CHAP. I.

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 praise-worthy. Here emulation most effectually operates upon us, and inspires our imitation in an irresistable 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 gre [...] [...]; the [Page 14] 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 an [...] worthy persons of both sexes. Not to men­tion these [...]cient writers which of late days are little [...] being written in absolete, 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 are 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, communicated to us by an historian [Page 15] who borrows his lights, as the common method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, I believe, already conjectures I mean the lives of Mr. Colley Cibber, and of Mrs. Pamela Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by insinuating that he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in church and state, teach us a contempt of world­ly grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcate an absolute submission to our superiors! Lastly, how completely doth he arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a passion as the fear of shame! how clearly doth he expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom, reputation!

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

CHAP. II.

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

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

[Page 17] To wave 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 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 an estate in his own hands, the young Andrew [...] was at first employed in what in the country they call keeping birds. His office was to perform the part the ancients assigned to the god Priapus, which deity the moderns call by the name of Jack-o'Lent: but his voice being so extremely musical, that it rather allured the birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the fields into the dog-ken­nel, where he was placed under the huntsman, and made what sportsmen term Whipper-in. For [Page 18] 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 his 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 solici [...]d the knight to permit little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their match­es. The best gamesters, before they laid their money, always enquired 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 foot-boy. Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend on his lady, to go on her errands, stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry her prayer-book to church; at which place his voice 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; [Page 19] with his answers to which he was wonderfully pleased.

CHAP. III.

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 past 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, [Page 20] 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 county, and was a little incumbered 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 church-warden in a borough­town, yet had been himself at the expence of six­pence a week for his learning. He told hi [...] like­wise, that ever since he was in Sir Thomas's fami­ly, he had employed all his hours of leisure in read­ing good books; that he had read the Bible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas a Kempis; and that as often as he could without being perceiv­ed, he had studied a great book which lay open in the hall-window, where he had read, ‘as how the devil carried away half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one of the congregation; and as how a field of corn ran away down a steep hill with all the trees upon it, and covered another [Page 21] man's meadow.’ This sufficiently assured Mr. Adams, that the good book meant could be no other than Baker's Chronicle.

The curate, surprized to find such instances of in­dustry and application in a young man, who had never met with the least encouragement, asked him, if he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal education, and the not having been born of parents, who might have indulged his talents and desire of knowledge? To which he answered ‘He hoped he had profited somewhat better from the books he had read, than to lament his condition in this world. That for his part, he was perfectly con­tent with the state to which he was called, that he should endeavour to improve his talent, which was all required of him, but not to 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 bless'd 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 domestick 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 [Page 22] 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, [Page 23] think my lady will suffer any preamble 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 the 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.

CHAP. IV.

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 [Page 24] of life. His hair was cut after the newest fashion, and became his chief care: he went abroad with it all the morning in papers, and dressed it out in the afternoon. They could not, however, teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the town abounded with. He applied most of his leisure hours to music, in which he greatly improved himself; and became so perfect a con­noisseur in that art, that he led the opinion of all the other footmen at an opera, and they never condemned or applauded a single song contrary to his approbation, or dislike. He was a little too forward in riots at the 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 st [...]pt 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 bed-side in a morning, leer'd at him at table, and indulged him [Page 25] in all those innocent freedoms which women of figure may permit without the least fully 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 Tittle laughed and cried, An old business, I assure you, is it possible you should not have heard it? The whole town hath known it this half year. The consequence of this interview was a whisper through a hundred visits, which were separately performed by the two ladies ^* the same afternoon, and might have had a mischievous ef­fect, had it not been stopt by two fresh reputations which were published the day afterwards, and en­grossed the whole talk of the town.

But whatever opinion or suspicion the scanda­lous inclination of defamers might entertain of la­dy Booby's innocent freedoms, it is certain they made 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.

CHAP. V.

AT this time, an accident happened, which put a stop to those agreeable walks, which probably would have soon puffed up the che [...]ks of same, 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. 'O then,' [Page 27] 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 your 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, ‘ [Page 28] 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 any thing 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 any thing 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 either are a fool or pretend to be so; I find I was mistaken in you. So get you down stairs, and never let me see your face again: your pre­tended [Page 29] 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.

CHAP. VI.

As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this letter he walked down stairs, where he met Mrs. Slipslop, with whom we shall take this opportunity [Page 31] 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, tho', besides all 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; tho' 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 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 [Page 32] 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 ratifia, and desired him to sit down, Mrs. Slipslop thus began:

‘Sure nothing can be a more simple contrast 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 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 strippling may think: but I believe a man would refer me to any greensickness silly girl whatsomdever: but I ought to despise you rather than be angry with you, for [Page 33] 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 shewing 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 thro' 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.

CHAP. VII.

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 had 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 [Page 35] 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 or 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 wicket 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 ever I upheld.’ 'Nay,' said the lady, 'the boy is well enough.'— ‘La, Ma'm, 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 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 [Page 36] 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 it's pernicious consequences: she therefore applied herself again to the bell, and resummoned Mrs. Slipslop into her presence; who again returned, and was told by her mistress, that she had considered better of the mat­ter, and was absolutely resolved to turn away Jo­seph; which she ordered her to do immediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of her lady's tem­per, and would not venture her place for any Ado­nis or Hercules in the universe, left her a third time; which she had no sooner done, than the little god Cupid, fearing he had not yet done the lady's bu­siness, took a fresh arrow with the sharpest po [...] out of his quiver, and shot it directly into her [Page 37] 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 expence, by first insulting, and then discarding them.

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, wheelbarrows, 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 thro' 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 mole-hill appear as a mountain; a Jew's [Page 38] harp sound like a trumpet, and a daizy smell like a violet. Thou canst make cowardice, brave, ava­rice generous, pride humble, and cruelty, tender­hearted. 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.

CHAP. VIII.

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 like wise 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; [...] then we humbly hope his good-nature will rather [Page 39] 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 attack 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 arms 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 tee [...] white and [...]en. His lips full, red, and soft. [...]is 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, [Page 40] 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 com­passion for your youth, and if I could be certain you would, be no more guilty—Consider, child, (laying her hand carelesly 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 [Page 41] 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 reply'd, ‘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 freedoms, 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 tho' he was dumb. You have seen the faces, in the eighteen-penny gal­lery, when through the trap-door, to soft or no mu­sick, [Page 42] Mr. Bridgwater, Mr. William Mills, or some other of ghostly appearance, hath ascended with a face all pale with powder, and a shirt all bloody with ribands; 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 favours 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 vir [...]ue?’ '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 [Page 43] 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 misconstru [...] the lit­tle innocent freedom I took in order to try, whe­ther what I 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 S [...]ip­slop 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 anti­chamber, having carefully applied her ears to the [Page 44] key-hole during the whole time that the preceding conversation passed between Joseph and the lady.

CHAP. IX.

‘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 him 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 down stairs.’ The lady replied, ‘she had taken a resolution, and was resolved to keep it.’ 'I am sorry for it', cries Slipslop; ‘and if I had known you would have punished the poor lad so severely, you should never have heard a particle of the matter. Here's a fuss, indeed, about nothing’ 'Nothing!' re­turned my lady; ‘Do you think I will counte­nance lewdness in my house?’ ‘If you will turn away every footman,’ said Slipslop, ‘that is a lover of the sport, you must soon open the coach­door yourself, or get a set of mophrodites to wait upon you; and I 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, [Page 45] ‘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 every body,’ 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 waiting­gentlewoman; and so departed in a passion, and slapped the door after her.

