargain with you.’ 
 
 As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in 
 these words : ‘ Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny en¬ 
 gaging 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 
 Wliitefield or Westley, 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 re- 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 75 
 
 CH. XVII.] 
 
 quest of the congregation, or the inhabitants; hut, truly, for 
 a dry piece of sermons, I had rather he excused; especially 
 as my hands are so full at present. However, sir, as Mr 
 Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, 
 take the manuscript with me to town, and send you my 
 opinion of it in a very short time.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! ’ said Adams, 4 if you desire it, I will read two or 
 three discourses as a specimen.’ This Barnabas, who loved 
 sermons no better than a grocer doth figs, immediately ob¬ 
 jected to, and advised Adams to let the bookseller have his 
 sermons c telling him, 4 If he gave him a direction, he might 
 be certain of a speedy answer : ’ adding, he need not scruple 
 trusting them in his possession. 4 Ho,’ 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 
 
 < Be was sorry to hear sermons compared to plays.’ ‘Hot by 
 me, I assure you,’ cried the bookseller, 4 though I don t know 
 whether the licensing act may not shortly bring them to the 
 same footing j but I have formerly known a hundred guineas 
 o-iven for a play .’— 4 More shame for those who gave it,’ cried 
 Barnabas. 4 Why so ’ said the bookseller, 4 lor they got 
 hundreds by it.’—‘But is there no difference between con¬ 
 veying good or ill instructions to mankind 1 said Adams . 
 
 ‘ Would 3 not an honest mind rather lose money by the one 
 than gain it by the other % ’— 4 If you can find any such, I 
 will not be their hindrance,’ answered the bookseller; ‘ but I 
 think those persons who get by preaching sermons are the 
 properest to lose by printing them: for my part, the copy 
 that sells best will be always the best copy in my opinion ; 
 I am no enemy to sermons, but because they don’t sell: for 
 I would as soon print one of Whitefield’s as any larce what¬ 
 ever.’ 
 
 4 Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged, 
 says Barnabas. 4 Sir,’ said he, turning to Adams, this 
 fellow’s writings (I know not whether you have seen them) 
 are levelled at the clergy. He would reduce us to the 
 example of the primitive ages, forsooth ! and would insinuate 
 to the people that a clergyman ought to be always preaching 
 and praying. He pretends to understand the Scripture 
 literally 3 and would make mankind believe that the poverty 
 
76 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK I, 
 
 and low estate which was recommended to the church in its 
 infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to her 
 under persecution, was to he preserved in her flourishing 
 and established state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Wool- 
 ston, and all the freethinkers, are not calculated to do half 
 the mischief, as those professed by this fellow and his fol¬ 
 lowers.’ 
 
 4 Sir/ answered Adams, 4 if Mr Whitefield had carried his 
 doctrine no farther than you mention, I should have re¬ 
 mained, 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 he. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing 
 estate of the Church, understand the palaces, equipages, dress, 
 furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. 
 Surely those things, which savour so strongly of this world, 
 become not the servants of one who professed his kingdom 
 was not of it. But when he began to call nonsense and 
 enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the detestable doctrine of 
 faith against good works, I was his friend no longer; for 
 surely that doctrine was coined in hell; and one would 
 think none but the devil himself could have the confidence 
 to preach it. For can anything be more derogatory to the 
 honour of God than for men to imagine that the all-wise 
 Being will hereafter say to the good and virtuous, 44 Notwith¬ 
 standing the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that constant 
 rule of virtue and goodness in which you walked upon earth, 
 still, as thou didst not believe everything in the true ortho¬ 
 dox manner, thy want of faith shall condemn thee h ” 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— 44 Lord, it is true I never 
 obeyed one of thy commandments, yet punish me not, for I 
 believe them all 1 ” ’— 4 1 suppose, sir/ said the bookseller, 
 4 your sermons are of a different kind.’—‘Ay, sir,’ said 
 Adams; 4 the contrary, I thank Heaven, is inculcated in 
 almost every page, or I should belie my own opinion, which 
 hath always been, that a virtuous and good Turk, or heathen, 
 are more acceptable in the sight of their Creator than a 
 vicious and wicked Christian, though his faith was as per¬ 
 fectly orthodox as St Paul himself.’— 4 1 wish you success/ 
 says the bookseller, 4 but must beg to be excused, as my 
 
CH. XVII.] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 77 
 
 hands are so very full at present; and, indeed, I am afraid 
 you will find a backwardness in the trade to engage in a 
 hook which the clergy would he certain to cry down.’—‘ God 
 forbid,’ says Adams, ‘ any books should be propagated which 
 the clergy would cry down ; but if you mean by the clergy, 
 some few designing factious men, who have it at heart to 
 establish some favourite schemes at the price of the liberty 
 of mankind, and the very essence of religion, it is nob in the 
 power of such persons to decry any book they please \ wit¬ 
 ness that excellent book called, “ A Plain Account of the 
 Nature and End of the Sacrament; ” a book written (if I 
 may venture on the expression) with the pen of an angel, 
 and calculated to restore the true use of Christianity, and of 
 that sacred institution p 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 unsuccessfully.’ At these words Barnabas fell a 
 ringing with all the violence imaginable ; upon which a serv¬ 
 ant attending, he bid him ‘ bring a bill immediately; for 
 that he was in company, for aught he knew, with the devil 
 himself; and he expected to hear the Alcoran, the Leviathan, 
 or Woolston commended, if he staid a few minutes longer.’ 
 Adams desired, 1 as he was so much moved at his mentioning 
 a book which he did without apprehending any possibility 
 of offence, that he would be so kind to propose any ob¬ 
 jections 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 r -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 :— 1 0 you damn’d 
 villain! is this the return to all the care I have taken of 
 your family ? This the reward of my virtue ? Is this the 
 manner in which you behave to one who brought you a 
 fortune, and preferred you to so many matches, all your 
 
78 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 betters'? To abuse my bed, my own bed, with my own 
 servant! but I’ll maul the slut, I’ll tear her nasty eyes out ! 
 Was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such a mean 
 trollop ? If she had been a gentlewoman, like myself, it had 
 been some excuse ; but a beggarly, saucy, dirty servant-maid. 
 Get you out of my house, you whore.’ To which she added 
 another name, which we do not care to stain our paper with. 
 It was a monosyllable beginning with a b—, and indeed was 
 the same as if she had pronounced the words, she-dog. 
 Which term we shall, to avoid offence, use on this occasion, 
 though indeed both the mistress and maid uttered the above- 
 mentioned b—, a word extremely disgustful to females of 
 the lower sort. Betty had borne all hitherto with patience, 
 and had uttered oidy 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,’ cried she, sobbing, ‘ that’s no reason you should 
 call me out of my name ; my be-betters are wo-worse than 
 me.’—‘ Huzzy, huzzy,’ says Mrs Tow-wouse, 4 have you the 
 impudence to answer me 'l Did I not catch you, you saucy ’ 
 —and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to 
 female ears. ‘ I can’t bear that name,’ answered Betty: ‘ if 
 I have been wicked, I am to answer for it myself in the 
 other world; but I have done nothing that’s unnatural; and 
 I will go out of your house this moment, for I will never be 
 called she-dog by any mistress in England.’ Mrs Tow-wouse 
 then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from 
 executing any dreadful purpose by Mr Adams, who con¬ 
 fined her arms with the strength of a wrist which Hercules 
 would not have been ashamed of. Mr Tow-wouse, being 
 caught, as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and 
 having no defence to make, very prudently withdrew him¬ 
 self ; and Betty committed herself to the protection" of the 
 hostler, who, though she could not conceive him pleased 
 with what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather a 
 gentler beast than her mistress. 
 
 Mrs Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr Adams, and 
 finding the enemy vanished, began to compose herself, and 
 at length recovered the usual serenity of her temper, in 
 
CH. XVII.J 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 79 
 
 which we will leave her, to open to the reader the steps 
 . which led to a catastrophe, common enough, and comical 
 enough too perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to 
 the repose and well-being of families, and the subject of 
 many tragedies, both in life and on the stage. 
 
80 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BE I. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF BETTY THE CHAMBERMAID, AND AN 
 ACCOUNT OF WHAT OCCASIONED THE YIOLENT SCENE 
 IN THE PRECEDING CHAPTER. 
 
 Betty, wlio was tlie occasion of all this liurry, had some 
 good qualities. She had good nature, generosity, and com¬ 
 passion, hut unfortunately her constitution was composed of 
 those warm ingredients which, though the purity of courts 
 or nunneries might have happily controlled them, were by 
 no means able to endure the ticklish situation of a chamber¬ 
 maid at an inn ; who is daily liable to the solicitations of 
 lovers of all complexions; to the dangerous addresses of 
 fine gentlemen of the army, who sometimes are obliged to 
 reside with them a whole year together ; and, above all, are 
 exposed to the caresses of footmen, stage-coaclimen, and 
 drawers \ all of whom employ the whole artillery of kissing, 
 flattering, bribing, and every other weapon which is to he 
 found in the whole armoury of love, against them 
 
 Betty, who was hut one-and-twenty, had now lived three 
 years in this dangerous situation, during which she had 
 escaped pretty well. An ensign of foot was the first 
 person who made an impression on her heart ) he did indeed 
 raise a flame in her which required the care of a surgeon to 
 cool. 
 
 While she burnt for him, several others burnt for her. 
 Officers of the army, young gentlemen travelling the western 
 circuit, inoffensive squires, and some of graver character, 
 were set a-fire by her charms ! 
 
 At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her 
 first unhappy passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of 
 perpetual chastity. She was long deaf to all the sufferings 
 of her lovers, till one day, at a neighbouring fair, the rhetoric 
 of John the hostler, with a new straw hat and a pint of wine, 
 made a second conquest over her. 
 
 She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this 
 
CH. XVIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 81 
 
 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 Jolin, with whom she permitted Tom Whipwell 
 the stage-coachman, and now and then a handsome young 
 traveller, to share her favours. 
 
 Mr 1 owAvouse had for some time cast the languishing eyes 
 of affection on this young maiden. He had laid hold on every 
 opportunity of saying tender things to her, squeezing her 
 by the hand, and sometimes kissing her lips; for, as the 
 violence of his passion had considerably abated to Mrs Tow- 
 wouse, so, like water which is stopt from its usual current 
 in one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs 
 Tow wouse is thought to have perceived this abatement, and, 
 probably, it added very little to the natural sweetness of her 
 temper ; for though she was as true to her husband as the 
 dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous of being shone 
 on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth. 
 
 Tver since Joseph’s arrival, Betty had conceived an extra¬ 
 ordinary liking to him, which discovered itself more and 
 more as he grew better and better; till that fatal evening, 
 when, as she was warming his bed, her passion grew to such 
 a height, and so perfectly mastered both her modesty and her 
 reason, that, after many fruitless hints and sly insinuations, 
 she at last threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him 
 ■with great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature 
 she had ever seen. 
 
 Joseph, in great confusion, leapt from her, and told her 
 he v r as 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 w^as obliged, contrary to his 
 inclination, to use some violence to her; and, taking her 
 in his arms, he shut her out of the room, and locked the door. 
 
 . How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is always in 
 his own power ; that, if he hath sufficient strength of mind, 
 he hath always a competent strength of body to defend him¬ 
 self, and cannot, like a poor w T eak woman, be ravished against 
 his will ! 
 
 Betty was in the most violent agitation at this disappoint- 
 
 ‘ 6 
 
82 
 
 THE ADVENTURES UP 
 
 [bk I. 
 
 ment. Bage 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 preva¬ 
 lent. Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself; 
 hut, whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death 
 presented himself to her in so many shapes, of drowning, 
 hanging, poisoning, &c., that her distracted mind could 
 resolve on none. In this perturbation of spirit, it accident¬ 
 ally occurred to her memory that her master’s bed was not 
 made; she therefore went directly to his room, where he 
 happened at that time to he engaged at his bureau. As soon 
 as she saw him she attempted to retire; hut he called her 
 hack, and, taking her by the hand, squeezed her so tenderly, 
 at the same time whispering so many soft things into her 
 ears, and then pressed her so closely with his kisses, that the 
 vanquished fair one, whose passions were already raised, and 
 which were not so whimsically capricious that one man only 
 could lay them, though, perhaps, she would have rather pre¬ 
 ferred that one—the vanquished fair one quietly submitted, 
 I say, to her master’s will, who had just attained the accom¬ 
 plishment 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 ex¬ 
 perience, 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 he 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 hearing to he reminded of his transgressions, as 
 ' a kind of penance, once or twice a-day during the residue of 
 his life. 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF DIVISIONS IN AUTHORS. 
 
 There are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades, from 
 the highest to the lowest, from that of prime-ministering to 
 this of authoring, which are seldom discovered unless to 
 members of the same calling. Among those used by us 
 gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of dividing our 
 works into hooks and chapters to he none of the least con¬ 
 siderable. How, for want of being truly acquainted with 
 this secret, common readers imagine, that by this art of 
 dividing we mean only to swell our works to a much larger 
 hulk than they would otherwise he extended to. These 
 several places therefore in our paper, which are filled with 
 our hooks and chapters, are understood as so much buckram, 
 stays, and stay-tape 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 
 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. Hay, our fine readers will, perhaps, be scarce 
 able to travel farther than through one of them in a day. As 
 to those vacant pages which are placed between our books. 
 
84 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 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 hath seen in the parts he hath already passed 
 through; a consideration which I take the liberty to recom¬ 
 mend a little to the reader ; for, however swift his capacity 
 may he, I would not advise him to travel through these pages 
 too fast; for if he doth, he may probably miss the seeing some 
 curious productions of nature, which will be observed by 
 the slower and more accurate reader. A volume without 
 any such places of rest resembles the opening of wilds or 
 seas, which tires the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered 
 upon. 
 
 Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter 
 but so many inscriptions over the gates of inns (to continue 
 the same metaphor), informing the reader what entertainment 
 he is to expect, which if he likes not, he may travel on to the 
 next; for, in biography, as we are not tied down to an exact 
 concatenation equally with other historians, so a chapter or 
 two (for instance, this I am now writing) may be often passed 
 over without any injury to the whole. And in these inscrip¬ 
 tions I have been as faithful as possible, not imitating the 
 celebrated Montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives 
 you another ; nor some title-page authors, who promise a great 
 deal and produce nothing at all. 
 
 There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several 
 others which our readers enjoy from this art of dividing; 
 though perhaps most of them too mysterious to be presently 
 understood by any who are not initiated into the science of 
 authoring. To mention, therefore, but one which is most 
 obvious, it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning 
 down its leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those 
 readers who (though they read with great improvement and 
 advantage) are apt, when they return to their study after 
 half an hour’s absence, to forget where they left off. 
 
 These divisions have the sanction of great antiquity. 
 Homer not only divided his great work into twenty-four books 
 (in compliment perhaps to the twenty-four letters to which 
 he had very particular obligations), but, according to the 
 opinion of some very sagacious critics, hawked them all 
 separately, delivering only one book at a time (probably by 
 subscription). He was the first inventor of the art which 
 
■CH. I.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 85 
 
 hath, so long lain dormant, of publishing by numbers; an 
 art now brought to such perfection, that even dictionaries 
 are divided and exhibited piecemeal to the public ; nay, one 
 bookseller hath (to encourage learning and ease the public) 
 contrived to give them a dictionary in this divided manner 
 for only fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire. 
 
 Virgil bath given us bis poem in twelve books, an argument 
 of bis modesty; for by that, doubtless, be would insinuate 
 that be pretends to no more than half the merit of the 
 Greek; for the same reason, our Milton went originally no 
 farther than ten ; till, being puffed up by the praise of bis 
 friends, be put himself on the same footing with the Boman 
 poet. 
 
 I shall nor, however, enter so deep into this matter as 
 some very learned critics have done; who have with infinite 
 labour and acute discernment discovered what books are 
 proper for embellishment, and what require simplicity only, 
 particularly with regard to similes, which I think are now 
 generally agreed to become any book but the first. 
 
 I will dismiss this chapter with the following observation : 
 that it becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it 
 does a butcher to joint his meat, for such assistance is of great 
 help to both the reader and the carver. And now, having 
 indulged myself a little, I will endeavour to indulge the 
 curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt impatient to know 
 what he will find in the subsequent chapters of this book. 
 
86 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A SURPRIZING INSTANCE OF MR ADAMS’S SHORT MEMORY, 
 WITH THE UNFORTUNATE CONSEQUENCES WHICH IT 
 BROUGHT ON JOSEPH. 
 
 Mr Adams and Joseph were now ready to depart different 
 ways, when an accident determined the former to return with 
 his friend, which Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller 
 had not been able to do. This accident was, that those 
 sermons, which the parson was travelling to London to pub¬ 
 lish, were, 0 my good reader! left behind; what he had 
 mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other than 
 three shirts, a pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, 
 which Mrs Adams, who thought her husband would want 
 shirts more than sermons on his journey, had carefully pro¬ 
 vided him. 
 
 This discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of 
 Joseph at the opening the saddlebags ; who, having heard 
 his friend say he carried with him nine volumes of sermons, 
 and not being of that sect of philosophers who can reduce all 
 the matter of the world into a nutshell, seeing there was no 
 room for them in the bags, where the parson had said they 
 were deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, ‘ Bless me, sir, 
 where are your sermons 1 ’ The parson answered, ‘ There, 
 there, child; there they are, under my shirts.’ ISTow it 
 happened that he had taken forth his last shirt, and the 
 vehicle remained visibly empty. ‘ Sure, sir,’ says Josepli, 
 e there is nothing in the bags.’ Upon which Adams, starting, 
 and testifying some surprize, cried, ‘ Hey ! fie, fie upon it! 
 they are not here sure enough. Ay, they are certainly left 
 
 behind.’ . 
 
 Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he 
 
 apprehended his friend must feel from this disappointment , 
 he begged him to pursue his journey, and promised he would 
 himself return with the books to him with the utmost expe¬ 
 dition. ‘Ho, thank you, child,’ answered Adams; ‘it shall 
 
CH. II.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 87 
 
 not be so. What w r ould 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 monotcde of my peregrination % 
 No, child, as this accident hath happened, I am resolved to 
 return back to my cure, together with you ; which indeed 
 my inclination sufficiently leads me to. This disappoint¬ 
 ment may perhaps be intended for my good.’ He con¬ 
 cluded with a verse out of Theocritus, which signifies no 
 more than that sometimes it rains, and sometimes the sun 
 shines. 
 
 Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the 
 inclination which the parson expressed of returning with 
 him; and now the bill was called for, which, on examina¬ 
 tion, amounted within a shilling to the sum Mr Adams had 
 in his pocket. Perhaps the reader may wonder how he was 
 able to produce a sufficient sum for so many days : that he 
 may not be surprized, therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to 
 acquaint him that he had borrowed a guinea of a servant 
 belonging to the coach and six, who had been formerly one 
 of his parishioners, and whose master, the owner of the coach, 
 then lived within three miles of him; for so good was the 
 credit of Mr Adams, that even Mr Peter, the Lady Booby’s 
 steward, would have lent him a guinea with very little 
 security. 
 
 Mr Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting 
 out, having agreed to ride and tie ; a method of travelling 
 much used by persons who have but one horse between 
 them, and is thus performed. The two travellers set out to¬ 
 gether, one on horseback, the other on foot: now, as it gener¬ 
 ally happens that he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the 
 custom is, that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he 
 is to dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other 
 thing, and then proceed on foot ; when the other comes up 
 to the horse he unties him, mounts, and gallops on, till, hav¬ 
 ing passed by his fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the 
 place of tying. And this is that method of travelling so 
 much in use among our prudent ancestors, who knew that 
 horses had mouths as well as legs, and that they could not 
 use the latter without being at the expense of suffering the 
 beasts themselves to use the former. This was the method 
 in use in those days when, instead of a coach and six, a 
 
88 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 member of parliament’s lady used to mount a pillion behind 
 her husband; and a grave serjeant at law condescended to 
 amble to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk kicking 
 his heels behind him. 
 
 Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted on 
 Joseph’s beginning the journey on horseback, and Joseph 
 had his foot in the stirrup, when the hostler presented him 
 a bill for the horse’s board during his residence at the inn. 
 Joseph said Mr Adams had paid all; but this matter, being 
 referred to Mr Tow-wouse, was by him decided in favour of 
 the hostler, and indeed with truth and justice ; for this was 
 a fresh instance of that shortness of memory which did not 
 arise from want of parts, but that continual hurry in which 
 parson Adams was always involved. 
 
 Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely 
 puzzled him. The sum due for horse-meat was twelve shil¬ 
 lings (for Adams, who had borrowed the beast of his clerk, 
 had ordered him to be fed as well as they could feed him), 
 and the cash in his pocket amounted to sixpence (for Adams 
 had divided the last shilling with him). Now, though there 
 have been some ingenious persons who have contrived to pay 
 twelve shillings with sixpence, Joseph was not one of them. 
 He had never contracted a debt in his life, and was conse¬ 
 quently the less ready at an expedient to extricate himself. 
 Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit till next time, to 
 which Mrs Tow-wouse would probably have consented (for 
 such was Joseph’s beauty, that it had made some impres¬ 
 sion even on that piece of flint which that good woman wore 
 in her bosom by way of heart). Joseph would have found, 
 therefore, very likely the passage free, had he not, when he 
 honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out 
 that little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. 
 This caused Mrs Tow-wouse’s eyes to water ; she told Joseph 
 she did not conceive a man could want money whilst he had 
 gold in his pocket. Joseph answered he had such a value 
 for that little piece of gold, that he Avould not part with it for 
 a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquire in the 
 county was worth. 1 A pretty way, indeed,’ said Mrs Tow- 
 wouse, 1 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 
 
'OH. IT.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 89 
 
 would change for.’—‘Hot 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-vvouse, 
 ‘ 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.’—‘Ho, no, I can’t part with the horse, indeed, till I 
 have the money,’ cried Tow-wouse. A resolution highly 
 commended by a lawyer then in the yard, who declared Mr 
 Tow-wouse might justify the detainer 
 
 As we cannot therefore at present get Mr Joseph out of 
 the inn, we shall leave him in it, and carry our reader on 
 after jjarson Adams, who, his mind being perfectly at ease, 
 fell into a contemplation on a passage in Aeschylus, which 
 entertained him for three miles together, without suffering 
 him once to reflect on his fellow-traveller. 
 
 At length, having spun out his thread, and being now at 
 the summit of a hill, he cast his eyes backwards, and won¬ 
 dered that he could not see any sign of Joseph. As he left 
 him ready to mount the horse, he could not apprehend any 
 mischief had happened, neither could he suspect that he 
 missed his way, it being so broad and plain; the only reason 
 which presented itself to him was, that he had met with an 
 acquaintance who had prevailed with him to delay some time 
 in discourse. 
 
 He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not 
 doubting but that he should be shortly overtaken; and soon 
 came to a large water, which, filling the whole road, he saw 
 no method of passing unless by wading through, which he 
 accordingly did up to his middle ; but was no sooner got to 
 the other side than he perceived, if he had looked over the 
 hedge, he would have found a footpath capable of conducting 
 him without wetting his shoes. 
 
 His surprize at Joseph’s not coming up grew now very 
 troublesome : he began to fear he knew not what; and as 
 he determined to move no farther, and, if he did not shortly 
 overtake him, to return back, he wished to find a house of 
 public entertainment where he might dry his clothes and 
 refresh himself with a pint; but, seeing no such (for no 
 other reason than because he did not cast his eyes a hundred 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 90 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 yards forwards), lie sat himself down on a stile, and pulled 
 out his AEschylus. 
 
 A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him if he 
 could direct him to an alehouse. The fellow, who had just 
 left it, and perceived the house and sign to be within sight, 
 thinking he had jeered him, and being of a morose temper, 
 bade him follow his nose and be d—n’d. Adams told him 
 he was a saucy jackanapes; upon which the fellow turned 
 about angrily; but, perceiving Adams clench his fist, he 
 thought proper to go on without taking any farther notice. 
 
 A horseman, following immediately after, and being asked 
 the same question, answered, Friend, there is one within a 
 stone’s throw ; I believe you may see it before you. Adams,, 
 lifting up his eyes, cried, I protest, and so there is; and, 
 thanking his informer, proceeded directly to it. 
 
CH. III.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE OPINION OE TWO LAWYERS CONCERNING THE SAME 
 GENTLEMAN, WITH MR ADAMS’S INQUIRY INTO THE 
 RELIGION OE HIS HOST. 
 
 He had just entered the house, and called for his pint, 
 and seated himself, when two horsemen came to the door, 
 and, fastening their horses to the rails, alighted. They said 
 there was a violent shower of rain coming on, which they 
 intended to weather there, and went into a little room by 
 themselves, not perceiving Mr Adams. 
 
 One of these immediately asked the other, 4 If he had 
 seen a more comical adventure a great while % ’ Upon which 
 the other said, 4 He doubted whether by law, the landlord 
 could justify detaining the horse for his corn and hay/ 
 But the former answered, 4 Undoubtedly he can \ it is an 
 adjudged case, and I have known it tried/ 
 
 Adams, who, though he was, as the reader may suspect, a 
 little inclined to forgetfulness, never wanted more than a 
 hint to remind him, overhearing their discourse, immediately 
 suggested to himself that this was his own horse, and that he 
 had forgot to pay for him, which, upon inquiry, he was 
 certified of by the gentlemen ; who added, that the horse 
 was likely to have more rest than food, unless he was paid for. 
 
 The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, 
 though he knew no more than Joseph how to procure his 
 horse his liberty; he was however prevailed on to stay under 
 covert, till the shower, which was now very violent, was over. 
 
 The three travellers then sat down together over a mug of 
 good beer; when Adams, who had observed a gentleman’s 
 house as he passed along the road, enquired to whom it be¬ 
 longed ; 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 
 
92 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 facts. He said,— £ He no more regarded a field of wheat 
 when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he 
 had injured several poor farmers by trampling their corn 
 under his horse’s heels; and if any of them begged him 
 with the utmost submission to refrain, his horsewhip was 
 always ready to do them justice.’ He said, ‘That he was 
 the greatest tyrant to the neighbours in every other instance, 
 and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though he 
 might justify it by law; and in his own family so cruel a 
 master, that he never kept a servant a twelvemonth. In his 
 capacity as a justice,’ continued he, ‘ he behaves so partially, 
 that he commits or acquits just as he is in the humour, with¬ 
 out any regard to truth or evidence ; the devil may carry 
 any one before him for me; I would rather be tried before 
 some judges, than be a prosecutor before him: if I had an 
 estate in the neighbourhood, I would sell it for half the 
 value rather than live near him.’ 
 
 Adams shook his head, and said, ‘ He was sorry such men 
 were suffered to proceed with impunity, and that riches 
 could set any man above the law.’ The reviler, a little after, 
 retiring into the yard, the gentleman wdio had first mentioned 
 his name to Adams began to assure him ‘ that his companion 
 was a prejudiced person. It is true.’ says he, ‘perhaps, that 
 he may have sometimes pursued his game over a field of 
 corn, but he hath always made the party ample satisfaction : 
 that so far from tyrannizing over his neighbours, or taking 
 away their guns, he himself knew several farmers not quali¬ 
 fied, 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 
 characters of the same person, asked his host if he knew the 
 
CH. III. 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 93 
 
 gentleman: for he began to imagine they had by mistake 
 been speaking of two several gentlemen. ‘ No, no, master,’ 
 answered the host (a shrewd cunning fellow); ‘ I know the 
 gentleman very well of whom they have been speaking, as I 
 do the gentlemen who spoke of him. As for riding over 
 other men’s corn, to my knowledge he hath not been on 
 horseback these two years. I never heard he did any injury 
 of that kind; and as to making reparation, he is not so free 
 of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear 
 of his taking away any man’s gun; nay, I know several who 
 have guns in their houses; but as for killing game with 
 them, no man is stricter; and I believe he would ruin any 
 who did. You heard one of the gentlemen say he was the 
 worst master in the world, and the other that he is the best; 
 but for my own part, I know all his servants, and never 
 heard from any of them that he was either one or the other.’ 
 —‘ Aye ! aye ! ’ says Adams ; ‘ and how doth he behave as 
 a justice, pray ’—‘ Faith, friend,’ answered the host, ‘ I 
 question whether he is in the commission; the only cause I 
 have heard he hath decided a great while, was one between 
 those very two persons who just went out of this house ; and 
 I am sure he determined that justly, for I heard the whole 
 matter.’—‘ Which did he decide it in favour of V quoth Adams. 
 
 ‘ I think I need not answer that question,’ cried the host, 
 
 ‘ after the different characters you have heard of him. It is 
 not my business to contradict gentlemen while they are 
 drinking in my house ; but I knew neither of them spoke a 
 syllable of truth.’— 4 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 affection, 
 or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. I rather believe 
 we have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons ; 
 for there are many houses on the road .’— i Why, prithee, 
 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 oneself, 
 one must speak better of a friend than an enemy.’— f Out of 
 love to yourself, you should confine yourself to truth,’ says 
 
94 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 Adams, 4 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 com¬ 
 parison of what shall be revealed hereafter.’ Upon which 
 the host, taking up the cup, with a smile, drank a health to 
 hereafter ; adding, 4 he was for something present.’— 4 Why,’ 
 says Adams very gravely, 4 do not you believe in another 
 world ? ’ To which the host answered, 4 Yes ; he was no 
 atheist.’— 4 And you believe you have an immortal soul 1 ’ 
 cries Adams. He answered, 4 God forbid he should not.’— 
 
 4 And heaven and hell ? ’ said the parson. The host then 
 bid him 4 not to profane ; for those were things not to be 
 mentioned nor thought of but in church.’ Adams asked 
 him, ‘ why he went to church, if what he learned there had 
 no influence on his conduct in life V ‘I go to church,’ 
 answered the host, 4 to say my prayers and behave godly.’— 
 
 ‘ And dost not tliou,’ cried Adams, 4 believe what thou hearest 
 at church ? ’— 4 Most part of it, master,’ returned the host. 
 
 4 And dost not thou then tremble,’ cries Adams, 4 at the 
 thought of eternal punishment ? ’— 4 As for that, master,’ said 
 he, 4 1 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 ? 
 
 4 A parcel of squinny-gut b—s,’ says he ; 4 1 have a good 
 mind to overturn them; you won’t prevail upon them to 
 drink anything, I assure you.’ Adams asked him, 4 if he 
 had not seen a young man on horseback on the road ’ (de¬ 
 scribing Joseph). 4 Ay,’ said the coachman, 4 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.’ 4 God bless her! ’ said 
 Adams in a rapture; nor could he delay walking out to sa¬ 
 tisfy himself who this charitable woman was ; but what was 
 his surprize when he saw his old acquaintance, madam Slip¬ 
 slop ? Hers indeed was not so great, because she had been 
 informed by Joseph that he was on the road. Very civil 
 were the salutations on both sides; and Mrs Slipslop rebuked 
 
CH. III.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 95 
 
 tlie hostess for denying the gentleman to he there when she 
 asked for him; hut 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 hut short 
 white coat with black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, 
 so far from having a black hatband, had nothing black 
 about it. 
 
 Joseph was now come up, and Mrs Slipslop would have 
 had him quit his horse to the parson, and come himself into 
 the coach; but he absolutely refused, saying, he thanked 
 Heaven he was well enough recovered to be very able to ride ; 
 and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to ride 
 in a coach while Mr Adams was on horseback. 
 
 Mrs Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a lady 
 in the coach put a short end to the dispute, by refusing to 
 suffer a fellow in a livery to ride in the same coach with 
 herself; so it was at length agreed that Adams should fill 
 the vacant place in the coach, and Joseph should proceed oil 
 horseback. 
 
 They had not proceeded far before Mrs Slipslop, address¬ 
 ing herself to the parson, spoke thus :— 4 There hath been a 
 strange alteration in our family, Mr Adams, since Sir Thomas’s 
 death.’ 4 A strange alteration indeed,’ says Adams, 4 as I 
 gather from some hints which have dropped from Joseph.’— 
 4 Ay,’ says she, 4 1 could never have believed it; but the 
 longer one lives in the world, the more one sees. So Joseph 
 hath given you hints.’ 4 But of what nature will always 
 remain a perfect secret with me,’ cries the parson : 4 he forced 
 me to promise before he would communicate anything. I 
 am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behave in so un¬ 
 becoming 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 serv¬ 
 ant.’ ‘These things are no secrets to me, I assure you, 
 cries Slipslop, 4 and I believe they will be none anywhere 
 shortly ; for ever since the boy’s departure she hath behaved 
 more like a mad woman than anything else.’ ‘Truly, I am 
 heartily concerned,’ says Adams, 4 for she was a good sort of 
 a lady. Indeed, I have often wished she had attended a 
 
96 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk ir. 
 
 little more constantly at the service, hut she hath done a 
 great deal of good in the parish.’ ‘ 0 Mr Adams,’ says Slip¬ 
 slop, f 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; hut indeed I can’t avoid saying, if 
 she had kept the keys herself, the poor would have wanted 
 many a cordial which I have let them have. As for my late 
 master, he was as worthy a man as ever lived, and would 
 have done infinite good if he had not been controlled ; hut 
 he loved a quiet life, Heaven rest his soul S I am confident 
 he is there, and enjoys a quiet life, which some folks would 
 not allow him here.’—Adams answered, ‘ he had never heard 
 this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for he remem¬ 
 bered she used to commend her mistress and blame her 
 master) had not formerly been of another opinion.’ f I don’t 
 know,’ replied she, ‘ what I might once think; but now I 
 am confidous matters are as I tell you; the world will shortly 
 see who hath been deceived; for my part, I say nothing, but 
 that it is wondersome how some people can carry all things 
 with a grave face 
 
 Thus Mr Adams and she discoursed, till they came op¬ 
 posite 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 un¬ 
 fortunate whom we must own at the same time guilty and 
 the author of her own calamity.’ This was abundantly suf¬ 
 ficient to awaken the curiositv of Mr Adams, as indeed it 
 did that of the whole company, who jointly solicited the 
 lady to acquaint them with Leonora’s history, since it seemed, 
 by what she had said, to contain something remarkable. 
 
 The lady, who was perfectly well bred, did not require 
 many entreaties, and having only wished their entertainment 
 might make amends for the company’s attention, she began 
 in the following manner. 
 
CH. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 97 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE HISTORY OE LEONORA, OR THE UNEORTUNATE JILT. 
 
 Leonora was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune; she 
 was tall and well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her coun¬ 
 tenance 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 in¬ 
 dicates being often mistaken for good nature, and the vivacity 
 for true understanding. 
 
 Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with 
 an aunt of hers in a town in the north of England. She 
 was an extreme lover of gaiety, and very rarely missed a ball 
 or any other public assembly ; where she had frequent op¬ 
 portunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity, with the 
 preference which was given her by the men to almost every 
 other woman present. 
 
 Among many young fellows who were particular in their 
 gallantries towards her, Horatio soon distinguished himself 
 in her eyes beyond all his competitors ; she danced with 
 more than ordinary gaiety when he happened to be her 
 partner; neither the fairness of the evening, nor the 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 even when it was too 
 delicate for her comprehension. 
 
 ‘Pray, madam,’ says Adams, ‘ who was this squire 
 Horatio 1 ’ 
 
 Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of a good 
 family, bred to the law, and had been some few years called 
 to the degree of a barrister. His face and j>erson were such 
 as the generality allowed handsome; but he had a dignity in 
 his air very rarely to be seen. His temper was of the satur¬ 
 nine complexion, but without the least taint of moroseness. 
 He had wit and humour, with an inclination to satire, which 
 he indulged rather too much. 
 
 7 
 
9S 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [EK II. 
 
 This gentleman, who had contracted the most violent 
 passion for Leonora, was the last person who perceived the 
 probability of its success. The whole town had made the 
 match for him before he himself had drawn a confidence from 
 her actions sufficient to mention his passion to her; for it 
 was his opinion (and perhaps he was there in the right)itliat 
 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. 
 
 1 1 never knew any of these forward sluts come to good ’ 
 (says the lady who refused Joseph’s entrance into the coach), 
 ‘nor shall I wonder at anything she doth in the sequel.’ 
 
 The lady proceeded in her story thus : It was in the midst 
 of a gay conversation in the walks one evening, when Horatio 
 whispered Leonora, that he was desirous to take a turn or 
 two with her in private, for that he had something to com¬ 
 municate to her of great consequence. ‘ Are you sure it is 
 of consequence 1 ’ said she, smiling. 6 1 hope,’ answered he, 
 ‘ you will think so too, since the whole future happiness of 
 my life must depend on the event.’ 
 
 Leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, 
 would have deferred it till another time; but Horatio, who 
 had more than half conquered the difficulty of speaking by 
 the first motion, was so very importunate, that she at last 
 yielded, and, leaving the rest of the company, they turned 
 aside into an unfrequented walk. 
 
 They had retired far out of the sight of the company, both 
 maintaining a strict silence. At last Horatio made a full 
 stop, and taking Leonora, who stood pale and trembling, 
 gently by the hand, he fetched a deep sigh, and then, look¬ 
 ing 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 99 
 
 CH. IV.] 
 
 must be founded ? Must I say, there is something belonging 
 to you which is a bar to my happiness, and which unless you 
 will part with, I must be miserable ! ’— 1 What can that be?’ 
 replied Leonora. ‘ jSTo wonder,’ said he, ‘ you are surprized 
 that I should make an objection to anything which is yours : 
 yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the 
 riches of the world, if they were mine, should purchase for 
 me. Oh, it is that which you must part with to bestow all 
 the rest! Can Leonora, or rather will she, doubt longer ? 
 Let me then whisper it in her ears—It is your name, madam. 
 It is by parting with that, by your condescension to be for 
 ever mine, which must at once prevent me from being the 
 most miserable, and will render me the happiest of man¬ 
 kind.’ 
 
 Leonora, covered with blushes, and with as angry a look 
 as she could possibly put on, told him, ‘ that had she sus¬ 
 pected what his declaration would have been, he should not 
 have decoyed her from her company, that he had so surprized 
 and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her back as 
 quick as possible; ’ which he, trembling very near as much 
 as herself, did. 
 
