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Joseph Andrews  
Author Henry Fielding
Original title The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and His Friend, Mr. Abraham Adams
Country Britain
Language English
Genre(s) Picaresque, romance, "comic epic-poem in prose" (Fielding's own description of the work)
Publisher Andrew Millar, The Strand, London
Publication date 1742
Media type print
Preceded by Shamela, or An Apology for the Life of Mrs. Shamela Andrews (1741)
Followed by The Life and Death of Johnathan Wild, the Great (1743)

Joseph Andrews, or The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams, was the first published full-length novel of the English author and magistrate Henry Fielding, and indeed among the first novels in the English language. Published in 1742 and defined by Fielding as a ‘comic romance’, it is the story of a good-natured footman's adventures on the road home from London with his friend and mentor, the absent-minded parson Abraham Adams. The novel represents the coming together of the two competing aesthetics of eighteenth-century literature: the mock-heroic and neoclassical (and, by extension, aristocratic) approach of Augustans such as Alexander Pope and Jonathan Swift; and the popular, domestic prose fiction of novelists such as Daniel Defoe and Samuel Richardson.

The novel draws on a variety of inspirations. Written "in imitation of the manner of Cervantes, the author of Don Quixote" (see title page on right), the work owes much of its humour to the techniques developed by Cervantes, and its subject-matter to the seemingly loose arrangement of events, digressions and lower-class characters to the genre of writing known as picaresque. In deference to the literary tastes and recurring tropes of the period, it relies on bawdy humour, an impending marriage and a mystery surrounding unknown parentage, but conversely is rich in philosophical digressions, classical erudition and social purpose.



Fielding’s first venture into prose fiction came a year previously with the publication in pamphlet form of Shamela, a travesty of, and direct response to, the stylistic failings and moral hypocrisy that Fielding saw in Richardson’s Pamela. Richardson’s epistolary tale of a resolute servant girl, armed only with her ‘virtue’, battling against her master’s attempts at seduction had become an overnight literary sensation in 1741. The implicit moral message – that a girl’s chastity has eventual value as a commodity – as well as the awkwardness of the epistolary form in dealing with ongoing events, and the triviality of the detail which the form necessitates, were some of the main targets of Fielding’s parody.

Richardson would continue to be a target of Fielding’s first novel, but the Pamela phenomenon was just one example of what he saw as a culture of literary abuses in the mid-eighteenth century. Colley Cibber, poet laureate and mock-hero of Pope’s Dunciad, is identified in the first chapter of the novel as another offender against propriety, morality and literary value.

The impetus for the novel, as Fielding claims in the preface, is the establishment of a genre of writing "which I do not remember to have been hitherto attempted in our language", defined as the "comic epic-poem in prose": a work of prose fiction, epic in length and variety of incident and character, in the hypothetical spirit of Homer’s lost (and possibly apocryphal) comic poem Margites. He dissociates his fiction from the scandal-memoir and the contemporary novel. Book III describes the work as biography.

As becomes apparent from the first few chapters of the novel in which Richardson and Cibber are parodied mercilessly, the real germ of Joseph Andrews is Fielding’s objection to the moral and technical limitations of the popular literature of his day. But while Shamela started and finished as a sustained subversion of a rival work, in Joseph Andrews Fielding merely uses the perceived depravation of popular literature as a springboard to conceive more fully his own philosophy of prose fiction.

Plot summary

Book I

The novel begins with the affable, intrusive narrator outlining the nature of our hero. Joseph Andrews is the brother of Richardson’s Pamela and is of the same rustic parentage and patchy ancestry. At the age of ten years he found himself tending to animals as an apprentice to Sir Thomas Booby. It was in proving his worth as a horseman that he first caught the eye of Sir Thomas’s wife, Lady Booby, who employed him (now seventeen) as her footman.

'Kissing, Joseph, is as a prologue to a play'. How the 1977 film adaptation renders the seduction scene.

After the death of Sir Thomas, Joseph finds that his Lady’s affections have redoubled as she offers herself to him in her chamber while on a trip to London. In a scene analogous to many of Pamela’s refusals of Mr B in Richardson’s novel, however, Lady Booby finds that Joseph’s Christian commitment to chastity before marriage is unwavering. After suffering the Lady’s fury, Joseph dispatches a letter to his sister very much typical of Pamela’s anguished missives in her own novel. The Lady calls him once again to her chamber and makes one last withering attempt at seduction before dismissing him from both his job and his lodgings.

With Joseph setting out from London by moonlight, the narrator introduces the reader to the heroine of the novel, Fanny Goodwill. A poor illiterate girl of ‘extraordinary beauty’ (I, xi) now living with a farmer close to Lady Booby’s parish, she and Joseph had grown ever closer since their childhood, before their local parson and mentor, Abraham Adams, recommended that they postpone marriage until they have the means to live comfortably.

On his way to see Fanny, Joseph is mugged and laid up in a nearby inn where, by dint of circumstance, he is reconciled with Adams, who is on his way to London to sell three volumes of his sermons. The thief, too, is found and brought to the inn (only to escape later that night), and Joseph is reunited with his possessions. Adams and Joseph catch up with each other, and the parson, in spite of his own poverty, offers his last 9s 3½d to Joseph’s disposal.

Joseph and Adams’ stay in the inn is capped by one of the many burlesque, slapstick digressions in the novel. Betty, the inn’s 21-year-old chambermaid, had taken a liking to Joseph since he arrived; a liking doomed to inevitable disappointment by Joseph’s constancy to Fanny. The landlord, Mr Tow-wouse, had always admired Betty and saw this disappointment as an opportunity to take advantage. Locked in an embrace, they are discovered by the choleric Mrs Tow-wouse, who chases the maid through the house before Adams is forced to restrain her. With the landlord promising not to transgress again, his lady allows him to make his peace at the cost of ‘quietly and contentedly bearing to be reminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a day, during the residue of his life’ (I, xviii).

Book II

During his stay in the inn, Adams’ hopes for his sermons were mocked in a discussion with a travelling bookseller and another parson. Nevertheless, Adams remains resolved to continue his journey to London until it is revealed that his wife, deciding that he would be more in need of shirts than sermons on his journey, has neglected to pack them. The pair thus decide to return to the parson’s parish: Joseph in search of Fanny, and Adams in search of his sermons.

With Joseph following on horseback, Adams finds himself sharing a stagecoach with an anonymous lady and Madam Slipslop, an admirer of Joseph’s and a servant of Lady Booby. When they pass the house of a teenage girl named Leonora, the anonymous lady is reminded of a story and begins one of the novel’s three interpolated tales, ‘The History of Leonora, or the Unfortunate Jilt’. The story of Leonora continues for a number of chapters, punctuated by the questions and interruptions of the other passengers.

After stopping at an inn, Adams relinquishes his seat to Joseph and, forgetting his horse, embarks ahead on foot. Finding himself some time ahead of his friend, Adams rests by the side of the road where he becomes so engaged in conversation with a fellow traveller that he misses the stagecoach as it passes. As the night falls and Adams and the stranger discourse on courage and duty, a shriek is heard. The stranger, having seconds earlier lauded the virtues of bravery and chivalry, makes his excuses and flees the scene without turning back. Adams, however, rushes to the girl’s aid and after a mock-epic struggle knocks her attacker unconscious. In spite of Adams’ good intentions, he and the girl, who reveals herself to be none other than Fanny Goodwill (in search of Joseph after hearing of his mugging), find themselves accused of assault and robbery.

Adams and Fanny are conveyed before the magistrate.

After some comic litigious wrangling before the local magistrate, the pair are eventually released and depart shortly after midnight in search of Joseph. They do not have to walk far before a storm forces them into the same inn that Joseph and Slipslop have chosen for the night. Slipslop, her jealousy ignited by seeing the two lovers reunited, departs angrily. When Adams, Joseph and Fanny come to leave the following morning, they find their departure delayed by an inability to settle the bill, and, with Adams’ solicitations of a loan from the local parson and his wealthy parishioners failing, it falls on a local peddler to rescue the trio by loaning them his last 6s 6d.

The solicitations of charity that Adams is forced to make, and the complications which surround their stay in the parish, bring him into contact with many local squires, gentlemen and parsons, and much of the latter portion of Book II is occupied with the discussions of literature, religion, philosophy and trade which result.

Book III

The three depart the inn by night, and it is not long before Fanny needs to rest. With the party silent, they overhear approaching voices agree on ‘the murder of any one they meet’ (III, ii) and flee to a local house. Inviting them in, the owner, Mr Wilson, informs them that the gang of supposed murderers were in fact sheep-stealers, intent more on the killing of livestock than of Adams and his friends. The party being settled, Wilson begins the novel’s most lengthy interpolated tale by recounting his life story; a story which bears a notable resemblance to Fielding’s own young adulthood.

Wilson begins his tale in the first edition of 1742.

At the age of 16, Wilson’s father died and left him a modest fortune. Finding himself the master of his own destiny, he left school and travelled to London where he soon acquainted himself with the dress, manners and reputation for womanising necessary to consider himself a ‘beau’. Wilson’s life in the town is a façade: he writes love-letters to himself, obtains his fine clothes on credit and is concerned more with being seen at the theatre than with watching the play. After two bad experiences with women, he is financially crippled and, much like Fielding himself, falls into the company of a group of Deists, freethinkers and gamblers. Finding himself in debt, he turns to the writing of plays and hack journalism to alleviate his financial burden (again, much like the author himself). He spends his last few pence on a lottery ticket but, with no reliable income, is soon forced to exchange it for food. While in jail for his debts, news reaches him that the ticket he gave away has won a £3,000 prize. His disappointment is short-lived, however, as the daughter of the winner hears of his plight, pays off his debts, and, after a brief courtship, agrees to become his wife.

Wilson had found himself at the mercy of many of the social ills that Fielding had written about in his journalism: the over-saturated and abused literary market, the exploitative state lottery, and regressive laws which sanctioned imprisonment for small debts. Having seen the corrupting influence of wealth and the town, he retires with his new wife to the rural solitude in which Adams, Fanny and Joseph now find them. The only break in his contentment, and one which will turn out to be significant to the plot, was the kidnapping of his eldest son, whom he has not seen since.

Wilson promises to visit Adams when he passes through his parish, and after another mock-epic battle on the road, this time with a party of hunting dogs, the trio proceed to the house of a local squire, where Fielding illustrates another contemporary social ill by having Adams subjected to a humiliating roasting. Enraged, the three depart to the nearest inn to find that, while at the squire’s house, they had been robbed of their last half-guinea. To compound their misery, the squire has Adams and Joseph accused of kidnapping Fanny, in order to have them detained while he orders the abduction of the girl himself. She is rescued in transit, however, by Lady Booby’s steward, Peter Pounce, and all four of them complete the remainder of the journey to Booby Hall together.

Book IV

On seeing Joseph arrive back in the parish, a jealous Lady Booby meanders through emotions as diverse as rage, pity, hatred, pride and love. The next morning Joseph and Fanny’s banns are published and the Lady turns her anger onto Parson Adams, who is accommodating Fanny at his house. Finding herself powerless either to stop the marriage or to expel them from the parish, she enlists the help of Lawyer Scout, who brings a spurious charge of larceny against Joseph and Fanny in order to prevent, or at least postpone, the wedding.

Three days later, the Lady’s plans are foiled by the visit of her nephew, Mr Booby, and a surprise guest: Booby has married Pamela, granting Joseph a powerful new ally and brother-in-law. What is more, Booby is an acquaintance of the justice presiding over Joseph and Fanny’s trial, and instead of Bridewell, has them committed to his own custody. Knowing of his sister’s antipathy to the two lovers, Booby offers to reunite Joseph with his sister and take him and Fanny into his own parish and his own family.

In a discourse with Joseph on stoicism and fatalism, Adams instructs his friend to submit to the will of God and control his passions, even in the face of overwhelming tragedy. In the kind of cruel juxtaposition usually reserved for Fielding’s less savoury characters, Adams is informed that his youngest son, Jacky, has drowned. After indulging his grief in a manner contrary to his lecture a few minutes previously, Adams is informed that the report was premature, and that his son had in fact been rescued by the same pedlar that loaned him his last few shillings in Book II.

Lady Booby, in a last-ditch attempt to sabotage the marriage, brings a young beau named Didapper to Adams’ house to seduce Fanny. Didapper is a little too bold in his approach and provokes Joseph into a fight. The Lady and the beau depart in disgust, but the pedlar, having seen the Lady, is compelled to relate a tale. The pedlar had met his wife while in the army, and she died young. While on her death bed, she confessed that she once stole an exquisitely beautiful baby girl from a family named Andrews, and sold her on to Sir Thomas Booby, thus raising the possibility that Fanny may in fact be Joseph’s sister. The company is shocked, but there is general relief that the crime of incest may have been narrowly averted.

Joseph and Fanny are finally wed.

The following morning, Joseph and Pamela’s parents arrive, and, together with the pedlar and Adams, they piece together the question of Fanny’s parentage. The Andrews identify her as their lost daughter, but have a twist to add to the tale: when Fanny was an infant, she was indeed stolen from her parents, but the thieves left behind a sickly infant Joseph in return, who was raised as their own. It is immediately apparent that Joseph is the abovementioned kidnapped son of Wilson, and when Wilson arrives on his promised visit, he identifies Joseph by a birthmark on his chest. Joseph is now the son of a respected gentleman, Fanny an in-law of the Booby family, and the couple no longer suspected of being siblings. Two days later they are married by Adams in a humble ceremony, and the narrator, after bringing the story to a close, and in a disparaging allusion to Richardson, assures the reader that there will be no sequel.

Film adaptation

Promotional poster for the 1977 film adaptation.

The novel was adapted for the screen in 1977 by Tony Richardson, Allan Scott and Chris Bryant. Richardson directed the critically well-received work, with Michael Hordern as Adams, Peter Firth as Joseph, and Lady Booby played by Swedish-born Ann-Margret, who received a Golden Globe nomination for the role. The tag line (‘The story of a young, English footman who served the Lady Booby but loved the little Fanny’) suggests how it captures some of the source material’s bawdy humour, though Fielding probably would have frowned on the double-entendre. It was released on region 1 DVD in 2003.


External links

Full text of Joseph Andrews from Project Gutenberg

Source material

Up to date as of January 22, 2010

From Wikisource

The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and his Friend, Mr. Abraham Abrams
by Joseph Andrews




 _Of writing lives in general, and particularly of Pamela, with a word
 by the bye of Colley Cibber and others_
 _Of Mr Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, education, and great
 endowments, with a word or two concerning ancestors_
 _Of Mr Abraham Adams the curate, Mrs Slipslop the chambermaid, and
 _What happened after their journey to London_
 _The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and mournful
 behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of Joseph Andrews_
 _How Joseph Andrews writ a letter to his sister Pamela_
 _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
 _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_
 _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_
 _Joseph writes another letter; his transactions with Mr Peter Pounce,
 &c., with his departure from Lady Booby_
 _Of several new matters not expected_
 _Containing many surprizing adventures which Joseph Andrews met with
 on the road, scarce credible to those who have never travelled in a
 _What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with the
 curious discourse between him and Mr Barnabas, the parson of the
 _Being very full of adventures which succeeded each other at the inn_
 _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_
 _The escape of the thief. Mr Adams's disappointment. The arrival of
 two very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of parson
 Adams to parson Barnabas_
 _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._
 _The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of what
 occasioned the violent scene in the preceding chapter_
 _Of Divisions in Authors_
 _A surprizing instance of Mr Adams's short memory, with the
 unfortunate consequences which it brought on Joseph_
 _The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, with Mr
 Adams's inquiry into the religion of his host_
 _The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt_
 _A dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn where the company
 dined, with its bloody consequences to Mr Adams_
 _Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt_
 _A very short chapter, in which parson Adams went a great way_
 _A notable dissertation by Mr Abraham Adams; wherein that gentleman
 appears in a political light_
 _In which the gentleman discants on bravery and heroic virtue, till
 an unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse_
 _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
 _What happened to them while before the justice. A chapter very full
 of learning_
 _A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to
 the good-natured reader_
 _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_


There are few amusements more dangerous for an author than the

indulgence in ironic descriptions of his own work. If the irony is

depreciatory, posterity is but too likely to say, "Many a true word is

spoken in jest;" if it is encomiastic, the same ruthless and ungrateful

critic is but too likely to take it as an involuntary confession of

folly and vanity. But when Fielding, in one of his serio-comic

introductions to _Tom Jones_, described it as "this prodigious work," he

all unintentionally (for he was the least pretentious of men)

anticipated the verdict which posterity almost at once, and with

ever-increasing suffrage of the best judges as time went on, was about

to pass not merely upon this particular book, but upon his whole genius

and his whole production as a novelist. His work in other kinds is of a

very different order of excellence. It is sufficiently interesting at

times in itself; and always more than sufficiently interesting as his;

for which reasons, as well as for the further one that it is

comparatively little known, a considerable selection from it is offered

to the reader in the last two volumes of this edition. Until the present

occasion (which made it necessary that I should acquaint myself with

it) I own that my own knowledge of these miscellaneous writings was by

no means thorough. It is now pretty complete; but the idea which I

previously had of them at first and second hand, though a little

improved, has not very materially altered. Though in all this hack-work

Fielding displayed, partially and at intervals, the same qualities which

he displayed eminently and constantly in the four great books here

given, he was not, as the French idiom expresses it, _dans son

assiette_, in his own natural and impregnable disposition and situation

of character and ability, when he was occupied on it. The novel was for

him that _assiette_; and all his novels are here.

Although Henry Fielding lived in quite modern times, although by family

and connections he was of a higher rank than most men of letters, and

although his genius was at once recognised by his contemporaries so soon

as it displayed itself in its proper sphere, his biography until very

recently was by no means full; and the most recent researches, including

those of Mr Austin Dobson--a critic unsurpassed for combination of

literary faculty and knowledge of the eighteenth century--have not

altogether sufficed to fill up the gaps. His family, said to have

descended from a member of the great house of Hapsburg who came to

England in the reign of Henry II., distinguished itself in the Wars of

the Roses, and in the seventeenth century was advanced to the peerages

of Denbigh in England and (later) of Desmond in Ireland. The novelist

was the grandson of John Fielding, Canon of Salisbury, the fifth son of

the first Earl of Desmond of this creation. The canon's third son,

Edmond, entered the army, served under Marlborough, and married Sarah

Gold or Gould, daughter of a judge of the King's Bench. Their eldest son

was Henry, who was born on April 22, 1707, and had an uncertain number

of brothers and sisters of the whole blood. After his first wife's

death, General Fielding (for he attained that rank) married again. The

most remarkable offspring of the first marriage, next to Henry, was his

sister Sarah, also a novelist, who wrote David Simple; of the second,

John, afterwards Sir John Fielding, who, though blind, succeeded his

half-brother as a Bow Street magistrate, and in that office combined an

equally honourable record with a longer tenure.

Fielding was born at Sharpham Park in Somersetshire, the seat of his

maternal grandfather; but most of his early youth was spent at East

Stour in Dorsetshire, to which his father removed after the judge's

death. He is said to have received his first education under a parson of

the neighbourhood named Oliver, in whom a very uncomplimentary tradition

sees the original of Parson Trulliber. He was then certainly sent to

Eton, where he did not waste his time as regards learning, and made

several valuable friends. But the dates of his entering and leaving

school are alike unknown; and his subsequent sojourn at Leyden for two

years--though there is no reason to doubt it--depends even less upon

any positive documentary evidence. This famous University still had a

great repute as a training school in law, for which profession he was

intended; but the reason why he did not receive the even then far more

usual completion of a public school education by a sojourn at Oxford or

Cambridge may be suspected to be different. It may even have had

something to do with a curious escapade of his about which not very much

is known--an attempt to carry off a pretty heiress of Lyme, named

Sarah Andrew.

Even at Leyden, however, General Fielding seems to have been unable or

unwilling to pay his son's expenses, which must have been far less there

than at an English University; and Henry's return to London in 1728-29

is said to have been due to sheer impecuniosity. When he returned to

England, his father was good enough to make him an allowance of L200

nominal, which appears to have been equivalent to L0 actual. And as

practically nothing is known of him for the next six or seven years,

except the fact of his having worked industriously enough at a large

number of not very good plays of the lighter kind, with a few poems and

miscellanies, it is reasonably enough supposed that he lived by his pen.

The only product of this period which has kept (or indeed which ever

received) competent applause is _Tom Thumb, or the Tragedy of

Tragedies_, a following of course of the _Rehearsal_, but full of humour

and spirit. The most successful of his other dramatic works were the

_Mock Doctor_ and the _Miser_, adaptations of Moliere's famous pieces.

His undoubted connection with the stage, and the fact of the

contemporary existence of a certain Timothy Fielding, helped suggestions

of less dignified occupations as actor, booth-keeper, and so forth; but

these have long been discredited and indeed disproved.

In or about 1735, when Fielding was twenty-eight, we find him in a new,

a more brilliant and agreeable, but even a more transient phase. He had

married (we do not know when or where) Miss Charlotte Cradock, one of

three sisters who lived at Salisbury (it is to be observed that

Fielding's entire connections, both in life and letters, are with the

Western Counties and London), who were certainly of competent means, and

for whose alleged illegitimacy there is no evidence but an unsupported

fling of that old maid of genius, Richardson. The descriptions both of

Sophia and of Amelia are said to have been taken from this lady; her

good looks and her amiability are as well established as anything of the

kind can be in the absence of photographs and affidavits; and it is

certain that her husband was passionately attached to her, during their

too short married life. His method, however, of showing his affection

smacked in some ways too much of the foibles which he has attributed to

Captain Booth, and of those which we must suspect Mr Thomas Jones would

also have exhibited, if he had not been adopted as Mr Allworthy's heir,

and had not had Mr Western's fortune to share and look forward to. It is

true that grave breaches have been made by recent criticism in the very

picturesque and circumstantial story told on the subject by Murphy, the

first of Fielding's biographers. This legend was that Fielding, having

succeeded by the death of his mother to a small estate at East Stour,

worth about L200 a year, and having received L1500 in ready money as his

wife's fortune, got through the whole in three years by keeping open

house, with a large retinue in "costly yellow liveries," and so forth.

In details, this story has been simply riddled. His mother had died long

before; he was certainly not away from London three years, or anything

like it; and so forth. At the same time, the best and soberest judges

agree that there is an intrinsic probability, a consensus (if a vague

one) of tradition, and a chain of almost unmistakably personal

references in the novels, which plead for a certain amount of truth, at

the bottom of a much embellished legend. At any rate, if Fielding

established himself in the country, it was not long before he returned

to town; for early in 1736 we find him back again, and not merely a

playwright, but lessee of the "Little Theatre" in the Haymarket. The

plays which he produced here--satirico-political pieces, such as

_Pasquin_ and the _Historical Register_--were popular enough, but

offended the Government; and in 1737 a new bill regulating theatrical

performances, and instituting the Lord Chamberlain's control, was

passed. This measure put an end directly to the "Great Mogul's Company,"

as Fielding had called his troop, and indirectly to its manager's career

as a playwright. He did indeed write a few pieces in future years, but

they were of the smallest importance.

After this check he turned at last to a serious profession, entered

himself of the Middle Temple in November of the same year, and was

called three years later; but during these years, and indeed for some

time afterwards, our information about him is still of the vaguest

character. Nobody doubts that he had a large share in the _Champion_, an

essay-periodical on the usual eighteenth-century model, which began to

appear in 1739, and which is still occasionally consulted for the work

that is certainly or probably his. He went the Western Circuit, and

attended the Wiltshire Sessions, after he was called, giving up his

contributions to periodicals soon after that event. But he soon returned

to literature proper, or rather made his _debut_ in it, with the

immortal book now republished. The _History of the Adventures of Joseph

Andrews, and his Friend Mr Abraham Adams_, appeared in February 1742,

and its author received from Andrew Millar, the publisher, the sum of

L183, 11s. Even greater works have fetched much smaller sums; but it

will be admitted that _Joseph Andrews_ was not dear.

The advantage, however, of presenting a survey of an author's life

uninterrupted by criticism is so clear, that what has to be said about

_Joseph_ may be conveniently postponed for the moment. Immediately after

its publication the author fell back upon miscellaneous writing, and in

the next year (1743) collected and issued three volumes of

_Miscellanies_. In the two first volumes the only thing of much interest

is the unfinished and unequal, but in part powerful, _Journey from this

World to the Next_, an attempt of a kind which Fontenelle and others,

following Lucian, had made very popular with the time. But the third

volume of the _Miscellanies_ deserved a less modest and gregarious

appearance, for it contained, and is wholly occupied by, the wonderful

and terrible satire of _Jonathan Wild_, the greatest piece of pure irony

in English out of Swift. Soon after the publication of the book, a great

calamity came on Fielding. His wife had been very ill when he wrote the

preface; soon afterwards she was dead. They had taken the chance, had

made the choice, that the more prudent and less wise student-hero and

heroine of Mr Browning's _Youth and Art_ had shunned; they had no doubt

"sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired," and we need

not question, that they had also "been happy."

Except this sad event and its rather incongruous sequel, Fielding's

marriage to his wife's maid Mary Daniel--a marriage, however, which did

not take place till full four years later, and which by all accounts

supplied him with a faithful and excellent companion and nurse, and his

children with a kind stepmother--little or nothing is again known of

this elusive man of genius between the publication of the _Miscellanies_

in 1743, and that of _Tom Jones_ in 1749. The second marriage itself in

November 1747; an interview which Joseph Warton had with him rather more

than a year earlier (one of the very few direct interviews we have); the

publication of two anti-Jacobite newspapers (Fielding was always a

strong Whig and Hanoverian), called the _True Patriot_ and the

_Jacobite's Journal_ in 1745 and the following years; some indistinct

traditions about residences at Twickenham and elsewhere, and some, more

precise but not much more authenticated, respecting patronage by the

Duke of Bedford, Mr Lyttelton, Mr Allen, and others, pretty well sum up

the whole.

_Tom Jones_ was published in February (a favourite month with Fielding

or his publisher Millar) 1749; and as it brought him the, for those

days, very considerable sum of L600 to which Millar added another

hundred later, the novelist must have been, for a time at any rate,

relieved from his chronic penury. But he had already, by Lyttelton's

interest, secured his first and last piece of preferment, being made

Justice of the Peace for Westminster, an office on which he entered with

characteristic vigour. He was qualified for it not merely by a solid

knowledge of the law, and by great natural abilities, but by his

thorough kindness of heart; and, perhaps, it may also be added, by his

long years of queer experience on (as Mr Carlyle would have said) the

"burning marl" of the London Bohemia. Very shortly afterwards he was

chosen Chairman of Quarter Sessions, and established himself in Bow

Street. The Bow Street magistrate of that time occupied a most singular

position, and was more like a French Prefect of Police or even a

Minister of Public Safety than a mere justice. Yet he was ill paid.

Fielding says that the emoluments, which before his accession had but

been L500 a year of "dirty" money, were by his own action but L300 of

clean; and the work, if properly performed, was very severe.

That he performed it properly all competent evidence shows, a foolish,

inconclusive, and I fear it must be said emphatically snobbish story of

Walpole's notwithstanding. In particular, he broke up a gang of

cut-throat thieves, which had been the terror of London. But his tenure

of the post was short enough, and scarcely extended to five years. His

health had long been broken, and he was now constantly attacked by gout,

so that he had frequently to retreat on Bath from Bow Street, or his

suburban cottage of Fordhook, Ealing. But he did not relax his literary

work. His pen was active with pamphlets concerning his office; _Amelia_,

his last novel, appeared towards the close of 1751; and next year saw

the beginning of a new paper, the _Covent Garden Journal_, which

appeared twice a week, ran for the greater part of the year, and died in

November. Its great author did not see that month twice again. In the

spring of 1753 he grew worse; and after a year's struggle with ill

health, hard work, and hard weather, lesser measures being pronounced

useless, was persuaded to try the "Portugal Voyage," of which he has

left so charming a record in the _Journey to Lisbon_. He left Fordhook

on June 26, 1754, reached Lisbon in August, and, dying there on the 8th

of October, was buried in the cemetery of the Estrella.

Of not many writers perhaps does a clearer notion, as far as their

personality goes, exist in the general mind that interests itself at all

in literature than of Fielding. Yet more than once a warning has been

sounded, especially by his best and most recent biographer, to the

effect that this idea is founded upon very little warranty of scripture.

The truth is, that as the foregoing record--which, brief as it is, is a

sufficiently faithful summary--will have shown, we know very little

about Fielding. We have hardly any letters of his, and so lack the best

by far and the most revealing of all character-portraits; we have but

one important autobiographic fragment, and though that is of the highest

interest and value, it was written far in the valley of the shadow of

death, it is not in the least retrospective, and it affords but dim and

inferential light on his younger, healthier, and happier days and ways.

He came, moreover, just short of one set of men of letters, of whom we

have a great deal of personal knowledge, and just beyond another. He was

neither of those about Addison, nor of those about Johnson. No intimate

friend of his has left us anything elaborate about him. On the other

hand, we have a far from inconsiderable body of documentary evidence, of

a kind often by no means trustworthy. The best part of it is contained

in the letters of his cousin, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and the

reminiscences or family traditions of her grand-daughter, Lady Louisa

Stuart. But Lady Mary, vivacious and agreeable as she is, had with all

her talent a very considerable knack of writing for effect, of drawing

strong contrasts and the like; and it is not quite certain that she saw

very much of Fielding in the last and most interesting third of his

life. Another witness, Horace Walpole, to less knowledge and equally

dubious accuracy, added decided ill-will, which may have been due partly

to the shrinking of a dilettante and a fop from a burly Bohemian; but I

fear is also consequent upon the fact that Horace could not afford to

despise Fielding's birth, and knew him to be vastly his own superior in

genius. We hear something of him again from Richardson; and Richardson

hated him with the hatred of dissimilar genius, of inferior social

position, and, lastly, of the cat for the dog who touzles and worries

her. Johnson partly inherited or shared Richardson's aversion, partly

was blinded to Fielding's genius by his aggressive Whiggery. I fear,

too, that he was incapable of appreciating it for reasons other than

political. It is certain that Johnson, sane and robust as he was, was

never quite at ease before genius of the gigantic kind, either in dead

or living. Whether he did not like to have to look up too much, or was

actually unable to do so, it is certain that Shakespeare, Milton,

Swift, and Fielding, those four Atlantes of English verse and prose, all

affected him with lukewarm admiration, or with positive dislike, for

which it is vain to attempt to assign any uniform secondary cause,

political or other. It may be permitted to hint another reason. All

Johnson's most sharp-sighted critics have noticed, though most have

discreetly refrained from insisting on, his "thorn-in-the-flesh," the

combination in him of very strong physical passions with the deepest

sense of the moral and religious duty of abstinence. It is perhaps

impossible to imagine anything more distasteful to a man so buffeted,

than the extreme indulgence with which Fielding regards, and the easy

freedom, not to say gusto, with which he depicts, those who succumb to

similar temptation. Only by supposing the workings of some subtle

influence of this kind is it possible to explain, even in so capricious

a humour as Johnson's, the famous and absurd application of the term

"barren rascal" to a writer who, dying almost young, after having for

many years lived a life of pleasure, and then for four or five one of

laborious official duty, has left work anything but small in actual

bulk, and fertile with the most luxuriant growth of intellectual


Partly on the _obiter dicta_ of persons like these, partly on the still

more tempting and still more treacherous ground of indications drawn

from his works, a Fielding of fantasy has been constructed, which in

Thackeray's admirable sketch attains real life and immortality as a

creature of art, but which possesses rather dubious claims as a

historical character. It is astonishing how this Fielding of fantasy

sinks and shrivels when we begin to apply the horrid tests of criticism

to his component parts. The _eidolon_, with inked ruffles and a towel

round his head, sits in the Temple and dashes off articles for the

_Covent Garden Journal_; then comes Criticism, hellish maid, and reminds

us that when the _Covent Garden Journal_ appeared, Fielding's wild oats,

if ever sown at all, had been sown long ago; that he was a busy

magistrate and householder in Bow Street; and that, if he had towels

round his head, it was probably less because he had exceeded in liquor

than because his Grace of Newcastle had given him a headache by wanting

elaborate plans and schemes prepared at an hour's notice. Lady Mary,

apparently with some envy, tells us that he could "feel rapture with his

cook-maid." "Which many has," as Mr Ridley remarks, from Xanthias

Phoceus downwards; but when we remember the historic fact that he

married this maid (not a "cook-maid" at all), and that though he always

speaks of her with warm affection and hearty respect, such "raptures" as

we have of his clearly refer to a very different woman, who was both a

lady and a beautiful one, we begin a little to shake our heads. Horace

Walpole at second-hand draws us a Fielding, pigging with low companions

in a house kept like a hedge tavern; Fielding himself, within a year or

two, shows us more than half-undesignedly in the _Voyage to Lisbon_ that

he was very careful about the appointments and decency of his table,

that he stood rather upon ceremony in regard to his own treatment of his

family, and the treatment of them and himself by others, and that he was

altogether a person orderly, correct, and even a little finikin. Nor is

there the slightest reasonable reason to regard this as a piece of

hypocrisy, a vice as alien from the Fielding of fancy as from the

Fielding of fact, and one the particular manifestation of which, in this

particular place, would have been equally unlikely and unintelligible.

It may be asked whether I propose to substitute for the traditional

Fielding a quite different person, of regular habits and methodical

economy. Certainly not. The traditional estimate of great men is rarely

wrong altogether, but it constantly has a habit of exaggerating and

dramatising their characteristics. For some things in Fielding's career

we have positive evidence of document, and evidence hardly less certain

of probability. Although I believe the best judges are now of opinion

that his impecuniosity has been overcharged, he certainly had

experiences which did not often fall to the lot of even a cadet of good

family in the eighteenth century. There can be no reasonable doubt that

he was a man who had a leaning towards pretty girls and bottles of good

wine; and I should suppose that if the girl were kind and fairly

winsome, he would not have insisted that she should possess Helen's

beauty, that if the bottle of good wine were not forthcoming, he would

have been very tolerant of a mug of good ale. He may very possibly have

drunk more than he should, and lost more than he could conveniently pay.

It may be put down as morally ascertained that towards all these

weaknesses of humanity, and others like unto them, he held an attitude

which was less that of the unassailable philosopher than that of the

sympathiser, indulgent and excusing. In regard more especially to what

are commonly called moral delinquencies, this attitude was so decided

as to shock some people even in those days, and many in these. Just when

the first sheets of this edition were passing through the press, a

violent attack was made in a newspaper correspondence on the morality of

_Tom Jones_ by certain notorious advocates of Purity, as some say, of

Pruriency and Prudery combined, according to less complimentary

estimates. Even midway between the two periods we find the admirable

Miss Ferrier, a sister of Fielding's own craft, who sometimes had

touches of nature and satire not far inferior to his own, expressing by

the mouth of one of her characters with whom she seems partly to agree,

the sentiment that his works are "vanishing like noxious exhalations."

Towards any misdoing by persons of the one sex towards persons of the

other, when it involved brutality or treachery, Fielding was pitiless;

but when treachery and brutality were not concerned, he was, to say the

least, facile. So, too, he probably knew by experience--he certainly

knew by native shrewdness and acquired observation--that to look too

much on the wine when it is red, or on the cards when they are

parti-coloured, is ruinous to health and fortune; but he thought not

over badly of any man who did these things. Still it is possible to

admit this in him, and to stop short of that idea of a careless and

reckless _viveur_ which has so often been put forward. In particular,

Lady Mary's view of his childlike enjoyment of the moment has been, I

think, much exaggerated by posterity, and was probably not a little

mistaken by the lady herself. There are two moods in which the motto is

_Carpe diem_, one a mood of simply childish hurry, the other one where

behind the enjoyment of the moment lurks, and in which the enjoyment of

the moment is not a little heightened by, that vast ironic consciousness

of the before and after, which I at least see everywhere in the

background of Fielding's work.

The man, however, of whom we know so little, concerns us much less than

the author of the works, of which it only rests with ourselves to know

everything. I have above classed Fielding as one of the four Atlantes of

English verse and prose, and I doubt not that both the phrase and the

application of it to him will meet with question and demur. I have only

to interject, as the critic so often has to interject, a request to the

court to take what I say in the sense in which I say it. I do not mean

that Shakespeare, Milton, Swift, and Fielding are in all or even in most

respects on a level. I do not mean that the three last are in all

respects of the greatest names in English literature. I only mean that,

in a certain quality, which for want of a better word I have chosen to

call Atlantean, they stand alone. Each of them, for the metaphor is

applicable either way, carries a whole world on his shoulders, or looks

down on a whole world from his natural altitude. The worlds are

different, but they are worlds; and though the attitude of the giants is

different also, it agrees in all of them on the points of competence and

strength. Take whomsoever else we may among our men of letters, and we

shall find this characteristic to be in comparison wanting. These four

carry their world, and are not carried by it; and if it, in the language

so dear to Fielding himself, were to crash and shatter, the inquiry,

"_Que vous reste-t-il?_" could be answered by each, "_Moi!_"

The appearance which Fielding makes is no doubt the most modest of the

four. He has not Shakespeare's absolute universality, and in fact not

merely the poet's tongue, but the poet's thought seems to have been

denied him. His sphere is not the ideal like Milton's. His irony,

splendid as it is, falls a little short of that diabolical magnificence

which exalts Swift to the point whence, in his own way, he surveys all

the kingdoms of the world, and the glory or vainglory of them. All

Fielding's critics have noted the manner, in a certain sense modest, in

another ostentatious, in which he seems to confine himself to the

presentation of things English. They might have added to the

presentation of things English--as they appear in London, and on the

Western Circuit, and on the Bath Road.

But this apparent parochialism has never deceived good judges. It did

not deceive Lady Mary, who had seen the men and manners of very many

climes; it did not deceive Gibbon, who was not especially prone to

overvalue things English, and who could look down from twenty centuries

on things ephemeral. It deceives, indeed, I am told, some excellent

persons at the present day, who think Fielding's microcosm a "toylike

world," and imagine that Russian Nihilists and French Naturalists have

gone beyond it. It will deceive no one who has lived for some competent

space of time a life during which he has tried to regard his

fellow-creatures and himself, as nearly as a mortal may, _sub specie


As this is in the main an introduction to a complete reprint of

Fielding's four great novels, the justification in detail of the

estimate just made or hinted of the novelist's genius will be best and

most fitly made by a brief successive discussion of the four as they are

here presented, with some subsequent remarks on the _Miscellanies_ here

selected. And, indeed, it is not fanciful to perceive in each book a

somewhat different presentment of the author's genius; though in no one

of the four is any one of his masterly qualities absent. There is

tenderness even in _Jonathan Wild_; there are touches in _Joseph

Andrews_ of that irony of the Preacher, the last echo of which is heard

amid the kindly resignation of the _Journey to Lisbon_, in the sentence,

"Whereas envy of all things most exposes us to danger from others, so

contempt of all things best secures us from them." But on the whole it

is safe to say that _Joseph Andrews_ best presents Fielding's

mischievous and playful wit; _Jonathan Wild_ his half-Lucianic

half-Swiftian irony; _Tom Jones_ his unerring knowledge of human nature,

and his constructive faculty; _Amelia_ his tenderness, his _mitis

sapientia_, his observation of the details of life. And first of

the first.

_The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and his friend Mr

Abraham Adams_ was, as has been said above, published in February 1742.

A facsimile of the agreement between author and publisher will be given

in the second volume of this series; and it is not uninteresting to

observe that the witness, William Young, is none other than the asserted

original of the immortal Mr Adams himself. He might, on Balzac's plea in

a tolerably well-known anecdote, have demanded half of the L183, 11s. Of

the other origins of the book we have a pretty full account, partly

documentary. That it is "writ in the manner of Cervantes," and is

intended as a kind of comic epic, is the author's own statement--no

doubt as near the actual truth as is consistent with comic-epic theory.

That there are resemblances to Scarron, to Le Sage, and to other

practitioners of the Picaresque novel is certain; and it was inevitable

that there should be. Of directer and more immediate models or

starting-points one is undoubted; the other, though less generally

admitted, not much less indubitable to my mind. The parody of

Richardson's _Pamela_, which was little more than a year earlier (Nov.

1740), is avowed, open, flagrant; nor do I think that the author was so

soon carried away by the greater and larger tide of his own invention as

some critics seem to hold. He is always more or less returning to the

ironic charge; and the multiplicity of the assailants of Joseph's virtue

only disguises the resemblance to the long-drawn dangers of Pamela from

a single ravisher. But Fielding was also well acquainted with Marivaux's

_Paysan Parvenu_, and the resemblances between that book and _Joseph

Andrews_ are much stronger than Fielding's admirers have always been

willing to admit. This recalcitrance has, I think, been mainly due to

the erroneous conception of Marivaux as, if not a mere fribble, yet a

Dresden-Shepherdess kind of writer, good at "preciousness" and

patch-and-powder manners, but nothing more.

There was, in fact, a very strong satiric and ironic touch in the author

of _Marianne_, and I do not think that I was too rash when some years

ago I ventured to speak of him as "playing Fielding to his own

Richardson" in the _Paysan Parvenu_.

Origins, however, and indebtedness and the like, are, when great work is

concerned, questions for the study and the lecture-room, for the

literary historian and the professional critic, rather than for the

reader, however intelligent and alert, who wishes to enjoy a

masterpiece, and is content simply to enjoy it. It does not really

matter how close to anything else something which possesses independent

goodness is; the very utmost technical originality, the most spotless

purity from the faintest taint of suggestion, will not suffice to confer

merit on what does not otherwise possess it. Whether, as I rather think,

Fielding pursued the plan he had formed _ab incepto_, or whether he

cavalierly neglected it, or whether the current of his own genius

carried him off his legs and landed him, half against his will, on the

shore of originality, are questions for the Schools, and, as I venture

to think, not for the higher forms in them. We have _Joseph Andrews_ as

it is; and we may be abundantly thankful for it. The contents of it, as

of all Fielding's work in this kind, include certain things for which

the moderns are scantly grateful. Of late years, and not of late years

only, there has grown up a singular and perhaps an ignorant impatience

of digressions, of episodes, of tales within a tale. The example of this

which has been most maltreated is the "Man of the Hill" episode in _Tom

Jones_; but the stories of the "Unfortunate Jilt" and of Mr Wilson in

our present subject, do not appear to me to be much less obnoxious to

the censure; and _Amelia_ contains more than one or two things of the

same kind. Me they do not greatly disturb; and I see many defences for

them besides the obvious, and at a pinch sufficient one, that

divagations of this kind existed in all Fielding's Spanish and French

models, that the public of the day expected them, and so forth. This

defence is enough, but it is easy to amplify and reintrench it. It is

not by any means the fact that the Picaresque novel of adventure is the

only or the chief form of fiction which prescribes or admits these

episodic excursions. All the classical epics have them; many eastern and

other stories present them; they are common, if not invariable, in the

abundant mediaeval literature of prose and verse romance; they are not

unknown by any means in the modern novel; and you will very rarely hear

a story told orally at the dinner-table or in the smoking-room without

something of the kind. There must, therefore, be something in them

corresponding to an inseparable accident of that most unchanging of all

things, human nature. And I do not think the special form with which we

are here concerned by any means the worst that they have taken. It has

the grand and prominent virtue of being at once and easily skippable.

There is about Cervantes and Le Sage, about Fielding and Smollett, none

of the treachery of the modern novelist, who induces the conscientious

reader to drag through pages, chapters, and sometimes volumes which have

nothing to do with the action, for fear he should miss something that

has to do with it. These great men have a fearless frankness, and almost

tell you in so many words when and what you may skip. Therefore, if the

"Curious Impertinent," and the "Baneful Marriage," and the "Man of the

Hill," and the "Lady of Quality," get in the way, when you desire to

"read for the story," you have nothing to do but turn the page till

_finis_ comes. The defence has already been made by an illustrious hand

for Fielding's inter-chapters and exordiums. It appears to me to be

almost more applicable to his insertions.

And so we need not trouble ourselves any more either about the

insertions or about the exordiums. They both please me; the second class

has pleased persons much better worth pleasing than I can pretend to be;

but the making or marring of the book lies elsewhere. I do not think

that it lies in the construction, though Fielding's following of the

ancients, both sincere and satiric, has imposed a false air of

regularity upon that. The Odyssey of Joseph, of Fanny, and of their

ghostly mentor and bodily guard is, in truth, a little haphazard, and

might have been longer or shorter without any discreet man approving it

the more or the less therefor. The real merits lie partly in the

abounding humour and satire of the artist's criticism, but even more in

the marvellous vivacity and fertility of his creation. For the very

first time in English prose fiction every character is alive, every

incident is capable of having happened. There are lively touches in the

Elizabethan romances; but they are buried in verbiage, swathed in stage

costume, choked and fettered by their authors' want of art. The quality

of Bunyan's knowledge of men was not much inferior to Shakespeare's, or

at least to Fielding's; but the range and the results of it were cramped

by his single theological purpose, and his unvaried allegoric or typical

form. Why Defoe did not discover the New World of Fiction, I at least

have never been able to put into any brief critical formula that

satisfies me, and I have never seen it put by any one else. He had not

only seen it afar off, he had made landings and descents on it; he had

carried off and exhibited in triumph natives such as Robinson Crusoe,

as Man Friday, as Moll Flanders, as William the Quaker; but he had

conquered, subdued, and settled no province therein. I like _Pamela_; I

like it better than some persons who admire Richardson on the whole more

than I do, seem to like it. But, as in all its author's work, the

handling seems to me academic--the working out on paper of an

ingeniously conceived problem rather than the observation or evolution

of actual or possible life. I should not greatly fear to push the

comparison even into foreign countries; but it is well to observe

limits. Let us be content with holding that in England at least, without

prejudice to anything further, Fielding was the first to display the

qualities of the perfect novelist as distinguished from the romancer.

What are those qualities, as shown in _Joseph Andrews_? The faculty of

arranging a probable and interesting course of action is one, of course,

and Fielding showed it here. But I do not think that it is at any time

the greatest one; and nobody denies that he made great advances in this

direction later. The faculty of lively dialogue is another; and that he

has not often been refused; but much the same may be said of it. The

interspersing of appropriate description is another; but here also we

shall not find him exactly a paragon. It is in character--the chief

_differentia_ of the novel as distinguished not merely from its elder

sister the romance, and its cousin the drama, but still more from every

other kind of literature--that Fielding stands even here pre-eminent. No

one that I can think of, except his greatest successor in the present

century, has the same unfailing gift of breathing life into every

character he creates or borrows; and even Thackeray draws, if I may use

the phrase, his characters more in the flat and less in the round than

Fielding. Whether in Blifil he once failed, we must discuss hereafter;

he has failed nowhere in _Joseph Andrews_. Some of his sketches may

require the caution that they are eighteenth-century men and women; some

the warning that they are obviously caricatured, or set in designed

profile, or merely sketched. But they are all alive. The finical

estimate of Gray (it is a horrid joy to think how perfectly capable

Fielding was of having joined in that practical joke of the young

gentlemen of Cambridge, which made Gray change his college), while

dismissing these light things with patronage, had to admit that "parson

Adams is perfectly well, so is Mrs Slipslop." "They _were_, Mr

Gray," said some one once, "they were more perfectly well, and in a

higher kind, than anything you ever did; though you were a pretty

workman too."

Yes, parson Adams is perfectly well, and so is Mrs Slipslop. But so are

they all. Even the hero and heroine, tied and bound as they are by the

necessity under which their maker lay of preserving Joseph's

Joseph-hood, and of making Fanny the example of a franker and less

interested virtue than her sister-in-law that might have been, are

surprisingly human where most writers would have made them sticks. And

the rest require no allowance. Lady Booby, few as are the strokes given

to her, is not much less alive than Lady Bellaston. Mr Trulliber,

monster and not at all delicate monster as he is, is also a man, and

when he lays it down that no one even in his own house shall drink when

he "caaled vurst," one can but pay his maker the tribute of that silent

shudder of admiration which hails the addition of one more everlasting

entity to the world of thought and fancy. And Mr Tow-wouse is real, and

Mrs Tow-wouse is more real still, and Betty is real; and the coachman,

and Miss Grave-airs, and all the wonderful crew from first to last. The

dresses they wear, the manners they exhibit, the laws they live under,

the very foods and drinks they live upon, are "past like the shadows on

glasses"--to the comfort and rejoicing of some, to the greater or less

sorrow of others. But _they_ are there--alive, full of blood, full of

breath as we are, and, in truth, I fear a little more so. For some

purposes a century is a gap harder to cross and more estranging than a

couple of millenniums. But in their case the gap is nothing; and it is

not too much to say that as they have stood the harder test, they will

stand the easier. There are very striking differences between Nausicaa

and Mrs Slipslop; there are differences not less striking between Mrs

Slipslop and Beatrice. But their likeness is a stranger and more

wonderful thing than any of their unlikenesses. It is that they are

all women, that they are all live citizenesses of the Land of Matters

Unforgot, the fashion whereof passeth not away, and the franchise

whereof, once acquired, assures immortality.


_The text of this issue in the main follows that of the standard or

first collected edition of 1762. The variants which the author

introduced in successive editions during his lifetime are not

inconsiderable; but for the purposes of the present issue it did not

seem necessary or indeed desirable to take account of them. In the case

of prose fiction, more than in any other department of literature, it is

desirable that work should be read in the form which represents the

completest intention and execution of the author. Nor have any notes

been attempted; for again such things, in the case of prose fiction, are

of very doubtful use, and supply pretty certain stumbling-blocks to

enjoyment; while in the particular case of Fielding, the annotation,

unless extremely capricious, would have to be disgustingly full. Far be

it at any rate from the present editor to bury these delightful

creations under an ugly crust of parallel passages and miscellaneous

erudition. The sheets, however, have been carefully read in order to

prevent the casual errors which are wont to creep into frequently

reprinted texts; and the editor hopes that if any such have escaped him,

the escape will not be attributed to wilful negligence. A few obvious

errors, in spelling of proper names, &c., which occur in the 1762

version have been corrected: but wherever the readings of that version

are possible they have been preferred. The embellishments of the edition

are partly fanciful and partly "documentary;" so that it is hoped both

classes of taste may have something to feed upon._


As it is possible the mere English reader may have a different idea of

romance from the author of these little[A] volumes, and may consequently

expect a kind of entertainment not to be found, nor which was even

intended, in the following pages, it may not be improper to premise a

few words concerning this kind of writing, which I do not remember to

have seen hitherto attempted in our language.

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

The EPIC, as well as the DRAMA, is divided into tragedy and comedy.

HOMER, who was the father of this species of poetry, gave us a pattern

of both these, though that of the latter kind is entirely lost; which

Aristotle tells us, bore the same relation to comedy which his Iliad

bears to tragedy. And perhaps, that we have no more instances of it

among the writers of antiquity, is owing to the loss of this great

pattern, which, had it survived, would have found its imitators equally

with the other poems of this great original.

And farther, as this poetry may be tragic or comic, I will not scruple

to say it may be likewise either in verse or prose: for though it wants

one particular, which the critic enumerates in the constituent parts of

an epic poem, namely metre; yet, when any kind of writing contains all

its other parts, such as fable, action, characters, sentiments, and

diction, and is deficient in metre only, it seems, I think, reasonable

to refer it to the epic; at least, as no critic hath thought proper to

range it under any other head, or to assign it a particular name

to itself.

Thus the Telemachus of the archbishop of Cambray appears to me of the

epic kind, as well as the Odyssey of Homer; indeed, it is much fairer

and more reasonable to give it a name common with that species from

which it differs only in a single instance, than to confound it with

those which it resembles in no other. Such are those voluminous works,

commonly called Romances, namely, Clelia, Cleopatra, Astraea, Cassandra,

the Grand Cyrus, and innumerable others, which contain, as I apprehend,

very little instruction or entertainment.

Now, a comic romance is a comic epic poem in prose; differing from

comedy, as the serious epic from tragedy: its action being more extended

and comprehensive; containing a much larger circle of incidents, and

introducing a greater variety of characters. It differs from the serious

romance in its fable and action, in this; that as in the one these are

grave and solemn, so in the other they are light and ridiculous: it

differs in its characters by introducing persons of inferior rank, and

consequently, of inferior manners, whereas the grave romance sets the

highest before us: lastly, in its sentiments and diction; by preserving

the ludicrous instead of the sublime. In the diction, I think,

burlesque itself may be sometimes admitted; of which many instances

will occur in this work, as in the description of the battles, and some

other places, not necessary to be pointed out to the classical reader,

for whose entertainment those parodies or burlesque imitations are

chiefly calculated.

But though we have sometimes admitted this in our diction, we have

carefully excluded it from our sentiments and characters; for there it

is never properly introduced, unless in writings of the burlesque kind,

which this is not intended to be. Indeed, no two species of writing can

differ more widely than the comic and the burlesque; for as the latter

is ever the exhibition of what is monstrous and unnatural, and where our

delight, if we examine it, arises from the surprizing absurdity, as in

appropriating the manners of the highest to the lowest, or _e converso_;

so in the former we should ever confine ourselves strictly to nature,

from the just imitation of which will flow all the pleasure we can this

way convey to a sensible reader. And perhaps there is one reason why a

comic writer should of all others be the least excused for deviating

from nature, since it may not be always so easy for a serious poet to

meet with the great and the admirable; but life everywhere furnishes an

accurate observer with the ridiculous.

I have hinted this little concerning burlesque, because I have often

heard that name given to performances which have been truly of the comic

kind, from the author's having sometimes admitted it in his diction

only; which, as it is the dress of poetry, doth, like the dress of men,

establish characters (the one of the whole poem, and the other of the

whole man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater excellences:

but surely, a certain drollery in stile, where characters and sentiments

are perfectly natural, no more constitutes the burlesque, than an empty

pomp and dignity of words, where everything else is mean and low, can

entitle any performance to the appellation of the true sublime.

And I apprehend my Lord Shaftesbury's opinion of mere burlesque agrees

with mine, when he asserts, There is no such thing to be found in the

writings of the ancients. But perhaps I have less abhorrence than he

professes for it; and that, not because I have had some little success

on the stage this way, but rather as it contributes more to exquisite

mirth and laughter than any other; and these are probably more wholesome

physic for the mind, and conduce better to purge away spleen,

melancholy, and ill affections, than is generally imagined. Nay, I will

appeal to common observation, whether the same companies are not found

more full of good-humour and benevolence, after they have been sweetened

for two or three hours with entertainments of this kind, than when

soured by a tragedy or a grave lecture.