The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting­gentlewoman 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 ea [...]y to be resolved upon: she had the utmost, [Page 46] tenderness for her reputation, as she knew on that depended many of the most valuable blessings of life; particularly cards, making curt'sies in pub­lic places, and, above all, the pleasure of demolish­ing the reputations of others, in which innocent amusement she had an extraordinary delight. She therefore determined to submit to any insult from a servant, rather than run a risk of losing the title to so many great privileges.

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

She then called Slipslop up, and after refreshing her spirits with a small cordial which she kept in her closet, she began in 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.

[Page 47] 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 some more footmen in the house, and some as stout fellows, tho' not quite so handsome as Joseph: besides, the reader hath already seen her ten­der advances had not met with the encouragement she might have reasonably expected. She thought she had thrown away a great deal of sack and sweet­meats on an ungrateful ra­scal; and being a little in­clined to the opinion of that female sect, who hold one lusty young fellow to be near as good as another lusty young fellow, she at last gave up Joseph and his cause, and with a triumph over her passion high­ly commendable, walked off with her present, and with great tranquility 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 express'd any thing to him; and as to Mrs. Slipslop, she imagined she could bribe her to secrecy.

But what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not so entirely conquered her passion; the little god lay lurking in her heart, tho' anger and disdain so hoodwinked her, that she could not see him. She was a thousand times on the very brink of revoking the sentence she had passed against the poor youth. Love became his advocate, and whispered many things in his favour. Honour likewise 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 [Page 48] was tortured with perplexity, opposite passions dis­tracting and tearing her mind different ways.

So I have 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 [...]ees) alternately incline to either scale. Now Bramble throws in an argu­ment, and Pu [...]e's scale strikes the beam; again, Bramble shares the like fate, overpowered by the weight of Puzzle. Her 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 any thing 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 similies, 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.

CHAP. X.

THE disconsolate Joseph would not have had a [...] 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 [Page 49] to apply 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:

Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned down stairs by Mr. Peter Pounce, to re­ceive his wages; for, besides that out of eight pounds a year he allowed his father and mother four, he had been obliged, in order to furnish himself with mu­sical instruments, to apply to the generosity of the aforesaid Peter, who on urgent occasions, used to 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 praemium 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 any thing) 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 very 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 [Page 51] 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.

CHAP. XI.

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 saga ous 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 (tho' 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. [Page 52] 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 shewn his parishoners 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) tho' 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 tho' 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 [Page 53] 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 enquiries 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, intended 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 a sign-post: and the master, who was christened Timotheus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some hath conceived that he hath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he doth in countenance greatly resemble that mag­nanimous beast, tho' his disposition favours 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 politicks, 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 [Page 54] 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, aye many a dozen in his time. He then remarked, that all those things were over now, all past, 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 horses, (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.

CHAP. XII.

NOTHING remarkable happened on the road, till their arrival at the inn to which the hor­ses [Page 55] were ordered; whither they came about two in the morning. The moon then shone very bright; and Joseph making his friend a present of a pint of wine, and thanking him for the favour of his horse, notwithstanding all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his journey on foot.

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

One of the ruffians answered with an oath, yes, we'll give you something presently: but first strip and be d—n'd to you.—Strip, cry'd 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 cloaths, which were not worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. You are cold, are you, you rascal! says one of the robbers, I'll warm you with a vengeance; and damning his eyes, snapt 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 but-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 [Page 56] now recovered himself; and both together fell to belabouring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they were convinced they had put an end [...]o his misera­ble being: They then stript 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 stage­coach came by. The postilion hearing a man's groans, stopt his horses, and told the coachman, he was certain there was a dead man lying in the ditch; for he heard him groan. 'Go on, sirrah,' says the coachman, ‘we are confounded late, and have no time to look after dead men.’ A lady, who heard what the postilion said, and like­wise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coach­man, to stop and see what was the matter. Upon which he bid the postilion alight, and look into the ditch. He did so, and returned, ‘That there was a man sitting upright as naked as ever he was born.—O J—sus,’ cry'd 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. [Page 57] 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 above­mentioned, thinking the naked man would afford him frequent opportunities of shewing 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 [Page 58] perfectly modest was this young man; such migh­ty effects had the spotless example of the amiable Pamela, and the excellent sermons of Mr. Adams, wrought upon him.

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

Joseph, having put on the great coat, was lifted into the coach, which now proceeded on its jour­ney. He declared himself almost dead with the cold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the lady, if she could not 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 enquiring into the circumstan­ces of the robbery, when the coach stopt, and one of the ruffians putting a pistol in, demanded their [Page 59] 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 it held some of the best Nan­tes he had ever tasted: this the lady afterwards assured the company was the mistake of her maid; for that she had ordered her to fill the bottle with Hungary-water.

As soon as the fellows were departed, the law­yer, who had, it seems, a case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the company, that if it had been day-light, 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 wi [...] 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 [Page 60] 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 sque­mish as the lady had been, she clapt a large faggot on the fire, and furnishing Joseph with a great coat belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm himself, whilst she made his bed. The coachman, in the mean time, took an opportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors: after which, he reminded his pas­sengers how late they were, and after they had ta­ken leave of Joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could.

The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use her interest to borrow him a shirt; but ima­gined, 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 stript of all he had, and almost murdered; he chid her for disturbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very quietly returned to bed and to sleep.

Aurora now began to show her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten millions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated, odes a thou­sand [Page 61] 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 any thing, 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. Tow­wouse 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,' says she, ‘where's his money to pay his reckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go to an ale-house? 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.' [Page 62] Common charitty, 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. Tow­wouse, ‘you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeral at our own expence.’ Tow­wouse, (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 enquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair.

CHAP. XIII.

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 tho' 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 [Page 64] 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 sna [...]er; 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 [Page 65] 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 down stairs he went and told Tow-wouse he could do his guest no service; for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room.

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

Mr. Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty prevailed on to make another visit. As soon as he entered the room, he told Joseph, ‘He was come to pray by him, and 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 [Page 66] the thought, however grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not half so tormenting, as the fear of what she should 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.’ He then questioned him concerning his forgiveness of the thieves.—Joseph, with a very heavy sigh, replied, 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 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 i [...] the parlour, where the ingredients for punch were all in readiness; but no one would squeeze the oranges till he came.

[Page 67] Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a lit­tle tea; which Barnabas reported to Mrs. Tow­wouse, who answered, ‘She had just done drinking it, and could not bear to 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 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.

CHAP. XIV.

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 fire-side; where several 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. Tow­wouse said, ‘She wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell meant by bringing such guests to her house, when there were so many ale houses on the road proper for their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the parish should be at the expence 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, [Page 68] 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 one 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 enquir­ed very earnestly of the surgeon, who was now come into the kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery? he begged him to use all possible means towards it, telling him, ‘it was the duty of men of all professions, to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor and necessitous.’ The surgeon answered, ‘he should take proper care; [Page 69] but he defied all the surgeons in London to do him any good.’ 'Pray, Sir,' said the gentle­man, 'What are his wounds?—Why, ‘do you know any thing of wounds?’ says the surgeon (winking upon Mrs. Tow-wouse) ‘Sir, I have a small smattering in surgery,’ answered the gen­man. 'A smattering,—ho, ho, ho!' said the sur­geon, 'I believe it is a smattering indeed.