 ‘ More fool he,’ cried Slipslop ; £ it is a sign he knew very 
 little of our sect.’—‘ Truly, madam,’ said Adams, ‘ I think 
 you are in the right: I should have insisted to know a piece 
 of her mind, when I had carried matters so far.’ But Mrs 
 Grave-airs desired the lady to omit all such fulsome stuff in 
 her story, for that it made her sick. 
 
 Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, said the 
 lady, many weeks had not passed after this interview before 
 Horatio and Leonora were what they call on a good footing 
 together. All ceremonies except the last were now over ; 
 the writings were now drawn, and everything was in the 
 utmost forwardness preparative to the putting Horatio in 
 possession of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you 
 a letter from each of them, which I have got by heart, and 
 which will give you no small idea of their passion on both 
 sides. 
 
 Mrs Grave-airs objected to hearing these letters ; but 
 being put to the vote, it was carried against her by all the 
 rest in the coach; parson Adams contending for it with the 
 utmost vehemence. 
 
100 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 HORATIO TO LEONORA. 
 
 1 How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of plea¬ 
 sure in the absence of an object to which the mind is entirely 
 devoted, unless it have some relation to that object ! I was 
 last night condemned to the society of men of wit and learn¬ 
 ing, which, however agreeable it might have formerly been to 
 me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputed my ab¬ 
 sence in conversation to the true cause. For which reason, 
 when your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of 
 seeing you, I am always desirous to be alone; since my senti¬ 
 ments for Leonora are so delicate, that I cannot bear the 
 apprehension of another’s prying into those delightful endear¬ 
 ments with which the warm imagination of a lover will some¬ 
 times 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 tender¬ 
 nesses 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 be¬ 
 loved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, may give us 
 charming opportunities of being brave in her defence, gener¬ 
 ous to her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grateful to 
 her kindness; and in the same manner, of exercising every 
 other virtue, which he who would not do to any degree, and 
 that with the utmost rapture, can never deserve the name of 
 a lover. It is, therefore, with a view to the delicate modesty 
 of your mind that I cultivate it so purely in my oavii; and it 
 is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the uneasiness- 
 I bear from those liberties, which men to whom the world 
 allow politeness will sometimes give themselves on these 
 occasions. 
 
 ‘ Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival 
 of that blest day, when I shall experience the falsehood of a 
 common assertion, that the greatest human happiness consists 
 in hope'? A doctrine which no person had ever stronger 
 reason to believe than myself at present, since none ever 
 tasted such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts of 
 spending my future days with such a companion, and that 
 
OH. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 101 
 
 every action of my life will have the glorious satisfaction of 
 conducing to your happiness.’ 
 
 LEONORA TO HORATIO.* 
 
 ‘ The refinement of your mind has been so evidently proved 
 by every word and action ever since I had the first pleasure 
 of knowing you, that I thought it impossible my good opinion 
 of Horatio could have been heightened to any additional 
 proof of merit. This very thought was my amusement when 
 I received your last letter, which, when I opened, I confess I 
 was surprized to find the delicate sentiments expressed there 
 so far exceeding what I thought could come even from you 
 (although I know all the generous principles human nature 
 is capable of are centred in your breast), that words cannot 
 paint what I feel on the reflection that my happiness shall 
 be the ultimate end of all your actions. 
 
 ‘ Oh, Horatio ! what a life must that be, where the meanest 
 domestic cares are sweetened by the pleasing consideration 
 that the man on earth who best deserves, and to whom you 
 are most inclined t.o give your affections, is to reap either 
 profit or pleasure from all you do ! In such a case toils must 
 be turned into diversions, and nothing but the unavoidable 
 inconveniences of life can make us remember that we are 
 mortal. 
 
 ‘ If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of 
 keeping them undiscovered, makes even the conversation of 
 men of wit and learning tedious to you, what anxious hours 
 must I spend, who am condemned by custom to the convers¬ 
 ation of women, whose natural curiosity leads them to pry 
 into all my thoughts, and whose envy can never suffer 
 Horatio’s heart to be possessed by any one, without forcing 
 them into malicious designs against the person who is so 
 happy as to possess it! But, indeed, if ever envy can 
 possibly have any excuse, or even alleviation, it is in this 
 ease, where the good is so great, and it must be equally 
 natural to all to wish it for themselves; nor am I ashamed 
 to own it: and to your merit, Horatio, I am obliged, that 
 prevents my being in that most uneasy of all the situations 
 
 * This letter was written by a young lady on reading the former. 
 
102 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 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, wdien the sessions chanced to be 
 held for that county in a town about twenty miles’ distance 
 from that which is the scene of our story. It seems, it is 
 usual for the young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these 
 sessions, not so much for the sake of profit as to show their 
 parts and learn the law of the justices of peace \ for which 
 purpose one of the wisest and gravest of all the justices is 
 appointed speaker, or chairman, as they modestly call it, and 
 he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in the true 
 knowledge of the law. 
 
 1 You are here guilty of a little mistake,’ says Adams, 
 ‘ which, if you please, I will correct: I have attended at one 
 of these quarter-sessions, where I observed the counsel taught 
 the justices, instead of learning anything of them.’ 
 
 It is not very material, said the lady. Hither repaired 
 Horatio, who, as he hoped by his profession to advance his 
 fortune, which was not at present very large, for the sake of 
 his dear Leonora, he resolved to spare no pains, nor lose any 
 opportunity of improving or advancing himself in it. 
 
 The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora 
 stood at her window, a coach and six passed by, which she 
 declared to be the completest, genteelest, prettiest equipage 
 she ever saw ; adding these remarkable words, ‘ 0, I am in 
 love with that equipage ! ’ which, though her friend Florella 
 at that time did not greatly regard, she hath since re¬ 
 membered. 
 
 In the evening an assembly was held, -which Leonora 
 honoured with her company; but intended to pay her 
 dear Horatio the compliment of refusing to dance in his 
 absence. 
 
 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 tlio 
 assembly. His clothes were as remarkably fine as his 
 
CPI. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 103 
 
 equipage could be. He soon attracted the eyes of the com¬ 
 pany ; all the smarts, all the silk waistcoats with silver and 
 gold edgings, were eclipsed in an instant. 
 
 ‘ Madam/ said Adams, ‘ if it he not impertinent, I should 
 be glad to know how this gentleman was drest.’ 
 
 Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had on a cut 
 velvet coat of a cinnamon colour, lined with a pink satin, 
 embroidered all over with gold ; his waistcoat, which was 
 cloth of silver, was embroidered with gold likewise. I can¬ 
 not be particular as to the rest of his dress but it was all 
 in the French fashion, for Bellarmine (that was his name) 
 was just arrived from Paris. 
 
 This fine figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of 
 every lady in the assembly than Leonora did his. He had 
 scarce beheld her, but he stood motionless and fixed as a 
 statue, or at least would have done so if good breeding had 
 permitted him. Hov T ever, he carried it so far before he had 
 power to correct himself, that every person in the room easily 
 discovered where his admiration was settled. The other 
 ladies began to single out their former partners, all perceiving 
 who would be Bellarmine’s choice ; which they however 
 endeavoured, by all possible means, to prevent: many of 
 them saying to Leonora, ‘ 0 madam ! I suppose we shan’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 malici¬ 
 ously 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 convuls¬ 
 ive motion : she seemed as if she would speak to several of 
 her acquaintance, but had nothing to say ; for, as she would 
 not mention her present triumph, so she could not disengage 
 her thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. 
 She had never tasted anything like this happiness. She had 
 before known what it urns 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 
 
104 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 of ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there was 
 nothing so foolish as her behaviour : she played a thousand 
 childish tricks, distorted her person into several shapes, and 
 her face into several laughs, without any reason. In a word, 
 her carriage was as absurd as her desires, which were to 
 affect an insensibility of the stranger’s admiration, and at the 
 same time a triumph, from that admiration, over every- 
 woman in the room. 
 
 In this temper of mind, Bellarmine, having inquired who 
 she was, advanced to her, and with a low bow begged the 
 honour of dancing with her, which she, with as low a curtesy, 
 immediately granted. She danced with him all night, and 
 enjoyed perhaps the highest pleasure that she was capable of 
 feeling. 
 
 At these words, Adams fetched a deep groan, which 
 frighted the ladies, who told him, 4 they hoped he was not 
 ill.’ He answered, 4 he groaned only for the folly of 
 Leonora.’ 
 
 Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in the 
 morning, but not to rest. She tumbled and tossed in her 
 bed, with very short intervals of sleep, and those entirely 
 filled with dreams of the equipage and fine clothes she had 
 seen, and the balls, operas, and ridottos, which had been the 
 subject of their conversation. 
 
 In the afternoon Bellarmine, in the dear coach and six, 
 came to wait on her. He was indeed charmed with her 
 persorf, and was, on inquiry, so well pleased with the cir¬ 
 cumstances of her father (for he himself, notwithstanding all 
 his finery, was not quite so rich as a Croesus or an Attains). 
 — 4 Attalus,’ says Mr Adams : 4 but pray how came you ac¬ 
 quainted with these names 1 ’ The lady smiled at the 
 question, and proceeded. He was so pleased, I say, that he 
 resolved to make his addresses to her directly. He did so 
 accordingly, and that with so much warmth and briskness, 
 that he quickly baffled her weak repulses, and obliged the 
 lady to refer him to her father, who, she knew, would quick¬ 
 ly declare in favour of a coach and six. 
 
 Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love and 
 tenderness, been so long obtaining, the Brench-English Bel¬ 
 larmine Avith gaiety and gallantry possessed himself of in an 
 instant. In other words, what modesty had employed a full 
 
€H. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 105 
 
 year in raising, impudence demolished in twenty-four hours. 
 
 Here Adams groaned a second time ; hut the ladies, who 
 began to smoke, took no notice. 
 
 From the opening of the assembly till the end of Bellar¬ 
 mine’s visit, Leonora had scarce once thought of Horatio ; 
 but he now began, though an unwelcome guest, to enter 
 into her mind. She unshed she had seen the charming 
 Bellarmine and his charming equipage before matters had 
 gone so far. 4 Yet why,’ says she, ‘ should I wish to have 
 seen him before; or what signifies it that I have seen him 
 now ? Is not Horatio my lover, almost my husband ? Is he 
 not as handsome, nay handsomer, than Bellarmine'? 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 h Ay, but yesterday I had not seen Bel¬ 
 larmine. But doth not Horatio doat on me, and may he not 
 in despair break his heart if I abandon him'? Well, and 
 hath not Bellarmine a heart to break too *? Yes, but I 
 promised Horatio first; but that was poor Bellarmine’s mis¬ 
 fortune ; if I had seen him first, I should certainly have 
 preferred him. Did not the dear creature prefer me to 
 every woman in the assembly, when every she was laying out 
 for him ? When was it in Horatio’s power to give me such 
 an instance of affection'? Can he give me an equipage, or any 
 of those things which Bellarmine will make me mistress of ? 
 How vast is the difference between being the wife of a poor 
 counsellor and the wife of one of Bellarmine’s fortune ! If I 
 marry Horatio, I shall triumph over no more than one rival; 
 but by marrying Bellarmine I shall be the envy of all my 
 acquaintance. What happiness ! But can I suffer Horatio 
 to die h for he hath sworn he cannot survive my loss : but 
 perhaps he may not die : if he should, can I prevent it 1 
 Must I sacrifice myself to him *? besides, Bellarmine may be 
 as miserable for me too.’ She was thus arguing with herself, 
 when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a little 
 relieved her anxiety for the present. 
 
 The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in 
 presence of her aunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his 
 passion for Leonora. He was no sooner withdrawn than the 
 old lady began to advise her niece on this occasion. ‘ You 
 
106 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II, 
 
 see, child/ says slie, 4 what fortune hath thrown in your 
 way ; and I hope you will not withstand your own prefer¬ 
 ment.’ Leonora, sighing, begged her not to mention any 
 such thing, when she knew her engagements to Horatio. 
 c Engagements to a fig ! ’ cried the aunt; ‘ you should thank 
 Heaven on your knees that you have it yet in your power to 
 break them. Will any woman hesitate a moment whether 
 she shall ride in a coach or walk on foot all the days of her 
 life h But Bellarmine drives six, and Horatio not even a 
 pair.’—‘ Yes, but, madam, what 'will the world say 3 ’ an¬ 
 swered Leonora : ‘ will not they condemn me ^ ’ — ‘The 
 world is always on the side of prudence/ cries the aunt, 
 
 ‘ and would surely condemn you if you sacrificed your in¬ 
 terest to any motive whatever. 0 ! I know the world very 
 well; and you show your ignorance, my dear, by your ob¬ 
 jection. O’ my conscience ! the world is wiser. I have 
 lived longer in it than you; and I assure you there is not 
 anything worth our regard besides money; nor did I ever 
 know one person who married from other considerations, who 
 did not afterwards heartily repent it. Besides, if we examine 
 the two men, can you prefer a sneaking fellow, who hath 
 been bred at the university, to a fine gentleman just come 
 from his travels h All the world must allow Bellarmine to 
 be a fine gentleman, positively a fine gentleman, and a hand¬ 
 some man.’—‘ Perhaps, madam, I should not doubt, if I 
 knew how to be handsomely off with the other .’— 1 0 ! leave 
 that to me/ says the aunt. * You know your father hath 
 not been acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for my part 
 I thought it might do well enough, not dreaming of such 
 an offer; but I’ll disengage you : leave me to give the fellow 
 an answer. I warrant you shall have no farther trouble.’ 
 
 Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt’s reasoning; 
 and Bellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed 
 he should the next morning go to her father and propose the 
 match, which she consented should be consummated at his 
 return. 
 
 The aunt retired soon after supper; and, the lovers being 
 left together, Bellarmine began in the following manner: 
 ‘ Yes, madam; this coat, I assure you, was made at Paris, 
 and I defy the best English tailor even to imitate it. There 
 is not one of them can cut, madam ; they can’t cut. If you 
 
CH. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 107 
 
 observe bow this skirt is turned, and tbis sleeve : a clumsy 
 English rascal can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you 
 like my liveries 1 ’ Leonora answered, ‘ she thought them 
 very pretty.’—‘ All French,’ 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 our 
 own people what one can, especially as, before I had a place, 
 I was in the country interest, he, he, he ! But for myself, I 
 would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather 
 than wear a single rag of English work about me: and I am 
 sure, after you have made one tour to Paris, you will be of 
 the same opinion with regard to your own clothes. You can’t 
 conceive what an addition a French dress would be to your 
 beauty ; I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw 
 since I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chamber¬ 
 maids, he, he, he ! ’ 
 
 With such sort of polite discourse did the gay Bellarmine 
 entertain his beloved Leonora, when the door opened on a 
 sudden, and Horatio entered the room. Here ’tis impossible 
 to express the surprize of Leonora. 
 
 ‘ Poor woman ! ’ says Mrs Slipslop, ‘ what a terrible quand¬ 
 ary she must be in ! ’—‘ Hot at all,’ says Mrs Grave-airs ; 
 1 such sluts can never be confounded.’—‘ She must have then 
 more than Corinthian assurance,’ said Adams; ‘ ay, more 
 than Lais herself.’ 
 
 A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in the whole 
 company. If the familiar entrance of Horatio struck the great¬ 
 est astonishment into Bellarmine, the unexpected presence of 
 Bellarmine no less surprized Horatio. At length Leonora, col¬ 
 lecting all the spirit she was mistress of, addressed herself 
 to the latter, and pretended to wonder at the reason of so 
 late a visit. ‘ I should, indeed,’ answered he, f 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, ‘ Ho, he is no relation of mine 
 yet; ’ adding ‘ she could not guess the meaning of his 
 question.’ Horatio told her softly, ‘ It did not arise from 
 
108 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 jealousy.’— 4 Jealousy ! I assure you, it would be very strange 
 in a common acquaintance to give himself any of those airs.’ 
 These words a little surprized Horatio; but, before he had 
 time to answer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady and told 
 her, 4 he feared he interrupted some business between her 
 and the gentleman.’— 4 1 can have no business,’ said she, 
 
 4 with the gentleman, nor any other, which need be any 
 secret to you.’ 
 
 4 You’ll pardon me,’ said Horatio, 4 if I desire to know 
 who this gentleman is who is to be intrusted with all our 
 secrets.’— 4 You’ll know soon enough,’ cries Leonora; 4 but I 
 can’t guess what secrets can ever pass between us of such 
 mighty consequence.’— 4 Ho, madam ! ’ cries Horatio ; 4 1 am 
 sure you would not have me understand you in earnest.’— 
 4 ’Tis indifferent to me,’ says she, 4 how you understand me ; 
 but I think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be understood 
 at all, at least when people find one engaged : though one’s 
 servants do not deny one, one may expect a well-bred person 
 should soon take the hint.’ 4 Madam,’ said Horatio, 4 1 did 
 not imagine any engagement with a stranger, as it seems this 
 gentleman is, would have made my visit impertinent, or that 
 any such ceremonies were to be preserved between persons 
 in our situation.’ 4 Sure you are in a dream,’ says she, 4 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.’ 4 Sure,’ said he, 4 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 % ’ 
 4 Passed between us ! Do you intend to affront me before 
 this gentleman 1 ’ 4 D—n me, affront the lady,’ says Bellar- 
 
 mine, cocking his hat, and strutting up to Horatio : 4 does 
 any man dare affront this lady before me, d—n me % ’ 
 4 Hark’ee sir,’ says Horatio, 4 1 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.’ 
 4 Sir,’ said Bellarmine, 4 1 have the honour to be her protector ; 
 and, d—n me, if I understand your meaning.’ 4 Sir,’ 
 answered Horatio, 4 she is rather your protectress ; but give 
 yourself no more airs, for you see I am prepared for you ’ 
 (shaking his whip at him). 4 Oh ! serviteur tres humble ,’ says 
 Bellarmine: 4 Je vous entendparfaitment bien.' > At which time 
 
CH. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 109 
 
 tlie aunt, who had heard of Horatio’s visit, entered the room, 
 ■ and soon satisfied all his doubts. She convinced him that 
 he was never more awake in his life, and that nothing more 
 extraordinary had happened in his three days’ absence than 
 a small alteration in the affections of Leonora; who now 
 burst into tears, and wondered what reason she had coven 
 him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desired 
 Bellarmine to withdraw with him ; but the ladies prevented 
 it by laying violent hands on the latter; upon which the 
 former took his leave without any great ceremony, and de¬ 
 parted, leaving the lady with his rival to consult for his safety, 
 which Leonora feared her indiscretion might have endangered; 
 but the aunt comforted her with assurances that Horatio 
 would not venture his person against so accomplished a cava¬ 
 lier as Bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek 
 revenge in his own way, and .the most they had to apprehend 
 from him was an action. 
 
 They at length therefore agreed to permit Bellarmine 
 to retire to his lodgings, having first settled all matters 
 relating to the journey which he was to undertake in the 
 morning, and their preparations for the nuptials at his 
 return. 
 
 But, alas ! as wise men have observed, the seat of valour 
 is not the countenance; and many a grave and plain man 
 will, on a just provocation, betake himself to that mischievous 
 metal, cold iron ; while men of a fiercer brow, and sometimes 
 with that emblem of courage, a cockade, will more prudently 
 decline it. 
 
 Leonora was waked in the morning, from a visionary 
 coach and six, with the dismal account that Bellarmine was 
 run through the body by Horatio ; that he lay languishing at 
 an inn, and the surgeons had declared the wound mortal. She 
 immediately leaped out of the bed, danced about the room in 
 a frantic manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all the 
 agonies of despair ; in which sad condition her aunt, who 
 likewise arose at the news, found her. The good old lady 
 applied her utmost art to comfort her niece. She told her, 
 * while there was life there was hope ; but that if he should 
 die her affliction would be of no service to Bellarmine, and 
 would only expose herself, which might, probably, keep her 
 some time without any future offer; that, as matters had 
 
110 THE ADVENTURES OF [BK II. 
 
 happened, her wisest way would he to think no more of 
 Bellarmine, hut to endeavour to regain the affections of 
 Horatio.’ 4 Speak not to me,’ cried the disconsolate Leonora ; 
 i is it not owing to me that poor Bellarmine has lost his life h 
 Have not these cursed charms (at which words she looked 
 stedfastly in the glass) been the ruin of the most charming 
 man of this age ? Can I ever hear to contemplate my own 
 face again (with her eyes still fixed on the glass) 1 Am I 
 not the murderess of the finest gentleman 1 Ho other woman 
 in the town could have made any impression on him.’ 
 ‘ Never think of things past,’ cries the aunt: 4 think of re¬ 
 gaining the affections of Horatio.’ 4 What reason,’ said the 
 niece, 4 have I to hope he would forgive me ] Ho, I have 
 lost him as well as the other, and it was your wicked advice 
 which was the occasion of all; you seduced me, contrary to 
 my inclinations, to abandon poor Horatio (at which words 
 she burst into tears); you prevailed upon me, whether I 
 would or no, to give up my affections for him; had it 
 not been for you Bellarmine never would have entered into 
 my thoughts; had not his addresses been backed by your 
 persuasions they never would have made any impression 
 on me; I should have defied all the fortune and equipage in 
 the world; but it was you, it was you, who got the better of 
 my youth and simplicity, and forced me to lose my dear 
 Horatio for ever.’ 
 
 The aunt was almost borne down with this torrent of 
 words; she however rallied all the strength she could, and, 
 drawing her mouth up in a purse, began : 4 1 am not sur¬ 
 prized, niece, at this ingratitude. Those who advise young 
 women for their interest must always expect such a return: 
 I am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off 
 your match with Horatio at any rate.’— 4 That may not be 
 in your power yet,’ answered Leonora, 4 though it is very 
 ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it, after the presents 
 you have received from him.’ (For indeed true it is, that 
 many presents, and some pretty valuable ones, had passed 
 from Horatio to the old lady; but as true it is, that Bellar¬ 
 mine, when he breakfasted with her and her niece, had com¬ 
 plimented her with a brilliant from his finger, of much 
 greater value than all she had touched of the other.) 
 
 The aunt’s gall was on float to reply, when a servant 
 
CH IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 brought a letter into the room, which Leonora, hearing it came 
 from Bellarmine, with great eagerness opened, and read as 
 follows : 
 
 1 Most divine Creature,— The wound which I fear you 
 have heard I received from my rival is not like to be so fatal 
 as those shot into my heart which have been fired from your 
 eyes, tout brilliant. Those are the only cannons by which 
 I am to fall; for my surgeon gives me hopes of being soon 
 able to attend your ruelle ; till when, unless you would do 
 me an honour which I have scarce the hardiesse to think of, 
 your absence will be the greatest anguish which can be felt 
 by, madam, avec toute le respecte in the world, your most 
 obedient, most absolute devote , Bellarmine.’ 
 
 As soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of Bellarmine’s 
 recovery, and that the gossip Lame had, according to custom, 
 so enlarged his danger, she presently abandoned all further 
 thoughts of Horatio, and was soon reconciled to her aunt, 
 who received her again into favour, with a more Christian 
 forgiveness than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is 
 possible she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her 
 niece had given her concerning the presents. She might 
 apprehend such rumours, should they get abroad, might 
 injure a reputation which, by frequenting church twice 
 a-day, and preserving the utmost rigour and strictness in 
 her countenance and behaviour for many years, she had 
 established. 
 
 Leonora’s passion returned now for Bellarmine with greater 
 force, after its small relaxation, than ever. She proposed to 
 her aunt to make him a visit in his confinement, which the 
 old lady, with great and commendable prudence, advised her 
 to decline : ‘ Lor,’ says she, ‘ should any accident intervene 
 to prevent your intended match, too forward a behaviour 
 with this lover may injure you in the eyes of others. Every 
 woman, till she is married, ought to consider of, and provide 
 against, the possibility of the affair’s breaking off.’ Leonora 
 said, * she should be indifferent to whatever might happen in 
 such a case; for she had now so absolutely placed her affec¬ 
 tions on this dear man (so she called him), that, if it was her 
 misfortune to lose him, she should for ever abandon all 
 
112 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 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 reso¬ 
 lution. 
 
 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. 
 
CH. V.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 113 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 A DREADPUL QUARREL WHICH HAPPENED AT THE INN 
 WHERE THE COMPANY DINED, WITH ITS BLOODY CON¬ 
 SEQUENCES 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 lie found Joseph sitting by the lire, and the hostess 
 anointing his leg; for the horse which Mr Adams had bor¬ 
 rowed 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 j and, 
 as his legs almost touched the ground when he bestrode the 
 beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himself forward 
 on such occasions with so much dexterity that he never 
 received any mischief ; the horse and he frequently rolling 
 many paces distance, and afterwards both getting up and 
 meeting as good friends as ever. 
 
 Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle, 
 though an excellent horseman, did not so happily disengage 
 himself; but, falling with his leg under the beast, received 
 a violent contusion, to which the good woman was, as we 
 have said, applying a warm hand, with some camphorated 
 spirits, just at the time when the parson entered the kitchen. 
 
 He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph’s misfor¬ 
 tune before the host likewise entered. He was by no means 
 of Mr Tow-wouse’s gentle disposition; and was, indeed, per¬ 
 fect master of his house, and everything in it but his guests. 
 
 This surly fellow, who always projiortioned his respect to 
 the appearance of a traveller, from ‘ God bless your honour,’ 
 down to plain ‘ Coming presently,’ observing his wife on her 
 knees to a footman, cried out, without considering his cir¬ 
 cumstances, ‘ TV hat a pox is the woman about % why don’t 
 
 8 4 
 
114 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 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 hut what is at the fire, which 
 will he ready presently; and really the poor young man’s 
 leg is very much bruised.’ At which words she fell to chafing 
 more violently than before: the bell then happening to ring, 
 he damn’d his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and, 
 not stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe the 
 young fellow’s leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, 
 within twenty miles he would find a surgeon to cut it off. 
 Upon these words, Adams fetched two strides across the 
 room; and, snapping his fingers over his head, muttered 
 aloud, He would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, 
 for he believed the devil had more humanity. These words 
 occasioned a dialogue between Adams and the host, in which 
 there were two or three sharp replies, till Joseph bade the 
 latter know how to behave himself to his betters. At which 
 the host (having first strictly surveyed Adams) scornfully 
 repeated 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 out¬ 
 done in courtesy, especially by a person of Adams’s figure, 
 returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson’s 
 nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. Upon 
 which he again assailed his antagonist, and with another 
 stroke laid him sprawling on the floor. 
 
 The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband 
 deserved, seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along, 
 hastened presently to his assistance, or rather to revenge the 
 blow, which, to all appearance, was the last he would ever 
 receive ; when, lo ! a pan full of hog’s blood, which unluckily 
 stood on the dresser, presented itself first to her hands. She 
 seized it in her fury, and, without any reflection, discharged 
 it into the parson’s face; and with so good an aim, that 
 much the greater part first saluted his countenance, and 
 trickled thence in so large a current down to his beard, and 
 over his garments, that a more horrible spectacle was hardly 
 to be seen, or even imagined. All which was perceived by 
 

 r/y/y/ /'/y 
 
CH. V.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 115 
 
 Mrs Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant. This 
 .good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool 
 and patient as perhaps was required to ask many questions on 
 this occasion, flew with great impetuosity at the hostess’s 
 cap, which, together with some of her hair, she plucked from 
 her head in a moment, giving her, at the same time, several 
 hearty cuffs in the face ■ which, by frequent practice on the 
 inferior servants, she had learned an excellent knack cf de¬ 
 livering with a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise 
 from his chair; the parson was employed in wiping the blood 
 from his eyes, which had entirely blinded him; and the 
 landlord was but just beginning to stir ; whilst Mrs Slipslop, 
 holding down the landlady’s face with her left hand, made 
 so dexterous an use of her right, that the poor woman began 
 to roar, in a key which alarmed all the company in the inn. 
 
 There happened to be in the inn, at this time, besides the 
 ladies who arrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen 
 who were present at Mr Tow-wouse’s when Joseph was de¬ 
 tained for his horse’s meat, and whom we have before men¬ 
 tioned to have stopt at the alehouse with Adams. There 
 was likewise a gentleman just returned from his travels to 
 Italy ; all whom the horrid outcry of murder presently 
 brought into the kitchen, where the several combatants were 
 found in the postures already described. 
 
 It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the 
 conquerors being satisfied with the vengeance they had 
 taken, and the conquered having no appetite to renew the 
 fight. The principal figure, and which engaged the eyes of 
 all, was Adams, who was all over covered with blood, which 
 the whole company concluded to be his own, and conse¬ 
 quently imagined him no longer for this world. But the 
 host, who had now recovered from his blow, and was risen 
 from the ground, soon delivered them from this apprehension, 
 by damning his wife for wasting the hog’s puddings, and 
 telling her all would have been very well if she had not 
 intermeddled, like a b— as she was; adding, he was very 
 glad the gentlewoman had paid her, though not half what 
 she deserved. The poor woman had indeed fared much the 
 worse ; having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a 
 quantity of hair, which Mrs Slipslop in triumph held in her 
 left hand. 
 
116 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk If. 
 
 The traveller, addressing himself to Mrs Grave-airs, desired 
 her not to be frightened; for here had been only a little 
 boxing, which he said, to their disgracici, the English were 
 accustomcita to: adding, it must be, however, a sight some¬ 
 what strange to him, who was just come from Italy; the 
 Italians not being addicted to the cufardo, but bastonza, says 
 he. He then went up to Adams, and telling him he looked like 
 the ghost of Othello, bid him not shake his gory locks at 
 him, for he could not say he did it. Adams very innocently 
 answered, 1 Sir, I am far from accusing yon.’ He then re¬ 
 turned to the lady, and cried, ‘ I find the bloody gentleman 
 is uno insipido del nullo senso. Damncito di me , if I have 
 seen such a spectamlo 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, wliispered'in his ear, ‘ He’d 
 warrant he would recover.’—‘ Recover ! master,’ said the host 
 smiling : ‘ yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying with a blow or 
 two neither; I am not such a chicken as that.’—‘ Pugh ! ’ 
 said the gentleman, ‘ I mean you will recover damages in 
 that action which, undoubtedly, you intend to bring, as soon 
 as a writ can be returned from London; for you look like a 
 man of too much spirit and courage to suffer any one to beat 
 you without bringing your action against him: he must be a 
 scandalous fellow indeed who would put up with a drubbing 
 whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides, he hath drawn 
 blood from you, and spoiled your coat; and the jury will 
 give damages for that too. An excellent new coat upon my 
 word; and now not worth a shilling ! I don’t care,’ continued 
 he, ‘ to intermeddle in these cases ; but you have a right to 
 my evidence; and if I am sworn, I must speak the truth. 
 I saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing from 
 your nostrils. You may take your own opinion; but was I 
 in your circumstances, every drop of my blood should convey 
 an ounce of gold into my pocket: remember I don’t advise 
 you to go to law ; but if your jury were Christians, they 
 must give swinging damages. That’s all.’—‘Master,’ cried 
 the host, scratching his head, ‘ I have no stomach to law, I 
 thank you I have seen enough of that in the parish, where 
 two of my neighbours have been at law about a house, till 
 they have both lawecl themselves into a gaol.’ At which 
 
CH. V.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 117 
 
 words lie turned about, and began to inquire again after bis 
 hog’s puddings ; nor would it probably have been a sufficient 
 excuse for his wife, that she spilt them in his defence, had 
 not some awe of the company, especially of the Italian tra¬ 
 veller, who was a person of great dignity, withheld his rage. 
 
 Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was em¬ 
 ployed, as w r e 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. 4 1 am sorry you own it too,’ cries the gentle¬ 
 man: ‘for it could not possibly appear to the court; for here 
 was no evidence present but the lame man in the chair, 
 whom I suppose to be your friend, and would consequently 
 say nothing but what made for you.’—‘ Hoiv, sir,’ says 
 Adams, ‘ do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute 
 revenge in cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to obtain 
 itl If you knew me, and my order, I should think you 
 affronted both.’ At the word order, the gentleman stared 
 (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of knights) ; 
 and, turning hastily about, said, ‘ Every man knew his own 
 business.’ 
 
 Matters being now composed, the company retired to their 
 several apartments; the two gentlemen congratulating each 
 other on the success of their good offices in procuring a per¬ 
 fect reconciliation between the contending parties ; and the 
 traveller went to his repast, crying, ‘ as the Italian poet says, 
 
 “ Je voi very well que tutta e pace. 
 
 So send up dinner, good Boniface.” ’ 
 
 The coachman began now to grow importunate with his 
 passengers, whose entrance into the coach was retarded by 
 Miss Grave-airs insisting, against the remonstrances of all the 
 rest, that she would not admit a footman into the coach ; for 
 poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. A young lady, 
 who was, as it seems, an earl’s-grand-daughter, begged it with 
 
118 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 almost tears in her eyes. Mr Adams prayed, and Mrs Slip¬ 
 slop scolded; but all to no purpose. She said, 4 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; hut would suffer no such 
 fellow to come in.’— 4 Madam,’ says Slipslop, 4 1 am sure no 
 one can refuse another coming into a stage-coach.’— 4 1 don’t 
 know, madam,’ says the lady ; 4 1 am not much used to stage¬ 
 coaches ; I seldom travel in them.’— 4 That may he, madam,’ 
 replied Slipslop ; 4 very good people do; and some people’s 
 betters, for aught I know.’ Miss Grave-airs said, 4 Some 
 folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty, to some 
 people that were their betters, which did not become them; 
 for her part, she was not used to converse with servants.’ 
 Slipslop returned, 4 Some people kept no servants to converse 
 with; for her part, she thanked Heaven she lived in a family 
 where there were a great many, and had more under her own 
 command than any paltry little gentlewoman in the kingdom.’ 
 Miss Grave-airs cried, 4 She believed her mistress would not 
 encourage such sauciness to her betters.’— 4 My betters,’ says 
 Slipslop, 4 who is my betters, pray 1 ’— 4 1 am your betters,’ 
 answered Miss Grave-airs, 4 and I’ll acquaint your mistress.’ 
 —At which Mrs Slipslop laughed aloud, and told her, 4 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 coacli-door when a solemn person, riding 
 into the inn, and seeing Miss Grave-airs, immediately accosted 
 her with 4 Dear child, how do you 1 ’ She presently answered, 
 4 0 ! papa, I am glad you have overtaken me.’— 4 So am I,’ 
 answered he; 4 for one of our coaches is just at hand; and, 
 there being room for you in it, you shall go no farther in the 
 stage unless you desire it.’— 4 How can you imagine I should 
 desire it ? ’ says she ; so, bidding Slipslop ride with her 
 fellow, if she pleased, she took her father by the hand, who 
 was just alighted, ancl walked with him into a room. 
 
 Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, 4 If he 
 knew who the gentleman was V The coachman answered, 
 4 He was now a gentleman, and kept his horse and man ; 
 but times are altered, master,’ said he ’ 4 1 remember when 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 119 
 
 CII. V.] 
 
 lie was no better born than myself.’— 4 Aye ! aye ! ’ says 
 Adams. ‘ My father drove the squire’s coacb,’ answered he, 
 
 1 when that very man rode postilion \ but he is now his steward; 
 and a great gentleman.’ Adams then snapped his fingers, 
 and cried, 4 He thought she was some such trollop. 
 
 Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs Slipslop with this good 
 news, as he imagined it j but it found a reception different 
 from what he expected. The prudent gentlewoman, who 
 despised the anger of Miss Grave-airs whilst she conceived 
 her the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune, now she 
 heard her alliance with the upper servants of a great family 
 in her neighbourhood, began to fear her interest with the 
 mistress. She wished she had not carried the dispute so far, 
 and began to think of endeavouring to reconcile herself to 
 the young lady before she left the inn ^ when, luckily, the 
 scene at London, which the reader can scarce have forgotten, 
 presented itself to her mind, and comforted her with such 
 assurance, that she no longer apprehended any enemy with 
 her mistress. 
 
 Everything being nov T adjusted, the company enteied the 
 coach, which was just on its departure, when one lady recol- 
 lected 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 wdiich occasioned some delay and much swearing to the 
 coachman. 
 
 As soon as the coach had left the inn the women all to¬ 
 gether fell to the character of Miss Grave-airs; whom one of 
 them declared she had suspected to be some low creature, 
 from the beginning of their journey, and another affirmed she 
 had not even the looks of a gentlewoman : a third warranted 
 she was no better than she should be; and, turning to tlm 
 lady who had related the story in the coach, said, Did j ou 
 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 censo¬ 
 rious ; 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 
 hath something in it so astonishing, that, for my part, I ov n 
 I should hardly believe it if my own ears had not been wit- 
 
120 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [be ir. 
 
 nesses to it. Yes, and so handsome a young fellow/ cries 
 Slipslop ; f the woman must have no compulsion in her : I 
 believe she is more of a Turk than a Christian; I am certain, 
 if she had any Christian woman’s blood in her veins, the 
 sight of such a young fellow must have warmed it. Indeed, 
 there are some wretched, miserable old objects, that turn 
 one’s stomach ; I should not wonder if she had refused such 
 a one; I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no 
 more than herself for the company of stinking old fellows ; 
 but, hold up thy head, Joseph, thou art none of those ; and 
 she who hath not compulsion for thee is a Myhummetman, 
 and I will maintain it.’ This conversation made Joseph 
 uneasy as well as the ladies; who, perceiving the spirits 
 which Mrs Slipslop was in (for indeed she was not a cup too 
 low), began to fear the consequence ; one of them therefore 
 desired the lady to conclude the story. ‘ Aye, madam,’ said 
 Slipslop, ‘ I beg your ladyship to give us that story you com- 
 mensated in the morning; ’ which request that well-bred 
 woman immediately complied with. 
 
CH. VI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 121 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 CONCLUSION OF THE UNFORTUNATE JILT. 
 