But to illustrate all this by another science, in which, perhaps, we

shall see the distinction more clearly and plainly, let us examine the

works of a comic history painter, with those performances which the

Italians call Caricatura, where we shall find the true excellence of the

former to consist in the exactest copying of nature; insomuch that a

judicious eye instantly rejects anything _outre_, any liberty which the

painter hath taken with the features of that _alma mater_; whereas in

the Caricatura we allow all licence--its aim is to exhibit monsters,

not men; and all distortions and exaggerations whatever are within its

proper province.

Now, what Caricatura is in painting, Burlesque is in writing; and in the

same manner the comic writer and painter correlate to each other. And

here I shall observe, that, as in the former the painter seems to have

the advantage; so it is in the latter infinitely on the side of the

writer; for the Monstrous is much easier to paint than describe, and the

Ridiculous to describe than paint.

And though perhaps this latter species doth not in either science so

strongly affect and agitate the muscles as the other; yet it will be

owned, I believe, that a more rational and useful pleasure arises to us

from it. He who should call the ingenious Hogarth a burlesque painter,

would, in my opinion, do him very little honour; for sure it is much

easier, much less the subject of admiration, to paint a man with a nose,

or any other feature, of a preposterous size, or to expose him in some

absurd or monstrous attitude, than to express the affections of men on

canvas. It hath been thought a vast commendation of a painter to say his

figures seem to breathe; but surely it is a much greater and nobler

applause, that they appear to think.

But to return. The Ridiculous only, as I have before said, falls within

my province in the present work. Nor will some explanation of this word

be thought impertinent by the reader, if he considers how wonderfully it

hath been mistaken, even by writers who have professed it: for to what

but such a mistake can we attribute the many attempts to ridicule the

blackest villanies, and, what is yet worse, the most dreadful

calamities? What could exceed the absurdity of an author, who should

write the comedy of Nero, with the merry incident of ripping up his

mother's belly? or what would give a greater shock to humanity than an

attempt to expose the miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule? And

yet the reader will not want much learning to suggest such instances

to himself.

Besides, it may seem remarkable, that Aristotle, who is so fond and free

of definitions, hath not thought proper to define the Ridiculous.

Indeed, where he tells us it is proper to comedy, he hath remarked that

villany is not its object: but he hath not, as I remember, positively

asserted what is. Nor doth the Abbe Bellegarde, who hath written a

treatise on this subject, though he shows us many species of it, once

trace it to its fountain.

The only source of the true Ridiculous (as it appears to me) is

affectation. But though it arises from one spring only, when we consider

the infinite streams into which this one branches, we shall presently

cease to admire at the copious field it affords to an observer. Now,

affectation proceeds from one of these two causes, vanity or hypocrisy:

for as vanity puts us on affecting false characters, in order to

purchase applause; so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavour to avoid

censure, by concealing our vices under an appearance of their opposite

virtues. And though these two causes are often confounded (for there is

some difficulty in distinguishing them), yet, as they proceed from very

different motives, so they are as clearly distinct in their operations:

for indeed, the affectation which arises from vanity is nearer to truth

than the other, as it hath not that violent repugnancy of nature to

struggle with, which that of the hypocrite hath. It may be likewise

noted, that affectation doth not imply an absolute negation of those

qualities which are affected; and, therefore, though, when it proceeds

from hypocrisy, it be nearly allied to deceit; yet when it comes from

vanity only, it partakes of the nature of ostentation: for instance, the

affectation of liberality in a vain man differs visibly from the same

affectation in the avaricious; for though the vain man is not what he

would appear, or hath not the virtue he affects, to the degree he would

be thought to have it; yet it sits less awkwardly on him than on the

avaricious man, who is the very reverse of what he would seem to be.

From the discovery of this affectation arises the Ridiculous, which

always strikes the reader with surprize and pleasure; and that in a

higher and stronger degree when the affectation arises from hypocrisy,

than when from vanity; for to discover any one to be the exact reverse

of what he affects, is more surprizing, and consequently more

ridiculous, than to find him a little deficient in the quality he

desires the reputation of. I might observe that our Ben Jonson, who of

all men understood the Ridiculous the best, hath chiefly used the

hypocritical affectation.

Now, from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities of life, or

the imperfections of nature, may become the objects of ridicule. Surely

he hath a very ill-framed mind who can look on ugliness, infirmity, or

poverty, as ridiculous in themselves: nor do I believe any man living,

who meets a dirty fellow riding through the streets in a cart, is

struck with an idea of the Ridiculous from it; but if he should see the

same figure descend from his coach and six, or bolt from his chair with

his hat under his arm, he would then begin to laugh, and with justice.

In the same manner, were we to enter a poor house and behold a wretched

family shivering with cold and languishing with hunger, it would not

incline us to laughter (at least we must have very diabolical natures if

it would); but should we discover there a grate, instead of coals,

adorned with flowers, empty plate or china dishes on the sideboard, or

any other affectation of riches and finery, either on their persons or

in their furniture, we might then indeed be excused for ridiculing so

fantastical an appearance. Much less are natural imperfections the

object of derision; but when ugliness aims at the applause of beauty, or

lameness endeavours to display agility, it is then that these

unfortunate circumstances, which at first moved our compassion, tend

only to raise our mirth.

The poet carries this very far:--

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

Where if the metre would suffer the word Ridiculous to close the first

line, the thought would be rather more proper. Great vices are the

proper objects of our detestation, smaller faults, of our pity; but

affectation appears to me the only true source of the Ridiculous.

But perhaps it may be objected to me, that I have against my own rules

introduced vices, and of a very black kind, into this work. To which I

shall answer: first, that it is very difficult to pursue a series of

human actions, and keep clear from them. Secondly, that the vices to be

found here are rather the accidental consequences of some human frailty

or foible, than causes habitually existing in the mind. Thirdly, that

they are never set forth as the objects of ridicule, but detestation.

Fourthly, that they are never the principal figure at that time on the

scene: and, lastly, they never produce the intended evil.

Having thus distinguished Joseph Andrews from the productions of romance

writers on the one hand and burlesque writers on the other, and given

some few very short hints (for I intended no more) of this species of

writing, which I have affirmed to be hitherto unattempted in our

language; I shall leave to my good-natured reader to apply my piece to

my observations, and will detain him no longer than with a word

concerning the characters in this work.

And here I solemnly protest I have no intention to vilify or asperse any

one; for though everything is copied from the book of nature, and scarce

a character or action produced which I have not taken from my I own

observations and experience; yet I have used the utmost care to obscure

the persons by such different circumstances, degrees, and colours, that

it will be impossible to guess at them with any degree of certainty; and

if it ever happens otherwise, it is only where the failure characterized

is so minute, that it is a foible only which the party himself may laugh

at as well as any other.

As to the character of Adams, as it is the most glaring in the whole, so

I conceive it is not to be found in any book now extant. It is designed

a character of perfect simplicity; and as the goodness of his heart

will recommend him to the good-natured, so I hope it will excuse me to

the gentlemen of his cloth; for whom, while they are worthy of their

sacred order, no man can possibly have a greater respect. They will

therefore excuse me, notwithstanding the low adventures in which he is

engaged, that I have made him a clergyman; since no other office could

have given him so many opportunities of displaying his worthy






_Of writing lives in general, and particularly of Pamela; with a word by

the bye of Colley Cibber and others._

It is a trite but true observation, that examples work more forcibly on

the mind than precepts: and if this be just in what is odious and

blameable, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and praiseworthy.

Here emulation most effectually operates upon us, and inspires our

imitation in an irresistible manner. A good man therefore is a standing

lesson to all his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrow

circle than a good book.

But as it often happens that the best men are but little known, and

consequently cannot extend the usefulness of their examples a great way;

the writer may be called in aid to spread their history farther, and to

present the amiable pictures to those who have not the happiness of

knowing the originals; and so, by communicating such valuable patterns

to the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive service to mankind than

the person whose life originally afforded the pattern.

In this light I have always regarded those biographers who have recorded

the actions of great and worthy persons of both sexes. Not to mention

those antient writers which of late days are little read, being written

in obsolete, and as they are generally thought, unintelligible

languages, such as Plutarch, Nepos, and others which I heard of in my

youth; our own language affords many of excellent use and instruction,

finely calculated to sow the seeds of virtue in youth, and very easy to

be comprehended by persons of moderate capacity. Such as the history of

John the Great, who, by his brave and heroic actions against men of

large and athletic bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the

Giant-killer; that of an Earl of Warwick, whose Christian name was Guy;

the lives of Argalus and Parthenia; and above all, the history of those

seven worthy personages, the Champions of Christendom. In all these

delight is mixed with instruction, and the reader is almost as much

improved as entertained.

But I pass by these and many others to mention two books lately

published, which represent an admirable pattern of the amiable in either

sex. The former of these, which deals in male virtue, was written by the

great person himself, who lived the life he hath recorded, and is by

many thought to have lived such a life only in order to write it. The

other is communicated to us by an historian who borrows his lights, as

the common method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, I

believe, already conjectures, I mean the lives of Mr Colley Cibber and

of Mrs Pamela Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by insinuating that

he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in Church and State,

teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcate

an absolute submission to our superiors! Lastly, how completely doth he

arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a passion as the fear of shame!

how clearly doth he expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom,


What the female readers are taught by the memoirs of Mrs Andrews is so

well set forth in the excellent essays or letters prefixed to the second

and subsequent editions of that work, that it would be here a needless

repetition. The authentic history with which I now present the public is

an instance of the great good that book is likely to do, and of the

prevalence of example which I have just observed: since it will appear

that it was by keeping the excellent pattern of his sister's virtues

before his eyes, that Mr Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to preserve

his purity in the midst of such great temptations. I shall only add that

this character of male chastity, though doubtless as desirable and

becoming in one part of the human species as in the other, is almost the

only virtue which the great apologist hath not given himself for the

sake of giving the example to his readers.


_Of Mr Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, education, and great

endowments; with a word or two concerning ancestors._

Mr Joseph Andrews, the hero of our ensuing history, was esteemed to be

the only son of Gaffar and Gammer Andrews, and brother to the

illustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so famous. As to his

ancestors, we have searched with great diligence, but little success;

being unable to trace them farther than his great-grandfather, who, as

an elderly person in the parish remembers to have heard his father say,

was an excellent cudgel-player. Whether he had any ancestors before

this, we must leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding

nothing of sufficient certainty to rely on. However, we cannot omit

inserting an epitaph which an ingenious friend of ours hath


   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


To waive, therefore, a circumstance which, though mentioned in

conformity to the exact rules of biography, is not greatly material, I

proceed to things of more consequence. Indeed, it is sufficiently

certain that he had as many ancestors as the best man living, and,

perhaps, if we look five or six hundred years backwards, might be

related to some persons of very great figure at present, whose ancestors

within half the last century are buried in as great obscurity. But

suppose, for argument's sake, we should admit that he had no ancestors

at all, but had sprung up, according to the modern phrase, out of a

dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they themselves did from the earth,

would not this autokopros[A] have been justly entitled to all the

praise arising from his own virtues? Would it not be hard that a man who

hath no ancestors should therefore be rendered incapable of acquiring

honour; when we see so many who have no virtues enjoying the honour of

their forefathers? At ten years old (by which time his education was

advanced to writing and reading) he was bound an apprentice, according

to the statute, to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr Booby's by the

father's side. Sir Thomas having then an estate in his own hands, the

young Andrews was at first employed in what in the country they call

keeping birds. His office was to perform the part the ancients assigned

to the god Priapus, which deity the moderns call by the name of Jack o'

Lent; but his voice being so extremely musical, that it rather allured

the birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the fields

into the dog-kennel, where he was placed under the huntsman, and made

what the sportsmen term whipper-in. For this place likewise the

sweetness of his voice disqualified him; the dogs preferring the melody

of his chiding to all the alluring notes of the huntsman, who soon

became so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to provide

otherwise for him, and constantly laid every fault the dogs were at to

the account of the poor boy, who was now transplanted to the stable.

Here he soon gave proofs of strength and agility beyond his years, and

constantly rode the most spirited and vicious horses to water, with an

intrepidity which surprized every one. While he was in this station, he

rode several races for Sir Thomas, and this with such expertness and

success, that the neighbouring gentlemen frequently solicited the knight

to permit little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their matches. The

best gamesters, before they laid their money, always inquired which

horse little Joey was to ride; and the bets were rather proportioned by

the rider than by the horse himself; especially after he had scornfully

refused a considerable bribe to play booty on such an occasion. This

extremely raised his character, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that she

desired to have him (being now seventeen years of age) for her

own footboy.

[A] In English, sprung from a dunghill.

Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend on his lady, to go on

her errands, stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry

her prayer-book to church; at which place his voice gave him an

opportunity of distinguishing himself by singing psalms: he behaved

likewise in every other respect so well at Divine service, that it

recommended him to the notice of Mr Abraham Adams, the curate, who took

an opportunity one day, as he was drinking a cup of ale in Sir Thomas's

kitchen, to ask the young man several questions concerning religion;

with his answers to which he was wonderfully pleased.


_Of Mr Abraham Adams the curate, Mrs Slipslop the chambermaid, and


Mr Abraham Adams was an excellent scholar. He was a perfect master of

the Greek and Latin languages; to which he added a great share of

knowledge in the Oriental tongues; and could read and translate French,

Italian, and Spanish. He had applied many years to the most severe

study, and had treasured up a fund of learning rarely to be met with in

a university. He was, besides, a man of good sense, good parts, and good

nature; but was at the same time as entirely ignorant of the ways of

this world as an infant just entered into it could possibly be. As he

had never any intention to deceive, so he never suspected such a design

in others. He was generous, friendly, and brave to an excess; but

simplicity was his characteristick: he did, no more than Mr Colley

Cibber, apprehend any such passions as malice and envy to exist in

mankind; which was indeed less remarkable in a country parson than in a

gentleman who hath passed his life behind the scenes,--a place which

hath been seldom thought the school of innocence, and where a very

little observation would have convinced the great apologist that those

passions have a real existence in the human mind.

His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered him equal to

his office, so they made him an agreeable and valuable companion, and

had so much endeared and well recommended him to a bishop, that at the

age of fifty he was provided with a handsome income of twenty-three

pounds a year; which, however, he could not make any great figure with,

because he lived in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a

wife and six children.

It was this gentleman, who having, as I have said, observed the singular

devotion of young Andrews, had found means to question him concerning

several particulars; as, how many books there were in the New Testament?

which were they? how many chapters they contained? and such like: to all

which, Mr Adams privately said, he answered much better than Sir Thomas,

or two other neighbouring justices of the peace could probably

have done.

Mr Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what time, and by what

opportunity, the youth became acquainted with these matters: Joey told

him that he had very early learnt to read and write by the goodness of

his father, who, though he had not interest enough to get him into a

charity school, because a cousin of his father's landlord did not vote

on the right side for a churchwarden in a borough town, yet had been

himself at the expense of sixpence a week for his learning. He told him

likewise, that ever since he was in Sir Thomas's family he had employed

all his hours of leisure in reading good books; that he had read the

Bible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas a Kempis; and that as often as

he could, without being perceived, he had studied a great good book

which lay open in the hall window, where he had read, "as how the devil

carried away half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one of the

congregation; and as how a field of corn ran away down a hill with all

the trees upon it, and covered another man's meadow." This sufficiently

assured Mr Adams that the good book meant could be no other than Baker's


The curate, surprized to find such instances of industry and application

in a young man who had never met with the least encouragement, asked

him, If he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal education, and

the not having been born of parents who might have indulged his talents

and desire of knowledge? To which he answered, "He hoped he had profited

somewhat better from the books he had read than to lament his condition

in this world. That, for his part, he was perfectly content with the

state to which he was called; that he should endeavour to improve his

talent, which was all required of him; but not repine at his own lot,

nor envy those of his betters." "Well said, my lad," replied the curate;

"and I wish some who have read many more good books, nay, and some who

have written good books themselves, had profited so much by them."

Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady than through the

waiting-gentlewoman; for Sir Thomas was too apt to estimate men merely

by their dress or fortune; and my lady was a woman of gaiety, who had

been blest with a town education, and never spoke of any of her country

neighbours by any other appellation than that of the brutes. They both

regarded the curate as a kind of domestic only, belonging to the parson

of the parish, who was at this time at variance with the knight; for the

parson had for many years lived in a constant state of civil war, or,

which is perhaps as bad, of civil law, with Sir Thomas himself and the

tenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel was a modus, by

setting which aside an advantage of several shillings _per annum_ would

have accrued to the rector; but he had not yet been able to accomplish

his purpose, and had reaped hitherto nothing better from the suits than

the pleasure (which he used indeed frequently to say was no small one)

of reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the poor tenants,

though he had at the same time greatly impoverished himself.

Mrs Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, being herself the daughter of a

curate, preserved some respect for Adams: she professed great regard for

his learning, and would frequently dispute with him on points of

theology; but always insisted on a deference to be paid to her

understanding, as she had been frequently at London, and knew more of

the world than a country parson could pretend to.

She had in these disputes a particular advantage over Adams: for she was

a mighty affecter of hard words, which she used in such a manner that

the parson, who durst not offend her by calling her words in question,

was frequently at some loss to guess her meaning, and would have been

much less puzzled by an Arabian manuscript.

Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after a pretty long

discourse with her on the essence (or, as she pleased to term it, the

incence) of matter, to mention the case of young Andrews; desiring her

to recommend him to her lady as a youth very susceptible of learning,

and one whose instruction in Latin he would himself undertake; by which

means he might be qualified for a higher station than that of a footman;

and added, she knew it was in his master's power easily to provide for

him in a better manner. He therefore desired that the boy might be left

behind under his care.

"La! Mr Adams," said Mrs Slipslop, "do you think my lady will suffer any

preambles about any such matter? She is going to London very concisely,

and I am confidous would not leave Joey behind her on any account; for

he is one of the genteelest young fellows you may see in a summer's day;

and I am confidous she would as soon think of parting with a pair of her

grey mares, for she values herself as much on one as the other." Adams

would have interrupted, but she proceeded: "And why is Latin more

necessitous for a footman than a gentleman? It is very proper that you

clergymen must learn it, because you can't preach without it: but I have

heard gentlemen say in London, that it is fit for nobody else. I am

confidous my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it; and I shall

draw myself into no such delemy." At which words her lady's bell rung,

and Mr Adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a second

opportunity with her before their London journey, which happened a few

days afterwards. However, Andrews behaved very thankfully and gratefully

to him for his intended kindness, which he told him he never would

forget, and at the same time received from the good man many admonitions

concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and his perseverance in

innocence and industry.


_What happened after their journey to London._

No sooner was young Andrews arrived at London than he began to scrape an

acquaintance with his party-coloured brethren, who endeavoured to make

him despise his former course of life. His hair was cut after the newest

fashion, and became his chief care; he went abroad with it all the

morning in papers, and drest it out in the afternoon. They could not,

however, teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the

town abounded with. He applied most of his leisure hours to music, in

which he greatly improved himself; and became so perfect a connoisseur

in that art, that he led the opinion of all the other footmen at an

opera, and they never condemned or applauded a single song contrary to

his approbation or dislike. He was a little too forward in riots at the

play-houses and assemblies; and when he attended his lady at church

(which was but seldom) he behaved with less seeming devotion than

formerly: however, if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals

remained entirely uncorrupted, though he was at the same time smarter

and genteeler than any of the beaus in town, either in or out of livery.

His lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the handsomest and

genteelest footman in the kingdom, but that it was pity he wanted

spirit, began now to find that fault no longer; on the contrary, she was

frequently heard to cry out, "Ay, there is some life in this fellow."

She plainly saw the effects which the town air hath on the soberest

constitutions. She would now walk out with him into Hyde Park in a

morning, and when tired, which happened almost every minute, would lean

on his arm, and converse with him in great familiarity. Whenever she

stept out of her coach, she would take him by the hand, and sometimes,

for fear of stumbling, press it very hard; she admitted him to deliver

messages at her bedside in a morning, leered at him at table, and

indulged him in all those innocent freedoms which women of figure may

permit without the least sully of their virtue.

But though their virtue remains unsullied, yet now and then some small

arrows will glance on the shadow of it, their reputation; and so it fell

out to Lady Booby, who happened to be walking arm-in-arm with Joey one

morning in Hyde Park, when Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentally

by in their coach. "Bless me," says Lady Tittle, "can I believe my eyes?

Is that Lady Booby?"--"Surely," says Tattle. "But what makes you

surprized?"--"Why, is not that her footman?" replied Tittle. At which

Tattle laughed, and cried, "An old business, I assure you: is it

possible you should not have heard it? The whole town hath known it this

half-year." The consequence of this interview was a whisper through a

hundred visits, which were separately performed by the two ladies[A] the

same afternoon, and might have had a mischievous effect, had it not been

stopt by two fresh reputations which were published the day afterwards,

and engrossed the whole talk of the town.

[A] It may seem an absurdity that Tattle should visit, as she actually

   did, to spread a known scandal: but the reader may reconcile this by
   supposing, with me, that, notwithstanding what she says, this was
   her first acquaintance with it.

But, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous inclination of

defamers might entertain of Lady Booby's innocent freedoms, it is

certain they made no impression on young Andrews, who never offered to

encroach beyond the liberties which his lady allowed him,--a behaviour

which she imputed to the violent respect he preserved for her, and which

served only to heighten a something she began to conceive, and which

the next chapter will open a little farther.


_The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and mournful

behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of Joseph Andrews._

At this time an accident happened which put a stop to those agreeable

walks, which probably would have soon puffed up the cheeks of Fame, and

caused her to blow her brazen trumpet through the town; and this was no

other than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who, departing this life, left

his disconsolate lady confined to her house, as closely as if she

herself had been attacked by some violent disease. During the first six

days the poor lady admitted none but Mrs. Slipslop, and three female

friends, who made a party at cards: but on the seventh she ordered Joey,

whom, for a good reason, we shall hereafter call JOSEPH, to bring up her

tea-kettle. The lady being in bed, called Joseph to her, bade him sit

down, and, having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked him if he

had ever been in love. Joseph answered, with some confusion, it was time

enough for one so young as himself to think on such things. "As young as

you are," replied the lady, "I am convinced you are no stranger to that

passion. Come, Joey," says she, "tell me truly, who is the happy girl

whose eyes have made a conquest of you?" Joseph returned, that all the

women he had ever seen were equally indifferent to him. "Oh then," said

the lady, "you are a general lover. Indeed, you handsome fellows, like

handsome women, are very long and difficult in fixing; but yet you

shall never persuade me that your heart is so insusceptible of

affection; I rather impute what you say to your secrecy, a very

commendable quality, and what I am far from being angry with you for.

Nothing can be more unworthy in a young man, than to betray any

intimacies with the ladies." "Ladies! madam," said Joseph, "I am sure I

never had the impudence to think of any that deserve that name." "Don't

pretend to too much modesty," said she, "for that sometimes may be

impertinent: but pray answer me this question. Suppose a lady should

happen to like you; suppose she should prefer you to all your sex, and

admit you to the same familiarities as you might have hoped for if you

had been born her equal, are you certain that no vanity could tempt you

to discover her? Answer me honestly, Joseph; have you so much more sense

and so much more virtue than you handsome young fellows generally have,

who make no scruple of sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride,

without considering the great obligation we lay on you by our

condescension and confidence? Can you keep a secret, my Joey?" "Madam,"

says he, "I hope your ladyship can't tax me with ever betraying the

secrets of the family; and I hope, if you was to turn me away, I might

have that character of you." "I don't intend to turn you away, Joey,"

said she, and sighed; "I am afraid it is not in my power." She then

raised herself a little in her bed, and discovered one of the whitest

necks that ever was seen; at which Joseph blushed. "La!" says she, in an

affected surprize, "what am I doing? I have trusted myself with a man

alone, naked in bed; suppose you should have any wicked intentions upon

my honour, how should I defend myself?" Joseph protested that he never

had the least evil design against her. "No," says she, "perhaps you may

not call your designs wicked; and perhaps they are not so."--He swore

they were not. "You misunderstand me," says she; "I mean if they were

against my honour, they may not be wicked; but the world calls them so.

But then, say you, the world will never know anything of the matter; yet

would not that be trusting to your secrecy? Must not my reputation be

then in your power? Would you not then be my master?" Joseph begged her

ladyship to be comforted; for that he would never imagine the least

wicked thing against her, and that he had rather die a thousand deaths

than give her any reason to suspect him. "Yes," said she, "I must have

reason to suspect you. Are you not a man? and, without vanity, I may

pretend to some charms. But perhaps you may fear I should prosecute you;

indeed I hope you do; and yet Heaven knows I should never have the

confidence to appear before a court of justice; and you know, Joey, I am

of a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don't you think I should forgive

you?"--"Indeed, madam," says Joseph, "I will never do anything to

disoblige your ladyship."--"How," says she, "do you think it would not

disoblige me then? Do you think I would willingly suffer you?"--"I don't

understand you, madam," says Joseph.--"Don't you?" said she, "then you

are either a fool, or pretend to be so; I find I was mistaken in you. So

get you downstairs, and never let me see your face again; your pretended

innocence cannot impose on me."--"Madam," said Joseph, "I would not have

your ladyship think any evil of me. I have always endeavoured to be a

dutiful servant both to you and my master."--"O thou villain!" answered

my lady; "why didst thou mention the name of that dear man, unless to

torment me, to bring his precious memory to my mind?" (and then she

burst into a fit of tears.) "Get thee from my sight! I shall never

endure thee more." At which words she turned away from him; and Joseph

retreated from the room in a most disconsolate condition, and writ that

letter which the reader will find in the next chapter.


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


"DEAR SISTER,--Since I received your letter of your good lady's death,

we have had a misfortune of the same kind in our family. My worthy

master Sir Thomas died about four days ago; and, what is worse, my poor

lady is certainly gone distracted. None of the servants expected her to

take it so to heart, because they quarrelled almost every day of their

lives: but no more of that, because you know, Pamela, I never loved to

tell the secrets of my master's family; but to be sure you must have

known they never loved one another; and I have heard her ladyship wish

his honour dead above a thousand times; but nobody knows what it is to

lose a friend till they have lost him.

"Don't tell anybody what I write, because I should not care to have

folks say I discover what passes in our family; but if it had not been

so great a lady, I should have thought she had had a mind to me. Dear

Pamela, don't tell anybody; but she ordered me to sit down by her

bedside, when she was in naked bed; and she held my hand, and talked

exactly as a lady does to her sweetheart in a stage-play, which I have

seen in Covent Garden, while she wanted him to be no better than he

should be.

"If madam be mad, I shall not care for staying long in the family; so I

heartily wish you could get me a place, either at the squire's, or some

other neighbouring gentleman's, unless it be true that you are going to

be married to parson Williams, as folks talk, and then I should be very

willing to be his clerk; for which you know I am qualified, being able

to read and to set a psalm.

"I fancy I shall be discharged very soon; and the moment I am, unless I

hear from you, I shall return to my old master's country-seat, if it be

only to see parson Adams, who is the best man in the world. London is a

bad place, and there is so little good fellowship, that the next-door

neighbours don't know one another. Pray give my service to all friends

that inquire for me. So I rest

"Your loving brother,


As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this letter he walked

downstairs, where he met Mrs. Slipslop, with whom we shall take this

opportunity to bring the reader a little better acquainted. She was a

maiden gentlewoman of about forty-five years of age, who, having made a

small slip in her youth, had continued a good maid ever since. She was

not at this time remarkably handsome; being very short, and rather too

corpulent in body, and somewhat red, with the addition of pimples in the

face. Her nose was likewise rather too large, and her eyes too little;

nor did she resemble a cow so much in her breath as in two brown globes

which she carried before her; one of her legs was also a little shorter

than the other, which occasioned her to limp as she walked. This fair

creature had long cast the eyes of affection on Joseph, in which she had

not met with quite so good success as she probably wished, though,

besides the allurements of her native charms, she had given him tea,

sweetmeats, wine, and many other delicacies, of which, by keeping the

keys, she had the absolute command. Joseph, however, had not returned

the least gratitude to all these favours, not even so much as a kiss;

though I would not insinuate she was so easily to be satisfied; for

surely then he would have been highly blameable. The truth is, she was

arrived at an age when she thought she might indulge herself in any

liberties with a man, without the danger of bringing a third person into

the world to betray them. She imagined that by so long a self-denial she

had not only made amends for the small slip of her youth above hinted

at, but had likewise laid up a quantity of merit to excuse any future

failings. In a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorous

inclinations, and to pay off the debt of pleasure which she found she

owed herself, as fast as possible.

With these charms of person, and in this disposition of mind, she

encountered poor Joseph at the bottom of the stairs, and asked him if he

would drink a glass of something good this morning. Joseph, whose

spirits were not a little cast down, very readily and thankfully

accepted the offer; and together they went into a closet, where, having

delivered him a full glass of ratafia, and desired him to sit down, Mrs.

Slipslop thus began:--

"Sure nothing can be a more simple contract in a woman than to place her

affections on a boy. If I had ever thought it would have been my fate, I

should have wished to die a thousand deaths rather than live to see that

day. If we like a man, the lightest hint sophisticates. Whereas a boy

proposes upon us to break through all the regulations of modesty, before

we can make any oppression upon him." Joseph, who did not understand a

word she said, answered, "Yes, madam."--"Yes, madam!" replied Mrs.

Slipslop with some warmth, "Do you intend to result my passion? Is it

not enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the favours

I have done you; but you must treat me with ironing? Barbarous monster!

how have I deserved that my passion should be resulted and treated with

ironing?" "Madam," answered Joseph, "I don't understand your hard words;

but I am certain you have no occasion to call me ungrateful, for, so far

from intending you any wrong, I have always loved you as well as if you

had been my own mother." "How, sirrah!" says Mrs. Slipslop in a rage;

"your own mother? Do you assinuate that I am old enough to be your

mother? I don't know what a stripling may think, but I believe a man

would refer me to any green-sickness silly girl whatsomdever: but I

ought to despise you rather than be angry with you, for referring the

conversation of girls to that of a woman of sense."--"Madam," says

Joseph, "I am sure I have always valued the honour you did me by your

conversation, for I know you are a woman of learning."--"Yes, but,

Joseph," said she, a little softened by the compliment to her learning,

"if you had a value for me, you certainly would have found some method

of showing it me; for I am convicted you must see the value I have for

you. Yes, Joseph, my eyes, whether I would or no, must have declared a

passion I cannot conquer.--Oh! Joseph!"

As when a hungry tigress, who long has traversed the woods in fruitless

search, sees within the reach of her claws a lamb, she prepares to leap

on her prey; or as a voracious pike, of immense size, surveys through

the liquid element a roach or gudgeon, which cannot escape her jaws,

opens them wide to swallow the little fish; so did Mrs. Slipslop prepare

to lay her violent amorous hands on the poor Joseph, when luckily her

mistress's bell rung, and delivered the intended martyr from her

clutches. She was obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer the

execution of her purpose till some other time. We shall therefore return

to the Lady Booby, and give our reader some account of her behaviour,

after she was left by Joseph in a temper of mind not greatly different

from that of the inflamed Slipslop.


_Sayings of wise men. A dialogue between the lady and her maid; and a

panegyric, or rather satire, on the passion of love, in the

sublime style._

It is the observation of some antient sage, whose name I have forgot,

that passions operate differently on the human mind, as diseases on the

body, in proportion to the strength or weakness, soundness or

rottenness, of the one and the other.

We hope, therefore, a judicious reader will give himself some pains to

observe, what we have so greatly laboured to describe, the different

operations of this passion of love in the gentle and cultivated mind of

the Lady Booby, from those which it effected in the less polished and

coarser disposition of Mrs Slipslop.

Another philosopher, whose name also at present escapes my memory, hath

somewhere said, that resolutions taken in the absence of the beloved

object are very apt to vanish in its presence; on both which wise

sayings the following chapter may serve as a comment.

No sooner had Joseph left the room in the manner we have before related

than the lady, enraged at her disappointment, began to reflect with

severity on her conduct. Her love was now changed to disdain, which

pride assisted to torment her. She despised herself for the meanness of

her passion, and Joseph for its ill success. However, she had now got

the better of it in her own opinion, and determined immediately to

dismiss the object. After much tossing and turning in her bed, and many

soliloquies, which if we had no better matter for our reader we would

give him, she at last rung the bell as above mentioned, and was

presently attended by Mrs Slipslop, who was not much better pleased with

Joseph than the lady herself.

"Slipslop," said Lady Booby, "when did you see Joseph?" The poor woman

was so surprized at the unexpected sound of his name at so critical a

time, that she had the greatest difficulty to conceal the confusion she

was under from her mistress; whom she answered, nevertheless, with

pretty good confidence, though not entirely void of fear of suspicion,

that she had not seen him that morning. "I am afraid," said Lady Booby,

"he is a wild young fellow."--"That he is," said Slipslop, "and a

wicked one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, and fights

eternally; besides, he is horribly indicted to wenching."--"Ay!" said

the lady, "I never heard that of him."--"O madam!" answered the other,

"he is so lewd a rascal, that if your ladyship keeps him much longer,

you will not have one virgin in your house except myself. And yet I

can't conceive what the wenches see in him, to be so foolishly fond as

they are; in my eyes, he is as ugly a scarecrow as I ever

upheld."--"Nay," said the lady, "the boy is well enough."--"La! ma'am,"

cries Slipslop, "I think him the ragmaticallest fellow in the

family."--"Sure, Slipslop," says she, "you are mistaken: but which of

the women do you most suspect?"--"Madam," says Slipslop, "there is Betty

the chambermaid, I am almost convicted, is with child by him."--"Ay!"

says the lady, "then pray pay her her wages instantly. I will keep no

such sluts in my family. And as for Joseph, you may discard him

too."--"Would your ladyship have him paid off immediately?" cries

Slipslop, "for perhaps, when Betty is gone he may mend: and really the

boy is a good servant, and a strong healthy luscious boy enough."--

"This morning," answered the lady with some vehemence. "I wish, madam,"

cries Slipslop, "your ladyship would be so good as to try him a little

longer."--"I will not have my commands disputed," said the lady; "sure

you are not fond of him yourself?"--"I, madam!" cries Slipslop,

reddening, if not blushing, "I should be sorry to think your ladyship

had any reason to respect me of fondness for a fellow; and if it be your

pleasure, I shall fulfil it with as much reluctance as possible."--"As

little, I suppose you mean," said the lady; "and so about it instantly."

Mrs. Slipslop went out, and the lady had scarce taken two turns before

she fell to knocking and ringing with great violence. Slipslop, who did

not travel post haste, soon returned, and was countermanded as to

Joseph, but ordered to send Betty about her business without delay. She

went out a second time with much greater alacrity than before; when the

lady began immediately to accuse herself of want of resolution, and to

apprehend the return of her affection, with its pernicious consequences;

she therefore applied herself again to the bell, and re-summoned Mrs.

Slipslop into her presence; who again returned, and was told by her

mistress that she had considered better of the matter, and was

absolutely resolved to turn away Joseph; which she ordered her to do

immediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of her lady's temper, and

would not venture her place for any Adonis or Hercules in the universe,

left her a third time; which she had no sooner done, than the little god

Cupid, fearing he had not yet done the lady's business, took a fresh

arrow with the sharpest point out of his quiver, and shot it directly

into her heart; in other and plainer language, the lady's passion got

the better of her reason. She called back Slipslop once more, and told

her she had resolved to see the boy, and examine him herself; therefore

bid her send him up. This wavering in her mistress's temper probably put

something into the waiting-gentlewoman's head not necessary to mention

to the sagacious reader.

Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could not prevail with

herself. The next consideration therefore was, how she should behave to

Joseph when he came in. She resolved to preserve all the dignity of the

woman of fashion to her servant, and to indulge herself in this last

view of Joseph (for that she was most certainly resolved it should be)

at his own expense, by first insulting and then discarding him.

O Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play with thy votaries of both

sexes! How dost thou deceive them, and make them deceive themselves!

Their follies are thy delight! Their sighs make thee laugh, and their

pangs are thy merriment!

Not the great Rich, who turns men into monkeys, wheel-barrows, and

whatever else best humours his fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed

the human shape; nor the great Cibber, who confounds all number, gender,

and breaks through every rule of grammar at his will, hath so distorted

the English language as thou dost metamorphose and distort the

human senses.

Thou puttest out our eyes, stoppest up our ears, and takest away the

power of our nostrils; so that we can neither see the largest object,

hear the loudest noise, nor smell the most poignant perfume. Again, when

thou pleasest, thou canst make a molehill appear as a mountain, a

Jew's-harp sound like a trumpet, and a daisy smell like a violet. Thou

canst make cowardice brave, avarice generous, pride humble, and cruelty

tender-hearted. In short, thou turnest the heart of man inside out, as a

juggler doth a petticoat, and bringest whatsoever pleaseth thee out

from it. If there be any one who doubts all this, let him read the

next chapter.


_In which, after some very fine writing, the history goes on, and

relates the interview between the lady and Joseph; where the latter hath

set an example which we despair of seeing followed by his sex in this

vicious age._

Now the rake Hesperus had called for his breeches, and, having well

rubbed his drowsy eyes, prepared to dress himself for all night; by

whose example his brother rakes on earth likewise leave those beds in

which they had slept away the day. Now Thetis, the good housewife, began

to put on the pot, in order to regale the good man Phoebus after his

daily labours were over. In vulgar language, it was in the evening when

Joseph attended his lady's orders.

But as it becomes us to preserve the character of this lady, who is the

heroine of our tale; and as we have naturally a wonderful tenderness for

that beautiful part of the human species called the fair sex; before we

discover too much of her frailty to our reader, it will be proper to

give him a lively idea of the vast temptation, which overcame all the

efforts of a modest and virtuous mind; and then we humbly hope his good

nature will rather pity than condemn the imperfection of human virtue.


Nay, the ladies themselves will, we hope, be induced, by considering the

uncommon variety of charms which united in this young man's person, to

bridle their rampant passion for chastity, and be at least as mild as

their violent modesty and virtue will permit them, in censuring the

conduct of a woman who, perhaps, was in her own disposition as chaste

as those pure and sanctified virgins who, after a life innocently spent

in the gaieties of the town, begin about fifty to attend twice _per

diem_ at the polite churches and chapels, to return thanks for the grace

which preserved them formerly amongst beaus from temptations perhaps

less powerful than what now attacked the Lady Booby.

Mr Joseph Andrews was now in the one-and-twentieth year of his age. He

was of the highest degree of middle stature; his limbs were put together

with great elegance, and no less strength; his legs and thighs were

formed in the exactest proportion; his shoulders were broad and brawny,

but yet his arm hung so easily, that he had all the symptoms of strength

without the least clumsiness. His hair was of a nut-brown colour, and

was displayed in wanton ringlets down his back; his forehead was high,

his eyes dark, and as full of sweetness as of fire; his nose a little

inclined to the Roman; his teeth white and even; his lips full, red, and

soft; his beard was only rough on his chin and upper lip; but his

cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread with a thick down;

his countenance had a tenderness joined with a sensibility

inexpressible. Add to this the most perfect neatness in his dress, and

an air which, to those who have not seen many noblemen, would give an

idea of nobility.

Such was the person who now appeared before the lady. She viewed him

some time in silence, and twice or thrice before she spake changed her

mind as to the manner in which she should begin. At length she said to

him, "Joseph, I am sorry to hear such complaints against you: I am told

you behave so rudely to the maids, that they cannot do their business in

quiet; I mean those who are not wicked enough to hearken to your

solicitations. As to others, they may, perhaps, not call you rude; for

there are wicked sluts who make one ashamed of one's own sex, and are as

ready to admit any nauseous familiarity as fellows to offer it: nay,

there are such in my family, but they shall not stay in it; that

impudent trollop who is with child by you is discharged by this time."

As a person who is struck through the heart with a thunderbolt looks

extremely surprised, nay, and perhaps is so too--thus the poor Joseph

received the false accusation of his mistress; he blushed and looked

confounded, which she misinterpreted to be symptoms of his guilt, and

thus went on:--

"Come hither, Joseph: another mistress might discard you for these

offences; but I have a compassion for your youth, and if I could be

certain you would be no more guilty--Consider, child," laying her hand

carelessly upon his, "you are a handsome young fellow, and might do

better; you might make your fortune." "Madam," said Joseph, "I do assure

your ladyship I don't know whether any maid in the house is man or

woman." "Oh fie! Joseph," answered the lady, "don't commit another crime

in denying the truth. I could pardon the first; but I hate a lyar."

"Madam," cries Joseph, "I hope your ladyship will not be offended at my

asserting my innocence; for, by all that is sacred, I have never offered

more than kissing." "Kissing!" said the lady, with great discomposure of

countenance, and more redness in her cheeks than anger in her eyes; "do

you call that no crime? Kissing, Joseph, is as a prologue to a play. Can

I believe a young fellow of your age and complexion will be content with

kissing? No, Joseph, there is no woman who grants that but will grant

more; and I am deceived greatly in you if you would not put her closely

to it. What would you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to kiss me?"

Joseph replied he would sooner die than have any such thought. "And

yet, Joseph," returned she, "ladies have admitted their footmen to such

familiarities; and footmen, I confess to you, much less deserving them;

fellows without half your charms--for such might almost excuse the

crime. Tell me therefore, Joseph, if I should admit you to such freedom,

what would you think of me?--tell me freely." "Madam," said Joseph, "I

should think your ladyship condescended a great deal below yourself."

"Pugh!" said she; "that I am to answer to myself: but would not you

insist on more? Would you be contented with a kiss? Would not your

inclinations be all on fire rather by such a favour?" "Madam," said

Joseph, "if they were, I hope I should be able to controul them, without

suffering them to get the better of my virtue." You have heard, reader,

poets talk of the statue of Surprize; you have heard likewise, or else

you have heard very little, how Surprize made one of the sons of Croesus

speak, though he was dumb. You have seen the faces, in the

eighteen-penny gallery, when, through the trap-door, to soft or no

music, Mr. Bridgewater, Mr. William Mills, or some other of ghostly

appearance, hath ascended, with a face all pale with powder, and a shirt

all bloody with ribbons;--but from none of these, nor from Phidias or

Praxiteles, if they should return to life--no, not from the inimitable

pencil of my friend Hogarth, could you receive such an idea of surprize

as would have entered in at your eyes had they beheld the Lady Booby

when those last words issued out from the lips of Joseph. "Your virtue!"

said the lady, recovering after a silence of two minutes; "I shall never

survive it. Your virtue!--intolerable confidence! Have you the assurance

to pretend, that when a lady demeans herself to throw aside the rules of

decency, in order to honour you with the highest favour in her power,

your virtue should resist her inclination? that, when she had conquered

her own virtue, she should find an obstruction in yours?" "Madam," said

Joseph, "I can't see why her having no virtue should be a reason against

my having any; or why, because I am a man, or because I am poor, my

virtue must be subservient to her pleasures." "I am out of patience,"

cries the lady: "did ever mortal hear of a man's virtue? Did ever the

greatest or the gravest men pretend to any of this kind? Will

magistrates who punish lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make

any scruple of committing it? And can a boy, a stripling, have the

confidence to talk of his virtue?" "Madam," says Joseph, "that boy is

the brother of Pamela, and would be ashamed that the chastity of his

family, which is preserved in her, should be stained in him. If there

are such men as your ladyship mentions, I am sorry for it; and I wish

they had an opportunity of reading over those letters which my father

hath sent me of my sister Pamela's; nor do I doubt but such an example

would amend them." "You impudent villain!" cries the lady in a rage; "do

you insult me with the follies of my relation, who hath exposed himself

all over the country upon your sister's account? a little vixen, whom I

have always wondered my late Lady Booby ever kept in her house. Sirrah!

get out of my sight, and prepare to set out this night; for I will order

you your wages immediately, and you shall be stripped and turned away."

"Madam," says Joseph, "I am sorry I have offended your ladyship, I am

sure I never intended it." "Yes, sirrah," cries she, "you have had the

vanity to misconstrue the little innocent freedom I took, in order to

try whether what I had heard was true. O' my conscience, you have had

the assurance to imagine I was fond of you myself." Joseph answered, he

had only spoke out of tenderness for his virtue; at which words she

flew into a violent passion, and refusing to hear more, ordered him

instantly to leave the room.

He was no sooner gone than she burst forth into the following

exclamation:--"Whither doth this violent passion hurry us? What

meannesses do we submit to from its impulse! Wisely we resist its first

and least approaches; for it is then only we can assure ourselves the

victory. No woman could ever safely say, so far only will I go. Have I

not exposed myself to the refusal of my footman? I cannot bear the

reflection." Upon which she applied herself to the bell, and rung it

with infinite more violence than was necessary--the faithful Slipslop

attending near at hand: to say the truth, she had conceived a suspicion

at her last interview with her mistress, and had waited ever since in

the antechamber, having carefully applied her ears to the keyhole during

the whole time that the preceding conversation passed between Joseph

and the lady.


_What passed between the lady and Mrs Slipslop; in which we prophesy

there are some strokes which every one will not truly comprehend at the

first reading._

"Slipslop," said the lady, "I find too much reason to believe all thou

hast told me of this wicked Joseph; I have determined to part with him

instantly; so go you to the steward, and bid him pay his wages."

Slipslop, who had preserved hitherto a distance to her lady--rather out

of necessity than inclination--and who thought the knowledge of this

secret had thrown down all distinction between them, answered her

mistress very pertly--"She wished she knew her own mind; and that she

was certain she would call her back again before she was got half-way

downstairs." The lady replied, she had taken a resolution, and was

resolved to keep it. "I am sorry for it," cries Slipslop, "and, if I had

known you would have punished the poor lad so severely, you should never

have heard a particle of the matter. Here's a fuss indeed about

nothing!" "Nothing!" returned my lady; "do you think I will countenance

lewdness in my house?" "If you will turn away every footman," said

Slipslop, "that is a lover of the sport, you must soon open the coach

door yourself, or get a set of mophrodites to wait upon you; and I am

sure I hated the sight of them even singing in an opera." "Do as I bid

you," says my lady, "and don't shock my ears with your beastly

language." "Marry-come-up," cries Slipslop, "people's ears are sometimes

the nicest part about them."

The lady, who began to admire the new style in which her

waiting-gentlewoman delivered herself, and by the conclusion of her

speech suspected somewhat of the truth, called her back, and desired to

know what she meant by the extraordinary degree of freedom in which she

thought proper to indulge her tongue. "Freedom!" says Slipslop; "I don't

know what you call freedom, madam; servants have tongues as well as

their mistresses." "Yes, and saucy ones too," answered the lady; "but I

assure you I shall bear no such impertinence." "Impertinence! I don't

know that I am impertinent," says Slipslop. "Yes, indeed you are," cries

my lady, "and, unless you mend your manners, this house is no place for

you." "Manners!" cries Slipslop; "I never was thought to want manners

nor modesty neither; and for places, there are more places than one; and

I know what I know." "What do you know, mistress?" answered the lady. "I

am not obliged to tell that to everybody," says Slipslop, "any more than

I am obliged to keep it a secret." "I desire you would provide

yourself," answered the lady. "With all my heart," replied the

waiting-gentlewoman; and so departed in a passion, and slapped the door

after her.

The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting-gentlewoman knew more

than she would willingly have had her acquainted with; and this she

imputed to Joseph's having discovered to her what passed at the first

interview. This, therefore, blew up her rage against him, and confirmed

her in a resolution of parting with him.

But the dismissing Mrs Slipslop was a point not so easily to be resolved

upon. She had the utmost tenderness for her reputation, as she knew on

that depended many of the most valuable blessings of life; particularly

cards, making curtsies in public places, and, above all, the pleasure of

demolishing the reputations of others, in which innocent amusement she

had an extraordinary delight. She therefore determined to submit to any

insult from a servant, rather than run a risque of losing the title to

so many great privileges.

She therefore sent for her steward, Mr Peter Pounce, and ordered him to

pay Joseph his wages, to strip off his livery, and to turn him out of

the house that evening.

She then called Slipslop up, and, after refreshing her spirits with a

small cordial, which she kept in her corset, she began in the

following manner:--

"Slipslop, why will you, who know my passionate temper, attempt to

provoke me by your answers? I am convinced you are an honest servant,

and should be very unwilling to part with you. I believe, likewise, you

have found me an indulgent mistress on many occasions, and have as

little reason on your side to desire a change. I can't help being

surprized, therefore, that you will take the surest method to offend

me--I mean, repeating my words, which you know I have always detested."

The prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly weighed the whole matter, and

found, on mature deliberation, that a good place in possession was

better than one in expectation. As she found her mistress, therefore,

inclined to relent, she thought proper also to put on some small

condescension, which was as readily accepted; and so the affair was

reconciled, all offences forgiven, and a present of a gown and petticoat

made her, as an instance of her lady's future favour.

She offered once or twice to speak in favour of Joseph; but found her

lady's heart so obdurate, that she prudently dropt all such efforts. She

considered there were more footmen in the house, and some as stout

fellows, though not quite so handsome, as Joseph; besides, the reader

hath already seen her tender advances had not met with the encouragement

she might have reasonable expected. She thought she had thrown away a

great deal of sack and sweetmeats on an ungrateful rascal; and, being a

little inclined to the opinion of that female sect, who hold one lusty

young fellow to be nearly as good as another lusty young fellow, she at

last gave up Joseph and his cause, and, with a triumph over her passion

highly commendable, walked off with her present, and with great

tranquillity paid a visit to a stone-bottle, which is of sovereign use

to a philosophical temper.

She left not her mistress so easy. The poor lady could not reflect

without agony that her dear reputation was in the power of her servants.

all her comfort as to Joseph was, that she hoped he did not understand

her meaning; at least she could say for herself, she had not plainly

expressed anything to him; and as to Mrs Slipslop, she imagines she

could bribe her to secrecy.

But what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not so entirely

conquered her passion; the little god lay lurking in her heart, though

anger and distain so hood-winked her, that she could not see him. She

was a thousand times on the very brink of revoking the sentence she had

passed against the poor youth. Love became his advocate, and whispered

many things in his favour. Honour likewise endeavoured to vindicate his

crime, and Pity to mitigate his punishment. On the other side, Pride and

Revenge spoke as loudly against him. And thus the poor lady was tortured

with perplexity, opposite passions distracting and tearing her mind

different ways.

So have I seen, in the hall of Westminster, where Serjeant Bramble hath

been retained on the right side, and Serjeant Puzzle on the left, the

balance of opinion (so equal were their fees) alternately incline to

either scale. Now Bramble throws in an argument, and Puzzle's scale

strikes the beam; again Bramble shares the like fate, overpowered by the

weight of Puzzle. Here Bramble hits, there Puzzle strikes; here one has

you, there t'other has you; till at last all becomes one scene of

confusion in the tortured minds of the hearers; equal wagers are laid on

the success, and neither judge nor jury can possibly make anything of

the matter; all things are so enveloped by the careful serjeants in

doubt and obscurity.

Or, as it happens in the conscience, where honour and honesty pull one

way, and a bribe and necessity another.--If it was our present

business only to make similes, we could produce many more to this

purpose; but a simile (as well as a word) to the wise.--We shall

therefore see a little after our hero, for whom the reader is doubtless

in some pain.


_Joseph writes another letter: his transactions with Mr Peter Pounce,

&c., with his departure from Lady Booby._

The disconsolate Joseph would not have had an understanding sufficient

for the principal subject of such a book as this, if he had any longer

misunderstood the drift of his mistress; and indeed, that he did not

discern it sooner, the reader will be pleased to impute to an

unwillingness in him to discover what he must condemn in her as a fault.

Having therefore quitted her presence, he retired into his own garret,

and entered himself into an ejaculation on the numberless calamities

which attended beauty, and the misfortune it was to be handsomer than

one's neighbours.

He then sat down, and addressed himself to his sister Pamela in the

following words:--

"Dear Sister Pamela,--Hoping you are well, what news have I to tell you!

O Pamela! my mistress is fallen in love with me-that is, what great

folks call falling in love-she has a mind to ruin me; but I hope I shall

have more resolution and more grace than to part with my virtue to any

lady upon earth.

"Mr Adams hath often told me, that chastity is as great a virtue in a

man as in a woman. He says he never knew any more than his wife, and I

shall endeavour to follow his example. Indeed, it is owing entirely to

his excellent sermons and advice, together with your letters, that I

have been able to resist a temptation, which, he says, no man complies

with, but he repents in this world, or is damned for it in the next; and

why should I trust to repentance on my deathbed, since I may die in my

sleep? What fine things are good advice and good examples! But I am

glad she turned me out of the chamber as she did: for I had once almost

forgotten every word parson Adams had ever said to me.

"I don't doubt, dear sister, but you will have grace to preserve your

virtue against all trials; and I beg you earnestly to pray I may be

enabled to preserve mine; for truly it is very severely attacked by more

than one; but I hope I shall copy your example, and that of Joseph my

namesake, and maintain my virtue against all temptations."

Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned downstairs by

Mr Peter Pounce, to receive his wages; for, besides that out of eight

pounds a year he allowed his father and mother four, he had been

obliged, in order to furnish himself with musical instruments, to apply

to the generosity of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent occasions, used

to advance the servants their wages: not before they were due, but

before they were payable; that is, perhaps, half a year after they were

due; and this at the moderate premium of fifty per cent, or a little

more: by which charitable methods, together with lending money to other

people, and even to his own master and mistress, the honest man had,

from nothing, in a few years amassed a small sum of twenty thousand

pounds or thereabouts.

Joseph having received his little remainder of wages, and having stript

off his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and breeches of one of the

servants (for he was so beloved in the family, that they would all have

lent him anything): and, being told by Peter that he must not stay a

moment longer in the house than was necessary to pack up his linen,

which he easily did in a very narrow compass, he took a melancholy leave

of his fellow-servants, and set out at seven in the evening.

He had proceeded the length of two or three streets, before he

absolutely determined with himself whether he should leave the town that

night, or, procuring a lodging, wait till the morning. At last, the moon

shining very bright helped him to come to a resolution of beginning his

journey immediately, to which likewise he had some other inducements;

which the reader, without being a conjurer, cannot possibly guess, till

we have given him those hints which it may be now proper to open.