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

He began therefore with an air of triumph: ‘I suppose, Sir, you have travelled.’ ‘No really Sir,’ said the gentleman. ‘Ho! then you have practised in the hospitals perhaps.’—'No, Sir,' ‘Hum! not that neither? Whence, Sir, then, if I may be so bold to enquire, have you got your knowledge in surgery?’ 'Sir', answered the gen­man, ‘I do not pretend to much; but the little I know, I have from books.’ 'Book!' 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 [Page 70] 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 merbo: that is my method.—I suppose, brother, you understand Latin? A little,’ says the gentleman. ‘Aye, and Greek now I'll warrant you: Ton dapomibo [...]inos polufloshoio Thalasses. But I have almost forgot these things, I could have repeated Homer by heart once.’— ‘Isags! 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 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 an­tended 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 [Page 71] ran up stairs 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.

[Page 72] 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, tho' the mob was 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 things were bona waviata, and belonged to the lord of the man­nor.

'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 Wiseone say, that if every man had his right, whatever is found belongs to the king of London.’ ‘That may be true,’ says Barnabas, ‘in some sense: for the law makes a difference between things stolen and things found: for a thing may be stolen that [Page 73] 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 a universal laugh, being first begun by himself.

While the prisoner, by persisting in his inno­cence, had almost (as there was no evidence against him) brought over Barnabas, the surgeon, Tow­wouse, and several others to his side; Betty inform­ed them, that they had over-looked a little piece of gold, which she had carried up to the man in bed; and which he offered to swear 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 secure that night, and early in the morning to carry him before a justice.

CHAP. XV.

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. Tow­wouse's [Page 74] 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, tho' he had 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 any thing in my house.’

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

The only difficulty that remained, was how to produce this gold before the justice: for as to car­rying Joseph himself, it seemed impossible; nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him: for he had fastened it with a riband to his arm, and solemnly vowed, that nothing but irresistible force should ever separate them; in which 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 drest Mr. Joseph's head; still [Page 75] persisting in the imminent danger in which his pa­tient lay; but concluding with a very important look, ‘that he began to have hopes; that he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and would see him in the morning.’ After which Bar­nabas and he departed, and left Mr. Joseph and Mr. Adams together.

Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey which he was making to London, namely, to publish three volumes of sermons; being encou­raged, as he said by an advertisement lately set forth by a society of booksellers, who proposed to pur­chase, any copies offered to them, at a price to be settled by two persons: but tho' 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 three pence half-penny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as he pleased.’

This goodness of parson Adams brought tears in­to Joseph's eyes; he declared he had now a ‘se­cond reason to desire life, that he might shew his gratitude to such a friend.’ Adams bade him ‘be chearful; for that he plainly saw the surgeon be­sides his ignorance, desired to make a merit of cur­ing him, tho' 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 [Page 76] 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 eat 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, tho' 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 physick 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 [Page 77] were carried on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided the parish; Mr. Tow­wouse 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 è 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 heroick 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 publick? 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 [Page 78] 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 hand-maid, and even lust thy pimp. Thy 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 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.

CHAP. XVI.

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 expence of be­ing pointed at.

When the company had retired the evening be­fore, [Page 79] 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 drowth 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 surprise, and there­by preventing him of the use of his weapons, espe­cially the long staff, in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the success of the struggle to an 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 [Page 80] 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 any thing to the constable, except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt out at 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. Tow­wouse was in some tribulation; the surgeon hav­ing [Page 81] 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 dead-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 risen pretty early this morning: but tho' 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 expences of supper and breakfast, and which could not survive that day's scoring, began to consider how it was possible to [Page 82] recruit it. At last he cry'd, ‘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 Tow­wouse, and taking him into another room, told him, ‘He wanted to borrow three guineas, for which he would put ample security into his hand.’ 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 voice and face 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 [Page 83] him.’ He then cryed out, coming Sir! though no body called; and ran down stairs without any fear of breaking his neck.

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

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

Whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this pos­ture, a coach and fix, 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 no body 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 [Page 84] five guineas you shall shoot at my a—.’ 'Done,' says the coachman, ‘I'll pepper you better than ever you was pepper'd 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 shoot 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 blink'd 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.’

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 Cyder­and, 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 [Page 85] 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 first arrived.) 'Yes, Sir,' answered the footman, ‘and one there is but few like.’ 'Aye,' said Barnabas, ‘If I had known it sooner, I should have desired his company; I would always pay 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 o [...] 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 [Page 86] 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 any thing 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!' [...]uoth 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 [Page 87] 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 ale-house, nor lewd woman in the parish where he lived.’—'No,' replyed 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, [...] 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 any thing 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 [Page 88] 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 his 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 [...] 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 [Page 89] 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 shewn 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.

CHAP. XVII.

AS soon as Adams came into the room, Mr. Barnabas introduced him [...] 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 saluted 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 [Page 90] 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 him 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 Whit­field or Westley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or those sort of people, I don't care to touch, unless now i [...] 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.’

'O,' said Adams, ‘if you desire it, I will read two or three discourses as a specimen.’ This Bar­nabas, [Page 91] 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, ‘tho' I don't know whether the licensing act may not shortly bring them on the same footing: but I have formerly known a hundred guineas giv­en for a play.’— ‘More shame for those who gave it,’ cry'd 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 Whitfield'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 leveled at the clergy. He would reduce us to the example of the primi­tive ages, forsooth! and would insinuate to the [Page 92] 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 it's 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 free-thinkers, 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 well­wisher. I am myself as great an enemy to the lux­ury and splendor of the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing estate of the church, understand the palaces, equipages, furni­ture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes of her mini­sters. Surely those things, which favour so strong­ly of this world, become not the servants of one who professes 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 impudence to preach it. For can any thing 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 every thing in the true orthodox manner, thy want of faith shall condemn thee?" Or on [Page 93] 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 commands, yet punish me not, for I believe them all?"’ 'I suppose, Sir,' said the bookseller, ‘your sermons are of a different kind.’ 'Ay, Sir,' said Adams, ‘the contrary, I thank heaven, is incul­cated in almost every page, or I should bely 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, tho' 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 he 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 their power 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 [Page 94] 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 [Page 95] 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 abovementioned 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 fancy—’ 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. Tow­wouse 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, [Page 96] tho' 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, [...]o 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.

CHAP. XVIII.

BETTY, who was the occasion of all this hur­ry, had some good qualities. She had good­nature, 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 [Page 97] 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 afire by her charms!

At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappy passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual ch [...]ity. 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 [Page 98] his passion had considerably abated to Mrs. Tow­wouse; 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 fly 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 inclinations, 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 [Page 99] 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 whisper­ed 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, tho' 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 of 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, [Page 100] as a kind of penance, once or twice a day, during the residue of his life.

CHAP. I.

THERE are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades from the highest to the lowest, from that of prime mini [...]ring 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 in all other instances, we consult the ad­vantage of our reader, not our own; and indeed many notable uses arise to him from this method: for first, those little spaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn or resting place, where he may stop and take a glass, or any other refreshment, as it pleases him. Nay, our fine rea­ders will, perhaps, be scarce able to travel farther [Page 101] 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 past 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 thro' 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 sometimes promises a great deal and produces 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 spelling the beauty of a book by turning [Page 102] down its leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those readers, who, (tho' 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 criticks, 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 piece-meal 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 critics have done, who have with infinite labour and acute discernment discover­ed what books are proper for embellishment, and what require simplicity only, particularly with re­gard to similies, which I think are now generally a­greed to become any book but the first.

[Page 103] 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 my self 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.

CHAP. II.