 Leonora, having once broke through the hounds which 
 ■custom and modesty impose on her sex, soon gave an un¬ 
 bridled indulgence to her passion. Her visits to Bellarmine 
 were more constant, as well as longer, than his surgeon’s : in 
 a word, she became absolutely his nurse ; made his water- 
 gruel, administered him his medicines ; and, notwithstanding 
 the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost en¬ 
 tirely resided in her wounded lover’s apartment. 
 
 The ladies of the town began to take her conduct under 
 consideration : it was the chief topic of discourse at their 
 tea-tables, and v r as very severely censured by the most part; 
 especially by Lindamira, a lady whose discreet and starch 
 carriage, together with a constant attendance at church three 
 times a-day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks on 
 her own reputation • for such was the envy that Lindamira’s 
 virtue had attracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict 
 behaviour and strict inquiry into the lives of others, she had 
 not been able to escape being the mark of some arrows her¬ 
 self, which, however, did her no injury; a blessing, perhaps, 
 owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief male com¬ 
 panions, and with two or three of whom she had been bar¬ 
 barously and unjustly calumniated. 
 
 1 Hot so unjustly neither, perhaps,’ says Slipslop; ‘ for 
 the clergy are men, as well as other folks.’ 
 
 The extreme delicacy of Lindamira’s virtue was cruelly 
 hurt by those freedoms which Leonora allowed herself: she 
 said, ‘ It was an affront to her sex ; that she did not imagine 
 it consistent with any woman’s honour to speak to the 
 creature, or to be seen in her company; and that, for her 
 part, she should always refuse to dance at an assembly with 
 her, for fear of contamination by taking her by the hand.’ 
 
 But to return to my story : as soon as Bellarmine was 
 recovered, which was somewhat within a month from his 
 
122 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 receiving the wound, he set out, according to agreement, for 
 Leonora’s father’s, in order to propose the match, and settle 
 all matters with him touching settlements, and the like. 
 
 A little before his arrival the old gentleman had received 
 an intimation of the affair by the following letter, which I 
 can repeat verbatim, and which, they say, was written neither 
 by Leonora nor her aunt, though it was in a woman’s hand. 
 The letter was in these words :— 
 
 ‘ Sir, — I am sorry to acquaint you that your daughter, 
 Leonora, hath acted one of the basest as well as most simple 
 parts with a young gentleman to whom she had engaged 
 herself, and whom she hath (pardon the word) jilted for 
 another of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his superior 
 figure. You may take what measures you please on this 
 occasion; I have performed what I thought my duty; as I 
 have, though unknown to you, a very great respect for your 
 family.’ 
 
 The old gentleman did not give himself the trouble to 
 answer this kind epistle; nor did he take any notice of it, 
 after he had read it, till he saw Bellarmine. He was, to say 
 the truth, one of those fathers who look on children as an 
 unhappy consequence of their youthful pleasures ; which, as 
 he would have been delighted not to have had attended 
 them, so was he no less pleased with any opportunity to rid 
 himself of the incumbrance. He passed, in the world’s lan¬ 
 guage, as an exceeding good father; being not only so 
 rapacious as to rob and plunder all mankind to the utmost 
 of his power, but even to deny himself the conveniencies, 
 and almost necessaries, of life; which his neighbours at¬ 
 tributed to a desire of raising immense fortunes for his chil¬ 
 dren : but in fact it was not so; he heaped up money for its 
 own sake only, and looked on his children as his rivals, who 
 were to enjoy his beloved mistress when he was incapable of 
 possessing her, and which he would have been much more 
 charmed with the power of carrying along with him; nor 
 had his children any other security of being his heirs than 
 that the law would constitute them such without a will, and 
 that he had not affection enough for any one living to take 
 the trouble of writing one. 
 
 To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the errand I have 
 mentioned. His person, his equipage, his family, and his 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 123 
 
 CH. VI.] 
 
 estate, seemed to tlie father to make him an advantageous 
 match for his daughter: he therefore very readily accepted 
 his proposals: hut when Bellarmine imagined the principal 
 affair concluded, and began to open the incidental matters of 
 fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his counten¬ 
 ance, saying, 4 He resolved never to marry his daughter on a 
 Smithfield match ; that whoever had love for her to take her 
 would, when he died, find her share of his fortune in his 
 coffers; but he had seen such examples of undutifulness 
 happen from the too early generosity of parents, that he had 
 made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived. 
 He commended the saying of Solomon, ‘ he that spareth the 
 rod spoileth the child; ’ but added, 4 he might have likewise 
 asserted, That he that, spareth the purse saveth the child.’ 
 He then ran into a discourse on the extravagance of the 
 youth of the age ; whence he launched into a dissertation on 
 horses; and came at length to commend those Bellarmine 
 drove. That fine gentleman, who at another season would 
 have been well enough pleased to dwell a^ little on that sub¬ 
 let, was now very eager to resume the circumstance of for¬ 
 tune. 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, 4 Tour will do, four will do ; ’ and then 
 took a turn from horses to extravagance and from extrava¬ 
 gance to horses, till he came round to the equipage again y 
 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, 4 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, 4 He was sorry that his daughter must lose 
 so valuable a match; that, if he had an inclination, at pre¬ 
 sent it was not in his power to advance a shilling. that he 
 had had great losses, and been at great expenses on projects; 
 which, though he had great expectation from them, had yet 
 produced him nothing: that he did not know what might 
 
124 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 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, Bellar- 
 mine, 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 pro¬ 
 ceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after a few days’ 
 stay, he returned to Paris, to the great delight of the French 
 and the honour of the English nation. 
 
 Eut as soon as he arrived at his home he presently de¬ 
 spatched a messenger with the following epistle to Leonora: 
 
 ‘ Adorable and Charmante,— I am sorry to have the 
 honour to tell you I am not the heureux person destined for 
 your divine arms. Your papa hath told me so with a 
 joolitesse not often seen on this side Paris. You may per¬ 
 haps 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 
 Erench air to cure the consequences of. A jamais I Coeur ! 
 Ange ! Au diable ! If your papa obliges you to a marriage, 
 I hope we shall see you at Paris; till when, the wind that 
 flows from thence will be the warmest dans le monde , for it 
 will consist almost entirely of my sighs. Adieu , ma prin- 
 cesse! Ah, Vamour ! 
 
 ‘ Bella rmine.’ 
 
 I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora’s condition 
 when she received this letter. It is a picture of horror, 
 which I should have as little pleasure in drawing as you in 
 beholding. She immediately left the place where she was 
 the subject of conversation and ridicule, and retired to that 
 house I showed you when I began the story; where she 
 hath ever since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, perhaps, 
 pity for her misfortunes, more than our censure for a be¬ 
 haviour to which the artifices of her aunt very probably con¬ 
 tributed, and to which very young women are often rendered 
 too liable by that blameable levity in the education of our 
 .sex. 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 125 
 
 CH. VI.] 
 
 ‘ 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 dis¬ 
 cern any misfortune in her missing such a husband as Bel- 
 larmine.’ 
 
 ‘ Why, I must own,’ says Slipslop, ‘ the gentleman was a 
 little false-hearted; but liowsumever, it was hard to have 
 two lovers, and get never a husband at all. But pray, 
 madam, what became of Our-asho ? ’ 
 
 He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath ap¬ 
 plied himself so strictly to his business, that he hath raised, 
 I hear, a very considerable fortune. And, what is remark¬ 
 able, they say he never hears the name of Leonora without 
 a sigh, nor hath ever uttered one syllable to charge her with 
 her ill-conduct towards him. 
 
126 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A VERT SHORT CHAPTER, IN WHICH PARSON ADAMS WENT 
 
 A GREAT WAY. 
 
 The lady, having finished her story, received the thanks 
 of the company ; and now Joseph, putting his head out of the 
 coach, cried out, 4 Never believe me if yonder be not our 
 parson Adams walking along without his horse ! ’—‘ On my 
 word, and so he is,’ says Slipslop : ‘ and as sure as twopence 
 he hath left him behind at the inn.’ Indeed, true it is, the 
 parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of 
 mind; for he was so pleased with having got Joseph into 
 the coach, that he never once thought of the beast in the 
 stable; and, finding his legs as nimble as he desired, he 
 sallied out, brandishing a erabstick, and had kept on before 
 the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so 
 that he bad never been much more or less than a quarter of 
 a mile distant from it. 
 
 Mrs Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which 
 he attempted, but in vain; for the faster he drove the faster 
 ran the parson, often crying out, 4 Aye, aye, catch me if you 
 can;’ till at length the coachman swore he would as soon 
 attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, giving the parson 
 two or three hearty curses, he 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 par¬ 
 son Adams, who stretched forwards without once looking 
 behind him, till, having left the coach full three miles in his 
 rear, he came to a place where, by keeping the extremest 
 track to the right, it was just barely possible for a human 
 creature to miss his way. This track however did he keep, 
 as indeed he had a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare 
 possibilities, and, travelling in it about three miles over the 
 plain, he arrived at the summit of a hill, ivhence looking a 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 127 
 
 CH. VII.] 
 
 great way backwards, and perceiving no coach in sight, be 
 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 paces taking up a partridge which he had 
 just shot. 
 
 Adams stood up and presented a figure to the gentleman 
 which would have moved laughter in many; for his cassock 
 had just again fallen down below his great coat, that is to 
 say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts of his great coat 
 descended no lower than half way down his thighs; but the 
 gentleman’s mirth gave way to his surprize at beholding such 
 a personage in such a place. 
 
 Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he 
 had good sport, to which the other answered, 4 A ery little.’— 
 x I see, sir,’ says Adams, 4 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 de¬ 
 lightful 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 
 n small advance to conversation on his side by saying, 4 Sir, 
 I suppose you are not one of these parts 1 ’ 
 
 Adams immediately told him, 4 Ho; that he was a 
 traveller, and invited by the beauty of the evening and the 
 place to repose a little and amuse himself with reading.’— 4 1 
 may as well repose myself too,’ said the sportsman, 4 for I 
 have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil a bird 
 have I seen till I came hither.’ 
 
 4 Perhaps then the game is not very plenty hereabouts 1 ’ 
 cries Adams. 4 Ho, sir,’ said the gentleman: 4 the soldiers, 
 who are quartered in the neighbourhood, have killed it all.’ 
 — 4 It is very probable,’ cries Adams, 4 for shooting is their 
 profession.’— 4 Aye, shooting the game,’ answered the other; 
 4 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 : 
 
128 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 what’s a man’s life when his country demands it % a man who 
 won’t sacrifice his life for his country deserves to he 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 counte¬ 
 nance, that he might have frightened a captain of trained- 
 hands at the head of his company; hut Mr Adams was not 
 greatly subject to fear; he told him intrepidly that he very 
 much approved his virtue, hut disliked his swearing, and 
 begged him not to addict himself to so bad a custom, without 
 which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did. 
 Indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he told the 
 gentleman he would willingly have gone many miles to have 
 met a man of his generous way of thinking; that, if he 
 pleased to sit down, he should be greatly delighted to com¬ 
 mune 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. 
 
CH. VIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 129 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 A NOTABLE DISSERTATION BY MR ABRAHAM ADAMS ; WHERE¬ 
 IN THAT GENTLEMAN APPEARS IN A POLITICAL LIGHT. 
 
 £ I do assure you, sir ’ (says lie, 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 he hold to 
 say I am an honest man, and would not do an ill thing to he 
 made a bishop ; nay, though it hath not fallen in my way to 
 offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not been without opportuni¬ 
 ties of suffering for the sake of my conscience, I thank 
 Heaven for them; for I have had relations, though I say it, 
 who made some figure in the world ; particularly a nephew, 
 who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a corporation. 
 He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy ; and 
 I believe would do what I hade him to his dying day. In¬ 
 deed, it looks like extreme vanity in me to affect being a man 
 of such consequence as to have so great an interest in an 
 alderman ; but others have thought so too, as manifestly 
 appeared by the rector, whose curate I formerly was, sending 
 for me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if I 
 expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my 
 nephew to vote for one Colonel Courtly, a gentleman whom I 
 had never heard tidings of till that instant. I told the rector 
 I had no power over my nephew’s vote (God forgive me for 
 such prevarication!); that I supposed he would give it accord¬ 
 ing to his conscience; that I would by no means endeavour 
 to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it was in 
 vain to equivocate ; that he knew I had already spoke to him 
 in favour of Squire Fickle, my neighbour; and, indeed, it 
 was true I had; for it was at a season when the church was 
 in danger, and when all good men expected they knew not 
 what would happen to us all. I then answered boldly, if he 
 thought I had given my promise, he affronted me in propos¬ 
 ing any breach of it. Hot to be too prolix; I persevered, 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 and so did my nephew, in the esquire’s interest, who was 
 chose chiefly through his means; and so I lost my curacy. 
 Well, sir, hut do you think the esquire ever mentioned a 
 word of the church % Ne verbum quidem, ut ita dicam: 
 within two years he got a place, and hath ever since lived in 
 Bondon; where I have been informed (but God forbid I 
 should believe that), that he never so much as goeth to 
 church. I remained, sir, a considerable time without any 
 cure, and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which I 
 preached on the indisposition of a clergyman ; but this by 
 the bye. At last, when Mr Fickle got his place, Colonel 
 Courtly stood again; and who should make interest for him 
 but Mr Fickle himself ! that very identical Mr Fickle, who 
 had formerly told me the colonel was an enemy to both the 
 church and state, had the confidence to 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 everything to 
 his country ; and I believe he would, except his hunting, 
 which he stuck so close to, that in five years together he 
 went but twice up to parliament; and one of those times, I 
 have been told, never was within sight of the House. How¬ 
 ever, he was a worthy man, and the best friend I ever had; 
 for, by his interest with a bishop, he got me replaced into 
 my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket 
 to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. He 
 had our interest while he lived, which was not many years. 
 On his death I had fresh applications made to me; for all 
 the world knew the interest I had in my good nephew, who 
 now was a leading man in the corporation ; and Sir Thomas 
 Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver’s, pro¬ 
 posed himself a candidate. He was then a young gentleman 
 just come from his travels; and it did me good to hear him 
 discourse on affairs which, for my part, I knew nothing of. 
 If I had been master of a thousand votes he should have had 
 them all. I engaged my nephew in his interest, and he was 
 elected; and a very fine parliament-man he was. They tell 
 me he made speeches of an hour long, and, I have been told, 
 very fine ones; but he could never persuade the parliament 
 to be of his opinion. Non omnia possumus omnes. He 
 promised me a living, poor man! and I believe I should have 
 
CH. VIII.1 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 131 
 
 had it, but an accident happened, which was, that my lady 
 had promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I 
 never heard till afterwards ; for my nephew, who died about 
 a month before the incumbent, always told me I might be 
 assured of it. Since that time, Sir Thomas, poor man, had 
 alwavs 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 preached at four churches—have I recruited 
 my spirits with a glass of his ale. Since my nephew’s death, 
 the corporation is in other hands; and I am not a man of 
 that consequence I was' formerly. I have now no longer 
 any talents to lay out in the service of my country; and to 
 whom nothing is given, of him can nothing be required. 
 However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach of an 
 election, I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons ; 
 which I have the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir 
 Thomas and the other honest gentlemen my neighbours, who 
 have all promised me these five years to procure an ordina¬ 
 tion for a son of mine, who is now near thirty, hath an 
 infinite stock of learning, and is, I thank Heaven, of an un¬ 
 exceptionable life; though, as he was never at an university, 
 the bishop refuses to ordain him. Too much care cannot 
 indeed be taken in admitting any to the sacred office ; though 
 I hope he will never act so as to be a disgrace to any order, 
 but will serve his God and his country to the utmost of his 
 power, as I have endeavoured to do before him; nay, and 
 will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose. I 
 am sure I have educated him in those principles ; so that T 
 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.’ 
 
132 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN WHICH THE GENTLEMAN DESCANTS ON BRAVERY AND 
 
 HEROIC VIRTUE, TILL AN UNLUCKY ACCIDENT PUTS AN 
 
 END TO THE DISCOURSE. 
 
 The gentleman highly commended Mr Adams for his good 
 resolutions, and told him, 4 He hoped his son would tread in 
 his steps ; ’ adding, ‘ that if he would not die for his country, 
 he would not he worthy to live in it. I’d make no more 
 of shooting a man that would not die for his country, than— 
 
 ‘ Sir,’ said he, ‘ I have disinherited a nephew, who is in 
 the army, because he would not exchange his commission 
 and go to the West Indies. I believe the rascal is a coward, 
 though he pretends to be in love forsooth. I would have 
 all such fellows hanged, sir ; I would have them hanged/ 
 Adams answered, ‘ That would be too severe ; that men did 
 not make themselves; and if fear had too much ascendance 
 in the mind, the man was rather to be pitied than abhorred; 
 that reason and time might teach him to subdue it/ He 
 said, ‘ A man might be a coward at one time, and brave at 
 another. Homer,’ says he, ‘ who so w T ell understood and 
 copied nature, hath taught us this lesson; for Paris fights 
 and Hector runs away. Hay, we have a mighty instance of 
 this in the history of later ages, no longer ago than the 
 705th year of Rome, when the great Pompey, who had won 
 so many battles and been honoured with so many triumphs, 
 and of whose valour several authors, especially Cicero and 
 Paterculus, have formed such 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 pusillanimous rascal 
 in a fit of despair, and yielded a victory, which was to 
 determine the empire of the world, to Caesar. I am not 
 much travelled in the history of modern times, that is to 
 say, these last thousand years; but those who are can, I 
 make no question, furnish you with parallel instances.’ He 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 133 
 
 OH. IX.] 
 
 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 1 ’ He told him, ‘ He waited there 
 for the stage-coacli.’—‘ The stage-coach, sir ! ’ said the gentle¬ 
 man ; ‘ they are all passed by long ago. You may see the 
 last yourself almost three miles before us.’—‘ I protest and 
 so they are,’ cries Adams; ‘ then I must make haste and 
 follow them.’ The gentleman told him, he would hardly be 
 able to overtake them; and that, if he did not know his 
 way, he would be in danger of losing himself on the downs, 
 for it would be presently dark ; and he might ramble about 
 all night, and perhaps find himself farther from his journey’s 
 end in the morning than he was now.’ He advised him, 
 therefore, ‘ to accompany him to his house, which was very 
 little out of his way,’ assuring him ‘ that he would find some 
 country fellow in his parish who would conduct him for 
 sixpence to the city where he was going.’ Adams accepted 
 this proposal, and on they travelled, the gentleman renewing 
 his discourse on courage, and the infamy of not being ready, 
 at all times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night 
 overtook them much about the same time as they arrived 
 near some bushes ) whence, on a sudden, they heard the 
 most violent shrieks imaginable in a female voice. Adams 
 offered to snatch the gun out of his companion’s hand. ‘ What 
 are you doing ^ ’ said he. ‘ Doing ! ’ said Adams ; e I am 
 hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some 
 villains are murdering.’—‘ You are not mad enough, I hope,’ 
 says the gentleman trembling : ‘ do you consider this gun is 
 only charged with shot, and that the robbers are most 
 probably furnished with pistols loaded with bullets ? This 
 is no business of ours ; let us make as much haste as possible 
 out of the way, or we may fall into their hands ourselves.’ 
 The shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but 
 snapt his fingers, and, brandishing his crabstick, made 
 directly to the place whence the voice issued ; and the man 
 of courage made as much expedition towards his own home, 
 whither he escaped in a very short time without once look¬ 
 ing behind him; where we will leave him, to contemplate 
 
134 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 his own bravery, and to censure the want of it in others, and 
 return to the good Adams, who, on coming up to the place 
 whence the noise proceeded, found a woman struggling with 
 a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almost 
 overpowered her. The great abilities of Mr Adams were 
 not necessary to have formed a right judgment of this affair 
 on the first sight. He did not therefore want the entreaties 
 of the poor wretch to assist her • but, lifting up his crabstick, 
 he immediately levelled a blow at that part of the ravisher’s 
 head where, according to the opinion of the antients, the 
 brains of some persons are deposited, and which he had un¬ 
 doubtedly let forth, had not Nature (who, as wise men have 
 observed, equips all creatures with what is most expedient 
 for them) taken a provident care (as she always doth with 
 those she intends for encounters) to make this part of the 
 head three times as thick as those of ordinary men who are 
 designed to exercise talents which are vulgarly called rational, 
 and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged to leave 
 some room for them in the cavity of the skull; whereas, 
 those ingredients being entirely useless to persons of the 
 heroic calling, she hath an opportunity of thickening the 
 bone, so as to make it less subject to any impression, or 
 liable to be cracked or broken: and indeed, in some who 
 are predestined to the command of armies and empires, she 
 is supposed sometimes to make that part perfectly solid. 
 
 As a game cock, when engaged in amorous toying with a 
 hen, if perchance he espies another cock at hand, immediately 
 quits his female, and opposes himself to his rival, so did the 
 ravisher, on the information of the crabstick, immediately 
 leap from the woman, and hasten to assail the man. He had 
 no weapons but what Nature had furnished him with. How¬ 
 ever, he clenched his fist, and presently darted it at that 
 part of Adam’s breast where the heart is lodged. Adams 
 staggered at the violence of the blow, when, throwing away 
 his staff, he likewise clenched that fist which we have before 
 commemorated, and would have discharged it full in the 
 breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it 
 with his left hand, at the same time darting his head (which 
 some modern heroes of the lower class use, like the battering- 
 ram of the antients, for a weapon of offence; another reason 
 to admire the cunningness of Nature, in composing it of 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 135 
 
 CH. IN.] 
 
 those impenetrable materials); dashing his head, I say, into 
 the stomach of Adams, he tumbled him on his back; and, 
 not having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would 
 have restrained him from any farther attack on his enemy 
 till he was again on his legs, he threw himself upon him, 
 and, laying hold on the ground with his left hand, he with 
 his right belaboured the body of Adams till he was weary, 
 and indeed till he concluded (to use the language of fighting) 
 
 ‘ that he had done his business; ’ or, in the language of 
 poetry, i that he had sent him to the shades below \ in plain 
 English, ‘ that he was dead.’ 
 
 But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear a drub¬ 
 bing as well as any boxing champion in the universe, lay 
 stilf only to watch his opportunity ; and now, perceiving his 
 antagonist to pant with his labours, he exerted his utmost 
 force at once, and with such success that he overturned him, 
 and became his superior; when, fixing one of his knees in 
 his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, ‘ It is my turn 
 now ^ ’ and, after a few minutes constant application, he 
 gave'him so dexterous a blow just under his chin that the 
 fellow no longer retained any motion, and Adams began to 
 fear he had struck him once too often ; for he often asserted 
 ‘ be should be concerned to have the blood of even the 
 wicked upon him.’ 
 
 Adams got up and called aloud to the young woman. ‘ Be 
 of good cheer, damsel,’ said he, { you are no longer in danger 
 of your ravisher, who, I am terribly afraid, lies dead at my 
 feet; but God forgive me what I have done in defence of 
 innocence ! ’ The poor wretch, who had been some time in 
 recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, dur¬ 
 ing the engagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear 
 even from running away, hearing her champion was victori¬ 
 ous, 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 
 
136 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 from whom he had delivered her, who told her he was like¬ 
 wise on his journey to the same place, and would keep her 
 company ‘ an offer which, suspecting no harm, she had ac¬ 
 cepted \ 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 there¬ 
 fore she put her whole trust in Providence, and walked on, 
 expecting every moment to arrive at the inn; when on a 
 sudden, being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop, 
 and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some 
 entreaties, which she rejected, he laid violent hands on her, 
 and was attempting to execute his wicked will, when, she 
 thanked G—, he timely came up and prevented him.’ Adams 
 encouraged her for saying she had put her whole trust in 
 Providence, and told her, ‘ He doubted not but Providence 
 had sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. 
 He wished indeed he had not deprived the wicked wretch 
 of life, but G—’s will be done.’ 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 properer to make his escape, or to de¬ 
 liver himself into the hands of justice j which meditation 
 ended as the reader will see in the next chapter. 
 
CH. X.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HIVING AN ACCOUNT OE THE STRANGE CATASTROPHE OF 
 THE PRECEDING ADVENTURE, WHICH DREW POOR ADAMS 
 INTO FRESH CALAMITIES ; AND WHO THE WOMAN WAS 
 WHO OWED THE PRESERVATION OF HER CHASTITY TO 
 HIS VICTORIOUS ARM. 
 
 The silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night 
 and loneliness of the place, struck dreadful apprehension 
 into the poor woman’s mind; she began to fear as great an 
 enemy in her deliverer as he had delivered her from; and as 
 she had not light enough to discover the age of Adams, and 
 the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspected he 
 had used her as some very honest men have used their coun¬ 
 try ; 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; hut indeed they were ill-grounded. 
 He stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely weighing in his 
 mind the objections which might he made to either of the 
 two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his 
 judgment sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to 
 the other; for both seemed to him so equally advisable and 
 so equally dangerous, that probably he would have ended 
 his days, at least two or three of them, on that very spot, 
 before he had taken any resolution; at length he lifted up 
 his eyes, and spied a light at a distance, to which he instantly 
 addressed himself with Heus tu, traveller , heus tu! He 
 presently heard several voices, and perceived the light ap¬ 
 proaching toward him. The persons who attended the light 
 began some to laugh, others to sing, and others to hollow, 
 at which the woman testified some fear (for she had con¬ 
 cealed her suspicions of the parson himself); but Adams 
 said, ‘ Be of good cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the 
 same Providence which hath hitherto protected thee, and 
 never will forsake the innocent.’ These people, who now 
 approached, were no other, reader, than a set of young fellows, 
 
138 THE ADVENTURES OF [BK II. 
 
 who came to these hushes in pursuit of a diversion which 
 they call bird-batting. This, if you are ignorant of it (as 
 perhaps if thou hast never travelled beyond Kensington, 
 Islington, Hackney, or the Borough, thou mayst he), I will 
 inform tliee, is performed by holding a large clapnet 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 lace 
 of the man on the ground, for he feared he had smote him 
 fatally. But indeed his fears were frivolous; for the fellow, 
 though he had been stunned by the last blow he received, 
 had long since recovered his senses, and, finding himself quit 
 of Adams, had listened attentively to the discourse between 
 him and the young woman; for whose departure he had 
 patiently waited, that he might likewise withdraw himself, 
 having no longer hopes of succeeding in his desires, which 
 were moreover almost as well cooled by Mr Adams as they 
 could have been by the young woman herself had he obtained 
 his utmost wish. This fellow, who had a readiness at im¬ 
 proving any accident, thought he might now play a better 
 part than that of a dead man; and, accordingly, the moment 
 the candle was held to his face he leapt up, and, laying hold 
 on Adams, cried out, ‘ Ho, villain, I am not dead, though 
 you and your wicked whore might well think me so, after 
 the barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. Gentle¬ 
 men,’ said he, 4 you are luckily come to the assistance of a 
 poor traveller, who would otherwise have been robbed and 
 murdered by this vile man and woman, who led me hither 
 out of my way from the high-road, and both falling on me 
 have used me as you see.’ Adams was going to answer, 
 when one of the young fellows cried, ‘I)—n them, let’s 
 carry them both before the justice.’ The poor woman began 
 to tremble, and Adams lifted up his voice, but in vain. 
 Three or four of them laid hands on him ’ and one holding 
 the lantern to his face, they all agreed he had the most 
 villanous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney’s 
 clerk, who was of the company, declared he was sure he had 
 remembered him at the bar. As to the woman, her hair was 
 dishevelled in the struggle, and her nose had bled; so that 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 CH. X.] 
 
 139 
 
 they could not perceive whether she was handsome or ugly, 
 hut they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. And 
 searching her pockets, as they did those of Adams, for money, 
 which the fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket 
 a purse with some gold in it, which abundantly convinced 
 them, especially as the fellow offered to swear to it. Mr 
 Adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny about 
 him. This the clerk said { was a great presumption that he 
 was an old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to 
 the woman.’ To which all the rest readily assented. 
 
 This accident promising them better sport than what they 
 had proposed, they quitted their intention of catching birds, 
 and unanimously resolved to proceed to the justice with the 
 offenders. Being informed what a desperate fellow Adams 
 was, they tied his hands behind him ; and, having hid their 
 nets among the bushes, and the 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 all be entitled to their proportions of bO l. 
 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 whole was dis¬ 
 covered.’ The clerk claimed four-fifths of the reward for 
 having proposed to search the prisoners, and likewise the 
 carrying them before the justice : he said, ‘ Indeed, in strict 
 justice, he ought to have the whole.’ These claims, however, 
 they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed 
 all to agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They 
 then debated, what money should be allotted to the young 
 fellow who had been employed only in holding the nets. 
 He very modestly said, ‘ that he did not apprehend any large 
 proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would 
 allow him something; he desired them to consider that they 
 had assigned their nets to his care, which prevented him from 
 
140 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 "being as forward as any in laying hold of the robbers ’ (for 
 so those innocent people were called); £ that if he had not 
 occupied the nets, some other must;’ concluding, however, 
 
 ‘ that he should he contented with the smallest share imagin¬ 
 able, 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 a Shepherd to escape, especially as the dark¬ 
 ness of the night would have so much befriended him; but 
 Adams trusted rather to his innocence than his heels, and, 
 without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance 
 (which was impossible, as there were six lusty young fellow T s, 
 besides the villain himself, present), he walked with perfect 
 resignation the way they thought proper to conduct him.. 
 
 Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations during 
 their journey ; at last, poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his 
 mind, he could not refrain sighing forth his name, which 
 being heard by his companion in affliction, she cried vdth 
 some vehemence, ‘ Sure I should know that voice ; you can¬ 
 not certainly, sir, be Mr Abraham Adams 1 ’ ‘ Indeed, 
 
 damsel,’ says he, ‘ that is my name ; there is something also 
 in your voice which persuades me I have heard it before. 
 ‘La! sir,’ says she, ‘don’t you remember poor Fanny V — 
 ‘How, Fanny!’ answered Adams: ‘indeed I very ^ well 
 remember you; what can have brought you hither 1 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 1 ’—‘ I left him, child, this after¬ 
 noon,’ said Adams, ‘ in the stage-coach, in his way towards 
 our parish, whither he is going to see you.’—‘ lo see me ! 
 La, sir,’ answered Fanny, ‘ sure you jeer me ; what should lie 
 be going to see me for 1 ?’—‘Can you ask that 1 ? replied 
 Adams. ‘ I hope, Fanny, you are not inconstant; I assure 
 you he deserves much better of you.’—‘ La ! Mr Adams, 
 said she, e what is Mr Joseph to me % I am sure I never 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 141 
 
 CH. X.] 
 
 had anything to say to him, hut as one fellow-servant might 
 to another.’—‘I am sorry to hear this,’ said Adams; ‘a 
 virtuous passion for a young man is what no woman need 
 he ashamed of. You either do not tell me truth, or you are 
 false to a very worthy man/ Adams then told her what had 
 happened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively; 
 and a sigh often escaped from her, notwithstanding her 
 utmost endeavours to the contrary; nor could she prevent 
 herself from asking a thousand questions, which would have 
 assured any one hut Adams, who never saw farther into 
 people than they desired to let him, of the truth of a passion 
 she endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that this 
 poor girl, having heard of Joseph’s misfortune, by some of 
 the servants belonging to the coach which we have formerly 
 mentioned to have stopt at the inn while the poor youth was 
 confined to his bed, that instant abandoned the cow she was 
 milking, and, taking with her a little bundle of clothes under 
 her arm, and all the money she was w r orth in her own purse, 
 without consulting any one, immediately set forward in pur¬ 
 suit of one whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, 
 she loved with inexpressible violence, though with the purest 
 and most delicate passion. This shyness, therefore, as we 
 trust it will recommend her character to all our female 
 readers, and not greatly surprize such of our males as are 
 well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex, we 
 shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindicate. 
 
142 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO THEM WHILE BEFORE THE JUSTICE. 
 
 A CHAPTER VERY FULL OF LEARNING-. 
 
 Their fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dispute 
 concerning the division of the reward for apprehending these 
 innocent people, that they attended very little to their dis¬ 
 course. 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 prison¬ 
 ers into the stable, whither they were attended by all the 
 servants in the house, and all the people in the neighbour¬ 
 hood, who flocked together to see them with as much curios¬ 
 ity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, or that 
 a rogue did not look like other people. 
 
 The justice, now being in the height of his mirth and his 
 cups, bethought himself of the prisoners ; and, telling his 
 company he believed they should have good sport in their 
 examination, he ordered them into his presence. They had 
 no sooner entered the room than he began to revile them, 
 saying, 4 That robberies on the highway were now grown so 
 frequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, 
 and assured them they both should be made examples of at the 
 ensuing assizes.’ After he had gone on some time in this 
 manner, he was reminded by his clerk, 4 That it would be 
 proper to take the depositions of the witnesses against them: 
 Which he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the 
 mean time. Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down 
 the deposition of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, 
 the justice employed himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, 
 in which he was seconded by all the company at table. One 
 asked, 4 Whether she was to be indicted for a highway-man ? ’ 
 Another whispered in her ear, 4 If she had not provided her- 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 143 
 
 CH. XI.] 
 
 self a great belly, lie was at her service.’ A third said, ‘ He 
 warranted she was a relation of Turpin.’ To which one of 
 the company, a great wit, shaking his head, and then his 
 sides, answered, ‘ He believed she was nearer related to Tur- 
 pis ; ’ at which there was an universal laugh. They were 
 proceeding thus with the poor girl, when somebody, smoking 
 the cassock peeping forth from under the great-coat of Adams, 
 cried out, ‘ What have we here, a parson h ’ ‘ How, sirrah,’ 
 
 says the justice, ‘do you go a 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, 
 
 4 he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be exalted above 
 the heads of the people ; ’ at which there was a second laugh. 
 And now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise 
 in spirits; and, turning' to Adams, challenged him to cap 
 verses, and, provoking him by giving the first blow, he re¬ 
 peated, 
 
 ‘ Molle mewn levibus cord est vilebile telis .’ 
 
 Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, 
 told him, ‘ He deserved scourging for his pronunciation.’ 
 The witty fellow answered, ‘ What do you deserve, doctor, 
 for not being able to answer the first time 'i Why, I’ll give 
 one, you blockhead, with an S. 
 
 ‘ “ Si licet , ut fulvuni spectatur in ignibus haurum .” 
 
 4 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 fresh man, 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 1—an 
 M again—ay- 
 
 ‘ 11 Mars, Bacchus , Apollo , virorum .” 
 
 ‘ I could have done it once.’ ‘ Ah ! evil betide you, and so 
 you can now,’ said the other : ‘ nobody in this country will 
 undertake you.’ Adams could hold no longer : ‘ Inend,’ said 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 144 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 he, 4 I have a boy not above eight years old who would in¬ 
 struct thee that the last verse runs thus :— 
 
 “ Ut sunt Divorwn, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum .” 
 
 4 I’ll hold thee a guinea of that/ said the wit, throwing the 
 money on the table. 4 And I’ll go your halves/ cries the 
 other. 4 Done/ answered Adams ; but upon applying to his 
 pocket he was forced to retract, and own he had no money 
 about him ; which set them all a laughing, and confirmed the 
 triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more 
 than the approbation he met with from the whole company, 
 who told Adams he must go a little longer to school before 
 he attempted to attack that gentleman in Latin. 
 
 The clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the 
 fellow himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, 
 delivered them to the justice ; who, having sworn the several 
 witnesses without reading a syllable, ordered his clerk to 
 make the mittimus. 
 
 Adams then said, 4 He hoped he should not be condemned 
 unheard.’ 4 Ho, no,’ cries the justice, 4 you will be asked what 
 you have to say for yourself when you come on your trial: 
 we are not trying you now ; I shall only commit you to gaol: 
 if you can prove your innocence at ’size, you will be found 
 ignoramus, and so no harm done.’ 4 Is it no punishment, sir, 
 for an innocent man to lie several months in gaol 1 ’ cries 
 Adams : 4 1 beg you would at least hear me before you sign 
 the mittimus.’ 4 What signifies all you can say]’ says the 
 justice : 4 is it not here in black and white against you ] I 
 must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow to take up so 
 much of my time. So make haste with his mittimus.’ 
 
 The clerk now acquainted the justice that among other 
 suspicious things, as a penknife, &c., found in Adams’s pocket, 
 they had discovered a book written, as he apprehended, in 
 cyphers : for no one could read a word in it. 4 Ay,’ says the 
 justice, 4 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 LEschylus, which Adams 
 had transcribed with his own hand, was brought forth ; and 
 the justice, looking at it, shook his head, and, turning to the 
 prisoner, asked the meaning of those cyphers. 4 Cyphers ] ’ 
 answered Adams, 4 it is a manuscript of JEscliylus.’ 4 Who] 
 
CH. XI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 145 
 
 who 1 ’ said the justice. Adams repeated, ‘ iEschylus.’ ‘ 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.’ ‘ jSTo,’ 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, ‘ w T ill tell us im¬ 
 mediately.’ The parson, taking up the book, and putting on 
 his spectacles and gravity together, muttered some words to 
 himself, and then pronounced aloud—‘ Aye, 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 TEschylus ? ’ says the justice. ‘ Pooh ! ’ 
 answered the doctor, with a contemptuous grin, ‘ do you 
 think that fellow knows anything of this book ? TEschylus! 
 ho ! 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. Aye, aye, 
 question and answer, The beginning is the catechism in 
 
 Greek. Aye, aye, Pollciki toi : What’s your name ? ’- 
 
 ‘ Aye, what’s your name?’ says the justice to Adams; who 
 answered, ‘ It is AEschylus, and I will maintain it.’—‘ 0 ! it 
 is,’ says the justice : ‘ make Mr TEschylus his mittimus. I 
 will teach you to banter me with a false name.’ 
 