_Of several new matters not expected._

It is an observation sometimes made, that to indicate our idea of a

simple fellow, we say, he is easily to be seen through: nor do I believe

it a more improper denotation of a simple book. Instead of applying this

to any particular performance, we chuse rather to remark the contrary in

this history, where the scene opens itself by small degrees; and he is a

sagacious reader who can see two chapters before him.

For this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a matter which now seems

necessary to be explained; since it may be wondered at, first, that

Joseph made such extraordinary haste out of town, which hath been

already shewn; and secondly, which will be now shewn, that, instead of

proceeding to the habitation of his father and mother, or to his beloved

sister Pamela, he chose rather to set out full speed to the Lady Booby's

country-seat, which he had left on his journey to London.

Be it known, then, that in the same parish where this seat stood there

lived a young girl whom Joseph (though the best of sons and brothers)

longed more impatiently to see than his parents or his sister. She was a

poor girl, who had formerly been bred up in Sir John's family; whence, a

little before the journey to London, she had been discarded by Mrs

Slipslop, on account of her extraordinary beauty: for I never could find

any other reason.

This young creature (who now lived with a farmer in the parish) had been

always beloved by Joseph, and returned his affection. She was two years

only younger than our hero. They had been acquainted from their infancy,

and had conceived a very early liking for each other; which had grown to

such a degree of affection, that Mr Adams had with much ado prevented

them from marrying, and persuaded them to wait till a few years' service

and thrift had a little improved their experience, and enabled them to

live comfortably together.

They followed this good man's advice, as indeed his word was little less

than a law in his parish; for as he had shown his parishioners, by an

uniform behaviour of thirty-five years' duration, that he had their good

entirely at heart, so they consulted him on every occasion, and very

seldom acted contrary to his opinion.

Nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting between these

two lovers. A thousand sighs heaved the bosom of Joseph, a thousand

tears distilled from the lovely eyes of Fanny (for that was her name).

Though her modesty would only suffer her to admit his eager kisses, her

violent love made her more than passive in his embraces; and she often

pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure, which though perhaps it

would not have squeezed an insect to death, caused more emotion in the

heart of Joseph than the closest Cornish hug could have done.

The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a pair should, during a

twelvemonth's absence, never converse with one another: indeed, there

was but one reason which did or could have prevented them; and this was,

that poor Fanny could neither write nor read: nor could she be prevailed

upon to transmit the delicacies of her tender and chaste passion by the

hands of an amanuensis.

They contented themselves therefore with frequent inquiries after each

other's health, with a mutual confidence in each other's fidelity, and

the prospect of their future happiness.

Having explained these matters to our reader, and, as far as possible,

satisfied all his doubts, we return to honest Joseph, whom we left just

set out on his travels by the light of the moon.

Those who have read any romance or poetry, antient or modern, must have

been informed that love hath wings: by which they are not to understand,

as some young ladies by mistake have done, that a lover can fly; the

writers, by this ingenious allegory, intending to insinuate no more than

that lovers do not march like horse-guards; in short, that they put the

best leg foremost; which our lusty youth, who could walk with any man,

did so heartily on this occasion, that within four hours he reached a

famous house of hospitality well known to the western traveller. It

presents you a lion on the sign-post: and the master, who was christened

Timotheus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some have conceived that he

hath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he doth in

countenance greatly resemble that magnanimous beast, though his

disposition savours more of the sweetness of the lamb. He is a person

well received among all sorts of men, being qualified to render himself

agreeable to any; as he is well versed in history and politics, hath a

smattering in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, and plays

wonderfully well on the French horn.

A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take shelter in this inn, where

he remembered Sir Thomas had dined in his way to town. Joseph had no

sooner seated himself by the kitchen fire than Timotheus, observing his

livery, began to condole the loss of his late master; who was, he said,

his very particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he had cracked

many a merry bottle, ay many a dozen, in his time. He then remarked,

that all these things were over now, all passed, and just as if they had

never been; and concluded with an excellent observation on the certainty

of death, which his wife said was indeed very true. A fellow now arrived

at the same inn with two horses, one of which he was leading farther

down into the country to meet his master; these he put into the stable,

and came and took his place by Joseph's side, who immediately knew him

to be the servant of a neighbouring gentleman, who used to visit at

their house.

This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm; for he had orders to go

twenty miles farther that evening, and luckily on the same road which

Joseph himself intended to take. He, therefore, embraced this

opportunity of complimenting his friend with his master's horse

(notwithstanding he had received express commands to the contrary),

which was readily accepted; and so, after they had drank a loving pot,

and the storm was over, they set out together.


_Containing many surprizing adventures which Joseph Andrews met with on

the road, scarce credible to those who have never travelled in a


Nothing remarkable happened on the road till their arrival at the inn to

which the horses were ordered; whither they came about two in the

morning. The moon then shone very bright; and Joseph, making his friend

a present of a pint of wine, and thanking him for the favour of his

horse, notwithstanding all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his

journey on foot.

He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hope of shortly seeing

his beloved Fanny, when he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and

ordered to stand and deliver. He readily gave them all the money he had,

which was somewhat less than two pounds; and told them he hoped they

would be so generous as to return him a few shillings, to defray his

charges on his way home.

One of the ruffians answered with an oath, "Yes, we'll give you

something presently: but first strip and be d---n'd to you."--"Strip,"

cried the other, "or I'll blow your brains to the devil." Joseph,

remembering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches of a friend, and

that he should be ashamed of making any excuse for not returning them,

replied, he hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which were not

worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. "You are cold, are

you, you rascal?" said one of the robbers: "I'll warm you with a

vengeance;" and, damning his eyes, snapped a pistol at his head; which

he had no sooner done than the other levelled a blow at him with his

stick, which Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with his,

and returned the favour so successfully on his adversary, that he laid

him sprawling at his feet, and at the same instant received a blow from

behind, with the butt end of a pistol, from the other villain, which

felled him to the ground, and totally deprived him of his senses.

The thief who had been knocked down had now recovered himself; and both

together fell to belabouring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they

were convinced they had put an end to his miserable being: they then

stripped him entirely naked, threw him into a ditch, and departed with

their booty.

The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began to recover

his senses as a stage-coach came by. The postillion, hearing a man's

groans, stopt his horses, and told the coachman he was certain there was

a dead man lying in the ditch, for he heard him groan. "Go on, sirrah,"

says the coachman; "we are confounded late, and have no time to look

after dead men." A lady, who heard what the postillion said, and

likewise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coachman to stop and see

what was the matter. Upon which he bid the postillion alight, and look

into the ditch. He did so, and returned, "that there was a man sitting

upright, as naked as ever he was born."--"O J--sus!" cried the lady; "a

naked man! Dear coachman, drive on and leave him." Upon this the

gentlemen got out of the coach; and Joseph begged them to have mercy

upon him: for that he had been robbed and almost beaten to death.

"Robbed!" cries an old gentleman: "let us make all the haste imaginable,

or we shall be robbed too." A young man who belonged to the law

answered, "He wished they had passed by without taking any notice; but

that now they might be proved to have been last in his company; if he

should die they might be called to some account for his murder. He

therefore thought it advisable to save the poor creature's life, for

their own sakes, if possible; at least, if he died, to prevent the

jury's finding that they fled for it. He was therefore of opinion to

take the man into the coach, and carry him to the next inn." The lady

insisted, "That he should not come into the coach. That if they lifted

him in, she would herself alight: for she had rather stay in that place

to all eternity than ride with a naked man." The coachman objected,

"That he could not suffer him to be taken in unless somebody would pay a

shilling for his carriage the four miles." Which the two gentlemen

refused to do. But the lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief happening

to himself, if the wretch was left behind in that condition, saying no

man could be too cautious in these matters, and that he remembered very

extraordinary cases in the books, threatened the coachman, and bid him

deny taking him up at his peril; for that, if he died, he should be

indicted for his murder; and if he lived, and brought an action against

him, he would willingly take a brief in it. These words had a sensible

effect on the coachman, who was well acquainted with the person who

spoke them; and the old gentleman above mentioned, thinking the naked

man would afford him frequent opportunities of showing his wit to the

lady, offered to join with the company in giving a mug of beer for his

fare; till, partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the

promises of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with compassion

at the poor creature's condition, who stood bleeding and shivering with

the cold, he at length agreed; and Joseph was now advancing to the

coach, where, seeing the lady, who held the sticks of her fan before her

eyes, he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, unless he

was furnished with sufficient covering to prevent giving the least

offence to decency--so perfectly modest was this young man; such mighty

effects had the spotless example of the amiable Pamela, and the

excellent sermons of Mr Adams, wrought upon him.

Though there were several greatcoats about the coach, it was not easy to

get over this difficulty which Joseph had started. The two gentlemen

complained they were cold, and could not spare a rag; the man of wit

saying, with a laugh, that charity began at home; and the coachman, who

had two greatcoats spread under him, refused to lend either, lest they

should be made bloody: the lady's footman desired to be excused for the

same reason, which the lady herself, notwithstanding her abhorrence of a

naked man, approved: and it is more than probable poor Joseph, who

obstinately adhered to his modest resolution, must have perished, unless

the postillion (a lad who hath been since transported for robbing a

hen-roost) had voluntarily stript off a greatcoat, his only garment, at

the same time swearing a great oath (for which he was rebuked by the

passengers), "that he would rather ride in his shirt all his life than

suffer a fellow-creature to lie in so miserable a condition."

Joseph, having put on the greatcoat, was lifted into the coach, which

now proceeded on its journey. He declared himself almost dead with the

cold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the lady if she could

not accommodate him with a dram. She answered, with some resentment,

"She wondered at his asking her such a question; but assured him she

never tasted any such thing."

The lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances of the robbery, when the

coach stopt, and one of the ruffians, putting a pistol in, demanded

their money of the passengers, who readily gave it them; and the lady,

in her fright, delivered up a little silver bottle, of about a

half-pint size, which the rogue, clapping it to his mouth, and drinking

her health, declared, held some of the best Nantes he had ever tasted:

this the lady afterwards assured the company was the mistake of her

maid, for that she had ordered her to fill the bottle with


As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, it seems, a

case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the company, that if

it had been daylight, and he could have come at his pistols, he would

not have submitted to the robbery: he likewise set forth that he had

often met highwaymen when he travelled on horseback, but none ever durst

attack him; concluding that, if he had not been more afraid for the lady

than for himself, he should not have now parted with his money

so easily.

As wit is generally observed to love to reside in empty pockets, so the

gentleman whose ingenuity we have above remarked, as soon as he had

parted with his money, began to grow wonderfully facetious. He made

frequent allusions to Adam and Eve, and said many excellent things on

figs and fig-leaves; which perhaps gave more offence to Joseph than to

any other in the company.

The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests without departing

from his profession. He said, "If Joseph and the lady were alone, he

would be more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his affairs were

not fettered with any incumbrance; he'd warrant he soon suffered a

recovery by a writ of entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in

tail; that, for his own part, he would engage to make so firm a

settlement in a coach, that there should be no danger of an ejectment,"

with an inundation of the like gibberish, which he continued to vent

till the coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid only was up, in

readiness to attend the coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and a

dram. Joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed prepared

for him, which the maid readily promised to perform; and, being a

good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapt

a large fagot on the fire, and, furnishing Joseph with a greatcoat

belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm

himself whilst she made his bed. The coachman, in the meantime, took an

opportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors; after

which, he reminded his passengers how late they were, and, after they

had taken leave of Joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could.

The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use her interest to

borrow him a shirt; but imagining, as she afterwards said, by his being

so bloody, that he must be a dead man, she ran with all speed to hasten

the surgeon, who was more than half drest, apprehending that the coach

had been overturned, and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as the

wench had informed him at his window that it was a poor foot-passenger

who had been stripped of all he had, and almost murdered, he chid her

for disturbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very

quietly returned to bed and to sleep.

Aurora now began to shew her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten

millions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes a

thousand times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sung both the day

and the song; when the master of the inn, Mr Tow-wouse, arose, and

learning from his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of

his poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, "good-lack-a-day!"

and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his own shirts.

Mrs Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched out her arms in vain to

fold her departed husband, when the maid entered the room. "Who's there?

Betty?"--"Yes, madam."--"Where's your master?"--"He's without, madam;

he hath sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been

robbed and murdered."--"Touch one if you dare, you slut," said Mrs

Tow-wouse: "your master is a pretty sort of a man, to take in naked

vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have no such

doings. If you offer to touch anything, I'll throw the chamber-pot at

your head. Go, send your master to me."--"Yes, madam," answered Betty.

As soon as he came in, she thus began: "What the devil do you mean by

this, Mr Tow-wouse? Am I to buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby

rascals?"--"My dear," said Mr Tow-wouse, "this is a poor

wretch."--"Yes," says she, "I know it is a poor wretch; but what the

devil have we to do with poor wretches? The law makes us provide for too

many already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red coats

shortly."--"My dear," cries Tow-wouse, "this man hath been robbed of all

he hath."--"Well then," said she, "where's his money to pay his

reckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go to an alehouse? I shall send

him packing as soon as I am up, I assure you."--"My dear," said he,

"common charity won't suffer you to do that."--"Common charity, a f--t!"

says she, "common charity teaches us to provide for ourselves and our

families; and I and mine won't be ruined by your charity, I assure

you."--"Well," says he, "my dear, do as you will, when you are up; you

know I never contradict you."--"No," says she; "if the devil was to

contradict me, I would make the house too hot to hold him."

With such like discourses they consumed near half-an-hour, whilst Betty

provided a shirt from the hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and

put it on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last visited him, and

washed and drest his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr Tow-wouse

that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he scarce

saw any hopes of his recovery. "Here's a pretty kettle of fish," cries

Mrs Tow-wouse, "you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeral

at our own expense." Tow-wouse (who, notwithstanding his charity, would

have given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that any

other house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his guest)

answered, "My dear, I am not to blame; he was brought hither by the

stage-coach, and Betty had put him to bed before I was stirring."--"I'll

Betty her," says she.--At which, with half her garments on, the other

half under her arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate Betty,

whilst Tow-wouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor Joseph, and

inquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair.


_What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with the

curious discourse between him and Mr Barnabas, the parson of

the parish._

As soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history of the robbery,

together with a short account of himself, and his intended journey, he

asked the surgeon if he apprehended him to be in any danger: to which

the surgeon very honestly answered, "He feared he was; for that his

pulse was very exalted and feverish, and, if his fever should prove more

than symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him." Joseph, fetching

a deep sigh, cried, "Poor Fanny, I would I could have lived to see thee!

but God's will be done."

The surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly affairs to settle,

that he would do it as soon as possible; for, though he hoped he might

recover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he was in great

danger; and if the malign concoction of his humours should cause a

suscitation of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and incapable to

make his will. Joseph answered, "That it was impossible for any creature

in the universe to be in a poorer condition than himself; for since the

robbery he had not one thing of any kind whatever which he could call

his own." "I had," said he, "a poor little piece of gold, which they

took away, that would have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions;

but surely, Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I have thy dear

image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence."

Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but they were refused

him; and he was advised to use all his endeavours to compose himself.

They then left him; and Mr Tow-wouse sent to a clergyman to come and

administer his good offices to the soul of poor Joseph, since the

surgeon despaired of making any successful applications to his body.

Mr Barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) came as soon as sent

for; and, having first drank a dish of tea with the landlady, and

afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the room

where Joseph lay; but, finding him asleep, returned to take the other

sneaker; which when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the

chamber-door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talking to

himself in the following manner:--

"O most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sister! whose example could alone

enable me to withstand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to

preserve my virtue pure and chaste for the arms of my dear Fanny, if it

had pleased Heaven that I should ever have come unto them. What riches,

or honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the loss of innocence?

Doth not that alone afford us more consolation than all worldly

acquisitions? What but innocence and virtue could give any comfort to

such a miserable wretch as I am? Yet these can make me prefer this sick

and painful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in my lady's.

These can make me face death without fear; and though I love my Fanny

more than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me to resign myself to

the Divine will without repining. O thou delightful charming creature!

if Heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest state

would have been a paradise; I could have lived with thee in the lowest

cottage without envying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any

man breathing. But I must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest

angel! I must think of another world; and I heartily pray thou may'st

meet comfort in this."--Barnabas thought he had heard enough, so

downstairs he went, and told Tow-wouse he could do his guest no service;

for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a

rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room.

The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his patient in a higher

fever, as he said, than when he left him, though not delirious; for,

notwithstanding Mr Barnabas's opinion, he had not been once out of his

senses since his arrival at the inn.

Mr Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty prevailed on to

make another visit. As soon as he entered the room he told Joseph "He

was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for another world: in the

first place, therefore, he hoped he had repented of all his sins."

Joseph answered, "He hoped he had; but there was one thing which he knew

not whether he should call a sin; if it was, he feared he should die in

the commission of it; and that was, the regret of parting with a young

woman whom he loved as tenderly as he did his heart-strings." Barnabas

bad him be assured "that any repining at the Divine will was one of the

greatest sins he could commit; that he ought to forget all carnal

affections, and think of better things." Joseph said, "That neither in

this world nor the next he could forget his Fanny; and that the thought,

however grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not half so

tormenting as the fear of what she would suffer when she knew his

misfortune." Barnabas said, "That such fears argued a diffidence and

despondence very criminal; that he must divest himself of all human

passions, and fix his heart above." Joseph answered, "That was what he

desired to do, and should be obliged to him if he would enable him to

accomplish it." Barnabas replied, "That must be done by grace." Joseph

besought him to discover how he might attain it. Barnabas answered, "By

prayer and faith." He then questioned him concerning his forgiveness of

the thieves. Joseph answered, "He feared that was more than he could do;

for nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear they were

taken."--"That," cries Barnabas, "is for the sake of justice."--"Yes,"

said Joseph, "but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I should

attack them, and kill them too, if I could."--"Doubtless," answered

Barnabas, "it is lawful to kill a thief; but can you say you forgive

them as a Christian ought?" Joseph desired to know what that forgiveness

was. "That is," answered Barnabas, "to forgive them as--as--it is to

forgive them as--in short, it is to forgive them as a Christian."--

Joseph replied, "He forgave them as much as he could."--"Well, well,"

said Barnabas, "that will do." He then demanded of him, "If he

remembered any more sins unrepented of; and if he did, he desired him to

make haste and repent of them as fast as he could, that they might

repeat over a few prayers together." Joseph answered, "He could not

recollect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he had

committed he was sincerely sorry for." Barnabas said that was enough,

and then proceeded to prayer with all the expedition he was master of,

some company then waiting for him below in the parlour, where the

ingredients for punch were all in readiness; but no one would squeeze

the oranges till he came.

Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little tea; which Barnabas

reported to Mrs Tow-wouse, who answered, "She had just done drinking it,

and could not be slopping all day;" but ordered Betty to carry him up

some small beer.

Betty obeyed her mistress's commands; but Joseph, as soon as he had

tasted it, said, he feared it would increase his fever, and that he

longed very much for tea; to which the good-natured Betty answered, he

should have tea, if there was any in the land; she accordingly went and

bought him some herself, and attended him with it; where we will leave

her and Joseph together for some time, to entertain the reader with

other matters.


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

It was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave person rode into the

inn, and, committing his horse to the hostler, went directly into the

kitchen, and, having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the

fireside, where several other persons were likewise assembled.

The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was committed the

night before, and on the poor wretch who lay above in the dreadful

condition in which we have already seen him. Mrs Tow-wouse said, "She

wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell meant by bringing such guests to

her house, when there were so many alehouses on the road proper for

their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the parish should be

at the expense of the funeral." She added, "Nothing would serve the

fellow's turn but tea, she would assure him." Betty, who was just

returned from her charitable office, answered, she believed he was a

gentleman, for she never saw a finer skin in her life. "Pox on his

skin!" replied Mrs Tow-wouse, "I suppose that is all we are like to have

for the reckoning. I desire no such gentlemen should ever call at the

Dragon" (which it seems was the sign of the inn).

The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of emotion at the

distress of this poor creature, whom he observed to be fallen not into

the most compassionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs Tow-wouse had given no

utterance to the sweetness of her temper, nature had taken such pains in

her countenance, that Hogarth himself never gave more expression to

a picture.

Her person was short, thin, and crooked. Her forehead projected in the

middle, and thence descended in a declivity to the top of her nose,

which was sharp and red, and would have hung over her lips, had not

nature turned up the end of it. Her lips were two bits of skin, which,

whenever she spoke, she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked;

and at the upper end of that skin which composed her cheeks, stood two

bones, that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. Add to this a voice

most wonderfully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being both

loud and hoarse.

It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had conceived a greater

dislike for his landlady or compassion for her unhappy guest. He

inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, who was now come into the

kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery? He begged him to use

all possible means towards it, telling him, "it was I the duty of men of

all professions to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor

and necessitous." The surgeon answered, "He should take proper care; but

he defied all the surgeons in London to do him any good."--"Pray, sir,"

said the gentleman, "what are his wounds?"--"Why, do you know anything

of wounds?" says the surgeon (winking upon Mrs Tow-wouse).--"Sir, I have

a small smattering in surgery," answered the gentleman.--"A

smattering--ho, ho, ho!" said the surgeon; "I believe it is a

smattering indeed."

The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor, who was

what they call a dry fellow, expose the gentleman.

He began therefore with an air of triumph: "I I suppose, sir, you have

travelled?"--"No, really, sir," said the gentleman.--"Ho! then you have

practised in the hospitals perhaps?"--"No, sir."--"Hum! not that

neither? Whence, sir, then, if I may be so bold to inquire, have you got

your knowledge in surgery?"--"Sir," answered the gentleman, "I do not

pretend to much; but the little I know I have from books."--"Books!"

cries the doctor. "What, I suppose you have read Galen and

Hippocrates!"--"No, sir," said the gentleman.--"How! you understand

surgery," answers the doctor, "and not read Galen and Hippocrates?"--

"Sir," cries the other, "I believe there are many surgeons who have

never read these authors."--"I believe so too," says the doctor, "more

shame for them; but, thanks to my education, I have them by heart, and

very seldom go without them both in my pocket."--"They are pretty large

books," said the gentleman.--"Aye," said the doctor, "I believe I know

how large they are better than you." (At which he fell a winking, and

the whole company burst into a laugh.)

The doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman, "If he did not

understand physic as well as surgery." "Rather better," answered the

gentleman.--"Aye, like enough," cries the doctor, with a wink. "Why, I

know a little of physic too."--"I wish I knew half so much," said

Tow-wouse, "I'd never wear an apron again."--"Why, I believe, landlord,"

cries the doctor, "there are few men, though I say it, within twelve

miles of the place, that handle a fever better. _Veniente accurrite

morbo_: that is my method. I suppose, brother, you understand

_Latin_?"--"A little," says the gentleman.--"Aye, and Greek now, I'll

warrant you: _Ton dapomibominos poluflosboio Thalasses_. But I have

almost forgot these things: I could have repeated Homer by heart

once."--"Ifags! the gentleman has caught a traytor," says Mrs Tow-wouse;

at which they all fell a laughing.

The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, very

contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, which he did with

no small satisfaction; and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, told

him, "He was thoroughly convinced of his great learning and abilities;

and that he would be obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion

of his patient's case above-stairs."--"Sir," says the doctor, "his case

is that of a dead man--the contusion on his head has perforated the

internal membrane of the occiput, and divelicated that radical small

minute invisible nerve which coheres to the pericranium; and this was

attended with a fever at first symptomatic, then pneumatic; and he is at

length grown deliriuus, or delirious, as the vulgar express it."

He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty noise

interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighbourhood had taken one

of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty ran upstairs

with this news to Joseph, who begged they might search for a little

piece of broken gold, which had a ribband tied to it, and which he could

swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in the universe.

Notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his innocence, the mob were

very busy in searching him, and presently, among other things, pulled

out the piece of gold just mentioned; which Betty no sooner saw than she

laid violent hands on it, and conveyed it up to Joseph, who received it

with raptures of joy, and, hugging it in his bosom, declared he could

now die contented.

Within a few minutes afterwards came in some other fellows, with a

bundle which they had found in a ditch, and which was indeed the cloaths

which had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other things they had

taken from him.

The gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he declared he knew the

livery; and, if it had been taken from the poor creature above-stairs,

desired he might see him; for that he was very well acquainted with the

family to whom that livery belonged.

He was accordingly conducted up by Betty; but what, reader, was the

surprize on both sides, when he saw Joseph was the person in bed, and

when Joseph discovered the face of his good friend Mr Abraham Adams!

It would be impertinent to insert a discourse which chiefly turned on

the relation of matters already well known to the reader; for, as soon

as the curate had satisfied Joseph concerning the perfect health of his

Fanny, he was on his side very inquisitive into all the particulars

which had produced this unfortunate accident.

To return therefore to the kitchen, where a great variety of company

were now assembled from all the rooms of the house, as well as the

neighbourhood: so much delight do men take in contemplating the

countenance of a thief.

Mr Tow-wouse began to rub his hands with pleasure at seeing so large an

assembly; who would, he hoped, shortly adjourn into several apartments,

in order to discourse over the robbery, and drink a health to all honest

men. But Mrs Tow-wouse, whose misfortune it was commonly to see things a

little perversely, began to rail at those who brought the fellow into

her house; telling her husband, "They were very likely to thrive who

kept a house of entertainment for beggars and thieves."

The mob had now finished their search, and could find nothing about the

captive likely to prove any evidence; for as to the cloaths, though the

mob were very well satisfied with that proof, yet, as the surgeon

observed, they could not convict him, because they were not found in his

custody; to which Barnabas agreed, and added that these were _bona

waviata_, and belonged to the lord of the manor.

"How," says the surgeon, "do you say these goods belong to the lord of

the manor?"--"I do," cried Barnabas.--"Then I deny it," says the

surgeon: "what can the lord of the manor have to do in the case? Will

any one attempt to persuade me that what a man finds is not his

own?"--"I have heard," says an old fellow in the corner, "justice

Wise-one say, that, if every man had his right, whatever is found

belongs to the king of London."--"That may be true," says Barnabas, "in

some sense; for the law makes a difference between things stolen and

things found; for a thing may be stolen that never is found, and a thing

may be found that never was stolen: Now, goods that are both stolen and

found are _waviata_; and they belong to the lord of the manor."--"So the

lord of the manor is the receiver of stolen goods," says the doctor; at

which there was an universal laugh, being first begun by himself.

While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had almost (as there

was no evidence against him) brought over Barnabas, the surgeon,

Tow-wouse, and several others to his side, Betty informed them that they

had overlooked a little piece of gold, which she had carried up to the

man in bed, and which he offered to swear to amongst a million, aye,

amongst ten thousand. This immediately turned the scale against the

prisoner, and every one now concluded him guilty. It was resolved,

therefore, to keep him secured that night, and early in the morning to

carry him before a justice.


_Showing how Mrs Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how officious Mr

Barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the thief: with a

dissertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other persons

not mentioned in this history._

Betty told her mistress she believed the man in bed was a greater man

than they took him for; for, besides the extreme whiteness of his skin,

and the softness of his hands, she observed a very great familiarity

between the gentleman and him; and added, she was certain they were

intimate acquaintance, if not relations.

This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs Tow-wouse's countenance. She

said, "God forbid she should not discharge the duty of a Christian,

since the poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had a natural

antipathy to vagabonds; but could pity the misfortunes of a Christian

as soon as another." Tow-wouse said, "If the traveller be a gentleman,

though he hath no money about him now, we shall most likely be paid

hereafter; so you may begin to score whenever you will." Mrs Tow-wouse

answered, "Hold your simple tongue, and don't instruct me in my

business. I am sure I am sorry for the gentleman's misfortune with all

my heart; and I hope the villain who hath used him so barbarously will

be hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. God forbid he should want

anything in my house."

Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to satisfy themselves

concerning the piece of gold; Joseph was with difficulty prevailed upon

to show it them, but would by no entreaties be brought to deliver it out

of his own possession. He however attested this to be the same which had

been taken from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the finding it on

the thief.

The only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this gold before

the justice; for as to carrying Joseph himself, it seemed impossible;

nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him, for he had

fastened it with a ribband to his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing

but irresistible force should ever separate them; in which resolution,

Mr Adams, clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle of an ox,

declared he would support him.

A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence not very necessary

to be related here; after which the surgeon dressed Mr Joseph's head,

still persisting in the imminent danger in which his patient lay, but

concluding, with a very important look, "That he began to have some

hopes; that he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and

would see him in the morning." After which Barnabas and he departed, and

left Mr Joseph and Mr Adams together.

Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey which he was

making to London, namely, to publish three volumes of sermons; being

encouraged, as he said, by an advertisement lately set forth by the

society of booksellers, who proposed to purchase any copies offered to

them, at a price to be settled by two persons; but though he imagined he

should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his

family were in urgent need of, he protested he would not leave Joseph in

his present condition: finally, he told him, "He had nine shillings and

threepence halfpenny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as

he pleased."

This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into Joseph's eyes; he

declared, "He had now a second reason to desire life, that he might show

his gratitude to such a friend." Adams bade him "be cheerful; for that

he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his ignorance, desired to make a

merit of curing him, though the wounds in his head, he perceived, were

by no means dangerous; that he was convinced he had no fever, and

doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day or two."

These words infused a spirit into Joseph; he said, "He found himself

very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to think any of his bones

injured, or that he had received any harm in his inside, unless that he

felt something very odd in his stomach; but he knew not whether that

might not arise from not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four

hours." Being then asked if he had any inclination to eat, he answered

in the affirmative. Then parson Adams desired him to "name what he had

the greatest fancy for; whether a poached egg, or chicken-broth." He

answered, "He could eat both very well; but that he seemed to have the

greatest appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage."

Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he had not the

least fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for that evening. He

accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl, I never could with any

tolerable certainty discover which; after this he was, by Mrs

Tow-wouse's order, conveyed into a better bed and equipped with one of

her husband's shirts.

In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to the inn, in order

to see the thief conveyed before the justice. They had consumed the

whole night in debating what measures they should take to produce the

piece of gold in evidence against him; for they were both extremely

zealous in the business, though neither of them were in the least

interested in the prosecution; neither of them had ever received any

private injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever been

suspected of loving the publick well enough to give them a sermon or a

dose of physic for nothing.

To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible to account for this

zeal, we must inform him that, as this parish was so unfortunate as to

have no lawyer in it, there had been a constant contention between the

two doctors, spiritual and physical, concerning their abilities in a

science, in which, as neither of them professed it, they had equal

pretensions to dispute each other's opinions. These disputes were

carried on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided the

parish; Mr Tow-wouse and one half of the neighbours inclining to the

surgeon, and Mrs Tow-wouse with the other half to the parson. The

surgeon drew his knowledge from those inestimable fountains, called The

Attorney's Pocket Companion, and Mr Jacob's Law-Tables; Barnabas trusted

entirely to Wood's Institutes. It happened on this occasion, as was

pretty frequently the case, that these two learned men differed about

the sufficiency of evidence; the doctor being of opinion that the maid's

oath would convict the prisoner without producing the gold; the parson,

_é contra, totis viribus._ To display their parts, therefore, before

the justice and the parish, was the sole motive which we can discover to

this zeal which both of them pretended to have for public justice.

O Vanity! how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy operations

discerned! How wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under different

disguises! Sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity, sometimes of

generosity: nay, thou hast the assurance even to put on those glorious

ornaments which belong only to heroic virtue. Thou odious, deformed

monster! whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, and poets

ridiculed; is there a wretch so abandoned as to own thee for an

acquaintance in public?--yet, how few will refuse to enjoy thee in

private? nay, thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. The

greatest villainies are daily practised to please thee; nor is the

meanest thief below, or the greatest hero above, thy notice. Thy

embraces are often the sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery

and the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, that

we attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to withhold

from them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves. Avarice itself

is often no more than thy handmaid, and even Lust thy pimp. The bully

Fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and Joy and Grief hide their

heads in thy presence.

I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee I court thee, and that

thy love hath inspired me to write this sarcastical panegyric on thee;

but thou art deceived: I value thee not of a farthing; nor will it give

me any pain if thou shouldst prevail on the reader to censure this

digression as arrant nonsense; for know, to thy confusion, that I have

introduced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a short

chapter, and so I return to my history.


_The escape of the thief. Mr Adams's disappointment. The arrival of

two very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of parson Adams

to parson Barnabas._

Barnabas and the surgeon, being returned, as we have said, to the inn,

in order to convey the thief before the justice, were greatly concerned

to find a small accident had happened, which somewhat disconcerted them;

and this was no other than the thief's escape, who had modestly

withdrawn himself by night, declining all ostentation, and not chusing,

in imitation of some great men, to distinguish himself at the expense of

being pointed at.

When the company had retired the evening before, the thief was detained

in a room where the constable, and one of the young fellows who took

him, were planted as his guard. About the second watch a general

complaint of drought was made, both by the prisoner and his keepers.

Among whom it was at last agreed that the constable should remain on

duty, and the young fellow call up the tapster; in which disposition the

latter apprehended not the least danger, as the constable was well

armed, and could besides easily summon him back to his assistance, if

the prisoner made the least attempt to gain his liberty.

The young fellow had not long left the room before it came into the

constable's head that the prisoner might leap on him by surprize, and,

thereby preventing him of the use of his weapons, especially the long

staff in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the success of a

struggle to a equal chance. He wisely, therefore, to prevent this

inconvenience, slipt out of the room himself, and locked the door,

waiting without with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the

unhappy prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt to break out.

But human life, as hath been discovered by some great man or other (for

I would by no means be understood to affect the honour of making any

such discovery), very much resembles a game at chess; for as in the

latter, while a gamester is too attentive to secure himself very

strongly on one side the board, he is apt to leave an unguarded opening

on the other; so doth it often happen in life, and so did it happen on

this occasion; for whilst the cautious constable with such wonderful

sagacity had possessed himself of the door, he most unhappily forgot

the window.

The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner perceived this

opening than he began to move that way; and, finding the passage easy,

he took with him the young fellow's hat, and without any ceremony

stepped into the street and made the best of his way.

The young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong beer, was a

little surprized to find the constable at the door; but much more so

when, the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made his

escape, and which way. He threw down the beer, and, without uttering

anything to the constable except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt

out of the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, being very

unwilling to lose the reward which he had assured himself of.

The constable hath not been discharged of suspicion on this account; it

hath been said that, not being concerned in the taking the thief, he

could not have been entitled to any part of the reward if he had been

convicted; that the thief had several guineas in his pocket; that it was

very unlikely he should have been guilty of such an oversight; that his

pretence for leaving the room was absurd; that it was his constant

maxim, that a wise man never refused money on any conditions; that at

every election he always had sold his vote to both parties, &c.

But, notwithstanding these and many other such allegations, I am

sufficiently convinced of his innocence; having been positively assured

of it by those who received their informations from his own mouth;

which, in the opinion of some moderns, is the best and indeed

only evidence.

All the family were now up, and with many others assembled in the

kitchen, where Mr Tow-wouse was in some tribulation; the surgeon having

declared that by law he was liable to be indicted for the thief's

escape, as it was out of his house; he was a little comforted, however,

by Mr Barnabas's opinion, that as the escape was by night the indictment

would not lie.

Mrs Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following words: "Sure never was

such a fool as my husband; would any other person living have left a man

in the custody of such a drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom Suckbribe?"

(which was the constable's name); "and if he could be indicted without

any harm to his wife and children, I should be glad of it." (Then the

bell rung in Joseph's room.) "Why Betty, John, Chamberlain, where the

devil are you all? Have you no ears, or no conscience, not to tend the

sick better? See what the gentleman wants. Why don't you go yourself, Mr

Tow-wouse? But any one may die for you; you have no more feeling than a

deal board. If a man lived a fortnight in your house without spending a

penny, you would never put him in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea

or coffee for breakfast." "Yes, my dear," cried Tow-wouse. She then

asked the doctor and Mr Barnabas what morning's draught they chose, who

answered, they had a pot of cyder-and at the fire; which we will leave

them merry over, and return to Joseph.

He had rose pretty early this morning; but, though his wounds were far

from threatening any danger, he was so sore with the bruises, that it

was impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey yet; Mr Adams,

therefore, whose stock was visibly decreased with the expenses of supper

and breakfast, and which could not survive that day's scoring, began to

consider how it was possible to recruit it. At last he cried, "He had

luckily hit on a sure method, and, though it would oblige him to return

himself home together with Joseph, it mattered not much." He then sent

for Tow-wouse, and, taking him into another room, told him "he wanted to

borrow three guineas, for which he would put ample security into his

hands." Tow-wouse, who expected a watch, or ring, or something of double

the value, answered, "He believed he could furnish him." Upon which

Adams, pointing to his saddle-bag, told him, with a face and voice full

of solemnity, "that there were in that bag no less than nine volumes of

manuscript sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds as a shilling was

worth twelve pence, and that he would deposit one of the volumes in his

hands by way of pledge; not doubting but that he would have the honesty

to return it on his repayment of the money; for otherwise he must be a

very great loser, seeing that every volume would at least bring him ten

pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in the

country; for," said he, "as to my own part, having never yet dealt in

printing, I do not pretend to ascertain the exact value of such things."

Tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, said (and not without

some truth), "That he was no judge of the price of such kind of goods;

and as for money, he really was very short." Adams answered, "Certainly

he would not scruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedly

worth at least ten." The landlord replied, "He did not believe he had

so much money in the house, and besides, he was to make up a sum. He was

very confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily sorry

it did not suit him." He then cried out, "Coming sir!" though nobody

called; and ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his neck.

Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this disappointment, nor knew he

what further stratagem to try. He immediately applied to his pipe, his

constant friend and comfort in his afflictions; and, leaning over the

rails, he devoted himself to meditation, assisted by the inspiring fumes

of tobacco.

He had on a nightcap drawn over his wig, and a short greatcoat, which

half covered his cassock--a dress which, added to something comical

enough in his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract the eyes

of those who were not over given to observation.

Whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this posture, a coach and six, with a

numerous attendance, drove into the inn. There alighted from the coach a

young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which another young fellow

leapt from the box, and shook the former by the hand; and both, together

with the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr Tow-wouse into an

apartment; whither as they passed, they entertained themselves with the

following short facetious dialogue:--

"You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack!" says he from the coach;

"you had almost overturned us just now."--"Pox take you!" says the

coachman; "if I had only broke your neck, it would have been saving

somebody else the trouble; but I should have been sorry for the

pointers."--"Why, you son of a b--," answered the other, "if nobody

could shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no use."--"D--n

me," says the coachman, "I will shoot with you five guineas a

shot."--"You be hanged," says the other; "for five guineas you shall

shoot at my a--."--"Done," says the coachman; "I'll pepper you better

than ever you was peppered by Jenny Bouncer."--"Pepper your

grandmother," says the other: "Here's Tow-wouse will let you shoot at

him for a shilling a time."--"I know his honour better," cries

Tow-wouse; "I never saw a surer shot at a partridge. Every man misses

now and then; but if I could shoot half as well as his honour, I would

desire no better livelihood than I could get by my gun."--"Pox on you,"

said the coachman, "you demolish more game now than your head's worth.

There's a bitch, Tow-wouse: by G-- she never blinked[A] a bird in her

life."--"I have a puppy, not a year old, shall hunt with her for a

hundred," cries the other gentleman.--"Done," says the coachman: "but

you will be pox'd before you make the bett."--"If you have a mind for a

bett," cries the coachman, "I will match my spotted dog with your white

bitch for a hundred, play or pay."--"Done," says the other: "and I'll

run Baldface against Slouch with you for another."--"No," cries he from

the box; "but I'll venture Miss Jenny against Baldface, or Hannibal

either."--"Go to the devil," cries he from the coach: "I will make every

bett your own way, to be sure! I will match Hannibal with Slouch for a

thousand, if you dare; and I say done first."

[Footnote A:

To blink is a term used to signify the dog's passing by a bird without

pointing at it.]

They were now arrived; and the reader will be very contented to leave

them, and repair to the kitchen; where Barnabas, the surgeon, and an

exciseman were smoaking their pipes over some cyder-and; and where the

servants, who attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen alight,

were now arrived.

"Tom," cries one of the footmen, "there's parson Adams smoaking his

pipe in the gallery."--"Yes," says Tom; "I pulled off my hat to him, and

the parson spoke to me."

"Is the gentleman a clergyman, then?" says Barnabas (for his cassock had

been tied up when he arrived). "Yes, sir," answered the footman; "and

one there be but few like."--"Aye," said Barnabas; "if I had known it

sooner, I should have desired his company; I would always shew a proper

respect for the cloth: but what say you, doctor, shall we adjourn into a

room, and invite him to take part of a bowl of punch?"

This proposal was immediately agreed to and executed; and parson Adams

accepting the invitation, much civility passed between the two

clergymen, who both declared the great honour they had for the cloth.

They had not been long together before they entered into a discourse on

small tithes, which continued a full hour, without the doctor or

exciseman's having one opportunity to offer a word.

It was then proposed to begin a general conversation, and the exciseman

opened on foreign affairs; but a word unluckily dropping from one of

them introduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered by the inferior

clergy; which, after a long duration, concluded with bringing the nine

volumes of sermons on the carpet.

Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams; he said, "The age was so

wicked, that nobody read sermons: would you think it, Mr Adams?" said

he, "I once intended to print a volume of sermons myself, and they had

the approbation of two or three bishops; but what do you think a

bookseller offered me?"--"Twelve guineas perhaps," cried Adams.--"Not

twelve pence, I assure you," answered Barnabas: "nay, the dog refused me

a Concordance in exchange. At last I offered to give him the printing

them, for the sake of dedicating them to that very gentleman who just

now drove his own coach into the inn; and, I assure you, he had the

impudence to refuse my offer; by which means I lost a good living, that

was afterwards given away in exchange for a pointer, to one who--but I

will not say anything against the cloth. So you may guess, Mr Adams,

what you are to expect; for if sermons would have gone down, I

believe--I will not be vain; but to be concise with you, three bishops

said they were the best that ever were writ: but indeed there are a

pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold yet."--"Pray,

sir," said Adams, "to what do you think the numbers may amount?"--"Sir,"

answered Barnabas, "a bookseller told me, he believed five thousand

volumes at least."--"Five thousand?" quoth the surgeon: "What can they

be writ upon? I remember when I was a boy, I used to read one

Tillotson's sermons; and, I am sure, if a man practised half so much as

is in one of those sermons, he will go to heaven."--"Doctor," cried

Barnabas, "you have a prophane way of talking, for which I must reprove

you. A man can never have his duty too frequently inculcated into him.

And as for Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and said things

very well; but comparisons are odious; another man may write as well as

he--I believe there are some of my sermons,"--and then he applied the

candle to his pipe.--"And I believe there are some of my discourses,"

cries Adams, "which the bishops would not think totally unworthy of

being printed; and I have been informed I might procure a very large sum

(indeed an immense one) on them."--"I doubt that," answered Barnabas:

"however, if you desire to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell

them by advertising the manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately

deceased, all warranted originals, and never printed. And now I think of

it, I should be obliged to you, if there be ever a funeral one among

them, to lend it me; for I am this very day to preach a funeral sermon,

for which I have not penned a line, though I am to have a double

price."--Adams answered, "He had but one, which he feared would not

serve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magistrate, who had

exerted himself very singularly in the preservation of the morality of

his neighbours, insomuch that he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman in

the parish where he lived."--"No," replied Barnabas, "that will not do

quite so well; for the deceased, upon whose virtues I am to harangue,

was a little too much addicted to liquor, and publickly kept a

mistress.--I believe I must take a common sermon, and trust to my memory

to introduce something handsome on him."--"To your invention rather,"

said the doctor: "your memory will be apter to put you out; for no man

living remembers anything good of him."

With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied the bowl of punch,

paid their reckoning, and separated: Adams and the doctor went up to

Joseph, parson Barnabas departed to celebrate the aforesaid deceased,

and the exciseman descended into the cellar to gauge the vessels.

Joseph was now ready to sit down to a loin of mutton, and waited for Mr

Adams, when he and the doctor came in. The doctor, having felt his pulse

and examined his wounds, declared him much better, which he imputed to

that sanative soporiferous draught, a medicine "whose virtues," he said,

"were never to be sufficiently extolled." And great indeed they must be,

if Joseph was so much indebted to them as the doctor imagined; since

nothing more than those effluvia which escaped the cork could have

contributed to his recovery; for the medicine had stood untouched in the

window ever since its arrival.

Joseph passed that day, and the three following, with his friend Adams,

in which nothing so remarkable happened as the swift progress of his

recovery. As he had an excellent habit of body, his wounds were now

almost healed; and his bruises gave him so little uneasiness, that he

pressed Mr Adams to let him depart; told him he should never be able to

return sufficient thanks for all his favours, but begged that he might

no longer delay his journey to London.

Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he conceived it, of Mr

Tow-wouse, and the envy (for such he thought it) of Mr Barnabas, had

great expectations from his sermons: seeing therefore Joseph in so good

a way, he told him he would agree to his setting out the next morning in

the stage-coach, that he believed he should have sufficient, after the

reckoning paid, to procure him one day's conveyance in it, and

afterwards he would be able to get on on foot, or might be favoured with

a lift in some neighbour's waggon, especially as there was then to be a

fair in the town whither the coach would carry him, to which numbers

from his parish resorted--And as to himself, he agreed to proceed to the

great city.

They were now walking in the inn-yard, when a fat, fair, short person

rode in, and, alighting from his horse, went directly up to Barnabas,

who was smoaking his pipe on a bench. The parson and the stranger shook

one another very lovingly by the hand, and went into a room together.

The evening now coming on, Joseph retired to his chamber, whither the

good Adams accompanied him, and took this opportunity to expatiate on

the great mercies God had lately shown him, of which he ought not only

to have the deepest inward sense, but likewise to express outward

thankfulness for them. They therefore fell both on their knees, and

spent a considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving.

They had just finished when Betty came in and told Mr Adams Mr Barnabas

desired to speak to him on some business of consequence below-stairs.

Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, he would let him

know it, that he might go to bed, which Adams promised, and in that case

they wished one another good-night.


_A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the bookseller, 'which

was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn, which

produced a dialogue between Mrs Tow-wouse and her maid of no

gentle kind._

As soon as Adams came into the room, Mr Barnabas introduced him to the

stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely to

deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting the

stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; that

nothing could be more convenient, for he had no other business to the

great city, and was heartily desirous of returning with the young man,

who was just recovered of his misfortune. He then snapt his fingers (as

was usual with him), and took two or three turns about the room in an

extasy. And to induce the bookseller to be as expeditious as possible,

as likewise to offer him a better price for his commodity, he assured

them their meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for that he had the

most pressing occasion for money at that time, his own being almost

spent, and having a friend then in the same inn, who was just recovered

from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a most

indigent condition. "So that nothing," says he, "could be so opportune

for the supplying both our necessities as my making an immediate bargain

with you."

As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in these words:

"Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engaging in what my friend Mr

Barnabas recommends; but sermons are mere drugs. The trade is so vastly

stocked with them, that really, unless they come out with the name of

Whitefield or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or

those sort of people, I don't care to touch; unless now it was a sermon

preached on the 30th of January; or we could say in the title-page,

published at the earnest request of the congregation, or the

inhabitants; but, truly, for a dry piece of sermons, I had rather be

excused; especially as my hands are so full at present. However, sir, as

Mr Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take the

manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very

short time."

"Oh!" said Adams, "if you desire it, I will read two or three discourses

as a specimen." This Barnabas, who loved sermons no better than a grocer

doth figs, immediately objected to, and advised Adams to let the

bookseller have his sermons: telling him, "If he gave him a direction,

he might be certain of a speedy answer;" adding, he need not scruple

trusting them in his possession. "No," said the bookseller, "if it was a

play that had been acted twenty nights together, I believe it would

be safe."

Adams did not at all relish the last expression; he said "he was sorry

to hear sermons compared to plays." "Not by me, I assure you," cried the

bookseller, "though I don't know whether the licensing act may not

shortly bring them to the same footing; but I have formerly known a

hundred guineas given for a play."--"More shame for those who gave it,"

cried Barnabas.--"Why so?" said the bookseller, "for they got hundreds

by it."--"But is there no difference between conveying good or ill

instructions to mankind?" said Adams: "Would not an honest mind rather

lose money by the one, than gain it by the other?"--"If you can find any

such, I will not be their hindrance," answered the bookseller; "but I

think those persons who get by preaching sermons are the properest to

lose by printing them: for my part, the copy that sells best will be

always the best copy in my opinion; I am no enemy to sermons, but

because they don't sell: for I would as soon print one of Whitefield's

as any farce whatever."

"Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged," says Barnabas.

"Sir," said he, turning to Adams, "this fellow's writings (I know not

whether you have seen them) are levelled at the clergy. He would reduce

us to the example of the primitive ages, forsooth! and would insinuate

to the people that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and praying.

He pretends to understand the Scripture literally; and would make

mankind believe that the poverty and low estate which was recommended to

the Church in its infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to

her under persecution, was to be preserved in her flourishing and

established state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all the

freethinkers, are not calculated to do half the mischief, as those

professed by this fellow and his followers."

"Sir," answered Adams, "if Mr Whitefield had carried his doctrine no

farther than you mention, I should have remained, as I once was, his

well-wisher. I am, myself, as great an enemy to the luxury and splendour

of the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing

estate of the Church, understand the palaces, equipages, dress,

furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. Surely

those things, which savour so strongly of this world, become not the

servants of one who professed His kingdom was not of it. But when he

began to call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the

detestable doctrine of faith against good works, I was his friend no

longer; for surely that doctrine was coined in hell; and one would think

none but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach it. For

can anything be more derogatory to the honour of God than for men to

imagine that the all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good and

virtuous, 'Notwithstanding the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that

constant rule of virtue and goodness in which you walked upon earth,

still, as thou didst not believe everything in the true orthodox manner,

thy want of faith shall condemn thee?' Or, on the other side, can any

doctrine have a more pernicious influence on society, than a persuasion

that it will be a good plea for the villain at the last day--'Lord, it

is true I never obeyed one of thy commandments, yet punish me not, for I

believe them all?'"--"I suppose, sir," said the bookseller, "your

sermons are of a different kind."--"Aye, sir," said Adams; "the

contrary, I thank Heaven, is inculcated in almost every page, or I

should belye my own opinion, which hath always been, that a virtuous and

good Turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the sight of their Creator

than a vicious and wicked Christian, though his faith was as perfectly

orthodox as St Paul's himself."--"I wish you success," says the

bookseller, "but must beg to be excused, as my hands are so very full at

present; and, indeed, I am afraid you will find a backwardness in the

trade to engage in a book which the clergy would be certain to cry

down."--"God forbid," says Adams, "any books should be propagated which

the clergy would cry down; but if you mean by the clergy, some few

designing factious men, who have it at heart to establish some favourite

schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence of

religion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any book they

please; witness that excellent book called, 'A Plain Account of the

Nature and End of the Sacrament;' a book written (if I may venture on

the expression) with the pen of an angel, and calculated to restore the

true use of Christianity, and of that sacred institution; for what could

tend more to the noble purposes of religion than frequent chearful

meetings among the members of a society, in which they should, in the

presence of one another, and in the service of the Supreme Being, make

promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each other? Now,

this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully." At

these words Barnabas fell a-ringing with all the violence imaginable;

upon which a servant attending, he bid him "bring a bill immediately;

for that he was in company, for aught he knew, with the devil himself;

and he expected to hear the Alcoran, the Leviathan, or Woolston

commended, if he staid a few minutes longer." Adams desired, "as he was

so much moved at his mentioning a book which he did without apprehending

any possibility of offence, that he would be so kind to propose any

objections he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer."--"I

propose objections!" said Barnabas, "I never read a syllable in any such

wicked book; I never saw it in my life, I assure you."--Adams was going

to answer, when a most hideous uproar began in the inn. Mrs Tow-wouse,

Mr Tow-wouse, and Betty, all lifting up their voices together; but Mrs

Tow-wouse's voice, like a bass viol in a concert, was clearly and

distinctly distinguished among the rest, and was heard to articulate the

following sounds:--"O you damn'd villain! is this the return to all the

care I have taken of your family? This the reward of my virtue? Is this

the manner in which you behave to one who brought you a fortune, and

preferred you to so many matches, all your betters? To abuse my bed, my

own bed, with my own servant! but I'll maul the slut, I'll tear her

nasty eyes out! Was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such a mean

trollop? If she had been a gentlewoman, like myself, it had been some

excuse; but a beggarly, saucy, dirty servant-maid. Get you out of my

house, you whore." To which she added another name, which we do not care

to stain our paper with. It was a monosyllable beginning with a b--, and

indeed was the same as if she had pronounced the words, she-dog. Which

term we shall, to avoid offence, use on this occasion, though indeed

both the mistress and maid uttered the above-mentioned b--, a word

extremely disgustful to females of the lower sort. Betty had borne all

hitherto with patience, and had uttered only lamentations; but the last

appellation stung her to the quick. "I am a woman as well as yourself,"

she roared out, "and no she-dog; and if I have been a little naughty, I

am not the first; if I have been no better than I should be," cries she,

sobbing, "that's no reason you should call me out of my name; my

be-betters are wo-rse than me."--"Huzzy, huzzy," says Mrs Tow-wouse,

"have you the impudence to answer me? Did I not catch you, you

saucy"--and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to female

ears. "I can't bear that name," answered Betty: "if I have been wicked,

I am to answer for it myself in the other world; but I have done nothing

that's unnatural; and I will go out of your house this moment, for I

will never be called she-dog by any mistress in England." Mrs Tow-wouse

then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from executing any

dreadful purpose by Mr Adams, who confined her arms with the strength

of a wrist which Hercules would not have been ashamed of. Mr Tow-wouse,

being caught, as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no

defence to make, very prudently withdrew himself; and Betty committed

herself to the protection of the hostler, who, though she could not

conceive him pleased with what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather

a gentler beast than her mistress.

Mrs Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr Adams, and finding the enemy

vanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usual

serenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to the

reader the steps which led to a catastrophe, common enough, and comical

enough too perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and

well-being of families, and the subject of many tragedies, both in life

and on the stage.


_The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of what occasioned

the violent scene in the preceding chapter._

Betty, who was the occasion of all this hurry, had some good qualities.