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 saddle-bags being no other than three shirts, a pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, which Mrs. Adams, who thought her husband would want shirts more than sermons on his journey, had carefully provided him.

This discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of Joseph at the opening the saddle-bags; who having hea [...]d 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 nut-shell, 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 an­swer'd. [Page 104] ‘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 te [...]ifying 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 dicum, the sole cause, the aitia [...] 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, [Page 105] 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, and the other [...]: 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, [...], 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 li [...]ewise 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 expence 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 [Page 106] 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 horse­meat 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 tho' 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, pull'd 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 country was worth. ‘A pretty way indeed,’ said Mrs. Tow-wouse, ‘to [Page 107] 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 [...] 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 [Page 108] 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 on the other side, than he perceived, if he had looked over the hedge, he would have found a foot-path capable of con­ducting him without wetting his [...].

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 publick en­tertainment where he might dry [...] clothes, and re­fresh himself with a pint: but seeing not such, for no other reason than [...] 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 ale-hou [...]e. 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, bad him f [...]llow 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.

CHAP. III.

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

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

Adams, who tho' he was, as the reader may sus­pect, a little inclined to forgetfulness, never want­ed more than a hint to remind him, over-hearing their discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this was his own horse, and that he had for­got to pay for him, which, upon enquiry, 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, tho' he knew no more than Joseph, how to procure his horse his liberty: he was however prevailed on to stay under cover, 'till the shower, which was now very violent, was over.

The three travellers then sat down together over [Page 110] a mug of good beer; when Adams, who had ob­served a gentleman's house as he pa [...]ed along the road, enquired 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 opprobrio [...]s 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 horse whip 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, tho' 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 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, [Page 111] says he, perhaps, that he may have sometimes pursued his game over a field of corn, but he hath always made the party ample satisfaction; that so far from tyrannizing over his neighbours, or taking away their guns, he himself knew seve­ral farmers not 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 know 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 gentlemen very well of whom they have been speaking, as I do the gentleman who spoke of him. As for riding over other mens 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 [Page 112] 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 one's self, one must speak better of a friend than [Page 113] 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 ideot 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 doth 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 coach-man 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 [Page 114] them; you won't prevail upon them to drink any thing, 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? Her's 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 s [...]me 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, saving, he thanked heaven he was well enough recovered [...] 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 [...]dy in the coach put a short end to the dis­pute, by refusing to suffer a f [...]llow in a livery to ride in the same coach with herself: so it was at length [Page 115] 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 any thing. 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 any where shortly: for ever since the boy's departure, she hath behaved more like a mad-woman than any thing 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, i [...] 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 [Page 116] worthy a man as ever lived, and would have done infinite good if he had not been controlled: but he loved a quiet life, heavens rest his soul! I am 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 confidious 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 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 call a woman unfortunate whom we must own at the same time guilty, and the author of her own calamity. This was abundantly sufficient to awaken the curiosity of Mr. Adams, as indeed it did that of the whole company, who jointly solicit­ed the lady to acquaint them with Leonora's histo­ry, since it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something remarkable.

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

CHAP. IV.

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 her's in a town in the north of England. She was an extreme lover of gaiety; and very rarely missed a ball, or any other publick as­sembly; where she had frequently 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 air 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 [...] [Page 118] 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 impoli [...]ck 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 any thing 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; [Page 119] 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! it is 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 any thing which is yours, yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the riches of the world, if they were mine, should purchase of me—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 [Page 120] 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. Grave­airs desired the lady to omit all such fulsome stuff in her story; for that it made her sick.

Well then, Madam, to be as concise as possible, said the lady, many weeks had not pass'd 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 every thing 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.

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 [Page 124] 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 shew 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 any thing 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 compleatest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding these remarkable words, ‘O I am in love with that equipage!’ which, tho' her friend Florella at that time did not greatly regard, she hath since remem­bered.

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

O 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 [Page 125] 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 em-broidered 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 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, ‘O 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.

[Page 126] 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 any thing 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 ecstacy had confounded her unsterstanding; 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 that same time a triumph, from that admiration, over every wo­man in the room.

In this temper of mind, Bellarmine, having en­quired who she was, advanced to her, and with a low bow begged the honour of dancing with her, which she with a low curt'sy 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, [Page 127] 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 [...]ix, came to wait on her. He was indeed charmed with her person, and was, on enquiry, so well pleased with the circumstances of her father (for he himself, notwithstanding all his finery, was not quite so rich as 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 smoak 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, [Page 128] 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 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!— [...] 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 her 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 [Page 129] 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,' cry'd 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. O, 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 any thing worth our regard besides money: nor did I ever know any 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 it if I knew not how to be handsomely off with the other.’ ‘O 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.’

[Page 130] 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 great coats; I never trust any thing more than a great coat to an Englishman; you know one must en­courage our own people what one can, especially as, before I had a place, I was in the country interest, he, he, he! but for myself, I would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear a single rag of English work about me; and I am sure after you have made one tour to Paris, you will be of the same opinion with re­gard to your own clothes. You can't conceive what an addition a French dress would be to your beauty. I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since I came over, I mistook the English ladies for 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 [Page 131] terrible quandary she must be in!’ 'Not at all,' says Miss 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 [...]he 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 humm'd 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, ‘her 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 [Page 132] with all our secrets.’ ‘You'll know soon enough,’ cries Leonora; ‘but I can't guess what secrets can ever pass between us of such mighty consequence.’ 'No, Madam!' cries Horatio, ‘I'm sure you would not have me understand you in earnest.’ 'Tis indifferent to me,' says she, ‘how you understand me; but I think so unrea­sonable a visit is difficult to be understood at all, at at [...]east when people find one engaged; though one's servants do not den [...] 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,' said 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?’ 'Hearkee, 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 [Page 133] prepared for you,’ (shaking his whip at him) Oh! Servi [...]eur tres humble,' says Bellarmine, Je vous entend perfaitment 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 [Page 134] 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 leap'd 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,’ cry'd 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 stedfastly 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 murdress 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; your 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 [Page 135] 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 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 month up into 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:

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 p [...]vent 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 [Page 137] the affair's breaking off.’ Leonora said, ‘she should be indifferent to whatever might happen in 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 [...]er 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.

CHAP. V.

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 [Page 138] 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 perfectly master of his house, and every thing 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 [Page 139] bid her go into the company, and not stand rub­bing there all day: for he did not believe the young fellow's leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, within twenty miles, he would find a surge­on to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams fetch­ed two strides across the room; and snapping his fingers over his head, muttered aloud▪ He would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing; for he believed the devil had more humanity. These words occasioned a dialogue between Adams and the host, in which there were two or three sharp replies, till Joseph bade the latter know how to behave himself to his betters. At which the host (having first strictly surveyed Adams) scornfully 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 Adams perceiving, dealt him so sound a compliment over his face with his fist, that the blood immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. The host being un­willing to be out-done in courtesy, especially by a person of Adam's figure, returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson's nostrils began to look 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 [...] la [...]t he would ever receive; when lo! a pan [...] 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 [Page 140] 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 stopped at the ale-house 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 de [...]cribed.

It was now no difficulty to put an end to the [Page 141] 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. Grave­airs, desired her not to be frightened; for here had been only a little boxing, which he said to their disgracia the English were accustomata to: adding, it must be however a sight somewhat strange to him, who was just come from Italy, the Italians not being addicted to the cuffardo, but b [...]stonza, 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 nu [...]lo senso Dammata di me, if I have seen such a spectaculo in my way from Viterbo.