 One of the company, having looked stedfastly at Adams, 
 asked him, ‘ If he did not know Lady Booby ? ’ Upon which 
 Adams, presently calling him to mind, answered in a rapture, 
 ‘ 0 squire ! are you there ? I believe you will inform his 
 worship I am innocent.’—‘1 can indeed say,’ replied the 
 squire, ‘ that I am very much surprized to see you in this 
 situation:’ and then, addressing himself to the justice, he 
 said, ‘ Sir, I assure you Mr Adams is a clergyman, as he 
 appears, and a gentleman oi a very good character. I wish 
 you would inquire a little farther into this affair; for I am 
 convinced of his innocence.’—‘ Hay,’ says the justice, ‘if he 
 is a gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don’t 
 desire to commit him, not I: I will commit the woman by 
 herself, and take your bail for the gentleman : look into the 
 book, clerk, and see how it is to take bail—come—and make 
 
 ‘10 
 
146 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 the mittimus for tlie woman as fast as you can. Sii, cues 
 Adams, 1 1 assure you sire is as innocent as myself,, 1 cr¬ 
 imps,’ said the squire, ‘ there may he some mistake : pray 
 let us hear Mr Adams’s relation.’—‘ With all my heart,’ 
 answered the justice ; ‘ and give the gentleman a glass to 
 whet his whistle before he begins. I know how to behave 
 myself to a gentleman as well as another. Aobody 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 desiie 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 tlia 
 contrary, began to let loose several rogues and rascals against 
 the witness, whom he ordered to stand forth, but in vain, 
 the said witness, long since finding what turn matters were 
 likely to take, had privily withdrawn, without attending the 
 issue. The justice now flew into a violent passion, and was 
 hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocent fellows 
 who had been imposed on as well as himself. He swore, 
 
 4 They had best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, 
 and bring him before him within two days, or he would bind 
 them all over to their good behaviour.’ They all promised 
 to use their best endeavours to that purpose, and were dis¬ 
 missed. 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 ignor¬ 
 ance, expose it. As for Fanny, she was, at her own request, 
 recommended to the care of a maid-servant of the house, 
 who helped her to new dress and clean lieiself. 
 
 The company in the parlour had not been long seated 
 before they were alarmed with a horrible uproar from with¬ 
 out, where the persons who had apprehended Adams and 
 Fanny had been regaling, according to the custom of the 
 house, with the justice’s strong beer. These were all fallen 
 together by the ears, and were cuffing each other without 
 any mercy. The justice himself sallied out, and with the 
 dignity of his presence soon put an end to the fray. On 
 
€H. XI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 147 
 
 his return into the parlour, he reported, ‘ That the occasion 
 ■ of the quarrel was no other than a dispute to whom, if 
 Adams had been convicted, the greater share of the reward 
 for apprehending him had belonged.’ All the company 
 laughed at this, except Adams, who, taking his pipe from 
 his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and said, ‘ He was concerned 
 to see so litigious a temper in men. That he remembered a 
 story something like it in one of the parishes where his cure 
 lay :—There was,’ continued he, ‘ a competition between 
 three young fellows for the place of the clerk, which I dis¬ 
 posed of, to the best of my abilities, according to merit \ 
 that is, I gave it to him who had the happiest knack at 
 setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner established in his 
 place than a contention began between the two disappointed 
 candidates concerning their excellence ; each contending on 
 whom, had they two been the only competitors, my election 
 would have fallen. This dispute frequently disturbed the 
 congregation, and introduced a discord into the psalmody, 
 till I was forced to silence them both. But, tilas ! 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 broke by the 
 justice, who began to sing forth his own praises, and to value 
 himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in the cause 
 which had lately been before him. He was quickly inter¬ 
 rupted 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 
 
148 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK IE 
 
 inn where the stage-coach in which Joseph was put up. Upon 
 this news, she immediately sent for the parson out of the 
 parlour. Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though 
 she would not own the reason, hut pretended she could not 
 bear to see the faces of those who had suspected her of such 
 a crime), was as fully determined to go with her; he accord¬ 
 ingly took leave of the j ustice 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. 
 
CH. XII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 149 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A VERY DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE, AS WELL TO THE PERSONS 
 CONCERNED AS TO THE GOOD-NATURED READER. 
 
 Adams, Fanny, and the guide, set out together about one 
 in the morning, the moon being then just risen. They had 
 not gone above a mile before a most violent storm of rain 
 obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or rather alehouse, 
 where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a toast 
 and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content, 
 utterly forgetting everything that had happened. 
 
 Fanny sat likewise down by the fire ; but was much more 
 impatient at the storm. She presently engaged the eyes of 
 the host, his wife, the maid of the house, and the young 
 fellow who was their guide ; they all conceived they had 
 never seen anything half so handsome j 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 yetis est nusqucim. Or, if the finest features in it should 
 
 set Lady-’s image before our eyes, we should be still in 
 
 as bad a situation, and might say to our desires, Coelum ipsum 
 petimus stultitia. 
 
 Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she 
 was tall and delicately shaped; but not one of those slender 
 young women who seem rather intended to hang up in the 
 hall of an anatomist than for any other purpose. On the 
 contrary, she was so plump that she seemed bursting through 
 her tight stays, especially in the part which confined her 
 swelling breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a 
 hoop to extend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted 
 the form of those limbs which she concealed; and though 
 
150 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 they were a little reddened by her labour, yet, if her sleeve 
 slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchief discovered any 
 part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest 
 Italian paint would be unable to reach. Her hair was of a 
 chesnut brown, and nature had been extremely lavish to her 
 of it, which she had cut, and on Sundays used to curl down 
 her neck, in the modern fashion. Her forehead was high, 
 her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise. Her 
 eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the 
 Homan; 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 might have 
 been mistaken for a dimple, had, not her left cheek produced 
 one so near a neighbour to it, that the former served only for 
 a foil to the latter. Her complexion was fair, a little injured 
 by the sun, but overspread with such a bloom that the finest 
 ladies would have exchanged all their white for it : add to 
 these a countenance in which, though she was extremely 
 bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible; and a 
 sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or 
 description. To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, 
 superior to the acquisition of art, and which surprized all 
 who beheld her. 
 
 This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, 
 when her attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from 
 an inner room, which sung the following song :— 
 
 THE SONG. 
 
 Say, Ckloe, 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 tiy, 
 But 0 ! can he liy from his mind ? 
 
 0 rapture ! unthought of before, 
 
 To be thus of Chloe possess’d ; 
 
 Nor she, nor no tyrant’s hard power, 
 
 Her image can tear from my breast. 
 
CH. XII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 151 
 
 But felt not Narcissus more joy, 
 
 With his eyes he beheld his loved charms ? 
 Yet what he behold the fond hoy 
 More eagerly wish’d in his arms. 
 
 How can it thy dear image he 
 
 Which fills thus my bosom with woe ? 
 
 Can aught bear resemblance to thee 
 Which grief and not joy can bestow ? 
 
 This counterfeit snatch from my heart, 
 
 Ye pow’rs, tho’ with torment I rave, 
 
 Tho’ mortal will prove the fell smart: 
 
 I then shall find rest in my grave. 
 
 Ah, see the dear nymph o’er the plain 
 Come smiling and tripping along ! 
 
 A thousand Loves dance in her train, 
 
 The Graces around her all throng. 
 
 To meet her soft Zephyrus flies, 
 
 And wafts all the sweets from the flowers, 
 Ah, rogue ! whilst he kisses her eyes, 
 
 More sweets from her breath he devours. 
 
 My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire: 
 
 But her looks were so tender mid kind, 
 
 My hope almost reach’d my desire, 
 
 And left lame despair far behind. 
 Transported with madness, I flew, 
 
 And eagerly seized on my bliss ; 
 
 Her bosom but half she withdrew, 
 
 But half she refused my fond kiss. 
 
 Advances like these made me bold ; 
 
 I whisper’d her,—love, we’re alone.— 
 The rest let immortals unfold ; 
 
 No language can tell but their own. 
 
 Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried, 
 
 How long I thy cruelty bore ! 
 
 Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied, 
 
 You ne’er was so pressing before. 
 
 Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in 
 AEschylus, without attending in the least to the voice, though 
 one of the most melodious that ever was heard, when, cast¬ 
 ing his eyes on Fanny, he cried out, ‘ Bless us, you look ex¬ 
 tremely pale ! ’—'‘ Pale ! Mr Adams/ says she ; ‘ 0 Jesus ! ’ 
 and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung 
 his /Eschylus into the lire, and fell a roaring to the people 
 of the house for help. He soon summoned every one into 
 
152 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 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 Fanny 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 V — ‘ Art thou my 
 Fanny'?’ he answered eagerly ; and, pulling her to his heart, 
 he imprinted numberless kisses on her lips, without consider¬ 
 ing who were present. 
 
 If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, 
 they may take their eyes off from it, and survey parson 
 Adams dancing about the room in a rapture of joy. Some 
 philosophers may perhaps doubt whether he was not the 
 happiest of the three ; for the goodness of his heart enjoyed 
 the blessings which were exulting in the breasts of both the 
 other two, together with his own. But we shall leave such 
 disquisitions, as too deep for us, to those who are building 
 some favourite hypothesis, which they will refuse no meta¬ 
 physical rubbish to erect and support : for our part, we give 
 it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not 
 only greater than the parson’s, but of longer duration ; for as 
 soon as the first tumults of Adams’s rapture were over he 
 cast his eyes towards the fire, where AEschylus lay expiring; 
 and immediately rescued the poor remains, to wit, the sheep¬ 
 skin covering, of his dear friend, which was the work of his 
 own hands, and had been his inseparable companion for up¬ 
 wards of thirty years. 
 
 Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she 
 began to restrain the impetuosity of her transports ; and, re¬ 
 flecting 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 
 cpiiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer. 
 Then, seeing Mrs Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to 
 advance to her; but that high woman would not return her 
 curtsies ; but, casting her eyes another way, immediately 
 withdrew into another room, muttering, as she went, she 
 wondered who the creature was. 
 
-OH. XIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 153 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A DISSERTATION CONCERNING HIGH PEOPLE AND LOW 
 PEOPLE, WITH MRS SLIPSLOP’S DEPARTURE IN NO VERA” 
 GOOD TEMPER OE MIND, AND THE EVIL PLIGHT IN 
 WHICH SHE LEET 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 for¬ 
 get her. And indeed the. truth is, that she remembered her 
 very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, that any¬ 
 thing should appear unnatural in this our history, we will 
 endeavour to explain the reasons of her conduct; nor do we 
 doubt being able to satisfy the most curious reader that Mrs 
 Slipslop did not in the least deviate from the common road 
 in this behaviour; and, indeed, had she done otherwise, she 
 must have descended below herself, and would have very 
 justly been liable to censure. 
 
 Be it known then, that the human species are divided into 
 two sorts of people, to wit, high people and low people. As 
 by high people I would not be understood to mean persons 
 literally born higher in their dimensions than the rest of the 
 species, nor metaphorically those of exalted characters or 
 abilities; so by low people I cannot be construed to intend 
 the reverse. High people signify no other than people of 
 fashion, and low people those of no fashion. Xow, this 
 word fashion hath by long use lost its original meaning, from 
 . which at present it gives us a very different idea; for I am 
 •deceived if by persons of fashion we do not generally include 
 a conception of birth and accomplishments superior to the 
 herd of mankind ; whereas, in reality, nothing more was 
 originally meant by a person of fashion than a person who 
 drest himself in the fashion of the times ; and the word 
 really and truly signifies no more at this day. Xow, the 
 world being thus divided into people of fashion and people 
 of no fashion, a fierce contention arose between them; nor 
 
154 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [ek II. 
 
 would those of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen pub¬ 
 licly 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 be¬ 
 tween them, namely, the church and the playhouse, where 
 they segregate themselves from each other in a remarkable 
 manner ; for, as the people of fashion exalt themselves at 
 church over the heads of the people of no fashion, so in the 
 playhouse they abase themselves in the same degree under 
 their feet. This distinction I have never met with any one 
 able to account for : it is sufficient that, so far from looking 
 on each other as brethren in the Christian language, they 
 seem scarce to regard each other as of the same species. 
 This, the terms ‘ strange persons, people one does not know, 
 the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes,’ and many other appel¬ 
 lations evidently demonstrate; which Mrs Slipslop, having 
 often heard her mistress use, thought she had also a right to 
 use in her turn ; and perhaps she was not mistaken ; lor 
 these two parties, especially those bordering nearly on each 
 other, to wit, the lowest of the high, and the highest of the 
 low, often change their parties according to place and time; 
 for those who are people of fashion in one place are often 
 people of no fashion in another. And with regard to time, 
 it may not be unpleasant to survey the picture M dependence 
 like a kind of ladder : as, for instance ; early in the morning 
 arises the postilion, or some other boy, which great families, 
 no more than great ships, are without, and falls to brushing 
 the clothes and cleaning the shoes of John the footman; 
 who, being drest himself, applies his hands to the same 
 labours for Mr Second-hand, the squire’s gentleman; the 
 gentleman in the like manner, a little later in the day, at¬ 
 tends the squire; the squire is no sooner equipped than he 
 attends the levee of my lord ; which is no sooner over than 
 my lord himself is seen at the levee of the favourite, who, 
 after the hour of homage is at an end, appears himself to pay 
 homage to the levee of his sovereign. Nor is there, perhaps, 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 155 - 
 
 CH. XIII.] 
 
 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, whether 
 you would choose to he a great man at six in the morning, 
 or at two in the afternoon. And yet there are scarce two of 
 these who do not think the least familiarity with the persons 
 below them a condescension, and, if they were to go one step 
 farther, a degradation. 
 
 And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this long 
 digression, which seemed to me necessary to vindicate the 
 great character of Mrs Slipslop from what low people, who 
 have never seen high people, might think an absurdity; hut 
 we who know them must have daily found very high persons 
 know us in one place and not in another, to-day and not to¬ 
 morrow ; all which it is' difficult to account for otherwise 
 than I have here endeavoured; and perhaps, if the gods, ac¬ 
 cording 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 mere 
 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, 4 Madam Slip¬ 
 slop, here is one of your old acquaintance; do but see what 
 a fine woman she is grown since she left Lady Booby’s 
 service.’— 4 1 think I reflect something of her,’ answered she, 
 with great dignity, 4 but I can’t remember all the inferior 
 servants in our family.’ She then proceeded to satisfy 
 Adams’s curiosity, by telling him, 4 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, 4 that 
 the excessive virulence of the storm had driven them into 
 the house where he found them.’ After which, she ac¬ 
 quainted Adams with his having left his horse, and exprest 
 some wonder at his having strayed so far out of his way, and 
 at meeting him, as she said, 4 in the company of that wench, 
 who she feared was no better than she should be.’ 
 
 The horse was no sooner put into Adams’s head but he 
 was immediately driven out by this reflection on the character 
 
156 THE ADVENTURES OF [BIv II. 
 
 of Fanny. He protested, ‘ He believed there was not a 
 chaster damsel in the universe. I heartily wish, I heartily 
 wish/ cried he (snapping his fingers), ‘ that all her betters 
 were as good.’ He then proceeded to inform her of the 
 accident of their meeting; but when he came to mention 
 the circumstance of delivering her from the rape, she said, 
 
 ‘ She thought him properer for the army than the clergy; 
 that it did not become a clergyman to lay violent hands on 
 any one ; that he should have rather prayed that she might 
 be strengthened.’ Adams said, ‘ He was very far from being 
 ashamed of what he had done : ’ she replied, f Want of shame 
 was not the currycuristic of a clergyman.’ This dialogue 
 might have probably grown warmer, had not Joseph oppor¬ 
 tunely entered the room, to ask leave of Madam Slipslop to 
 introduce Fanny ; but she positively refused to admit any 
 such trollops, and told him, ‘ She would have been burnt be¬ 
 fore 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 not doubt but to see him a 
 bishop.’ He made the best bow he could, and cried out, ‘ I 
 thank you, madam, for that right-reverend appellation, which 
 I shall take all honest means to deserve.’—‘Very honest 
 means,’ returned she with a sneer, 4 to bring good people to¬ 
 gether.’ At these words Adams took two or three strides 
 across 'the room, when the coachman came to inform Mrs 
 Slipslop ‘ That the storm was over, and the moon shone very 
 bright.’ She then sent for Joseph, who was sitting without 
 with his Fanny, and would have had him gone with her; 
 but he peremptorily refused to leave Fanny behind, which 
 threw the good woman into a violent rage. She said ‘ She 
 would inform her lady what doings were carrying on, and 
 did not doubt but she would rid the parish of all such people ; ’ 
 and concluded a long speech, full of bitterness and very hard 
 words, with some reflections on the clergy not decent to 
 repeat; at last, finding Joseph unmoveable, she flung herself 
 into the chaise, casting a look at Fanny as she went, not un¬ 
 like that which Cleopatra gives Octavia in the play. To say 
 the truth, she Avas 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 157 
 
 CH. XIII.] 
 
 accomplished at an alehouse as well as a palace. Indeed, it 
 is probable Mr Adams had rescued more than Fanny from the 
 danger of a rape that evening. 
 
 When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slipslop, 
 Adams, Joseph, and Fanny assembled over the fire, where 
 they had a great deal of innocent chat, pretty enough ; but, 
 as possibly it would not be very entertaining to the reader, 
 w r e shall hasten to the morning ; only observing that none of 
 them w r ent to bed that night. Adams, when he had smoked 
 three pipes, took a comfortable nap in a great chair, and left 
 the lovers, whose eyes were too well employed to permit any 
 desire of shutting them, to enjoy by themselves, during some 
 hours, an happiness of which none of my readers who have 
 never been in love are capable of the least conception, though 
 we had as many tongues as Homer desired, to describe it with, 
 and which all true lovers will represent to their own minds 
 without the least assistance from us. 
 
 Let it suffice then to say, that Fanny, after a thousand 
 entreaties, at last gave up her whole soul to Joseph; and, 
 almost fainting in his arms, with a sigh infinitely softer and 
 sweeter too than any Arabian breeze, she whispered to his 
 lips, which were then close to hers, ‘ 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, leapt up in a rapture, and awakened 
 the parson, earnestly begging him ‘ that he would that instant 
 join, their hands together/ Adams rebuked him for his 
 request, and told him 1 he would by no means consent to 
 anything contrary to the forms of the church ; that he had no 
 licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one : that 
 the church had prescribed a form,—namely, the publication 
 of banns,—with which all good Christians ought to com¬ 
 ply, and to the omission of which he attributed the many 
 miseries which befel great folks in marriage; ’ concluding, 
 ‘ As many as are joined together otherwise than G—’s word 
 doth allow, are not joined together by G—, neither is their 
 matrimony lawful.’ Fanny agreed with the parson, saying 
 to Joseph, with a blush, ‘ she assured him she would not 
 consent to any such thing, and that she wondered at his 
 offering it.’ In which resolution she was comforted and 
 commended by Adams ; and Joseph was obliged to wait 
 
158 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 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 now been risen some hours, when Joseph, 
 finding his leg surprizingly recovered, proposed to walk 
 forwards \ but when they were all ready to set out, an acci¬ 
 dent a little retarded them. This was no other than the 
 reckoning, which amounted to seven shillings; no great sum 
 if we consider the immense quantity of ale which Mr Adams 
 poured in. Indeed, they had no objection to the reasonable¬ 
 ness of the bill, but many to the probability of paying it; 
 for the fellow who had taken poor Fanny’s purse had 
 unluckily forgot to return it. So that the account stood 
 thus : 
 
 
 
 £. 
 
 s. 
 
 d. 
 
 Mr Adams and company, 
 
 Dr 
 
 . 0 
 
 7 
 
 0 
 
 In Mr Adams’s pocket 
 
 • • • • 
 
 . 0 
 
 0 
 
 61 
 
 In Mr Joseph’s 
 
 In Mrs Fanny’s 
 
 • • • • 
 
 . 0 
 
 0 
 
 0 
 
 • • • • 
 
 . o 
 
 0 
 
 0 
 
 
 Balance 
 
 . 0 
 
 6 
 
 51 
 
 They stood silent some few minutes, staring at each other, 
 when Adams whipt out on his toes, and asked the hostess, if 
 there was no clergyman in that parish 1 ’ She answered, 
 < There was.’—‘ Is he wealthy V replied he ; to which she 
 likewise answered in the affirmative. Adams then snapping 
 his fingers returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out, 
 4 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.’ 
 
OH. XIV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 159 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN PARSON ADAMS AND PARSON 
 
 TRT7LLIBER. 
 
 Parson Adams came to the house of parson Trulliber, 
 'whom he found stript into 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 
 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 Avife milked his coavs, managed 
 his dairy, and folloAved the markets with butter and eggs. 
 The hogs fell chiefly to his care, Avhich he carefully Avaited 
 on at home, and attended to fairs on which occasion he 
 Avas liable to many jokes, his oivn size being, Avith much ale, 
 rendered little inferior to that of the beasts he sold. He 
 Avas indeed one of the largest men you should see, and could 
 have acted the part of Sir John Ealstaff without stuffing. 
 Add to this that the rotundity of his belly Avas considerably 
 increased by the shortness of his stature, his shadoiv ascend¬ 
 ing very near as far in height, Avhen he lay on his back, as 
 when he stood on his legs. His voice Avas loud and hoarse, 
 and his accent extremely broad. To complete the whole, he 
 had a stateliness in his gait, Avhen he Avalked, not unlike that 
 of a goose, only he stalked sloAver. 
 
 Mr Trulliber, being informed that somebody Avanted to 
 speak Avith him, immediately slipt off his apron and clothed 
 himself in an old night-goAvn, 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 had told her husband, ‘ She believed there Avas a man 
 come for some of his hogs.’ This supposition made Mr 
 Trulliber hasten Avith the utmost expedition to attend his 
 guest. He no sooner saiv Adams than, not in the least 
 doubting the cause of his errand to be what his Avife had 
 
160 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 imagined, lie 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 a- 
 piece.’ Adams answered, 4 He believed he did not know him/ 
 
 ‘ Yes,’ yes,’ cried Trulliber, 4 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, hut won’t 
 mention a word more till you have seen them, though I have 
 never sold thee a flitch ot such bacon as is now in the stye. 
 Upon which he laid violent hands on Adams, and dragged 
 him into the hog-stye, which was indeed hut two steps from 
 his parlour-window. They were no sooner arrived there 
 than he cried out, 4 Do hut handle them; step in, friend; 
 art welcome to handle them, whether dost buy or no.’ At 
 which words, opening the gate, he pushed Adams into the 
 pig-stye, insisting on it that he should handle them before 
 he would talk one word with him. 
 
 Adams, whose natural complacence was beyond any artifi¬ 
 cial, was obliged to comply before he was suffered to explain 
 himself ; and, laying hold on 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 laughter, and, entering the stye, said to 
 Adams, with some contempt, ‘ Why, dost not know how to 
 handle a hog % ’ and was going to lay hold of one himself, 
 but Adams, who thought he had carried his complacence far 
 enough, was no sooner on his legs than he escaped out of the 
 reach of the animals, and cried out, 4 Nil Ucibeo cum porcis: 
 I am a clergyman, sir, and am not come to buy hogs.’ lrul- 
 liber answered, 4 he was sorry for the mistake, but that he 
 must blame his wife,’ adding, 4 she was a fool, and always 
 committed blunders.’ He then desired him to walk in and 
 clean himself, that he would only fasten up the stye and 
 follow him. Adams desired 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 parlour door, and now conducted him into the 
 

 
 
 
 /// 
 
 ////: l 
 
CH. XIV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 1G1 
 
 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.’—‘ Aye, aye,’ cries 
 Trnlliber, grinning, ‘ 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 1 ’ adding, ‘ He supposed the gentleman had none by 
 his having no boots on.’—‘ Yes, sir, yes, 5 says Adams; ‘ I 
 have a horse, but I have left him behind me.’—‘ I am glad 
 to hear you have one,’ says Trulliber ; i 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) 
 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, ‘ I don’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 be¬ 
 hind her husband’s chair, as was, it seems, her custom. 
 Trulliber ate heartily, but scarce put anything in his mouth 
 without finding 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 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 in¬ 
 deed 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 he paid 
 himself, and partly by that which he received from the 
 parish. She had, in short, absolutely submitted, and now 
 
162 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 worshipped her husband, as Sarah did Abraham, calling him 
 (not lord, hut) master. Whilst they were at table her hus¬ 
 band gave her a fresh example of his greatness ; for, as she 
 had just 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 he 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 kingdom 
 to drink before me in my own house when I caale vurst.’ . 
 
 As soon as their breakfast was ended, Adams began m 
 the 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 stopt 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, 4 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 Adams, ‘1 
 rejoice thereat. Now, sir, my business is, that we are by 
 various accidents stript of our money, and are not able to 
 pay our reckoning, being seven shillings. I 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 place 
 than any this world affords.’ 
 
 Suppose a stranger, who entered the chambers ot a lawyer, 
 being imagined a client, when the lawyer was preparing his 
 palm for the fee, should pull out a writ against linn. Sup¬ 
 pose an apothecary, at the door of a chariot containing some 
 o-reat doctor of eminent skill, should, instead of directions to 
 a patient, present him with a potion for himself. Suppose 
 a minister should, instead of a good round sum treat my 
 
 lord_, or sir-or esq.-with a good 
 
 broomstick. Suppose a civil companion, or a led captain, 
 should, instead of virtue, and honour, and beauty, and parts, 
 and admiration, thunder vice, and infamy, and ugliness, and 
 
CH. XIV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 163 
 
 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. A while 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: 
 4 Sir, I believe I know where to lay up my little treasure as 
 well as another. I thank G—, 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 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 money immediately.’ Trulliber then put 
 on a stern look, and cried out, ‘ Thou dost not intend to rob 
 me 1 ’ At which the wife, bursting into tears, fell on her 
 knees and roared out, ‘ 0 dear sir ! for Heaven’s sake don’t 
 rob my master : we are but poor people.’ ‘ Get up, for a 
 fool as thou art, and go about thy business,’ said Trulliber : 
 
 dost think the man will venture his life ? he is a beggar, 
 and no robber.’ ‘ Very true, indeed,’ answered Adams. ‘ I 
 wish, with all my heart, 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 stript over thy shoulders 
 for running about the country in such a manner.’ ‘ I forgive 
 your suspicions,’ says Adams; ‘but suppose I am not a 
 clergyman, I am nevertheless thy brother; and thou, as a 
 
164 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK IE 
 
 Christian, much more as a clergyman, art obliged to relieve 
 my distress.’ ' Dost preach to me 1 ’ replied Trulliber : ‘ dost 
 pretend 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.’ ' Besides, if we were inclined, the poor’s 
 rate obliges us to give so much charity,’ cries the wife. ' Pugh ! 
 thou art a fool. Poor’s reate ! Hold thy nonsense,’ answered 
 Trulliber; and then, turning to Adams, he told him, 'he 
 would give him nothing.’ ‘ I am sorry,’ answered Adams, 
 
 ' that you do know what charity is, since you 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.’ ' Fellow,’ 
 cries Trulliber, ' dost thou speak against faith in my house 1 
 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 1 ’ cries Trulliber. ‘No; but you do,’ answered 
 Adams, ' if I may reason from your practice ; for their com¬ 
 mands are so explicit, and their rewards and punishments so 
 immense, that it is impossible a man should stedfastly 
 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 no Christian.’ ‘ I would not advise 
 thee,’ says Trulliber, ' to say that I am 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 in orders, departed without further ceremony. 
 
CH. XV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 165 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AN ADVENTURE THE CONSEQUENCE OF A NEW INSTANCE 
 WHICH PARSON ADAMS GAVE OF HIS FORGETFULNESS. 
 
 When he 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 de¬ 
 lightful conversation; but, as I never could prevail on either 
 to relate it, so I cannot communicate it to the reader. 
 
 Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success of his 
 enterprize. 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 curtsy and smile, wished them a good journey. How¬ 
 ever, lest Fanny’s skill in physiognomy should be called in 
 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 had meant his natural brother, and not his brother in 
 divinity, and had so informed the hostess, on her inquiry 
 after him. Xow 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 
 
166 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 |_BK II. 
 
 recollected lie had left his great-coat and hat at Mr Trulli- 
 ber’s. As he was not desirous of renewing his visit, the 
 hostess herself, having no servant at home, offered to fetcli 
 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 was obliged to pay for what she had; 
 she could not therefore possibly, nor would she, trust any¬ 
 body ; no, not her own father. That money was never 
 scarcer, and she wanted to make up a sum. That she ex¬ 
 pected, 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 out all round 
 the parish, but to no purpose ; he returned as pennyless 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 neighbour¬ 
 hood, but 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 exceedingly 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, hath 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:— 
 
CH. XV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 167 
 
 Turtle, quod optanti divum promittere nemo 
 Auderet, volvenda dies, enl attulit ultro. 
 
 I would quote more great men if I could ; but my memory 
 not permitting me, I will proceed to exemplify these observa¬ 
 tions 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 atten¬ 
 tively 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 him¬ 
 self.’ 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 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 re¬ 
 paid, they all sallied out of the house without any compli¬ 
 ments from their hostess, or indeed without paying her any; 
 Adams declaring he would take particular care never to call 
 there again ; and she on her side assuring them she wanted 
 no such guests. 
 
16S 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 A VERT CURIOUS ADVENTURE, IN WHICH MR ADAMS 
 
 GAVE A MUCH GREATER INSTANCE OE THE HONEST 
 
 SIMPLICITY OF HIS HEART, THAN OF HIS EXPERIENCE 
 
 IN THE WATS 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 so¬ 
 journed, 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 enquired the road, and 
 received so courteous and obliging an answer, accompanied 
 with so smiling a countenance, that the good parson, whose 
 heart was naturally disposed to love and affection, began 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 land¬ 
 lord’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 1 
 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, 
 either 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 Fanny follow him, he 
 entered the alehouse, where a large loaf and cheese and a 
 pitcher of beer, which truly answered the character given of 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 169 
 
 CH. XVI.] 
 
 it, being set before them, the three travellers 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. 
 
 The gentleman expressed great delight in the hearty and 
 cheerful behaviour of Adams; and particularly in the fa¬ 
 miliarity 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 intrusted to his cure to stand to 
 him in that relation.’ The gentleman, shaking him by the 
 hand, highly applauded those sentiments. ‘They are, in¬ 
 deed,’ says he, ‘ the true principles of a Christian divine ; 
 and I heartily wish they were universal; but, on the con¬ 
 trary, 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 him¬ 
 self. He seldom speaks to any, unless some few of the 
 richest of us; nay, indeed, he will not move his hat to the 
 others. I often laugh when I behold him on Sundays 
 strutting along the church-yard like a turkey-cock through 
 rows of his parishioners, who bow 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 tem¬ 
 poral 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; but 
 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 ; 1 1 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 him ‘ He was never more 
 
170 THE ADVENTURES OP [BK II. 
 
 confounded in his life than at his utter incapacity to make 
 any return to such nohle and unmerited generosity. 1 A 
 mere trifle, sir,’ cries the gentleman, ‘scarce worth your ac¬ 
 ceptance; 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 his gratitude; when the other 
 asked him, ‘ If he was married, or had any children, besides 
 those in the spiritual sense he had mentioned.’ ‘ Sir,’ re¬ 
 plied the parson, ‘ I have a wife and six at your service.’ 
 i That is unlucky,’ says the gentleman; ‘ for I would other¬ 
 wise 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 your wife understand a dairy V ‘I can’t profess 
 she does,’ says Adams. ‘ I am sorry for it,’ quoth the gen¬ 
 tleman ; ‘ I would have given you half-a-dozen cows, and 
 very good grounds to have maintained them.’ 1 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 
 words 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 could be very well accommodated in the house 
 where they were; forgetting they had not a sixpenny piece 
 among them. The gentleman would not be denied; and, 
 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 
 charity ! 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 171 
 
 CH. XVI.] 
 
 "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 that 
 passeth not away. We will therefore, most generous sir, 
 accept your goodness, as well the entertainment you have so 
 kindly offered us at your house this evening, as the accom¬ 
 modation of your horses to-morrow morning. lie then 
 hegan to search for his hat, as did Joseph for his; and both 
 they and Fanny were in order of departure, when the gen¬ 
 tleman, stopping short, and seeming to meditate by himself 
 for the space of about a minute, exclaimed thus : ‘ Sure 
 never anything was so unlucky • I had forgot that my house¬ 
 keeper was gone abroad, and hath 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 be¬ 
 fore 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, and 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.’ ‘ I am heartily 
 sorry,’ says the gentleman, ‘for this 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.’ 
 ‘ Aye ! ’ 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 each 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 
 Fanny should ride behind Joseph, or behind the gentleman’s 
 servant; Joseph insisting on it that he was perfectly re- 
 
172 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk ID 
 
 covered, and was as capable of taking care of Fanny 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 
 gentleman 1 I protest I am more sorry on his account than 
 my own. You see, Joseph, how this good-natured man is 
 treated by his servants ; one locks up his linen, 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 good-natlire 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 we shall 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 pockets; as we have 
 full forty miles to travel, we may possibly have occasion for 
 them.’ 
 
 Fanny being now risen, Joseph paid her a visit, and left 
 Adams to write his letter, which having finished, he 
 despatched a boy with it to the gentleman, and then seated 
 himself by the door, lighted his pipe, and betook himself to 
 meditation. 
 
 The boy 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 
 
CII. XVI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 173 
 
 so small, so noble a gentleman would be easily able to pro¬ 
 cure it in the parish, though he had it not in his own pocket. 
 Indeed,’ says he, 4 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 was not at home. 4 Very well! ’ cries Adams; 
 ‘ but why, child, did you not stay till his return 'l Go back 
 again, my good boy, and wait for his coming home ; he can¬ 
 not be gone far, as his horses are all sick ; and besides, he 
 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 de¬ 
 parted, and was back again with great expedition, bringing 
 an account that the gentleman was gone a long j ourney, and 
 would not be at home again this month. At these words 
 Adams seemed greatly confounded, saying, 4 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, 4 1 wish you had reminded me to have bor¬ 
 rowed this money last night.’ Joseph, smiling, answered, 
 
 4 He was very much deceived if the gentleman would not 
 have found some excuse to avoid lending it.—I own,’ says 
 he, 4 1 v T as never much pleased with his professing so much 
 kindness for you at first sight; for I have heard the gentle¬ 
 men of our cloth in London tell many such stories of their 
 masters. But vdien the boy brought the message back of 
 his not being at home, I presently knew what would follow; 
 for, whenever a man of fashion doth not care to fulfil his 
 promises, the custom is to order his servants that he will 
 never be 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 hath danced 
 attendance for about a month, or sometimes longer, he is ac¬ 
 quainted in the end that the gentleman is gone out of town 
 and could do nothing in the business.’— 4 Good Lord ! ’ says 
 Adams, 4 what wickedness is there in the Christian world ! 
 I profess almost equal to what I have read of the heathens. 
 But surely, Joseph, your suspicions of this gentleman 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 
 
174 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK II. 
 
 interest lie could possibly propose to himself by deceiving us 
 in his professions 1 ’— 4 It is not for me/ answered Joseph, 
 4 to give reasons for what men do to a gentleman of your 
 learning.’— 4 You say right/ quoth Adams ; 4 knowledge of 
 men is only to he learnt from books; Plato and Seneca for 
 that; and those are authors, I am afraid, child, you never 
 read.’— 4 Hot I, sir, truly/ answered Joseph ; 4 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. Put, sir, 
 instead of considering any farther these matters, it would he 
 our wisest way to contrive some method of getting out of 
 this house; for the generous gentleman, instead of doing us 
 any service, hath 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 hath 
 not sent his horses for you yet. Laud help me ! how easily 
 some folks make promises!’—‘How!’says Adams; 4 have 
 you ever known him do anything of this kind before 1 ’— 
 4 Aye ! marry have 1/ answered the host: £ it is no business 
 of mine, you know, sir, to say anything to a gentleman to 
 his face; hut now he is not here, I will assure you, he hath 
 not his fellow within the three next market-towns. I own 
 I could not help laughing when I heard him offer you the 
 living, for thereby hangs a good jest. I 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, 4 lie had never read of such a monster. 
 Put what vexes me most,’ says he, 4 is, that he hath 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.’— 4 Trust you, master ! ’ says 
 the host, 4 that I will with all my heart. I honour the clergy 
 too much to deny trusting one of them for such a trifle; be¬ 
 sides, 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 175 
 
 •CH. XVI.] 
 
 kind. But what say you, master, shall we have t’other pot 
 before we part 1 It will waste hut 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 
 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 
 Fanny 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 w T ill find in 
 the next chapter. 
 
176 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MR ABRAHAM ADAMS AND HIS 
 HOST, WHICH, BY THE DISAGREEMENT IN THEIR OPIN¬ 
 IONS, SEEMED TO THREATEN AN UNLUCKY CATASTRO¬ 
 PHE, HAD IT NOT BEEN TIMELY PREVENTED BY THE 
 RETURN OF THE LOVERS. 
 
 ‘ Sir,’ said the host, 1 1 assure you you are not the first to 
 whom our squire hath promised more than he hath per¬ 
 formed. He is so famous for this practice, that his word 
 will not he taken for much by those who know him. I re¬ 
 member a young fellow whom he promised his parents to 
 make an exciseman. The poor people, who could ill aftord 
 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 
 drest 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 he 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 neigh¬ 
 bour 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 the 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 promise, or sending him 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 177 
 
 CH. XVII.] 
 
 tliitlier 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 which 
 time, if he could get him a curacy, he might have him or¬ 
 dained. The farmer said, 1 He was not a man sufficient to 
 do any such thing .’— 1 Why, then,’ answered the squire, ‘ I 
 am very sorry you have given him so much learning ; for, if 
 he cannot get his living by that, it will rather spoil him for 
 anything else; and your other son, who can hardly write 
 his name, will do more at ploughing and 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 unwilling 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.—Hay, I can tell you more 
 still: there was another, a young woman, and the hand¬ 
 somest in all this neighbourhood, whom he enticed up 
 to London, promising to make her a gentlewoman to 
 one of your women of quality; but, instead of keeping 
 his word, we have since heard, after having a child by 
 her himself, she became a common whore; then kept a 
 coffee-house in Covent Garden; and a little after died of 
 the Trench distemper in a gaol.—I could tell you many 
 more stories; but how do you imagine he served me 
 myself 1 You must know, sir, I was bred a sea-faring 
 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 brigantine 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 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk II. 
 