She had good-nature, generosity, and compassion, but unfortunately, her

constitution was composed of those warm ingredients which, though the

purity of courts or nunneries might have happily controuled them, were

by no means able to endure the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at an

inn; who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers of all

complexions; to the dangerous addresses of fine gentlemen of the army,

who sometimes are obliged to reside with them a whole year together;

and, above all, are exposed to the caresses of footmen, stage-coachmen,

and drawers; all of whom employ the whole artillery of kissing,

flattering, bribing, and every other weapon which is to be found in the

whole armoury of love, against them.

Betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now lived three years in this

dangerous situation, during which she had escaped pretty well. An ensign

of foot was the first person who made an impression on her heart; he did

indeed raise a flame in her which required the care of a surgeon

to cool.

While she burnt for him, several others burnt for her. Officers of the

army, young gentlemen travelling the western circuit, inoffensive

squires, and some of graver character, were set a-fire by her charms!

At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappy

passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual chastity. She was

long deaf to all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a

neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hostler, with a new straw

hat and a pint of wine, made a second conquest over her.

She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this occasion which

had been the consequence of her former amour; nor, indeed, those other

ill effects which prudent young women very justly apprehend from too

absolute an indulgence to the pressing endearments of their lovers. This

latter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being entirely constant

to John, with whom she permitted Tom Whipwell the stage-coachman, and

now and then a handsome young traveller, to share her favours.

Mr Tow-wouse had for some time cast the languishing eyes of affection on

this young maiden. He had laid hold on every opportunity of saying

tender things to her, squeezing her by the hand, and sometimes kissing

her lips; for, as the violence of his passion had considerably abated to

Mrs Tow-wouse, so, like water, which is stopt from its usual current in

one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs Tow-wouse is

thought to have perceived this abatement, and, probably, it added very

little to the natural sweetness of her temper; for though she was as

true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous

of being shone on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth.

Ever since Joseph's arrival, Betty had conceived an extraordinary liking

to him, which discovered itself more and more as he grew better and

better; till that fatal evening, when, as she was warming his bed, her

passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly mastered both her

modesty and her reason, that, after many fruitless hints and sly

insinuations, she at last threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him

with great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature she had

ever seen.

Joseph, in great confusion, leapt from her, and told her he was sorry to

see a young woman cast off all regard to modesty; but she had gone too

far to recede, and grew so very indecent, that Joseph was obliged,

contrary to his inclination, to use some violence to her; and, taking

her in his arms, he shut her out of the room, and locked the door.

How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is always in his own power;

that, if he hath sufficient strength of mind, he hath always a competent

strength of body to defend himself, and cannot, like a poor weak woman,

be ravished against his will!

Betty was in the most violent agitation at this disappointment. Rage and

lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different ways; one

moment she thought of stabbing Joseph; the next, of taking him in her

arms, and devouring him with kisses; but the latter passion was far more

prevalent. Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself; but,

whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death presented

himself to her in so many shapes, of drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c.,

that her distracted mind could resolve on none. In this perturbation of

spirit, it accidentally occurred to her memory that her master's bed was

not made; she therefore went directly to his room, where he happened at

that time to be engaged at his bureau. As soon as she saw him, she

attempted to retire; but he called her back, and, taking her by the

hand, squeezed her so tenderly, at the same time whispering so many soft

things into her ears, and then pressed her so closely with his kisses,

that the vanquished fair one, whose passions were already raised, and

which were not so whimsically capricious that one man only could lay

them, though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that one--the

vanquished fair one quietly submitted, I say, to her master's will, who

had just attained the accomplishment of his bliss when Mrs Tow-wouse

unexpectedly entered the room, and caused all that confusion which we

have before seen, and which it is not necessary, at present, to take any

farther notice of; since, without the assistance of a single hint from

us, every reader of any speculation or experience, though not married

himself, may easily conjecture that it concluded with the discharge of

Betty, the submission of Mr Tow-wouse, with some things to be performed

on his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness in being

reconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any more in

the like manner; and, lastly, his quietly and contentedly bearing to be

reminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a

day during the residue of his life.



_Of Divisions in Authors_.

There are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades, from the highest

to the lowest, from that of prime-ministering to this of authoring,

which are seldom discovered unless to members of the same calling. Among

those used by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of

dividing our works into books and chapters to be none of the least

considerable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this secret,

common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing we mean only to

swell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwise be

extended to. These several places therefore in our paper, which are

filled with our books and chapters, are understood as so much buckram,

stays, and stay-tape in a taylor's bill, serving only to make up the sum

total, commonly found at the bottom of our first page and of his last.

But in reality the case is otherwise, and in this as well as all other

instances we consult the advantage of our reader, not our own; and

indeed, many notable uses arise to him from this method; for, first,

those little spaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn or

resting-place where he may stop and take a glass or any other

refreshment as it pleases him. Nay, our fine readers will, perhaps, be

scarce able to travel farther than through one of them in a day. As to

those vacant pages which are placed between our books, they are to be

regarded as those stages where in long journies the traveller stays some

time to repose himself, and consider of what he hath seen in the parts

he hath already passed through; a consideration which I take the liberty

to recommend a little to the reader; for, however swift his capacity may

be, I would not advise him to travel through these pages too fast; for

if he doth, he may probably miss the seeing some curious productions of

nature, which will be observed by the slower and more accurate reader. A

volume without any such places of rest resembles the opening of wilds or

seas, which tires the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon.

Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter but so many

inscriptions over the gates of inns (to continue the same metaphor),

informing the reader what entertainment he is to expect, which if he

likes not, he may travel on to the next; for, in biography, as we are

not tied down to an exact concatenation equally with other historians,

so a chapter or two (for instance, this I am now writing) may be often

passed over without any injury to the whole. And in these inscriptions I

have been as faithful as possible, not imitating the celebrated

Montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives you another; nor some

title-page authors, who promise a great deal and produce nothing at all.

There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several others which our

readers enjoy from this art of dividing; though perhaps most of them too

mysterious to be presently understood by any who are not initiated into

the science of authoring. To mention, therefore, but one which is most

obvious, it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning down its

leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those readers who (though they

read with great improvement and advantage) are apt, when they return to

their study after half-an-hour's absence, to forget where they left off.

These divisions have the sanction of great antiquity. Homer not only

divided his great work into twenty-four books (in compliment perhaps to

the twenty-four letters to which he had very particular obligations),

but, according to the opinion of some very sagacious critics, hawked

them all separately, delivering only one book at a time (probably by

subscription). He was the first inventor of the art which hath so long

lain dormant, of publishing by numbers; an art now brought to such

perfection, that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited piecemeal

to the public; nay, one bookseller hath (to encourage learning and ease

the public) contrived to give them a dictionary in this divided manner

for only fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire.

Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an argument of his

modesty; for by that, doubtless, he would insinuate that he pretends to

no more than half the merit of the Greek; for the same reason, our

Milton went originally no farther than ten; till, being puffed up by the

praise of his friends, he put himself on the same footing with the

Roman poet.

I shall not, however, enter so deep into this matter as some very

learned criticks have done; who have with infinite labour and acute

discernment discovered what books are proper for embellishment, and what

require simplicity only, particularly with regard to similes, which I

think are now generally agreed to become any book but the first.

I will dismiss this chapter with the following observation: that it

becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it does a butcher to

joint his meat, for such assistance is of great help to both the reader

and the carver. And now, having indulged myself a little, I will

endeavour to indulge the curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt

impatient to know what he will find in the subsequent chapters of

this book.


_A surprizing instance of Mr Adams's short memory, with the unfortunate

consequences which it brought on Joseph._

Mr Adams and Joseph were now ready to depart different ways, when an

accident determined the former to return with his friend, which

Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been able to do. This

accident was, that those sermons, which the parson was travelling to

London to publish, were, O my good reader! left behind; what he had

mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other than three shirts, a

pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, which Mrs Adams, who thought

her husband would want shirts more than sermons on his journey, had

carefully provided him.

This discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of Joseph at the

opening the saddlebags; who, having heard his friend say he carried with

him nine volumes of sermons, and not being of that sect of philosophers

who can reduce all the matter of the world into a nutshell, seeing there

was no room for them in the bags, where the parson had said they were

deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, "Bless me, sir, where are your

sermons?" The parson answered, "There, there, child; there they are,

under my shirts." Now it happened that he had taken forth his last

shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty. "Sure, sir," says

Joseph, "there is nothing in the bags." Upon which Adams, starting, and

testifying some surprize, cried, "Hey! fie, fie upon it! they are not

here sure enough. Ay, they are certainly left behind."

Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he apprehended his

friend must feel from this disappointment; he begged him to pursue his

journey, and promised he would himself return with the books to him with

the utmost expedition. "No, thank you, child," answered Adams; "it shall

not be so. What would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, unless I

had my discourses with me, which are _ut ita dicam_, the sole cause, the

_aitia monotate_ of my peregrination? No, child, as this accident hath

happened, I am resolved to return back to my cure, together with you;

which indeed my inclination sufficiently leads me to. This

disappointment may perhaps be intended for my good." He concluded with a

verse out of Theocritus, which signifies no more than that sometimes it

rains, and sometimes the sun shines.

Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the inclination which

the parson expressed of returning with him; and now the bill was called

for, which, on examination, amounted within a shilling to the sum Mr

Adams had in his pocket. Perhaps the reader may wonder how he was able

to produce a sufficient sum for so many days: that he may not be

surprized, therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to acquaint him that he

had borrowed a guinea of a servant belonging to the coach and six, who

had been formerly one of his parishioners, and whose master, the owner

of the coach, then lived within three miles of him; for so good was the

credit of Mr Adams, that even Mr Peter, the Lady Booby's steward, would

have lent him a guinea with very little security.


Mr Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting out, having

agreed to ride and tie; a method of travelling much used by persons who

have but one horse between them, and is thus performed. The two

travellers set out together, one on horseback, the other on foot: now,

as it generally happens that he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the

custom is, that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is to

dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other thing, and

then proceed on foot; when the other comes up to the horse he unties

him, mounts, and gallops on, till, having passed by his

fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place of tying. And this is

that method of travelling so much in use among our prudent ancestors,

who knew that horses had mouths as well as legs, and that they could not

use the latter without being at the expense of suffering the beasts

themselves to use the former. This was the method in use in those days

when, instead of a coach and six, a member of parliament's lady used to

mount a pillion behind her husband; and a grave serjeant at law

condescended to amble to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk

kicking his heels behind him.

Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted on Joseph's beginning

the journey on horseback, and Joseph had his foot in the stirrup, when

the hostler presented him a bill for the horse's board during his

residence at the inn. Joseph said Mr Adams had paid all; but this

matter, being referred to Mr Tow-wouse, was by him decided in favour of

the hostler, and indeed with truth and justice; for this was a fresh

instance of that shortness of memory which did not arise from want of

parts, but that continual hurry in which parson Adams was

always involved.

Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely puzzled him. The sum

due for horse-meat was twelve shillings (for Adams, who had borrowed the

beast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as well as they could

feed him), and the cash in his pocket amounted to sixpence (for Adams

had divided the last shilling with him). Now, though there have been

some ingenious persons who have contrived to pay twelve shillings with

sixpence, Joseph was not one of them. He had never contracted a debt in

his life, and was consequently the less ready at an expedient to

extricate himself. Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit till next

time, to which Mrs Tow-wouse would probably have consented (for such was

Joseph's beauty, that it had made some impression even on that piece of

flint which that good woman wore in her bosom by way of heart). Joseph

would have found, therefore, very likely the passage free, had he not,

when he honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out

that little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. This caused

Mrs Tow-wouse's eyes to water; she told Joseph she did not conceive a

man could want money whilst he had gold in his pocket. Joseph answered

he had such a value for that little piece of gold, that he would not

part with it for a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquire

in the county was worth. "A pretty way, indeed," said Mrs Tow-wouse, "to

run in debt, and then refuse to part with your money, because you have a

value for it! I never knew any piece of gold of more value than as many

shillings as it would change for."--"Not to preserve my life from

starving, nor to redeem it from a robber, would I part with this dear

piece!" answered Joseph. "What," says Mrs Tow-wouse, "I suppose it was

given you by some vile trollop, some miss or other; if it had been the

present of a virtuous woman, you would not have had such a value for it.

My husband is a fool if he parts with the horse without being paid for

him."--"No, no, I can't part with the horse, indeed, till I have the

money," cried Tow-wouse. A resolution highly commended by a lawyer then

in the yard, who declared Mr Tow-wouse might justify the detainer.

As we cannot therefore at present get Mr Joseph out of the inn, we shall

leave him in it, and carry our reader on after parson Adams, who, his

mind being perfectly at ease, fell into a contemplation on a passage in

Aeschylus, which entertained him for three miles together, without

suffering him once to reflect on his fellow-traveller.

At length, having spun out his thread, and being now at the summit of a

hill, he cast his eyes backwards, and wondered that he could not see any

sign of Joseph. As he left him ready to mount the horse, he could not

apprehend any mischief had happened, neither could he suspect that he

missed his way, it being so broad and plain; the only reason which

presented itself to him was, that he had met with an acquaintance who

had prevailed with him to delay some time in discourse.

He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not doubting but that

he should be shortly overtaken; and soon came to a large water, which,

filling the whole road, he saw no method of passing unless by wading

through, which he accordingly did up to his middle; but was no sooner

got to the other side than he perceived, if he had looked over the

hedge, he would have found a footpath capable of conducting him without

wetting his shoes.

His surprize at Joseph's not coming up grew now very troublesome: he

began to fear he knew not what; and as he determined to move no farther,

and, if he did not shortly overtake him, to return back, he wished to

find a house of public entertainment where he might dry his clothes and

refresh himself with a pint; but, seeing no such (for no other reason

than because he did not cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards), he sat

himself down on a stile, and pulled out his Aeschylus.

A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him if he could direct him

to an alehouse. The fellow, who had just left it, and perceived the

house and sign to be within sight, thinking he had jeered him, and being

of a morose temper, bade him follow his nose and be d---n'd. Adams told

him he was a saucy jackanapes; upon which the fellow turned about

angrily; but, perceiving Adams clench his fist, he thought proper to go

on without taking any farther notice.

A horseman, following immediately after, and being asked the same

question, answered, "Friend, there is one within a stone's throw; I

believe you may see it before you." Adams, lifting up his eyes, cried,

"I protest, and so there is;" and, thanking his informer, proceeded

directly to it.


_The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, with Mr

Adams's inquiry into the religion of his host._

He had just entered the house, and called for his pint, and seated

himself, when two horsemen came to the door, and, fastening their horses

to the rails, alighted. They said there was a violent shower of rain

coming on, which they intended to weather there, and went into a little

room by themselves, not perceiving Mr Adams.

One of these immediately asked the other, "If he had seen a more comical

adventure a great while?" Upon which the other said, "He doubted

whether, by law, the landlord could justify detaining the horse for his

corn and hay." But the former answered, "Undoubtedly he can; it is an

adjudged case, and I have known it tried."

Adams, who, though he was, as the reader may suspect, a little inclined

to forgetfulness, never wanted more than a hint to remind him,

overhearing their discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this

was his own horse, and that he had forgot to pay for him, which, upon

inquiry, he was certified of by the gentlemen; who added, that the horse

was likely to have more rest than food, unless he was paid for.

The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, though he knew

no more than Joseph how to procure his horse his liberty; he was,

however, prevailed on to stay under covert, till the shower, which was

now very violent, was over.

The three travellers then sat down together over a mug of good beer;

when Adams, who had observed a gentleman's house as he passed along the

road, inquired to whom it belonged; one of the horsemen had no sooner

mentioned the owner's name, than the other began to revile him in the

most opprobrious terms. The English language scarce affords a single

reproachful word, which he did not vent on this occasion. He charged him

likewise with many particular facts. He said, "He no more regarded a

field of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he had

injured several poor farmers by trampling their corn under his horse's

heels; and if any of them begged him with the utmost submission to

refrain, his horsewhip was always ready to do them justice." He said,

"That he was the greatest tyrant to the neighbours in every other

instance, and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though he might

justify it by law; and in his own family so cruel a master, that he

never kept a servant a twelvemonth. In his capacity as a justice,"

continued he, "he behaves so partially, that he commits or acquits just

as he is in the humour, without any regard to truth or evidence; the

devil may carry any one before him for me; I would rather be tried

before some judges, than be a prosecutor before him: if I had an estate

in the neighbourhood, I would sell it for half the value rather than

live near him."

Adams shook his head, and said, "He was sorry such men were suffered to

proceed with impunity, and that riches could set any man above the law."

The reviler, a little after, retiring into the yard, the gentleman who

had first mentioned his name to Adams began to assure him "that his

companion was a prejudiced person. It is true," says he, "perhaps, that

he may have sometimes pursued his game over a field of corn, but he hath

always made the party ample satisfaction: that so far from tyrannising

over his neighbours, or taking away their guns, he himself knew several

farmers not qualified, who not only kept guns, but killed game with

them; that he was the best of masters to his servants, and several of

them had grown old in his service; that he was the best justice of peace

in the kingdom, and, to his certain knowledge, had decided many

difficult points, which were referred to him, with the greatest equity

and the highest wisdom; and he verily believed, several persons would

give a year's purchase more for an estate near him, than under the wings

of any other great man." He had just finished his encomium when his

companion returned and acquainted him the storm was over. Upon which

they presently mounted their horses and departed.

Adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those different characters of

the same person, asked his host if he knew the gentleman: for he began

to imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two several gentlemen.

"No, no, master," answered the host (a shrewd, cunning fellow); "I know

the gentleman very well of whom they have been speaking, as I do the

gentlemen who spoke of him. As for riding over other men's corn, to my

knowledge he hath not been on horseback these two years. I never heard

he did any injury of that kind; and as to making reparation, he is not

so free of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear of

his taking away any man's gun; nay, I know several who have guns in

their houses; but as for killing game with them, no man is stricter; and

I believe he would ruin any who did. You heard one of the gentlemen say

he was the worst master in the world, and the other that he is the best;

but for my own part, I know all his servants, and never heard from any

of them that he was either one or the other."--"Aye! aye!" says Adams;

"and how doth he behave as a justice, pray?"--"Faith, friend," answered

the host, "I question whether he is in the commission; the only cause I

have heard he hath decided a great while, was one between those very two

persons who just went out of this house; and I am sure he determined

that justly, for I heard the whole matter."--"Which did He decide it in

favour of?" quoth Adams.--"I think I need not answer that question,"

cried the host, "after the different characters you have heard of him.

It is not my business to contradict gentlemen while they are drinking in

my house; but I knew neither of them spoke a syllable of truth."--"God

forbid!" said Adams, "that men should arrive at such a pitch of

wickedness to belye the character of their neighbour from a little

private affection, or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. I

rather believe we have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons;

for there are many houses on the road."--"Why, prithee, friend," cries

the host, "dost thou pretend never to have told a lye in thy

life?"--"Never a malicious one, I am certain," answered Adams, "nor with

a design to injure the reputation of any man living."--"Pugh! malicious;

no, no," replied the host; "not malicious with a design to hang a man,

or bring him into trouble; but surely, out of love to oneself, one must

speak better of a friend than an enemy."--"Out of love to yourself, you

should confine yourself to truth," says Adams, "for by doing otherwise

you injure the noblest part of yourself, your immortal soul. I can

hardly believe any man such an idiot to risque the loss of that by any

trifling gain, and the greatest gain in this world is but dirt in

comparison of what shall be revealed hereafter." Upon which the host,

taking up the cup, with a smile, drank a health to hereafter; adding,

"He was for something present."--"Why," says Adams very gravely, "do not

you believe another world?" To which the host answered, "Yes; he was no

atheist."--"And you believe you have an immortal soul?" cries Adams. He

answered, "God forbid he should not."--"And heaven and hell?" said the

parson. The host then bid him "not to profane; for those were things not

to be mentioned nor thought of but in church." Adams asked him, "Why he

went to church, if what he learned there had no influence on his conduct

in life?" "I go to church," answered the host, "to say my prayers and

behave godly."--"And dost not thou," cried Adams, "believe what thou

hearest at church?"--"Most part of it, master," returned the host. "And

dost not thou then tremble," cries Adams, "at the thought of eternal

punishment?"--"As for that, master," said he, "I never once thought

about it; but what signifies talking about matters so far off? The mug

is out, shall I draw another?"

Whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage-coach drove up to the

door. The coachman coming into the house was asked by the mistress what

passengers he had in his coach? "A parcel of squinny-gut b--s," says he;

"I have a good mind to overturn them; you won't prevail upon them to

drink anything, I assure you." Adams asked him, "If he had not seen a

young man on horseback on the road" (describing Joseph). "Aye," said

the coachman, "a gentlewoman in my coach that is his acquaintance

redeemed him and his horse; he would have been here before this time,

had not the storm driven him to shelter." "God bless her!" said Adams,

in a rapture; nor could he delay walking out to satisfy himself who this

charitable woman was; but what was his surprize when he saw his old

acquaintance, Madam Slipslop? Hers indeed was not so great, because she

had been informed by Joseph that he was on the road. Very civil were the

salutations on both sides; and Mrs Slipslop rebuked the hostess for

denying the gentleman to be there when she asked for him; but indeed the

poor woman had not erred designedly; for Mrs Slipslop asked for a

clergyman, and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a person travelling

to a neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or some other such

operation; for he marched in a swinging great but short white coat with

black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, so far from having a black

hatband, had nothing black about it.

Joseph was now come up, and Mrs Slipslop would have had him quit his

horse to the parson, and come himself into the coach; but he absolutely

refused, saying, he thanked Heaven he was well enough recovered to be

very able to ride; and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to

ride in a coach while Mr Adams was on horseback.

Mrs Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a lady in the coach

put a short end to the dispute, by refusing to suffer a fellow in a

livery to ride in the same coach with herself; so it was at length

agreed that Adams should fill the vacant place in the coach, and Joseph

should proceed on horseback.

They had not proceeded far before Mrs Slipslop, addressing herself to

the parson, spoke thus:--"There hath been a strange alteration in our

family, Mr Adams, since Sir Thomas's death." "A strange alteration

indeed," says Adams, "as I gather from some hints which have dropped

from Joseph."--"Aye," says she, "I could never have believed it; but the

longer one lives in the world, the more one sees. So Joseph hath given

you hints." "But of what nature will always remain a perfect secret with

me," cries the parson: "he forced me to promise before he would

communicate anything. I am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behave

in so unbecoming a manner. I always thought her in the main a good lady,

and should never have suspected her of thoughts so unworthy a Christian,

and with a young lad her own servant." "These things are no secrets to

me, I assure you," cries Slipslop, "and I believe they will be none

anywhere shortly; for ever since the boy's departure, she hath behaved

more like a mad woman than anything else." "Truly, I am heartily

concerned," says Adams, "for she was a good sort of a lady. Indeed, I

have often wished she had attended a little more constantly at the

service, but she hath done a great deal of good in the parish." "O Mr

Adams," says Slipslop, "people that don't see all, often know nothing.

Many things have been given away in our family, I do assure you, without

her knowledge. I have heard you say in the pulpit we ought not to brag;

but indeed I can't avoid saying, if she had kept the keys herself, the

poor would have wanted many a cordial which I have let them have. As for

my late master, he was as worthy a man as ever lived, and would have

done infinite good if he had not been controlled; but he loved a quiet

life, Heaven rest his soul! I am confident he is there, and enjoys a

quiet life, which some folks would not allow him here."--Adams answered,

"He had never heard this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for he

remembered she used to commend her mistress and blame her master) had

not formerly been of another opinion." "I don't know," replied she,

"what I might once think; but now I am confidous matters are as I tell

you; the world will shortly see who hath been deceived; for my part, I

say nothing, but that it is wondersome how some people can carry all

things with a grave face."

Thus Mr Adams and she discoursed, till they came opposite to a great

house which stood at some distance from the road: a lady in the coach,

spying it, cried, "Yonder lives the unfortunate Leonora, if one can

justly call a woman unfortunate whom we must own at the same time guilty

and the author of her own calamity." This was abundantly sufficient to

awaken the curiosity of Mr Adams, as indeed it did that of the whole

company, who jointly solicited the lady to acquaint them with Leonora's

history, since it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something


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.


_The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt._

Leonora was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune; she was tall and

well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance which often

attracts beyond more regular features joined with an insipid air: nor is

this kind of beauty less apt to deceive than allure; the good humour

which it indicates being often mistaken for good nature, and the

vivacity for true understanding.

Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with an aunt of hers

in a town in the north of England. She was an extreme lover of gaiety,

and very rarely missed a ball or any other public assembly; where she

had frequent opportunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity,

with the preference which was given her by the men to almost every other

woman present.

Among many young fellows who were particular in their gallantries

towards her, Horatio soon distinguished himself in her eyes beyond all

his competitors; she danced with more than ordinary gaiety when he

happened to be her partner; neither the fairness of the evening, nor the

musick of the nightingale, could lengthen her walk like his company. She

affected no longer to understand the civilities of others; whilst she

inclined so attentive an ear to every compliment of Horatio, that she

often smiled even when it was too delicate for her comprehension.

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

Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of a good family, bred to

the law, and had been some few years called to the degree of a

barrister. His face and person were such as the generality allowed

handsome; but he had a dignity in his air very rarely to be seen. His

temper was of the saturnine complexion, and without the least taint of

moroseness. He had wit and humour, with an inclination to satire, which

he indulged rather too much.

This gentleman, who had contracted the most violent passion for Leonora,

was the last person who perceived the probability of its success. The

whole town had made the match for him before he himself had drawn a

confidence from her actions sufficient to mention his passion to her;

for it was his opinion (and perhaps he was there in the right) that it

is highly impolitick to talk seriously of love to a woman before you

have made such a progress in her affections, that she herself expects

and desires to hear it.

But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may create, which are apt

to magnify every favour conferred on a rival, and to see the little

advances towards themselves through the other end of the perspective, it

was impossible that Horatio's passion should so blind his discernment as

to prevent his conceiving hopes from the behaviour of Leonora, whose

fondness for him was now as visible to an indifferent person in their

company as his for her.

"I never knew any of these forward sluts come to good" (says the lady

who refused Joseph's entrance into the coach), "nor shall I wonder at

anything she doth in the sequel."

The lady proceeded in her story thus: It was in the midst of a gay

conversation in the walks one evening, when Horatio whispered Leonora,

that he was desirous to take a turn or two with her in private, for that

he had something to communicate to her of great consequence. "Are you

sure it is of consequence?" said she, smiling. "I hope," answered he,

"you will think so too, since the whole future happiness of my life must

depend on the event."

Leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, would have deferred it

till another time; but Horatio, who had more than half conquered the

difficulty of speaking by the first motion, was so very importunate,

that she at last yielded, and, leaving the rest of the company, they

turned aside into an unfrequented walk.

They had retired far out of the sight of the company, both maintaining a

strict silence. At last Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leonora,

who stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he fetched a deep

sigh, and then, looking on her eyes with all the tenderness imaginable,

he cried out in a faltering accent, "O Leonora! is it necessary for me

to declare to you on what the future happiness of my life must be

founded? Must I say there is something belonging to you which is a bar

to my happiness, and which unless you will part with, I must be

miserable!"--"What can that be?" replied Leonora. "No wonder," said he,

"you are surprized that I should make an objection to anything which is

yours: yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the riches

of the world, if they were mine, should purchase for me. Oh, it is that

which you must part with to bestow all the rest! Can Leonora, or rather

will she, doubt longer? Let me then whisper it in her ears--It is your

name, madam. It is by parting with that, by your condescension to be for

ever mine, which must at once prevent me from being the most miserable,

and will render me the happiest of mankind."

Leonora, covered with blushes, and with as angry a look as she could

possibly put on, told him, "That had she suspected what his declaration

would have been, he should not have decoyed her from her company, that

he had so surprized and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her

back as quick as possible;" which he, trembling very near as much as

herself, did.

"More fool he," cried Slipslop; "it is a sign he knew very little of our

sect."--"Truly, madam," said Adams, "I think you are in the right: I

should have insisted to know a piece of her mind, when I had carried

matters so far." But Mrs Grave-airs desired the lady to omit all such

fulsome stuff in her story, for that it made her sick.

Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, said the lady, many

weeks had not passed after this interview before Horatio and Leonora

were what they call on a good footing together. All ceremonies except

the last were now over; the writings were now drawn, and everything was

in the utmost forwardness preparative to the putting Horatio in

possession of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a letter

from each of them, which I have got by heart, and which will give you no

small idea of their passion on both sides.

Mrs Grave-airs objected to hearing these letters; but being put to the

vote, it was carried against her by all the rest in the coach; parson

Adams contending for it with the utmost vehemence.


"How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of pleasure in the

absence of an object to which the mind is entirely devoted, unless it

have some relation to that object! I was last night condemned to the

society of men of wit and learning, which, however agreeable it might

have formerly been to me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputed

my absence in conversation to the true cause. For which reason, when

your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of seeing you, I am

always desirous to be alone; since my sentiments for Leonora are so

delicate, that I cannot bear the apprehension of another's prying into

those delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a lover

will sometimes indulge him, and which I suspect my eyes then betray. To

fear this discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too ridiculous a

nicety to minds not susceptible of all the tendernesses of this delicate

passion. And surely we shall suspect there are few such, when we

consider that it requires every human virtue to exert itself in its full

extent; since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, may

give us charming opportunities of being brave in her defence, generous

to her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grateful to her

kindness; and in the same manner, of exercising every other virtue,

which he who would not do to any degree, and that with the utmost

rapture, can never deserve the name of a lover. It is, therefore, with a

view to the delicate modesty of your mind that I cultivate it so purely

in my own; and it is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the

uneasiness I bear from those liberties, which men to whom the world

allow politeness will sometimes give themselves on these occasions.

"Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival of that blest

day, when I shall experience the falsehood of a common assertion, that

the greatest human happiness consists in hope? A doctrine which no

person had ever stronger reason to believe than myself at present, since

none ever tasted such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts of

spending my future days with such a companion, and that every action of

my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conducing to your



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

"The refinement of your mind has been so evidently proved by every word

and action ever since I had the first pleasure of knowing you, that I

thought it impossible my good opinion of Horatio could have been

heightened to any additional proof of merit. This very thought was my

amusement when I received your last letter, which, when I opened, I

confess I was surprized to find the delicate sentiments expressed there

so far exceeding what I thought could come even from you (although I

know all the generous principles human nature is capable of are centred

in your breast), that words cannot paint what I feel on the reflection

that my happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your actions.

"Oh, Horatio! what a life must that be, where the meanest domestic cares

are sweetened by the pleasing consideration that the man on earth who

best deserves, and to whom you are most inclined to give your

affections, is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do! In

such a case toils must be turned into diversions, and nothing but the

unavoidable inconveniences of life can make us remember that we

are mortal.

"If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of keeping them

undiscovered, makes even the conversation of men of wit and learning

tedious to you, what anxious hours must I spend, who am condemned by

custom to the conversation of women, whose natural curiosity leads them

to pry into all my thoughts, and whose envy can never suffer Horatio's

heart to be possessed by any one, without forcing them into malicious

designs against the person who is so happy as to possess it! But,

indeed, if ever envy can possibly have any excuse, or even alleviation,

it is in this case, where the good is so great, and it must be equally

natural to all to wish it for themselves; nor am I ashamed to own it:

and to your merit, Horatio, I am obliged, that prevents my being in that

most uneasy of all the situations I can figure in my imagination, of

being led by inclination to love the person whom my own judgment forces

me to condemn."

Matters were in so great forwardness between this fond couple, that the

day was fixed for their marriage, and was now within a fortnight, when

the sessions chanced to be held for that county in a town about twenty

miles' distance from that which is the scene of our story. It seems, it

is usual for the young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these sessions,

not so much for the sake of profit as to show their parts and learn the

law of the justices of peace; for which purpose one of the wisest and

gravest of all the justices is appointed speaker, or chairman, as they

modestly call it, and he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in the

true knowledge of the law.

"You are here guilty of a little mistake," says Adams, "which, if you

please, I will correct: I have attended at one of these

quarter-sessions, where I observed the counsel taught the justices,

instead of learning anything of them."

It is not very material, said the lady. Hither repaired Horatio, who, as

he hoped by his profession to advance his fortune, which was not at

present very large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, he resolved to

spare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of improving or advancing

himself in it.

The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora stood at her

window, a coach and six passed by, which she declared to be the

completest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding these

remarkable words, "Oh, I am in love with that equipage!" which, though

her friend Florella at that time did not greatly regard, she hath since


In the evening an assembly was held, which Leonora honoured with her

company; but intended to pay her dear Horatio the compliment of refusing

to dance in his absence.

Oh, why have not women as good resolution to maintain their vows as they

have often good inclinations in making them!

The gentleman who owned the coach and six came to the assembly. His

clothes were as remarkably fine as his equipage could be. He soon

attracted the eyes of the company; all the smarts, all the silk

waistcoats with silver and gold edgings, were eclipsed in an instant.

"Madam," said Adams, "if it be not impertinent, I should be glad to know

how this gentleman was drest."

Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had on a cut velvet coat of

a cinnamon colour, lined with a pink satten, embroidered all over with

gold; his waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was embroidered with

gold likewise. I cannot be particular as to the rest of his dress; but

it was all in the French fashion, for Bellarmine (that was his name) was

just arrived from Paris.

This fine figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of every lady in

the assembly than Leonora did his. He had scarce beheld her, but he

stood motionless and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done so

if good breeding had permitted him. However, he carried it so far before

he had power to correct himself, that every person in the room easily

discovered where his admiration was settled. The other ladies began to

single out their former partners, all perceiving who would be

Bellarmine's choice; which they however endeavoured, by all possible

means, to prevent: many of them saying to Leonora, "O madam! I suppose

we shan't have the pleasure of seeing you dance to-night;" and then

crying out, in Bellarmine's hearing, "Oh! Leonora will not dance, I

assure you: her partner is not here." One maliciously attempted to

prevent her, by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her, that so she

might be obliged either to dance with him, or sit down; but this scheme

proved abortive.

Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, and envied by every

woman present. Her little heart began to flutter within her, and her

head was agitated with a convulsive motion: she seemed as if she would

speak to several of her acquaintance, but had nothing to say; for, as

she would not mention her present triumph, so she could not disengage

her thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. She had never

tasted anything like this happiness. She had before known what it was to

torment a single woman; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a whole

assembly was a joy reserved for this blessed moment. As this vast

profusion of ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there was

nothing so foolish as her behaviour: she played a thousand childish

tricks, distorted her person into several shapes, and her face into

several laughs, without any reason. In a word, her carriage was as

absurd as her desires, which were to affect an insensibility of the

stranger's admiration, and at the same time a triumph, from that

admiration, over every woman in the room.

In this temper of mind, Bellarmine, having inquired who she was,

advanced to her, and with a low bow begged the honour of dancing with

her, which she, with as low a curtesy, immediately granted. She danced

with him all night, and enjoyed, perhaps, the highest pleasure that she

was capable of feeling.

At these words, Adams fetched a deep groan, which frighted the ladies,

who told him, "They hoped he was not ill." He answered, "He groaned only

for the folly of Leonora."

Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in the morning, but not

to rest. She tumbled and tossed in her bed, with very short intervals of

sleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage and fine

clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, and ridottos, which had

been the subject of their conversation.

In the afternoon, Bellarmine, in the dear coach and six, came to wait on

her. He was indeed charmed with her person, and was, on inquiry, so well

pleased with the circumstances of her father (for he himself,

notwithstanding all his finery, was not quite so rich as a Croesus or

an Attalus).--"Attalus," says Mr. Adams: "but pray how came you

acquainted with these names?" The lady smiled at the question, and

proceeded. He was so pleased, I say, that he resolved to make his

addresses to her directly. He did so accordingly, and that with so much

warmth and briskness, that he quickly baffled her weak repulses, and

obliged the lady to refer him to her father, who, she knew, would

quickly declare in favour of a coach and six.

Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love and tenderness, been so

long obtaining, the French-English Bellarmine with gaiety and gallantry

possessed himself of in an instant. In other words, what modesty had

employed a full year in raising, impudence demolished in

twenty-four hours.

Here Adams groaned a second time; but the ladies, who began to smoke

him, took no notice.

From the opening of the assembly till the end of Bellarmine's visit,

Leonora had scarce once thought of Horatio; but he now began, though an

unwelcome guest, to enter into her mind. She wished she had seen the

charming Bellarmine and his charming equipage before matters had gone so

far. "Yet why," says she, "should I wish to have seen him before; or

what signifies it that I have seen him now? Is not Horatio my lover,

almost my husband? Is he not as handsome, nay handsomer than Bellarmine?

Aye, but Bellarmine is the genteeler, and the finer man; yes, that he

must be allowed. Yes, yes, he is that certainly. But did not I, no

longer ago than yesterday, love Horatio more than all the world? Aye,

but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. But doth not Horatio doat on

me, and may he not in despair break his heart if I abandon him? Well,

and hath not Bellarmine a heart to break too? Yes, but I promised

Horatio first; but that was poor Bellarmine's misfortune; if I had seen

him first, I should certainly have preferred him. Did not the dear

creature prefer me to every woman in the assembly, when every she was

laying out for him? When was it in Horatio's power to give me such an

instance of affection? Can he give me an equipage, or any of those

things which Bellarmine will make me mistress of? How vast is the

difference between being the wife of a poor counsellor and the wife of

one of Bellarmine's fortune! If I marry Horatio, I shall triumph over no

more than one rival; but by marrying Bellarmine, I shall be the envy of

all my acquaintance. What happiness! But can I suffer Horatio to die?

for he hath sworn he cannot survive my loss: but perhaps he may not die:

if he should, can I prevent it? Must I sacrifice myself to him? besides,

Bellarmine may be as miserable for me too." She was thus arguing with

herself, when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a little

relieved her anxiety for the present.

The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in presence of her

aunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his passion for Leonora. He was

no sooner withdrawn than the old lady began to advise her niece on this

occasion. "You see, child," says she, "what fortune hath thrown in your

way; and I hope you will not withstand your own preferment." Leonora,

sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing, when she knew her

engagements to Horatio. "Engagements to a fig!" cried the aunt; "you

should thank Heaven on your knees that you have it yet in your power to

break them. Will any woman hesitate a moment whether she shall ride in a

coach or walk on foot all the days of her life? But Bellarmine drives

six, and Horatio not even a pair."--"Yes, but, madam, what will the

world say?" answered Leonora: "will not they condemn me?"--"The world is

always on the side of prudence," cries the aunt, "and would surely

condemn you if you sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. Oh!

I know the world very well; and you shew your ignorance, my dear, by

your objection. O' my conscience! the world is wiser. I have lived

longer in it than you; and I assure you there is not anything worth our

regard besides money; nor did I ever know one person who married from

other considerations, who did not afterwards heartily repent it.

Besides, if we examine the two men, can you prefer a sneaking fellow,

who hath been bred at the university, to a fine gentleman just come from

his travels. All the world must allow Bellarmine to be a fine gentleman,

positively a fine gentleman, and a handsome man."--"Perhaps, madam, I

should not doubt, if I knew how to be handsomely off with the

other."--"Oh! leave that to me," says the aunt. "You know your father

hath not been acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for my part I thought

it might do well enough, not dreaming of such an offer; but I'll

disengage you: leave me to give the fellow an answer. I warrant you

shall have no farther trouble."

Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's reasoning; and

Bellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed he should the

next morning go to her father and propose the match, which she consented

should be consummated at his return.

The aunt retired soon after supper; and, the lovers being left together,

Bellarmine began in the following manner: "Yes, madam; this coat, I

assure you, was made at Paris, and I defy the best English taylor even

to imitate it. There is not one of them can cut, madam; they can't cut.

If you observe how this skirt is turned, and this sleeve: a clumsy

English rascal can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you like my

liveries?" Leonora answered, "She thought them very pretty."--"All

French," says he, "I assure you, except the greatcoats; I never trust

anything more than a greatcoat to an Englishman. You know one must

encourage our own people what one can, especially as, before I had a

place, I was in the country interest, he, he, he! But for myself, I

would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear a

single rag of English work about me: and I am sure, after you have made

one tour to Paris, you will be of the same opinion with regard to your

own clothes. You can't conceive what an addition a French dress would be

to your beauty; I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since

I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chambermaids, he, he, he!"

With such sort of polite discourse did the gay Bellarmine entertain his

beloved Leonora, when the door opened on a sudden, and Horatio entered

the room. Here 'tis impossible to express the surprize of Leonora.

"Poor woman!" says Mrs Slipslop, "what a terrible quandary she must be

in!"--"Not at all," says Mrs Grave-airs; "such sluts can never be

confounded."--"She must have then more than Corinthian assurance," said

Adams; "aye, more than Lais herself."

A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in the whole company. If

the familiar entrance of Horatio struck the greatest astonishment into

Bellarmine, the unexpected presence of Bellarmine no less surprized

Horatio. At length Leonora, collecting all the spirit she was mistress

of, addressed herself to the latter, and pretended to wonder at the

reason of so late a visit. "I should indeed," answered he, "have made

some apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not my finding you in

company assured me I do not break in upon your repose." Bellarmine rose

from his chair, traversed the room in a minuet step, and hummed an

opera tune, while Horatio, advancing to Leonora, asked her in a whisper

if that gentleman was not a relation of hers; to which she answered with

a smile, or rather sneer, "No, he is no relation of mine yet;" adding,

"she could not guess the meaning of his question." Horatio told her

softly, "It did not arise from jealousy."--"Jealousy! I assure you, it

would be very strange in a common acquaintance to give himself any of

those airs." These words a little surprized Horatio; but, before he had

time to answer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady and told her, "He

feared he interrupted some business between her and the gentleman."--"I

can have no business," said she, "with the gentleman, nor any other,

which need be any secret to you."

"You'll pardon me," said Horatio, "if I desire to know who this

gentleman is who is to be entrusted with all our secrets."--"You'll know

soon enough," cries Leonora; "but I can't guess what secrets can ever

pass between us of such mighty consequence."--"No, madam!" cries

Horatio; "I am sure you would not have me understand you in

earnest."--"'Tis indifferent to me," says she, "how you understand me;

but I think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be understood at

all, at least when people find one engaged: though one's servants do not

deny one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon take the hint."

"Madam," said Horatio, "I did not imagine any engagement with a

stranger, as it seems this gentleman is, would have made my visit

impertinent, or that any such ceremonies were to be preserved between

persons in our situation." "Sure you are in a dream," says she, "or

would persuade me that I am in one. I know no pretensions a common

acquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies of good breeding."

"Sure," said he, "I am in a dream; for it is impossible I should be

really esteemed a common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has passed

between us?" "Passed between us! Do you intend to affront me before this

gentleman?" "D--n me, affront the lady," says Bellarmine, cocking his

hat, and strutting up to Horatio: "does any man dare affront this lady

before me, d--n me?" "Hark'ee, sir," says Horatio, "I would advise you

to lay aside that fierce air; for I am mightily deceived if this lady

has not a violent desire to get your worship a good drubbing." "Sir,"

said Bellarmine, "I have the honour to be her protector; and, d--n me,

if I understand your meaning." "Sir," answered Horatio, "she is rather

your protectress; but give yourself no more airs, for you see I am

prepared for you" (shaking his whip at him). "Oh! _serviteur tres

humble_," says Bellarmine: "_Je vous entend parfaitment bien_." At which

time the aunt, who had heard of Horatio's visit, entered the room, and

soon satisfied all his doubts. She convinced him that he was never more

awake in his life, and that nothing more extraordinary had happened in

his three days' absence than a small alteration in the affections of

Leonora; who now burst into tears, and wondered what reason she had

given him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desired

Bellarmine to withdraw with him; but the ladies prevented it by laying

violent hands on the latter; upon which the former took his leave

without any great ceremony, and departed, leaving the lady with his

rival to consult for his safety, which Leonora feared her indiscretion

might have endangered; but the aunt comforted her with assurances that

Horatio would not venture his person against so accomplished a cavalier

as Bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge in his

own way, and the most they had to apprehend from him was an action.

They at length therefore agreed to permit Bellarmine to retire to his

lodgings, having first settled all matters relating to the journey which

he was to undertake in the morning, and their preparations for the

nuptials at his return.

But, alas! as wise men have observed, the seat of valour is not the

countenance; and many a grave and plain man will, on a just provocation,

betake himself to that mischievous metal, cold iron; while men of a

fiercer brow, and sometimes with that emblem of courage, a cockade, will

more prudently decline it.

Leonora was waked in the morning, from a visionary coach and six, with

the dismal account that Bellarmine was run through the body by Horatio;

that he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had declared the

wound mortal. She immediately leaped out of the bed, danced about the

room in a frantic manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all the

agonies of despair; in which sad condition her aunt, who likewise arose

at the news, found her. The good old lady applied her utmost art to

comfort her niece. She told her, "While there was life there was hope;

but that if he should die her affliction would be of no service to

Bellarmine, and would only expose herself, which might, probably, keep

her some time without any future offer; that, as matters had happened,

her wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, but to endeavour

to regain the affections of Horatio." "Speak not to me," cried the

disconsolate Leonora; "is it not owing to me that poor Bellarmine has

lost his life? Have not these cursed charms (at which words she looked

steadfastly in the glass) been the ruin of the most charming man of this

age? Can I ever bear to contemplate my own face again (with her eyes

still fixed on the glass)? Am I not the murderess of the finest

gentleman? No other woman in the town could have made any impression on

him." "Never think of things past," cries the aunt: "think of regaining

the affections of Horatio." "What reason," said the niece, "have I to

hope he would forgive me? No, I have lost him as well as the other, and

it was your wicked advice which was the occasion of all; you seduced me,

contrary to my inclinations, to abandon poor Horatio (at which words she

burst into tears); you prevailed upon me, whether I would or no, to give

up my affections for him; had it not been for you, Bellarmine never

would have entered into my thoughts; had not his addresses been backed

by your persuasions, they never would have made any impression on me; I

should have defied all the fortune and equipage in the world; but it was

you, it was you, who got the better of my youth and simplicity, and

forced me to lose my dear Horatio for ever."

The aunt was almost borne down with this torrent of words; she, however,

rallied all the strength she could, and, drawing her mouth up in a

purse, began: "I am not surprized, niece, at this ingratitude. Those who

advise young women for their interest, must always expect such a return:

I am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off your match with

Horatio, at any rate."--"That may not be in your power yet," answered

Leonora, "though it is very ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it,

after the presents you have received from him." (For indeed true it is,

that many presents, and some pretty valuable ones, had passed from

Horatio to the old lady; but as true it is, that Bellarmine, when he

breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented her with a

brilliant from his finger, of much greater value than all she had

touched of the other.)

The aunt's gall was on float to reply, when a servant brought a letter

into the room, which Leonora, hearing it came from Bellarmine, with

great eagerness opened, and read as follows:--

"MOST DIVINE CREATURE,--The wound which I fear you have heard I

received from my rival is not like to be so fatal as those shot into my

heart which have been fired from your eyes, _tout brilliant_. Those are

the only cannons by which I am to fall; for my surgeon gives me hopes of

being soon able to attend your _ruelle_; till when, unless you would do

me an honour which I have scarce the _hardiesse_ to think of, your

absence will be the greatest anguish which can be felt by,


"_Avec toute le respecte_ in the world,

"Your most obedient, most absolute _Devote_,


As soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of Bellarmine's recovery, and

that the gossip Fame had, according to custom, so enlarged his danger,

she presently abandoned all further thoughts of Horatio, and was soon

reconciled to her aunt, who received her again into favour, with a more

Christian forgiveness than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is

possible she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her niece had

given her concerning the presents. She might apprehend such rumours,

should they get abroad, might injure a reputation which, by frequenting

church twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigour and strictness in

her countenance and behaviour for many years, she had established.

Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine with greater force, after

its small relaxation, than ever. She proposed to her aunt to make him a

visit in his confinement, which the old lady, with great and commendable

prudence, advised her to decline: "For," says she, "should any accident

intervene to prevent your intended match, too forward a behaviour with

this lover may injure you in the eyes of others. Every woman, till she

is married, ought to consider of, and provide against, the possibility

of the affair's breaking off." Leonora said, "She should be indifferent

to whatever might happen in such a case; for she had now so absolutely

placed her affections on this dear man (so she called him), that, if it

was her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever abandon all thoughts

of mankind." She, therefore, resolved to visit him, notwithstanding all

the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very afternoon

executed her resolution.

The lady was proceeding in her story, when the coach drove into the inn

where the company were to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of Mr

Adams, whose ears were the most hungry part about him; he being, as the

reader may perhaps guess, of an insatiable curiosity, and heartily

desirous of hearing the end of this amour, though he professed he could

scarce wish success to a lady of so inconstant a disposition.


_A dreadful quarrel which happened at the Inn where the company dined,

with its bloody consequences to Mr Adams._

As soon as the passengers had alighted from the coach, Mr Adams, as was

his custom, made directly to the kitchen, where he found Joseph sitting

by the fire, and the hostess anointing his leg; for the horse which Mr

Adams had borrowed of his clerk had so violent a propensity to kneeling,

that one would have thought it had been his trade, as well as his

master's; nor would he always give any notice of such his intention; he

was often found on his knees when the rider least expected it. This

foible, however, was of no great inconvenience to the parson, who was

accustomed to it; and, as his legs almost touched the ground when he

bestrode the beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himself

forward on such occasions with so much dexterity that he never received

any mischief; the horse and he frequently rolling many paces' distance,

and afterwards both getting up and meeting as good friends as ever.

Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle, though an

excellent horseman, did not so happily disengage himself; but, falling

with his leg under the beast, received a violent contusion, to which the

good woman was, as we have said, applying a warm hand, with some

camphorated spirits, just at the time when the parson entered

the kitchen.

He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph's misfortune before the

host likewise entered. He was by no means of Mr Tow-wouse's gentle

disposition; and was, indeed, perfect master of his house, and

everything in it but his guests.

This surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to the appearance

of a traveller, from "God bless your honour," down to plain "Coming

presently," observing his wife on her knees to a footman, cried out,

without considering his circumstances, "What a pox is the woman about?

why don't you mind the company in the coach? Go and ask them what they

will have for dinner." "My dear," says she, "you know they can have

nothing but what is at the fire, which will be ready presently; and

really the poor young man's leg is very much bruised." At which words

she fell to chafing more violently than before: the bell then happening

to ring, he damn'd his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and not

stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe the young fellow's

leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, within twenty miles he

would find a surgeon to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams fetched two

strides across the room; and snapping his fingers over his head,

muttered aloud, He would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for

he believed the devil had more humanity. These words occasioned a

dialogue between Adams and the host, in which there were two or three

sharp replies, till Joseph bad the latter know how to behave himself to

his betters. At which the host (having first strictly surveyed Adams)

scornfully repeating the word "betters," flew into a rage, and, telling

Joseph he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been to walk

into it, offered to lay violent hands on him; which perceiving, Adams

dealt him so sound a compliment over his face with his fist, that the

blood immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. The host, being

unwilling to be outdone in courtesy, especially by a person of Adams's

figure, returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson's

nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. Upon which he again

assailed his antagonist, and with another stroke laid him sprawling on

the floor.

The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband deserved,

seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along, hastened presently to

his assistance, or rather to revenge the blow, which, to all appearance,

was the last he would ever receive; when, lo! a pan full of hog's blood,

which unluckily stood on the dresser, presented itself first to her

hands. She seized it in her fury, and without any reflection, discharged

it into the parson's face; and with so good an aim, that much the

greater part first saluted his countenance, and trickled thence in so

large a current down to his beard, and over his garments, that a more

horrible spectacle was hardly to be seen, or even imagined. All which

was perceived by Mrs Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant.

This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool and

patient as perhaps was required to ask many questions on this occasion,

flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, together with

some of her hair, she plucked from her head in a moment, giving her, at

the same time, several hearty cuffs in the face; which by frequent

practice on the inferior servants, she had learned an excellent knack of

delivering with a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise from his

chair; the parson was employed in wiping the blood from his eyes, which

had entirely blinded him; and the landlord was but just beginning to

stir; whilst Mrs Slipslop, holding down the landlady's face with her

left hand, made so dexterous an use of her right, that the poor woman

began to roar, in a key which alarmed all the company in the inn.

There happened to be in the inn, at this time, besides the ladies who

arrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen who were present at Mr

Tow-wouse's when Joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and whom we

have before mentioned to have stopt at the alehouse with Adams. There

was likewise a gentleman just returned from his travels to Italy; all

whom the horrid outcry of murder presently brought into the kitchen,

where the several combatants were found in the postures already


It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the conquerors being

satisfied with the vengeance they had taken, and the conquered having no

appetite to renew the fight. The principal figure, and which engaged the

eyes of all, was Adams, who was all over covered with blood, which the

whole company concluded to be his own, and consequently imagined him no

longer for this world. But the host, who had now recovered from his

blow, and was risen from the ground, soon delivered them from this

apprehension, by damning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings, and

telling her all would have been very well if she had not intermeddled,

like a b--as she was; adding, he was very glad the gentlewoman had paid

her, though not half what she deserved. The poor woman had indeed fared

much the worst; having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a

quantity of hair, which Mrs Slipslop in triumph held in her left hand.

The traveller, addressing himself to Mrs Grave-airs, desired her not to

be frightened; for here had been only a little boxing, which he said, to

their _disgracia_, the English were _accustomata_ to: adding, it must

be, however, a sight somewhat strange to him, who was just come from

Italy; the Italians not being addicted to the _cuffardo_ but _bastonza_,

says he. He then went up to Adams, and telling him he looked like the

ghost of Othello, bid him not shake his gory locks at him, for he could

not say he did it. Adams very innocently answered, "Sir, I am far from

accusing you." He then returned to the lady, and cried, "I find the

bloody gentleman is _uno insipido del nullo senso_. _Dammato di me_, if

I have seen such a _spectaculo_ in my way from Viterbo."