One of the gentlemen having learned from the [Page 142] 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 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 the blood gushing from your nostrils. You may take your own opi­nion; but was I in your circumstances, every drop of my blood should convey an ounce of gold into my pocket: remember I don't advise you to go to law; but if your jury were christians, they must give swinging damages. That's all.' 'Master,' cry'd 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 goal.’ At which word he turn­ed about, and began to enquire again after his hog's puddings; nor would it probably have been a suffi­cient excuse for his wife, that she spilt them in his [Page 143] 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 wi [...]e was in law the assault of the husband; for they were but one person; and he was liable to pay damages, which he said must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition appear­ed. Adams answered, if it was true that they were but one person, he had assaulted the wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck the husband the first blow. 'I am sorry you own it too,' cries the gen­tleman; ‘for it could not possibly appear to the court: for here was no evidence present but the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be your friend, and would consequently say nothing but what made for you.’ 'How, Sir,' says Adams, ‘do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute revenge in cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to obtain it? If you knew me and my order, I should think you affronted both.’ At the word order, the gentleman stared, (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of knights) and turning hastily about, said, ‘Every man knew his own bu­siness.’

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

[Page 144] 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 grand­daughter, begged it with almost tears in her eyes. Mr. Adams prayed, and Mrs. Slipslop scolded, but all to no purpose. She said ‘she would not demean herself to ride with a footman: that there were waggons on the road: that if the master of the coach desired it, she would pay for two pla­ces: but would suffer no such fellow to come in.’ 'Madam,' says Slipslop, ‘I am sure no one can refuse another coming into the 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 great many; and had more under her own command, than any paltry 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 [Page 145] her, ‘her lady was one of the great gentry, and such little paltry gentlewomen, as some folks who travelled in stage-coaches, would not easily come at her.’

This smart dialogue between some people and some folks, was going on at the coach door, when a solemn person riding into the inn, and seeing Miss Grave-airs, immediately accosted her with, ‘Dear child, how do you do? 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 he; 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 postilion: but he is now his steward, and a great gentleman. Adams then snapped his fingers, and cried, he thought she was some such trollop.

Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs Slipslop with this good news, as he imagined it; but it found a reception different from what he expected. The prudent gentlewoman who despised the anger of Miss 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 [Page 146] 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.

Every thing 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, any thing 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, [Page 147] 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 warm'd 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 no 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 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.

CHAP. VI.

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 entirely resided in her wound­ed lover's apartment.

The ladies of the town began to take her conduct [Page 148] 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 owned 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 Leonor [...] 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 [Page 149] nor her aunt, tho' it was in a woman's hand. The letter was in these words:

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 [...]e would have been delighted not to have had at­tended them, so was he no less pleased with an 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 conveniences and almost necessaries of life; which his neighbours attributed to a desire of raising immense fortunes for his children: but in fact it was not so: he heaped up money for its own sake only, and look­ed on his children as his rivals, who were to en­joy his beloved mistress, when he was incapable of possessing her, and which he would have been much more charmed with the power of carrying [Page 150] 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 equigage, 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 acci­dental 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 [...] 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 sparest the rod, spoileth the child: but added he might likewise asserted, that he that sparest the purse saveth [...]he 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; [Page 151] 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 then 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 expences 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 sus­pence, 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 [Page 152] dispatched a messenger with the following epistle to Leonora.

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 had 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 shewed 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 [Page 153] 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 how sumever it was hard to have two lovers, and get never a husband at all—But pray Madam what became of Our-a [...]ho?

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.

CHAP. VII.

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 two pence 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 faste [...] [Page 154] 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 grey-hound; and giving the parson two or three hearty curses, he cry'd, 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 extreamest tract 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 kind of bare possibilities; and travel­ling in it about three miles over the plain, he arriv­ [...] 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 there 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 i [...] many: for his cassock had just again fallen down below his great coat, that is to say, it reached his knees; whereas the skirts of his coat descended no lower then 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 [Page 155] 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 make 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 th [...] 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 otherguess 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 hang'd, 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 frighten'd a [Page 156] captain of trained bands at the head of his compa­ny; but Mr. Adams was not greatly subject to fears: 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 tho' 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.

CHAP. VIII.

‘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 tho' 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, tho' 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, tho' I say it, who made some figure in the world; particularly a nephew, [Page 157] who was a shop-keeper, 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 Courtley, 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 [Page 158] 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 Courtley 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 both to 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 every thing to his coun­try; and I believe he would, except his hunting, which he stuck so close to, that in five years toge­ther, he went but twice up to parliament; and one of 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 [...]he 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 [Page 159] 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; tho', [Page 160] 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; tho' 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, will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose. I am sure I have educated him in those princi­ples; so that I have acquitted my duty, and shall have nothing to answer for on that account: but I do not distrust him; for he is a good boy; and, if Providence should throw it in his way to be of as much consequence in a public light, as his fa­ther once was; I can answer for him, he will use his talents as honestly as I have done.’

CHAP. IX.

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 [Page 161] 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 [...]it of despair, and yielded a victo­ry, which was to determine the empire of the world, to Caesar. I am not much travelled in the history of modern times, that is to say, these last thousand years: but those who are can, I make no question, furnish you with parallel instances.’ He concluded therefore, that had he taken any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he would consider better, and retract them. The gen­tleman answered with great warmth, and talked much of courage and his country, till perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams, ‘what place he intend­ed for that night?’ He told him, ‘he waited there for the stage-coach.’ 'The stage-coach! Sir,' said the gentleman, ‘they are all past by long ago. You may see the last yourself almost three miles before us.’ 'I protest and so they are,' cries A­dams, 'then I must make haste and follow them.' [Page 162] 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 six pence to the city where he was going.’ Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, the gentleman renewing his dis­course on courage, and the infamy of not being rea­dy at all times to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night overtook them much about the same time as they arrived near some bushes: whence, on a sud­den, they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a female voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his companion's hand. ‘What are you do­ing?’ said he. 'Doing!' says Adams, ‘I am hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains are murdering.’ ‘You are not mad enough, I hope,’ says the gentleman trembling: ‘Do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that the robbers 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 [Page 163] 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 hastened to assail the man. He had [Page 164] 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 anti­ents, 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 [Page 165] 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 apprehension, 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 shew 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 [Page 166] the dark, she had no human means to avoid him; that therefore she put her whole trust in Provi­dence, and walk'd on, expecting every moment to arrive at the inn; when, on a sudden, being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop, and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties, which she rejected, he laid vio­lent hands on her, and was attempting to execute his wicked will, when, she thanked G—, he timely came up and prevented him.’ Adams encouraged her for saying she had put her whole trust in Providence, and told her, ‘he doubted not but Providence had sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. He wished indeed, he had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but G—'s will be done; he said, he hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse him in the next world, and he trusted in her evidence to acquit him in this.’ He was then silent, and began to consider with himself, whether it would be properer to make his escape or to deliver him­self into the hands of justice; which meditation ended, as the reader will see in the next chapter.

CHAP. X.