 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, hut (as he told 
 me) from the lords of the admiralty. He never returned 
 from London hut I was assured I might he satisfied now, for 
 I was certain of the first vacancy; and, what surprizes me, 
 still, when I reflect on it, these assurances were given me 
 with no less confidence, after so many disappointments, 
 than at first. At last, sir, growing weary, and somewhat 
 suspicious, after so much delay, I wrote to a friend in 
 London, who I knew had some acquaintance at the 
 hest house in the admiralty, and desired him to hack the 
 squire’s interest; for indeed I feared he had solicited the 
 affair with more coldness than he pretended. And what 
 answer do you think my friend sent me 1 Truly, sir, he 
 acquainted me that the squire had never mentioned my name 
 at the admiralty in his life; and, unless I had much faith- 
 fuller interest, advised me to give over my pretensions; 
 which I immediately did, and, with the concurrence of my 
 wife, resolved to set up an alehouse, where you are heartily 
 welcome ; and so my service to you; and may the squire, 
 and all such sneaking rascals, go to the devil together.’—‘ 0 
 fie ! ’ says Adams, ‘ 0 fie ! He is indeed a wicked man ; hut 
 G— will, I hope, turn his heart to repentance. Hay, if he 
 could hut once see the meanness of this detestable vice; 
 would he but once reflect that he is one of the most scandal¬ 
 ous as well as pernicious liars; sure he must despise himself 
 to so intolerable a degree, that it would be impossible for 
 him to continue a moment in such a course. And to confess 
 the truth, notwithstanding the baseness of this character, 
 which he hath too well deserved, he hath in his countenance 
 sufficient symptoms of that bona indoles, that sweetness of 
 disposition, which furnishes out a good Christian. ‘ All, 
 master ! master ! ’ says the host, ‘ if you had travelled as far 
 as I have, and conversed with the many nations where I have 
 traded, you would not give any credit to a man’s countenance. 
 Symptoms in his countenance, quotha ! I would look there, 
 perhaps, to see whether a man had the smallpox, but for 
 nothing else.’ He spoke this with so little regard to the 
 parson’s observation, that it a good deal nettled him; and. 
 
CH. XVII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 179 
 
 taking the pipe hastily from his mouth, he thus answered: 
 4 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 1 Ho. 
 
 ‘ Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. 
 
 I can go farther in an afternoon than you in a twelvemonth. 
 What, I suppose you have seen the Pillars of Hercules, and 
 perhaps the w T alls of Carthage. Hay, you may have heard 
 Scylla, and seen Charybdis ; you may have entered the closet 
 where Archimedes was found at the taking of Syracuse. I 
 suppose you have sailed among the Cyclades, and passed the 
 famous straits which take their name from the unfortunate 
 Helle, whose fate is sweetly described by Apollonius Ehodius; 
 you have passed the very spot, I conceive, where Daedalus 
 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 been on the banks of the Caspian, and called 
 at Colchis, to see if there is ever another golden fleece.’ 4 Hot 
 I, truly, master,’ answered the host: 4 1 never touched at any 
 of these places.’— 4 But I have been at all these,’ replied 
 Adams. 4 Then, I suppose,’ cries the host, 4 you have been 
 at the East Indies; for there are no such, I will be sworn, 
 either in the West or the Levant.’— 4 Pray where’s the 
 Levant ? ’ quoth Adams ; 4 that should be in the East Indies 
 by right.’ 4 Oho! you are a pretty traveller,’ cries the 
 host, 4 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.’ 
 4 Since thou art so dull to misunderstand me still,’ quoth 
 Adams, 4 1 will inform thee; the travelling I mean is 
 in books, the only way of travelling by which any know¬ 
 ledge is to be acquired. From them I learn what I asserted 
 just now, that nature generally imprints such a portraiture 
 of the mind in the countenance, that a skilful physiogno¬ 
 mist will rarely be deceived. I presume you have never 
 read the story of Socrates to this purpose, and therefore 
 I will tell it 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 tenor of all this great man’s actions, and the generally 
 
180 THE ADVENTURES OF [BK II. 
 
 received opinion concerning him, incensed the hoys of Athens 
 so that they threw stones at the physiognomist, and would 
 have demolished him for his ignorance, had not Socrates 
 himself prevented them by confessing the truth of his ob¬ 
 servations, 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 1 ’ 
 ‘Well, master/ said the host, ‘and what signifies it whether 
 a man knows it or no 1 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.’ 
 
 * Friend,’ 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 ! 7 
 answered the host; ‘ there was my boatswain, poor fellow ! 
 he could scarce either write or read, and yet he would navi¬ 
 gate 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. 7 
 The host looked stedfastly at Adams, and after a minute’s 
 silence asked him, ‘ If he was one of the writers of the 
 Gazetteers'? for I have heard,’ says he, ‘they are writ by 
 parsons.’ ‘ Gazetteers ! 7 answered Adams ; ‘ What is that % 7 
 ‘ It is a dirty newspaper,’ replied the host, ‘ which hath 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 hath been offered me for nothing. 7 ‘ Not I 
 truly,’ said Adams ; ‘ I never write anything but sermons ; 
 and I assure you I am no enemy to trade, whilst it is con¬ 
 sistent with honesty; nay, I have always looked on the 
 tradesman as a very valuable member of society, and, per¬ 
 haps, 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 1 
 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 parson; ‘ but admit 
 
€H. XVII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 181 
 
 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, meek¬ 
 ness, humility, charity, patience, and all the other Christian 
 virtues 1 Who feeds your souls with the milk of brotherly 
 love, and diets them with all 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 1 Who 
 doth this 1 ’ ‘ Ay, who, indeed. 1 ’ 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 v T as going 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 dovm together), and with Joseph and Fanny, who 
 both expressed much impatience, departed, and now all to¬ 
 gether renewed their journey. 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MATTER PREEATORY IN PRAISE OE 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 France, 
 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 topographers, or chorographers; 
 words which might well mark the distinction between them ; 
 it being the business of the latter chieliy to describe 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 con¬ 
 tradictions occurring between two topographers who undertake 
 the history of the same country: for instance, between my 
 Lord Clarendon and Mr Whitlock, between Mr Echard and 
 Eapin, and many others ; where, facts being set forth in a 
 different light, every reader believes as he pleases ; and, in¬ 
 deed, the more judicious and suspicious very justly esteem 
 the whole as no other than a romance, in which the writer 
 hath 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 repre¬ 
 senting the same man as a rogue, to whom others give a great 
 
CH. I.] THE ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS. 183 
 
 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 biographers the case is different; the facts we deliver may 
 be relied on, though we often mistake the age and country 
 wherein they happened: 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 Mar¬ 
 cella, who hated him, was ever in Spain, will any one doubt 
 but that such a silly fellow hath really existed ? Is there in 
 the world such a sceptic as to disbelieve the madness of Car- 
 denio, the perfidy of Ferdinand, the impertinent curiosity of 
 Anselmo, the weakness of Camilla, the irresolute friendship 
 of Lothario 1 though perhaps, as to the time and place where 
 those several persons lived, the good historian may be deplor¬ 
 ably deficient. But the most known instance of this kind is 
 in the true history of Gil Bias, where the inimitable biographer 
 hath made a notorious blunder in the country of Dr Sangra- 
 do, who used his patients as a vintner doth his wine-vessels, 
 by letting out their blood, and filling them up with water. 
 Doth not every one, who is the least versed in physical 
 history, know that Spain was not the country in which this 
 doctor lived 1 The same writer hath likewise erred in the 
 country of his archbishop, as well as that of those great per¬ 
 sonages whose understandings were too sublime to taste any¬ 
 thing but tragedy, and in many others. The same mistakes 
 may likewise be observed in Scarron, the Arabian Nights, 
 the History of Marianne and le Paisan Parvenu, and 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 surprizing genius, the 
 authors of immense romances, or the modern novel and Ata- 
 lantis 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 won¬ 
 derful extent of human genius'? One may apply to them 
 what Balzac says of Aristotle, that they are a second nature 
 
184 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 (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, 
 i carry the genius far ofi, but without any regular 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 of the renowned Bon 
 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 particular 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 ot man¬ 
 kind, who are always forward to see their friends’ virtues re¬ 
 corded, 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 all the rest of my characters, lo prevent therefore 
 any such malicious applications, I declare here, once for all, 
 I describe not men, but manners; not an individual, but a 
 species. Perhaps it will be answered, Are not the characters 
 then taken from life To which I answer in the affirmative , 
 nay, I believe I might aver that I have writ little more than 
 I have seen. The lawyer is not only alive, but hath been so 
 these four thousand years ; and I hope G— will indulge his 
 life as many vet to come. lie hath not indeed confined him¬ 
 self to one profession, one religion, or one country , but w hen 
 the first mean selfish creature appeared on the human stage, 
 who made self the centre of the whole creation, u ould give 
 himself no pain, incur no danger, advance no money, to assist 
 
CH. I.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 185 
 
 or preserve his fellow-creatures ; then was our lawyer born ; 
 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 he happens to resemble him in one 
 particular feature, or perhaps in his profession; whereas his 
 appearance in the world is calculated for much more general 
 and noble purposes ; not to expose one pitiful wretch to the 
 small and contemptible circle ot his acquaintance , but to 
 hold the glass to thousands in their closets, that they may 
 contemplate their deformity, and endeavour to reduce it, and 
 thus by suffering private mortification may avoid public 
 shame. This places the boundary between, and distinguishes 
 the satirist from the libeller: for the former privately cor¬ 
 rects 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 diminished. 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 hath like¬ 
 wise in the revolution of ages sat on a throne. In short, 
 where extreme turbulency of temper, avarice, and an insen¬ 
 sibility 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 and understanding, hath glimmered forth in a man, 
 that man hath been no other than her sneaking husband. 
 
 I shall detain my reader no longer than to give him one 
 caution more of an opposite kind: for, as in most of our 
 particular characters 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 condescension make their 
 superiority as easy as possible to those whom fortune chiefly 
 
186 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III, 
 
 hath 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 great¬ 
 ness, enriched with knowledge, and embellished with genius. 
 I have seen this man relieve with generosity, while he hath 
 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 
 hath 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, 
 would often make the lowest of his acquaintance forget who 
 was the master of that palace in which they are so courte¬ 
 ously entertained. These are pictures which must be, I 
 believe, known : I declare they are taken from the life, 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, maintain¬ 
 ing 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. 
 
CH. II.J 
 
 JOSErH ANDREWS. 
 
 187 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A NIGHT-SCENE, WHEREIN SEYERAL WONDERFUL ADVEN¬ 
 TURES BEFEL ADAMS AND HIS FELLOW-TRAYELLERS. 
 
 It was so late when our travellers left the inn or ale¬ 
 house (for it might he 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, and 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 
 Eanny whispered Joseph 1 that she begged to rest herself a 
 little ; for that she was so tired she could walk no farther.’ 
 Joseph immediately 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 fEschylus; 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 Fanny, 
 not suspicious of 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 
 
188 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 light at some distance that seemed approaching towards him. 
 He immediately hailed it; but, to his sorrow and surprize, it 
 stopped for a moment, and then disappeared. He then called 
 to Joseph, asking him, ‘if he had not seen the light 1 5 
 Joseph answered, ‘he had.’—‘ And did you not mark how it 
 vanished 1 ’ 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 distinctly hear them 
 agree on the murder of any one they met; and a little after 
 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 Fanny, 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 tor such embraces. 
 
 Joseph now drew forth his penknife, and Adams,, having 
 finished his ejaculations, grasped, his crab-stick, his only 
 weapon, and, coming up to Joseph, would have had him quit 
 Fanny, and place her in the rear \ but his advice was fruit¬ 
 less ; she clung closer to him, not at all regarding the presence 
 of Adams, and in a soothing voice declared, ‘ she would die 
 in his arms.’ Joseph, clasping her with inexpressible eager¬ 
 ness, whispered her, ‘ that ho preferred death in hers to life 
 out of them.’ Adams, brandishing his crabstick, said, ‘ he 
 despised death as much as any man, and then repeated aloud, 
 
 Est hie, est animus lucis contemptor et ilium, 
 
 Q,ui vita bene credat emi quo tendis, honorem.’ 
 
 Upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and then one 
 of them called out, ‘ F)—n you, who is there 1 do which 
 Adams was prudent enough to make no reply; and of a 
 sudden he observed half-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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 189' 
 
 CH. II.] 
 
 have 1 ’ He had no sooner spoke than he heard one of the 
 voices cry out, * D—n them, here they come ; 5 and soon after 
 heard several hearty blows, as if a number of men had been 
 engaged at quarterstaff. 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 away 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 afar off several lights scattered at a 
 small distance from each other, and at the same time found 
 themselves on the descent of a very steep hill. Adams’s 
 foot slipping, he instantly disappeared, which greatly fright¬ 
 ened both Joseph and Fanny : indeed, if the light had 
 permitted 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 hollowed as loud as he could, to inform them of his 
 safety, and relieve them from the fears which they had con¬ 
 ceived for him. Joseph and Fanny halted some time, con¬ 
 sidering what to do; at last they advanced a few paces, 
 where the declivity seemed least steep; and then Joseph, 
 taking his Fanny in his arms, walked firmly down the hill, 
 without making a false step, and at length landed her 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 petit-maitres 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 de» 
 
190 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 dared he could swim, but doubted how it was possible to 
 get Fanny over : to which Joseph answered, 4 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 w T as near.’ 4 Odso, that’s true indeed,’ said 
 Adams ; 4 1 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. Fanny begged of Joseph to knock at the door, 
 assuring him 4 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 
 4 that they had a young woman with them wdio was so tired 
 with her journey that he should be much obliged to him if 
 he would suffer her to come in and rest herself.’ The man, 
 who saw Fanny 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, 4 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 1 
 Adams thanked him, and answered he should be obliged to 
 him for a cup of his ale, which was likewise chosen by Joseph 
 and Fanny. Whilst he was gone to fill a very large jug with 
 this liquor, his wife told Fanny she seemed greatly fatigued, 
 and desired her to 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, 4 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 the story when somebody knocked very 
 hard at the door. The company expressed some amazement, 
 
CH. II.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 191 
 
 and Fanny and tlie 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 sheep-stealers, and 
 the twelve persons murdered were no other than twelve sheep; 
 adding, 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 of the whole 
 company ; but Adams muttered to himself, 4 Fie was con¬ 
 vinced of the truth of apparitions 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 sup¬ 
 posed that honest man was his footman.’ ‘ Sir,’ answered 
 Adams, ‘ I am a 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 ne was dis¬ 
 charged, I assure you, for no crime.’ Joseph said, 4 He did 
 not wonder the gentleman was surprized to see one of 
 Mr Adams’s character condescend to so much goodness 
 with a poor man .’— 1 Child,’ said 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 otherwise can profess themselves followers and 
 servants of Him who made no distinction, unless, peradven- 
 ture, by preferring the poor to the rich.—Sir,’ said he, 
 addressing himself to the gentleman, 1 these two poor young 
 people are my parishioners, and I look on them and love 
 
192 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OP 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 them as mv children. There is something singular enough 
 in their history, hut 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 further, he asked 
 him, ‘ If Mr Pope had lately published anything new 1 ’ 
 Adams answered, ‘ He had heard great commendations of 
 that poet, hut that he had never read nor knew any of his 
 works/—‘ Ho ! ho !’ says the gentleman to himself, ‘ have 
 I caught you 1 What ! ’ said he, ‘ have you never seen his 
 Homer 1 ’ Adams answered, ‘ he had never read any trans¬ 
 lation of the classics/ ‘ Why, truly,’ replied the gentleman, 
 1 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 iEschylus? an unlucky misfortune lately 
 happened to mine.’ /Eschylus was beyond the gentleman, 
 though he knew him very well by name ; he therefore, 
 returning hack to Homer, asked Adams, 6 What part of the 
 Iliad he thought most excellent % ’ Adams returned, ‘ His 
 question would he 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 he 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 hy no other appellation than that of 
 the Poet. He was the father of the drama as well as the 
 epic; not of tragedy only, hut 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 Aristophanes as well as Euripides, 
 Sophocles, and my poor iEschylus. But 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 
 
CH. II.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 193 
 
 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 hath 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. Horace should, in his epistle to Lollius, call him 
 the Trojani Belli Scriptorem. Secondly, his action, termed 
 -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 greatness % And here I must ob¬ 
 serve, what I do not remember to have seen noted by any, 
 the Harmotton, that agreement of his action to his subject: 
 for, as. the subject is anger, how agreeable is his 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; 
 
 I am at a loss whether I should rather admire the exactness 
 of his judgment in the 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, distinguished from the hot, insulting passion of 
 Agamemnon ! How widely doth the brutal courage of Ajax 
 differ from the amiable bravery of Diomedes ; and the wis¬ 
 dom of Nestor, which is the result of long reflection and ex¬ 
 perience, 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 24th 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 can¬ 
 not raise. If he hath 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 the two episodes where Andro¬ 
 mache is introduced in the former lamenting the danger, and 
 in the latter the death, of Hector. The images are so ex¬ 
 tremely tender in these, that I am convinced the poet had 
 the worthiest and best heart imaginable. Nor can I help 
 observing how Sophocles falls short of the beauties of the 
 original, in that imitation of the dissuasive speech of 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III, 
 
 Andromache which he hath 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 tragedian, been able 
 to come near him. As to his sentiments and diction, I need 
 say nothing; the former are particularly remarkable 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 13th and 14th Iliads'? where the reader sees at one view 
 the prospect of Troy, with the army drawn up before it; the 
 Grecian army, camp, and fleet; Jupiter sitting on Mount 
 Ida, with his head wrapt 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 rapt out a hundred 
 Greek verses, and with such a voice, emphasis, and action, 
 that he almost frightened the women; and as for the gen¬ 
 tleman, he Avas so far from entertaining any further suspicion 
 of Adams, that he now doubted whether he had not a bishop 
 in his house. He ran into the most extravagant encomiums 
 on his learning; and the goodness of his heart began to 
 dilate to all the strangers. He said he had great compassion 
 for the poor young woman, who looked pale and faint with 
 her 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 fire-side, he would set up with the men ; 
 and the young woman might, if she pleased, partake his 
 wife’s bed, which he advised her to ; 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, persuaded Fanny to accept 
 this kind proposal, in which solicitation he was seconded by 
 
CH. II.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 195 
 
 Joseph. FTor was she very difficultly prevailed on ; for she 
 had slept 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 fire-side, 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 
 friendship he seemed to entertain for him, began to work on 
 the gentleman’s affections, and raised in him a curiosity to 
 know the singularity which Adams had mentioned in his 
 history. This curiosity Adams v T as no sooner informed of 
 than, with Joseph’s consent, he agreed to gratify it; and 
 accordingly related all he knew, with as much tenderness as 
 was possible for the character of Lady Booby ; and concluded 
 with the long, faithful, and mutual passion between him and 
 Fanny, not concealing the meanness of her birth and educa¬ 
 tion. These latter circumstances entirely cured a jealousy 
 which had lately risen in the gentleman’s mind, that Fanny 
 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 circum¬ 
 stantial 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 did not expect to 
 
 * The author hath by some been represented to have made a blunder 
 
196 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 find under such a roof, had raised in him more curiosity than 
 he had ever known. 4 Therefore,’ said he, 4 if it he not too 
 troublesome, sir, your history 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. 
 
 here : for Adams had indeed shown some learning (say they), perhaps all 
 the author had ; but the gentleman hath shown none, unless his approba¬ 
 tion 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 cofiee-house, 
 left this blunder as it stood in the first edition. I will not have the 
 vanity to apply to anything in this work the observation which M. Dacier 
 makes in her preface to her Aristophanes: Je hens pour une maxime • 
 const ante, qiCune beaute mediocre plait plus generalewient qu'une^ beaute 
 sans defaut. Mr Congreve hath made such another blunder in his Love 
 for Love, where Tattle tells Miss Prue, 4 She should admire him as much 
 for the beauty he commends in her as if he himself was possessed of it.’ 
 
€H. III.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 197 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 IN WHICH THE GENTLEMAN RELATES THE HISTORY OE 
 
 HIS LIEE. 
 
 Sir, I am descended of a good family, and was born a 
 gentleman. 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 
 worded in his will that the lawyers advised me to contest 
 the point with my trustees, I own I paid so little regard to 
 the inclinations of my dead father, which were sufficiently 
 certain to me, that I followed their advice, and soon suc¬ 
 ceeded, for the trustees did not contest the matter very 
 obstinately on their side. ‘ Sir,’ said Adams, ‘ may I crave 
 the favour of your name 1 ’ The gentleman answered his 
 name was Wilson, and then proceeded. 
 
 1 stayed a very little while at school after his death : for, 
 being a forward youth, I was extremely impatient to be in 
 the world, for which I thought my parts, knowledge, and 
 manhood, thoroughly qualified me. And to this early intro¬ 
 duction into life, without a guide, I impute all my future 
 misfortunes ; for, besides the obvious mischiefs which attend 
 this, there is one which hath 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 which 
 are to establish your future reputation! 
 
 A little under seventeen I left my school, and went to 
 
198 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 London with, no more than six pounds in my pocket: a great 
 sum, as I then conceived; and which I was afterwards sur¬ 
 prized to find so soon consumed. 
 
 The character I was ambitious of attaining was that of a 
 fine gentleman; the first requisites to which I apprehended 
 were to he supplied by a tailor, a periwig-maker, and some 
 few more tradesmen, who deal in furnishing out the human 
 body. Notwithstanding 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 surprized 
 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 I 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 school-fellows 
 pretend to knowledge in operas, without being able to sing 
 or play on the fiddle. 
 
 Knowledge of the town seemed another ingredient; this 
 I thought I should arrive at by frequenting public places. 
 Accordingly I paid constant attendance to them all; by 
 which means I was soon master of the fashionable phrases, 
 learned to cry up the 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 the 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 199 
 
 CH. III.] 
 
 with them was all I sought, and was what I arrived at: and 
 perhaps I only flattered myself even in that; for very pro¬ 
 bably 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 character 
 of women of distinction. When another had spoken in rap¬ 
 tures of any one, I have answered, ‘D—n her, she! We 
 
 shall have her at H-d’s very soon.’ When he hath 
 
 replied, ‘ He thought her virtuous,’ I have answered, ‘ Aye, 
 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, ‘ Ey Gad 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 gentle¬ 
 man, 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; whisjrered lord-; bowed to 
 
 the duke of-; and was going to bid for a snuff-box, but 
 
 did not, for fear I should have had it. 
 
 From 2 to 4, drest myself. A groan. 
 
 4 to 6, dined. A groan. 
 
 6 to 8, coffee-house. 
 
 8 to 9, Drury-lane playhouse. 
 
200 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 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 surprized 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 (you 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 continued 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 at 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. I answered I might possibly he 
 mistaken, hut I intended to tell no more than the truth. 
 To which he made no reply hut 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 compassion for my youth, and therefore 
 advised me to show the world I was not such a rascal as they 
 thought me to he. I did not at first understand him; hut 
 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 consider on it, and, retiring to my lodgings, I 
 weighed the consequences 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 least angry. I soon determined that 
 the good which appeared on the other was not worth this 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 201 
 
 <CH. III.] 
 
 hazard. I therefore resolved to quit the scene, and presently- 
 retired to the Temple, where I took chambers. Here I soon 
 got a fresh set of acquaintance, who knew nothing of what 
 had happened to me. Indeed, they were not greatly to my 
 approbation; 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 I met with smart fellows who drank 
 with lords they did not know, and intrigued with women 
 they never saw. Covent Garden was now the farthest 
 stretch of my ambition; where I shone forth in the bal¬ 
 conies at the playhouses, visited whores, 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. ‘ I think,’ said Adams, ‘ the advice of 
 a month’s retirement and reflection was very proper ; but 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, there¬ 
 fore, to keep a mistress. Hor 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 drest 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 Eng¬ 
 land. 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 
 
202 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III.. 
 
 reason to lie 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 acquaint¬ 
 ance with a beautiful young girl, the daughter of a gentle¬ 
 man 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 distrest 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 circum¬ 
 stances. He was apprentice to a linen-draper, 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 an 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 de¬ 
 bauched her.—(At which words Adams started up, fetched 
 three strides across the room, and then replaced himself in 
 his chair.) l r ou 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 gentle¬ 
 man, as happy as the possession of a fine young creature, who 
 had a good education, and was endued with many agreeable 
 qualities, could make me. AVe lived some months with vast 
 fondness together, without any company or conversation, 
 more than we found in one another: but this could not con¬ 
 tinue always; and, though I still preserved a 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 uneasi¬ 
 ness on these occasions, and complained of the melancholy 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 203 
 
 CH. III.] 
 
 life she led; to remedy which, I introduced her into the ac¬ 
 quaintance 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 company 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 conversation; 
 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 wdiich 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 l. In the first heat of my 
 resentment I resolved to pursue her with all the vengeance 
 of the law: but, as she had the good luck to escape me dur¬ 
 ing 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 reparation, by 
 robbing her of the innocence of her mind; and hearing at 
 the same time that the poor old woman her mother had broke 
 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 submit 
 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- 
 
204 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 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 dis¬ 
 charge. 
 
 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 he 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 Drench authors, but never could assign any 
 idea to it. I believe it is the same with une 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 Avould not take place of a coquette; 
 nor indeed hath this creature much pretence to anything be¬ 
 yond instinct; for, though sometimes we might imagine it 
 was animated by the passion of vanity, yet far the greater 
 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, polite¬ 
 ness, and health, are sometimes affected by this creature, so 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 205 ' 
 
 CH. III.] 
 
 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 ot 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 in¬ 
 different 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 encour¬ 
 agement : she would often look at me, and, when she per¬ 
 ceived me meet her eyes, would instantly take them off, 
 discovering at the same time as much surprize and emotion 
 as possible. These arts failed not of the success she intend¬ 
 ed ; 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 con¬ 
 vinced 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 as¬ 
 siduity 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 surprize, and immediately after as violent a pas¬ 
 sion : she wondered what I had seen in her conduct which 
 could induce me to affront her in this manner ; and, break¬ 
 ing 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 mure. 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, and that neither he 
 
206 THE ADVENTURES OF [BK III. 
 
 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 he 
 rejected by my amorous constitution. I accordingly soon satis¬ 
 fied 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 a coquette to deal with, hut one 
 who was wiser than to prostitute the 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 un¬ 
 interrupted. The apprehensions we lay under from the 
 jealousy of her husband gave us great uneasiness. ‘ Poor 
 wretch ! I pity him,’ cried Adams. He did indeed deserve 
 it, said the gentleman; for he loved his wife with great ten¬ 
 derness ; 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 ot 
 our caresses. He then prosecuted me at law, and recovered 
 3000Z. 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 
 that my passion was now much abated, her excessive jealousy 
 was very troublesome. At length death delivered me from 
 an inconvenience which the consideration of my having been 
 the author of her misfortunes would never 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 acquaint¬ 
 ance of 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 
 
<CH. III.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 207 
 
 noise: singing, hollowing, wrangling, drinking, toasting, 
 sp—wing, smoking, were the chief ingredients of our enter¬ 
 tainment. And yet, had as these 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 member of a club frequented by 
 young men of great abilities. The bottle was now only 
 called in to the assistance of our conversation, which rolled 
 on the deepest points of philosophy. 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 falshood of that 
 very antient 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 repugnant to it. I 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 w r as nearest and dearest to me. Whilst I was 
 engaged in this delightful dream, two or three accidents 
 happened successively, which at first much surprized 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 good 
 
208 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 or evil in itself; that actions were denominated good or bad 
 by the circumstances of the agent. That possibly the man 
 who ran away with his neighbour’s wife might be one of 
 very good inclinations, 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 uneasiness, he had a right 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; and most evenings passed 
 away two or three hours behind the scenes, where I met with 
 several poets, with whom I made engagements at the taverns. 
 Some of the players were likewise of our parties. At these 
 meetings we were generally entertained by the poets with 
 reading their 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, c your remarks if you please.’ First then, says 
 he, I concluded that the general observation, that wits are 
 most inclined to vanity, is not true. Men are equally vain 
 of riches, strength, beauty, honours, etc. 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 have before mentioned is grounded; but doth not the per¬ 
 son 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 him¬ 
 self paid for self-denial, labour, or even villany, by a title or 
 a ribbon, sacrifice as much to vanity as the poor wit who is 
 desirous to read you his poem or his play h My second re¬ 
 mark 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 
 
CH. III.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 209 
 
 natural to hate and envy those who stand between us and 
 the good we desire. How, 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 masterpiece, against vanity. ‘ Fie 
 upon it, fie upon it ! ’ cries he, ‘ why do I ever leave that 
 sermon out of my pocket 1 I wish it was within five 
 miles ; I would willingly fetch it, to read it you.’ The gentle¬ 
 man answered that there was no need, for he v r as 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 life hitherto un¬ 
 known; poverty and distress, with their horrid train of duns, 
 attorneys, bailiffs, haunted me day and night. My clothes 
 grew shabby, my credit bad, my friends and acquaintance of 
 all kinds cold. In this situation the strangest thought 
 imaginable came into my head ; and what was this but to 
 write a play h 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 produced a piece 
 of five acts, which was accepted of at the theatre. I re¬ 
 membered to have formerly taken tickets of other poets for 
 their benefits, long before the appearance of their perform¬ 
 ances ; and, resolving to follow a precedent which was so 
 well suited to my present circumstances, I immediately pro¬ 
 vided 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 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 civility-money. They are, indeed, no more than a passport 
 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 
 dependence 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 hath 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 learn¬ 
 ing, thought fit to encourage them farther by entering into 
 voluntary subscriptions for their encouragement. Thus Prior, 
 Rowe, 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 writ, nor ever intended. Subscriptions in this 
 manner growing infinite, and a kind of tax on the public, 
 some persons, finding it not so easy a task to discern good 
 from bad authors, or to know what genius was worthy en¬ 
 couragement and what was not, to prevent the expense of 
 subscribing to so many, invented a method to excuse them¬ 
 selves from all subscriptions whatever; and this was to 
 receive a small sum of money in consideration of giving a 
 large one if ever they 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 griev¬ 
 ance ; and this is what they call being tied up from sub¬ 
 scribing. ‘ I can’t say but the term is apt enough, and some¬ 
 what typical,’ said Adams ; ‘ for a man of large fortune, who 
 ties himself up, as you call it, from the encouragement of 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 211 
 
 CH. III.] 
 
 men of merit, ouglit to be tied up in reality.’ Well, sir, 
 says the gentleman, to return to my story. Sometimes 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 
 purchased too with as much time spent in attendance as, if 
 it had been 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 info rehearsal, he in¬ 
 formed 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 de¬ 
 spair. 4 You should rather have thrown yourself on your 
 knees,’ says Adams, 4 for despair is sinful.’ As soon, con¬ 
 tinued 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 re¬ 
 putation 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 law¬ 
 yers, for which I was well qualified, being an excellent pen¬ 
 man. 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, 4 He was afraid I should 
 turn his deeds into plays, and he should expect to see them 
 on the stage.’ Hot 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. When¬ 
 ever 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 ; 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 at least 
 
212 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 covered by a good education and politeness, delights in mak¬ 
 ing 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 busi¬ 
 ness to keep me from starving, the reputation of a poet being 
 my bane, I accidentally became acquainted with a bookseller, 
 who told me, ‘ It was 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, as he very well knew, had no 
 choice. I accordingly accepted his proposal with his condi¬ 
 tions, which were none of the most favourable, and fell to 
 translating 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 writ 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 further engagement, and aspersed me to his 
 brethren as a careless idle fellow. I had, however, by hav¬ 
 ing 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 For¬ 
 tune’s lap, and try if she would make me amends for the 
 injuries she had done me at the gaming-table. This pur¬ 
 chase, being made, left me almost pennyless; when, as if I 
 had not been sufficiently miserable, a bailiff in woman’s 
 clothes got admittance to my chamber, whither he was 
 directed by the bookseller. 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 
 I was locked up in an upper chamber. I had now neither 
 health (for I was scarce recovered from my indisposition),. 
 
€H. III.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 213 
 
 liberty, money, or friends; and liad abandoned all hopes, 
 and even the desire, of life. 1 But this could not last long/ 
 said Adams; 1 for doubtless the tailor released you the mo¬ 
 ment he was truly acquainted with your affairs, and knew 
 that your circumstances would not permit you to pay him.’ 
 4 Oh, sir/ answered the gentleman, 4 he knew that before he 
 arrested me; nay, he knew that nothing but incapacity 
 could prevent me paying my debts; for I had been his cus¬ 
 tomer 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 pro¬ 
 cure, reserving only what was sufficient 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 gaol and expect 
 no mercy.’ 4 He may expect mercy/ cries Adams, starting 
 from his chair, 4 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 communicated my lottery-ticket, found me out, 
 and, making me a visit, with great delight in his counten¬ 
 ance, 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 3000/. Adams snapped his fingers at these words 
 in an ecstasy 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 un¬ 
 fortunate 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 
 
214 THE ADVENTURES OP [BK III. 
 
 ruined without any hopes of retrieval, nor must expect any 
 pity from my friends; that it would he extreme weakness 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 en¬ 
 joyed, 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 bailifi s 
 house for a prison; where, as I had not money sufficient to 
 procure me a separate apartment, I 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 dreadful cir¬ 
 cumstances I applied by letter to several of my old acquaint¬ 
 ance, and such to whom I had formerly lent money without 
 any great prospect of its being returned, for their assistance; 
 but in vain. An 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 pun¬ 
 ishment for a little inadvertency and indiscretion; whilst I 
 was in this condition, a fellow came into the prison, and, in¬ 
 quiring 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. 1 am so much touched with your present cncum- 
 stances, and the uneasiness 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,’ 
 cried Adams; ‘ not less than a guinea, I hope.’ Sir, it was 
 a bank-note for 200?.—‘ 200?. ? ’ says Adams, in a rapture. 
 Ho less, I assure you, answered the gentleman; a sum I 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 215 
 
 CH. III.] 
 
 Lost l)iit tli6 handsomest creature in the uni\ erse, and for 
 whom 1 had long had a passion which I never durst disclose 
 to her. I kissed her name a thousand times, my eyes over¬ 
 flowing with tenderness and gratitude ; I repeated Lut not 
 to detain you with these raptures, I immediately acquired 
 my liberty ; and, having paid all my debts, departed, with up¬ 
 wards of fifty pounds in my pocket, to thank my kind deliverer. 
 She happened to be then out of town, a circumstance which, 
 upon reflection, pleased me; for by that means I had an op¬ 
 portunity to appear before her in a more decent diess. At 
 her return to town, within a day or two, I threw myself at 
 her feet with the most ardent acknowledgments, which she 
 rejected with an unfeigned greatness of mind, and told me I 
 could not oblige her more than by never mentioning, 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 : 4 What I have clone 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 to the security or interest.’ I endea¬ 
 voured to express all the gratitude in my power to this pro¬ 
 fusion of goodness, though perhaps it was my enemy, and 
 beo-an to afflict my mind with more agonies than all the 
 miseries I had underwent; it affected me with severer reflec¬ 
 tions 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 ugliness in a different sex, came to me from a woman, 
 a°young and beautiful woman; one whose perfections I had 
 long known, and for whom I had long conceived a \iolent 
 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 beauty, 
 softness, and tenderness : such bewitching smiles !—-0 Mr 
 Adams, in that moment I lost myself, and, forgetting our 
 different situations, nor considering what return I was mak¬ 
 ing 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 prest it with inconceivable ardour, 
 
216 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 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 stedfastly fixed on her. Good 
 G—d, 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. 
 JNay, 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 hath 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 Fortune could 
 have raised me to no height to which I could not have gladly 
 lifted you. 0, curst be Fortune !—‘ Do not,’ says she, inter¬ 
 rupting me with the sweetest voice, ‘ Do not curse Fortune, 
 since she hath made me happy; and, if she hath put your hap¬ 
 piness 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 power of For¬ 
 tune now. You have obliged me too much already ; if I have 
 any wish, it is for some blest accident, by which I may con¬ 
 tribute 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 her wrongs to me. ‘ You may, indeed/ 
 answered she, smiling, ‘ for your own happiness must be in¬ 
 cluded in mine. I have long known your worth ; nay, I 
 must confess/ said she, blushing, ‘ I have long discovered 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 217 
 
 •CH. III.] 
 
 that passion for me you profess, notwithstanding 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 now 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 tumultuously 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 in¬ 
 sisted 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,’ said Adams, licking his lips, i that I could 
 willingly hear it over again.’ Well, sir, continued the 
 gentleman, to be as concise as possible, within a week she 
 consented to make me the happiest of mankind. We were 
 married shortly after \ and when I came to examine the cir¬ 
 cumstances 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 up to the secrets of the business, 
 and endeavouring to deal with the utmost honesty and up¬ 
 rightness, I soon found our fortune in a declining way, and 
 my trade decreasing by little and little; for my wines, wliich 
 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. I soon 
 began to despair of improving our fortune by these means; 
 nor was I at all easy at the visits and familiarity of many 
 who had been my acquaintance in my prosperity, but had 
 denied and shunned me in my adversity, and now very 
 forwardly renewed their acquaintance with me. In short, I 
 had sufficiently seen that the pleasures of the world are 
 
218 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III* 
 
 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, and 
 the men of business from envy in getting it. My happiness 
 consisted entirely in my wife, whom I loved with an inex¬ 
 pressible fondness, which was perfectly returned; and my 
 prospects 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 a 
 retired life, which, after hearing my reasons and perceiving 
 my affection for it, she readily embraced. W^e 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 neighbour¬ 
 hood taking us for very strange people ; the squire of the 
 parish representing me as a madman, and the parson as a 
 presbyterian, because I will not hunt with the one nor drink 
 with the other. ‘ Sir,’ says Adams, ‘ Fortune hath, 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,’ says Adams, ‘we 
 must submit to Providence, and consider death as common 
 to all.’ We must submit, indeed, answered the gentle¬ 
 man ; 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 him. 
 Poor child ! he had the sweetest look—the exact picture of 
 his mother; at which some tears unwittingly dropt from his 
 eyes, as did likewise from those of Adams, who always 
 sympathized with his friends on those occasions. ilius, 
 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. 
 