One of the gentlemen having learnt from the host the occasion of this

bustle, and being assured by him that Adams had struck the first blow,

whispered in his ear, "He'd warrant he would recover."--"Recover!

master," said the host, smiling: "yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying

with a blow or two neither; I am not such a chicken as that."--"Pugh!"

said the gentleman, "I mean you will recover damages in that action

which, undoubtedly, you intend to bring, as soon as a writ can be

returned from London; for you look like a man of too much spirit and

courage to suffer any one to beat you without bringing your action

against him: he must be a scandalous fellow indeed who would put up with

a drubbing whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides, he hath drawn

blood from you, and spoiled your coat; and the jury will give damages

for that too. An excellent new coat upon my word; and now not worth a

shilling! I don't care," continued he, "to intermeddle in these cases;

but you have a right to my evidence; and if I am sworn, I must speak the

truth. I saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing from your

nostrils. You may take your own opinion; but was I in your

circumstances, every drop of my blood should convey an ounce of gold

into my pocket: remember I don't advise you to go to law; but if your

jury were Christians, they must give swinging damages. That's

all."--"Master," cried the host, scratching his head, "I have no stomach

to law, I thank you. I have seen enough of that in the parish, where two

of my neighbours have been at law about a house, till they have both

lawed themselves into a gaol." At which words he turned about, and began

to inquire again after his hog's puddings; nor would it probably have

been a sufficient excuse for his wife, that she spilt them in his

defence, had not some awe of the company, especially of the Italian

traveller, who was a person of great dignity, withheld his rage.

Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was employed, as we have

seen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was no less hearty on

the side of Mr Adams, whom he advised to bring his action immediately.

He said the assault of the wife was in law the assault of the husband,

for they were but one person; and he was liable to pay damages, which he

said must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition appeared. Adams

answered, If it was true that they were but one person, he had assaulted

the wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck the husband the first

blow. "I am sorry you own it too," cries the gentleman; "for it could

not possibly appear to the court; for here was no evidence present but

the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be your friend, and would

consequently say nothing but what made for you."--"How, sir," says

Adams, "do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute revenge in

cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to obtain it? If you knew me,

and my order, I should think you affronted both." At the word order, the

gentleman stared (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of

knights); and, turning hastily about, said, "Every man knew his own


Matters being now composed, the company retired to their several

apartments; the two gentlemen congratulating each other on the success

of their good offices in procuring a perfect reconciliation between the

contending parties; and the traveller went to his repast, crying, "As

the Italian poet says--

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

The coachman began now to grow importunate with his passengers, whose

entrance into the coach was retarded by Miss Grave-airs insisting,

against the remonstrance of all the rest, that she would not admit a

footman into the coach; for poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. A

young lady, who was, as it seems, an earl's grand-daughter, begged it

with almost tears in her eyes. Mr Adams prayed, and Mrs Slipslop

scolded; but all to no purpose. She said, "She would not demean herself

to ride with a footman: that there were waggons on the road: that if the

master of the coach desired it, she would pay for two places; but would

suffer no such fellow to come in."--"Madam," says Slipslop, "I am sure

no one can refuse another coming into a stage-coach."--"I don't know,

madam," says the lady; "I am not much used to stage-coaches; I seldom

travel in them."--"That may be, madam," replied Slipslop; "very good

people do; and some people's betters, for aught I know." Miss Grave-airs

said, "Some folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty, to some

people that were their betters, which did not become them; for her part,

she was not used to converse with servants." Slipslop returned, "Some

people kept no servants to converse with; for her part, she thanked

Heaven she lived in a family where there were a great many, and had more

under her own command than any paultry little gentlewoman in the

kingdom." Miss Grave-airs cried, "She believed her mistress would not

encourage such sauciness to her betters."--"My betters," says Slipslop,

"who is my betters, pray?"--"I am your betters," answered Miss

Grave-airs, "and I'll acquaint your mistress."--At which Mrs Slipslop

laughed aloud, and told her, "Her lady was one of the great gentry; and

such little paultry gentlewomen as some folks, who travelled in

stagecoaches, would not easily come at her."

This smart dialogue between some people and some folks was going on at

the coach door when a solemn person, riding into the inn, and seeing

Miss Grave-airs, immediately accosted her with "Dear child, how do you?"

She presently answered, "O papa, I am glad you have overtaken me."--"So

am I," answered he; "for one of our coaches is just at hand; and, there

being room for you in it, you shall go no farther in the stage unless

you desire it."--"How can you imagine I should desire it?" says she; so,

bidding Slipslop ride with her fellow, if she pleased, she took her

father by the hand, who was just alighted, and walked with him into

a room.

Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, "If he knew who the

gentleman was?" The coachman answered, "He was now a gentleman, and kept

his horse and man; but times are altered, master," said be; "I remember

when he was no better born than myself."--"Ay! ay!" says Adams. "My

father drove the squire's coach," answered he, "when that very man rode

postillion; but he is now his steward; and a great gentleman." Adams

then snapped his fingers, and cried, "He thought she was some

such trollop."

Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs Slipslop with this good news, as he

imagined it; but it found a reception different from what he expected.

The prudent gentlewoman, who despised the anger of Miss Grave-airs

whilst she conceived her the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune,

now she heard her alliance with the upper servants of a great family in

her neighbourhood, began to fear her interest with the mistress. She

wished she had not carried the dispute so far, and began to think of

endeavouring to reconcile herself to the young lady before she left the

inn; when, luckily, the scene at London, which the reader can scarce

have forgotten, presented itself to her mind, and comforted her with

such assurance, that she no longer apprehended any enemy with

her mistress.

Everything being now adjusted, the company entered the coach, which was

just on its departure, when one lady recollected she had left her fan, a

second her gloves, a third a snuff-box, and a fourth a smelling-bottle

behind her; to find all which occasioned some delay and much swearing to

the coachman.

As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women all together fell to

the character of Miss Grave-airs; whom one of them declared she had

suspected to be some low creature, from the beginning of their journey,

and another affirmed she had not even the looks of a gentlewoman: a

third warranted she was no better than she should be; and, turning to

the lady who had related the story in the coach, said, "Did you ever

hear, madam, anything so prudish as her remarks? Well, deliver me from

the censoriousness of such a prude." The fourth added, "O madam! all

these creatures are censorious; but for my part, I wonder where the

wretch was bred; indeed, I must own I have seldom conversed with these

mean kind of people, so that it may appear stranger to me; but to refuse

the general desire of a whole company had something in it so

astonishing, that, for my part, I own I should hardly believe it if my

own ears had not been witnesses to it."--"Yes, and so handsome a young

fellow," cries Slipslop; "the woman must have no compulsion in her: I

believe she is more of a Turk than a Christian; I am certain, if she had

any Christian woman's blood in her veins, the sight of such a young

fellow must have warmed it. Indeed, there are some wretched, miserable

old objects, that turn one's stomach; I should not wonder if she had

refused such a one; I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no

more than herself for the company of stinking old fellows; but, hold up

thy head, Joseph, thou art none of those; and she who hath not

compulsion for thee is a Myhummetman, and I will maintain it." This

conversation made Joseph uneasy as well as the ladies; who, perceiving

the spirits which Mrs Slipslop was in (for indeed she was not a cup too

low), began to fear the consequence; one of them therefore desired the

lady to conclude the story. "Aye, madam," said Slipslop, "I beg your

ladyship to give us that story you commensated in the morning;" which

request that well-bred woman immediately complied with.


_Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt._

Leonora, having once broke through the bounds which custom and modesty

impose on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indulgence to her passion. Her

visits to Bellarmine were more constant, as well as longer, than his

surgeon's: in a word, she became absolutely his nurse; made his

water-gruel, administered him his medicines; and, notwithstanding the

prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost intirely resided in

her wounded lover's apartment.

The ladies of the town began to take her conduct under consideration: it

was the chief topic of discourse at their tea-tables, and was very

severely censured by the most part; especially by Lindamira, a lady

whose discreet and starch carriage, together with a constant attendance

at church three times a day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks

on her own reputation; for such was the envy that Lindamira's virtue had

attracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict behaviour and strict

enquiry into the lives of others, she had not been able to escape being

the mark of some arrows herself, which, however, did her no injury; a

blessing, perhaps, owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief male

companions, and with two or three of whom she had been barbarously and

unjustly calumniated.

"Not so unjustly neither, perhaps," says Slipslop; "for the clergy are

men, as well as other folks."

The extreme delicacy of Lindamira's virtue was cruelly hurt by those

freedoms which Leonora allowed herself: she said, "It was an affront to

her sex; that she did not imagine it consistent with any woman's honour

to speak to the creature, or to be seen in her company; and that, for

her part, she should always refuse to dance at an assembly with her,

for fear of contamination by taking her by the hand."

But to return to my story: as soon as Bellarmine was recovered, which

was somewhat within a month from his receiving the wound, he set out,

according to agreement, for Leonora's father's, in order to propose the

match, and settle all matters with him touching settlements, and

the like.

A little before his arrival the old gentleman had received an intimation

of the affair by the following letter, which I can repeat verbatim, and

which, they say, was written neither by Leonora nor her aunt, though it

was in a woman's hand. The letter was in these words:--

"SIR,--I am sorry to acquaint you that your daughter, Leonora, hath

acted one of the basest as well as most simple parts with a young

gentleman to whom she had engaged herself, and whom she hath (pardon the

word) jilted for another of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his

superior figure. You may take what measures you please on this occasion;

I have performed what I thought my duty; as I have, though unknown to

you, a very great respect for your family."

The old gentleman did not give himself the trouble to answer this kind

epistle; nor did he take any notice of it, after he had read it, till he

saw Bellarmine. He was, to say the truth, one of those fathers who look

on children as an unhappy consequence of their youthful pleasures;

which, as he would have been delighted not to have had attended them, so

was he no less pleased with any opportunity to rid himself of the

incumbrance. He passed, in the world's language, as an exceeding good

father; being not only so rapacious as to rob and plunder all mankind to

the utmost of his power, but even to deny himself the conveniencies, and

almost necessaries, of life; which his neighbours attributed to a desire

of raising immense fortunes for his children: but in fact it was not

so; he heaped up money for its own sake only, and looked on his children

as his rivals, who were to enjoy his beloved mistress when he was

incapable of possessing her, and which he would have been much more

charmed with the power of carrying along with him; nor had his children

any other security of being his heirs than that the law would constitute

them such without a will, and that he had not affection enough for any

one living to take the trouble of writing one.

To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the errand I have mentioned. His

person, his equipage, his family, and his estate, seemed to the father

to make him an advantageous match for his daughter: he therefore very

readily accepted his proposals: but when Bellarmine imagined the

principal affair concluded, and began to open the incidental matters of

fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his countenance, saying,

"He resolved never to marry his daughter on a Smithfield match; that

whoever had love for her to take her would, when he died, find her share

of his fortune in his coffers; but he had seen such examples of

undutifulness happen from the too early generosity of parents, that he

had made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived." He

commended the saying of Solomon, "He that spareth the rod spoileth the

child;" but added, "he might have likewise asserted, That he that

spareth the purse saveth the child." He then ran into a discourse on the

extravagance of the youth of the age; whence he launched into a

dissertation on horses; and came at length to commend those Bellarmine

drove. That fine gentleman, who at another season would have been well

enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very eager to

resume the circumstance of fortune. He said, "He had a very high value

for the young lady, and would receive her with less than he would any

other whatever; but that even his love to her made some regard to

worldly matters necessary; for it would be a most distracting sight for

him to see her, when he had the honour to be her husband, in less than a

coach and six." The old gentleman answered, "Four will do, four will

do;" and then took a turn from horses to extravagance and from

extravagance to horses, till he came round to the equipage again;

whither he was no sooner arrived than Bellarmine brought him back to the

point; but all to no purpose; he made his escape from that subject in a

minute; till at last the lover declared, "That in the present situation

of his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved Leonora more

than _tout le monde_, to marry her without any fortune." To which the

father answered, "He was sorry that his daughter must lose so valuable a

match; that, if he had an inclination, at present it was not in his

power to advance a shilling: that he had had great losses, and been at

great expenses on projects; which, though he had great expectation from

them, had yet produced him nothing: that he did not know what might

happen hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such accident; but he

would make no promise, or enter into any article, for he would not break

his vow for all the daughters in the world."

In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, Bellarmine, having

tried every argument and persuasion which he could invent, and finding

them all ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order to

return to Leonora; he proceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after

a few days' stay, he returned to Paris, to the great delight of the

French and the honour of the English nation.

But as soon as he arrived at his home he presently despatched a

messenger with the following epistle to Leonora:--

"ADORABLE AND CHARMANTE,--I am sorry to have the honour to tell you I

am not the _heureux_ person destined for your divine arms. Your papa

hath told me so with a _politesse_ not often seen on this side Paris.

You may perhaps guess his manner of refusing me. _Ah, mon Dieu!_ You

will certainly believe me, madam, incapable myself of delivering this

_triste_ message, which I intend to try the French air to cure the

consequences of. _A jamais! Coeur! Ange! Au diable!_ If your papa

obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall see you at Paris; till when,

the wind that flows from thence will be the warmest _dans le monde_, for

it will consist almost entirely of my sighs. _Adieu, ma princesse!

Ah, l'amour!_


I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's condition when she

received this letter. It is a picture of horror, which I should have as

little pleasure in drawing as you in beholding. She immediately left the

place where she was the subject of conversation and ridicule, and

retired to that house I showed you when I began the story; where she

hath ever since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, perhaps, pity for

her misfortunes, more than our censure for a behaviour to which the

artifices of her aunt very probably contributed, and to which very young

women are often rendered too liable by that blameable levity in the

education of our sex.

"If I was inclined to pity her," said a young lady in the coach, "it

would be for the loss of Horatio; for I cannot discern any misfortune in

her missing such a husband as Bellarmine."

"Why, I must own," says Slipslop, "the gentleman was a little

false-hearted; but howsumever, it was hard to have two lovers, and get

never a husband at all. But pray, madam, what became of _Our-asho_?"

He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath applied himself so

strictly to his business, that he hath raised, I hear, a very

considerable fortune. And what is remarkable, they say he never hears

the name of Leonora without a sigh, nor hath ever uttered one syllable

to charge her with her ill-conduct towards him.


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

The lady, having finished her story, received the thanks of the company;

and now Joseph, putting his head out of the coach, cried out, "Never

believe me if yonder be not our parson Adams walking along without his

horse!"--"On my word, and so he is," says Slipslop: "and as sure as

twopence he hath left him behind at the inn." Indeed, true it is, the

parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind; for he was

so pleased with having got Joseph into the coach, that he never once

thought of the beast in the stable; and, finding his legs as nimble as

he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a crabstick, and had kept on

before the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so that

he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile

distant from it.

Mrs Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted,

but in vain; for the faster he drove the faster ran the parson, often

crying out, "Aye, aye, catch me if you can;" till at length the coachman

swore he would as soon attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, giving

the parson two or three hearty curses, he cry'd, "Softly, softly, boys,"

to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately obeyed.

But we will be more courteous to our reader than he was to Mrs

Slipslop; and, leaving the coach and its company to pursue their

journey, we will carry our reader on after parson Adams, who stretched

forwards without once looking behind him, till, having left the coach

full three miles in his rear, he came to a place where, by keeping the

extremest track to the right, it was just barely possible for a human

creature to miss his way. This track, however, did he keep, as indeed he

had a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare possibilities, and,

travelling in it about three miles over the plain, he arrived at the

summit of a hill, whence looking a great way backwards, and perceiving

no coach in sight, he sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling out his

Aeschylus, determined to wait here for its arrival.

He had not sat long here before a gun going off very near, a little

startled him; he looked up and saw a gentleman within a hundred paces

taking up a partridge which he had just shot.

Adams stood up and presented a figure to the gentleman which would have

moved laughter in many; for his cassock had just again fallen down below

his greatcoat, that is to say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts

of his greatcoat descended no lower than half-way down his thighs; but

the gentleman's mirth gave way to his surprize at beholding such a

personage in such a place.

Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he had good sport,

to which the other answered, "Very little."--"I see, sir," says Adams,

"you have smote one partridge;" to which the sportsman made no reply,

but proceeded to charge his piece.

Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in silence, which he at last

broke by observing that it was a delightful evening. The gentleman, who

had at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of the parson,

began, on perceiving a book in his hand and smoaking likewise the

information of the cassock, to change his thoughts, and made a small

advance to conversation on his side by saying, "Sir, I suppose you are

not one of these parts?"

Adams immediately told him, "No; that he was a traveller, and invited by

the beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little and amuse

himself with reading."--"I may as well repose myself too," said the

sportsman, "for I have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil a

bird have I seen till I came hither."

"Perhaps then the game is not very plenty hereabouts?" cries Adams. "No,

sir," said the gentleman: "the soldiers, who are quartered in the

neighbourhood, have killed it all."--"It is very probable," cries Adams,

"for shooting is their profession."--"Ay, shooting the game," answered

the other; "but I don't see they are so forward to shoot our enemies. I

don't like that affair of Carthagena; if I had been there, I believe I

should have done other-guess things, d--n me: what's a man's life when

his country demands it? a man who won't sacrifice his life for his

country deserves to be hanged, d--n me." Which words he spoke with so

violent a gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so fierce a

countenance, that he might have frightened a captain of trained bands at

the head of his company; but Mr Adams was not greatly subject to fear;

he told him intrepidly that he very much approved his virtue, but

disliked his swearing, and begged him not to addict himself to so bad a

custom, without which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did.

Indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he told the gentleman he

would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generous

way of thinking; that, if he pleased to sit down, he should be greatly

delighted to commune with him; for, though he was a clergyman, he would

himself be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his life for

his country.

The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; and then the latter began, as

in the following chapter, a discourse which we have placed by itself, as

it is not only the most curious in this but perhaps in any other book.


_A notable dissertation by Mr Abraham Adams; wherein that gentleman

appears in a political light._

"I do assure you, sir" (says he, taking the gentleman by the hand), "I

am heartily glad to meet with a man of your kidney; for, though I am a

poor parson, I will be bold to say I am an honest man, and would not do

an ill thing to be made a bishop; nay, though it hath not fallen in my

way to offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not been without opportunities

of suffering for the sake of my conscience, I thank Heaven for them; for

I have had relations, though I say it, who made some figure in the

world; particularly a nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a

corporation. He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy; and I

believe would do what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like

extreme vanity in me to affect being a man of such consequence as to

have so great an interest in an alderman; but others have thought so

too, as manifestly appeared by the rector, whose curate I formerly was,

sending for me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if I

expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephew to vote

for one Colonel Courtly, a gentleman whom I had never heard tidings of

till that instant. I told the rector I had no power over my nephew's

vote (God forgive me for such prevarication!); that I supposed he would

give it according to his conscience; that I would by no means endeavour

to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it was in vain to

equivocate; that he knew I had already spoke to him in favour of esquire

Fickle, my neighbour; and, indeed, it was true I had; for it was at a

season when the church was in danger, and when all good men expected

they knew not what would happen to us all. I then answered boldly, if he

thought I had given my promise, he affronted me in proposing any breach

of it. Not to be too prolix; I persevered, and so did my nephew, in the

esquire's interest, who was chose chiefly through his means; and so I

lost my curacy, Well, sir, but do you think the esquire ever mentioned a

word of the church? _Ne verbum quidem, ut ita dicam_: within two years

he got a place, and hath ever since lived in London; where I have been

informed (but God forbid I should believe that,) that he never so much

as goeth to church. I remained, sir, a considerable time without any

cure, and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which I preached on

the indisposition of a clergyman; but this by the bye. At last, when Mr

Fickle got his place, Colonel Courtly stood again; and who should make

interest for him but Mr Fickle himself! that very identical Mr Fickle,

who had formerly told me the colonel was an enemy to both the church and

state, had the confidence to sollicit my nephew for him; and the colonel

himself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, which I refused

in favour of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us he would sacrifice

everything to his country; and I believe he would, except his hunting,

which he stuck so close to, that in five years together he went but

twice up to parliament; and one of those times, I have been told, never

was within sight of the House. However, he was a worthy man, and the

best friend I ever had; for, by his interest with a bishop, he got me

replaced into my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket

to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. He had our interest

while he lived, which was not many years. On his death I had fresh

applications made to me; for all the world knew the interest I had with

my good nephew, who now was a leading man in the corporation; and Sir

Thomas Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver's, proposed

himself a candidate. He was then a young gentleman just come from his

travels; and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs which, for

my part, I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a thousand votes he

should have had them all. I engaged my nephew in his interest, and he

was elected; and a very fine parliament-man he was. They tell me he made

speeches of an hour long, and, I have been told, very fine ones; but he

could never persuade the parliament to be of his opinion. _Non omnia

possumus omnes_. He promised me a living, poor man! and I believe I

should have had it, but an accident happened, which was, that my lady

had promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I never heard till

afterwards; for my nephew, who died about a month before the incumbent,

always told me I might be assured of it. Since that time, Sir Thomas,

poor man, had always so much business, that he never could find leisure

to see me. I believe it was partly my lady's fault too, who did not

think my dress good enough for the gentry at her table. However, I must

do him the justice to say he never was ungrateful; and I have always

found his kitchen, and his cellar too, open to me: many a time, after

service on a Sunday--for I preach at four churches--have I recruited my

spirits with a glass of his ale. Since my nephew's death, the

corporation is in other hands; and I am not a man of that consequence I

was formerly. I have now no longer any talents to lay out in the service

of my country; and to whom nothing is given, of him can nothing be

required. However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach of an

election, I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I have

the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas and the other

honest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me these five

years to procure an ordination for a son of mine, who is now near

thirty, hath an infinite stock of learning, and is, I thank Heaven, of

an unexceptionable life; though, as he was never at an university, the

bishop refuses to ordain him. Too much care cannot indeed be taken in

admitting any to the sacred office; though I hope he will never act so

as to be a disgrace to any order, but will serve his God and his country

to the utmost of his power, as I have endeavoured to do before him; nay,

and will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose. I am sure I

have educated him in those principles; so that I have acquitted my duty,

and shall have nothing to answer for on that account. But I do not

distrust him, for he is a good boy; and if Providence should throw it in

his way to be of as much consequence in a public light as his father

once was, I can answer for him he will use his talents as honestly as I

have done."


_In which the gentleman discants on bravery and heroic virtue, till an

unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse._

The gentleman highly commended Mr Adams for his good resolutions, and

told him, "He hoped his son would tread in his steps;" adding, "that if

he would not die for his country, he would not be worthy to live in it.

I'd make no more of shooting a man that would not die for his

country, than--

"Sir," said he, "I have disinherited a nephew, who is in the army,

because he would not exchange his commission and go to the West Indies.

I believe the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in love

forsooth. I would have all such fellows hanged, sir; I would have them

hanged." Adams answered, "That would be too severe; that men did not

make themselves; and if fear had too much ascendance in the mind, the

man was rather to be pitied than abhorred; that reason and time might

teach him to subdue it." He said, "A man might be a coward at one time,

and brave at another. Homer," says he, "who so well understood and

copied Nature, hath taught us this lesson; for Paris fights and Hector

runs away. Nay, we have a mighty instance of this in the history of

later ages, no longer ago than the 705th year of Rome, when the great

Pompey, who had won so many battles and been honoured with so many

triumphs, and of whose valour several authors, especially Cicero and

Paterculus, have formed such elogiums; this very Pompey left the battle

of Pharsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to his tent, where he

sat like the most pusillanimous rascal in a fit of despair, and yielded

a victory, which was to determine the empire of the world, to Caesar. I

am not much travelled in the history of modern times, that is to say,

these last thousand years; but those who are can, I make no question,

furnish you with parallel instances." He concluded, therefore, that, had

he taken any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he

would consider better, and retract them. The gentleman answered with

great warmth, and talked much of courage and his country, till,

perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams, "What place he intended for

that night?" He told him, "He waited there for the stage-coach."--"The

stage-coach, sir!" said the gentleman; "they are all passed by long ago.

You may see the last yourself almost three miles before us."--"I protest

and so they are," cries Adams; "then I must make haste and follow them."

The gentleman told him, "he would hardly be able to overtake them; and

that, if he did not know his way, he would be in danger of losing

himself on the downs, for it would be presently dark; and he might

ramble about all night, and perhaps find himself farther from his

journey's end in the morning than he was now." He advised him,

therefore, "to accompany him to his house, which was very little out of

his way," assuring him "that he would find some country fellow in his

parish who would conduct him for sixpence to the city where he was

going." Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, the

gentleman renewing his discourse on courage, and the infamy of not being

ready, at all times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night

overtook them much about the same time as they arrived near some bushes;

whence, on a sudden, they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a

female voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his companion's

hand. "What are you doing?" said he. "Doing!" said Adams; "I am

hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains are

murdering." "You are not mad enough, I hope," says the gentleman,

trembling: "do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that

the robbers are most probably furnished with pistols loaded with

bullets? This is no business of ours; let us make as much haste as

possible out of the way, or we may fall into their hands ourselves." The

shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but snapt his fingers,

and, brandishing his crabstick, made directly to the place whence the

voice issued; and the man of courage made as much expedition towards his

own home, whither he escaped in a very short time without once looking

behind him; where we will leave him, to contemplate his own bravery, and

to censure the want of it in others, and return to the good Adams, who,

on coming up to the place whence the noise proceeded, found a woman

struggling with a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almost

overpowered her. The great abilities of Mr Adams were not necessary to

have formed a right judgment of this affair on the first sight. He did

not, therefore, want the entreaties of the poor wretch to assist her;

but, lifting up his crabstick, he immediately levelled a blow at that

part of the ravisher's head where, according to the opinion of the

ancients, the brains of some persons are deposited, and which he had

undoubtedly let forth, had not Nature (who, as wise men have observed,

equips all creatures with what is most expedient for them) taken a

provident care (as she always doth with those she intends for

encounters) to make this part of the head three times as thick as those

of ordinary men who are designed to exercise talents which are vulgarly

called rational, and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged

to leave some room for them in the cavity of the skull; whereas, those

ingredients being entirely useless to persons of the heroic calling, she

hath an opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it less

subject to any impression, or liable to be cracked or broken: and

indeed, in some who are predestined to the command of armies and

empires, she is supposed sometimes to make that part perfectly solid.

As a game cock, when engaged in amorous toying with a hen, if perchance

he espies another cock at hand, immediately quits his female, and

opposes himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on the information of

the crabstick, immediately leap from the woman and hasten to assail the

man. He had no weapons but what Nature had furnished him with. However,

he clenched his fist, and presently darted it at that part of Adams's

breast where the heart is lodged. Adams staggered at the violence of the

blow, when, throwing away his staff, he likewise clenched that fist

which we have before commemorated, and would have discharged it full in

the breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it with his

left hand, at the same time darting his head (which some modern heroes

of the lower class use, like the battering-ram of the ancients, for a

weapon of offence; another reason to admire the cunningness of Nature,

in composing it of those impenetrable materials); dashing his head, I

say, into the stomach of Adams, he tumbled him on his back; and, not

having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have restrained

him from any farther attack on his enemy till he was again on his legs,

he threw himself upon him, and, laying hold on the ground with his left

hand, he with his right belaboured the body of Adams till he was weary,

and indeed till he concluded (to use the language of fighting) "that he

had done his business;" or, in the language of poetry, "that he had sent

him to the shades below;" in plain English, "that he was dead."

But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear a drubbing as well as any

boxing champion in the universe, lay still only to watch his

opportunity; and now, perceiving his antagonist to pant with his

labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and with such success that

he overturned him, and became his superior; when, fixing one of his

knees in his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, "It is my turn

now;" and, after a few minutes' constant application, he gave him so

dexterous a blow just under his chin that the fellow no longer retained

any motion, and Adams began to fear he had struck him once too often;

for he often asserted "he should be concerned to have the blood of even

the wicked upon him."

Adams got up and called aloud to the young woman. "Be of good cheer,

damsel," said he, "you are no longer in danger of your ravisher, who, I

am terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet; but God forgive me what I have

done in defence of innocence!" The poor wretch, who had been some time

in recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, during the

engagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear even from running

away, hearing her champion was victorious, came up to him, but not

without apprehensions even of her deliverer; which, however, she was

soon relieved from by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. They

were both standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, and

which Adams wished to see stir much more than the woman did, when he

earnestly begged her to tell him "by what misfortune she came, at such a

time of night, into so lonely a place." She acquainted him, "She was

travelling towards London, and had accidentally met with the person from

whom he had delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his journey

to the same place, and would keep her company; an offer which,

suspecting no harm, she had accepted; that he told her they were at a

small distance from an inn where she might take up her lodging that

evening, and he would show her a nearer way to it than by following the

road; that if she had suspected him (which she did not, he spoke so

kindly to her), being alone on these downs in the dark, she had no human

means to avoid him; that, therefore, she put her whole trust in

Providence, and walked on, expecting every moment to arrive at the inn;

when on a sudden, being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop,

and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties,

which she rejected, he laid violent hands on her, and was attempting to

execute his wicked will, when, she thanked G--, he timely came up and

prevented him." Adams encouraged her for saying she had put her whole

trust in Providence, and told her, "He doubted not but Providence had

sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. He wished

indeed he had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but G--'s will be

done;" said, "He hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse him in

the next world, and he trusted in her evidence to acquit him in this."

He was then silent, and began to consider with himself whether it would

be properer to make his escape, or to deliver himself into the hands of

justice; which meditation ended as the reader will see in the

next chapter.


_Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding

adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities; and who the

woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to his

victorious arm._

The silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night and loneliness

of the place, struck dreadful apprehension into the poor woman's mind;

she began to fear as great an enemy in her deliverer as he had

delivered her from; and as she had not light enough to discover the age

of Adams, and the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspected

he had used her as some very honest men have used their country; and had

rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in order to rifle her

himself. Such were the suspicions she drew from his silence; but indeed

they were ill-grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely

weighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of the

two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgment

sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the other; for both

seemed to him so equally advisable and so equally dangerous, that

probably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, on

that very spot, before he had taken any resolution; at length he lifted

up his eyes, and spied a light at a distance, to which he instantly

addressed himself with _Heus tu, traveller, heus tu!_ He presently heard

several voices, and perceived the light approaching toward him. The

persons who attended the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and

others to hollow, at which the woman testified some fear (for she had

concealed her suspicions of the parson himself); but Adams said, "Be of

good cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Providence which

hath hitherto protected thee, and never will forsake the innocent."

These people, who now approached, were no other, reader, than a set of

young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit of a diversion which

they call bird-batting. This, if you are ignorant of it (as perhaps if

thou hast never travelled beyond Kensington, Islington, Hackney, or the

Borough, thou mayst be), I will inform thee, is performed by holding a

large clap-net before a lanthorn, and at the same time beating the

bushes; for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places of

rest, or roost, immediately make to the light, and so are inticed

within the net. Adams immediately told them what happened, and desired

them to hold the lanthorn to the face of the man on the ground, for he

feared he had smote him fatally. But indeed his fears were frivolous;

for the fellow, though he had been stunned by the last blow he received,

had long since recovered his senses, and, finding himself quit of Adams,

had listened attentively to the discourse between him and the young

woman; for whose departure he had patiently waited, that he might

likewise withdraw himself, having no longer hopes of succeeding in his

desires, which were moreover almost as well cooled by Mr Adams as they

could have been by the young woman herself had he obtained his utmost

wish. This fellow, who had a readiness at improving any accident,

thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man; and,

accordingly, the moment the candle was held to his face he leapt up,

and, laying hold on Adams, cried out, "No, villain, I am not dead,

though you and your wicked whore might well think me so, after the

barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. Gentlemen," said he, "you

are luckily come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who would

otherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman, who

led me hither out of my way from the high-road, and both falling on me

have used me as you see." Adams was going to answer, when one of the

young fellows cried, "D--n them, let's carry them both before the

justice." The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his

voice, but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him; and one

holding the lanthorn to his face, they all agreed he had the most

villainous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney's clerk, who

was of the company, declared he was sure he had remembered him at the

bar. As to the woman, her hair was dishevelled in the struggle, and her

nose had bled; so that they could not perceive whether she was handsome

or ugly, but they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. And

searching her pockets, as they did those of Adams, for money, which the

fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a purse with some gold

in it, which abundantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offered

to swear to it. Mr Adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny

about him. This the clerk said "was a great presumption that he was an

old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman." To which

all the rest readily assented.

This accident promising them better sport than what they had proposed,

they quitted their intention of catching birds, and unanimously resolved

to proceed to the justice with the offenders. Being informed what a

desperate fellow Adams was, they tied his hands behind him; and, having

hid their nets among the bushes, and the lanthorn being carried before

them, they placed the two prisoners in their front, and then began their

march; Adams not only submitting patiently to his own fate, but

comforting and encouraging his companion under her sufferings.

Whilst they were on their way the clerk informed the rest that this

adventure would prove a very beneficial one; for that they would all be

entitled to their proportions of £80 for apprehending the robbers. This

occasioned a contention concerning the parts which they had severally

borne in taking them; one insisting he ought to have the greatest share,

for he had first laid his hands on Adams; another claiming a superior

part for having first held the lanthorn to the man's face on the ground,

by which, he said, "the whole was discovered." The clerk claimed

four-fifths of the reward for having proposed to search the prisoners,

and likewise the carrying them before the justice: he said, "Indeed, in

strict justice, he ought to have the whole." These claims, however,

they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed all to

agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated what

money should be allotted to the young fellow who had been employed only

in holding the nets. He very modestly said, "That he did not apprehend

any large proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would allow

him something; he desired them to consider that they had assigned their

nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in

laying hold of the robbers" (for so those innocent people were called);

"that if he had not occupied the nets, some other must;" concluding,

however, "that he should be contented with the smallest share

imaginable, and should think that rather their bounty than his merit."

But they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever, the

clerk particularly swearing, "If they gave him a shilling they might do

what they pleased with the rest; for he would not concern himself with

the affair." This contention was so hot, and so totally engaged the

attention of all the parties, that a dexterous nimble thief, had he been

in Mr Adams's situation, would have taken care to have given the justice

no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art of a Sheppard

to escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so much

befriended him; but Adams trusted rather to his innocence than his

heels, and, without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance

(which was impossible, as there were six lusty young fellows, besides

the villain himself, present), he walked with perfect resignation the

way they thought proper to conduct him.

Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations during their journey; at

last, poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his mind, he could not refrain

sighing forth his name, which being heard by his companion in

affliction, she cried with some vehemence, "Sure I should know that

voice; you cannot certainly, sir, be Mr Abraham Adams?"--"Indeed,

damsel," says he, "that is my name; there is something also in your

voice which persuades me I have heard it before."--"La! sir," says she,

"don't you remember poor Fanny?"--"How, Fanny!" answered Adams: "indeed

I very well remember you; what can have brought you hither?"--"I have

told you, sir," replied she, "I was travelling towards London; but I

thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews; pray what is become of him?"--"I

left him, child, this afternoon," said Adams, "in the stage-coach, in

his way towards our parish, whither he is going to see you."--"To see

me! La, sir," answered Fanny, "sure you jeer me; what should he be going

to see me for?"--"Can you ask that?" replied Adams. "I hope, Fanny, you

are not inconstant; I assure you he deserves much better of you."--"La!

Mr Adams," said she, "what is Mr Joseph to me? I am sure I never had

anything to say to him, but as one fellow-servant might to another."--"I

am sorry to hear this," said Adams; "a virtuous passion for a young man

is what no woman need be ashamed of. You either do not tell me truth, or

you are false to a very worthy man." Adams then told her what had

happened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively; and a sigh

often escaped from her, notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to the

contrary; nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousand

questions, which would have assured any one but Adams, who never saw

farther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of a

passion she endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that this poor

girl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune, by some of the servants

belonging to the coach which we have formerly mentioned to have stopt at

the inn while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that instant

abandoned the cow she was milking, and, taking with her a little bundle

of clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth in her own

purse, without consulting any one, immediately set forward in pursuit of

one whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved with

inexpressible violence, though with the purest and most delicate

passion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend her

character to all our female readers, and not greatly surprize such of

our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex,

we shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindicate.


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


Their fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dispute concerning

the division of the reward for apprehending these innocent people, that

they attended very little to their discourse. They were now arrived at

the justice's house, and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint his

worship that they had taken two robbers and brought them before him. The

justice, who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not yet

finished his dinner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into the

stable, whither they were attended by all the servants in the house, and

all the people in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see them

with as much curiosity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, or

that a rogue did not look like other people.

The justice, now being in the height of his mirth and his cups,

bethought himself of the prisoners; and, telling his company he believed

they should have good sport in their examination, he ordered them into

his presence. They had no sooner entered the room than he began to

revile them, saying, "That robberies on the highway were now grown so

frequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, and assured

them they both should be made examples of at the ensuing assizes." After

he had gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded by his clerk,

"That it would be proper to take the depositions of the witnesses

against them." Which he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the

meantime. Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the deposition

of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice employed

himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by all

the company at table. One asked, "Whether she was to be indicted for a

highwayman?" Another whispered in her ear, "If she had not provided

herself a great belly, he was at her service." A third said, "He

warranted she was a relation of Turpin." To which one of the company, a

great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered, "He believed

she was nearer related to Turpis;" at which there was an universal

laugh. They were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when somebody,

smoking the cassock peeping forth from under the greatcoat of Adams,

cried out, "What have we here, a parson?" "How, sirrah," says the

justice, "do you go robbing in the dress of a clergyman? let me tell you

your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy." "Yes,"

said the witty fellow, "he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be

exalted above the heads of the people;" at which there was a second

laugh. And now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in

spirits; and, turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verses, and,

provoking him by giving the first blow, he repeated--

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

Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told him, "He

deserved scourging for his pronunciation." The witty fellow answered,

"What do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer the first

time? Why, I'll give one, you blockhead, with an S.

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

"What, canst not with an M neither? Thou art a pretty fellow for a

parson! Why didst not steal some of the parson's Latin as well as his

gown?" Another at the table then answered, "If he had, you would have

been too hard for him; I remember you at the college a very devil at

this sport; I have seen you catch a freshman, for nobody that knew you

would engage with you." "I have forgot those things now," cried the wit.

"I believe I could have done pretty well formerly. Let's see, what did I

end with?--an M again--aye--

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

I could have done it once." "Ah! evil betide you, and so you can now,"

said the other: "nobody in this country will undertake you." Adams could

hold no longer: "Friend," said he, "I have a boy not above eight years

old who would instruct thee that the last verse runs thus:--

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

"I'll hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, throwing the money on

the table. "And I'll go your halves," cries the other. "Done," answered

Adams; but upon applying to his pocket he was forced to retract, and own

he had no money about him; which set them all a-laughing, and confirmed

the triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more than the

approbation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he must

go a little longer to school before he attempted to attack that

gentleman in Latin.

The clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the fellow

himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered them to

the justice; who, having sworn the several witnesses without reading a

syllable, ordered his clerk to make the mittimus.

Adams then said, "He hoped he should not be condemned unheard." "No,

no," cries the justice, "you will be asked what you have to say for

yourself when you come on your trial: we are not trying you now; I shall

only commit you to gaol: if you can prove your innocence at size, you

will be found ignoramus, and so no harm done." "Is it no punishment,

sir, for an innocent man to lie several months in gaol?" cries Adams: "I

beg you would at least hear me before you sign the mittimus." "What

signifies all you can say?" says the justice: "is it not here in black

and white against you? I must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow

to take up so much of my time. So make haste with his mittimus."

The clerk now acquainted the justice that among other suspicious things,

as a penknife, &c., found in Adams's pocket, they had discovered a book

written, as he apprehended, in cyphers; for no one could read a word in

it. "Ay," says the justice, "the fellow may be more than a common

robber, he may be in a plot against the Government. Produce the book."

Upon which the poor manuscript of Aeschylus, which Adams had transcribed

with his own hand, was brought forth; and the justice, looking at it,

shook his head, and, turning to the prisoner, asked the meaning of those

cyphers. "Cyphers?" answered Adams, "it is a manuscript of Aeschylus."

"Who? who?" said the justice. Adams repeated, "Aeschylus." "That is an

outlandish name," cried the clerk. "A fictitious name rather, I

believe," said the justice. One of the company declared it looked very

much like Greek. "Greek?" said the justice; "why, 'tis all writing."

"No," says the other, "I don't positively say it is so; for it is a very

long time since I have seen any Greek." "There's one," says he, turning

to the parson of the parish, who was present, "will tell us

immediately." The parson, taking up the book, and putting on his

spectacles and gravity together, muttered some words to himself, and

then pronounced aloud--"Ay, indeed, it is a Greek manuscript; a very

fine piece of antiquity. I make no doubt but it was stolen from the same

clergyman from whom the rogue took the cassock." "What did the rascal

mean by his Aeschylus?" says the justice. "Pooh!" answered the doctor,

with a contemptuous grin, "do you think that fellow knows anything of

this book? Aeschylus! ho! ho! I see now what it is--a manuscript of one

of the fathers. I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of money

for such a piece of antiquity. Ay, ay, question and answer. The

beginning is the catechism in Greek. Ay, ay, _Pollaki toi_: What's your

name?"--"Ay, what's your name?" says the justice to Adams; who answered,

"It is Aeschylus, and I will maintain it."--"Oh! it is," says the

justice: "make Mr Aeschylus his mittimus. I will teach you to banter me

with a false name."

One of the company, having looked steadfastly at Adams, asked him, "If

he did not know Lady Booby?" Upon which Adams, presently calling him to

mind, answered in a rapture, "O squire! are you there? I believe you

will inform his worship I am innocent."--"I can indeed say," replied the

squire, "that I am very much surprized to see you in this situation:"

and then, addressing himself to the justice, he said, "Sir, I assure

you Mr Adams is a clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very

good character. I wish you would enquire a little farther into this

affair; for I am convinced of his innocence."--"Nay," says the justice,

"if he is a gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don't desire

to commit him, not I: I will commit the woman by herself, and take your

bail for the gentleman: look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to

take bail--come--and make the mittimus for the woman as fast as you

can."--"Sir," cries Adams, "I assure you she is as innocent as

myself."--"Perhaps," said the squire, "there may be some mistake! pray

let us hear Mr Adams's relation."--"With all my heart," answered the

justice; "and give the gentleman a glass to wet his whistle before he

begins. I know how to behave myself to gentlemen as well as another.

Nobody can say I have committed a gentleman since I have been in the

commission." Adams then began the narrative, in which, though he was

very prolix, he was uninterrupted, unless by several hums and hahs of

the justice, and his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to him

most material. When he had finished, the justice, who, on what the

squire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his bare

affirmation, notwithstanding the depositions on oath to the contrary,

began to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, whom

he ordered to stand forth, but in vain; the said witness, long since

finding what turn matters were likely to take, had privily withdrawn,

without attending the issue. The justice now flew into a violent

passion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocent

fellows who had been imposed on as well as himself. He swore, "They had

best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before

him within two days, or he would bind them all over to their good

behaviour." They all promised to use their best endeavours to that

purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice insisted that Mr Adams

should sit down and take a glass with him; and the parson of the parish

delivered him back the manuscript without saying a word; nor would

Adams, who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she

was, at her own request, recommended to the care of a maid-servant of

the house, who helped her to new dress and clean herself.

The company in the parlour had not been long seated before they were

alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the persons who had

apprehended Adams and Fanny had been regaling, according to the custom

of the house, with the justice's strong beer. These were all fallen

together by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. The

justice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his presence soon

put an end to the fray. On his return into the parlour, he reported,

"That the occasion of the quarrel was no other than a dispute to whom,

if Adams had been convicted, the greater share of the reward for

apprehending him had belonged." All the company laughed at this, except

Adams, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and

said, "He was concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. That he

remembered a story something like it in one of the parishes where his

cure lay:--There was," continued he, "a competition between three young

fellows for the place of the clerk, which I disposed of, to the best of

my abilities, according to merit; that is, I gave it to him who had the

happiest knack at setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner established

in his place than a contention began between the two disappointed

candidates concerning their excellence; each contending on whom, had

they two been the only competitors, my election would have fallen. This

dispute frequently disturbed the congregation, and introduced a discord

into the psalmody, till I was forced to silence them both. But, alas!

the litigious spirit could not be stifled; and, being no longer able to

vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fighting. It produced many

battles (for they were very near a match), and I believe would have

ended fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity to

promote one of them to his place; which presently put an end to the

dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties." Adams then

proceeded to make some philosophical observations on the folly of

growing warm in disputes in which neither party is interested. He then

applied himself vigorously to smoaking; and a long silence ensued, which

was at length broke by the justice, who began to sing forth his own

praises, and to value himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in the

cause which had lately been before him. He was quickly interrupted by Mr

Adams, between whom and his worship a dispute now arose, whether he

ought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said Adams;

in which the latter maintained he ought to have been committed, and the

justice as vehemently held he ought not. This had most probably produced

a quarrel (for both were very violent and positive in their opinions),

had not Fanny accidentally heard that a young fellow was going from the

justice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach in which Joseph

was, put up. Upon this news, she immediately sent for the parson out of

the parlour. Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though she would

not own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces of

those who had suspected her of such a crime), was as fully determined to

go with her; he accordingly took leave of the justice and company: and

so ended a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a

magistrate and a divine together by the ears.


_A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to the

good-natured reader._

Adams, Fanny, and the guide, set out together about one in the morning,

the moon being then just risen. They had not gone above a mile before a

most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or

rather alehouse, where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a

toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content,

utterly forgetting everything that had happened.

Fanny sat likewise down by the fire; but was much more impatient at the

storm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of

the house, and the young fellow who was their guide; they all conceived

they had never seen anything half so handsome; and indeed, reader, if

thou art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the next

paragraph; which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to set

down, humbly hoping that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion; for if it

should happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, we

should be perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say

to ourselves, _Quod petis est nusquam_. Or, if the finest features in it

should set Lady ----'s image before our eyes, we should be still in as

bad a situation, and might say to our desires, _Coelum ipsum petimus


Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she was tall and

delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women who seem

rather intended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist than for any

other purpose. On the contrary, she was so plump that she seemed

bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confined

her swelling breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to

extend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbs

which she concealed; and though they were a little reddened by her

labour, yet, if her sleeve slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchief

discovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest

Italian paint would be unable to reach. Her hair was of a chesnut brown,

and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut,

and on Sundays used to curl down her neck, in the modern fashion. Her

forehead was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise.

Her eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the Roman; her

lips red and moist, and her underlip, according to the opinion of the

ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The

small-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which was so large, it

might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced

one so near a neighbour to it, that the former served only for a foil to

the latter. Her complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, but

overspread with such a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged

all their white for it: add to these a countenance in which, though she

was extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible; and a

sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or description.

To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, superior to the

acquisition of art, and which surprized all who beheld her.

This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, when her

attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room, which sung

the following song:--

   Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray
     Who is by thy beauties undone?
   To wash their remembrance away,
     To what distant Lethe must run?
   The wretch who is sentenced to die
     May escape, and leave justice behind;
   From his country perhaps he may fly,
     But oh! can he fly from his mind?
   O rapture! unthought of before,
     To be thus of Chloe possess'd;
   Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power,
     Her image can tear from my breast.
   But felt not Narcissus more joy,
     With his eyes he beheld his loved charms?
   Yet what he beheld the fond boy
     More eagerly wish'd in his arms.
   How can it thy dear image be
     Which fills thus my bosom with woe?
   Can aught bear resemblance to thee
     Which grief and not joy can bestow?
   This counterfeit snatch from my heart,
     Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave,
   Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart:
     I then shall find rest in my grave.
   Ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain
     Come smiling and tripping along!
   A thousand Loves dance in her train,
     The Graces around her all throng.
   To meet her soft Zephyrus flies,
     And wafts all the sweets from the flowers,
   Ah, rogue I whilst he kisses her eyes,
     More sweets from her breath he devours.
   My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire:
     But her looks were so tender and kind,
   My hope almost reach'd my desire,
     And left lame despair far behind.
   Transported with madness, I flew,
     And eagerly seized on my bliss;
   Her bosom but half she withdrew,
     But half she refused my fond kiss.
   Advances like these made me bold;
     I whisper'd her--Love, we're alone.--
   The rest let immortals unfold;
     No language can tell but their own.
   Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried,
     How long I thy cruelty bore!
   Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied,
     You ne'er was so pressing before.

Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in Aeschylus,

without attending in the least to the voice, though one of the most

melodious that ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on Fanny, he cried

out, "Bless us, you look extremely pale!"--"Pale! Mr Adams," says she;

"O Jesus!" and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung his

Aeschylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the people of the house

for help. He soon summoned every one into the room, and the songster

among the rest; but, O reader! when this nightingale, who was no other

than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in the situation we

have described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind? If

thou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his happiness, when,

clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her

cheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the

softest accent whisper, "Are you Joseph Andrews?"--"Art thou my Fanny?"

he answered eagerly: and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted

numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present.

If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, they may

take their eyes off from it, and survey parson Adams dancing about the

room in a rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps doubt whether he

was not the happiest of the three: for the goodness of his heart enjoyed

the blessings which were exulting in the breasts of both the other two,

together with his own. But we shall leave such disquisitions, as too

deep for us, to those who are building some favourite hypothesis, which

they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support: for our

part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not

only greater than the parson's, but of longer duration: for as soon as

the first tumults of Adams's rapture were over he cast his eyes towards

the fire, where Aeschylus lay expiring; and immediately rescued the

poor remains, to wit, the sheepskin covering, of his dear friend, which

was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion

for upwards of thirty years.

Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she began to

restrain the impetuosity of her transports; and, reflecting on what she

had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was immediately

covered with confusion; and, pushing Joseph gently from her, she begged

him to be quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer.

Then, seeing Mrs Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to advance to her;

but that high woman would not return her curtsies; but, casting her eyes

another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as she

went, she wondered who the creature was.


_A dissertation concerning high people and low people, with Mrs

Slipslop's departure in no very good temper of mind, and the evil plight

in which she left Adams and his company._

It will doubtless seem extremely odd to many readers, that Mrs Slipslop,

who had lived several years in the same house with Fanny, should, in a

short separation, utterly forget her. And indeed the truth is, that she

remembered her very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, that

anything should appear unnatural in this our history, we will endeavour

to explain the reasons of her conduct; nor do we doubt being able to

satisfy the most curious reader that Mrs Slipslop did not in the least

deviate from the common road in this behaviour; and, indeed, had she

done otherwise, she must have descended below herself, and would have

very justly been liable to censure.

Be it known then, that the human species are divided into two sorts of

people, to wit, high people and low people. As by high people I would

not be understood to mean persons literally born higher in their

dimensions than the rest of the species, nor metaphorically those of

exalted characters or abilities; so by low people I cannot be construed

to intend the reverse. High people signify no other than people of

fashion, and low people those of no fashion. Now, this word fashion hath

by long use lost its original meaning, from which at present it gives us

a very different idea; for I am deceived if by persons of fashion we do

not generally include a conception of birth and accomplishments superior

to the herd of mankind; whereas, in reality, nothing more was originally

meant by a person of fashion than a person who drest himself in the

fashion of the times; and the word really and truly signifies no more at

this day. Now, the world being thus divided into people of fashion and

people of no fashion, a fierce contention arose between them; nor would

those of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publicly to speak to

those of the other, though they often held a very good correspondence in

private. In this contention it is difficult to say which party

succeeded; for, whilst the people of fashion seized several places to

their own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas, balls, &c., the

people of no fashion, besides one royal place, called his Majesty's

Bear-garden, have been in constant possession of all hops, fairs,

revels, &c. Two places have been agreed to be divided between them,

namely, the church and the playhouse, where they segregate themselves

from each other in a remarkable manner; for, as the people of fashion

exalt themselves at church over the heads of the people of no fashion,

so in the playhouse they abase themselves in the same degree under

their feet. This distinction I have never met with any one able to

account for: it is sufficient that, so far from looking on each other as

brethren in the Christian language, they seem scarce to regard each

other as of the same species. This, the terms "strange persons, people

one does not know, the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes," and many

other appellations evidently demonstrate; which Mrs Slipslop, having

often heard her mistress use, thought she had also a right to use in her

turn; and perhaps she was not mistaken; for these two parties,

especially those bordering nearly on each other, to wit, the lowest of

the high, and the highest of the low, often change their parties

according to place and time; for those who are people of fashion in one

place are often people of no fashion in another. And with regard to

time, it may not be unpleasant to survey the picture of dependance like

a kind of ladder; as, for instance; early in the morning arises the

postillion, or some other boy, which great families, no more than great

ships, are without, and falls to brushing the clothes and cleaning the

shoes of John the footman; who, being drest himself, applies his hands

to the same labours for Mr Second-hand, the squire's gentleman; the

gentleman in the like manner, a little later in the day, attends the

squire; the squire is no sooner equipped than he attends the levee of my

lord; which is no sooner over than my lord himself is seen at the levee

of the favourite, who, after the hour of homage is at an end, appears

himself to pay homage to the levee of his sovereign. Nor is there,

perhaps, in this whole ladder of dependance, any one step at a greater

distance from the other than the first from the second; so that to a

philosopher the question might only seem, whether you would chuse to be

a great man at six in the morning, or at two in the afternoon. And yet

there are scarce two of these who do not think the least familiarity

with the persons below them a condescension, and, if they were to go one

step farther, a degradation.

And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this long digression, which

seemed to me necessary to vindicate the great character of Mrs Slipslop

from what low people, who have never seen high people, might think an

absurdity; but we who know them must have daily found very high persons

know us in one place and not in another, to-day and not to-morrow; all

which it is difficult to account for otherwise than I have here

endeavoured; and perhaps, if the gods, according to the opinion of some,

made men only to laugh at them, there is no part of our behaviour which

answers the end of our creation better than this.

But to return to our history: Adams, who knew no more of this than the

cat which sat on the table, imagining Mrs Slipslop's memory had been

much worse than it really was, followed her into the next room, crying

out, "Madam Slipslop, here is one of your old acquaintance; do but see

what a fine woman she is grown since she left Lady Booby's service."--"I

think I reflect something of her," answered she, with great dignity,

"but I can't remember all the inferior servants in our family." She then

proceeded to satisfy Adams's curiosity, by telling him, "When she

arrived at the inn, she found a chaise ready for her; that, her lady

being expected very shortly in the country, she was obliged to make the

utmost haste; and, in commensuration of Joseph's lameness, she had taken

him with her;" and lastly, "that the excessive virulence of the storm

had driven them into the house where he found them." After which, she

acquainted Adams with his having left his horse, and exprest some wonder

at his having strayed so far out of his way, and at meeting him, as she

said, "in the company of that wench, who she feared was no better than

she should be."