THE silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night and loneliness of the place, struck dreadful apprehensions into the poor wo­man's mind: She began to fear as great an enemy [Page 167] 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 ri [...]er, in order to rifle her himself. Such were the suspicions she drew from his silence: but indeed, they were ill­grounded. 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 adviseable, 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, hues 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 halloo, at which the woman testified some fear, (for she had concealed her sus­picions of the parson himself,) but Adams said, ‘Be of good cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Providence which 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 thou art ignorant of it (as perhaps if thou hast never travelled beyond Ken­sington, Islington, Hackney, or the Borough, thou may'st be) I will inform thee, is performed by [Page 168] 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 f [...]llow, tho' 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 [...], 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 high­road, and both falling on me have used me as you see.’ Adams was going to answer, when one of the young fellows cry'd, ‘d—n them, let's carry them both before the justice.’ The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his voice, [Page 169] 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 one 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 piece of presumption that he was an [...]ld 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 be all en­titled to their proportions of 801. for apprehending [Page 170] 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 disco­ver'd.’ 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 seem'd 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 charge; but hoped they would allow him something: he desired them to consi­der, that they had assigned their nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in laying hold of the robbers, (for so these in­nocent people were called;) that if he had not 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 dextrous nimble thief, had he been in Mr. Adams's situation, would have ta­ken [Page 171] care to have given the justice no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art of a Shep­herd to escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so much befriended him: but Adams trusted rather to his innocence than his heels, and without thinking 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 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 any thing to say to him, but [Page 172] 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 [...]aw farther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of 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 surprise such of our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex, we shall not give ourselves any trou­ble to vindicate.

CHAP. XI.

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 deposition of the witnesses against them:’ which he bid him do, ‘and he would light his pipe [Page 174] in the mean time.’ Whilst the clerk was employ­ed in writing down the deposition of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice employed himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by all the company at table. One asked, ‘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 this poor girl, when somebody smoaking the cassock peeping from under the coat 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,

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 been able to answer the first time?’ Why I'll give you one, [...] blockhead—with and▪

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

'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 verse runs thus:’

'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 [...] Lati [...]

[Page 176] 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 goal: 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 goal?’ 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. 'Aye,' 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 [Page 177] 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 in 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 any thing 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?’ say the justice to Adams, who an­swered, 'It is Aeschylus, and I will maintain it.'—'O 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 stedfastly 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 ar [...] 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 [Page 178] 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 whet his whistle before he begins. I know how to behave myself to gen­tlemen as well as another. No body 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 uni [...]terrupted, unless by several hums and ha's 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 sin [...] finding what turn matters were like to take, [...] privily withdrawn, without attending the issue. The justice now flew into a violent pas­sion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit [Page 179] 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 [Page 180] 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 the 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; [...] which the latter maintained he ought to have been committed, and the justice as vehemently held be ought not. This had most probably produced a quarrel, (for both were very [Page 181] 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.

Chap. XII.

ADAMS, Fanny, and the guide, set out toge­ther, about one in the morning, the moon being just risen. They had not gone above a mile before a most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or rather ale-house; where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content, utterly forgetting every thing 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 any thing half so handsome: and indeed, reader, if thou art of an amorous hue, I advise you to skip over [Page 182] the next paragraph: which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to set down, humbly hop­ing, that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion: for if it should happen to us or to thee to be struck with this picture, we should be perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say to our­selves, quod petis est nusquam. Or, if the finest fea­tures in it should set lady—'s image before our eyes, we should be still in as bad a situation, and might say to our desires, Coelum ipsum petimus stul­titia.

Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age: she was tall and delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women, who seem rather in­tended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist, than for any other purpose. On the contrary, she was so plump, that she seemed bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confined her swel­ling breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to extend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbs which she concealed; and though they were a little reddened by her labour; yet, if her sleeve slipt 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 eye-brows 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 under lip, according to the opinion of the ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The small-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which [Page 183] 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 [...]oil 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.

[Page 185] Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in AEschylus, without attending in the least to the voice, tho' 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 [...] 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 this situation we have de­scribed her, can'st thou conceive the agitations of his mind? If thou can'st not, wave that meditation to behold his happiness, when clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her cheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the softest accent whisper, ‘Are you Joseph Andrews?’ 'Art thou my 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, [Page 186] 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 [...]emains, to wit, the sheep-skin covering of his dear friend, which was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion for [...]wards of thirty years.

Fanny had no sooner perfectly [...]ered herself, than she began to restrain the impetuosity of her transport; 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 curt'sied, and offered to advance to her; but that high woman would not return one of her curt'sies; but casting her eyes another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering as she went, she wondered who the creature was.

CHAP. XIII.

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 any thing should appear unnatural in this our history, we will en­deavour [Page 187] 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 con [...]ention arose between them; nor would those of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publick­ly 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, [Page 188] 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 postilion, or some other boy which great families, no more than great ships, are without, and falls to brushing the cloaths, and cleaning the shoes of John the footman, who being drest him­self, applies his hand to the same labours for Mr. Second-hand the squire's gentleman; the gentle­man in the like manner, a little later in the day, [Page 189] 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 [...]eemed to me necessary to vindicate the 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 to­morrow; 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 [Page 190] 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, ‘ [...]e 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, [...]ad not Joseph opportunely entered the room, [...] leave of Madam Slip­slop [Page 191] 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 good people together.’ At which 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 ale-house as well as a palace. Indeed, it is probable Mr. Adams had [Page 192] rescued more than Fanny from the danger of a rape that evening.

When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slip­slop; Adams, Joseph, and Fanny assembled over the fire; where they had a great deal of innocent chat, pretty enough; but as possibly it would not be very entertaining to the reader, we shall hasten to the morning; only observing that none of them went to bed that night. Adams when he had smoaked three pipes, took a comfortable nap in a great chair, and left the lovers, whose eyes were too well employed to permit any desire of shutting them, to enjoy by themselves, during some hours, an happi­ness which none of my readers who have never been in love, are capable of the least conception of, tho' 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 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 any thing 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 [Page 193] which all good christians ought to comply, and to the omission of which he attributed the many mi­series which befel great folks in marriage:’ con­cluding, ‘As many as are joined together other­wise than G—'s word doth allow, are not joined together by G—, neither is their matrimony lawful.’ Fanny agreed with the parson, saying to Joseph with a blush, ‘she assured him she would not consent to any such thing, and that she won­dered at his offering it.’ In which resolution she was comforted, and commended by Adams; and Joseph was obliged to wait 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 forward; 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:

[Page 194] 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 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 immediately.’

CHAP. XIV.

PARSON Adams came to the house of Parson Trulliber, whom he found stript into his waist­coat, with an apron on, and a pale 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 [...]ell 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 [Page 195] stuffing. Add to this, that the rotundity of his belly was considerably increased by the shortness of his stature, his shadow ascending very near as far in height when he lay on his back, as when he stood on his legs. His voice was loud and hoarse, and his accent extremely broad; to complete the whole, he had a stateliness in his gait, when he walked, not unlike that of a goose, only he stalked slower.

Mr. Trulliber being informed that somebody wanted to speak with him, immediately slipt off his apron, and cloathed himself in an old night­gown, being the dress in which he always saw his company at home. His wife, who informed of Mr. Adams's arrival, had made a small mistake; for she had told her husband, ‘she believed here 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 20 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, tho' 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 hogs-stye, which was indeed but two steps from his parlour-window. They were no sooner arrived there than he cry'd out, [Page 196] ‘Do but handle them; step in, friend, art welcome to handle them, whether dost buy or no.’ A [...] 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 complaisance 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 complaisance 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 great coat, wig and hat, by the fire, which Trulliber granted. Mrs. Trul­liber would have brought him a bason 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 per­ceiving 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 [Page 197] 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 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 worth much 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 any thing 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 [Page 198] carried her adoration to an opinion of 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 the 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 for that, partly by her religion, partly by the respect he paid himself, and partly by that which she 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 the 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 deny'd it; as was referred to the wife, who, tho' 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 parishoners, towards my own cure: we stopt at a house of hospitality in the parish, where they directed me to you, as having the cure.—Tho' I am but a curate,’ says Trulliber, ‘I believe I am as warm as the vicar himself, or per­haps [Page 199] 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 [...]ariot 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 broom-stick. 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 any thing 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 [Page 200] 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 man may possess with­out being so. Lay up my treasures! what mat­ters where a man's treasure is, whose heart is in the scripture? 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 shall 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 thou 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 [Page 201] ‘I'm 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?’ ‘Isacks, 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 it to vagabonds.’ ‘Besides, if we were inclined, the poors rate obliges us to give so much charity,’ cries the wife.—'Pugh!' thou art a fool. ‘Poors rate! 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 sciptures,’ ‘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 [Page 202] 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 country.) His wife, seeing him clench his fist, interposed and begged him not to fight, but shew 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.