CH. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 219 - 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A DESCRIPTION OF MR WILSON’S WAT OF LIVING. THE 
 TRAGICAL ADVENTURE OF THE DOG, AND OTHER GRAVE 
 MATTERS. 
 
 The gentleman returned with tlie bottle ; and Adams and 
 he sat some time silent, when the former started up, and 
 cried, ‘ Ho, that won’t do.’ - The gentleman inquired into his 
 meaning ; he answered, 1 He had been considering that it was 
 possible the late famous king Theodore might have been that 
 very son whom he had lost; ’ but added, ‘ that his age could 
 not answer that imagination. However,’ says he, ‘ G— dis¬ 
 poses all things for the best ; and very probably he may be 
 some great man, or duke, and may, one day or otheT, revisit 
 you in that capacity.’ The gentleman 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 after, that gallant person the Sun stole 
 softly from his wife’s chamber to pay his addresses to her; when 
 the gentleman 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. Ho 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 be¬ 
 fore them. But, though vanity had no votary in this little 
 
 * Whoever the reader pleases. 
 
220 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 spot, here was variety of fruit and everything useful for the 
 kitchen, which was abundantly sufficient to catch the admira¬ 
 tion of Adams, who told the gentleman he had certainly a 
 good gardener. Sir, answered he, that gardener is now before 
 you : whatever 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 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 per¬ 
 suade us of in women. As for my woman, I declare I have 
 found none of my own sex capable of making juster observa¬ 
 tions 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 he so 
 fast as our common interests in the fruits of our embraces 1 
 Perhaps, sir, you are not yourself a father; if you are not, 
 he 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 school¬ 
 master, 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 apprehended 
 to insinuate that his own had an understanding above the care 
 -of her family; on the contrary, says he, my Harriet, I assure 
 
CH. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 221 
 
 you, is a notable housewife, and the housekeepers of few 
 gentlemen understand cookery or confectionery better; but 
 these are arts which she hath no great occasion for now : 
 however, the wine you commended so much last night at 
 supper was of hero wn making, as is indeed all the liquor in 
 my house, except my beer, which falls to my province. 4 And 
 I assure you it is as excellent,’ quoth Adams, 4 as ever I 
 tasted.’ We formerly kept a maid-servant, but since my 
 girls have been growing up she is unwilling to indulge them 
 in idleness \ for as the fortunes X shall give them will be 
 very small, we intend not to breed them above the rank 
 they are likely to till hereafter, nor to teach them to despise 
 or ruin a plain husband. Indeed, X could wish a man of 
 my own temper, and a retired life, might fall to tlieir 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 tilings, 
 being just risen, ran eagerly towards him and asked him 
 blessing. They were shy to the strangers, but the eldest 
 acquainted her father, that her mother and the young gentle¬ 
 woman were up, and that breakfast was ready. They all 
 went m, where the gentleman was surprized at the beauty 
 of Fanny, who had now recovered herself from her fatigue, 
 and was entirely clean drest; for the rogues who had taken 
 away her purse had left her her bundle. X>ut 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 exprest 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 for 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 w anted 
 it were not welcome to. These good people were in the ut~ 
 
222 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 most 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, hurst 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 in a few minutes, licking 
 her hand. She exprest great agony at her 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 with¬ 
 held him. He could not however bridle his tongue—he pro¬ 
 nounced 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 was not near as big 
 as one’s fist, had never been twenty yards from the house in 
 the six years his daughter had had it. He said he had done 
 nothing to deserve this usage, but his father had too great 
 a fortune to contend with: that he was as absolute as any 
 tyrant in the universe, and had killed all the dogs and taken 
 away all the guns in the neighbourhood \ and not only that, 
 but he trampled down hedges and rode over corn and gardens, 
 with no more regard than if they were the 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 their 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 disposi¬ 
 tion was too good hastily to forget the sudden loss of her 
 
OH. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 O.T •"> 
 
 -J —i O 
 
 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 happi¬ 
 ness which Adams had insisted on, they now offered to take 
 their leave. The gentleman importuned them much to stay 
 dinner; but when he found their eagerness to depart he 
 summoned 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 gentle¬ 
 man and his wife heartily wishing them a good journey, and 
 they as heartily thanking them for their kind entertain¬ 
 ment. They then departed, Adams declaring that this was 
 the manner in which the people had lived in the golden 
 
224 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BIv IIR 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 A DISPUTATION ON SCHOOLS HELD ON THE ROAD BY 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 into 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 discourse, as we 
 apprehend it, concerning public schools, which passed be¬ 
 tween 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 % ’ 
 —‘ A very unhappy man, indeed,’ answered the other. 
 ‘ Joseph,’ cries Adams, screwing up his mouth, 1 1 have found 
 it; I have discovered the cause of all the misfortunes which 
 befel 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 ! I 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 in the world compared to his im¬ 
 mortal soul'? What shall a man take in exchange for his 
 soul h But the masters of great schools trouble themselves 
 
CII. V.J 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 225 
 
 about no such tiling. I have known a lad of eighteen at the 
 university, who hath not been able to say his catechism; 
 but for my own part, I always scourged a lad sooner for miss¬ 
 ing that than any other lesson. Believe me, child, all that 
 gentleman’s misfortunes arose from his being educated at a 
 public school.’ 
 
 ‘ It doth not become me,’ answered Joseph, ‘ to dispute 
 anything, 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 neighbour¬ 
 hood. 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 
 learn more in one year there 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 observa¬ 
 tion may see in epitome what he will afterwards find in the 
 world at large.’—* Hinc illce lachrymal: 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 ever live in ignorance! ” 
 
 Who 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 gentle- 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 men, who were educated within five miles of their own 
 houses, and are as wicked as if they had known the world 
 from their infancy. I remember when I was in the stable, 
 if a young horse was vicious in his nature, no correction 
 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. Disci¬ 
 pline 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 good disci¬ 
 pline amongst them as the master of the greatest school in 
 the world. I say nothing, young man; remember I say 
 nothin"; 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. 1 1 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 school¬ 
 masters : 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 
 beautifidlest 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 227 
 
 CH. V.] 
 
 of the ground they stood 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 Fanny, 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 containing 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 re¬ 
 flection that he should shortly have an opportunity of re¬ 
 turning 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 circum¬ 
 stance which we thought too immaterial to mention before ; 
 but which those who have as great an affection for that gen¬ 
 tleman 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. 
 
228 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OP 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MORAL REFLECTIONS BY JOSEPH ANDREWS WITH THE 
 
 HUNTING ADVENTURE, AND PARSON ADAMS’S MIRACUL¬ 
 OUS ESCAPE. 
 
 ( I have often wondered, sir/ said Joseph, 1 to observe so 
 few instances of charity among mankind \ for though the 
 goodness of a 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, hut an ambition to be 
 respected more than other people ? How, would not one 
 great act of charity, one instance of redeeming a poor family 
 from all the miseries of poverty, restoring an unfortunate 
 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 gaol, or any such-like example of good¬ 
 ness, create a man more honour and respect than he could 
 acquire by the finest house, furniture, pictures, or clothes, 
 that were ever beheld 1 ? For not only the object himself who 
 was thus relieved, but all who heard the name of such a 
 person, must, I imagine, reverence him infinitely 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 in¬ 
 genuity they are produced, than the person who by his money 
 makes them his own. For my own part, when I have waited 
 behind my lady in a room hung with fine pictures, while X 
 have been looking at them I have never once thought of 
 their owner, nor hath any one else, as I ever observed; for 
 when it hath 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 sup¬ 
 pose were the names of the painters \ but if it was asked "Who 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 229 
 
 CH. VI.] 
 
 redeemed such a one out of prison ? Who lent such a ruined 
 tradesman money to set up 1 Who clothed that family of 
 poor small children? it is very plain what must he the 
 answer. And besides, these great folks are mistaken it they 
 imagine they get any honour at all by these means; lor 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 gentlemen 
 in livery that it is the same in their families : but 1 defy the 
 wisest man in the world to turn a true good action into ridi¬ 
 cule. I defy him to do it. He who should endeavour it 
 would be laughed at himself, instead of making others laugh. 
 Hobody scarce doth 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 daylight 
 to those who converse in the world, as I have done these 
 three years.’ ( Are all the great folks wicked then ? says 
 Fanny. ‘ To be sure there are some exceptions,’ answered 
 Joseph. i Some gentlemen of our cloth report chaiitable 
 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 Itoss, and another at the 
 Bath, one Al— Al— I forget his name, but it is in the book 
 of verses. This gentleman hath built 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, aye, 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’s speech which I could get 
 him to recollect, which I have delivered as near as was pos¬ 
 sible in his own words, with a very small embellishment. 
 But I believe the reader hath not been a little surprized at 
 the long silence of parson Adams, especially as so many oc¬ 
 casions offered themselves to exert his curiosity and observa¬ 
 tion. The truth is, he was fast asleep, and had so been from 
 
230 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 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 such be), had 
 been in his rostrum or tub before him. 
 
 Joseph, who whilst he was speaking had continued in one 
 attitude, 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 the animal with 
 long ears, than he turned towards Fanny, 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. A hilst 
 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. Fanny 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, 
 traversing the meadows again, passed the little rivulet on the 
 opposite side 1 ? It was, however, so spent and weak, that it 
 fell down twice or thrice in its way. Ihis aflected the tender 
 heart of Fanny, who exclaimed, with tears in her eyes, against 
 the barbarity of worrying 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 on them on horseback. J he dogs 
 now past 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, and their own 
 
CH. VI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 231 
 
 horses too, proceeded after their sport and left their friends 
 and riders to invoke the assistance of Fortune, 01 employ the 
 more active means of strength and agility for their deliver¬ 
 ance. Joseph, however, was not so unconcerned on ns 
 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 
 hank (for the rivulet was not at all deep), and, without 
 stayino- to thank their kind assister, ran dripping across the 
 meadow, calling to their brother sportsmen to stop then 
 
 horses ; hut 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 
 tore to pieces before Fanny’s face, who was unable to assist 
 it with any aid more powerful than pity; nor could she pre¬ 
 vail on Joseph, who had been himself a sportsman m his 
 youth, to attempt anything contrary to the laws of hunting 
 in favour of the hare, which he said was killed tairly. 
 
 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 per¬ 
 haps for the hare’s skin) laid hold of the skirts of Ins cassoc ~ , 
 others, at the same time applying their teeth to his wig, 
 which he had with a handkerchief fastened to his head, 
 bewail to pull him about; and had not the motion ot his 
 body had more effect on him than seemed to he wrought by 
 the noise, they must certainly have tasted his flesh, vhic i 
 delicious flavour might have been fatal to him; but, being 
 roused by these tuggings, he instantly awaked, and with a 
 ierk delivering his head from his wig, lie with most admirable 
 dexterity recovered his legs, which now seemed the only 
 members he could entrust his safety to. Having, there oie, 
 escaped likewise from at least a third part of Ins cassock, 
 which he willingly left as his exuvice or spoils to the eneni}, 
 he fled with the utmost speed he could summon to Ins assist¬ 
 ance. FT or let this be any detraction from the bravery of Ins 
 character: let the number of the enemies, and the surprize 
 
232 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 in winch he was taken, he considered ; and if there he any 
 modern so outrageously brave that he cannot admit of flight 
 in any circumstance whatever, I say (hut I whisper that 
 softly, and I solemnly declare without any intention of giving 
 offence to any brave man in the nation), I say, or rather I 
 whisper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and hath 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, aye, as tigers, 
 have run away, the Lord knows how far, and the Lord knows 
 why, to the surprize 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 he as much pleased with what we shall im¬ 
 mediately 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 gentle¬ 
 man was generally said to he a great lover of humour; hut, 
 not to mince the matter, especially as we are upon this sub¬ 
 ject, he was a greater hunter of men; indeed, he had hither¬ 
 to followed the sport only with dogs of his own species; for 
 he kept two or three couple of harking 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 hoop¬ 
 ing as if a conquered foe was flying before him; in which he 
 was imitated by these two or three couple of human or rather 
 two-legged curs on horseback which we have mentioned 
 before. 
 
 How thou, whoever thou art, whether a muse, or by what 
 other name soever thou choosest to be called, who presidest 
 over biography, and hast inspired all the writers of lives in 
 these our times : thou who didst infuse such wonderful 
 humour into the pen of immortal Gulliver; who hast care¬ 
 fully guided the judgment whilst thou hast exalted the 
 nervous manly style of thy Mallet : thou who hadst no hand 
 in that dedication and 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 233 
 
 CH. VI.] 
 
 literature, and even against liis inclination, hast, in some 
 pages of his hook, forced Colley Cibber to write English ; do 
 thou assist me in what I find myself unequal to. I)o thou 
 introduce on the plain the young, the gay, the brave Joseph 
 Andrews, whilst men shall view him with admiration and 
 envy, tender virgins with love and anxious concern for his 
 
 safety. . „. . 
 
 R"o sooner did Joseph Andrews perceive the distress ot his 
 
 friend, when first the (quick-scenting dogs attacked him, than 
 he grasped his cudgel in his right hand a cudgel which his 
 father had 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 stage. It was a cudgel of mighty stiength 
 and wonderful art, made by one of Mr Deaids best work¬ 
 men, whom no other artificer can equal, and who hath made 
 all those sticks which the beaux have lately walked with 
 about the Park in a morning; but this was far his master¬ 
 piece. On its head was engraved a nose and chin, which 
 might have been mistaken for a pair of nutcrackers. 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 transplanted 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 m his hands 
 than lightning darted from his eyes and the heroic youth, 
 swift of foot, ran with the utmost speed to his friend s assist¬ 
 ance. He overtook him just as Rockwood had laid hold of 
 the skirt of his cassock, which, being torn, hung to the 
 ground. Reader, 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 
 
234 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III* 
 
 doth not weigh much, many precedents occurring for such 
 an interruption : the second and much the greater reason is, 
 that we could find no simile adequate 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 per¬ 
 son 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 Lockwood had laid fast hold on the parson’s skirts, 
 and stopt his flight; which Joseph no sooner perceived than 
 he levelled his cudgel at his head and laid him sprawling. 
 Jowler and Eingwood then fell on his great-coat, and had 
 undoubtedly brought him to the ground, had not Joseph, 
 collecting all his force, given Jowler such a rap on the back, 
 that, quitting his hold, he ran howling over the plain. A 
 harder fate remained for thee, 0 Eingwood ! Eingwood, 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, no overrunner; 
 respected by the whole pack, who, whenever he opened, they 
 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. Then Pairmaid, 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 Amazonian 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 it or not as he pleases) 
 in that instant interposed, and, in the shape of the hunts¬ 
 man, 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 fleAv to 
 his rescue, and with such might fell on the victor, that, O 
 eternal blot to his name ! Caesar ran yelping away. 
 
 The battle now raged with the most dreadful violence, 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 235 
 
 CH. VI.] 
 
 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 con¬ 
 tend longer, for that late had decreed the victory to their 
 enemies. 
 
 Thus far the muse hath 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 our 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 now to apprehend the danger of their 
 hounds, many of which lay sprawling in the fields. The 
 squire, therefore, having first called his friends about him, 
 as guards for safety of his person, rode manfully up to the 
 combatants, 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 clogs in that 
 manner 1 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 eithei by man 
 or beast; and, having so said, both he and Adams brandished 
 their wooden weapons, and put themselves 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 Tunny, whom the apprehension ot Josepn s 
 danger had alarmed so much that, forgetting her own, she 
 had made the utmost expedition, came up. The squire and 
 all the horsemen were so surprized with her beauty, that they 
 immediately 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 
 ah sat in silent amaze. The huntsman only was free from 
 
236 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BE III. 
 
 lier attraction, who was busy in cutting the ears of the dogs, 
 and endeavouring to recover them to life ; in which he suc¬ 
 ceeded 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 npich earnestness and courtesy, that at length he was 
 forced to accept it. His wig and hat, and other spoils of the 
 held, 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 Fanny attracted 
 the eyes 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. 
 
CH. VII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 237 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A SCENE OF ROASTING, VERY NICELY ADAPTED TO TIIE 
 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 tables but she would not consent, nor would Air 
 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 him drunk,. a f a\ our 
 which was likewise intended for Adams j which design being 
 executed, the squire thought he should easily accomplish 
 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 this gentleman, and that of his friends. 
 The master of this house, then, was a man of a very con¬ 
 siderable fortune; a bachelor, as we have said, and about 
 forty years of age: he had been educated (if we may heie 
 use the expression) in the country, and at his own home, 
 under the care of his mother, and a tutor who had orders 
 never to correct him, nor to compel him to learn more than 
 he liked, which it seems was very little, and that only in his 
 childhood; for from the age of fifteen he addicted himself 
 entirely to' hunting and other rural amusements, for which 
 his mother took care to equip him with horses, hounds, and 
 all other necessaries; and his tutor, endeavouring to ingratiate 
 himself with his young pupil, who would, lie knew, be able 
 handsomely to provide for him, became his companion, not 
 only at these exercises, but likewise over a bottle, which the 
 young squire had a very early relish for. At the age of 
 twenty his mother began to think she had not fulfilled the 
 duty of a parent; she therefore resolved to persuade her son, 
 if possible, to that which she imagined would well supply all 
 
238 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 that he might have learned at a public school or university, 
 —that is what they commonly call travelling; which, with 
 the help of the tutor, who was fixed on to attend him, 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 his own country; especially what had any 
 savour of the plain spirit and honesty of our ancestors. His 
 mother greatly applauded herself at his return. And now, 
 being master of his own fortune, he soon procured himself a 
 seat 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 by 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 in¬ 
 venting 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 busi¬ 
 ness 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 with him 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 say¬ 
 ing grace, the captain conveyed his chair from behind him; 
 so that when he endeavoured to seat himself he fell down on 
 the ground, and this 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 
 
•CH. VII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 239 
 
 soup into his breeches; which, with the many apologies he 
 made, and the parson’s gentle answers, caused much mirth 
 in 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 he the best 
 liquor he ever drank, hut rather too rich of the malt, con¬ 
 tributed 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 disposi¬ 
 tion of his own heart made him slow in discovering; and 
 indeed, had it not been for the information which we re¬ 
 ceived 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 verses, Avhich, he said, Avere made ex¬ 
 tempore. The folloAving is a copy of them, procured Avith 
 the greatest difficulty : 
 
 An extempore Poem on parson Adams . 
 
 Did ever mortal such a parson view ? 
 
 His cassock old, his Avig 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 whipt off the player’s Avig, and 
 received the approbation of the company, rather perhaps for 
 the dexterity of his hand than his head. The player, instead 
 of retorting 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 Avhole body of the clergy, which Avere 
 received with great acclamations by all present. It Avas noAV 
 the dancing-master’s turn to exhibit his talents ; he therefore, 
 addressing himself to Adams in broken English, told him, 
 ‘He Avas a man ver Avell made for de dance, and he suppose by 
 
 * All hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will hunt a piece of 
 rusty bacon trailed on the ground. 
 
% 
 
 240 THE ADVENTURES OF [bK HR 
 
 liis walk dat he had learn of some great master/ He said, 
 
 1 It was ver pritty quality in clergyman to dance; ’ and 
 concluded with desiring him to dance a minuet, telling him, 
 
 4 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 all 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 re¬ 
 tired 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 at¬ 
 tempted. 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 de¬ 
 clared he was the best dancer in the universe. As soon as 
 the devil had done tormenting him, and he had a little re¬ 
 covered 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 hath 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 rude¬ 
 nesses which have been shown towards me; indeed, towards 
 yourself, if you rightly understood them; for I am your 
 guest, and by the laws of hospitality entitled to your protec¬ 
 tion. One gentleman had 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 hath pleased to treat 
 me with disrespect as a parson. I apprehend, my order is 
 
CH. VII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 241 
 
 not the subject of scorn, nor that I can become so, unless by 
 being a disgrace to it, which 1 hope poverty will never be 
 called. Another gentleman, indeed, bath 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 he 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 he as impro¬ 
 per to my years as to my cloth. You found me, sir, travel¬ 
 ling 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 invita¬ 
 tion was an act of charity, though in reality we were well 
 provided ; yes, sir, if we had had an hundred miles to travel, 
 we had sufficient to hear 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 osten¬ 
 tation of riches, hut to convince you I speak truth. Your 
 seating me at 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 order or my poverty (and you 
 see I am not very poor), the shame doth not lie at my door, 
 and I heartily pray that the sin may be averted from yours/ 
 He thus finished, and received a general clap from the whole 
 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 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 truth). 
 Adams answered, ‘ Whoever had done it, it was not his pro¬ 
 fession 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 
 
 * 16 
 
212 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 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 imanity 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 spoke right by accident.’ 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 find any protection for himself in his gown ; ’ 
 and, clenching his fist, declared 1 he had thrashed many a 
 stouter man.’ The gentleman did all he could to encourage 
 this warlike disposition in Adams, and was in hopes to have 
 produced a battle, hut he was disappointed; for the captain 
 made no other answer than, £ It is very well you are a par¬ 
 son ; ’ 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 hut 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 pro¬ 
 ceeded to encomiums on the church and poverty; and, lastly, 
 recommended forgiveness of what had passed to Adams, who 
 immediately answered, ‘ 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, shaking the captain and the poet 
 heartily by the hand, and addressing himself with great re¬ 
 spect to the doctor ; who, indeed, had not laughed outwardly 
 at anything that past, 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. He 
 said, ‘ There were amusements fitted for persons of all ages 
 and degrees, from the rattle to the discussing a point of 
 philosophy; and that men discovered themselves in nothing 
 more than in the choice of their amusements; for,’ says he, 
 
CH. VII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 243 
 
 ‘ as it must greatly raise our expectation of the future con¬ 
 duct 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 con¬ 
 tentions 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 com¬ 
 mended the doctor’s opinion, and said, ‘ He had often won¬ 
 dered at some passages in ancient authors, where Scipio, 
 Ladius, 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.’ £ Aye !’ 
 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 farther said, ‘That he believed he could describe it. 
 I think,’ says he, ‘ as near as I can remember, it was this : 
 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 introduced an ambassa¬ 
 dor, 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. Per¬ 
 haps I may have forgot 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, in¬ 
 stead of cards and other idle pastime, in which, he was in¬ 
 formed, 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 gen¬ 
 tleman of the house approved what Mr Adams said, and 
 declared ‘ He was resolved to perform the ceremony this 
 very evening.’ 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,’ said Adams, ‘ I never travel -without one, for fear of 
 
244 
 
 TIIE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BE III. 
 
 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 drank two bottles; and, perhaps, the reader will 
 hereafter have no great reason to admire the nimbleness of 
 the servants. Indeed, to confess the truth, the throne was 
 no more than this : there was a great tub of water provided, 
 on each side of which were placed two stools raised higher 
 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 be¬ 
 tween 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 satisfaction of all the company. 
 Adams after ducking the squire twice or thrice, leapt 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. 
 
CH. VIII.J 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 245 
 
 CHAPTER 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 servants, who did all, without proceed¬ 
 ing to violence, in their power to detain them. They walked 
 as fast as they could, not so much from any apprehension of 
 "being pursued as that Mr Adams might, by exercise, prevent 
 any harm from the water. The gentleman, who had given 
 such orders to his servants concerning Fanny that he did not 
 in the least fear her getting away, no sooner heard that she 
 was gone, than he began to rave, and immediately despatched 
 several Avith orders either to bring her back or never return. 
 The poet, the player, and all but the dancing-master and 
 doctor, Avent on this errand. 
 
 The night Avas very dark in which our friends began their 
 journey ; hoAvever, they made such expedition, that they 
 soon arrived at an inn which Avas at seven miles’ distance. 
 Here they unanimously consented to pass the evening, Mr 
 Adams being noAV as dry as he Avas before he had set out on 
 his embassy. 
 
 This inn, Avhich indeed Ave might call an ale-house, had 
 not the words, The Hew Inn, been Avrit on the sign, afforded 
 them no better provision than bread and cheese and ale ; on 
 which, hoAvever, they made a very comfortable meal; for 
 hunger is better than a French cook 
 
 They had no sooner supped, than Adams, returning thanks 
 to the Almighty for his food, declared he had ate his homely 
 commons Avith much greater satisfaction than his splendid 
 dinner; and expressed great contempt for the folly of man¬ 
 kind, Avho sacrificed their hopes of heaven to the acquisition 
 of vast Avealth, since so much comfort Avas to be found in 
 
246 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 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 surprized 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 desirable, can they bestow on us % Can they 
 give beauty to the deformed, strength to the weak, or health to 
 the infirm 1 Surely if they could we should not see so many 
 ill-favoured faces haunting the assemblies of the great, nor 
 would such numbers of feeble wretches languish in their 
 coaches and palaces, hfo, 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 'l 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 pro¬ 
 long our lives 1—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 .’—‘ ISTo, truly,’ answered the 
 other (indeed, he w r as 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 sentiments : I believe I have preached 
 every syllable of your speech twenty times over; for it hath 
 always appeared to me easier for a cable-rope (which by the 
 way is the true rendering of that 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 deplor¬ 
 ably true ; but as the prospect of our good at a distance doth 
 not so forcibly affect us, it might be of some service to man¬ 
 kind to be made thoroughly sensible—which I think they 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 247 
 
 CH. VIII.] 
 
 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 metaphysically, 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, 4 1 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—aye, if I had ten pounds about 
 me—I would bestow it all to rescue any Christian from dis¬ 
 tress. I am more vexed at my loss on your account than 
 my own. Was ever anything so unlucky 1 ? Because I have 
 no money in my pocket I shall be suspected to be no Chris¬ 
 tian.’—‘ 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 I can 
 arrive by to-morrow night. I assure you I am not accus¬ 
 tomed to travel penny less. I am but just arrived in England; 
 and we were forced by a storm in our passage to throw all 
 
248 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 we had overboard. I don’t suspect but this fellow will take 
 my word for the trifle I owe him; hut 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 difference 
 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 im¬ 
 mediately, notwithstanding the darkness; and accordingly, 
 as 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 he so, 
 and you have no money, I must trust, I think, though I 
 had rather always have ready money if I could; hut, marry, 
 you look like so honest a gentleman 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 Adams as fast 
 as he could, not without confusion, and perhaps with some 
 distrust of Adams’s 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 despaired of ever seeing his face again, for that he 
 looked like a confounded rogue. f Eabbit 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 con¬ 
 sidering how he himself should depart in the morning, he re¬ 
 tired to a very homely bed, as his companions had before; 
 however, health and fatigue gave them a sweeter repose than 
 is often in the power of velvet and down to bestow. 
 
CH. IX.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 249 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CONTAINING- AS SURPRIZING AND BLOODY ADVENTURES AS 
 
 CAN BE EOUND IN THIS OR PERHAPS ANY OTHER AUTHEN¬ 
 TIC 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 lodgings 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 an¬ 
 swered in the negative. One of the servants, who knew 
 the host well, called out to him by his name just 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 1 and ordered the host to come 
 down and open the 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 fast 
 as possible to Joseph’s room, who then was almost drest. 
 He immediately let her in, and, embracing 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, 4 when I should lose what is dearer to me than the 
 whole world!’ Joseph, then kissing her hand, said, 4 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 bedfellow Adams, who was yet 
 fast asleep, notwithstanding many calls from Joseph ; but 
 was no sooner made sensible of their danger than he leaped 
 
250 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IIR 
 
 from liis bed, without considering the presence 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 which 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, en¬ 
 tering 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 fire¬ 
 arms they had ; to which the host answered, he believed 
 they had none; nay, he was almost convinced of 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 de¬ 
 fended themselves with their sticks as long as they were able, 
 and God would assist a just cause. This satisfied the cap¬ 
 tain, but not the poet, who prudently retreated down-stairs, 
 saying, it was his business to record great actions, and not 
 to do them. 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 serv¬ 
 ants to follow him, and, marching 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 Fanny 
 in the rear. The captain told Adams that if they would go 
 all back to the house again they should be civilly treated; 
 
CH. IX.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 251 
 
 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 dis¬ 
 guise, her air, which she could not conceal, sufficiently dis¬ 
 covered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs. Fanny, 
 bursting into tears, solemnly assured him he was mistaken ; 
 that she was a poor helpless foundling, and had no relation 
 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 back¬ 
 wards. 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 levelling a blow at his head which 
 would probably have silenced the preacher for ever, had not 
 Joseph in that instant lifted up a certain huge 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 prostrated on the floor with a lumpish 
 noise, and his halfpence rattled in his pocket; the red liquor 
 which his veins contained, and the white liquor which the 
 pot contained, ran in one stream down his face and his 
 clothes. For 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 servants, snatching a mop out of a pail of 
 water, which had already done its duty in washing the house, 
 pushed it in the parson’s face; yet could not he bear him 
 down, for the parson, wresting the mop from the fellow with 
 
252 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 one hand, with the other brought his 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 fickleness 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 measured 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 madman, and looked so black with the im¬ 
 pressions 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 player’s horse ; and the captain, mounting 
 his own, and leading that on which this poor miserable 
 wretch was, departed, without any more consideration of her 
 cries than a butcher hath 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 bed-posts, as they 
 did Joseph on the other side, as soon as they could bring him 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 253 
 
 CH. IX.] 
 
 to himself; and then, leaving them together, hack to hack, 
 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; hut happened to take a different road from that 
 which the captain had fallen into. 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 354 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A DISCOURSE BETWEEN THE POET AND THE PLAYER; OF 
 
 NO OTHER USE IN THIS HISTORY BUT TO DIYERT 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 entertain you with some excellent piece of 
 satire or humour called a dance. Which piece, indeed, is 
 therefore danced, and not spoke, 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 hath 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 ot fame or profit, or perhaps both. 
 Plays are like trees, which will not grow without nourishment; 
 but, like mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneouslv, as it were, 
 in a rich soil. The muses, like vines, may be "pruned, but 
 not with a hatchet. Ihe town, like a peevish child, knows 
 not what it desires, and is always best pleased with a rattle. 
 A farce-writer hath indeed some chance for success : but they 
 have lost all taste for the sublime. Though X 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 : 
 
 4 the modern actors are as good at least as their authors, nay, 
 they come nearer their illustrious predecessors ; and I expect 
 
€H. X.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 255 
 
 a Booth on the stage again, sooner than a Shakspear or an 
 Otway ; and indeed I may turn your observation against you, 
 and with truth say, that the reason no authors are encouraged 
 is because we have no good new plays.’— 4 1 have not affirmed 
 the contrary, said the poet ; c but 1 am surprized you grow 
 so warm ; you cannot imagine yourself interested in this dis¬ 
 pute ; 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 Bettertons 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 acquired some new excellence, 
 like a snowball. You have deceived me in my estimation of 
 perfection, and have outdone what I thought inimitable.’— 
 
 6 You are as little interested,’ answered the player, 1 in what 
 I have said of other poets; for d—n me if there are not 
 manly strokes, aye, whole scenes, in your last tragedy, which 
 at least equal Shakspear. There is a delicacy of sentiment, 
 a dignity of expression in it, which I will own many of our 
 gentlemen did not do adequate justice to. 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-writ, lifeless, spiritless, 
 low, grovelling stub, that I almost pity the actor who is 
 obliged to get it by heart, which must be almost as difficult 
 to remember as words in a language you don’t understand.’ 
 
 ‘ I am sure,’ said the player, ‘ if the sentences have little 
 meaning when they are writ, 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 mis¬ 
 tress, and a brave hero suing to his enemy with his sword in 
 liis 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 any person’s production,—nay, I never 
 
256 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 do it, nor will,—but yet, to do justice to the actors, what 
 could Booth or Betterton have made of such horrible stuff as 
 Fenton’s Mariamne, Frowd’s Philotas, or Mallet’s Eurydice; 
 or those low, dirty, last-dying-speeches, which a fellow in 
 the city of Wapping, your Dillo or Lillo, what was his name, 
 called tragedies ? 4 Very well,’ says the player ; ‘and pray 
 
 what do you think of such fellows as Quin and Delane, or 
 that face-making puppy young Cibber, that ill-looked dog 
 Macklin, or that sauCy slut Mrs Clive % What work would 
 they make with your Shakspears, Otways, and Lees 'l How 
 would those harmonious lines of the last come from their 
 tongues 'l— 
 
 ‘ “-No more ; for I disdain 
 
 All pomp when thou art by : far he 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 rememb’ring who our fathers were : 
 
 Fly to the arbours, grots, and flow’ry meads; 
 
 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.” 
 
 Or how would this disdain of Otway— 
 
 “ Who ’d he that foolish sordid thing called man ?” ’ 
 
 < Hold ! hold ! hold ! ’ said the poet: 4 Do repeat that tender 
 speech in the third act of my play which you made such a 
 figure in.’— 4 I would willingly,’ said the player, ‘ but. I have 
 forgot it.’— 4 Aye, you was not quite perfect enough in it when 
 you played it,’ cries the poet, 4 or you would have had such 
 an applause as was never given on the stage; an applause I 
 was extremely concerned for your losing.’— 4 Sure,’ says the 
 player, 4 if I remember, that was hissed more than any passage 
 in the whole play.’— 4 Aye, your speaking it was hissed,’ said 
 the poet.— 4 My speaking it! ’ said the player.— 4 1 mean your 
 not speaking it,’ said the poet. 4 You was out, and then they 
 hissed.’— 4 They hissed, and then I was out, if I remember,’ 
 answered the player; 4 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.’— 4 1 don’t know 
 
CH. X.J 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 257 
 
 what you mean by damnation/ replied the poet .— 1 Why, you 
 know it was acted but one night/ cried the player .— 1 Ho,’ 
 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 1 ’ 
 cries the player. ‘ I suppose you don’t employ so many in 
 making your clothes.’— 1 ‘ I admit your jest/ answered the 
 poet ] i but you remember the afitair as well as myself ’ you 
 know there was a party in the pit and upper-gallery that 
 would not suffer it to be given out again; though much, aye 
 infinitely, the majority, all the boxes in particular, were 
 desirous of it j nay, most of the ladies swore they never would 
 come to the house till it was acted again. Indeed, I 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,—I am not fond of my own performance ; but 
 
 if I should tell you what the best 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 hath since among the polite 
 readers ; for you can’t say it had justice done it by the 
 performers.’—‘I think,’ answered the player, ‘the per¬ 
 formers did the distress of it justice • for I am sure we were 
 m distress enough, who were pelted with oranges all the last 
 act: we all imagined it 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 
 discourse, 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. 
 
 ‘17 
 
258 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK III. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 CONTAINING THE EXHORTATIONS OE PARSON ADAMS TO 
 
 HIS FRIEND IN AFELICTION ; CALCULATED FOR THE 
 
 INSTRUCTION AND IMPROVEMENT OE THE READER. 
 
 Joseph no sooner came perfectly to himself than, perceiv¬ 
 ing his mistress gone, he bewailed her loss with groans 
 which would have pierced any heart hut those which are 
 possessed by some people, and are made of a certain compo¬ 
 sition, not unlike flint in its hardness 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 way. His own, poor youth ! was of a softer composi¬ 
 tion ; and at those words, 0 my dear Fanny ! 0 my love ! 
 shall I never, never see thee more'? his eyes overflowed with 
 tears, which would have become any hut a hero. In a word, 
 his despair was more easy to he conceived than related. 
 
 Mr Adams, after many groans, sitting with his hack to 
 Joseph, began thus in a sorrowful tone: ‘You cannot ima¬ 
 gine, my good child, that I entirely blame these first agonies 
 of your grief \ for, when misfortunes attack us by suipiize, 
 it must require infinitely more learning than you are master 
 of to resist them • hut 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.’—‘ O I shall run 
 
CH. XI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 259 
 
 mad ! ’ cries Joseph. £ 0 that I could hut command my 
 hands to tear my eyes out and my flesh off! ’—‘ If you would 
 use them to such purposes, I am glad you can’t,’ answered 
 Adams. ‘ I have stated your misfortune as strong as I 
 possibly can ; hut, on the other side, you are to consider you 
 are a Christian, that no accident happens to us without the 
 Divine permission, and that it is the duty of a man, much 
 more of 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 (hut 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 he a 
 punishment to you for your sins : indeed in this sense it 
 may he 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 im- 
 potency of relieving ourselves demonstrates the folly and 
 absurdity of our complaints: for whom do we resist, or against 
 whom do we complain, hut a power from whose shafts no 
 armour can guard us, no speed can fly?—a power which leaves 
 us no hope hut 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 he administered 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. ‘ Ho ! ’ cries Adams ; ‘ what am 
 I then doing ? what can I say to comfort you V ‘ 0 tell 
 me,’ cries Joseph, ‘that Fanny will escape back to my arms, 
 that they shall again enclose that lovely creature, with all 
 her sweetness, all her untainted innocence about her! ’ 
 
 ‘ Why, perhaps you may,’ cries Adams, ‘ but I can’t promise 
 
260 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 you what’s to come. You must, with perfect resignation, 
 wait the event: if she he restored to you again, it is your 
 duty to he thankful, and so it is if she he 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 not your interest only, 
 hut your duty, to abstain from immoderate 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 he 
 angry, saying, he mistook him if he thought he denied it 
 was his duty, for he had known that long ago. 4 What 
 signifies knowing your duty, if you do not perform it % ’ 
 answered Adams. 4 Your knowledge increases your guilt. 
 0 Joseph! I never thought you had this stubbornness in 
 your mind.’ Joseph replied, 4 He fancied he misunderstood 
 him; which I assure you,’ says he, 4 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 philo¬ 
 sophers, 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 Fanny. 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 them both; at length J oseph burst out into the 
 following soliloquy :— 
 
 ‘Yes, I will bear my sorrows like a man, 
 
 But I must also feel them as a man. 
 
CH. XI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 261 
 
 I cannot but remember such things were, 
 
 And were most dear to me.’ 
 