The horse was no sooner put into Adams's head but he was immediately

driven out by this reflection on the character of Fanny. He protested,

"He believed there was not a chaster damsel in the universe. I heartily

wish, I heartily wish," cried he (snapping his fingers), "that all her

betters were as good." He then proceeded to inform her of the accident

of their meeting; but when he came to mention the circumstance of

delivering her from the rape, she said, "She thought him properer for

the army than the clergy; that it did not become a clergyman to lay

violent hands on any one; that he should have rather prayed that she

might be strengthened." Adams said, "He was very far from being ashamed

of what he had done:" she replied, "Want of shame was not the

currycuristic of a clergyman." This dialogue might have probably grown

warmer, had not Joseph opportunely entered the room, to ask leave of

Madam Slipslop to introduce Fanny: but she positively refused to admit

any such trollops, and told him, "She would have been burnt before she

would have suffered him to get into a chaise with her, if she had once

respected him of having his sluts waylaid on the road for him;" adding,

"that Mr Adams acted a very pretty part, and she did not doubt but to

see him a bishop." He made the best bow he could, and cried out, "I

thank you, madam, for that right-reverend appellation, which I shall

take all honest means to deserve."-"Very honest means," returned she,

with a sneer, "to bring people together." At these words Adams took two

or three strides across the room, when the coachman came to inform Mrs

Slipslop, "That the storm was over, and the moon shone very bright." She

then sent for Joseph, who was sitting without with his Fanny, and would

have had him gone with her; but he peremptorily refused to leave Fanny

behind, which threw the good woman into a violent rage. She said, "She

would inform her lady what doings were carrying on, and did not doubt

but she would rid the parish of all such people;" and concluded a long

speech, full of bitterness and very hard words, with some reflections on

the clergy not decent to repeat; at last, finding Joseph unmoveable, she

flung herself into the chaise, casting a look at Fanny as she went, not

unlike that which Cleopatra gives Octavia in the play. To say the truth,

she was most disagreeably disappointed by the presence of Fanny: she

had, from her first seeing Joseph at the inn, conceived hopes of

something which might have been accomplished at an alehouse as well as a

palace. Indeed, it is probable Mr Adams had rescued more than Fanny from

the clanger of a rape that evening.

When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slipslop, Adams, Joseph, and

Fanny assembled over the fire, where they had a great deal of innocent

chat, pretty enough; but, as possibly it would not be very entertaining

to the reader, we shall hasten to the morning; only observing that none

of them went to bed that night. Adams, when he had smoaked three pipes,

took a comfortable nap in a great chair, and left the lovers, whose eyes

were too well employed to permit any desire of shutting them, to enjoy

by themselves, during some hours, an happiness which none of my readers

who have never been in love are capable of the least conception of,

though we had as many tongues as Homer desired, to describe it with, and

which all true lovers will represent to their own minds without the

least assistance from us.

Let it suffice then to say, that Fanny, after a thousand entreaties, at

last gave up her whole soul to Joseph; and, almost fainting in his arms,

with a sigh infinitely softer and sweeter too than any Arabian breeze,

she whispered to his lips, which were then close to hers, "O Joseph,

you have won me: I will be yours for ever." Joseph, having thanked

her on his knees, and embraced her with an eagerness which she now

almost returned, leapt up in a rapture, and awakened the parson,

earnestly begging him "that he would that instant join their hands

together." Adams rebuked him for his request, and told him "He would by

no means consent to anything contrary to the forms of the Church; that

he had no licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one; that

the Church had prescribed a form--namely, the publication of banns--with

which all good Christians ought to comply, and to the omission of which

he attributed the many miseries which befell great folks in marriage;"

concluding, "As many as are joined together otherwise than G--'s word

doth allow are not joined together by G--, neither is their matrimony

lawful." Fanny agreed with the parson, saying to Joseph, with a blush,

"She assured him she would not consent to any such thing, and that she

wondered at his offering it." In which resolution she was comforted and

commended by Adams; and Joseph was obliged to wait patiently till after

the third publication of the banns, which, however, he obtained the

consent of Fanny, in the presence of Adams, to put in at their arrival.

The sun had been now risen some hours, when Joseph, finding his leg

surprizingly recovered, proposed to walk forwards; but when they were

all ready to set out, an accident a little retarded them. This was no

other than the reckoning, which amounted to seven shillings; no great

sum if we consider the immense quantity of ale which Mr Adams poured in.

Indeed, they had no objection to the reasonableness of the bill, but

many to the probability of paying it; for the fellow who had taken poor

Fanny's purse had unluckily forgot to return it. So that the account

stood thus:--

                                  £ S D
       Mr Adams and company, Dr.  0 7 0
       In Mr Adams's pocket       0 0 6 1/2
       In Mr Joseph's             0 0 0
       In Mrs Fanny's             0 0 0
         Balance                  0 6 5 1/2

They stood silent some few minutes, staring at each other, when Adams

whipt out on his toes, and asked the hostess, "If there was no clergyman

in that parish?" She answered, "There was."--"Is he wealthy?" replied

he; to which she likewise answered in the affirmative. Adams then

snapping his fingers returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out,

"Heureka, Heureka;" which not being understood, he told them in plain

English, "They need give themselves no trouble, for he had a brother in

the parish who would defray the reckoning, and that he would just step

to his house and fetch the money, and return to them instantly."





 BOOK II.--continued.
 _An interview between parson Adams and parson Trulliber._
 _An adventure, the consequence of a new instance which parson Adams
 gave of his forgetfulness._
 _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._
 _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._
 _Matter prefatory in praise of biography._
 _A night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befel Adams and
 his fellow-travellers._
 _In which the gentleman relates the history of his life._
 _A description of Mr Wilson's way of living. The tragical adventure
 of the dog, and other grave matters._
 _A disputation on schools held on the road between Mr Abraham Adams
 and Joseph; and a discovery not unwelcome to them both._
 _Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the hunting adventure, and
 parson Adams's miraculous escape._
 _A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste and
 _Which some readers will think too short and others too long._
 _Containing as surprizing and bloody adventures as can be found in
 this or perhaps any other authentic history._
 _A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this
 history but to divert the reader._
 _Containing the exhortations of parson Adams to his friend in
 affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of the
 _More adventures, which we hope will as much please as surprize
 the reader._
 _A curious dialogue which passed between Mr Abraham Adams and Mr
 Peter Pounce, better worth reading than all the works of Colley
 Cibber and many others._
 _The arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at Booby-hall._
 _A dialogue between Mr Abraham Adams and the Lady Booby._
 _What passed between the lady and lawyer Scout._
 _A short chapter, but very full of matter; particularly the arrival
 of Mr Booby and his lady._
 _Containing justice business; curious precedents of depositions, and
 other matters necessary to be perused by all justices of the peace
 and their clerks._
 _Of which you are desired to read no more than you like._
 _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._
 _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._
 _A visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite friend paid to
 the parson._
 _The history of two friends, which may afford an useful lesson to
 all those persons who happen to take up their residence in married
 _In which the history is continued._
 _Where the good-natured reader will see something which will give
 him no great pleasure._
 _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._
 _Containing several curious night-adventures, in which Mr Adams fell
 into many hair-breadth scapes, partly owing to his goodness, and
 partly to his inadvertency._
 _The arrival of Gaffar and Gammar Andrews with another person not
 much expected, and a perfect solution of the difficulties raised by
 the pedlar._
 _Being the last. In which this true history is brought to a happy

BOOK II.--continued.


_An interview between parson Adams and parson Trulliber._

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 wife milked his cows, managed his dairy,

and followed the markets with butter and eggs. The hogs fell chiefly to

his care, which he carefully waited on at home, and attended to fairs;

on which occasion he was liable to many jokes, his own size being, with

much ale, rendered little inferior to that of the beasts he sold. He

was indeed one of the largest men you should see, and could have acted

the part of Sir John Falstaff without stuffing. Add to this that the

rotundity of his belly was considerably increased by the shortness of

his stature, his shadow ascending very near as far in height, when he

lay on his back, as when he stood on his legs. His voice was loud and

hoarse, and his accents extremely broad. To complete the whole, he had

a stateliness in his gait, when he walked, not unlike that of a goose,

only he stalked slower.

Mr Trulliber, being informed that somebody wanted to speak with him,

immediately slipt off his apron and clothed himself in an old

night-gown, being the dress in which he always saw his company at home.

His wife, who informed him of Mr Adams's arrival, had made a small

mistake; for she had told her husband, "She believed there was a man

come for some of his hogs." This supposition made Mr Trulliber hasten

with the utmost expedition to attend his guest. He no sooner saw Adams

than, not in the least doubting the cause of his errand to be what his

wife had imagined, he told him, "He was come in very good time; that he

expected a dealer that very afternoon;" and added, "they were all pure

and fat, and upwards of twenty score a-piece." Adams answered, "He

believed he did not know him." "Yes, yes," cried Trulliber, "I have seen

you often at fair; why, we have dealt before now, mun, I warrant you.

Yes, yes," cries he, "I remember thy face very well, but won't mention a

word more till you have seen them, though I have never sold thee a

flitch of such bacon as is now in the stye." Upon which he laid violent

hands on Adams, and dragged him into the hog-stye, which was indeed but

two steps from his parlour window. They were no sooner arrived there

than he cry'd out, "Do but 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 artificial, 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, "_Nihil habeo

cum porcis_: I am a clergyman, sir, and am not come to buy hogs."

Trulliber answered, "He was sorry for the mistake, but that he must

blame his wife," adding, "she was a fool, and always 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 greatcoat, 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

kitchen, telling him he believed a cup of drink would do him no harm,

and whispered his wife to draw a little of the worst ale. After a short

silence Adams said, "I fancy, sir, you already perceive me to be a

clergyman."--"Ay, ay," cries Trulliber, 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?" adding, "he supposed the gentleman had none by

his having no boots on."--"Yes, sir, yes," says Adams; "I have a horse,

but I have left him behind me."--"I am glad to hear you have one," says

Trulliber; "for I assure you I don't love to see clergymen on foot; it

is not seemly nor suiting the dignity of the cloth." Here Trulliber made

a long oration on the dignity of the cloth (or rather gown) 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 behind her

husband's chair, as was, it seems, her custom. Trulliber eat 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 indeed been

at first a little contentious; but he had long since got the better;

partly by her love for this, partly by her fear of that, partly by her

religion, partly by the respect he paid himself, and partly by that

which he received from the parish. She had, in short, absolutely

submitted, and now worshipped her husband, as Sarah did Abraham, calling

him (not lord, but) master. Whilst they were at table her husband gave

her a fresh example of his greatness; for, as she had 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 in 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, "I 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, "I 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 of a lawyer, being imagined

a client, when the lawyer was preparing his palm for the fee, should

pull out a writ against him. Suppose an apothecary, at the door of a

chariot containing some great 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 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: "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?" At

which the wife, bursting into tears, fell on her knees and roared out,

"O 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 Christian, much more as a clergyman, art obliged to

relieve my distress." "Dost preach to me?" 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? Get out of my doors: I will

no longer remain under the same roof with a wretch who speaks wantonly

of faith and the Scriptures." "Name not the Scriptures," says Adams.

"How! not name the Scriptures! Do you disbelieve the Scriptures?" cries

Trulliber. "No; but you do," answered Adams, "if I may reason from your

practice; for their commands are so explicit, and their rewards and

punishments so immense, that it is impossible a man should 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.


_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

delightful 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. However, 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 enquiry after him. Now Mr Trulliber had, by his

professions of piety, by his gravity, austerity, reserve, and the

opinion of his great wealth, so great an authority in his parish, that

they all lived in the utmost fear and apprehension of him. It was

therefore no wonder that the hostess, who knew it was in his option

whether she should ever sell another mug of drink, did not dare to

affront his supposed brother by denying him credit.

They were now just on their departure when Adams recollected he had left

his greatcoat and hat at Mr Trulliber's. As he was not desirous of

renewing his visit, the hostess herself, having no servant at home,

offered to fetch it.

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 anybody; no, not her own father. That money was never scarcer, and

she wanted to make up a sum. That she expected, therefore, they should

pay their reckoning before they left the house."

Adams was now greatly perplexed; but, as he knew that he could easily

have borrowed such a sum in his own parish, and as he knew he would have

lent it himself to any mortal in distress, so he took fresh courage, and

sallied 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 neighbourhood, 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_. Virgil expresses this very boldly:--

   _Turne, quod optanti divum promittere nemo
   Auderet, volvenda dies, en! attulit ultro._

I would quote more great men if I could; but my memory not permitting

me, I will proceed to exemplify these observations by the following


There chanced (for Adams had not cunning enough to contrive it) to be at

that time in the alehouse a fellow who had been formerly a drummer in an

Irish regiment, and now travelled the country as a pedlar. This man,

having attentively listened to the discourse of the hostess, at last

took Adams aside, and asked him what the sum was for which they were

detained. As soon as he was informed, he sighed, and said, "He was sorry

it was so much; for that he had no more than six shillings and sixpence

in his pocket, which he would lend them with all his heart." Adams gave

a caper, and cry'd out, "It would do; for that he had sixpence himself."

And thus these poor people, who could not engage the compassion of

riches and piety, were at length delivered out of their distress by the

charity of a poor pedlar.

I shall refer it to my reader to make what observations he pleases on

this incident: it is sufficient for me to inform him that, after Adams

and his companions had returned him a thousand thanks, and told him

where he might call to be repaid, they all sallied out of the house

without any compliments from their hostess, 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.


_A very curious adventure, in which Mr Adams gave a much greater

instance of the honest simplicity of his heart, than of his experience

in the ways of this world._

Our travellers had walked about two miles from that inn, which they had

more reason to have mistaken for a castle than Don Quixote ever had any

of those in which he sojourned, seeing they had met with such difficulty

in escaping out of its walls, when they came to a parish, and beheld a

sign of invitation hanging out. A gentleman sat smoaking a pipe at the

door, of whom Adams inquired the road, and received so courteous and

obliging an answer, accompanied with so smiling a countenance, that the

good 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 landlord's within as some of

the best in all this country. What say you, will you halt a little and

let us take a pipe together? there is no better tobacco in the kingdom."

This proposal was not displeasing to Adams, who had allayed his thirst

that day with no better liquor than what Mrs Trulliber's cellar had

produced; and which was indeed little superior, 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 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 familiarity with which he

conversed with Joseph and Fanny, whom he often called his children; a

term he explained to mean no more than his parishioners; saying, "He

looked on all those whom God had intrusted to his care to stand to him

in that relation." The gentleman, shaking him by the hand, highly

applauded those sentiments. "They are, indeed," says he, "the true

principles of a Christian divine; and I heartily wish they were

universal; but, on the contrary, I am sorry to say the parson of our

parish, instead of esteeming his poor parishioners as a part of his

family, seems rather to consider them as not of the same species with

himself. He seldom speaks to any, unless some few of the richest of

us; nay, indeed, he will not move his hat to the others. I often laugh

when I behold him on Sundays strutting along the churchyard like a

turkey-cock through rows of his parishioners, who 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 temporal pride is

ridiculous, surely the spiritual is odious and detestable; if such a

puffed--up empty human bladder, strutting 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; "I find, sir, you are a man of excellent sense, and am happy

in this opportunity of knowing you; perhaps our accidental meeting may

not be disadvantageous to you neither. At present I shall only say to

you that the incumbent of this living is old and infirm, and that it is

in my gift. Doctor, give me your hand; and assure yourself of it at his

decease." Adams told him, "He was never more confounded in his life than

at his utter incapacity to make any return to such noble and unmerited

generosity." "A mere trifle, sir," cries the gentleman, "scarce worth

your acceptance; a little more than three hundred a year. I wish it was

double the value for your sake." Adams bowed, and cried from the

emotions of 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," replied the parson, "I have a wife and six at your

service." "That is unlucky," says the gentleman; "for I would otherwise

have taken you into my own house as my chaplain; however, I have another

in the parish (for the parsonage-house is not good enough), which I will

furnish for you. Pray, does your wife understand a dairy?" "I can't

profess she does," says Adams. "I am sorry for it," quoth the gentleman;

"I would have given you half-a-dozen cows, and very good grounds to have

maintained them." "Sir," said Adams, in an ecstasy, "you are too

liberal; indeed you are." "Not at all," cries the gentleman: "I esteem

riches only as they give me an opportunity of doing good; and I never

saw one whom I had a greater inclination to serve." At which 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 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 accommodation of

your horses to-morrow morning." He then began to search for his hat, as

did Joseph for his; and both they and Fanny were in order of departure,

when the gentleman, 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 before I had

given you the trouble of walking there; besides, I believe you will find

better accommodations here than you expected.--Landlord, you can provide

good beds for these people, can't you?" "Yes, 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." "Ay!"

said the squire, "the horses shall attend you here at what hour in the

morning you please;" and now, after many civilities too tedious to

enumerate, many squeezes by the hand, with most affectionate looks and

smiles at 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

smoaked 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 recovered, 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? 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-nature 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


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 so

small, so noble a gentleman would be easily able to procure it in the

parish, though he had it not in his own pocket. Indeed," says he, "if

it was four or five guineas, or any such large quantity of money, it

might be a different matter."

They were now sat down to breakfast over some toast and ale, when the

boy returned and informed them that the gentleman was not at home. "Very

well!" cries Adams; "but why, child, did you not stay till his return?

Go back again, my good boy, and wait for his coming home; he cannot be

gone far, as his horses are all sick; and besides, he had no intention

to go abroad, for he invited us to spend this day and tomorrow at his

house. Therefore go back, child, and tarry till his return home." The

messenger departed, and was back again with great expedition, bringing

an account that the gentleman was gone a long journey, and would not be

at home again this month. At these words Adams seemed greatly

confounded, saying, "This must be a sudden accident, as the sickness or

death of a relation or some such unforeseen misfortune;" and then,

turning to Joseph, cried, "I wish you had reminded me to have borrowed

this money last night." Joseph, smiling, answered, "He was very much

deceived if the gentleman would not have found some excuse to avoid

lending it.--I own," says he, "I was never much pleased with his

professing so much kindness for you at first sight; for I have heard the

gentlemen of our cloth in London tell many such stories of their

masters. But when the boy brought the message back of his not being at

home, I presently knew what would follow; for, whenever a man of fashion

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 acquainted in the end that the

gentleman is gone out of town and could do nothing in the

business."--"Good Lord!" says Adams, "what wickedness is there in the

Christian world! I profess almost equal to what I have read of 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 interest he could possibly

propose to himself by deceiving us in his professions?"--"It is not for

me," answered Joseph, "to give reasons for what men do, to a gentleman

of your learning."--"You say right," quoth Adams; "knowledge of men is

only to be learned from books; Plato and Seneca for that; and those are

authors, I am afraid, child, you never read."--"Not I, sir, truly,"

answered Joseph; "all I know is, it is a maxim among the gentlemen of

our cloth, that those masters who promise the most perform the least;

and I have often heard them say they have found the largest vails in

those families where they were not promised any. But, sir, instead of

considering any farther these matters, it would be our wisest way to

contrive some method of getting out of this house; for the generous

gentleman, instead of doing us any service, 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; "have you ever known him do anything

of this kind before?"--"Ay! marry have I," answered the host: "it is no

business of mine, you know, sir, to say anything to a gentleman to his

face; but now he is not here, I will assure you, he 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, "He had never read of such a monster. But what vexes me most,"

says he, "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."--"Trust you, master!" says the host, "that I

will with all my heart. I honour the clergy too much to deny trusting

one of them for such a trifle; besides, I like your fear of never paying

me. I have lost many a debt in my lifetime, but was promised to be paid

them all in a very short time. I will score this reckoning for the

novelty of it. It is the first, I do assure you, of its kind. But what

say you, master, shall we have t'other pot before we part? It will waste

but a little chalk more, and if you never pay me a shilling the loss

will not ruin me." Adams liked the invitation very well, especially as

it was 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 will

find in the next chapter.


_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._

"Sir," said the host, "I assure you you are not the first to whom our

squire hath promised more than he hath performed. He is so famous for

this practice, that his word will not be taken for much by those who

know him. I remember a young fellow whom he promised his parents to make

an exciseman. The poor people, who could ill afford it, bred their son

to writing and accounts, and other learning to qualify him for the

place; and the boy held up his head above his condition with these

hopes; nor would he go to plough, nor to any other kind of work, and

went constantly 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 neighbour

of mine, a farmer, who had two sons whom he bred up to the business.

Pretty lads they were. Nothing would serve the squire but that the

youngest must be made a parson. Upon which he persuaded the father to

send him to school, promising that he would afterwards maintain him at

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

thither at his expense, only told his father that the young man was a

fine scholar, and it was pity he could not afford to keep him at Oxford

for four or five years more, by which time, if he could get him a

curacy, he might have him ordained. The farmer said, 'He was not a man

sufficient to do any such thing.'--'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.--Nay, I can tell you more still: there was another, a young woman,

and the handsomest in all this neighbourhood, whom he enticed up to

London, promising to make her a gentlewoman to one of your women 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

coffeehouse in Covent Garden; and a little after died of the French

distemper in a gaol.--I could tell you many more stories; but how do you

imagine he served me myself? You must know, sir, I was bred a seafaring

man, and have been many voyages; till at last I came to be master of a

ship myself, and was in a fair way of making a fortune, when I was

attacked by one of those cursed guarda-costas who took our ships before

the beginning of the war; and after a fight, wherein I lost the greater

part of my crew, my rigging being all demolished, and two shots received

between wind and water, I was forced to strike. The villains carried off

my ship, a 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 me promoted to a lieutenancy of a man-of-war, if I would

accept of it; which I thankfully assured him I would. Well, sir, two or

three years passed, during which I had many repeated promises, not only

from the squire, but (as he told me) from the lords of the admiralty. He

never returned from London but I was assured I might be satisfied now,

for I was certain of the first vacancy; and, what 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 best house

in the admiralty, and desired him to back 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? Truly, sir,

he acquainted me that the squire had never mentioned my name at the

admiralty in his life; and, unless I had much faithfuller 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."--"O fie!" says

Adams, "O fie! He is indeed a wicked man; but G-- will, I hope, turn his

heart to repentance. Nay, if he could but once see the meanness of this

detestable vice; would he but once reflect that he is one of the most

scandalous as well as pernicious lyars; 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."--"Ah,

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

small-pox, but for nothing else." He spoke this with so little regard to

the parson's observation, that it a good deal nettled him; and, taking

the pipe hastily from his mouth, he thus answered: "Master of mine,

perhaps I have travelled a great deal farther than you without the

assistance of a ship. Do you imagine sailing by different cities or

countries is travelling? No.

   "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 walls of

Carthage. Nay, 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 Rhodius; 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." "Not I,

truly, master," answered the host: "I never touched at any of these

places."--"But I have been at all these," replied Adams. "Then, I

suppose," cries the host, "you have been at the East Indies; for there

are no such, I will be sworn, either in the West or the Levant."--"Pray

where's the Levant?" quoth Adams; "that should be in the East Indies by

right." "Oho! you are a pretty traveller," cries the host, "and not know

the Levant! My service to you, master; you must not talk of these things

with me! you must not tip us the traveller; it won't go here." "Since

thou art so dull to misunderstand me still," quoth Adams, "I will inform

thee; the travelling I mean is in books, the only way of travelling by

which any knowledge is to be acquired. 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 physiognomist 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 tenour of all

this great man's actions, and the generally received opinion concerning

him, incensed the boys 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

observations, and acknowledging that, though he corrected his

disposition by philosophy, he was indeed naturally as inclined to vice

as had been predicated of him. Now, pray resolve me--How should a man

know this story if he had not read it?" "Well, master," said the host,

"and what signifies it whether a man knows it or no? He who goes abroad,

as I have done, will always have opportunities enough of knowing the

world without troubling his head with Socrates, or any such fellows."

"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!" answered the host; "there was

my boatswain, poor fellow! he could scarce either write or read, and yet

he would navigate a ship with any master of a man-of-war; and a very

pretty knowledge of trade he had too." "Trade," answered Adams, "as

Aristotle proves in his first chapter of Politics, is below a

philosopher, and unnatural as it is managed now." The host looked

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!" answered Adams, "what is that?" "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 lye on my table, though it hath been offered

me for nothing." "Not I truly," said Adams; "I never write anything but

sermons; and I assure you I am no enemy to trade, whilst it is

consistent with honesty; nay, I have always looked on the tradesman as a

very valuable member of society, and, perhaps, inferior to none but the

man of learning." "No, I believe he is not, nor to him neither,"

answered the host. "Of what use would learning be in a country without

trade? What would all you parsons do to clothe your backs and feed your

bellies? Who fetches you your silks, and your linens, and your wines,

and all the other necessaries of life? I speak chiefly with regard to

the sailors." "You should say the extravagancies of life," replied the

parson; "but admit they were the necessaries, there is something more

necessary than life itself, which is provided by learning; I mean the

learning of the clergy. Who clothes you with piety, meekness, humility,

charity, patience, and all the other Christian virtues? Who feeds your

souls with the milk of brotherly love, and diets them with 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?

Who doth this?" "Ay, who, indeed?" cries the host; "for I do not

remember ever to have seen any such clothing or such feeding. And so, in

the mean time, master, my service to you." Adams was 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 down

together), and with Joseph and Fanny, who both expressed much

impatience, departed, and now all together renewed their journey.



_Matter prefatory in praise of biography._

Notwithstanding the preference which may be vulgarly given to the

authority of those romance writers who entitle their books "the History

of England, the History of 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 chiefly 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

contradictions occurring between two topographers who undertake the

history of the same country: for instance, between my Lord Clarendon and

Mr Whitelocke, between Mr Echard and Rapin, and many others; where,

facts being set forth in a different light, every reader believes as he

pleases; and, indeed, the more judicious and suspicious very justly

esteem the whole as no other than a romance, in which the writer 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 representing the same man as a rogue, while

others give him a great and honest character; yet all agree in the scene

where the fact is supposed to have happened, and where the person, who

is both a rogue and an honest man, lived. Now with us 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

Marcella, 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 Cardenio, the perfidy of

Ferdinand, the impertinent curiosity of Anselmo, the weakness of

Camilla, the irresolute friendship of Lothario? though perhaps, as to

the time and place where those several persons lived, that good

historian may be deplorably deficient. But the most known instance of

this kind is in the true history of Gil Blas, where the inimitable

biographer hath made a notorious blunder in the country of Dr Sangrado,

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? The same writer hath likewise erred

in the country of his archbishop, as well as that of those great

personages whose understandings were too sublime to taste anything but

tragedy, and in many others. The same mistakes may likewise be observed

in Scarron, the Arabian Nights, the History of Marianne and le 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 Atalantis writers; who,

without any assistance from nature or history, record persons who never

were, or will be, and facts which never did, nor possibly can, happen;

whose heroes are of their own creation, and their brains the chaos

whence all their materials are selected. Not that such writers deserve

no honour; so far otherwise, that perhaps they merit the highest; for

what can be nobler than to be as an example of the wonderful extent of

human genius? One may apply to them what Balzac says of Aristotle, that

they are a second nature (for they have no communication with the first;

by which, authors of an inferior class, who cannot stand alone, are

obliged to support themselves as with crutches); but these of whom I am

now speaking seem to be possessed of those stilts, which the excellent

Voltaire tells us, in his letters, "carry the genius far off, but with

an regular pace." Indeed, far out of the sight of the reader,

   Beyond the realm 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 Don Quixote more worthy the name of a history than even

Mariana's: for, whereas the latter is confined to a particular period of

time, and to a 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 of mankind, who are always forward

to see their friends' virtues recorded, may put to particular parts. I

question not but several of my readers will know the lawyer in the

stage-coach the moment they hear his voice. It is likewise odds but the

wit and the prude meet with some of their acquaintance, as well as all

the rest of my characters. To prevent, therefore, any such malicious

applications, I declare here, once for all, I describe not men, but

manners; not an 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 yet to

come. He hath not indeed confined himself to one profession, one

religion, or one country; but when the first mean selfish creature

appeared on the human stage, who made self the centre of the whole

creation, would give himself no pain, incur no danger, advance no money,

to assist 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 mimick 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 of 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 corrects the fault for the benefit of the person, like a

parent; the latter publickly 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 likewise in the revolution of

ages sat on a throne. In short, where extreme turbulency of temper,

avarice, and an insensibility of human misery, with a degree of

hypocrisy, have united in a female composition, Mrs Tow-wouse was that

woman; and where a good inclination, eclipsed by a poverty of spirit 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 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 greatness,

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

courteously 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 splendor. It is, I fancy, impossible to conceive a

spectacle more worthy of our indignation, than that of a fellow, who is

not only a blot in the escutcheon of a great family, but a scandal to

the human species, maintaining a supercilious behaviour to men who are

an honour to their nature and a disgrace to their fortune.

And now, reader, taking these hints along with you, you may, if you

please, proceed to the sequel of this our true history.


_A night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befel Adams and his


It was so late when our travellers left the inn or alehouse (for it

might be called either), that they had not travelled many miles before

night overtook them, or met them, which you please. The reader must

excuse me if I am not particular as to the way they took; for, as we are

now drawing near the seat of the Boobies, 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 Fanny whispered Joseph

"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 Aeschylus; 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 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?"

Joseph answered, "he had."--"And did you not mark how it vanished?"

returned he: "though I am not afraid of ghosts, I do not absolutely

disbelieve them."

He then entered into a meditation on those unsubstantial beings; which

was soon interrupted by several voices, which he thought almost at his

elbow, though in fact they were not so extremely near. However, he could

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 for 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 fruitless; 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 eagerness,

whispered her, "that he 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 hic, est animus lucis contemptor et illum,
   Qui vita bene credat emi quo tendis, honorem."

Upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and then one of them called

out, "D--n you, who is there?" To 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 have?" He had no sooner spoke than

he heard one of the voices cry out, "D--n them, here they come;" 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 frightened 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 conceived for him. Joseph and

Fanny halted some time, considering what to do; at last they advanced a

few paces, where the declivity seemed least steep; and then Joseph,

taking his 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 beaus 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 declared he could swim, but doubted how it was possible

to get Fanny over: to which Joseph answered, "If they walked along its

banks, they might be certain of soon finding a bridge, especially as by

the number of lights they might be assured a parish was near." "Odso,

that's true indeed," said Adams; "I did not think of that."

Accordingly, Joseph's advice being taken, they passed over two meadows,

and came to a little orchard, which led them to a house. Fanny begged of

Joseph to knock at the door, assuring him "she was so weary that she

could hardly stand on her feet." Adams, who was foremost, performed this

ceremony; and, the door being immediately opened, a plain kind of man

appeared at it: Adams acquainted him "that they had a young woman with

them who was so tired with her journey that he should 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, "That the young

woman was very welcome to rest herself in his house, and so were her

company." He then ushered them into a very decent room, where his wife

was sitting at a table: she immediately rose up, and assisted them in

setting forth chairs, and desired them to sit down; which they had no

sooner done than the man of the house asked them if they would have

anything to refresh themselves with? Adams thanked him, and answered he

should be obliged to him for a cup of his ale, which was likewise chosen

by Joseph and 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, "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 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, and Fanny and the good woman turned pale: her husband went

forth, and whilst he was absent, which was some time, they all remained

silent, looking at one another, and heard several voices discoursing

pretty loudly. Adams was fully persuaded that spirits were abroad, and

began to meditate some exorcisms; Joseph a little inclined to the same

opinion; Fanny was more afraid of men; and the good woman herself began

to suspect her guests, and imagined those without were rogues belonging

to their gang. At length the master of the house returned, and,

laughing, told Adams he had discovered his apparition; that the

murderers were 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, "He was convinced of the truth of apparitions

for all that."

They now sat chearfully 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 greatcoat, and the shabby

livery on Joseph Andrews, did not well suit with the familiarity

between them, began to entertain some suspicions not much to their

advantage: addressing himself therefore to Adams, he said, "He

perceived he was a clergyman by his dress, and supposed that honest man

was his footman." "Sir," answered Adams, "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 he was discharged, I assure

you, for no crime." Joseph said, "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."--"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, peradventure, by preferring the poor to the rich.--Sir," said

he, addressing himself to the gentleman, "these two poor young people

are my parishioners, and I look on them and love them as my children.

There is something singular enough in their history, but I have not now

time to recount it." The master of the house, notwithstanding the

simplicity which discovered itself in Adams, knew too much of the world

to give a hasty belief to professions. He was not yet quite certain

that Adams had any more of the clergyman in him than his cassock. To

try him therefore further, he asked him, "If Mr Pope had lately

published anything new?" Adams answered, "He had heard great

commendations of that poet, but that he had never read nor knew any of

his works."--"Ho! ho!" says the gentleman to himself, "have I caught

you? What!" said he, "have you never seen his Homer?" Adams answered,

"he had never read any translation of the classicks." "Why, truly,"

reply'd the gentleman, "there is a dignity in the Greek language which

I think no modern tongue can reach."--"Do you understand Greek, sir?"

said Adams hastily. "A little, sir," answered the gentleman. "Do you

know, sir," cry'd Adams, "where I can buy an Aeschylus? an unlucky

misfortune lately happened to mine." Aeschylus was beyond the

gentleman, though he knew him very well by name; he therefore,

returning back to Homer, asked Adams, "What part of the Iliad he

thought most excellent?" Adams returned, "His question would be

properer, What kind of beauty was the chief in poetry? for that Homer

was equally excellent in them all. And, indeed," continued he, "what

Cicero says of a complete orator may well be applied to a great poet:

'He ought to comprehend all perfections.' Homer did this in the most

excellent degree; it is not without reason, therefore, that the

philosopher, in the twenty-second chapter of his Poeticks, mentions him

by no other appellation than that of the Poet. He was the father of the

drama as well as the epic; not of tragedy only, but of comedy also; for

his Margites, which is deplorably lost, bore, says Aristotle, the same

analogy to comedy as his Odyssey and Iliad to tragedy. To him,

therefore, we owe Aristophanes as well as Euripides, Sophocles, and my

poor Aeschylus. 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. First, then, as to his subject, can anything be more simple,

and at the same time more noble? He is rightly praised by the first of

those judicious critics for not chusing 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 by Aristotle, Pragmaton Systasis; is it possible for the

mind of man to conceive an idea of such perfect unity, and at the same

time so replete with greatness? And here I must observe, 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 wisdom of Nestor, which is the

result of long reflection and experience, from the cunning of Ulysses,

the effect of art and subtlety only! If we consider their variety, we

may cry out, with Aristotle in his 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 cannot 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

Andromache is introduced in the former lamenting the danger, and in the

latter the death, of Hector. The images are so extremely tender in

these, that I am convinced the poet had the worthiest and best heart

imaginable. Nor can I help observing how Sophocles falls short of the

beauties of the original, in that imitation of the dissuasive speech of

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 gentleman, he was 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 fireside,

he would sit up with the men; and the young woman might, if she

pleased, partake his wife's bed, which he advised her to; 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

sollicitation he was seconded by Joseph. Nor 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 fireside, where Adams (to use

his own words) replenished his pipe, and the gentleman produced a bottle

of excellent beer, being the best liquor in his house.

The modest behaviour of Joseph, with the gracefulness of his person, the

character which Adams gave of him, and the 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 was 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 education. 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 chearfulness, and returned

many thanks to Adams, who had spent much breath, for he was a

circumstantial teller of a story.

Adams told him it was now in his power to return that favour; for his

extraordinary goodness, as well as that fund of literature he was master

of,[A] which he did not expect to find under such a roof, had raised in

him more curiosity than he had ever known. "Therefore," said he, "if it

be not too troublesome, sir, your history, if you please."

[A] The author hath by some been represented to have made a blunder

   here: for Adams had indeed shown some learning (say they), perhaps
   all the author had; but the gentleman hath shown none, unless his
   approbation of Mr Adams be such: but surely it would be preposterous
   in him to call it so. I have, however, notwithstanding this
   criticism, which I am told came from the mouth of a great orator in
   a public coffee-house, left this blunder as it stood in the first
   edition. I 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 tiens pour une maxime constante, qu'une beaute
   mediocre plait plus generalement qu'une beaute sans defaut._ Mr
   Congreve hath made such another blunder in his Love for Love, where
   Tattle tells Miss Prue, "She should admire him as much for the
   beauty he commends in her as if he himself was possessed of it."

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.


_In which the gentleman relates the history of his life._

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 succeeded, for the trustees did

not contest the matter very obstinately on their side. "Sir," said

Adams, "may I crave the favour of your name?" The gentleman answered his

name was Wilson, and then proceeded.

I 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 introduction 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 London with no

more than six pounds in my pocket; a great sum, as I then conceived; and

which I was afterwards surprized 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 be supplied by a

taylor, 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 schoolfellows 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 town.

At these words Adams fetched a deep groan, and then, blessing himself,

cried out, "Good Lord! what wicked times these are!"

Not so wicked as you imagine, continued the gentleman; for I assure you

they were all vestal virgins for anything which I knew to the contrary.

The reputation of intriguing with them was all I sought, and was what I

arrived at: and perhaps I only flattered myself even in that; for very

probably the persons to whom I showed their billets knew as well as I

that they were counterfeits, and that I had written them to myself.

"Write letters to yourself!" said Adams, staring. O 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 raptures 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, "Ay,

thou wilt always think a woman virtuous, till she is in the streets; but

you and I, Jack or Tom (turning to another in company), know better." At

which I have drawn a paper out of my pocket, perhaps a taylor's bill,

and kissed it, crying at the same time, "By 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 gentleman, smiling; I should rather have said, in this course

of doing nothing. I remember some time afterwards I wrote the journal of

one day, which would serve, I believe, as well for any other during the

whole time. I will endeavour to repeat it to you.

In the morning I arose, took my great stick, and walked out in my green

frock, with my hair in papers (a groan from Adams), and sauntered about

till ten. Went to the auction; told lady ---- she had a dirty face;

laughed heartily at something captain ---- said, I can't remember what,

for I did not very well hear it; whispered 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.
         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 lye. I answered I might possibly be

mistaken, but I intended to tell no more than the truth. To which he

made no reply but by a scornful sneer. After this I observed a strange

coldness in all my acquaintance; none of them spoke to me first, and

very few returned me even the civility of a bow. The company I used to

dine with left me out, and within a week I found myself in as much

solitude at St James's as if I had been in a desart. 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 be. I did not at first

understand him; but he explained himself, and ended with telling me, if

I would write a challenge to the captain, he would, out of pure charity,

go to him with it. "A very charitable person, truly!" cried Adams. I

desired till the next day, continued the gentleman, to 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 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 beaus 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 balconies 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 beaus 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, therefore, to keep a mistress. Nor was I long before I

fixed my choice on a young woman, who had before been kept by two

gentlemen, and to whom I was recommended by a celebrated bawd. I took

her home to my chambers, and made her a settlement during cohabitation.

This would, perhaps, have been very ill paid: however, she did not

suffer me to be perplexed on that account; for, before quarter-day, I

found her at my chambers in too familiar conversation with a young

fellow who was 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 England. Upon this we parted, and the same bawd

presently provided her another keeper. I was not so much concerned at

our separation as I found, within a day or two, I had reason to be for

our meeting; for I was obliged to pay a second visit to my surgeon. I

was now forced to do penance for some weeks, during which time I

contracted an acquaintance with a beautiful young girl, the daughter of

a gentleman 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 circumstances. He

was apprentice to a linendraper, 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 debauched her.--(At

which words Adams started up, fetched three strides across the room, and

then replaced himself in his chair.) You are not more affected with this

part of my story than myself; I assure you it will never be sufficiently

repented of in my own opinion: but, if you already detest it, how much

more will your indignation be raised when you hear the fatal

consequences of this barbarous, this villanous action! If you please,

therefore, I will here desist.--"By no means," cries Adams; "go on, I

beseech you; and Heaven grant you may sincerely repent of this and many

other things you have related!"--I was now, continued the gentleman, as

happy as the possession of a fine young creature, who had a good

education, and was endued with many agreeable qualities, could make me.

We lived some months with vast fondness together, without any company or

conversation, more than we found in one another: but this could not

continue always; and, though I still preserved great affection for her,

I began more and more to want the relief of other company, and

consequently to leave her by degrees--at last whole days to herself. She

failed not to testify some uneasiness on these occasions, and complained

of the melancholy life she led; to remedy which, I introduced her into

the acquaintance of some other kept mistresses, with whom she used to

play at cards, and frequent plays and other diversions. She had not

lived long in this intimacy before I perceived a visible alteration in

her behaviour; all her modesty and innocence vanished by degrees, till

her mind became thoroughly tainted. She affected the 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 which, having given her a hint, she took care to prevent me the pains

of turning her out of doors, and accordingly departed herself, having

first broken open my escrutore, and taken with her all she could find,

to the amount of about L200. 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 during that ferment, my passion

afterwards cooled; and, having reflected that I had been the first

aggressor, and had done her an injury for which I could make her no

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 of my money. In short, I was forced to make a third visit

to my surgeon, out of whose hands I did not get a hasty discharge.

I now forswore all future dealings with the sex, complained loudly that

the pleasure did not compensate the pain, and railed at the beautiful

creatures in as gross language as Juvenal himself formerly reviled them

in. I looked on all the town harlots with a detestation not easy to be

conceived, their persons appeared to me as painted palaces, inhabited by

Disease and Death: nor could their beauty make them more desirable

objects in my eyes than gilding could make me covet a pill, or golden

plates a coffin. But though I was no longer the absolute slave, I found

some reasons to own myself still the subject, of love. My hatred for

women decreased daily; and I am not positive but time might have

betrayed me again to some common harlot, had I not been secured by a

passion for the charming Sapphira, which, having once entered upon, made

a violent progress in my heart. Sapphira was wife to a man of fashion

and gallantry, and one who seemed, I own, every way worthy of her

affections; which, however, he had not the reputation of having. She was

indeed a coquette _achevee_. "Pray, sir," says Adams, "what is a

coquette? I have met with the word in French authors, but never could

assign any idea to it. I believe it is the same with _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 would not take

place of a coquette; nor indeed hath this creature much pretence to

anything beyond 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, politeness, and health are

sometimes affected by this creature, so are ugliness, folly, nonsense,

ill-nature, ill-breeding, and sickness likewise put on by it in their

turn. Its life is one constant lie; and the only rule by which you can

form any judgment of them is, that they are never what they seem. If it

was possible for a coquette to love (as it is not, for if ever it

attains this passion the coquette ceases instantly), it would wear the

face of indifference, if not of hatred, to the beloved object; you may

therefore be assured, when they endeavour to persuade you of their

liking, that they are indifferent to you at least. And indeed this was

the case of my Sapphira, who no sooner saw me in the number of her

admirers than she gave me what is commonly called encouragement: she

would often look at me, and, when she perceived me meet her eyes, would

instantly take them off, discovering at the same time as much surprize

and emotion as possible. These arts failed not of the success she

intended; and, as I grew more particular to her than the rest of her

admirers, she advanced, in proportion, more directly to me than to the

others. She affected the low voice, whisper, lisp, sigh, start, laugh,

and many other indications of passion which daily deceive thousands.

When I played at whist with her, she would look earnestly at me, and at

the same time lose deal or revoke; then burst into a ridiculous laugh

and cry, "La! I can't imagine what I was thinking of." To detain you no

longer, after I had gone through a sufficient course of gallantry, as I

thought, and was thoroughly convinced I had raised a violent passion in

my mistress, I sought an opportunity of coming to an eclaircissement

with her. She avoided this as much as possible; however, great assiduity

at length presented me one. I will not describe all the particulars of

this interview; let it suffice that, when she could no longer pretend

not to see my drift, she first affected a violent surprize, and

immediately after as violent a passion: she wondered what I had seen in

her conduct which could induce me to affront her in this manner; and,

breaking from me the first moment she could, told me I had no other way

to escape the consequence of her resentment than by never seeing, or at

least speaking to her more. I was not contented with this answer; I

still pursued her, but to no purpose; and was at length convinced that

her husband had the sole possession of her person, and that neither he

nor any other had made any impression on her heart. I was taken off from

following this _ignis fatuus_ by some advances which were made me by the

wife of a citizen, who, though neither very young nor handsome, was yet

too agreeable to be rejected by my amorous constitution. I accordingly

soon satisfied 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, but 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 uninterrupted. 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

tenderness; and, I assure you, it is a great satisfaction to me that I

was not the man who first seduced her affections from him. These

apprehensions appeared also too well grounded, for in the end he

discovered us, and procured witnesses of our caresses. He then

prosecuted me at law, and recovered L3000 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 rid me of 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 bad adieu to love, and resolved to pursue other less dangerous and

expensive pleasures. I fell into the acquaintance 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 noise: singing, hollowing, wrangling, drinking, toasting,

sp--wing, smoaking were the chief ingredients of our entertainment. And

yet, bad 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 falsehood of that very ancient but

simple tenet, that there is such a being as a Deity in the universe,

helped them to establish in his stead a certain rule of right, by

adhering to which they all arrived at the utmost purity of morals.

Reflection made me as much delighted with this society as it had taught

me to despise and detest the former. I began now to esteem myself a

being of a higher order than I had ever before conceived; and was the

more charmed with this rule of right, as I really found in my own nature

nothing 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

was 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 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, "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, &c.

But these appear of themselves to the eyes of the beholders, whereas the

poor wit is obliged to produce his performance to show you his

perfection; and on his readiness to do this that vulgar opinion I have

before mentioned is grounded; but doth not the person who expends vast

sums in the furniture of his house or the ornaments of his person, who

consumes much time and employs great pains in dressing himself, or who

thinks himself paid for self-denial, labour, or even villany, by a title

or a ribbon, sacrifice as much to vanity as the poor wit who is desirous

to read you his poem or his play? My second remark was, that vanity is

the worst of passions, and more apt to contaminate the mind than any

other: for, as selfishness is much more general than we please to allow

it, so it is natural to hate and envy those who stand between us and the

good we desire. Now, in lust and ambition these are few; and even in

avarice we find many who are no obstacles to our pursuits; but the vain

man seeks pre-eminence; and everything which is excellent or

praiseworthy in another renders him the mark of his antipathy. Adams now

began to fumble in his pockets, and soon cried out, "O 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? I wish it was within five

miles; I would willingly fetch it, to read it you." The gentleman

answered that there was no need, for he was cured of the passion. "And

for that very reason," quoth Adams, "I would read it, for I am confident

you would admire it: indeed, I have never been a greater enemy to any

passion than that silly one of vanity." The gentleman smiled, and

proceeded--From this society I easily passed to that of the gamesters,

where nothing remarkable happened but the finishing my fortune, which

those gentlemen soon helped me to the end of. This opened scenes of life

hitherto unknown; 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? 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 remembered to have formerly taken tickets

of other poets for their benefits, long before the appearance of their

performances; and, resolving to follow a precedent which was so well

suited to my present circumstances, I immediately provided myself with a

large number of little papers. Happy indeed would be the state of

poetry, would these tickets pass current at the bakehouse, the

ale-house, and the chandler's shop: but alas! far otherwise; no taylor

will take them in payment for buckram, canvas, stay-tape; nor no bailiff

for 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 dependance 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 learning, 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 publick, some persons,

finding it not so easy a task to discern good from bad authors, or to

know what genius was worthy encouragement and what was not, to prevent

the expense of subscribing to so many, invented a method to excuse

themselves 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 grievance; and

this is what they call being tied up from subscribing. "I can't say but

the term is apt enough, and somewhat typical," said Adams; "for a man of

large fortune, who ties himself up, as you call it, from the

encouragement of men of merit, ought to be tied up in reality." Well,

sir, says the gentleman, to return to my story. 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 into rehearsal, he informed me he had received orders from

the managers to return me the play again, for that they could not

possibly act it that season; but, if I would take it and revise it

against the next, they would be glad to see it again. I snatched it from

him with great indignation, and retired to my room, where I threw myself

on the bed in a fit of despair. "You should rather have thrown yourself

on your knees," says Adams, "for despair is sinful." As soon, continued

the gentleman, as I had indulged the first tumult of my passion, I began

to consider coolly what course I should take, in a situation without

friends, money, credit, or reputation of any kind. After revolving many

things in my mind, I could see no other possibility of furnishing myself

with the miserable necessaries of life than to retire to a garret near

the Temple, and commence hackney-writer to the lawyers, for which I was

well qualified, being an excellent penman. This purpose I resolved on,

and immediately put it in execution. I had an acquaintance with an

attorney who had formerly transacted affairs for me, and to him I

applied; but, instead of furnishing me with any business, he laughed at

my undertaking, and told me, "He was afraid I should turn his deeds into

plays, and he should expect to see them on the stage." Not to tire you

with instances of this kind from others, I found that Plato himself did

not hold poets in greater abhorrence than these men of business do.

Whenever I durst venture to a coffeehouse, 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 covered by a good education and politeness, delights in

making another uneasy or dissatisfied with himself. This abundantly

appears in all assemblies, except those which are filled by people of

fashion, and especially among the younger people of both sexes whose

birth and fortunes place them just without the polite circles; I mean

the lower class of the gentry, and the higher of the mercantile world,

who are, in reality, the worst-bred part of mankind. Well, sir, whilst I

continued in this miserable state, with scarce sufficient business to

keep me from starving, the reputation of a poet being my bane, I

accidentally became acquainted with a bookseller, who told me, "It was a

pity a man of my learning and genius should be obliged to such a method

of getting his livelihood; that he had a compassion for me, and, if I

would engage with him, he would undertake to provide handsomely for me."

A man in my circumstances, as he very well knew, had no choice. I

accordingly accepted his proposal with his conditions, 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 having half worked and half

starved myself to death during the time I was in his service, saved a

few guineas, with which I bought a lottery-ticket, resolving to throw

myself into Fortune's lap, and try if she would make me amends for the

injuries she had done me at the gaming-table. This purchase, being made,

left me almost 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 taylor'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), liberty, money, or friends; and had abandoned all

hopes, and even the desire, of life. "But this could not last long,"

said Adams; "for doubtless the taylor released you the moment he was

truly acquainted with your affairs, and knew that your circumstances

would not permit you to pay him." "Oh, sir," answered the gentleman, "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 customer

many years, had spent vast sums of money with him, and had always paid

most punctually in my prosperous days; but when I reminded him of this,

with assurances that, if he would not molest my endeavours, I would pay

him all the money I could by my utmost labour and industry procure,

reserving only what was 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 die in gaol

and expect no mercy." "He may expect mercy," cries Adams, starting from

his chair, "where he will find none! How can such a wretch repeat the

Lord's Prayer; where the word, which is translated, I know not for what

reason, trespasses, is in the original, debts? And as surely as we do

not forgive others their debts, when they are unable to pay them, so

surely shall we ourselves be unforgiven when we are in no condition of

paying." He ceased, and the gentleman proceeded. While I was in this

deplorable situation, a former acquaintance, to whom I had communicated

my lottery-ticket, found me out, and, making me a visit, with great

delight in his countenance, shook me heartily by the hand, and wished me

joy of my good fortune: for, says he, your ticket is come up a prize of

L3000. 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

unfortunate sale he began to revile me and remind me of all the

ill-conduct and miscarriages of my life. He said I was one whom Fortune

could not save if she would; that I was now ruined without any hopes of

retrieval, nor must expect any pity from my friends; that it would be

extreme 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 enjoyed, had I

not foolishly disposed of my ticket. I urged the plea of necessity; but

he made no answer to that, and began again to revile me, till I could

bear it no longer, and desired him to finish his visit. I soon exchanged

the bailiff's house for a prison; where, as I had not money sufficient

to procure me a separate apartment, I was crouded 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 circumstances I applied by letter to several of

my old acquaintance, and such to whom I had formerly lent money without

any great prospect of its being returned, for their 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 punishment for a little inadvertency and

indiscretion; whilst I was in this condition, a fellow came into the

prison, and, enquiring me out, delivered me the following letter:--

   "SIR,--My father, to whom you sold your ticket in the last
   lottery, died the same day in which it came up a prize, as you
   have possibly heard, and left me sole heiress of all his
   fortune. I am so much touched with your present circumstances,
   and the 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,

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 L200.--"L200?"

says Adams, in a rapture. No 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 best but the

handsomest creature in the universe, and for whom I had long had a

passion which I never durst disclose to her. I kissed her name a

thousand times, my eyes overflowing with tenderness and gratitude; I

repeated--But not to detain you with these raptures, I immediately

acquired my liberty; and, having paid all my debts, departed, with

upwards of fifty pounds in my pocket, to thank my kind deliverer. She

happened to be then out of town, a circumstance which, upon reflection,

pleased me; for by that means I had an opportunity to appear before her

in a more decent dress. 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: "What I have done is in

my own eyes a trifle, and perhaps infinitely less than would have become

me to do. And if you think of engaging in any business where a larger

sum may be serviceable to you, I shall not be over-rigid either as to

the security or interest." I endeavoured to express all the gratitude in

my power to this profusion of goodness, though perhaps it was my enemy,

and began to afflict my mind with more agonies than all the miseries I

had underwent; it affected me with severer reflections than poverty,

distress, and prisons united had been able to make me feel; for, sir,

these acts and professions of kindness, 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 violent passion, though with

a despair which made me endeavour rather to curb and conceal, than to

nourish or acquaint her with it. In short, they came upon me united with

beauty, softness, and tenderness: such bewitching smiles!--O Mr Adams,

in that moment I lost myself, and, forgetting our different situations,

nor considering what return I was making to her goodness by desiring

her, who had given me so much, to bestow her all, I laid gently hold on

her hand, and, conveying it to my lips, I prest it with inconceivable

ardour; then, lifting up my swimming eyes, I saw her face and neck

overspread with one blush; she offered to withdraw her hand, yet not so

as to deliver it from mine, though I held it with the gentlest force. We

both stood trembling; her eyes cast on the ground, and mine 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. Nay, madam, said I, you shall

not be so ready to punish me as I to suffer. I own my guilt. I detest

the reflection that I would have sacrificed your happiness to mine.

Believe me, I sincerely repent my ingratitude; yet, believe me too, it

was my passion, my unbounded passion for you, which hurried me so far: I

have loved you long and tenderly, and the goodness you have shown me

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. O,

curst be Fortune!--"Do not," says she, interrupting me with the sweetest

voice, "do not curse Fortune, since she hath made me happy; and, if she

hath put your happiness in my power, I have told you you shall ask

nothing in reason which I will refuse." Madam, said I, you mistake me if

you imagine, as you seem, my happiness is in the power of Fortune now.