CHAP. XV.

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 miss'd 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 faid she despaired of her doing, as she was one of the sourest-fac'd women she had ever beheld.

[Page 203] But she was agreeably disappointed; for the ho­stess was no sooner asked the question than she rea­dily agreed; and with a curt'sy 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 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, [...]hen Adams recollected he had left his great coat and h [...]t 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 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 [Page 204] not therefore possibly, nor would she trust any bo­dy, no not her own father. That money was ne­ver scarcer, and she wanted to make up a sum. That she 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 impossible, 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, [...] to other qualities, in the neighbourhood, but [...] reputed a man of great charity: for tho' he never gave a farthing, he had always that word in his m [...]th.

Adams was no sooner returned the second time, than the storm grew exceeding high, the hostess de­claring among other things, that if they offered to stir without paying her, she would soon overtake them with a warrant.

Plato and Aristotle, or somebody else 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:

[Page 205] 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 in­stance.

There chanced (for Adams had not cunning enough to contrive it) to be at that time [...] 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.

CHAP. XVI.

OUR travellers had walked about two miles from that inn, which they had more reason to have mistaken for a castle, that Don Quixote ever had any of those in which he sojourned; seeing they had met with much 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 en­quired the road, and received so courteous and oblig­ing an answer, accompanied with so smiling a coun­tenace, 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 [Page 207] 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 ale-house, [...] a large loaf and cheese, and a pitcher of beer, [...] 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 chearful 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 entrusted to his cure, 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 church-yard like a turky-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 [Page 208] temporal pride is ridiculous, surely the spiritual is odious and detestable: if such a puffed-up emp­ty human bladder, strutting in princely robes, just moves one's derision; surely in the habit of a priest it must raise out scorn.’

‘ [...] answer'd Adams, your opinion is right [...] 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 sh [...]w to contemn the order, may be one rea­son of [...] 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 [Page 209] 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', says Adams [...] an ec­stacy, ‘you are too liberal; indeed [...] 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 he 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, [Page 210] 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 any thing 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 [Page 211] 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 insisted 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 physick.

This advice presently struck the two disputants dumb; Adams cried out, ‘was ever any thing so unlucky as this poor gentleman? I protest I am more sorry on his account than my own. You see, Joseph, how this good-natur'd man is treated by his servants; one lo [...]ks up his linen, another physicks 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 I,' cries Jo­seph; ‘not that I am much troubled about walk­ing on foot; all my concern is, [...] we shall get out of the house; unless God sends another ped­lar [Page 212] 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 sollicit him for three hal [...]-crown [...]; there will be no harm in having two or three shillings in our pockets; as we have full for­ty miles to travel, we may possibly have occasion for them.’

Fanny being now risen, Joseph paid her a visit, and left Adams to write his letter, which having finished, he dispatched 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 [...] for his coming home: he cannot be gone far, as his horses are all sick; and besides he [Page 213] had [...] intention to go abroad; for he invited us to spend this day and to-morrow at his house. Therefore go back, child, and tarry 'till his return home.’ The messenger departed, and was back again with great 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 denyed Sir Thomas Booby above an 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 heard of the heathens. But surely, Joseph, your suspicions of this gentleman must [...] unjust; for what a silly fellow must he be, who would do the [Page 214] devil's work for nothing; and can'st [...] 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 learnt 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 wou'd 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 to do any thing of the kind before? Ay marry have I, answered the host; it is no business of mine, you know, Sir, to say any thing 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; [Page 215] 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 life-time; but was promised to be payed 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.

CHAP. XVII.

‘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, 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 [Page 217] 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 expence, only told his father, that the young man was a fine scholar; and it was a 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 [...]ufficient 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 any thing 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 inticed up to London, promising to make her a gentlewoman to one of your women of quality: but instead of keeping his word, we have since heard, after having a child by her himself, she became a common whore; then kept a coffee-house in Covent-gar­den; and a little after died of the French distem­per in a goal. I could tell you many more sto­ries; but how do you imagine he served me my­self? [Page 218] You must know, Sir, I was bred a sea-far­ing man, and have been many voyages; 'till at last I came to be a 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 an hundred and fifty 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; tho' 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 pass'd, during which I had many repeated promises, not only from the squire, but (as he told me) from the lords of the admiralty. He never returned from London, but I was assured I might be satisfied now, for I was certain of the first vacancy; and what surprises me still, when I reflect on it, these assurances were given me with no less 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 [Page 219] the affair with more coolness than he pre­tended.—And what answer do you think my friend sent me?—Truly, Sir, he acquainted me, that the squire had never mentioned my name at the admiralty in his life; and unless I had much faithfuller interest, advised me to give over my pretensions, which I immediately did; and, with the concurrence of my wife, resolved to set up an ale-house, where you are heartily welcome: and so my service to you; and may the 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 liars; sure he must despise himself to so intolerable a degree, that it would be impossible for him to continue a moment in such a course. And, to confess the truth, notwithstanding the baseness of this cha­racter, which he hath too well deserved, he hath in his countenance sufficient symptoms of that bona indoles, that sweetness of disposition which furnishes out a good christian.’ ‘Ah! master, master!’ ( [...]ays 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 has 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:

—'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 [Page 221] 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 tenor 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, [Page 222] is below a philosopher, and unnatural as it is mana­ged now,’ The host look'd 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!' said Adams 'What is that?' 'It is a dirty news-paper,' 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 any thing 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 else 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 [Page 223] 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.

CHAP. I.

[...] [Page 4] [...] proof than those eternal contradictions occurring [...] two [...] who undertake the history. [...] For instance, [...] and Mr. Whit [...], [...] and Rapin, and many others; where [...] being set forth in a different [...]ight, every- [...] be­lieves as he pleases; and indeed the more judicious [...] justly [...] the whole us no [...], in which the writer hath [...] a happy and fertile invention. But tho' [...] it the [...] of [...] victory to the [...] others to the [...] the [...] rogue, [...] and honest character, [...] where [...] is supposed [...] person who is [...] lived. Now with [...] mistake the [...] the [...] of critics, whether [...] hath really [...] as to [...] the [...] of [...] the [...] in the time and place [...] instance of [...] of Gil [...], where the [...] hath made a notorious [...] of Dr. [...], who [...] [Page 5] [...], and filling them up with [...] one, who [...] least [...] doctor lived? The [...] in the country [...] were [...] officers. The [...] deserved in Scation, the [...] of Marianne [...] some few [...] of [...] have not read, or [...] would by [...] persons of [...] mense [...] writers; who, without [...] or history, record [...], and facts which [...] you: whole heroes [...] stains the [...]. Not that [...] so far otherwise, that [...] for what can be [...] of the wonderful [...] may apply to them [...] of [...] they are a [...] inferior [...] who [...] of whom [...] of those [...] in his Letters, [...] an irregular [...] of the [...] [Page 6] [...]