 Adams asked him what stuff that was he repeated 1 To 
 which he answered, they were some lines he had gotten by 
 heart out of a play. ‘ Aye, 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 Con¬ 
 scious 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 enquire after the subject 
 of their conversation. 
 
262 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 ( r BK III. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MORE ADVENTURES, WHICH WE HOPE WILL AS MUCH PLEASE 
 
 AS SURPRIZE THE READER. 
 
 Neither tlie 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 Fanny, whom we left in so deplorable a con¬ 
 dition. 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 bewailmgs and 
 entreaties on the road, but accosted her ears with impurities 
 which, having been never before accustomed to them, she 
 happily for herself very little understood. At last he changed 
 his note, and attempted to soothe and mollify her, by setting 
 forth the splendour and luxury which would be her fortune 
 with a man who would have the inclination, and power too, 
 to ffive 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, 1 at my calling him so h But what bettei 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 
 m en—I warrant ye,’ cries the captain, ‘ we shall find means 
 
CH. XII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 263 
 
 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 will¬ 
 ingly 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 vociferation, he would find a 
 means of stopping her mouth. And now the poor wretch, 
 perceiving no hopes of succour, abandoned herself to despair, 
 and, sighing out the name of Joseph ! Joseph ! a river of 
 tears ran down her lovely cheeks, and wet the handkerchief 
 which covered her bosoni. A horseman now 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 stopt at these 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 past 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 answering 
 him, cried out, ‘ Zounds, I know her; ’ and then, turning to 
 her, said, ‘Sure you are not Fanny Goodwill V —‘Indeed, 
 indeed, I am,’ she cried—‘ 0 John ! I know you now— 
 Heaven hath sent you to my assistance, to deliver me from 
 this wicked man, who is carrying me away for his vile pur¬ 
 poses—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 
 
264 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 escape, in which however he could not succeed. The gentle¬ 
 man 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 Fanny, whose credit was confirmed 
 by the fellow who knew her, he ordered the captain, who 
 was all bloody from his encounter at the inn, to be conveyed 
 as a prisoner behind the chariot, and very gallantly took 
 Fanny 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 in the morning) was a very gallant person, and loved 
 a pretty girl better than anything besides his own money or 
 the money of other people. 
 
 The chariot now proceeded towards the inn, which, as 
 Fanny was informed, lay in their way, and where it arrived 
 at that very time while the poet and player were disputing 
 below-stairs, and Adams and Joseph were discoursing back 
 to back above ; just at that period to which we brought them 
 both in the two preceding chapters the chariot stopt 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 doth not sympathetically assist thee in this con¬ 
 ception, 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 capable of tasting. 
 
 Peter, being informed by Fanny of the presence of Adams, 
 stopt to see him, and receive his homage; for, as Peter was 
 an 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 gaol, on no greater security than a bond and j udgment, 
 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 on neither breeches, 
 garters, nor stockings ; nor had he taken from his head a red 
 spotted handkerchief, which by night bound his wig, that 
 was turned inside out, around his head. He had on his tom 
 
CH. XII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 2 65 
 
 cassock and his great-coat; but, as the remainder of his cas¬ 
 sock hung down below his great-coat, so did a small stripe of 
 white, or rather whitish, linen appear below that; to which 
 we may add the several colours which appeared on his face, 
 where a long piss-burnt beard served to retain the liquor of 
 the stone-pot, and that of a blacker hue which distilled from 
 the mop.—This figure, which Fanny had delivered from his 
 captivity, was no sooner spied by Peter than it disordered 
 the composed gravity of his muscles ; however, he advised 
 him immediately 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 expe¬ 
 ditious retreat in their power. 
 
 The host, who well knew Mr Pounce and the Lady Booby’s 
 livery, was not a little surprized 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 she and her family were ruined. 
 
 Joseph, being informed of the captain’s arrival, and see¬ 
 ing his 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 understand boxing. Tie then grasped a 
 cudgel in one hand, and, catching 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 
 provision 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 infiicted on him, and which was indeed of 
 
266 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk nr. 
 
 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. 
 
 The 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 w T orship 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 gaol, 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 hus¬ 
 band 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 have proceeded in this manner much longer, had not 
 Peter stopt her tongue, by telling her he had nothing to say 
 to her husband nor her neither. So, as Adams and the rest 
 had assured her of forgiveness, she cried and curtsied out of 
 the room. 
 
 Mr Pounce was desirous that Fanny 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 appeared, 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 I anny, till 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 re¬ 
 minded 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. 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 267 
 
 CH. XII.] 
 
 Adams was very desirous that Joseph and Fanny should 
 mount his horse, and declared he could very easily walk 
 home. ‘ If I walked alone,’ says he, ‘ I would wage a shil¬ 
 ling that the pedestrian outstripped the equestrian travellers ; 
 hut, as I intend to take the company of a pipe, peradventure 
 I may he 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 answered 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 insisted on the other’s accepting it; but in reality both 
 were very desirous to swallow it themselves. Do not there¬ 
 fore conclude hence that this dispute would have come to a 
 speedy decision: for here both parties were heartily in earn¬ 
 est, and it is very probable they would have remained in 
 the inn-yard to this day, had not the good Peter Pounce 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 acknow¬ 
 ledgments, 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 had laid hold of the girdle which her lover wore for that 
 purpose, when the wise beast, who concluded that one at a 
 time was sufficient, that two to one were odds, &c., discovered 
 much uneasiness 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 
 
268 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 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. This in¬ 
 convenience was presently remedied by an exchange of 
 horses; and then Fanny being again placed on her pillion, 
 on a better-natured and somewhat a better-fed beast, the 
 parson’s horse, finding he had no longer odds to contend 
 with, agreed to march ; and the whole procession set for¬ 
 wards 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.’ 
 
CH. XIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 269 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A CURIOUS DIALOGUE WHICH PASSED BETWEEN MR ABRA¬ 
 HAM ADAMS AND MR PETER POUNCE, BETTER WORTH 
 
 READING THAN ALL THE WORKS OE COLLEY CIBBER AND 
 
 MANY OTHERS. 
 
 The chariot had not proceeded far before Mr Adams ob¬ 
 served it was a very fine day. ‘ Aye, 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 
 I 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 ivith many fine prospects of that 
 kind.’—‘ I thank God 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 gentle¬ 
 men ; 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,’ an¬ 
 swered Peter, ‘ which I like well enough; it is, as you say, a 
 disposition, and does not so much consist in the act as in the 
 disposition to do it. But, alas ! Mr Adams, who are meant 
 by the distressed 1 Believe me, the distresses of mankind 
 are mostly imaginary, and it would be rather folly than good¬ 
 ness to relieve them .’— 1 Sure, sir,’ replied Adams, 1 hunger 
 and thirst, cold and nakedness, 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 
 
270 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk III. 
 
 country where such excellent salads are to he gathered in 
 almost every field ? or of thirst, where every river and stream 
 produce such delicious potations 1 And as for cold and 
 nakedness, they are evils introduced by luxury and custom. 
 A man naturally wants clothes no more than a horse or any 
 other animal; and there are whole nations who go without 
 them; hut these are things perhaps which you, who do not 
 know the world ’— 4 You will pardon me, sir,’ returned 
 Adams ; 4 1 have read of the Gymnosophists.’— 4 A plague of 
 your Jehosaphats ! ’ 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 doth 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 proceeded: 4 1 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, hut my whole clothes, are lined with hank- 
 hills ; hut 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. 
 1 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 ! he will have reason to wish I had loved 
 money more and land less. Pray, my good neighbour, 
 where should I have that quantity of riches the world is so 
 liberal to bestow on me ? Where could I possibly, without 
 I had stole it, acquire such a treasure ? ’ 4 Why truly/ says 
 
 Adams, 4 1 have been always of your opinion; I have won¬ 
 dered as well as yourself with what confidence 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 acquisition; 
 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 1 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.’ 4 Why, what do they say I am worth V cries 
 Peter with a malicious sneer. 4 Sir,’ answered Adams, 4 1 
 
CH. XIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 271 
 
 have heard some aver you are not worth less than twenty 
 thousand pounds.’ At 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 he worth half that sum.’ ‘ However, Mr 
 Adams,’ said he, squeezing him by the hand, ‘ I would not 
 sell them all 1 am worth for double that sum; and as to 
 what you believe, or they believe, I care not a fig, no not a 
 fart. I am not poor because you think me so, nor because 
 you attempt to undervalue me in the country. I know the 
 envy of mankind very well; hut 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 de¬ 
 scended 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 cassocks, and might he 
 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 of that inconvenience ; ’ and, so saying, 
 he opened the chariot door, without calling to the coachman, 
 and leapt out into the highway, forgetting to take his hat 
 along with him; which, however, Mr Pounce threw after 
 him with great violence. Joseph and Fanny stopped to bear 
 him company the rest of the way, which was not above a 
 mile. 
 
BOOK IV. 
 
 CHAPTER 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 
 surprize almost stopt 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 for¬ 
 tune be felt in a little country village, for whose inhabitants 
 such a family finds a constant employment and supply ; and 
 with the offals of whose table the infirm, aged, and infant 
 poor are abundantly fed, with a generosity which hath 
 scarce a visible effect on their benefactors’ pockets ! 
 
 But, if their interest inspired so public a joy into every 
 countenance, how much more forcibly did the affection which 
 they bore parson Adams operate upon all who beheld his re¬ 
 turn ! They flocked about him like dutiful children round 
 an indulgent parent, and vied with each other in demonstra- 
 
CH. I.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 273 
 
 tions of duty and love. The parson on liis side shook every 
 one by the hand, inquiring heartily after the healths of all 
 that were absent, of their children and relations; and ex- 
 prest a satisfaction in his face which nothing but benevo¬ 
 lence made happy by its objects could infuse. 
 
 Nor did Joseph and Fanny 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. 
 
 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 was the wound so 
 easily to be cured. The removal of the object soon cooled 
 her rage, but it had a different effect on her love ; that de¬ 
 parted with his person, but this remained lurking in her 
 mind with his image. Restless, interrupted slumbers, and 
 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 happiness, 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 circumstance 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 23roduced contempt, want of passion 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 
 
 ‘18 
 
274 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BE IV. 
 
 her that she herself had dismissed him for no other fault 
 than probably that of too violent an awe and respect for 
 herself; and 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 pas¬ 
 sion at length grew so violent, that it forced her on seeking 
 relief, and now she thought of recalling him : but pride for¬ 
 bad that; pride, which soon drove all softer passions from 
 her soul, and represented to her the meanness of him she Avas 
 fond of. That thought soon began to obscure his beauties ; 
 contempt succeeded next, and then disdain, which pre¬ 
 sently 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 disfavour; everything but dis¬ 
 like of her person; a thought which, as it would have been 
 intolerable to bear, she checked the moment it endeavoured 
 to arise. Revenge came iioav to her assistance ; and she con¬ 
 sidered her dismission of him, stript, and Avithout a character, 
 Avith the utmost pleasure. She rioted in the several kinds 
 of misery which her imagination suggested to her might be 
 his fate; and, Avith a smile composed of anger, mirth, and 
 scorn, vieAved him in the rags in which her fancy had drest 
 him. 
 
 Mrs Slipslop, being summoned, attended her mistress, Avho 
 had iioav in her oavii opinion totally subdued this passion. 
 Whilst she Avas dressing she asked if that felloAV had been 
 turned aAvay according to her orders. Slipslop ansAvered, 
 she had told her ladyship so (as indeed she had).—‘ And 
 Iioav did he behave V replied the lady. ‘Truly, madam,’ 
 cries Slipslop, ‘in such a manner that infected everybody 
 Avho saAv him. The poor lad had but little wages to receive; 
 for he constantly allowed his father and mother half his in¬ 
 come ; so that, when your ladyship’s livery was stript off, he 
 had not wherewithal to buy a coat, and must have gone naked 
 if one of the footmen had not incommodated him with one; 
 and Avhilst he Avas standing in his shirt (and, to say truth, 
 he Avas an amorous figure), being told your ladyship would 
 not give him a character, he sighed, and said he had done 
 
CH. I.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 275 
 
 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 have 
 not a faithfuller servant in the housed— 4 How came you 
 then,’ replied the lady, 4 to advise me to turn him away % ’ 
 — 4 1, madam ! ’ said Slipslop ; 4 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 hint or fear on these occasions.’ 
 4 And was it not you, audacious wretch ! ’ cried the lady, 4 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 hath happened ; and 
 so may I for the loss of a good servant, and one who pro¬ 
 bably had more merit than all of you. Poor fellow ! I am 
 charmed with his goodness to his parents. Why did not 
 you tell me of that, but suffer me to dismiss sc good a crea¬ 
 ture without a character h I see the reason of your whole 
 behaviour now as well as your complaint; you was jealous 
 of the wenches.’ 4 1 jealous ! ’ said Slipslop; 4 1 assure you, I 
 look upon myself as his betters ; I am not meat for a foot¬ 
 man, I hope.’ These words threw the lady into a violent 
 passion, and she sent Slipslop from her presence, who de¬ 
 parted, tossing her nose, and crying, 4 Marry, come up ! there 
 are some people more jealous than I, I believe.’ Her lady 
 affected not to hear the words, though in reality she did, 
 and understood them too. How ensued a second conflict, 
 so 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 doubt whether she had so absolutely con¬ 
 quered 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 
 hath long ago seen the arrival of Mrs 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 surprize of everybody, who wondered to 
 
276 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 see her ladyship, 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; hut this I 
 believed to he only a malicious rumour. When the prayers 
 were ended Mr Adams stood up, and with a loud voice pro¬ 
 nounced, ‘ 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 women sat, and persisted 
 in looking that way during the remainder of the sermon m 
 so scrutinizing 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 blip- 
 slop 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 counten¬ 
 ance ; 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 chapter. 
 
CH. 11. j 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 277 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MR ABRAHAM ADAMS AND LADY BOOBY. 
 
 Mr Adams was not far off, for he was drinking her lady¬ 
 ship’s health below 7 in a cup of her ale. He no sooner came 
 before her than she began in the following manner : 4 1 
 wonder, sir, after the many great obligations you have had 
 to this family ’ (with all which the reader hath in the course 
 of this history been minutely acquainted), 4 that you will un¬ 
 gratefully show any respect to a fellow 7 who hath been turned 
 out of it for his misdeeds. Nor doth it, I 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, 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 
 the ruin of them both.’—‘ Madam,’ said 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; in¬ 
 deed, 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. f \ ou 
 are very impertinent,’ says she, ‘ to talk such fulsome stub 
 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 hath 
 lived all his life in such a parish as this is a raie judge 
 
278 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 of beauty ! Ridiculous ! beauty indeed! a country wencli 
 a beauty! I shall be sick whenever I hear beauty men¬ 
 tioned again. And so this wench is to stock the parish 
 with beauties, I hope. But, sir, our poor are 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 consummate long ago, and I dissuaded them from 
 it; nay, I may venture to say, I believe I was the sole 
 cause of their delaying it/—‘Well,’ says she, 4 and you did 
 very wisely and honestly too, notwithstanding she is the 
 greatest beauty in the parish/—‘ And now, madam/ con¬ 
 tinued he, ‘ I only perform my office to Mr Joseph/—‘Pray, 
 don’t mister sncli fellows to me,’ cries the lady. ‘ He/ said 
 the parson, ‘with the consent of Fanny, 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 on 
 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 a 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.’—‘Lawyer Scout/ replied 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 incumbrances brought on us : so I desire you will pro¬ 
 ceed no farther.’—‘ Madam,’ returned Adams, ‘ I would 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 dis- 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 279 
 
 CH. II.] 
 
 tinction, than to affront my ears by such loose discourse, I 
 shall mention hut one short word; it is my orders to you 
 that yon publish these banns no more; and if yon dare, I 
 will 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 what 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 have in¬ 
 quired farther into this matter, you will applaud, not blame, 
 my proceeding; and so I humbly take my leave : ’ which he 
 did with many bows, or at least many attempts at a bow. 
 
280 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 CHAPTEE 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 as¬ 
 serted accidentally, and perhaps rightly, that a year’s service 
 gained a settlement; and 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 hun¬ 
 dred lawvers, not one or 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 himself could do for her 
 ladyship as well as any other; and I believe,’ says he, 
 ‘ madam, your ladyship, not being conversant in these matters, 
 hath 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 prefer¬ 
 able 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 1 how doth that relate 
 to fact 1 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 inhabit¬ 
 ant, he is not of this parish ; and then undoubtedly he ought 
 not to be published here ; for Mr Adams hath 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 supposition that he was settled in 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 281 
 
 CH. III.] 
 
 fact • and indeed, if that was the case, I should doubt. —— 
 
 4 Don’t tell me your facts and your ifs, said the lady ) I don t 
 understand your gibberish j yon 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 such beauties as these to pio- 
 duce children for us to keep.’—‘ Beauties, indeed ! your lady¬ 
 ship 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 ? ’—‘ dhe ugliest creature almost I ever 
 beheld; a poor dirty 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 removable. 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. dSTo, no, it is impossible • but 
 your ladyship can’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 com¬ 
 mit 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 
 vou 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 
 0 f p er p—< Your ladyship is very much in the right,’ answered 
 
282 the adventures of [bk iv. 
 
 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 hath taken several poor oft our hands 
 that the law would never lay hold on. I know some justices 
 who make 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’un there, we seldom hear any more o’un. 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 it success, 
 departed. 
 
 This Scout was one of those fellows who, without any 
 knowledge 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 called so. They are the pests of society, 
 and a scandal to a profession, 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 inadvert¬ 
 ently 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 
 Fa nn y which possibly the reader might not have been well 
 able to account for if we had not thought proper to give him 
 this information. 
 
OH. IV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 283 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 A SHORT CHAPTER, BUT VERY EIJLL OE MATTER ; PAR¬ 
 TICULARLY THE ARRIVAL OP MR BOOBY AND HIS LADY - . 
 
 All that night, and the next day, the Lady Boohy 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 surprize, 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 returning home to vent 
 her rage, which she could not have concealed from the con¬ 
 gregation five minutes; indeed, it was not then very numer¬ 
 ous, 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 doth your ladyship think ? To be sure, 
 lawyer Scout hath carried Joseph and 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.’— 4 I 
 suppose they deserve it,’ says the lady. ‘ What dost thou 
 mention such wretches to me ? ’— 4 0 dear madam,’ answered 
 Slipslop, 4 is it not a pity such a graceless young man should 
 die a virulent death 1 ? I hope the judge will take commen- 
 suration on his youth. As for Fanny, I don’t think it signi¬ 
 fies much what becomes of her; and if poor Joseph hath 
 done anything, I could venture to swear she traduced him 
 to it: few men ever come to a fragrant punishment, but by 
 those nasty creatures, who are a scandal to our sect.’ The 
 lady was no more pleased at this news, after a moment’s re¬ 
 flection, than Slipslop herself; for, though she wished 
 
284 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 Fanny far enough, she did not desire the removal of 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 Boohy and his lady. She ordered them to be con¬ 
 ducted into a drawing-room, whither she presently repaired, 
 having composed her countenance as well as she could, and 
 heing°a little satisfied that the wedding would by these 
 means be at least interrupted, and that she should have an 
 opportunity to execute any resolution she might take, for 
 which she saw 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 of his marriage : but how great was her surprize 
 when, at her entering the room, her nephew presented his 
 wife to her ! saying, 4 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 , in¬ 
 deed 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 discourse during his absence would afford little 
 improvement or entertainment to the reader, we will leave 
 them for a while to attend Mr Booby. 
 
CH. V.] 
 
 JOSEFH ANDREWS. 
 
 285 
 
 CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 CONTAINING JUSTICE BUSINESS ; CURIOUS PRECEDENTS OE 
 DEPOSITIONS, AND OTHER MATTERS NECESSARY TO BE 
 PERUSED BY ALL JUSTICES OE THE PEACE AND THEIR 
 CLERKS. 
 
 The young squire and liis 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 surprize, since he had left Lady Booby’s. 
 Upon this they were instantly informed of what had lately 
 happened, with which they hastily acquainted their mastei, 
 who took an immediate resolution to go himself, and endea¬ 
 vour to restore his Pamela her brother, before she even knew 
 she had lost him. 
 
 The justice before whom the criminals were carried, and 
 who lived within a short mile of the lady’s house, was luckily 
 Mr Booby’s acquaintance, by his having an estate in his 
 neighbourhood. Ordering therefore his horses to his coach, 
 he °set out for the judgment-seat, and arrived when the 
 justice had almost finished his business. lie was conducted 
 into a hall, where he was acquainted that his worship would 
 wait on him in a moment \ for he had only a man and a 
 woman to commit to bridewell first. As he was now con¬ 
 vinced 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 be¬ 
 tween the squire and his worship, the former asked the latter 
 what crime those two young people had been guilty of 1 4 No 
 great crime,’ answered the justice ; 4 I have only ordered 
 them to bridewell for a month.’ 4 But what is their crime 1 ’ 
 repeated the squire. 4 Larceny, an’t please your honour, 
 said Scout. 4 Aye,’ says the justice, 4 a kind of felonious 
 
286 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK IV. 
 
 larcenous tiling. I believe I must order them a little cor¬ 
 rection too, a little stripping and whipping.’ (Poor Panny, 
 who had hitherto supported all with the thoughts of Joseph’s 
 company, trembled at that sound j 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 writ himself, of 
 which we have with great difficulty procured an authentic 
 copy ; and here it follows verbatim et literatim: — 
 
 The depusition of James Scout , layer , and Thomas Trotter , 
 
 yeoman , taken before mee, one of his magesty’s just asses of 
 
 the piece for Zumer set shire. 
 
 ‘ These deponants saitli, and first Thomas Trotter for him¬ 
 self saith, that on the of this instant October, being Sab¬ 
 bath-day, betwin 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 An¬ 
 drews with a nife cut one hassel twig, of the value, as he 
 believes, of three half-pence, or thereabouts; 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 cumiarting, 
 eading, and abatting 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 1 ’ ‘ Yes,’ said the lawyer, 4 and with 
 
 great lenity too; for if he had called it a young tree, they 
 would have been both hanged.’ 4 Harkee, says the justice, 
 taking aside the squire ; 4 1 should not have been so severe 
 on this occasion, but Lady Booby desires to get them out of 
 the parish; 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 hath no other means, as they 
 are legally settled there, to prevent their bringing an incum- 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 2S7 
 
 CH. V.] 
 
 brance on her own parish.’ ‘ Well,’ said the squire, ‘ I will 
 take care my aunt shall he satisfied in this point; and like¬ 
 wise I promise yon, Joseph here shall never be any incum¬ 
 brance on her. I shall be obliged to you, therefore, if, in¬ 
 stead 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 Fanny 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 there; 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 his 
 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 accept¬ 
 ing such a favour as long as decently he could. Whilst 
 Joseph was dressing, the squire repaired to the justice, whom 
 he found talking with Fanny; for, during the examination, 
 she had looped 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 
 unnecessary, at least for herself. The justice no sooner saw 
 her countenance cleared up, and her bright eyes shining 
 through her tears, than he secretly cursed himself for having 
 once thought of bridewell for her. He would willingly have 
 sent his own wife thither, to have had Fanny 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 Joseph 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 it; which assurance he confirmed with a squeeze 
 by the hand. She thanked him very kindly, and said, ‘ She 
 
288 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 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.’ 
 
 The squire now returned, and prevented any farther con¬ 
 tinuance of this conversation; and the justice, out of a 
 pretended respect to his guest, but in reality from an appre¬ 
 hension 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 gentle¬ 
 men, which rolled, as I have been informed, entirely on the 
 subject of horse-racing. Joseph was soon drest 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-, appear in lace or embroidery, that the tailor’s man 
 
 wore those clothes home on his back which he should have 
 carried 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 ! 5 ‘ 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.’—‘ Aye,’ 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 ; 4 then I am resolved to have the 
 best creature living in my coach ; ’ and so saying, he ordered 
 it to stop, whilst Joseph, at his request, hallowed to the 
 
CH. V.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 289 
 
 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 office before. 
 He continued to express the vast happiness he enjoyed in 
 his sister, and the value he had for all who belonged to her. 
 Joseph made many bows, and exprest as many acknowledg¬ 
 ments : and parson Adams, who now first perceived Joseph’s 
 new apparel, burst into 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 infinitely obliged to all mine 
 who will do the same. It is true, her brother hath been 
 your servant, but he is no w become my brother; and I have 
 one happiness, that neither his character, his behaviour, or 
 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, ‘Hephew, 
 you know how easily I am prevailed on to do anything 
 which Joseph Andrews desires—Phoo, 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 compliance; 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 Avornan—’— { hTephew,’ says she, 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 i don’t let my good-nature make you desire, as is too com¬ 
 monly 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 ow r n servants, and all the dirty tio - 
 lops in the country.’ 4 Madam,’ answered the squire, I 
 believe you never, saw this young 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 Panny. Joseph begged 
 that he might see his sister alone, and then. be with his 
 Panny ; 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; adding, he 
 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 Panny, who rejoiced that 
 she was not to go before Lady Booby, to the care of Mr 
 Adams, he attended the squire up-stairs, whilst Panny 
 repaired with the parson to his house, where she thought 
 herself secure of a kind reception. 
 
CH. VI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 291 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OP WHICH TOIJ 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 pleasure by the nephew than by the aunt, to. 
 whose flame they were fuel'only; and this was increased 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 the account of his adven¬ 
 tures : nor could Lady Booby conceal her dissatisfaction at 
 those parts in which Fanny was concerned, especially 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 the 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 in¬ 
 formed 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 incontested one of good clothes) that she had 
 ordered a bed to be provided for him. He declined this 
 favour to his utmost; for his heart had long been with his 
 
292 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 Fanny ; but slie insisted on his accepting it, alleging that the 
 parish had no proper accommodation 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 evening; who, on her side, 
 as impatiently expected him till midnight, when, in com¬ 
 placence to Mr Adams’s family, who had sat up two hours 
 out of respect to her, she retired to bed, but not to sleep ) 
 the thoughts of her love kept her waking, and his not re¬ 
 turning 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 leapt from her bed, and, dress¬ 
 ing herself in a few 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, Mr Joseph returned, according to his pro¬ 
 mise, 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 
 Slipslop ‘ What she thought of this wonderful creature her 
 nephew had married % ’—‘ Madam ! ’ said Slipslop, not yet 
 sufficiently understanding what answer she “was to make. 1 1 
 ask you,’ answered the lady, 4 what you think of the dowdy, 
 my niece, I think I am to call her % ’ Slipslop, wanting no 
 further 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 assist¬ 
 ance 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 some¬ 
 thing in those low-life creatures which must eternally dis¬ 
 tinguish them from their betters. 1 Beally,’ 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. 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 293 
 
 OH. VI.] 
 
 Yes, truly, madam, lie is an accession,’ answered Slipslop. 
 
 4 Aye, is lie not, Slipslop % ’ returned tlie lady. 4 Is be 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 education. 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 doth hath no mark of the base 
 motive of fear, 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 affection 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.’— 4 To be 
 sure, ma’am,’ says Slipslop. 4 But as he is, answered the 
 lady, 4 if he r had a thousand more good qualities, it must 
 render a woman of fashion contemptible even to be suspected 
 of thinking of him; yes, I should despise myself for such a 
 thought.’— 4 To be sure, ma’am, said Slipslop. And why 
 to be sure 1 ’ replied the lady ] 4 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 1 or an 
 idle worthless rake, or little puisny beau of quality i And 
 yet these we must condemn ourselves to, in order to avoid 
 the censure of the world; to shun the contempt of others, 
 we must ally ourselves to those w r e 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.’— 4 Marry come up ! ’ said 
 Slipslop, who now knew well which party to take. If I 
 was a woman of your ladyship’s fortune and qualify, I would 
 be a slave to nobody.’—- 4 Me,’ said the lady; 4 1 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 ’- 4 Ho, ma’am, to be sure,’ cries 
 
 Slipslop. 4 Ho! what no V cried the lady. 4 Thou art always 
 ready to answer before thou hast heard one. So far I must 
 allow be is a charming fellow. Me, indeed ! Ho, Slipslop, all 
 thoughts of men are over with me. I have lost a husband who 
 —but if I should reflect I should run mad. My future ease must 
 depend upon forgetfulness. Slipslop, let me hear some of thy 
 
294 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 |_BK IV. 
 
 nonsense, to turn my thoughts another way. What dost thou 
 think of Mr Andrews ? ’—‘ Why I think/ says Slipslop, 4 he is 
 the handsomest, most properest man I ever saw; and if I was 
 a lady of the greatest degree it would he well for some folks. 
 Your ladyship may talk of custom, if you please : hut I am 
 confidous there is no more comparison between young Mr 
 Andrews and most of the young gentlemen who come to your 
 ladyship’s house in London; a parcel 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.’— 4 And so/ 
 answered the lady, 4 if you was a woman of condition, you 
 would really marry Mr Andrews 1 ’— 4 Yes, I assure your 
 ladyship,’ replied Slipslop, 4 if he would have me.’— 4 Fool, 
 idiot! ’ cries the lady; 4 if he would have a woman of fashion ! 
 is that a question!’—‘No, truly, madam/ said Slipslop, ‘I 
 believe it would be none if Fanny was out of the way ; and 
 I am confidous, 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 lawyer Scout would send iier packing if your lady¬ 
 ship would but say the word.’ This 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 her¬ 
 self. After some silence, and a double change of her com¬ 
 plexion, first to pale and then to red, she thus spoke : 4 I am 
 astonished at the liberty you give your tongue. Would you 
 insinuate that I employed Scout against this wench on account 
 of the fellow 1 ’—‘ La, ma’am/ said Slipslop, frighted out of 
 her wits, 4 I assassinate such a thing ! ’— 4 I 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 dis¬ 
 covered any wantonness, any lightness in my behaviour; if 
 I had followed the example of some whom thou hast, I be¬ 
 lieve, seen, in allowing myself indecent liberties, even with 
 a husband; but the dear man who is gone ’ (here she began 
 to sob), 4 was he alive again ’ (then she produced tears), 4 could 
 not upbraid me with any one act of tenderness or passion. 
 No, Slipslop, all the time I cohabited with him he never ob¬ 
 tained even a kiss from me without my expressing reluctance 
 in the granting it. I am sure he himself never suspected how 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 295 
 
 CH. VI.] — 
 
 much I loved him. Since his death, thou knowest, though 
 it is almost six weeks (it wants hut 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 he arraigned * To he accused, not 
 only of a passion which I have always despised, hut of fixing 
 it on such an object, a creature so much beneath my notice . 
 
 _< Upon my word, ma’am,’ says Slipslop, 4 1 do not under¬ 
 stand your ladyship ; nor know I anything of the matter. — 
 ‘I believe indeed thou dost not understand me. These aie 
 delicacies which exist only in superior minds; thy coarse 
 ideas cannot comprehend them. Thou art a low creature, o 
 the Andrews breed, a reptile of a lower order, a weed that 
 grows in the common garden of the creation. I assure 
 lour ladyship,’ says Slipslop, whose passions were almost of 
 as high an order as her lady’s, 4 1 have no more to do with 
 Common Garden than other folks. Really, your ladyship 
 talks of servants as if they 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 i 
 Andrews was a dear of mine, I should not be ashamed of 
 him in company with gentlemen ; for whoever hath seen him 
 in his new clothes must confess he looks as much like a 
 gentleman as anybody. Coarse quotha ! I cant hear to 
 hear the poor young fellow run down neither, for I wil y 
 this, I never heard him say an ill word of anybody m his 
 life I am sure his coarseness doth not lie m his heart, lor 
 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. Ifaukms i if I was Mrs 
 Andrews, with a hundred a-year, I should not envy the lest 
 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 _ 
 say again, I wish I was a great lady for his sake I believe 
 when I had made a gentleman of linn, he d behave so that 
 nobody should deprecate what I had done; and I fancy ew 
 
 * Meaning perhaps ideas. 
 
296 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 |_BK IV. 
 
 would venture to tell liim 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 commands ? who mildly answered, she 
 had none; and, telling her she was a comical creature, hid 
 her good night. 
 
€H. VII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 297 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 PHILOSOPHICAL REELECTIONS, THE LIKE NOT TO RE EOUND 
 
 IN ANY LIGHT ERENCH ROMANCE. MR BOOBY’S GRAYE 
 
 ADYICE TO JOSEPH, AND EANNY’s ENCOUNTER WITH A 
 
 BEAU. 
 
 Habit, my good reader, liatli so vast a prevalence over the 
 human mind, that there is -scarce anything too strange or too 
 strong to he asserted of it. The story of the miser, who, 
 from long accustoming to cheat others, came at last to cheat 
 himself, and with great delight and triumph picked his own 
 pocket of a guinea to convey to 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 en¬ 
 deavoured to betray their neighbours. How, 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 considered 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 
 come too near her, infallibly eat her up and grind her to 
 pieces : that, so far from kissing or toying with him of 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 
 esteem her a traitress, point at her, and hunt her out of their 
 society. These impressions, being first received, are farther 
 and deeper inculcated by their school-mistresses and com- 
 
298 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK IV. 
 
 panions ; 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 doth 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, and 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 pro¬ 
 viding by other means for their security. They endeavour, 
 by all 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 hath been described, all gentleness, softness, kindness, 
 tenderness, fondness, their dreadful 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 happens to persons who 
 have in their infancy been thoroughly frightened with certain 
 no-persons called ghosts, that they retain their dread of those 
 beings after they are convinced that there are no such things, 
 so these young ladies, though they no longer apprehend 
 devouring, cannot so entirely shake off all that hath 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 299 
 
 CH. VII.] 
 
 purpose they still pretend the same aversion to the monster : 
 and the more they love him, the more ardently they counter¬ 
 feit the antipathy. By the continual and constant practice 
 of which deceit on others, they at length impose on them¬ 
 selves, and really believe they hate what they love, llius, 
 indeed, it happened to Lady Booby, who loved Joseph 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 and character of a gentleman began 
 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 heart to dissuade Joseph 
 from his intended match, which would still enlarge their 
 relation to meanness and poverty ; concluding that, by a 
 commission in the army, or some other genteel employment, 
 he might soon put young Mr Andrews on the foot of a 
 gentleman; and, that being once done, his accomplishments 
 might 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 
 immediately 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, disagreeable 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 
 relatfon of mine, so much beneath you. I know there may¬ 
 be at first some difaculty in your compliance, but that will 
 
300 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 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 .’— 4 Sir,’ said Joseph, ‘I assure you 
 her beauty is her least perfection \ nor do I know a virtue 
 which that young creature is not possest of .'— 4 As to her 
 virtues,’ answered Mr Booby, 4 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 pre¬ 
 vent me by degrading yourself with such a match, a match 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 .’— 4 I know not,’ replied 
 Joseph, 4 that my parents have any power over my inclina¬ 
 tions ; nor am I obliged to sacrifice my happiness to their 
 whim or ambition : besides, I shall be very sorry to see that 
 the unexpected advancement of my sister should so suddenly 
 inspire them with this wicked pride, and make them despise 
 their equals. I am resolved on no account to quit my dear 
 Panny; no, though I could raise her as high above her 
 present station as you have my sister .’— 4 Your sister, as well 
 as myself,’ said Booby, 4 are greatly obliged to you for the 
 comparison : but, sir, she is not worthy to be compared in 
 beauty to my Pamela ; nor hath 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 
 between us : 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 .’— 4 My fortune enables me to please 
 myself likewise,’ said Joseph ; 4 for all my pleasure is centered 
 in Panny; and whilst I have health I shall be able to sup¬ 
 port her with my labour in that station to which she was 
 born, and with which she is content .’— 4 Brother,’ said Pamela, 
 4 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 
 hath done, and throwing down our family again, after he 
 hath raised it. It would become you better, brother, to pray 
 for the assistance of grace against such a passion than to in- 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 301 
 
 CH. VII.] 
 
 clulge it .’— { Sure, sister, you are not in earnest; I am sure 
 she is your equal, at least.’—‘ She was my equal,’ answered 
 Pamela ; 1 hut 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.’ bhey 
 were now summoned to breakfast, and thus ended their dis¬ 
 course for the present, very little to the satisfaction of any 
 of the parties. 
 
 F ann y was now walking in an avenue at some distance 
 from the house, where Joseph had promised to take the first 
 opportunity of coming to her. She had not a shilling in the 
 world, and had subsisted ever since her return entirely on 
 the charity of narson Adams. A young gentleman, attended 
 by many servants, came up to her, and asked her if that was 
 not the Lady Booby’s house before him 1 This, indeed, he 
 well knew; but had framed the question for no other reason 
 than to make her look up, and discover it her face was equal 
 to the delicacy of her shape. He no sooner saw it than he 
 was struck with amazement. He stopt his horse, and swore 
 she was the most beautiful creature he ever beheld. Then, 
 instantly alighting and delivering his horse to his servant, 
 he rapt out half-a-dozen oaths that he would kiss her; to 
 which she at first submitted, begging he would not be 
 rude j 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 offers 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 
 been long accustomed to, discharged his part with all the 
 fidelity and dexterity imaginable, but to no purpose. She 
 
302 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 ■was entirely deaf to liis 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 tire 
 with charms which would have almost kindled a flame in the 
 bosom of an ancient philosopher or modern divine, he fas¬ 
 tened his horse to the ground, and attacked her with much 
 more force than the gentleman had exerted. Poor Fanny 
 would not have been able to resist his rudeness any long 
 time, but the deity who presides over chaste love sent her 
 Joseph to her assistance. He no sooner came within sight, 
 and perceived her struggling with a man, than, like a cannon¬ 
 ball, or like lightning, or anything that is swifter, if anything 
 be, lie ran towards her, and, coming up just as the ravisher 
 had torn her handkerchief from her breast, before his lips 
 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 stag¬ 
 gered backwards, and, perceiving he had to do with some¬ 
 thing rougher than the little, tender, trembling hand of 
 Fanny, he quitted her, and, turning about, saw his rival, 
 with tire 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 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 tliis 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 
 
CH. VII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 303 
 
 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 for¬ 
 wards 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 Fanny 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 assist¬ 
 ance. She was not, however, long under this affliction be¬ 
 fore 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 had made Joseph the means 
 of her rescue, and at the same time preserved him from being 
 injured in attempting it. She offered, with her handker¬ 
 chief, 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 1 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. 
 