You have obliged me too much already; if I have any wish, it is for some

blest accident, by which I may contribute with my life to the least

augmentation of your felicity. As for myself, the only happiness I can

ever have will be hearing of yours; and if Fortune will make that

complete, I will forgive her all her wrongs to me. "You may, indeed,"

answered she, smiling, "for your own happiness must be included in mine.

I have long known your worth; nay, I must confess," said she, blushing,

"I have long discovered 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. O, sir! can I describe her look? She remained silent,

and almost motionless, several minutes. At last, recovering herself a

little, she insisted on my leaving her, and in such a manner that I

instantly obeyed: you may imagine, however, I soon saw her again.--But I

ask pardon: I fear I have detained you too long in relating the

particulars of the former interview. "So far otherwise," said Adams,

licking his lips, "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 circumstances of my wife's

fortune (which, I do assure you, I was not presently at leisure enough

to do), I found it amounted to about six thousand pounds, most part of

which lay in effects; for her father had been a wine-merchant, and she

seemed willing, if I liked it, that I should carry on the same trade. I

readily, and too inconsiderately, undertook it; for, not having been

bred up to the secrets of the business, and endeavouring to deal with

the utmost honesty and uprightness, I soon found our fortune in a

declining way, and my trade decreasing by little and little; for my

wines, which I never adulterated after their importation, and were sold

as neat as they came over, were universally decried by the vintners, to

whom I could not allow them quite as cheap as those who gained double

the profit by a less price. 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 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 inexpressible

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. We soon put our

small fortune, now reduced under three thousand pounds, into money, with

part of which we purchased this little place, whither we retired soon

after her delivery, from a world full of bustle, noise, hatred, envy,

and ingratitude, to ease, quiet, and love. We have here lived almost

twenty years, with little other conversation than our own, most of the

neighbourhood taking us for very strange people; the squire of the

parish representing me as a madman, 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 gentleman; and if he had

died I could have borne the loss with patience; but alas! sir, he was

stolen away from my door by some wicked travelling people whom they call

gipsies; nor could I ever, with the most diligent search, recover 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. Thus, sir, said the gentleman, I have finished my story, in

which if I have been too particular, I ask your pardon; and now, if you

please, I will fetch you another bottle: which proposal the parson

thankfully accepted.


_A description of Mr Wilson's way of living. The tragical adventure of

the dog, and other grave matters._

The gentleman returned with the bottle; and Adams and he sat some time

silent, when the former started up, and cried, "No, that won't do." The

gentleman inquired into his meaning; he answered, "He had been

considering that it was possible the late famous king Theodore might

have been that very son whom he had lost;" but added, "that his age

could not answer that imagination. However," says he, "G-- disposes all

things for the best; and very probably he may be some great man, or

duke, and may, one day or other, revisit you in that capacity." The

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

[A], 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. No parterres, no fountains, no statues, embellished this

little garden. Its only ornament was a short walk, shaded on each side

by a filbert-hedge, with a small alcove at one end, whither in hot

weather the gentleman and his wife used to retire and divert themselves

with their children, who played in the walk before them. But, though

vanity had no votary in this little spot, here was variety of fruit and

everything useful for the kitchen, which was abundantly sufficient to

catch the admiration of Adams, who told the gentleman he had certainly a

good gardener. Sir, answered he, that gardener is now before you:

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

persuade us of in women. As for my woman, I declare I have found none of

my own sex capable of making juster observations on life, or of

delivering them more agreeably; nor do I believe any one possessed of a

faithfuller or braver friend. And sure as this friendship is sweetened

with more delicacy and tenderness, so is it confirmed by dearer pledges

than can attend the closest male alliance; for what union can be so fast

as our common interest in the fruits of our embraces? Perhaps, sir, you

are not yourself a father; if you are not, be assured you cannot

conceive the delight I have in my little ones. Would you not despise me

if you saw me stretched on the ground, and my children playing round me?

"I should reverence the sight," quoth Adams; "I myself am now the father

of six, and have been of eleven, and I can say I never scourged a child

of my own, unless as his schoolmaster, and then have felt every stroke

on my own posteriors. And as to what you say concerning women, I have

often lamented my own wife did not understand Greek."--The gentleman

smiled, and answered, he would not be apprehended to insinuate that his

own had an understanding above the care of her family; on the contrary,

says he, my Harriet, I assure you, is a notable housewife, and few

gentlemen's housekeepers 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 her own making,

as is indeed all the liquor in my house, except my beer, which falls to

my province. "And I assure you it is as excellent," quoth Adams, "as

ever I tasted." We formerly kept a maid-servant, but since my girls have

been growing up she is unwilling to indulge them in idleness; for as the

fortunes I shall give them will be very small, we intend not to breed

them above the rank they are likely to fill hereafter, nor to teach them

to despise or ruin a plain husband. Indeed, I could wish a man of my own

temper, and a retired life, might fall to their lot; for I have

experienced that calm serene happiness, which is seated in content, is

inconsistent with the hurry and bustle of the world. He was proceeding

thus when the little things, being just risen, 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 gentlewoman were

up, and that breakfast was ready. They all went in, 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. But if he was so much amazed at

the beauty of this young creature, his guests were no less charmed at

the tenderness which appeared in the behaviour of the husband and wife

to each other, and to their children, and at the dutiful and

affectionate behaviour of these to their parents. These instances

pleased the well-disposed mind of Adams equally with the readiness which

they 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

wanted it were not welcome to. These good people were in the utmost

cheerfulness, when they heard the report of a gun, and immediately

afterwards a little dog, the favourite of the eldest daughter, came

limping in all bloody and laid himself at his mistress's feet: the poor

girl, who was about eleven years old, burst into tears at the sight; and

presently one of the neighbours came in and informed them that the young

squire, the son of the lord of the manor, had shot him as he past 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 his loss,

and the other children began to cry for their sister's misfortune; nor

could Fanny herself refrain. Whilst the father and mother attempted to

comfort her, Adams grasped his crabstick and would have sallied out

after the squire had not Joseph withheld him. He could not however

bridle his tongue--he pronounced the word rascal with great emphasis;

said he deserved to be hanged more than a highwayman, and wished he had

the scourging him. The mother took her child, lamenting and carrying the

dead favourite in her arms, out of the room, when the gentleman said

this was the second time this squire had endeavoured to kill the little

wretch, and had wounded him smartly once before; adding, he could have

no motive but ill-nature, for the little thing, which 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 disposition was too good hastily to forget the

sudden loss of her little favourite, which had been fondling with her

a few minutes before; and as Joseph and Fanny were impatient to get home

and begin those previous ceremonies to their happiness which Adams had

insisted on, they now offered to take 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 gentleman and his wife

heartily wishing them a good journey, and they as heartily thanking them

for their kind entertainment. They then departed, Adams declaring that

this was the manner in which the people had lived in the golden age.

[A] Whoever the reader pleases.


_A disputation on schools held on the road between Mr Abraham Adams and

Joseph; and a discovery not unwelcome to them both._

Our travellers, having well refreshed themselves at the gentleman's

house, Joseph and Fanny with sleep, and Mr Abraham Adams with ale and

tobacco, renewed their journey with great alacrity; and pursuing the

road 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 between Mr Joseph Andrews and

Mr Abraham Adams.

They had not gone far before Adams, calling to Joseph, asked him, "If

he had attended to the gentleman's story?" He answered, "To all the

former part."--"And don't you think," says he, "he was a very unhappy

man in his youth?"--"A very unhappy man, indeed," answered the other.

"Joseph," cries Adams, screwing up his mouth, "I have found it; I have

discovered the cause of all the misfortunes which 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 immortal soul?

What shall a man take in exchange for his soul? But the masters of

great schools trouble themselves about no such thing. 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

missing that than any other lesson. Believe me, child, all that

gentleman's misfortunes arose from his being educated at a public


"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 neighbourhood. 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 observation may see in epitome what he will afterwards find in

the world at large."--"_Hinc illae lachrymae_: 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 gentlemen, 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. Discipline indeed! Because one man scourges twenty or

thirty boys more in a morning than another, is he therefore a better

disciplinarian? I do presume to confer in this point with all who have

taught from Chiron's time to this day; and, if I was master of six boys

only, I would preserve as good discipline amongst them as the master of

the greatest school in the world. I say nothing, young man; remember I

say nothing; but if Sir Thomas himself had been educated nearer home,

and under the tuition of somebody--remember I name nobody--it might have

been better for him:--but his father must institute him in the knowledge

of the world. _Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit_." Joseph, seeing him

run on in this manner, asked pardon many times, assuring him he had no

intention to offend. "I believe you had not, child," said he, "and I am

not angry with you; but for maintaining good discipline in a school; for

this."--And then he ran on as before, named all the masters who are

recorded in old books, and preferred himself to them all. Indeed, if

this good man had an enthusiasm, or what the vulgar call a blind side,

it was this: he thought a schoolmaster the greatest character in the

world, and himself the greatest of all schoolmasters: neither of which

points he would have given up to Alexander the Great at the head of

his army.

Adams continued his subject till they came to one of the beautifullest

spots of ground in the universe. It was a kind of natural amphitheatre,

formed by the winding of a small rivulet, which was planted with thick

woods, and the trees rose gradually above each other by the natural

ascent of the ground they stood 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 reflection that he should shortly have

an opportunity of returning it him; for the gentleman was within a week

to make a journey into Somersetshire, to pass through Adams's parish,

and had faithfully promised to call on him; a circumstance which we

thought too immaterial to mention before; but which those who have as

great an affection for that gentleman as ourselves will rejoice at, as

it may give them hopes of seeing him again. Then Joseph made a speech on

charity, which the reader, if he is so disposed, may see in the next

chapter; for we scorn to betray him into any such reading, without first

giving him warning.


_Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the hunting adventure, and

parson Adams's miraculous escape._

"I have often wondered, sir," said Joseph, "to observe so few instances

of charity among mankind; for though the goodness of 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, but an ambition to be respected more

than other people? Now, 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 suchlike example of goodness, create a man more honour

and respect than he could acquire by the finest house, furniture,

pictures, or clothes, that were ever beheld? 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

taylor, and the rest, by whose ingenuity 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 I 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

suppose were the names of the painters; but if it was asked--Who

redeemed such a one out of prison? Who lent such a ruined tradesman

money to set up? Who clothed that family of poor small children? it is

very plain what must be the answer. And besides, these great folks are

mistaken if they imagine they get any honour at all by these means; for

I do not remember I ever was with my lady at any house where she

commended the house or furniture but I have heard her at her return home

make sport and jeer at whatever she had before commended; and I have

been told by other gentlemen in livery that it is the same in their

families: but I defy the wisest man in the world to turn a true good

action into ridicule. I defy him to do it. He who should endeavour it

would be laughed at himself, instead of making others laugh. Nobody

scarce 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. "Some gentlemen of our

cloth report charitable actions done by their lords and masters; and I

have heard Squire Pope, the great poet, at my lady's table, tell stories

of a man that lived at a place called Ross, and another at the Bath, one

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,--ay, and brings him more honour too. It was his charity that

put him in the book, where the squire says he puts all those who deserve

it; and to be sure, as he lives among all the great people, if there

were any such, he would know them." This was all of Mr Joseph Andrews's

speech which I could get him to recollect, which I have delivered as

near as was possible 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 occasions offered

themselves to exert his curiosity and observation. The truth is, he was

fast asleep, and had so been from the beginning of the preceding

narrative; and, indeed, if the reader considers that so many hours had

passed since he had closed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repose,

though even Henley himself, or as great an orator (if any 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. Whilst they amused themselves in this

harmless and delightful manner they heard a pack of hounds approaching

in full cry towards them, and presently afterwards saw a hare pop

forth from the wood, and, crossing the water, land within a few yards

of them in the meadows. The hare was no sooner on shore than it seated

itself on its hinder legs, and listened to the sound of the pursuers.

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? It was,

however, so spent and weak, that it fell down twice or thrice in its

way. This affected 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. The 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 horses

too, proceeded after their sport, and left their friends and riders to

invoke the assistance of Fortune, or employ the more active means of

strength and agility for their deliverance. Joseph, however, was not

so unconcerned on this occasion; he left Fanny for a moment to herself,

and ran to the gentlemen, who were immediately on their legs, shaking

their ears, and easily, with the help of his hand, obtained the bank

(for the rivulet was not at all deep); and, without staying to thank

their kind assister, ran dripping across the meadow, calling to their

brother sportsmen to stop their horses; but they heard them not.

The hounds were now very little behind their poor reeling, staggering

prey, which, fainting almost at every step, crawled through the wood,

and had almost got round to the place where Fanny stood, when it was

overtaken by its enemies, and being driven out of the covert, was

caught, and instantly tore to pieces before Fanny's face, who was unable

to assist it with any aid more powerful than pity; nor could she prevail

on Joseph, who had been himself a sportsman in his youth, to attempt

anything contrary to the laws of hunting in favour of the hare, which he

said was killed fairly.

The hare was caught within a yard or two of Adams, who lay asleep at

some distance from the lovers; and the hounds, in devouring it, and

pulling it backwards and forwards, had drawn it so close to him, that

some of them (by mistake perhaps for the hare's skin) laid hold of the

skirts of his cassock; others at the same time applying their teeth to

his wig, which he had with a handkerchief fastened to his head, began to

pull him about; and had not the motion of his body had more effect on

him than seemed to be wrought by the noise, they must certainly have

tasted his flesh, which delicious flavour might have been fatal to him;

but being roused by these tuggings, he instantly awaked, and with a jerk

delivering his head from his wig, he with most admirable dexterity

recovered his legs, which now seemed the only members he could entrust

his safety to. Having, therefore, escaped likewise from at least a third

part of his cassock, which he willingly left as his _exuviae_ or spoils

to the enemy, he fled with the utmost speed he could summon to his

assistance. Nor let this be any detraction from the bravery of his

character: let the number of the enemies, and the surprize in which he

was taken, be considered; and if there be any modern so outrageously

brave that he cannot admit of flight in any circumstance whatever, I say

(but I whisper that softly, and I solemnly declare without any intention

of giving offence to any brave man in the nation), I say, or rather I

whisper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and hath never read Homer nor

Virgil, nor knows he anything of Hector or Turnus; nay, he is

unacquainted with the history of some great men living, who, though as

brave as lions, ay, as tigers, have run away, the Lord knows how far,

and the Lord knows why, to the 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 be as much pleased with what we shall immediately relate

of Joseph Andrews. The master of the pack was just arrived, or, as the

sportsmen call it, come in, when Adams set out, as we have before

mentioned. This gentleman was generally said to be a great lover of

humour; but, not to mince the matter, especially as we are upon this

subject, he was a great hunter of men; indeed, he had hitherto followed

the sport only with dogs of his own species; for he kept two or three

couple of barking curs for that use only. However, as he thought he had

now found a man nimble enough, he was willing to indulge himself with

other sport, and accordingly, crying out, "Stole away," encouraged the

hounds to pursue Mr Adams, swearing it was the largest jack-hare he ever

saw; at the same time hallooing and hooping as if a conquered foe was

flying before him; in which he was imitated by these two or three couple

of human or rather two-legged curs on horseback which we have mentioned


Now, 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

carefully 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 literature, and even against his inclination, hast,

in some pages of his book, forced Colley Cibber to write English; do

thou assist me in what I find myself unequal to. Do thou introduce on

the plain the young, the gay, the brave Joseph Andrews, whilst men shall

view him with admiration and envy, tender virgins with love and anxious

concern for his safety.

No sooner did Joseph Andrews perceive the distress of his friend, when

first the quick-scenting dogs attacked him, than he 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

strength and wonderful art, made by one of Mr Deard's best workmen, whom

no other artificer can equal, and who hath made all those sticks which

the beaus have lately walked with about the Park in a morning; but this

was far his masterpiece. On its head was engraved a nose and chin, which

might have been mistaken for a pair of 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 in his hands than lightning

darted from his eyes; and the heroick youth, swift of foot, ran with the

utmost speed to his friend's assistance. 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 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 person of Joseph Andrews. Let those,

therefore, that describe lions and tigers, and heroes fiercer than both,

raise their poems or plays with the simile of Joseph Andrews, who is

himself above the reach of any simile.

Now Rockwood 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 Ringwood then fell on his

greatcoat, 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, O Ringwood! Ringwood 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 babler, no overrunner;

respected by the whole pack, who, whenever he opened, knew the game was

at hand. He fell by the stroke of Joseph. Thunder and Plunder, and

Wonder and Blunder, were the next victims of his wrath, and measured

their lengths on the ground. Then Fairmaid, a bitch which Mr John Temple

had bred up in his house, and fed at his own table, and lately sent the

squire fifty miles for a present, ran fiercely at Joseph and bit him by

the leg: no dog was ever fiercer than she, being descended from an

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 if he pleases)

in that instant interposed, and, in the shape of the huntsman, snatched

her favourite up in her arms.

The parson now faced about, and with his crabstick felled many to the

earth, and scattered others, till he was attacked by Caesar and pulled

to the ground. Then Joseph flew to his rescue, and with such might

fell on the victor, that, O eternal blot to his name! Caesar ran

yelping away.

The battle now raged with the most dreadful violence, when, lo! the

huntsman, a man of years and dignity, lifted his voice, and called his

hounds from the fight, telling them, in a language they understood, that

it was in vain to contend longer, for that fate had decreed the victory

to their enemies.

Thus far the muse 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 dogs in

that manner? Joseph answered, with great intrepidity, that they had

first fallen on his friend; and if they had belonged to the greatest man

in the kingdom, he would have treated them in the same way; for, whilst

his veins contained a single drop of blood, he would not stand idle by

and see that gentleman (pointing to Adams) abused either by man or

beast; and, having so said, both he and Adams brandished their wooden

weapons, and put 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 Fanny, whom the apprehension of Joseph'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 all sat in silent amaze. The huntsman only was

free from her attraction, who was busy in cutting the ears of the

dogs, and endeavouring to recover them to life; in which he succeeded

so well, that only two of no great note remained slaughtered on the

field of action. Upon this the huntsman declared, "'Twas well it was

no worse; for his part he could not blame the gentleman, and wondered

his master would encourage the dogs to hunt Christians; that it was

the surest way to spoil them, to make them follow vermin instead of

sticking to a hare."

The squire, being informed of the little mischief that had been done,

and perhaps having more mischief of another kind in his head, accosted

Mr Adams with a more favourable aspect than before: he told him he was

sorry for what had happened; that he had endeavoured all he could to

prevent it the moment he was acquainted with his cloth, and greatly

commended the courage of his servant, for so he imagined Joseph to be.

He then invited Mr Adams to dinner, and desired the young woman might

come with him. Adams refused a long while; but the invitation was

repeated with so much earnestness and courtesy, that at length he was

forced to accept it. His wig and hat, and other spoils of the field,

being gathered together by Joseph (for otherwise probably they would

have been forgotten), he put himself into the best order he could; and

then the horse and foot moved forward in the same pace towards the

squire's house, which stood at a very little distance.

Whilst they were on the road the lovely 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.


_A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste

and times._

They arrived at the squire's house just as his dinner was ready. A

little dispute arose on the account of Fanny, whom the squire, who was a

bachelor, was desirous to place at his own table; but she would not

consent, nor would Mr Adams permit her to be parted from Joseph; so that

she was at length with him consigned over to the kitchen, where the

servants were ordered to make him drunk; a favour which was likewise

intended for Adams; 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 considerable fortune; a bachelor, as we

have said, and about forty years of age: he had been educated (if we may

use the expression) in the country, and at his own home, under the care

of 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, he 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 that he might have learned at a

public school or university--this 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 inventing methods of forcing him into absurdities

which were not natural to him, or in drawing forth and exposing those

that were; for which purpose he was always provided with a set of

fellows, whom we have before called curs, and who did, indeed, no great

honour to the canine kind; their business was to hunt out and display

everything that had any savour of the above-mentioned qualities, and

especially in the gravest and best characters; but if they failed in

their search, they were to turn even virtue and wisdom themselves into

ridicule, for the diversion of their master and feeder. The gentlemen of

curlike disposition who were now at his house, and whom he had brought

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


As soon as dinner was served, while Mr Adams was saying grace, the

captain conveyed his chair from behind him; so that when he endeavoured

to seat himself he fell down on the ground, and 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 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 be the best liquor he ever drank, but

rather too rich of the malt, contributed again to their laughter. Mr

Adams, from whom we had most of this relation, could not recollect all

the jests of this kind practised on him, which the inoffensive

disposition of his own heart made him slow in discovering; and indeed,

had it not been for the information which we received from a servant of

the family, this part of our history, which we take to be none of the

least curious, must have been deplorably imperfect; though we must own

it probable that some more jokes were (as they call it) cracked during

their dinner; but we have by no means been able to come at the knowledge

of them. When dinner was removed, the poet began to repeat some verses,

which, he said, were made extempore. The following is a copy of them,

procured with the greatest difficulty:--

   _An extempore Poem on parson Adams._
   Did ever mortal such a parson view?
   His cassock old, his wig not over-new,
   Well might the hounds have him for fox mistaken,
   In smell more like to that than rusty bacon[A];
   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.

[A] All hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will hunt a piece of

   rusty bacon trailed on the ground.

At which words the bard whipt off the player's wig, and received the

approbation of the company, rather perhaps for the dexterity of his hand

than his head. The player, instead of 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 whole body of the clergy,

which were received with great acclamations by all present. It was now

the dancing-master's turn to exhibit his talents; he therefore,

addressing himself to Adams in broken English, told him, "He was a man

ver well made for de dance, and he suppose by his walk dat he had learn

of some great master." He said, "It was ver pretty quality in clergyman

to dance;" and concluded with desiring him to dance a minuet, telling

him, "his cassock would serve for petticoats; and that he would himself

be his partner." At which words, without waiting for an answer, he

pulled out his gloves, and the fiddler was preparing his fiddle. The

company 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 retired out

of its reach, and stood aloof, mimicking Adams, whose eyes were fixed on

him, not guessing what he was at, but to avoid his laying hold on him,

which he had once attempted. In the meanwhile, the captain, perceiving

an opportunity, pinned a cracker or devil to the cassock, and then

lighted it with their little smoking-candle. Adams, being a stranger to

this sport, and believing he had been blown up in reality, started from

his chair, and jumped about the room, to the infinite joy of the

beholders, who declared he was the best dancer in the universe. As soon

as the devil had done tormenting him, and he had a little recovered his

confusion, he returned to the table, standing up in the posture of one

who intended to make a speech. They all cried out, "Hear him, hear him;"

and he then spoke in the following manner: "Sir, I am sorry to see one

to whom Providence 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 rudenesses 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

protection. 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 not the subject of scorn, nor that I can become

so, unless by being a disgrace to it, which I hope poverty will never be

called. Another gentleman, indeed, hath repeated some sentences, where

the order itself is mentioned with contempt. He says they are taken from

plays. I am sure such plays are a scandal to the government which

permits them, and cursed will be the nation where they are represented.

How others have treated me I need not observe; they themselves, when

they reflect, must allow the behaviour to be as improper to my years as

to my cloth. You found me, sir, travelling with two of my parishioners

(I omit your hounds falling on me; for I have quite forgiven it, whether

it proceeded from the wantonness or negligence of the huntsman): my

appearance might very well persuade you that your invitation was an act

of charity, though in reality we were well provided; yes, sir, if we had

had an hundred miles to travel, we had sufficient to bear our expenses

in a noble manner." (At which words he produced the half-guinea which

was found in the basket.) "I do not show you this out of ostentation of

riches, but to convince you I speak truth. Your seating me 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 profession to punish him that way;

but for the person whom he had accused, I am a witness," says he, "of

his innocence; for I had my eye on him all the while. Whoever he was,

God forgive him, and bestow on him a little more sense as well as

humanity." The captain answered with a surly look and accent, "That he

hoped he did not mean to reflect upon him; d--n him, he had as much

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 "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, but he was disappointed; for the captain made

no other answer than, "It is very well you are a parson;" and so,

drinking off a bumper to old mother Church, ended the dispute.

Then the doctor, who had hitherto been silent, and who was the gravest

but most mischievous dog of all, in a very pompous speech highly

applauded what Adams had said, and as much discommended the behaviour

to him. He proceeded to encomiums on the Church and poverty; and,

lastly, recommended forgiveness of what had passed to Adams, who

immediately 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 respect 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, "as it must

greatly raise our expectation of the future conduct in life of boys

whom in their tender years we perceive, instead of taw or balls, or

other childish playthings, to chuse, at their leisure hours, to

exercise their genius in contentions of wit, learning, and such like;

so must it inspire one with equal contempt of a man, if we should

discover him playing at taw or other childish play." Adams highly

commended the doctor's opinion, and said, "He had often wondered at

some passages in ancient authors, where Scipio, Laelius, and other great

men were represented to have passed many hours in amusements of the

most trifling kind." The doctor replied, "He had by him an old Greek

manuscript where a favourite diversion of Socrates was recorded." "Ay!"

says the parson eagerly; "I should be most infinitely obliged to you

for the favour of perusing it." The doctor promised to send it him, and

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 ambassador, which part Socrates always used to perform

himself; and when he was led up to the footsteps of the throne he

addressed himself to the monarchs in some grave speech, full of virtue,

and goodness, and morality, and such like. After which, he was seated

between the king and queen, and royally entertained. This I think was

the chief part. Perhaps I may have 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, instead of cards and other

idle pastime, in which, he was informed, they trifled away too much of

their lives." He added, "The Christian religion was a nobler subject

for these speeches than any Socrates could have invented." The

gentleman of the house approved what Mr Adams said, and declared "he

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 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 entertainment of all present, was led up

to his place and seated between their majesties. They immediately rose

up, when the blanket, wanting its supports at either end, gave way, and

soused Adams over head and ears in the water. The captain made his

escape, but, unluckily, the gentleman himself not being as nimble as he

ought, Adams caught hold of him before he descended from his throne,

and pulled him in with him, to the entire secret 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.


_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 proceeding 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 with orders either to bring her back or never return.

The poet, the player, and all but the dancing-master and doctor, went on

this errand.

The night was very dark in which our friends began their journey;

however, they made such expedition, that they soon arrived at an inn

which was at seven miles' distance. Here they unanimously consented to

pass the evening, Mr Adams being now as dry as he was before he had set

out on his embassy.

This inn, which indeed we might call an ale-house, had not the words,

The New Inn, been writ on the sign, afforded them no better provision

than bread and cheese and ale; on which, however, 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 eat his homely commons with much greater

satisfaction than his splendid dinner; and expressed great contempt for

the folly of mankind, who sacrificed their hopes of heaven to the

acquisition of vast wealth, since so much comfort was to be found in the

humblest state and the lowest provision. "Very true, sir," says a grave

man who sat smoaking 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? 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. No, not the wealth of a kingdom

can purchase any paint to dress pale Ugliness in the bloom of that young

maiden, nor any drugs to equip Disease with the vigour of that young

man. Do not riches bring us to solicitude instead of rest, envy instead

of affection, and danger instead of safety? Can they prolong their own

possession, or lengthen his days who enjoys them? So far otherwise, that

the sloth, the luxury, the care which attend them, shorten the lives of

millions, and bring them with pain and misery to an untimely grave.

Where, then, is their value if they can neither embellish nor strengthen

our forms, sweeten nor prolong our lives?--Again: Can they adorn the

mind more than the body? Do they not rather swell the heart with vanity,

puff up the cheeks with pride, shut our ears to every call of virtue,

and our bowels to every motive of compassion?" "Give me your hand,

brother," said Adams, in a rapture, "for I suppose you are a

clergyman."--"No, truly," answered the other (indeed, he was a priest of

the Church of Rome; but those who understand our laws will not wonder he

was not over-ready to own it).--"Whatever you are," cries Adams, "you

have spoken my 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 deplorably true; but as

the prospect of our good at a distance doth not so forcibly affect us,

it might be of some service to mankind to be made thoroughly

sensible--which I think they might be with very little serious

attention--that even the blessings of this world are not to be purchased

with riches; a doctrine, in my opinion, not only 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, "I have certainly lost it; I can never have

spent it. Sir, as I am a Christian, I had a whole half-guinea in my

pocket this morning, and have not now a single halfpenny of it left.

Sure the devil must have taken it from me!"--"Sir," answered the priest,

smiling, "you need make no excuses; if you are not willing to lend me

the money, I am contented."--"Sir," cries Adams, "if I had the greatest

sum in the world--aye, if I had ten pounds about me--I would bestow it

all to rescue any Christian from distress. I am more vexed at my loss on

your account than my own. Was ever anything so unlucky? Because I have

no money in my pocket I shall be suspected to be no Christian."--"I am

more unlucky," quoth the other, "if you are as generous as you say; for

really a crown would have made me happy, and conveyed me in plenty to

the place I am going, which is not above twenty miles off, and where I

can arrive by to-morrow night. I assure you I am not accustomed to

travel pennyless. I am but just arrived in England; and we were forced

by a storm in our passage to throw all we had overboard. I don't suspect

but this fellow will take my word for the trifle I owe him; but I hate

to appear so mean as to confess myself without a shilling to such

people; for these, and indeed too many others, know little 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 immediately, 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 be so, and you have no

money, I must trust, I think, though I had rather always have ready

money if I could; but, marry, you look like so honest a 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.

"Rabbit the fellow," cries he, "I thought, by his talking so much about

riches, that he had a hundred pounds at least in his pocket." Adams chid

him for his suspicions, which, he said, were not becoming a Christian;

and then, without reflecting on his loss, or considering how he himself

should depart in the morning, he retired to a very homely bed, as his

companions had before; however, health and fatigue gave them a sweeter

repose than is often in the power of velvet and down to bestow.


_Containing as surprizing and bloody adventures as can be found in this

or perhaps any other authentic history._

It was almost morning when Joseph Andrews, whose eyes the thoughts of

his dear Fanny had opened, as he lay fondly meditating on that lovely

creature, heard a violent knocking at the door over which he lay. He

presently jumped out of bed, and, opening the window, was asked if there

were no travellers in the house? and presently, by another voice, if two

men and a woman had not taken up there their lodging that night? Though

he knew not the voices, he began to entertain a suspicion of the

truth--for indeed he had received some information from one of the

servants of the squire's house of his design--and answered in the

negative. One of the servants, who knew the host well, 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. O ho! said another,

have we found you? and ordered the host to come down and open his door.

Fanny, who was as wakeful as Joseph, no sooner heard all this than she

leaped from her bed, and, hastily putting on her gown and petticoats,

ran as 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, "when I should lose what

is dearer to me than the whole world?" Joseph, then kissing her hand,

said, "He could almost thank the occasion which had extorted from her a

tenderness she would never indulge him with before." He then ran and

waked his bedfellow Adams, who was yet fast asleep, notwithstanding many

calls from Joseph; but was no sooner made sensible of their danger than

he leaped from his bed, without considering the 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, justling one another, ran up. The poet, who was the nimblest,

entering the chamber first, searched the bed, and every other part, but

to no purpose; the bird was flown, as the impatient reader, who might

otherwise have been in pain for her, was before advertised. They then

enquired 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 enquired 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 defended

themselves with their sticks as long as they were able, and God would

assist a just cause. This satisfied the captain, but not the poet, who

prudently retreated downstairs, 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

servants 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; but

unless they consented he had orders to carry the young lady with him,

whom there was great reason to believe they had stolen from her parents;

for, notwithstanding her disguise, her air, which she could not conceal,

sufficiently discovered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs.

Fanny, bursting into tears, solemnly assured him he was 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 backwards. The captain, who was not accustomed to

this kind of play, and who wisely apprehended the consequence of such

another blow, two of them seeming to him equal to a thrust through the

body, drew forth his hanger, as Adams approached him, and was 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 beaus 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. Nor had Adams quite escaped, some of the water having in its

passage shed its honours on his head, and began to trickle down the

wrinkles or rather furrows of his cheeks, when one of the 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 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 impressions he had received from the mop, that Don

Quixote would certainly have taken him for an inchanted 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 downstairs 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


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 to himself; and then, leaving them together, back to back, and

desiring the host not to set them at liberty, nor to go near them, till

he had further orders, they departed towards their master; but happened

to take a different road from that which the captain had fallen into.


_A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this

history but to divert the reader._

Before we proceed any farther in this tragedy we shall leave Mr Joseph

and Mr Adams to themselves, and imitate the wise conductors of the

stage, who in the midst of a grave action 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 of fame or profit, or perhaps

both. Plays are like trees, which will not grow without nourishment; but

like mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneously, as it were, in a rich soil.

The muses, like vines, may be pruned, but not with a hatchet. The town,

like a peevish child, knows not what it desires, and is always best

pleased with a rattle. A farce-writer hath indeed some chance for

success: but they have lost all taste for the sublime. Though I believe

one reason of their depravity is the badness of the actors. If a man

writes like an angel, sir, those fellows know not how to give a

sentiment utterance."--"Not so fast," says the player: "the modern

actors are as good at least as their authors, nay, they come nearer

their illustrious predecessors; and I expect a Booth on the stage again,

sooner than a Shakespear 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."--"I have not

affirmed the contrary," said the poet; "but I am surprized you grow so

warm; you cannot imagine yourself interested in this dispute; I hope you

have a better opinion of my taste than to apprehend I squinted at

yourself. No, sir, if we had six such actors as you, we should soon

rival the 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."--"You are as little interested," answered the

player, "in what I have said of other poets; for d--n me if there are

not many strokes, ay, whole scenes, in your last tragedy, which at least

equal Shakespear. 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

stuff, 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 mistress, and a brave hero suing to his enemy with

his sword in his hand. I don't care to abuse my profession, but rot me

if in my heart I am not inclined to the poet's side."--"It is rather

generous in you than just," said the poet; "and, though I hate to speak

ill of any person's production--nay, I never do it, nor will--but yet,

to do justice to the actors, what could Booth or Betterton have made of

such horrible stuff as 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?"--"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 Shakespears, Otways, and Lees? How would

those harmonious lines of the last come from their tongues?--

   "'--No more; for I disdain
   All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise
   Of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls
   Our kinder fates have steer'd another way.
   Free as the forest birds we'll pair together,
   Without rememb'ring who our fathers were:
   Fly to the arbors, 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 be that foolish sordid thing call'd man?'"

"Hold! hold! hold!" said the poet: "Do repeat that tender speech in the

third act of my play which you made such a figure in."--"I would

willingly," said the player, "but I have forgot it."--"Ay, you was not

quite perfect in it when you played it," cries the poet, "or you would

have had such an applause as was never given on the stage; an applause I

was extremely concerned for your losing."--"Sure," says the player, "if

I remember, that was hissed more than any passage in the whole

play."--"Ay, your speaking it was hissed," said the poet.--"My speaking

it!" said the player.--"I mean your not speaking it," said the poet.

"You was out, and then they hissed."--"They hissed, and then I was out,

if I remember," answered the player; "and I must say this for myself,

that the whole audience allowed I did your part justice; so don't lay

the damnation of your play to my account."--"I don't know what you mean

by damnation," replied the poet.--"Why, you know it was acted but one

night," cried the player.--"No," said the poet, "you and the whole town

were enemies; the pit were all my enemies, fellows that would cut my

throat, if the fear of hanging did not restrain them. All taylors, sir,

all taylors."--"Why should the taylors be so angry with you?" cries the

player. "I suppose you don't employ so many in making your clothes."--"I

admit your jest," answered the poet; "but you remember the affair as

well as myself; you know there was a party in the pit and upper gallery

that would not suffer it to be given out again; though much, ay

infinitely, the majority, all the boxes in particular, were desirous of

it; 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 performers did the distress of it justice; for I am sure we were in

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.


_Containing the exhortations of parson Adams to his friend in

affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of the


Joseph no sooner came perfectly to himself than, perceiving his mistress

gone, he bewailed her loss with groans which would have pierced any

heart but those which are possessed by some people, and are made of a

certain composition not unlike flint in its 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 composition; and at those words, "O my

dear Fanny! O my love! shall I never, never see thee more?" his eyes

overflowed with tears, which would have become any but a hero. In a

word, his despair was more easy to be conceived than related.

Mr Adams, after many groans, sitting with his back to Joseph, began thus

in a sorrowful tone: "You cannot imagine, my good child, that I entirely

blame these first agonies of your grief; for, when misfortunes attack us

by surprize, it must require infinitely more learning than you are

master of to resist them; but it is the business of a man and a

Christian to summon Reason as quickly as he can to his aid; and she will

presently teach him patience and submission. Be comforted, therefore,

child; I say be comforted. It is true, you have lost the prettiest,

kindest, loveliest, sweetest young woman, one with whom you might have

expected to have lived in happiness, virtue, and innocence; by whom you

might have promised yourself many little darlings, who would have been

the delight of your youth and the comfort of your age. You have not only

lost her, but have reason to fear the utmost violence which lust and

power can inflict upon her. Now, indeed, you may easily raise ideas of

horror, which might drive you to despair."--"O I shall run mad!" cries

Joseph. "O that I could but command my hands to tear my eyes out and my

flesh off!"--"If you would use them to such purposes, I am glad you

can't," answered Adams. "I have stated your misfortune as strong as I

possibly can; but, 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, and a Christian, to submit. We did not

make ourselves; but the same power which made us rules over us, and we

are absolutely at his disposal; he may do with us what he pleases, nor

have we any right to complain. A second reason against our complaint is

our ignorance; for, as we know not future events, so neither can we tell

to what purpose any accident tends; and that which at first threatens us

with evil may in the end produce our good. I should indeed have said our

ignorance is twofold (but I have not at present time to divide

properly), for, as we know not to what purpose any event is ultimately

directed, so neither can we affirm from what cause it originally sprung.

You are a man, and consequently a sinner; and this may be a punishment

to you for your sins: indeed in this sense it may be esteemed as a good,

yea, as the greatest good, which satisfies the anger of Heaven, and

averts that wrath which cannot continue without our destruction.

Thirdly, our impotency of relieving ourselves demonstrates the folly and

absurdity of our complaints: for whom do we resist, or against whom do

we complain, but a power from whose shafts no armour can guard us, no

speed can fly?--a power which leaves us no hope but in submission." "O

sir!" cried Joseph, "all this is very true, and very fine, and I could

hear you all day if I was not so grieved at heart as now I am."--"Would

you take physic," says Adams, "when you are well, and refuse it when you

are sick? Is not comfort to be administered to the afflicted, and not to

those who rejoice or those who are at ease?" "O! you have not spoken one

word of comfort to me yet!" returned Joseph. "No!" cries Adams; "what am

I then doing? what can I say to comfort you?" "O 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 you what's to come. You must, with perfect resignation, wait the

event: if she be restored to you again, it is your duty to be thankful,

and so it is if she be not. Joseph, if you are wise and truly know your

own interest, you will peaceably and quietly submit to all the

dispensations of Providence, being thoroughly assured that all the

misfortunes, how great soever, which happen to the righteous, happen to

them for their own good. Nay, it is not your interest only, but 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

be angry, saying, he mistook him if he thought he denied it was his

duty, for he had known that long ago. "What signifies knowing your duty,

if you do not perform it?" answered Adams. "Your knowledge increases

your guilt. O Joseph! I never thought you had this stubbornness in your

mind." Joseph replied, "He fancied he misunderstood him; which I assure

you," says he, "you do, if you imagine I endeavour to grieve; upon my

soul I don't." Adams rebuked him for swearing, and then proceeded to

enlarge on the folly of grief, telling him, all the wise men and

philosophers, even among the heathens, had written against it, quoting

several passages from Seneca, and the Consolation, which, though it was

not Cicero's, was, he said, as good almost as any of his works; and

concluded all by hinting that immoderate grief in this case might

incense that power which alone could restore him his 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 asswage 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 Joseph burst out into the following soliloquy:--

   "Yes, I will bear my sorrows like a man,
   But I must also feel them as a man.
   I cannot but remember such things were,
   And were most dear to me."

Adams asked him what stuff that was he repeated? To which he answered,

they were some lines he had gotten by heart out of a play. "Ay, there is

nothing but heathenism to be learned from plays," replied he. "I never

heard of any plays fit for a Christian to read, but Cato and the

Conscious Lovers; and, I must own, in the latter there are some things

almost solemn enough for a sermon." But we shall now leave them a

little, and enquire after the subject of their conversation.


_More adventures, which we hope will as much please as surprize

the reader._

Neither the facetious dialogue which passed between the poet and the

player, nor the grave and truly solemn discourse of Mr Adams, will, we

conceive, make the reader sufficient amends for the anxiety which he

must have felt on the account of poor Fanny, whom we left in so

deplorable a condition. We shall therefore now proceed to the relation

of what happened to that beautiful and innocent virgin, after she fell

into the wicked hands of the captain.

The man of war, having conveyed his charming prize out of the inn a

little before day, made the utmost expedition in his power towards the

squire's house, where this delicate creature was to be offered up a

sacrifice to the lust of a ravisher. He was not only deaf to all her

bewailings and entreaties on the road, but accosted her ears with

impurities which, having been never before 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 splendor

and luxury which would be her fortune with a man who would have the

inclination, and power too, to give her whatever her utmost wishes could

desire; and told her he doubted not but she would soon look kinder on

him, as the instrument of her happiness, and despise that pitiful fellow

whom her ignorance only could make her fond of. She answered, she knew

not whom he meant; she never was fond of any pitiful fellow. "Are you

affronted, madam," says he, "at my calling him so? But what better can

be said of one in a livery, notwithstanding your fondness for him?" She

returned, that she did not understand him, that the man had been her

fellow-servant, and she believed was as honest a creature as any alive;

but as for fondness for men--"I warrant ye," cries the captain, "we

shall find means to persuade you to be fond; and I advise you to yield

to gentle ones, for you may be assured that it is not in your power, by

any struggles whatever, to preserve your virginity two hours longer. It

will be your interest to consent; for the squire will be much kinder to

you if he enjoys you willingly than by force." At which words she began

to call aloud for assistance (for it was now open day), but, finding

none, she lifted her eyes to heaven, and supplicated the Divine

assistance to preserve her innocence. The captain told her, if she

persisted in her 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 bosom. 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 those words, but the captain assured

him it was his wife, and that he was carrying her home from her

adulterer, which so satisfied the fellow, who was an old one (and

perhaps a married one too), that he wished him a good journey, and rode

on. He was no sooner past than the captain abused her violently for

breaking his commands, and threatened to gagg 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?"--"Indeed,

indeed, I am," she cried--"O 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 purposes--O for God's sake rescue me from him!" A

fierce dialogue immediately ensued between the captain and these two

men, who, being both armed with pistols, and the chariot which they

attended being now arrived, the captain saw both force and stratagem

were vain, and endeavoured to make his escape, in which however he could

not succeed. The gentleman who rode in the chariot ordered it to stop,

and with an air of authority examined into the merits of the cause; of

which being advertised by 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.--O

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 conception, I pity thee sincerely from my own; for

let the hard-hearted villain know this, that there is a pleasure in a

tender sensation beyond any which he is 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 judgment, which probably he would

have made no use of, though the money had not been (as it was) paid

exactly at the time.

It is not perhaps easy to describe the figure of Adams; he had risen in

such a hurry, that he had on neither breeches, garters, nor stockings;

nor had he taken from his head a red spotted handkerchief, which by

night bound his wig, turned inside out, around his head. He had on his

torn cassock and his greatcoat; but, as the remainder of his cassock

hung down below his greatcoat, 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 expeditious retreat in their power.

The host, who well knew Mr Pounce and 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 seeing his Fanny

now in safety, quitted her a moment, and, running downstairs, went

directly to him, and stripping off his coat, challenged him to fight;

but the captain refused, saying he did not understand boxing. He 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 inflicted on him, and which was indeed of no very moderate kind, had

suffered him to go off, which he did, threatening a severe revenge

against Joseph, which I have never heard he thought proper to take.

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 worship very well knew he

deserved it; but she had three poor small children, who were not capable

to get their own living; and if her husband was sent to 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

husband this time; for she was sure he never intended any harm to man,

woman, or child; and if it was not for that block-head of his own, the

man in some things was well enough; for she had had three children by

him in less than three years, and was almost ready to cry out the fourth

time." She would 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 Fanny,

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 reminded of the affair, and

told that they had brought the horse with them which he left behind, he

answered--Bless me! and so I did.

Adams was very desirous that Joseph and Fanny should mount this horse,

and declared he could very easily walk home. "If I walked alone," says

he, "I would wage a shilling that the pedestrian outstripped the

equestrian travellers; but, as I intend to take the company of a pipe,

peradventure I may be an hour later." One of the servants whispered

Joseph to take him at his word, and suffer the old put to walk if he

would: this proposal was 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

therefore conclude hence that this dispute would have come to a speedy

decision: for here both parties were heartily in earnest, and it is very

probable they would have remained in the inn-yard to this day, had not

the good Peter 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 acknowledgments, 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 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 inconvenience 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 forwards for

Booby-hall, where they arrived in a few hours without anything

remarkable happening on the road, unless it was a curious dialogue

between the parson and the steward: which, to use the language of a late

Apologist, a pattern to all biographers, "waits for the reader in the

next chapter."


_A curious dialogue which passed between Mr Abraham Adams and Mr Peter

Pounce, better worth reading than all the works of Colley Cibber and

many others._

The chariot had not proceeded far before Mr Adams observed it was a very

fine day. "Ay, and a very fine country too," answered Pounce.--"I should

think so more," returned Adams, "if I had not lately travelled over the

Downs, which 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

with 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 gentlemen; it is a mean parson-like quality; though I would not infer

many parsons have it neither."--"Sir," said Adams, "my definition of

charity is, a generous disposition to relieve the distressed."--"There

is something in that definition," answered Peter, "which I like well

enough; it is, as you say, a disposition, and does not so much consist

in the act as in the disposition to do it. But, alas! Mr Adams, who are

meant by the distressed? Believe me, the distresses of mankind are

mostly imaginary, and it would be rather folly than goodness to relieve

them."--"Sure, sir," replied Adams, "hunger and thirst, cold and

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 country where such excellent salads are to be gathered in

almost every field? or of thirst, where every river and stream produces

such delicious potations? And as for cold and nakedness, they are evils

introduced by luxury and custom. A man naturally wants clothes no more

than a horse or any other animal; and there are whole nations who go

without them; but these are things perhaps which you, who do not know

the world"--"You will pardon me, sir," returned Adams; "I have read of

the Gymnosophists."--"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: "I fancy, Mr Adams, you are one of those who imagine I am a

lump of money; for there are many who, I fancy, believe that not only my

pockets, but my whole clothes, are lined with bank-bills; but I assure

you, you are all mistaken; I am not the man the world esteems me. If I

can hold my head above water it is all I can. I have injured myself by

purchasing. I have been too liberal of my money. Indeed, I fear my heir

will find my affairs in a worse situation than they are reputed to be.

Ah! 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?" "Why, truly," says Adams, "I

have been always of your opinion; I have wondered 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? Indeed, had you

inherited an estate like Sir Thomas Booby, which had descended in your

family for many generations, they might have had a colour for their

assertions." "Why, what do they say I am worth?" cries Peter, with a

malicious sneer. "Sir," answered Adams, "I have heard some aver you are

not worth less than twenty thousand pounds." At which Peter frowned.

"Nay, sir," said Adams, "you ask me only the opinion of others; for my

own part, I have always denied it, nor did I ever believe you could

possibly be worth half that sum." "However, Mr Adams," said he,

squeezing him by the hand, "I would not sell them all I am worth for

double that sum; and as to what you believe, or they believe, I care not

a fig, no not a 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; but I thank Heaven I am above them. It is true, my wealth is

of my own acquisition. I have not an estate, like Sir Thomas Booby, that

has descended in my family through many generations; but I know heirs of

such estates who are forced to travel about the country like some people

in torn cassocks, and might be glad to accept of a pitiful curacy for

what I know. Yes, sir, as shabby fellows as yourself, whom no man of my

figure, without that vice of good-nature about him, would suffer to ride

in a chariot with him." "Sir," said Adams, "I value not your chariot of

a rush; and if I had known you had intended to affront me, I would have

walked to the world's end on foot ere I would have accepted a place in

it. However, sir, I will soon rid you 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 stopt to bear him company the rest of the way, which was not

above a mile.



_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 fortune 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 return! They flocked

about him like dutiful children round an indulgent parent, and vyed

with each other in demonstrations of duty and love. The parson on his

side shook every one by the hand, enquired heartily after the healths

of all that were absent, of their children, and relations; and exprest

a satisfaction in his face which nothing but benevolence 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 departed 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 produced 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 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 passion at length grew so violent, that it forced her

on seeking relief, and now she thought of recalling him: but pride

forbad that; pride, which soon drove all softer passions from her soul,

and represented to her the meanness of him she was fond of. That thought

soon began to obscure his beauties; contempt succeeded next, and then

disdain, which presently introduced her hatred of the creature who had

given her so much uneasiness. These enemies of Joseph had no sooner

taken possession of her mind than they insinuated to her a thousand

things in his disfavour; everything but dislike of her person; a thought

which, as it would have been intolerable to bear, she checked the moment

it endeavoured to arise. Revenge came now to her assistance; and she

considered her dismission of him, stript, and without a character, with

the utmost pleasure. She rioted in the several kinds of misery which her

imagination suggested to her might be his fate; and, with a smile

composed of anger, mirth, and scorn, viewed him in the rags in which her

fancy had drest him.

Mrs Slipslop, being summoned, attended her mistress, who had now in her

own opinion totally subdued this passion. Whilst she was dressing she

asked if that fellow had been turned away according to her orders.

Slipslop answered, she had told her ladyship so (as indeed she

had).--"And how did he behave?" replied the lady. "Truly, madam," cries

Slipslop, "in such a manner that infected everybody who saw him. The

poor lad had but little wages to receive; for he constantly allowed his

father and mother half his income; 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

whilst he was standing in his shirt (and, to say truth, he was an

amorous figure), being told your ladyship would not give him a

character, he sighed, and said he had done nothing willingly to offend;

that for his part, he should always give your ladyship a good character

wherever he went; and he prayed God to bless you; for you was the best

of ladies, though his enemies had set you against him. I wish you had

not turned him away; for I believe you have not a faithfuller servant in

the house."--"How came you then," replied the lady, "to advise me to

turn him away?"--"I, madam!" said Slipslop; "I am sure you will do me

the justice to say, I did all in my power to prevent it; but I saw your

ladyship was angry; and it is not the business of us upper servants to

hinterfear on these occasions." "And was it not you, audacious wretch!"

cried the lady, "who made me angry? Was it not your tittle-tattle, in

which I believe you belyed 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 probably 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 so good a creature

without a character? I see the reason of your whole behaviour now as

well as your complaint; you was jealous of the wenches." "I jealous!"

said Slipslop; "I assure you, I look upon myself as his betters; I am

not meat for a footman, I hope." These words threw the lady into a

violent passion, and she sent Slipslop from her presence, who departed,

tossing her nose, and crying, "Marry, come up! there are some people

more jealous than I, I believe." Her lady affected not to hear the

words, though in reality she did, and understood them too. Now 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 conquered her passion as

she had flattered herself; and, in order to accomplish it quite, took a

resolution, more common than wise, to retire immediately into the

country. The reader 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 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; but this I believe to be only

a malicious rumour. When the prayers were ended Mr Adams stood up, and

with a loud voice pronounced, "I publish the banns of marriage between

Joseph Andrews and Frances Goodwill, both of this parish," &c. Whether

this had any effect on Lady Booby or no, who was then in her pew, which

the congregation could not see into, I could never discover: but

certain it is that in about a quarter of an hour she stood up, and

directed her eyes to that part of the church where the women sat, and

persisted in looking that way during the remainder of the sermon in 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 Slipslop into her chamber, and told her she wondered

what that impudent fellow Joseph did in that parish? Upon which

Slipslop gave her an account of her meeting Adams with him on the road,

and likewise the adventure with Fanny. At the relation of which the

lady often changed her countenance; and when she had heard all, she

ordered Mr Adams into her presence, to whom she behaved as the reader

will see in the next chapter.


_A dialogue between Mr Abraham Adams and the Lady Booby._

Mr Adams was not far off, for he was drinking her ladyship's health

below in a cup of her ale. He no sooner came before her than she began

in the following manner: "I wonder, sir, after the many great

obligations you have had to this family" (with all which the reader hath

in the course of this history been minutely acquainted), "that you will

ungratefully show any respect to a fellow 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 to 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

care. As for the young woman, I assure your ladyship I have as good an

opinion of her as your ladyship yourself or any other can have. She is

the sweetest-tempered, honestest, worthiest young creature; indeed, as

to her beauty, I do not commend her on that account, though all men

allow she is the handsomest woman, gentle or simple, that ever appeared

in the parish."--"You are very impertinent," says she, "to talk such

fulsome stuff 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 rare judge of beauty! Ridiculous! beauty indeed! a country

wench a beauty! I shall be sick whenever I hear beauty mentioned again.

And so this wench is to stock the parish with beauties, I hope. But,

sir, our poor is numerous enough already; I will have no more vagabonds

settled here."--"Madam," says Adams, "your ladyship is offended with me,

I protest, without any reason. This couple were desirous to 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,

"and you did very wisely and honestly too, notwithstanding she is the

greatest beauty in the parish."--"And now, madam," continued he, "I only

perform my office to Mr Joseph."--"Pray, don't mister such fellows to

me," cries the lady. "He," said the parson, "with the consent of 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 upon

fellows; that is one of her beauties, I suppose. But if they have put in

the banns, I desire you will publish them no more without my

orders."--"Madam," cries Adams, "if any one puts in 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 proceed 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

distinction, than to affront my ears by such loose discourse, I shall

mention but one short word; it is my orders to you that you publish

these banns no more; and if you dare, I 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

enquired 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.