 Fanny now begged Joseph to return with her to parson 
 Adams, and to promise that he would leave her no more. These 
 were propositions 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 tore her handkerchief from 
 Fanny’s neck, by which he had discovered such a sight, that 
 Joseph hath 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 being initiated 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 last, 
 
304 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK IV. 
 
 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 handker¬ 
 chief round her neck. Joseph saw the uneasiness she suf¬ 
 fered, 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 pas¬ 
 sion 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 mentioned her request; this was instantly and gladly 
 complied with; and together they crossed two or three fields, 
 which brought them to the habitation of Mr Adams. 
 
CH. VIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 305 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A DISCOURSE WHICH HAPPENED BETWEEN MR ADAMS, AIRS 
 ADAMS, JOSEPH, AND EANNY j WITH SOME BEHAVIOUR 
 OE AIR ADAMS WHICH WILL BE CALLED BY SOME EEW 
 READERS VERY LOW, ABSURD, AND UNNATURAL. 
 
 The parson and liis 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 conscience to serve their chil¬ 
 dren. She had long entertained hopes of seeing her eldest 
 daughter succeed Mrs Slipslop, and of making her second 
 son an exciseman by Lady Booby’s interest. These were ex¬ 
 pectations she could not endure the thoughts of quitting, 
 and was, therefore, very uneasy to see her husband so reso¬ 
 lute to oppose the lady’s intention in Fanny’s affair. She 
 told him, 4 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 preached up submission to superiors, 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 be¬ 
 haved 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 handsome, but handsome women 
 were often no better than they should be; that G— made 
 ugly women as well as handsome ones ; and that if a woman 
 had virtue it signified nothing whether she had beauty or 
 
 20 
 
305 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 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 fin¬ 
 ished 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 eat nor drank 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 past between Squire Booby, his sis¬ 
 ter, and himself, concerning Fanny ; he then acquainted him 
 with the dangers whence he had rescued her, and comm uni- 
 cated some apprehensions on her account. He concluded that 
 he should never have an easy moment till Fanny was abso¬ 
 lutely his, and begged that he might be suffered to fetch a 
 licence, saying he could easily borrow the money. The par¬ 
 son answered, That he had already given his sentiments 
 concerning a licence, and that a very few days would make 
 it unnecessary. ‘Joseph,’ says he, ‘I wish this haste doth 
 not arise rather from your impatience than your fear; but, 
 as it certainly springs from one of these causes, I will ex¬ 
 amine both. Of each of these therefore in their turn ; and 
 first for the first of these, namely, impatience. Now, 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 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 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 307 
 
 CH. VIII.] 
 
 will be, child, Matthew the 5tli, and part of the 28th verse 
 — Whosoever looketh on a woman , so as to lust after her. The 
 latter 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 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 w T ay to it. Hoav, as to the second head 
 which I proposed to speak to, namely, fear: it argues a dif¬ 
 fidence, 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, vdien it 
 overtakes us, to grieve; we must submit in all things to the 
 will of Providence, and not set our affections so much on 
 anything here as not to be able to quit it without reluctance. 
 You are a young man, and can know but little of this world ; 
 I am older, and have seen a great deal. All passions are 
 criminal in their excess; and "even love itself, if it is not 
 subservient to our duty, may render us blind to it. Had 
 Abraham so loved his son Isaac as to refuse the sacrifice re¬ 
 quired, is there any of us who would not condemn him h 
 Joseph, I know your many good qualities, and value you for 
 them ) but, as I am to render an account of your soul, which 
 is committed to my cure, I cannot see any fault Avithout re¬ 
 minding you of it. You are too much inclined to passion, 
 child, and have set your affections so absolutely on this young 
 woman, that, if G— required her at your hands, I fear you 
 Avould reluctantly part with her. Hoav, believe me, no Chris¬ 
 tian 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 
 Avords one came hastily in, and acquainted Mr Adams that 
 his youngest son Avas droAvned. He stood silent a moment, 
 
308 THE ADVENTURES OF [BK IV. 
 
 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 ho 
 used many arguments that he had at several times remem¬ 
 bered 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 ad¬ 
 vice. ‘ 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 com¬ 
 fort 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 offend me. It was but this 
 morning I gave him his first lesson in Quce Genus. This 
 was the very book he learnt; poor child ! it is of no further 
 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.’ 4 And the handsomest 
 lad too,’ says Mrs Adams, recovering from a swoon in 
 Fanny’s arms. ‘My poor Jacky, shall I never see thee 
 more'?’ 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 
 surprize and joy, in which I hope the reader will sympathize, 
 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 some¬ 
 times are, from, I believe, no very good principle, to relate 
 ill news ; and, having seen 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 par¬ 
 son’s joy was now as extravagant as his grief had been be¬ 
 fore ; he kissed and embraced his son a thousand times, and 
 danced about the room like one frantic; but as soon as he 
 
•CH. VIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 309 
 
 discovered the face of his old friend the pedlar, and heard 
 the fresh obligation he had to him, what were his sensations? 
 not those which two courtiers feel in one another’s embraces; 
 not those with which a great man receives the vile treacher¬ 
 ous 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.—Y o, reader; he felt the ebulition, the 
 overflowings of a full, honest, open heart, towards the per¬ 
 son who had conferred a real obligation, and of which, if 
 thou canst not conceive an idea within, I will not vainly en¬ 
 deavour to assist thee. 
 
 When these tumults were over, the parson, taking Joseph 
 aside, proceeded thus—‘Ho, 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 did 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 doth not become green heads to advise 
 grey hairs.—Thou art ignorant of the tenderness of fatherly 
 affection; when thou art a father thou wilt be capable then 
 only of knowing what a father can feel. Ho man is obliged 
 to impossibilities ; and the loss of a child is one of those 
 great trials where our grief may be allowed to become im¬ 
 moderate.’—‘Well, sir,’ cries Joseph, ‘and if I love a mis¬ 
 tress 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 doat 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 talk foolishly and childishly,’ 
 cries Adams.—‘ Indeed,’ says Mrs Adams, who had listened 
 to the latter part of their conversation, ‘ you talk more fool¬ 
 ishly y ourself. I hope, my dear, you will never preach any 
 
310 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK IV. 
 
 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 my¬ 
 self, I should have hated and despised you. Marry come 
 up ! Fine doctrine, indeed ! A wife hath a right to insist 
 on her husband’s loving her as much as ever he can; and he 
 is a sinful villain who doth not. Doth he not promise to 
 love her, and to comfort her, and to cherish her, and all 
 that ] I am sure I remember it all as well as if I had re¬ 
 peated it over hut yesterday, and shall never forget it. Besides, 
 I am certain you do not preach as you practise; for you 
 have been a loving and a cherishing 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 good 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. 
 
CH. IX.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 311 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A VISIT WHICH THE POLITE LADY BOOBY AND HER 
 POLITE ERIEND PAID TO THE PARSON. 
 
 The Lady Booby liad no sooner bad an account from tbe 
 gentleman of bis meeting a wonderful beauty near ber bouse, 
 and perceived tbe raptures with which be spoke of ber, than, 
 immediately concluding it must be Fanny, she began to 
 meditate a design of bringing them better acquainted; and 
 to entertain hopes that tbe hue clothes, presents, and promises 
 of this youth, would prevail on ber to abandon Joseph : she 
 therefore proposed to ber company 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 tbe 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, Fanny, and the pedlar, were all 
 thrown into confusion by this knock, but Adams went 
 directly to the door, which being opened, the Lady Looby 
 and her company walked in, and were received by the par¬ 
 son with about two hundred bows, and by his wife with as 
 many curtsies ; 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 night-cap. He said ‘ They were heart- 
 
312 
 
 THE ADVENTUBES OF 
 
 [bk iv. 
 
 ily welcome to his poor cottage/ and, turning to Mr Diclap¬ 
 per, cried out, ‘ Non mea renidet in domo lacunar.' 1 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 
 of about four foot 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 he 
 called hopping than walking. The qualifications of his mind 
 were well adapted to his person. We shall handle them 
 first negatively. He was not entirely ignorant; for he could, 
 talk a little French and sing two or three Italian songs : he 
 had lived too much in the world to he bashful, and too much 
 at court to he 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 
 drinker of wine; nor so addicted to passion but that a hot 
 word or two from an adversary made him immediately cool. 
 
 How, 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 con¬ 
 sequence, to depend entirely on the will of a fellow whom 
 they call a great man; who treated him with the utmost dis¬ 
 respect, and exacted of him a plenary obedience to his com¬ 
 mands, 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 charac¬ 
 ter ; as 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 Booby 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 curtsies or extra¬ 
 ordinary civility of Mrs Adams, the lady, turning to Mr 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 313 
 
 CH. IX.] 
 
 Booby, cried out, i Quelle Bete ! Quel Animal! ’ And pre¬ 
 sently after discovering Fanny (for she did not need the cir¬ 
 cumstance 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 .’— 1 Because I never liked you, 
 I warrant,’ cries the beau. ‘ Ridiculous ! ’ said she : ‘ you 
 know you was always my aversion.’ ‘ I would never mention 
 aversion,’ answered the beau, c 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 
 Fanny. 
 
 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, w T as 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 hand, asked ‘ If he 
 could read h ’—‘ Yes,’ cried Adams, ‘ a little Latin, madam : 
 he is just got into Qme Genus.’—‘ A fig for quere genius ! ’ 
 answered she ; ‘ let me hear him read a little English.’—- 
 ‘ Lege, Dick, lege,’ said Adams : but the boy made no answer, 
 till he saw the parson knit his brows, and then cried, ‘ I 
 don’t understand you, father.’—‘ How, boy ! ’ says Adams ; 
 4 what doth lego make in the imperative mood % Legito, doth 
 it not % ’—‘ Yes,’ answered Dick.—‘ And what besides ? ’ says 
 the father. f Lege,’ quoth the son, after some hesitation. 
 
 ‘ A good boy,’ says the father : £ and now, child, what is the 
 English of lego 1 ’—To which the boy, after long puzzling, 
 answered, he could not tell. e How! ’ cries Adams, in a 
 passion ;—‘ what, hath the water washed away your learning 
 Why, wliat is Latin for the English verb read % Consider 
 before you speak.’ The child considered some time, and 
 then the parson cried twice or thrice, ‘ Le—Le—.’ Dick 
 answered, ‘ Lego.’—‘ Very well;—and then what is the 
 English,’ says the parson, £ of the verb lego ? ’— £ To read,’ 
 
 * Lest this should appear unnatural to some readers, we think proper 
 to acquaint them, that it is taken verbatim from very polite conversation. 
 
314 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK IV. 
 
 cried Dick .— 6 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 
 quae Maribus already.—Come, Dick, read to her ladyship ; ’ 
 —which she again desiring, in order to give the beau time 
 and opportunity with Panny, Dick began as in the following 
 chapter. 
 
CH. X.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 315 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE HISTORY OE TWO FRIENDS, WHICH MAY AEFORD AN 
 
 USEFUL LESSON TO ALL THOSE PERSONS WHO HAPPEN 
 
 TO TAKE UP THEIR RESIDENCE IN MARRIED FAMILIES. 
 
 1 Leonard and Paul were two friends.’— c Pronounce it 
 Lennard, child/ cried the parson.—‘ Pray, Mr Adams/ says 
 Lady Booby, ‘let your son read without interruption.’ Dick 
 then proceeded. 4 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 correspond¬ 
 ence, did not eradicate nor lessen it: hut it revived in all its 
 force at their first meeting, which was 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, he quiet/ says the lady.—The hoy 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 was arrived to the degree of a lieutenant of foot; and 
 was not worth a single shilling. 
 
 i The regiment in which Paul was stationed happened to he 
 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 of 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 
 
316 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OP 
 
 [BK IV. 
 
 acquaintance : but it was otherwise witli 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 surprized ; but had soon sufficient 
 information from his friend, whom he no sooner remembered 
 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. 
 
 ‘Hot to detain the reader with minute circumstances, 
 Lennard insisted on his friend’s returning with him to his 
 house that evening; which request was complied with, and 
 leave for a month’s absence for Paul obtained of the com¬ 
 manding officer. 
 
 ‘ If it was possible for any circumstance to give any 
 addition to the happiness which Paul 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 acquaint¬ 
 ance which he had formerly 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 must 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.—‘For 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. Hay, however incredible it 
 may seem, the little consequence of the matter in debate was 
 frequently given as a reason for the fierceness of the conten¬ 
 tion, as thus: “If you loved me, sure you would never 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 317 
 
 CH. X.] 
 
 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 incliuation 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. Was ever anything so unreasonable, says he, as 
 this woman 1 What shall I do with her ? I doat 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;—Pirst-, 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 h What signified it whether 
 you was married in a red or a yellow waistcoat'? lor 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 yourself in the right, than to give either her or your¬ 
 self 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, 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 convinced 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 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 
 
318 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IT. 
 
 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 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 ever any creature so 
 unreasonable ? 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 obliges me to answer against my will, so an adher¬ 
 ence to truth forces me to declare myself of a different 
 opinion. To be plain and honest, you was entirely in the 
 wrong ; the cause I own not worth disputing, but the bird 
 was undoubtedly a partridge. 0 sir! replied the lady, I 
 cannot possibly help your taste. Madam, returned Paul, 
 that is very little 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?—For 
 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 ? Aye, but I should endeavour, said she, to set 
 him right. Pardon me, madam, answered Paul: I will 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 319 
 
 CH. X.] 
 
 apply to your own experience if you ever found your argu¬ 
 ments had that effect. The more our judgments err, the 
 less we are willing to own it: for my own part, I have 
 always observed the persons who maintain the worst side in 
 any contest are the warmest. 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 the air of good 
 humour, told her he was sorry for their foolish dispute the 
 last night ; but he was now convinced of his error. She 
 answered, smiling, she believed she owed his condescension 
 to his complacence; 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 con¬ 
 cluded by her asserting that Paul had thoroughly convinced 
 her she had been in the wrong. Upon which they both 
 united in the praises of their common friend. 
 
 < Paul now passed his time with great satisfaction, these 
 disputes 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 submission, he 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 himself 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. Hay, says she, since you provoke me, I will mention 
 one instance. You may remember our dispute about sending 
 Jackey to school in cold weather, which point I gave up to 
 you from mere compassion, knowing myself to be in the 
 right; and Paul himself told me afterwards he thought me 
 so. My dear, replied the husband, I will not scruple your 
 
320 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 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 secresy, given his opinion on both sides. In the conclu¬ 
 sion, 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 condescen¬ 
 sion 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 acknow¬ 
 ledged 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 
 he might have assured himself of his secresy. 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. 
 
.vn 11 
 
 ' n\ in)l 
 
CH. XI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 321 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 IN WHICH THE HISTORY IS CONTINUED. 
 
 Joseph Andrews had borne with great uneasiness the im¬ 
 pertinence of beau Didapper to Fanny, 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 confined 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 screamed 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, 
 without any weapon of offence in his other hand, stept in 
 before Joseph, and exposed himself to the enraged beau, who 
 threatened such perdition and destruction, that it frightened- 
 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 complexion, and begged Adams to 
 let his rival come on ; for he had a good cudgel in his hand, 
 and did not fear him. Fanny 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 potdid, came up 
 to Didapper, and insisted on his sheathing his hanger, pro¬ 
 mising 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, re-adjusted his hair ; 
 the parson deposited his shield; and Joseph, running to 
 Fanny, soon brought her back to life. Lady Booby chid 
 J osepli for his insult on Didapper; but he answered, he 
 
 21 
 
322 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 would have attacked an army in the same cause. ‘ What 
 cause? ’ said the lady. ‘ Madam,’ answered Joseph, ‘ he was 
 rude to that young woman.’—‘ What,’ says the lady, ‘ I sup¬ 
 pose 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 
 proper match for such a young woman as this.’—‘No,’ says 
 Lady Booby; ‘ nor do you, Mr Adams, act in your proper 
 character by encouraging any such doings; and I am very 
 much surprized 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 chil¬ 
 dren. I am sure I don’t understand what he means by it; 
 it would make some women suspect he had gone astray, but 
 J 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 hath little enough, as your ladyship knows, for me and 
 mine.’—‘ You say very well, Mrs Adams,’ quoth the Lady 
 Booby, who had not spoke 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 
 
CH. XI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 323 
 
 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 and 
 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 
 perceiving, began to apply some matrimonial balsam. She 
 told him he had reason to be concerned, for that he had pro¬ 
 bably ruined his family with his tricks ; but perhaps he was 
 grieved for the loss of his two children, Joseph and Fanny. 
 His eldest daughter went on : ‘ Indeed, father, it is very hard 
 to bring 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 1 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 neigh¬ 
 bours, I 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 hath ; but for the girl,—why doth 
 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 her 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, if 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 h ’ says the sister, giving him a 
 box on the ear; which the father would probably have re¬ 
 sented, 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 
 
324 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK IV. 
 
 ‘ 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 
 ‘ lie 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 bespoke a piece of bacon and greens for their dinner.’ 
 Mrs Adams, who was a very good sort of 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 liber¬ 
 ality to Fanny. 
 
ch. xir.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 325 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WHERE THE GOOD-NATURED READER WTLTj SEE SOME¬ 
 THING WHICH WILE 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 learnt that she was the widow 
 of Sir Thomas, and that Sir Thomas had bought Eanny, 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 proceeded thus, while they 
 all lent their strictest attention :—‘ Though I am now con¬ 
 tented 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 Froome (for since the decay of the 
 woollen trade the clothing towns have furnished the aimy 
 with a great number of recruits) we overtook on the road a 
 woman, who seemed to be about thirty years old or there¬ 
 abouts, not very handsome, 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 drum, were pro¬ 
 vided with their woman except myself), she continued to 
 travel on with us. I, perceiving she must fall to my lot, 
 advanced presently to her, 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.’ ‘ I suppose,’ says Adams, interrupting him, 
 ‘ you were married with a licence \ for I don t see how you 
 could contrive to have the banns published while you were 
 
326 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [be IV. 
 
 marching from place to place.’ ‘No, sir,’ said the pedlar, 
 ‘ we took a licence to go to bed together with out any banns.’ 
 ‘ Aye ! aye ! ’ said the parson ; ‘ ex necessitate , a licence may 
 he allowable enough ; but surely, surely, the other is the 
 more regular and eligible way.’ The pedlar proceeded thus : 
 ‘ she returned with me to our regiment, and removed with us 
 from quarters to quarters, till at last, whilst we lay at Gallo¬ 
 way, 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. She said she had formerly travelled in a company 
 of gipsies, who had made a practice of stealing away chil¬ 
 dren ; that for her own part, she had been only once guilty 
 of the crime ; which, she said, she lamented more than ail 
 the rest of her sins, since probably it might have occasioned 
 the death of the parents ; for, added she, it is almost im¬ 
 possible to describe the beauty of the young creature, which 
 was about a year and a half old when I kidnapped it. W r e 
 kept her (for she was a girl) above 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 be¬ 
 lieve no baronet now alive ; besides, it answers so exactly in 
 every point, there is no room for doubt; but you have forgot 
 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 Pamala; some pronounced it one way, and some the 
 other.’ Panny, 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 thanksgivings that this discovery had been 
 made before the dreadful sin of incest was committed ; and 
 the pedlar was struck with amazement, not being able to ac¬ 
 count for all this confusion ; the cause of which was presently 
 opened by the parson’s daughter, who was the only uncon¬ 
 cerned person (for the mother was chafing Fanny’s temples, 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 327 
 
 CH. XII.] 
 
 and taking 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 lor a little while, and pay a 
 short visit to Lady Booby. 
 
328 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE HISTORY, RETURNING TO THE LADY BOOBY, GIYES 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE TERRIBLE CONFLICT IN HER 
 
 BREAST BETWEEN LOVE AND PRIDE ; WITH WHAT HAP¬ 
 PENED ON THE PRESENT DISCOVERY. 
 
 The lady sat down with her company to dinner, hut ate 
 nothing. As soon as her cloth was removed she whispered 
 Pamela that she was taken a little ill, and desired her to en¬ 
 tertain 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 con¬ 
 ceal these boiling passions longer without bursting. Slip¬ 
 slop now approached her bed, and asked how her ladyship 
 did ; but, instead of revealing her disorder, as she intended, 
 she entered into a long encomium on the beauty and 
 virtues of Joseph Andrews; ending, at last, with express¬ 
 ing her concern that so much tenderness should be thrown 
 away on so despicable an object as Fanny. Slipslop, 
 well knowing how to humour her mistress’s frensy, pro¬ 
 ceeded to repeat, with exaggeration, if possible, all her 
 mistress had said, and concluded with a wish that Joseph 
 had been a gentleman, 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 1 Shall I be 
 afraid of eating sweetmeats because people may say I have a 
 sweet tooth 1 If I had a mind to marry a man, all the world 
 should not hinder me. Your ladyship hath 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 man ? 
 
CH. XIII.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 329 
 
 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.’— 4 But, dear 
 Slipslop,’ answered the lady, ‘if I could prevail on myself to 
 commit such a weakness, there is that cursed Fanny in the 
 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 hath heard of Joseph’s fitting with 
 one of Mr Didapper’s servants about her; and his master 
 hath 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 lady¬ 
 ship sent for me.’—‘Go back/ says the Lady Booby, ‘this 
 instant, for I expect Mr Didapper will soon be going. 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 arrange her own conduct 
 in the following manner : 
 
 ‘What am 1 doing? How do I suffer this passion to 
 creep imperceptibly upon me ! How many days are past 
 since I could have submitted to ask myself the question ?—- 
 Marry a footman ! Distraction ! Can I afterwards bear the 
 eyes of my acquaintance ? But I can retire from them ; re¬ 
 tire with one in whom I propose more happiness than the 
 world without him can give me ! Betire—to feed continu¬ 
 ally on beauties which my inflamed imagination sickens with 
 eagerly gazing on ; to satisfy every appetite, every desire, 
 with their utmost wish. Ha ! and do I doat thus on a foot¬ 
 man? I despise, I detest my passion.—Yet why? Is he 
 not generous, gentle, kind ?—Kind ! to whom ? to the 
 meanest wretch, a creature below my consideration. Doth 
 he not—yes, he doth prefer her. Curse his beauties, and 
 the little low heart that possesses 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? Ho, 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. Ho ; 
 though I despise him myself, though I would spurn him 
 
330 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 from my feet, was he to languish at them, no other should 
 taste the happiness I scorn. Why do I say happiness 1 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 ! Whither did I suffer this improper, 
 this mad passion to hurry me, only by neglecting to summon 
 the aids of reason to my assistance 1 ? Reason, which hath 
 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 he the 
 consequence of so base, so mean, so vulgar—•’ Slipslop re¬ 
 turned 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 a jinketting ; and he 
 says there is a strange man who hath discovered that Fanny 
 and Joseph are brother and sister.’—‘ How, Slipslop I ’ cries 
 the lady, in a surprize.—‘ I had not time, madam,’ cries Slip¬ 
 slop, ‘ to inquire about particles, hut 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 producing 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, dis¬ 
 missed 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 had ever had any more than Joseph and herself. 
 The lady flew into a violent rage with her, and talked of up¬ 
 starts 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 to his wife : he told her, if it had been earlier in 
 
OH. XIII.] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 331 
 
 the evening she should not have staid a moment longer in 
 her house ; that he was convinced, if this young woman could 
 he 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 Fanny and Joseph, who 
 would not quit her ; the parson likewise was induced, not 
 only by curiosity, of which he had no small portion, but by 
 his duty, as he apprehended it, to follow them ; for he 
 continued all the way to exhort them, who were now break¬ 
 ing their hearts, to offer up thanksgivings, 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 letch himself 
 and Pamela home in his coach, and then they might be cer¬ 
 tain of perfectly knowing the truth or falsehood of this 
 relation ; in which, he said, as there were many strong cir¬ 
 cumstances to induce their credit, so he could not perceive 
 any interest the pedlar could have in inventing it, or in en¬ 
 deavouring to impose such a falsehood on them. 
 
 The Lady Booby, who was very little used to such com¬ 
 pany, entertained them all— viz. her nephew, his wife, her 
 brother and sister, the beau, and the parson, with great good 
 humour at her own table. As to the pedlar, she ordered him 
 to be made as welcome as possible by her servants. All the 
 company in the parlour, except the disappointed lovers, who 
 
332 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OP 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 sat sullen and silent, were full of mirth ; for Mr Booby had 
 prevailed on Joseph to ask Mr Didapper’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 exprest at dis¬ 
 covering a new sister. She said, if he loved Fanny 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 ; whence he made a quick transition to the 
 joys in the next 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 himself 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. 
 
CH. XIV.l 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 333 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CONTAINING- SEVERAL CURIOITS NIGHT-AD VENTURES, IN 
 
 WHICH MR ADAMS EELL INTO MANY HAIR-BREADTII 
 
 ’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 permitted him not to close his eyes, but had employed 
 his imagination in contrivances how to satisfy his desires, at 
 last hit on a method by which he hoped to effect it. He had 
 ordered his servant to bring him word where Fanny lay, and 
 had received his information ; .he therefore arose, put on his 
 breeches and nightgown, and stole softly along the gallery 
 which led to her apartment; and, being come to the door, 
 as he imagined it, he opened it with the least noise possible 
 and entered the chamber. A savour 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 excellent 
 mimic), 4 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 the lover; nor will I be de¬ 
 layed the enjoyment of thee one moment longer. You have 
 sufficient assurances of my constancy not to doubt my marry¬ 
 ing 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 rap¬ 
 ture. If he was surprized 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 
 
334 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 his paramour presently discovered their error. Indeed it 
 was no other than the accomplished Slipslop whom he had 
 engaged ; hut, though she immediately knew the person 
 whom she had mistaken for Joseph, he was at a loss to guess 
 at the representative of Fanny. He had so little seen or 
 taken notice of this gentlewoman, that light itself would have 
 afforded him no assistance in his conjecture. Beau Didapper 
 no sooner had perceived his mistake than he attempted to 
 escape from the bed with much greater haste than-lie had made 
 to it; but the watchful Slipslop prevented him. For that pru¬ 
 dent woman, being disappointed of those delicious offerings 
 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 unfortun¬ 
 ate beau to be luckily thrown in her way to restore her lady’s 
 opinion of her impregnable chastity. At that instant, there¬ 
 fore, 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 ! robbery ! 
 ruin ! ’ 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. lie 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 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; lie therefore rescued the beau, who 
 presently made his escape, and then, turning towards Slip¬ 
 slop, received such a cuff on his chops, that, his wrath kind¬ 
 ling instantly, he offered to return the favour so stoutly, that 
 had poor Slipslop received the fist, which in the dark passed 
 
CH. XIV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 335 
 
 by her and fell on the pillow, she would most probably have 
 given up the ghost. Adams, missing his blow, fell directly 
 on Slipslop, who cuffed and scratched as well as she could ; 
 nor was he behindhand 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 another stroke on the chops, he gave 
 her such a remembrance in the guts, 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 lights together. 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 slipt on 
 a nightgown, petticoat, and slippers, and taking a candle, 
 which always burnt in her chamber, in her hand, she walked 
 undauntedly to Slipslop’s room ; w r here she entered just at 
 the instant as Adams had discovered, by the two mountains 
 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 to 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 counte¬ 
 nance of his bedfellow, and, now first recollecting he was 
 naked, he was no less confounded than Lady Booby herself, 
 and immediately whipt 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 
 
336 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 something sparkle with great lustre, which, when she had 
 taken it up, appeared to he 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 V ‘ 0, madam,’ says Slip¬ 
 slop, ‘I don’t know what hath happened, I have been so 
 terrified. Here may have been a dozen men in the room.’ 
 ‘ To whom belongs this laced shirt and jewels 1 ’ 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 him 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, and 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 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 he 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 preced¬ 
 ing night, and who was so bagged out with what had hap¬ 
 pened to her in the day, that, notwithstanding all thoughts 
 of her Joseph, she was fallen into so profound a sleep, that 
 all the noise in the adjoining room had not been able to dis¬ 
 turb her. Adams groped out the bed, and, turning the 
 clothes down softly, a custom Mrs Adams had long accus¬ 
 tomed him to, crept in, and deposited his carcase 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 
 
CH. XIV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 337 
 
 charming maid, and, ignorant of the scene of delight on 
 which they repose, meditates the future capture of a mouse, 
 or surprizal 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 I h ’ ‘ Bless me ! where am 1 1 ’ said the parson. 
 
 Then Fanny screamed, Adams leapt out of bed, and Joseph 
 stood, as the tragedians call it, like- the statue of Surprize. 
 
 ‘ How came she into my room h ’ cried Adams. ‘ How came 
 you into hers 1 ’ 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 woman. He is an infidel who. doth not 
 believe in witchcraft. They as surely exist now as in the 
 days of Said. 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 falsehood 
 convinced her of his wicked designs. ‘ How I ’ said Joseph 
 in a rage, ‘ hath he offered any rudeness to you 1 ’ She an¬ 
 swered—She could not accuse him of any more than villan- 
 ously stealing to bed to her, which she thought rudeness 
 sufficient, and what no man would do without a wicked in¬ 
 tention. 
 
 Joseph’s great opinion of Adams was not easily to be stag¬ 
 gered, 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. 
 
 ‘22 
 
338 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 Assuring Adams therefore of this truth, he begged him to 
 give some account how he came there. Adams then, stand¬ 
 ing 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. 4 Odso ! ’ 
 cries Adams, 4 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 himself till she had 
 put her clothes on. Joseph and Adams accordingly de¬ 
 parted, 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 not¬ 
 withstanding, and did not see how a Christian could deny it. 
 
CH. XV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 339 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 THE ARRITAL OE GAFFAR AND GAMMAR ANDREWS, WITH 
 
 ANOTHER PERSON NOT MUCH EXPECTED ; AND A PERFECT 
 
 SOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES RAISED BY THE PEDLAR. 
 
 As soon as Fanny was drest Joseph returned to her, and 
 they had along conversation together, the conclusion of which 
 was, that, if they found' themselves to be really brother and 
 sister, they vowed a perpetual celibacy, and to live together 
 all their 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. 
 
 Their tea was scarce over when news came of the arrival 
 of old Mr Andrews and his wife. They were immediately 
 introduced, 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 
 (Epidus himself, whilst his fate was revealing. 
 
 Mr Booby first opened the cause by informing the old 
 gentleman 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 astonish¬ 
 ment, assured his honour that he had never lost a daughtei 
 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 
 
340 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 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 surprized 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 Gib¬ 
 raltar, 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 it you was ever to come home again, which I re¬ 
 member 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, 
 hut 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 surprized 
 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 his eyes upon me so piteously, that, to be sure, not¬ 
 withstanding my passion, I could not find 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 
 
CH. XV.] 
 
 JOSElUi ANDREWS. 
 
 341 
 
 suckled it to be sure, all the world as if it had been born 
 of my own natural body ; and as true as I am alive, in a 
 little time I loved the boy all to nothing as if it had been my 
 own girl.—Well, as I was saying, 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 was the name I gave him my¬ 
 self—the Lord knows whether he was baptized 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 I 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 Gaminar 
 Andrews’s story; and, when she had finished, asked her if 
 the supposititious child had no mark on its breast 1 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 intercession of the company, showed to 
 them. 1 Well,’ says Gaffar 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 doth not belong to us; but how are you certain 
 that the girl is ours 1 ’ 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 ale-house ; 
 which he complied with, and related what the reader, as well 
 as Mr Adams, hath seen before. He then confirmed, 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 any- 
 
342 
 
 THE ADVEXTUBES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 thing 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 such; for that he had been stolen from a 
 gentleman’s house by those whom they call gipsies, and 
 had been kept 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 forgot it; but that she had acquainted him he 
 lived about forty miles from the place where the exchange 
 had been made, and which way, promising to spare no pains 
 in endeavouring with him to discover the place. 
 
 But Fortune, which seldom doth 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 call 
 Mr Adams forth. This had no sooner mentioned the dis¬ 
 covery of a stolen child, and had uttered the word straw¬ 
 berry, 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 com¬ 
 plexion 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 quern queeris ; inventus est, fye. 
 Joseph complied with the request of Mr Wilson, who no 
 sooner saw the mark than, abandoning himself to the most 
 extravagant rapture of passion, he embraced Joseph with in¬ 
 expressible ecstasy, and cried out in tears of joy, ‘ I have 
 discovered my son, I have him again in my arms ! ’ Joseph 
 Avas not sufficiently apprized yet to taste the same delight 
 Avith his father (for so in reality he was) ; hoAvever, he re¬ 
 turned some Avarmth to his embraces : but he no sooner 
 perceived, from his father’s account, the agreement of every 
 circumstance, of person, time, and place, than he threw him¬ 
 self at his feet, and, embracing his knees, with tears begged 
 
CH. XV.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 343 
 
 his blessing, which was given with much affection, and re¬ 
 ceived with such respect, mixed with such tenderness on 
 both sides, that it affected all present; hut none so much as 
 Lady Booby, who left the room in an agony, which was but 
 too much perceived, and not very charitably accounted for by 
 some of the company. 
 
344 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [BK IV. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 BEING- THE LAST. IN WHICH THIS TRUE HISTORY IS 
 BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION. 
 
 Fannv was veiy little behind her Joseph in the duty she 
 exprest towards her parents, and the joy she evidenced in 
 discos eiing them. Grammar Andrews kissed her, and said, 
 She was heartily glad to see her; but for her part, she could 
 never love any one better than Joseph. Gaffar 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. 
 
 o 
 
 Mi Looby, who knew nothing of his aunt’s fondness, im- 
 puted 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 celerity j and now, having con- 
 gratulated Mi Wilson and Joseph on the discovery, he sa¬ 
 luted Fanny, called her sister, and introduced her as such to 
 1 amela, 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 hfs 
 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 re¬ 
 luctance at first, on the eagerness of his son’s instances he 
 
CH. XVI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 345 
 
 consented; saying, if she was so good a creature as she ap¬ 
 peared, 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 positive, with 
 great duty obeyed him, to the great delight of parson Adams, 
 who by these means saw an opportunity of fulfilling the 
 church forms, and marrying his parishioners without a licence. 
 
 Mr Adams, greatly exulting on this occasion (for such 
 ceremonies 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 pre¬ 
 sent bestrode him, for whose horsemanship 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 he 
 passed by the coach; but the mirth of the one and 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 Salis¬ 
 bury gaol, 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 proceeded, and happily arrived at their jour- 
 
.346 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 ney’s end, Mr Adams, by good luck, rather than by good 
 riding, escaping a good fall. 
 
 The company, arriving at Mr Booby’s house, were all re¬ 
 ceived by him in the most courteous and entertained in the 
 most splendid 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 Eanny 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 inclinations, and a longing desire he had to see her, 
 a little concerned him, as he must be obliged to leave his 
 T anny; 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 Mr Wilson at 
 length agreed with the entreaties of 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 husband’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 ot all his wishes. He arose, and drest 
 himself in a neat but plain suit of Mr Booby’s, which exactly 
 fitted him ; for he refused all finery ; as did Fanny 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 had an edging of lace round the bosom. She likewise 
 equipped her with a pair of fine white thread stockings, 
 which were all she would accept; for she wore one of her 
 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 347 
 
 CH. XVI.] 
 
 own short round-eared caps, and over it a little straw hat, 
 lined with cherry-coloured silk, and tied with a cherry- 
 coloured ribbon. 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 performed the ceremony ; at 
 which nothing was so remarkable as the extraordinary and 
 unaffected modesty of Fanny, unless the true Christian piety 
 of Adams, who publicly rebuked Mr Booby and Pamela for 
 laughing in so sacred a place, and 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 re¬ 
 ligion intervened he immediately lost all respect of persons. 
 It was his maxim, that he was a servant of the Highest, and 
 could not, without 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 com¬ 
 pany attended them likewise on foot; and now a most 
 magnificent entertainment was provided, at which parson 
 Adams demonstrated an appetite surprizing as well as sur¬ 
 passing 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 them; the thoughts of which 
 filled both their minds, though with different sensations; the 
 one all desire, while the other had her wishes tempered with 
 
 i@£irs 
 
 °At length, after a day passed with the utmost merriment, 
 corrected 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 blest moment arrived when Fanny retired with her 
 mother, her mother-in-law, and her sister. 
 
 She was soon undrest j for she had no jewels to deposit in 
 
348 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 
 [bk IV. 
 
 their caskets, nor fine laces to fold with the nicest exactness. 
 Undressing to her was properly discovering, not putting off, 
 ornaments ; 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 1 ? the 
 bloom of roses and lilies might a little illustrate her com¬ 
 plexion, or their smell her sweetness ; but to comprehend 
 her entirely, conceive youth, health, bloom, neatness, and 
 innocence, in her bridal bed ; conceive all these in their ut¬ 
 most 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 hath, with 
 unprecedented generosity, given Fanny a fortune of two 
 thousand pounds, which Joseph hath laid out in a little 
 estate in the same parish with his father, which he now oc¬ 
 cupies (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, 
 extremely big with her first child. 
 
 Mr Booby hath presented Mr Adams with a living of one 
 hundred and thirty pounds a-year. He at first refused it, 
 resolving not to quit his parishioners, with whom lie had 
 lived so long; but, on recollecting he might keep a curate at 
 this living, he hath 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 exciseman ; a trust which he discharges with such justice, 
 that he is ureatlv beloved in his neighbourhood. 
 
 O v O 
 
 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. 
 
CH. XVI.] 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS. 
 
 349 
 
 Joseph remains blest with his Fanny, whom he doats on 
 with the utmost tenderness, which is all returned on her 
 side. The happiness of this couple is a perpetual fountain 
 of pleasure to their fond parents ; and, what is particularly 
 remarkable, he declares he will imitate them in their retire¬ 
 ment, nor will be prevailed on by any booksellers, or their 
 authors, to make his appearance in high life. 
 
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