_What passed between the lady and lawyer Scout._

In the afternoon the lady sent for Mr Scout, whom she attacked most

violently for intermeddling with her servants, which he denied, and

indeed with truth, for he had only asserted accidentally, and perhaps

rightly, that a year's service gained a settlement; 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 hundred lawyers, 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 preferable to fact, my settlement must be understood in law and

not in fact. And suppose, madam, we admit he was settled in law, what

use will they make of it? how doth that relate to fact? He is not

settled in fact; and if he be not settled in fact, he is not an

inhabitant; and if he is not an inhabitant, he is not of this parish;

and then undoubtedly he ought not to be published here; for Mr Adams

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 fact; and indeed, if that was the case, I should

doubt."--"Don't tell me your facts and your ifs," said the lady; "I

don't understand your gibberish; you take too much upon you, and are

very impertinent, in pretending to direct in this parish; and you shall

be taught better, I assure you, you shall. But as to the wench, I am

resolved she shall not settle here; I will not suffer such beauties as

these to produce children for us to keep."--"Beauties, indeed! your

ladyship is pleased to be merry," answered Scout.--"Mr Adams described

her so to me," said the lady. "Pray, what sort of dowdy is it, Mr

Scout?"--"The 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. When 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. No, 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 commit him without any farther questions. As for

the dirty slut, we shall have nothing to do with her; for, if we get rid

of the fellow, the ugly jade will--"--"Take what measures you please,

good Mr Scout," answered the lady: "but I wish you could rid the parish

of both; for Slipslop tells me such stories of this wench, that I abhor

the thoughts of her; and, though you say she is such an ugly slut, yet

you know, dear Mr Scout, these forward creatures, who run after men,

will always find some as forward as themselves; so that, to prevent the

increase of beggars, we must get rid of her."--"Your ladyship is very

much in the right," answered Scout; "but I am afraid the law is a little

deficient in giving us any such power of prevention; however, the

justice will stretch it as far as he is able, to oblige your ladyship.

To say truth, it is a great blessing to the country that he is in the

commission, for he hath taken several poor off our hands that the law

would never lay hold on. I know some justices who think as much of

committing a man to Bridewell as his lordship at 'size would of hanging

him; but it would do a man good to see his worship, our justice, commit

a fellow to Bridewell, he takes so much pleasure in it; and when once we

ha'um there, we seldom hear any more o'um. He's either starved or eat up

by vermin in a month's time."--Here the arrival of a visitor put an end

to the conversation, and Mr Scout, having undertaken the cause and

promised 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 inadvertently confirmed many hints with which Slipslop, whose

gallant he was, had pre-acquainted him; and whence he had taken an

opportunity to assert those severe falsehoods of little Fanny which

possibly the reader might not have been well able to account for if we

had not thought proper to give him this information.


_A short chapter, but very full of matter; particularly the arrival of

Mr Booby and his lady._

All that night, and the next day, the Lady Booby past 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 congregation

five minutes; indeed, it was not then very numerous, the assembly

consisting of no more than Adams, his clerk, his wife, the lady, and one

of her servants. At her return she met Slipslop, who accosted her in

these words:--"O 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"--"I suppose they deserve it," says the lady.

"What! dost thou mention such wretches to me?"--"O dear madam," answered

Slipslop, "is it not a pity such a graceless young man should die a

virulent death? I hope the judge will take commensuration on his youth.

As for Fanny, I don't think it signifies 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 reflection, than Slipslop

herself; for, though she wished 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 Booby and

his lady. She ordered them to be conducted into a drawing-room, whither

she presently repaired, having composed her countenance as well as she

could, and being 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, "Madam, this is that charming Pamela,

of whom I am convinced you have heard so much." The lady received her

with more civility than he expected; indeed with the utmost; for she was

perfectly polite, nor had any vice inconsistent with good-breeding. They

past 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.


_Containing justice business; curious precedents of depositions, and

other matters necessary to be perused by all justices of the peace and

their clerks._

The young squire and his lady were no sooner alighted from their coach

than the servants began to inquire after Mr Joseph, from whom they said

their lady had not heard a word, to her great 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 master, who

took an immediate resolution to go himself, and endeavour 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. He 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 convinced he had not a minute to lose, he insisted on the

servant's introducing him directly into the room where the justice was

then executing his office, as he called it. Being brought thither, and

the first compliments being passed between the squire and his worship,

the former asked the latter what crime those two young people had been

guilty of? "No great crime," answered the justice; "I have only ordered

them to Bridewell for a month." "But what is their crime?" repeated the

squire. "Larceny, an't please your honour," said Scout. "Ay," says the

justice, "a kind of felonious larcenous thing. I believe I must order

them a little correction too, a little stripping and whipping." (Poor

Fanny, who had hitherto supported all with the thoughts of Joseph's

company, trembled at that sound; but, indeed, without reason, for none

but the devil himself would have executed such a sentence on her.)

"Still," said the squire, "I am ignorant of the crime--the fact I mean."

"Why, there it is in peaper," answered the justice, showing him a

deposition which, in the absence of his clerk, he had 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 justasses of the
   piece for Zumersetshire._
   "These deponants saith, and first Thomas Trotter for himself
   saith, that on the -- of this instant October, being
   Sabbath-day, betwin the ours of 2 and 4 in the afternoon, he
   zeed Joseph Andrews and Francis Goodwill walk akross a certane
   felde belunging to layer Scout, and out of the path which ledes
   thru the said felde, and there he zede Joseph Andrews with a
   nife cut one hassel twig, of the value, as he believes, of
   three half-pence, or thereabouts; and he saith that the said
   Francis 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 cumfarting, 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?" "Yes," said the lawyer, "and with great lenity too; for if we

had called it a young tree, they would have been both hanged." "Harkee,"

says the justice, taking aside the squire; "I 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 incumbrance on her own parish." "Well," said

the squire, "I will take care my aunt shall be satisfied in this point;

and likewise I promise you, Joseph here shall never be any incumbrance

on her. I shall be obliged to you, therefore, if, instead of Bridewell,

you will commit them to my custody." "O! 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 here; for, ordering his man to produce a

cloak-bag, which he had caused to be brought from Lady Booby's on

purpose, he desired the justice that he might have Joseph with him into

a room; where, ordering his servant to take out a suit of his own

clothes, with linnen and other necessaries, he left Joseph to dress

himself, who, not yet knowing the cause of all this civility, excused

his accepting 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 flopped her hat over

her eyes, which were also bathed in tears, and had by that means

concealed from his worship what might perhaps have rendered the arrival

of Mr Booby 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 unwilling 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 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 continuance of this

conversation; and the justice, out of a pretended respect to his guest,

but in reality from an apprehension of a rival (for he knew nothing of

his marriage), ordered Fanny into the kitchen, whither she gladly

retired; nor did the squire, who declined the trouble of explaining the

whole matter, oppose it.

It would be unnecessary, if I was able, which indeed I am not, to

relate the conversation between these two gentlemen, which rolled, as

I have been informed, entirely on the subject of horse-racing. Joseph

was soon 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

taylor'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, "O, sir, it is parson Adams!" "O la, indeed, and so it

is," said Fanny; "poor man, he is coming to do what he could for us.

Well, he is the worthiest, best-natured creature."--"Ay," said Joseph;

"God bless him! for there is not such another in the universe." "The

best creature living sure," cries Fanny. "Is he?" says the squire; "then

I am resolved to have the best creature living in my coach;" and so

saying, he ordered it to stop, whilst Joseph, at his request, hallowed

to the parson, who, well knowing his voice, made all the haste

imaginable, and soon came up with them. He was desired by the master,

who could scarce refrain from laughter at his figure, to mount into the

coach, which he with many thanks refused, saying he could walk by its

side, and he'd warrant he kept up with it; but he was at length

over-prevailed on. The squire now acquainted Joseph with his marriage;

but he might have spared himself that labour; for his servant, whilst

Joseph was dressing, had performed that 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 acknowledgments: 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 now 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, "Nephew, 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 woman--"--"Nephew," says

she, "don't let my good-nature make you desire, as is too commonly the

case, to impose on me. Nor think, because I have with so much

condescension agreed to suffer your brother-in-law to come to my table,

that I will submit to the company of all my own servants, and all the

dirty trollops in the country." "Madam," answered the squire, "I believe

you never saw this 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 Fanny. Joseph begged that

he might see his sister alone, and then be with his Fanny; but the

squire, knowing the pleasure his wife would have in her brother's

company, would not admit it, telling Joseph there would be nothing in so

short an absence from Fanny, 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 Fanny, who rejoiced that she was not to go before Lady

Booby, to the care of Mr Adams, he attended the squire upstairs, whilst

Fanny repaired with the parson to his house, where she thought herself

secure of a kind reception.


_Of which you are desired to read no more than you like._

The meeting between Joseph and Pamela was not without tears of joy on

both sides; and their embraces were full of tenderness and affection.

They were, however, regarded with much more 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 an account of his adventures: 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 informed Joseph (whom for the future

we shall call Mr Joseph, he having as good a title to that appellation

as many others--I mean that 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 Fanny; but she

insisted on his accepting it, alledging 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 complacence

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 returning according to his promise filled her with

uneasiness; of which, however, she could not assign any other cause

than merely that of being absent from him.

Mr Joseph rose early in the morning, and visited her in whom his soul

delighted. She no sooner heard his voice in the parson's parlour than

she leapt from her bed, and, dressing 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 promise, to

breakfast at the Lady Booby's, with whose behaviour, since the evening,

we shall now acquaint the reader.

She was no sooner retired to her chamber than she asked 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. "I ask you," answered the lady, "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 assistance she could, and ended with saying, "I

think, Slipslop, you have done her justice; but yet, bad as she is, she

is an angel compared to this Fanny." Slipslop then fell on Fanny, whom

she hacked and hewed in the like barbarous manner, concluding with an

observation that there was always something in those low-life creatures

which must eternally extinguish them from their betters. "Really," said

the lady, "I think there is one exception to your rule; I am certain you

may guess who I mean."--"Not I, upon my word, madam," said Slipslop. "I

mean a young fellow; sure you are the dullest wretch," said the lady. "O

la! I am indeed. Yes, truly, madam, he is an accession," answered

Slipslop. "Ay, is he not, Slipslop?" returned the lady. "Is he not so

genteel that a prince might, without a blush, acknowledge him for his

son? His behaviour is such that would not shame the best 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."--"To be sure, ma'am," says Slipslop. "But as he is," answered

the lady, "if he had a thousand more good qualities, it must render a

woman of fashion contemptible even to be suspected of thinking of him;

yes, I should despise myself for such a thought."--"To be sure, ma'am,"

said Slipslop. "And why to be sure?" replied the lady; "thou art always

one's echo. Is he not more worthy of affection than a dirty country

clown, though born of a family as old as the flood? or an idle worthless

rake, or little puisny beau of quality? 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 we despise; we must

prefer birth, title, and fortune, to real merit. It is a tyranny of

custom, a tyranny we must comply with; for we people of fashion are the

slaves of custom."--"Marry come up!" said Slipslop, who now knew well

which party to take. "If I was a woman of your ladyship's fortune and

quality, I would be a slave to nobody."--"Me," said the lady; "I am

speaking if a young woman of fashion, who had seen nothing of the world,

should happen to like such a fellow.--Me, indeed! I hope thou dost not

imagine--"--"No, ma'am, to be sure," cries Slipslop. "No! what no?"

cried the lady. "Thou art always ready to answer before thou hast heard

one. So far I must allow he is a charming fellow. Me, indeed! No,

Slipslop, all thoughts of men are over with me. 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 nonsense,

to turn my thoughts another way. What dost thou think of Mr

Andrews?"--"Why, I think," says Slipslop, "he is the handsomest, most

properest man I ever saw; and if I was a lady of the greatest degree it

would be well for some folks. Your ladyship may talk of custom, if you

please: but I am confidous there is no more comparison between young Mr

Andrews and most of the young 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."--"And so,"

answered the lady, "if you was a woman of condition, you would really

marry Mr Andrews?"--"Yes, I assure your ladyship," replied Slipslop, "if

he would have me."--"Fool, idiot!" cries the lady; "if he would have a

woman of fashion! is that a question?"--"No, truly, madam," said

Slipslop, "I believe it would be none if 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 her packing if your ladyship 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 herself. After some silence, and a double change of her

complexion, first to pale and then to red, she thus spoke: "I am

astonished at the liberty you give your tongue. Would you insinuate that

I employed Scout against this wench on account of the fellow?"--"La,

ma'am," said Slipslop, frighted out of her wits, "I assassinate such a

thing!"--"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 discovered any wantonness, any lightness in my behaviour; if I had

followed the example of some whom thou hast, I believe, seen, in

allowing myself indecent liberties, even with a husband; but the dear

man who is gone" (here she began to sob), "was he alive again" (then she

produced tears), "could not upbraid me with any one act of tenderness or

passion. No, Slipslop, all the time I cohabited with him he never

obtained even a kiss from me without my expressing reluctance in the

granting it. I am sure he himself never suspected how much I loved him.

Since his death, thou knowest, though it is almost six weeks (it wants

but a day) ago, I have not admitted one visitor till this fool my nephew

arrived. I have confined myself quite to one party of friends. And can

such a conduct as this fear to be arraigned? To be accused, not only of

a passion which I have always despised, but of fixing it on such an

object, a creature so much beneath my notice!"--"Upon my word, ma'am,"

says Slipslop, "I do not understand your ladyship; nor know I anything

of the matter."--"I believe indeed thou dost not understand me. Those

are delicacies which exist only in superior minds; thy coarse ideas

cannot comprehend them. Thou art a low creature, of the Andrews breed, a

reptile of a lower order, a weed that grows in the common garden of the

creation."--"I assure your ladyship," says Slipslop, whose passions were

almost of as high an order as her lady's, "I have no more to do with

Common Garden than other folks. Really, your ladyship talks of servants

as if 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[A] are coarser than other people's; and I am sure, if Mr

Andrews was a dear of mine, I should not be ashamed of him in company

with gentlemen; for whoever hath seen him in his new clothes must

confess he looks as much like a gentleman as anybody. Coarse, quotha! I

can't bear to hear the poor young fellow run down neither; for I will

say this, I never heard him say an ill word of anybody in his life. I am

sure his coarseness doth not lie in his heart, for he is the

best-natured man in the world; and as for his skin, it is no coarser

than other people's, I am sure. His bosom, when a boy, was as white as

driven snow; and, where it is not covered with hairs, is so still.

Ifakins! if I was Mrs Andrews, with a hundred a year, I should not envy

the best she who wears a head. A woman that could not be happy with such

a man ought never to be so; for if he can't make a woman happy, I never

yet beheld the man who could. I say again, I wish I was a great lady for

his sake. I believe, when I had made a gentleman of him, he'd behave so

that nobody should deprecate what I had done; and I fancy few would

venture to tell him he was no gentleman to his face, nor to mine

neither." At which words, taking up the candles, she asked her mistress,

who had been some time in her bed, if she had any farther commands? who

mildly answered, she had none; and, telling her she was a comical

creature, bid her good-night.

[A] Meaning perhaps ideas.


_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._

Habit, my good reader, hath so vast a prevalence over the human mind,

that there is scarce anything too strange or too strong to be asserted

of it. The story of the miser, who, from long 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 endeavoured to betray their neighbours. Now,

reader, to apply this observation to my present purpose, thou must know,

that as the passion generally called love exercises most of the talents

of the female or fair world, so in this they now and then discover a

small inclination to deceit; for which thou wilt not be angry with the

beautiful creatures when thou hast 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 companions; so that by the age

of ten they have contracted such a dread and abhorrence of the

above-named monster, that whenever they see him they fly from him as the

innocent hare 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 providing

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 fierceness, 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 purpose they still pretend the same

aversion to the monster: and the more they love him, the more ardently

they counterfeit the antipathy. By the continual and constant practice

of which deceit on others, they at length impose on themselves, and

really believe they hate what they love. Thus, indeed, it happened to

Lady Booby, who loved Joseph 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

relation of mine, so much beneath you. I know there may be at first some

difficulty in your compliance, but that will daily diminish; and you

will in the end sincerely thank me for my advice. I own, indeed, the

girl is handsome; but beauty alone is a poor ingredient, and will make

but an uncomfortable marriage."--"Sir," said Joseph, "I assure you her

beauty is her least perfection; nor do I know a virtue which that young

creature is not possesst of."--"As to her virtues," answered Mr Booby,

"you can be yet but a slender judge of them; but, if she had never so

many, you will find her equal in these among her superiors in birth and

fortune, which now you are to esteem on a footing with yourself; at

least I will take care they shall shortly be so, unless you prevent me

by degrading yourself with such a match, a match 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."--"I know not," replied Joseph, "that my parents have any power

over my inclinations; 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 Fanny; no, though I could raise her as high

above her present station as you have raised my sister."--"Your sister,

as well as myself," said Booby, "are greatly obliged to you for the

comparison: but, sir, she is not worthy to be compared in 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."--"My fortune enables me to please myself likewise," said

Joseph; "for all my pleasure is centered in Fanny; and whilst I have

health I shall be able to support her with my labour in that station to

which she was born, and with which she is content."--"Brother," said

Pamela, "Mr Booby advises you as a friend; and no doubt my papa and

mamma will be of his opinion, and will have great reason to be angry

with you for destroying what his goodness 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 indulge it."--"Sure, sister, you are not in earnest; I am sure she is

your equal, at least."--"She was my equal," answered Pamela; "but I am

no longer Pamela Andrews; I am now this gentleman's lady, and, as such,

am above her.--I hope I shall never behave with an unbecoming pride:

but, at the same time, I shall always endeavour to know myself, and

question not the assistance of grace to that purpose." They were now

summoned to breakfast, and thus ended their discourse for the present,

very little to the satisfaction of any of the parties.

Fanny was now walking in an avenue at some distance from the house,

where Joseph had promised to take the first 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 parson 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? This, indeed, he well knew; but had

framed the question for no other reason than to make her look up, and

discover if her face was equal to the delicacy of her shape. He no

sooner saw it than he was struck with amazement. He 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; 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 was entirely deaf to his offers, and

rejected them with the utmost disdain. At last the pimp, who had perhaps

more warm blood about him than his master, began to sollicit for

himself; he told her, though he was a servant, he was a man of some

fortune, which he would make her mistress of; and this without any

insult to her virtue, for that he would marry her. She answered, if his

master himself, or the greatest lord in the land, would marry her, she

would refuse him. At last, being weary with persuasions, and on fire

with charms which would have almost kindled a flame in the bosom of an

ancient philosopher or modern divine, he fastened his horse to the

ground, and attacked her with much more force than the gentleman had

exerted. Poor Fanny would not have been able to resist his rudeness a

short 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, he 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 staggered

backwards, and, perceiving he had to do with something rougher than the

little, tender, trembling hand of Fanny, he quitted her, and, turning

about, saw his rival, with fire flashing from his eyes, again ready to

assail him; and, indeed, before he could well defend himself, or return

the first blow, he received a second, which, had it fallen on that part

of the stomach to which it was directed, would have been probably the

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 this

method of salutation, he collected all his force, and aimed a blow at

Joseph's breast, which he artfully parried with one fist, so that it

lost its force entirely in air; and, stepping one foot backward, he

darted his fist so fiercely at his enemy, that, had he not caught it in

his hand (for he was a boxer of no inferior fame), it must have tumbled

him on the ground. And now the ravisher meditated another blow, which he

aimed at that part of the breast where the heart is lodged; Joseph did

not catch it as before, yet so prevented its aim that it fell directly

on his nose, but with abated force. Joseph then, moving both fist and

foot forwards at the same time, threw his head so dexterously into the

stomach of the ravisher that he fell a lifeless lump on the field, where

he lay many minutes breathless and motionless.

When 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 assistance. She was not, however, long under

this affliction before Joseph, having conquered his enemy, ran to her,

and assured her he was not hurt; she then instantly fell on her knees,

and thanked God that he 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 handkerchief, to wipe his blood from his face; but he,

seeing his rival attempting to recover his legs, turned to him, and

asked him if he had enough? To which the other answered he had; for he

believed he had fought with the devil instead of a man; and, loosening

his horse, said he should not have attempted the wench if he had known

she had been so well provided for.

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 imitated by the greatest master of that art. This modest

creature, whom no warmth in summer could ever induce to expose her

charms to the wanton sun, a modesty to which, perhaps, they owed their

inconceivable whiteness, had stood many minutes bare-necked in the

presence of Joseph before her apprehension of his danger and the horror

of seeing his blood would suffer her once to reflect on what concerned

herself; till at last, when the cause of her concern had vanished, an

admiration at his silence, together with observing the fixed position

of his eyes, produced an idea in the lovely maid which brought more

blood into her face than had flowed from Joseph's nostrils. The snowy

hue of her bosom was likewise changed to vermilion at the instant when

she clapped her handkerchief round her neck. Joseph saw the uneasiness

she suffered, and immediately removed his eyes from an object, in

surveying which he had felt the greatest delight which the organs of

sight were capable of conveying to his soul;--so great was his fear of

offending her, and so truly did his passion for her deserve the noble

name of love.

Fanny, being recovered from her confusion, which was almost equalled by

what Joseph had felt from observing it, again 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.


_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._

The parson and his wife had just ended a long dispute when the lovers

came to the door. Indeed, this young couple had been the subject of the

dispute; for Mrs Adams was one of those prudent people who never do

anything to injure their families, or, perhaps, one of those good

mothers who would even stretch their conscience to serve their children.

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 expectations she could not endure the thoughts of

quitting, and was, therefore, very uneasy to see her husband so resolute

to oppose the lady's intention in Fanny's affair. She told him, "It

behoved every man to take the first care of his family; that he had a

wife and six children, the maintaining and providing for whom would be

business enough for him without intermeddling in other folks' affairs;

that he had always 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 behaved herself well,

that the lady would have been so bitterly her enemy; that perhaps he was

too much inclined to think well of her because she was 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 no." For all which reasons

she concluded he should oblige the lady, and stop the future publication

of the banns. But all these excellent arguments had no effect on the

parson, who persisted in doing his duty without regarding the

consequence it might have on his worldly interest. He endeavoured to

answer her as well as he could; to which she had just finished her reply

(for she had always the last word everywhere but at church) when Joseph

and Fanny entered their kitchen, where the parson and his wife then sat

at breakfast over some bacon and cabbage. There was a coldness in the

civility of Mrs Adams which persons of accurate speculation might have

observed, but escaped her present guests; indeed, it was a good deal

covered by the heartiness of Adams, who no sooner heard that Fanny had

neither 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 sister, and himself concerning Fanny; he then

acquainted him with the dangers whence he had rescued her, and

communicated some apprehensions on her account. He concluded that he

should never have an easy moment till Fanny was absolutely his, and

begged that he might be suffered to fetch a licence, saying he could

easily borrow the money. The parson 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 examine 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, child, shall give you a sermon gratis, wherein I shall

demonstrate how little regard ought to be had to the flesh on such

occasions. The text will be Matthew the 5th, and part of the 28th

verse--_Whosoever looketh on a woman, so as to lust after her_. The

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 way to it. Now, as to the second head which I

proposed to speak to, namely, fear: it argues a diffidence, highly

criminal, of that Power in which alone we should put our trust, seeing

we may be well assured that he is able, not only to defeat the designs

of our enemies, but even to turn their hearts. Instead of taking,

therefore, any unjustifiable or desperate means to rid ourselves of

fear, we should resort to prayer only on these occasions; and we may be

then certain of obtaining what is best for us. When any accident

threatens us we are not to despair, nor, when it overtakes us, to

grieve; we must submit in all things to the will of Providence, and set

our affections so much on nothing here that we cannot quit it without

reluctance. You are a young man, and can know but little of this 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 required, is there any of us who would not

condemn him? Joseph, I know your many good qualities, and value you for

them; but, as I am to render an account of your soul, which is committed

to my cure, I cannot see any fault without reminding you of it. You are

too much inclined to passion, child, and have set your affections so

absolutely on this young woman, that, if G-- required her at your hands,

I fear you would reluctantly part with her. Now, believe me, no

Christian ought so to set his heart on any person or thing in this

world, but that, whenever it shall be required or taken from him in any

manner by Divine Providence, he may be able, peaceably, quietly, and

contentedly to resign it." At which words one came hastily in, and

acquainted Mr Adams that his youngest son was drowned. He stood silent a

moment, and soon began to stamp about the room and deplore his loss with

the bitterest agony. Joseph, who was overwhelmed with concern likewise,

recovered himself sufficiently to endeavour to comfort the parson; in

which attempt he used many arguments that he had at several times

remembered out of his own discourses, both in private and public (for he

was a great enemy to the passions, and preached nothing more than the

conquest of them by reason and grace), but he was not at leisure now to

hearken to his advice. "Child, child," said he, "do not go about

impossibilities. Had it been any other of my children I could have borne

it with patience; but my little prattler, the darling and comfort of my

old age--the little wretch, to be snatched out of life just at his

entrance into it; the sweetest, best-tempered boy, who never did a thing

to offend me. It was but this morning I gave him his first lesson in

_Que 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." "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 sometimes are, from, I believe,

no very good principle, to relate ill news; and, seeing him fall into

the river, instead of running to his assistance, directly ran to

acquaint his father of a fate which he had concluded to be inevitable,

but whence the child was relieved by the same poor pedlar who had

relieved his father before from a less distress. The parson's joy was

now as extravagant as his grief had been before; he kissed and embraced

his son a thousand times, and danced about the room like one frantic;

but as soon as he 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 treacherous engines of his wicked

purposes, not those with which a worthless younger brother wishes his

elder joy of a son, or a man congratulates his rival on his obtaining a

mistress, a place, or an honour.--No, reader; he felt the ebullition,

the overflowings of a full, honest, open heart, towards the person who

had conferred a real obligation, and of which, if thou canst not

conceive an idea within, I will not vainly endeavour to assist thee.

When these tumults were over, the parson, taking Joseph aside, proceeded

thus--"No, Joseph, do not give too much way to thy passions, if thou

dost expect happiness." The patience of Joseph, nor perhaps of Job,

could bear no longer; he interrupted the parson, saying, "It was easier

to give advice than 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. No 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 immoderate."--"Well, sir,"

cries Joseph, "and if I love a mistress as well as you your child,

surely her loss would grieve me equally."--"Yes, but such love is

foolishness and wrong in itself, and ought to be conquered," answered

Adams; "it savours too much of the flesh."--"Sure, sir," says Joseph,

"it is not sinful to love my wife, no, not even to 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 foolishly yourself.

I hope, my dear, you will never preach any such doctrine as that

husbands can love their wives too well. If I knew you had such a sermon

in the house I am sure I would burn it, and I declare, if I had not been

convinced you had loved me as well as you could, I can answer for

myself, I should have hated and despised you. Marry come up! 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 repeated

it over but 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.


_A visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite friend paid to

the parson._

The Lady Booby had no sooner had an account from the gentleman of his

meeting a wonderful beauty near her house, and perceived the raptures

with which he spoke of her, than, immediately concluding it must be

Fanny, she began to meditate a design of bringing them better

acquainted; and to entertain hopes that the fine clothes, presents, and

promises of this youth, would prevail on her to abandon Joseph: she

therefore proposed to her company a walk in the fields before dinner,

when she led them towards Mr Adams's house; and, as she approached it,

told them if they pleased she would divert them with one of the most

ridiculous sights they had 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

Booby and her company walked in, and were received by the parson 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 nightcap. He said "They were heartily welcome to his poor

cottage," and turning to Mr Didapper, cried out, "_Non mea renidet in

domo lacunar_." The beau answered, "He did not understand Welsh;" at

which the parson stared and made no reply.

Mr Didapper, or beau Didapper, was a young gentleman 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 be

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 be bashful,

and too much at court to be proud: he seemed not much inclined to

avarice, for he was profuse in his expenses; nor had he all the features

of prodigality, for he never gave a shilling: no hater of women, for he

always dangled after them; yet so little subject to lust, that he had,

among those who knew him best, the character of great moderation in his

pleasures; no drinker of wine; nor so addicted to passion but that a hot

word or two from an adversary made him immediately cool.

Now, to give him only a dash or two on the affirmative side: though he

was born to an immense fortune, he chose, for the pitiful and dirty

consideration of a place of little consequence, to depend entirely on

the will of a fellow whom they call a great man; who treated him with

the utmost disrespect, and exacted of him a plenary obedience to his

commands, which he implicitly submitted to, at the expense of his

conscience, his honour, and of his country, in which he had himself so

very large a share. And to finish his character; 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 extraordinary civility of Mrs Adams, the lady,

turning to Mr Booby, cried out, "_Quelle Bete! Quel Animal!_" And

presently after discovering Fanny (for she did not need the circumstance

of her standing by Joseph to assure the identity of her person), she

asked the beau "Whether he did not think her a pretty girl?"--"Begad,

madam," answered he, "'tis the very same I met." "I did not imagine,"

replied the lady, "you had so good a taste."--"Because I never liked

you, I warrant," cries the beau. "Ridiculous!" said she: "you know you

was always my aversion." "I would never mention aversion," answered the

beau, "with that face[A]; dear Lady Booby, wash your face before you

mention aversion, I beseech you." He then laughed, and turned about to

coquet it with Fanny.

[A] Lest this should appear unnatural to some readers, we think proper

   to acquaint them, that it is taken verbatim from very polite

Mrs Adams had been all this time begging and praying the ladies to sit

down, a favour which she at last obtained. The little boy to whom the

accident had happened, still keeping his place by the fire, was chid by

his mother for not being more mannerly: but Lady Booby took his part,

and, commending his beauty, told the parson he was his very picture. She

then, seeing a book in his hand, asked "If he could read?"--"Yes," cried

Adams, "a little Latin, madam: he is just got into Quae 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; "what doth lego make

in the imperative mood? Legito, doth it not?"--"Yes," answered

Dick.--"And what besides ?" says the father. "Lege," quoth the son,

after some hesitation. "A good boy," says the father: "and now, child,

what is the English of lego?"--To which the boy, after long puzzling,

answered, he could not tell. "How!" cries Adams, in a passion;--"what,

hath the water washed away your learning? Why, what is Latin for the

English verb read? Consider before you speak." The child considered some

time, and 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," cried Dick.--"Very well," said

the parson; "a good boy: you can do well if you will take pains.--I

assure your ladyship he is not much above eight years old, and is out of

his Propria quae Maribus already.--Come, Dick, read to her

ladyship;"--which she again desiring, in order to give the beau time and

opportunity with Fanny, Dick began as in the following chapter.


_The history of two friends, which may afford an useful lesson to all

those persons who happen to take up their residence in married


"Leonard and Paul were two friends."--"Pronounce it Lennard, child,"

cried the parson.--"Pray, Mr Adams," says Lady Booby, "let your son read

without interruption." Dick then proceeded. "Lennard and Paul were two

friends, who, having been educated together at the same school,

commenced a friendship which they preserved a long time for each other.

It was so deeply fixed in both their minds, that a long absence, during

which they had maintained no correspondence, did not eradicate nor

lessen it: but it revived in all its force at their first meeting, which

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, be quiet," says the lady.--The boy repeated--"in the

East Indies, whilst Paul had served his king and country in the army. In

which different services they had found such different success, that

Lennard was now married, and retired with a fortune of thirty thousand

pounds; and Paul was arrived to the degree of a lieutenant of foot; and

was not worth a single shilling.

"The regiment in which Paul was stationed happened to be ordered into

quarters within a small distance from the estate which Lennard had

purchased, and where he was settled. This latter, who was now become a

country gentleman, and a justice 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 acquaintance: but it was otherwise with Lennard. He

knew Paul the moment he saw him; nor could he contain himself from

quitting the bench, and running hastily to embrace him. Paul stood at

first a little 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.

"Not 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 commanding 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 acquaintance 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. Nay, however incredible it may

seem, the little consequence of the matter in debate was frequently

given as a reason for the fierceness of the contention, as thus: 'If you

loved me, sure you would never dispute with me such a trifle as this.'

The answer to which is very obvious; for the argument would hold equally

on both sides, and was constantly retorted with some addition, as--'I am

sure I have much more reason to say so, who am in the right.' During all

these disputes, Paul always kept strict silence, and preserved an even

countenance, without showing the least visible inclination to either

party. One day, however, when madam had left the room in a violent fury,

Lennard could not refrain from referring his cause to his friend. Was

ever anything so unreasonable, says he, as this woman? 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.--First, says Paul, I will give my opinion, which

is, flatly, that you are in the wrong; for, supposing she is in the

wrong, was the subject of your contention any ways material? What

signified it whether you was married in a red or a yellow waistcoat? for

that was your dispute. Now, suppose she was mistaken; as you love her

you say so tenderly, and I believe she deserves it, would it not have

been wiser to have yielded, though you certainly knew yourself in the

right, than to give either her or yourself any uneasiness. For 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 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 adherence 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. O sir! replyed 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, cryed 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? Ay, but I

should endeavour, said she, to set him right. Pardon me, madam, answered

Paul: I will apply to your own experience if you ever found your

arguments had that effect. The more our judgments err, the less 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 Leonard,

approaching his wife with an air of good humour, told her he was sorry

for their foolish dispute the last night; but he was now 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 satisfyed she

had been mistaken. A little contention followed, but with the utmost

good-will to each other, and was concluded by her asserting that Paul

had thoroughly convinced her she had 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. Nay, 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 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 conclusion, both believing each other, they fell severely

on the treachery of Paul, and agreed that he had been the occasion of

almost every dispute which had fallen out between them. They then became

extremely loving, and so full of condescension on both sides, that they

vyed with each other in censuring their own conduct, and jointly vented

their indignation on Paul, whom the wife, fearing a bloody consequence,

earnestly entreated her husband to suffer quietly to depart the next

day, which was the time fixed for his return to quarters, and then drop

his acquaintance.

"However ungenerous this behaviour in Lennard may be esteemed, his wife

obtained a promise from him (though with difficulty) to follow her

advice; but they both expressed such unusual coldness that day to Paul,

that he, who was quick of apprehension, taking Lennard aside, pressed

him so home, that he at last discovered the secret. Paul acknowledged

the truth, but told him the design with which he had done it.--To which

the other answered, he would have acted more friendly to have let him

into the whole design; for that he might have assured himself of his

secresy. Paul replyed, 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.


_In which the history is continued._

Joseph Andrews had borne with great uneasiness the impertinence 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

frighted the women, who were all got in a huddle together, out of their

wits, even to hear his denunciations of vengeance. Joseph was of a

different 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 pot-lid, came up to

Didapper, and insisted on his sheathing the hanger, promising he should

have satisfaction; which Joseph declared he would give him, and fight

him at any weapon whatever. The beau now sheathed his hanger, and taking

out a pocket-glass, and vowing vengeance all the time, re-adjusted his

hair; the parson deposited his shield; and Joseph, running to Fanny,

soon brought her back to life. Lady Booby chid Joseph for his insult on

Didapper; but he answered, he 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 suppose he would

have kissed the wench; and is a gentleman to be struck for such an

offer? I must tell you, Joseph, these airs do not become you."--"Madam,"

said Mr Booby, "I saw the whole affair, and I do not commend my brother;

for I cannot perceive why he should take upon him to be this girl's

champion."--"I can commend him," says Adams: "he is a brave lad; and it

becomes any man to be the champion of the innocent; and he must be the

basest coward who would not vindicate a woman with whom he is on the

brink of marriage."--"Sir," says Mr Booby, "my brother is not a 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 children. I am sure I don't

understand what he means by it; it would make some women suspect he had

gone astray, but I acquit him of that; I can read Scripture as well as

he, and I never found that the parson was obliged to provide for other

folks' children; and besides, he is but a poor curate, and 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 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 probably ruined his family with his tricks

almost; 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? But I don't

see she is so much handsomer than other people. If people were to be

kept for their beauty, she would scarce fare better than her neighbours,

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?" says the sister, giving him a

box on the ear; which the father would probably have resented, had not

Joseph, Fanny, and the pedlar at that instant returned together. Adams

bid his wife prepare some food for their dinner; she said, "Truly she

could not, she had something else to do." Adams rebuked her for

disputing his commands, and quoted many texts of Scripture to prove

"That the husband is the head of the wife, and she is to submit and

obey." The wife answered, "It was blasphemy to talk Scripture out of

church; that such things were very proper to be said in the pulpit, but

that it was profane to talk them in common discourse." Joseph told Mr

Adams "He was not come with any design to give him or Mrs Adams any

trouble; but to desire the favour of all their company to the George (an

ale-house 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 oeconomies, readily accepted this invitation,

as did the parson himself by her example; and away they all walked

together, not omitting little Dick, to whom Joseph gave a shilling when

he heard of his intended liberality to Fanny.


_Where the good-natured reader will see something which will give him no

great pleasure._

The pedlar had been very inquisitive from the time he had first heard

that the great house in this parish belonged to the Lady Booby, and had

learnt that she was the widow of Sir Thomas, and that Sir Thomas had

bought Fanny, at about the age of three or four years, of a travelling

woman; and, now their homely but hearty meal was ended, he told Fanny

he believed he could acquaint her with her parents. The whole company,

especially she herself, started at this offer of the pedlar's. He then

proceeded thus, while they all lent their strictest attention:--"Though

I am now contented with this humble way of getting my livelihood, I was

formerly a gentleman; for so all those of my profession are called. In

a word, I was a drummer in an Irish regiment of foot. Whilst I was in

this honourable station I attended an officer of our regiment into

England a-recruiting. In our march from Bristol to Froome (for since

the decay of the woollen trade the clothing towns have furnished the

army with a great number of recruits) we overtook on the road a woman,

who seemed to be about thirty years old or thereabouts, not very

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

provided 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 marching from place

to place." "No, sir," said the pedlar, "we took a licence to go to bed

together without any banns." "Ay! ay!" said the parson; "_ex

necessitate_, a licence may be allowable enough; but surely, surely,

the other is the more regular and eligible way." The pedlar proceeded

thus: "She returned with me to our regiment, and removed with us from

quarters to quarters, till at last, whilst we lay at Galloway, 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 gypsies, who had made a practice of stealing away children;

that for her own part, she had been only once guilty of the crime;

which, she said, she lamented more than all the rest of her sins, since

probably it might have occasioned the death of the parents; for, added

she, it is almost impossible to describe the beauty of the young

creature, which was about a year and a half old when I kidnapped it. We

kept her (for she was a girl) 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 believe 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 Pam_e_la; some pronounced it one way, and some the other."

Fanny, who had changed colour at the first mention of the name, now

fainted away; Joseph turned pale, and poor Dicky began to roar; the

parson fell on his knees, and ejaculated many 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

account for all this confusion; the cause of which was presently opened

by the parson's daughter, who was the only unconcerned person (for the

mother was chafing Fanny's temples, and 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 for a little while, and pay a short visit

to Lady Booby.


_The history, returning to the Lady Booby, gives some account of the

terrible conflict in her breast between love and pride; with what

happened on the present discovery._

The lady sat down with her company to dinner, but eat nothing. As soon

as her cloth was removed she whispered Pamela that she was taken a

little ill, and desired her to entertain her husband and beau Didapper.

She then went up into her chamber, sent for Slipslop, threw herself on

the bed in the agonies of love, rage, and despair; nor could she conceal

these boiling passions longer without bursting. Slipslop 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 expressing

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 frenzy, proceeded 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, cryed out, with a deep sigh, "Sure he would make any

woman happy!"--"Your ladyship," says she, "would be the happiest woman

in the world with him. A fig for custom and nonsense! What 'vails what

people say? Shall I be afraid of eating sweetmeats because people may

say I have a sweet tooth? If I had a mind to marry a man, all the world

should not hinder me. Your ladyship 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? Why should not your ladyship marry the brother as

well as your nephew the sister. I am sure, if it was a fragrant crime, I

would not persuade your ladyship to it."--"But, dear Slipslop," answered

the lady, "if I could prevail on myself to commit such a weakness, there

is that cursed Fanny in the way, whom the idiot--O how I hate and

despise him!"--"She! a little ugly mynx," 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 ladyship 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 arraign her

own conduct in the following manner:--

"What am I doing? How do I suffer this passion to creep imperceptibly

upon me? How many days are 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; retire

with one in whom I propose more happiness than the world without him

can give me! Retire-to feed continually on beauties which my inflamed

imagination sickens with eagerly gazing on; to satisfy every appetite,

every desire, with their utmost wish. Ha! and do I doat thus on a

footman? 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? No, I will tear his image from

my bosom, tread on him, spurn him. I will have those pitiful charms,

which now I despise, mangled in my sight; for I will not suffer the

little jade I hate to riot in the beauties I contemn. No; though I

despise him myself, though I would spurn him from my feet, was he to

languish at them, no other should taste the happiness I scorn. Why do I

say happiness? To me it would be misery. To sacrifice my reputation, my

character, my rank in life, to the indulgence of a mean and a vile

appetite! How I detest the thought! How much more exquisite is the

pleasure resulting from the reflection of virtue and prudence than the

faint relish of what flows from vice and folly! Whither did I suffer

this improper, this mad passion to hurry me, only by neglecting to

summon the aids of reason to my assistance? Reason, which 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 be the consequence

of so base, so mean, so vulgar--" Slipslop returned at this instant in a

violent hurry, and with the utmost eagerness cryed out, "O 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?" cries the lady, in a surprize.--"I had

not time, madam," cries Slipslop, "to enquire about particles, but Tom

says it is most certainly true."

This unexpected account entirely obliterated all those admirable

reflections which the supreme power of reason had so wisely made just

before. In short, when despair, which had more share in 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, dismissed her woman again, with orders to bid Tom attend her

in the parlour, whither she now hastened to acquaint Pamela with the

news. Pamela said she could not believe it; for she had never heard that

her mother had lost any child, or that she had ever had any more than

Joseph and herself. The lady flew into a violent rage with her, and

talked of upstarts and disowning relations who had so lately been on a

level with her. Pamela made no answer; but her husband, taking up her

cause, severely reprimanded his aunt for her behaviour to his wife: he

told her, if it had been earlier in the evening she should not have

staid a moment longer in her house; that he was convinced, if this young

woman could be proved her sister, she would readily embrace her as such,

and he himself would do the same. He then desired the fellow might be

sent for, and the young woman with him, which Lady Booby immediately

ordered; and, thinking proper to make some apology to Pamela for what

she had said, it was readily accepted, and all things reconciled.

The pedlar now attended, as did 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 his duty, as he apprehended it, to follow

them; for he continued all the way to exhort them, who were now breaking

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 fetch himself and Pamela home in his coach, and

then they might be certain of certainly knowing the truth or falsehood

of this relation; in which, he said, as there were many strong

circumstances to induce their credit, so he could not perceive any

interest the pedlar could have in inventing it, or in endeavouring to

impose such a falsehood on them.

The Lady Booby, who was very little used to such company, entertained

them all--_viz_. her nephew, his wife, her brother and sister, the beau,

and the parson, 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 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 discovering 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.


_Containing several curious night-adventures, in which Mr Adams fell

into many hair-breadth 'scapes, partly owing to his goodness, and partly

to his inadvertency._

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), "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 delayed the enjoyment of thee one moment longer. You have sufficient

assurances of my constancy not to doubt my marrying you, and it would be

want of love to deny me the possession of thy charms."--So saying, he

disencumbered himself from the little clothes he had on, and, leaping

into bed, embraced his angel, as he conceived her, with great rapture.

If he was 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 his paramour presently discovered their

error. Indeed it was no other than the accomplished Slipslop whom he had

engaged; but, though she immediately knew the person whom she had

mistaken for Joseph, he was at a loss to guess at the 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 he had made to it; but

the watchful Slipslop prevented him. For that prudent 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 unfortunate

beau to be luckily thrown in her way to restore her lady's opinion of

her impregnable chastity. At that instant, therefore, when he offered to

leap from the bed, she caught fast hold of his shirt, at the same time

roaring out, "O 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. He

made directly to the bed in the dark, where, laying hold of the beau's

skin (for Slipslop had torn his shirt almost off), and finding his skin

extremely soft, and hearing him in a low voice begging Slipslop to let

him go, he no longer doubted but this was the young woman in danger of

ravishing, and immediately falling on the bed, and laying hold on

Slipslop's chin, where he found a rough beard, his belief was confirmed;

he therefore rescued the beau, who presently made his escape, and then,

turning towards Slipslop, received such a cuff on his chops, that, his

wrath kindling instantly, he offered to return the favour so stoutly,

that had poor Slipslop received the fist, which in the dark passed by

her and fell on the pillow, she would most 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 his 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; where 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,

perceiving 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 chusing her house for the scene

of his debaucheries, and her own woman for the object of his bestiality.

Poor Adams had before discovered the countenance of his bedfellow, and,

now first recollecting he was naked, he was no less confounded than Lady

Booby herself, and immediately whipt under the bedclothes, whence the

chaste Slipslop endeavoured in vain to shut him out. Then putting forth

his head, on which, by way of ornament, he wore a flannel nightcap, he

protested his innocence, and asked ten thousand pardons of Mrs Slipslop

for the blows he had struck her, vowing he had mistaken her for a witch.

Lady Booby, then casting her eyes on the ground, observed something

sparkle with great lustre, which, when she had taken it up, appeared to

be a very fine pair of diamond buttons for the sleeves. A little farther

she saw lie the sleeve itself of a shirt with laced ruffles. "Heyday!"

says she, "what is the meaning of this?" "O, madam," says Slipslop, "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?" 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 begin, immediately quitted the bed, and made the best of his way

towards his own; but unluckily, instead of turning to the right, he

turned to the left, and went to the apartment where Fanny lay, who (as

the reader may remember) had not slept a wink the preceding night, and

who was so hagged out with what had happened to her in the day, that,

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 disturb her. Adams groped out the bed, and, turning the clothes

down softly, a custom Mrs Adams had long accustomed him to, crept in,

and deposited his 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 charming maid, and, ignorant

of the scene of delight on which they repose, meditates the future

capture of a mouse, or surprisal of a plate of bread and butter: so

Adams lay by the side of Fanny, ignorant of the paradise to which he was

so near; nor could the emanation of sweets which flowed from her breath

overpower the fumes of tobacco which played in the parson's nostrils.

And now sleep had not overtaken the good man, when Joseph, who had

secretly appointed Fanny to come to her at the break of day, rapped

softly at the chamber-door, which when he had repeated twice, Adams

cryed, "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,--"O heavens! where am I?"

"Bless me! where am I?" 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?" cryed Adams. "How came

you into hers?" cryed 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 Saul. My clothes are bewitched away too, and Fanny's brought

into their place." For he still insisted he was in his own apartment;

but Fanny denied it vehemently, and said his attempting to persuade

Joseph of such a falsehood convinced her of his wicked designs. "How!"

said Joseph in a rage, "hath he offered any rudeness to you?" She

answered--She could not accuse him of any more than villanously stealing

to bed to her, which she thought rudeness sufficient, and what no man

would do without a wicked intention.

Joseph's great opinion of Adams was not easily to be staggered, and when

he heard from Fanny that no harm had happened he grew a little cooler;

yet still he was confounded, and, as he knew the house, and that the

women's apartments were on this side Mrs Slipslop's room, and the men's

on the other, he was convinced that he was in Fanny's chamber. Assuring

Adams therefore of this truth, he begged him to give some account how he

came there. Adams then, standing in his shirt, which did not offend

Fanny, as the curtains of the bed were drawn, related all that had

happened; and when he had ended Joseph told him,--It was plain he had

mistaken by turning to the right instead of the left. "Odso!" cries

Adams, "that's true: as sure as sixpence, you have hit on the very

thing." He then traversed the room, rubbing his hands, and begged

Fanny's pardon, assuring her he did not know whether she was man or

woman. That innocent creature firmly believing all he said, told him she

was no longer angry, and begged Joseph to conduct him into his own

apartment, where he should stay himself till she had put her clothes on.

Joseph and Adams accordingly departed, and the latter soon was convinced

of the mistake he had committed; however, whilst he was dressing

himself, he often asserted he believed in the power of witchcraft

notwithstanding, and did not see how a Christian could deny it.


_The arrival of 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 a long

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 chearful than the preceding night. The Lady Booby produced

the diamond button, which the beau most readily owned, and alledged 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 Oedipus 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 gypsies in her infancy. Mr Andrews, after expressing some

astonishment, assured his honour that he had never lost a daughter by

gypsies, nor ever had any other children than Joseph and Pamela. These

words were a cordial to the two lovers; but had a different effect on

Lady Booby. She ordered the pedlar to be called, who recounted his story

as he had done before.--At the end of which, old Mrs Andrews, running to

Fanny, embraced her, crying out, "She is, she is my child!" The company

were all amazed at this disagreement between the man and his wife; and

the blood had now forsaken the cheeks of the lovers, when the old woman,

turning to her husband, who was more 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 Gibraltar, you

left me big with child; you stayed abroad, you know, upwards of three

years. In your absence I was brought to bed, I verily believe, of this

daughter, whom I am sure I have reason to remember, for I suckled her at

this very breast till the day she was stolen from me. One afternoon,

when the child was about a year, or a year and a half old, or

thereabouts, two gypsy-women came to the door and offered to tell my

fortune. One of them had a child in her lap. I showed them my hand, and

desired to know if you was ever to come home again, which I remember as

well as if it was but yesterday: they faithfully promised me you

should.--I left the girl in the cradle and went to draw them a cup of

liquor, the best I had: when I returned with the pot (I am sure I was

not absent longer than whilst I am telling it to you) the women were

gone. I was afraid they had stolen something, and looked and looked, but

to no purpose, and, Heaven knows, I had very little for them to steal.

At last, hearing the child cry in the cradle, I went to take it up--but,

O 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 its eyes upon me so piteously, that,

to be sure, notwithstanding 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 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

myself--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 Gammar Andrews's story; and, when she had

finished, asked her if the supposititious child had no mark on its

breast? To which she answered, "Yes, he had as fine a strawberry as ever

grew in a garden." This Joseph acknowledged, and, unbuttoning his coat,

at the intercession of the company, showed to them. "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?" 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 anything out a servant called him forth. When he was gone

the pedlar assured Joseph that his parents were persons of much greater

circumstances than those he had hitherto mistaken for such; for that he

had been stolen from a gentleman's house by those whom they call

gypsies, 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 discovery of a stolen child, and had uttered the

word strawberry, than Mr Wilson, with wildness in his looks, and the

utmost eagerness in his words, begged to be shewed into the room, where

he entered without the least regard to any of the company but Joseph,

and, embracing him with a complexion all pale and trembling, desired to

see the mark on his breast; the parson followed him capering, rubbing

his hands, and crying out, _Hic est quem quaeris; inventus est, &c_.

Joseph complied with the request of Mr Wilson, who no sooner saw the

mark than, abandoning himself to the most extravagant rapture of

passion, he embraced Joseph with inexpressible ecstasy, and cried out in

tears of joy, "I have discovered my son, I have him again in my arms!"

Joseph was not sufficiently apprized yet to taste the same delight with

his father (for so in reality he was); however, he returned some warmth

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 himself at his feet, and, embracing his knees, with tears begged

his blessing, which was given with much affection, and received with

such respect, mixed with such tenderness on both sides, that it affected

all present; but none so much as Lady Booby, who left the room in an

agony, which was but too much perceived, and not very charitably

accounted for by some of the company.


_Being the last in which this true history is brought to a happy


Fanny was very little behind her Joseph in the duty she exprest towards

her parents, and the joy she evidenced in discovering them. Gammar

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.

Mr Booby, who knew nothing of his aunt's fondness, imputed her abrupt

departure to her pride, and disdain of the family into which he was

married; he was therefore desirous to be gone with the utmost celerity;

and now, having congratulated Mr Wilson and Joseph on the discovery, he

saluted Fanny, called her sister, and introduced her as such to Pamela,

who behaved with great decency on the occasion.

He now sent a message to his aunt, who returned that she wished him a

good journey, but was too disordered to see any company: he therefore

prepared to set out, having invited Mr Wilson to his house; and Pamela

and Joseph both so insisted on his complying, that he at last

consented, having first obtained a messenger from Mr Booby to acquaint

his wife with the news; which, as he knew it would render her

completely happy, he could not prevail on himself to delay a moment in

acquainting her with.

The company were ranged in this manner: the two old people, with their

two daughters, rode in the coach; the squire, Mr Wilson, Joseph, parson

Adams, and the pedlar, proceeded on horseback.

In their way, Joseph informed his father of his intended match with

Fanny; to which, though he expressed some reluctance at first, on the

eagerness of his son's instances he consented; saying, if she was so

good a creature as she appeared, and he described her, he thought the

disadvantages of birth and fortune might be compensated. He however

insisted on the match being deferred till he had seen his mother; in

which, Joseph perceiving him 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

present 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 Salisbury 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 journey's

end, Mr Adams, by good luck, rather than by good riding, escaping a

second fall.

The company, arriving at Mr Booby's house, were all received by him in

the most courteous and entertained in the most 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

Fanny found means to be alone upwards of two hours, which were the

shortest but the sweetest imaginable.

In the morning Mr Wilson proposed to his son to make a visit with him to

his mother; which, notwithstanding his dutiful inclinations, and a

longing desire he had to see her, a little concerned him, as he must be

obliged to leave his Fanny; but the goodness of Mr Booby relieved him;

for he proposed to send his own coach and six for Mrs Wilson, whom

Pamela so very earnestly invited, that 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 of 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 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 publickly rebuked Mr Booby and Pamela for

laughing in so sacred a place, and on so solemn an occasion. Our parson

would have done no less to the highest prince on earth; for, though he

paid all submission and deference to his superiors in other matters,

where the least spice of religion intervened he immediately lost all

respect of persons. It was his maxim, that he was a servant of the

Highest, and could not, 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 company attended them likewise on foot; and

now a most magnificent entertainment was provided, at which parson Adams

demonstrated an appetite surprizing as well as surpassing every one

present. Indeed the only persons who betrayed any deficiency on this

occasion were those on whose account the feast was provided. They

pampered their imaginations with the much more exquisite repast which

the approach of night promised 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 fears.

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; for she had no jewels to deposit in their caskets,

nor fine laces to fold with the nicest exactness. Undressing to her was

properly discovering, not putting off, 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? the

bloom of roses and lilies might a little illustrate her complexion, 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 utmost perfection, and you may place the

charming Fanny's picture before your eyes.

Joseph no sooner heard she was in bed than he fled with the utmost

eagerness to her. A minute carried him into her arms, where we shall

leave this happy couple to enjoy the private rewards of their constancy;

rewards so great and sweet, that I apprehend Joseph neither envied the

noblest duke, nor Fanny the finest duchess, that night.

The third day Mr Wilson and his wife, with their son and daughter,

returned home; where they now live together in a state of bliss scarce

ever equalled. Mr Booby 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 occupies (his

father having stocked it for him); and Fanny presides with most

excellent management in his dairy; where, however, she is not at present

very able to bustle much, being, as Mr Wilson informs me in his last

letter, 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 he 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 greatly beloved in his


As for the Lady Booby, she returned to London in a few days, where a

young captain of dragoons, together with eternal parties at cards, soon

obliterated the memory of Joseph.

Joseph remains 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 retirement, nor will be prevailed on by any booksellers, or their

authors, to make his appearance in high life.


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