[...] the [...] class who are [...] of [...] matter in [...] is not [...] that which [...] of the [...] and to a particular [...] the history of the world in [...] which [...] laws, [...] and of [...] the time it [...] applications. I decla [...] [...] Are [...] To which I answer in the [...] that I [...] The [...] these [...]: and [...] will [...] his [...] hath not [...] confined himself to [...] [Page 7] [...] when the [...] on the [...] who [...] would [...] person [...] shall upon it. [...] him [...] to mimick some little obscure [...] happens to [...] perhaps in his [...] in the [...] to [...] in their [...] and ender [...]. This places [...] distinguishes the [...] former privately [...] of the person, like a [...] exposes the person himself, as an [...] to others, like an executioner.

There are besides, little circumstances to be con­sidered; as the drapery of a picture, which tho' fa­shion varies at different times the [...] of the countenance is not by those means diminished. [...] I believe, we may venture to say, [...] is coeval with [...] lawyer; [...] during the changes [...] must have passed [...] have stood behind the [...] at [...] not [...] to affirm, she hath likewise in the [...] of ages sat on a throne. In short, [...] [Page 8] [...] with to the [...] of his [...] of that [...] which they [...] entertained. These are pictures which [...] [Page 9] [...] taken [...] not [...] to [...] for such [...] is [...] insolence to [...] with discovered. [...] to [...] of their [...] worthy of [...] who is [...] was so late [...] house, for [...] had not [...] them, or [...] if [...] they took [...] of the [...] which [...] to their evil [...] a race of [...] whom [...] inoffensive [...] we [...]

CHAP. II.

[Page 10] [...] beings; which was [...] which he thought almost at [...] [Page 11] [...].

[...] To which [...] [Page 12] [...] [Page 13] [...] my fair [...] [...]akness, and [...] the strength of a man may be [...] you; [...] weighing [...] yourselves with the [...] and petit maitres of the [...] who, [...] like Joseph, [...] to carry you in [...] through the [...] will [...] what strength and [...] light [...] field, [...] to their [...] Fanny over; [...] of lights [...] think of [...] to a little [...] begged of [...] door [...] him▪ she was [...] she [...] up her [...] this [...] with [...] that [...] suffer [...] hold in [...] [Page 14] [...] asked [...] they would of his [...] To [...] [Page 15] [...] more afraid of men [...] began to suspect her [...] those without were [...] belonging to [...]. At length [...] master of [...] and laughing, told [...]; that [...] with [...] who [...] otherwise, [...] [Page 16] [...] and servants of [...] unless, peradventure by [...] to the rich. 'Sir,' said he [...] the gentleman, these two [...] young people are my [...], and I look [...] them as [...] children. There is [...] singular [...] but I [...] to recount it. The [...] the [...] Homer was [...] [Page 17] [...], continued he, what [...] orator, may well [...] applied to a [...]; "He ought to comprehend all [...]." Homer did this in the most excel­lent degree; it is not without [...] therefore, that the philosopher, in the [...]nd chapter of his Poeticks mentions him by [...] other [...] than that of The [...]. He was the [...] of the [...], as well of the [...]: Not of [...] of comedy [...] deplorably [...]. To him [...]. But [...] ourselves (at least [...]) to [...] it the [...] more simple [...] He is right [...] he says [...] and end, would have [...] understanding to [...] view. I have [...] wondered why so correct a writer as Ho [...]ce should in his epistle [...] Loll [...]s, call him the [...] his action [...]; is [...] same time so [...] I must observe what [...] noted by any, the [...] his action to [...], how agreeable [...] [Page 18] [...] from which every incident [...] and to which every episode immediately relates. Thirdly, his manners, which Aristotle places se­cond in [...] description of the several parts of [...] which [...] says are included in the [...]; I [...] at a l [...]ss [...] I should [...] of his [...] in the [...] of these; [...] doth [...] If he hath [...] dry [...] observing [...] of the original, in [...] dissuasive [...]eech of [...] put into the mouth [...] [Page 19] [...] was the greatest [...], nor have any of his [...] that art, that is to say, neither [...] Seneca the tragedian, been able [...]. As to his sentiments and diction; [...] thing; the former [...] for the utmost [...] on that [...] propriety; [...] the [...] doubtless you [...]. I shall [...] which the [...] great [...], or the [...] which [...] epic as to [...] which divides on [...] and then [...] himself [...] heavens [...] and [...] their thrones. This is [...]! This is [...]! A­dams then rapt out a [...] Greek [...] and with [...] a voice, [...] and action [...] he [...] so [...] of Adams, [...] had not a [...] extravagant [...] and [...] [...]oodness of his [...] the [...]. He [...] who [...] [Page 20] [...]; and in truth [...] opinion of her quality [...]. He said he was [...] with the [...] to work on the [...] [Page 21] [...] in him a curiosity [...] singularity which Adams had [...]. This curiosity Adams [...] of, than, with Joseph's [...] to gratify it, and accordingly [...] with as much [...] acter of lady [...] faithful, and [...] not [...] person of [...] [Page 22] [...] did not [...] to find [...] and ever [...] too [...].

CHAP. III.

[...]

[Page 23] [...] I crave the [...] gentleman answered, [...] and then proceeded. [...] I stay'd a very little while at [...]; for being a forward youth [...] impatient to be in the worship for which [...] my parts, [...] and [...] without [...] fortunes; for [...] which I apprehended [...] of the [...] [Page 24] [...] great house and [...] into [...] in my [...] and [...] as [...] I [...] as to the [...] of it a [...] allows a pretend, [...] should [...] which I was [...] to have [...] shewed their [...] [Page 25] [...] were counterfeiter [...] myself. [...] to yourself! [...] O Sir; answered the gentleman [...] of the times. Half your [...] of these characters [...] replied, [...] 'Ay, they [...] I do [...]—Your [...] I should [...] said [...] in the morning [...] in thy [...] from [...]

[...] to the auction; [...] [Page 26] [...] at some [...] what; for [...] [...] bowed to the [...] to bid for a snuff-box; [...] it.

[...] possibly [...] [Page 27] [...] reply, [...] company [...] within a work I [...] at St. [...] [Page 28] [...], where I [...] visited [...] play [...] by [...] surgeon [...] [Page 29] [...] separation, [...] reason to be [...] which [Page 30] grant you [...] sincerely repent of this and many other things you have related.— [...] con­tinued the gentleman, as happy as the possession of a fine [...], who had a good educati­ons and [...] with many agreeable qualities▪ could make [...]. We lived some months with vast fondness, [...] other, without any company or con­versation [...] than we found in one another: [...] this could not continue always; and tho' I still preserves [...] affection, I began more and more to want the relief of [...], and conse­quently to [...] at last, whole days [...] and complained of the [...] which, I [...] of some other [...] to play at [...] herself all [...] easy but [...] my chambers. She was rapacious [...] to-excess, [...] in her [...] oaths, [...] behaviour soon [...]; I began to [...] my wife, and to [...] an intention [...] with her [...] hav­ing given [...] she took care to prevent [...] pains of [...] out of doors, and [...], having first broke [...] [Page 31] [...] with her all she could find to [...] about 200l. In the first [...]eat of my [...] resolved to pursue her [...]ith all the vengeance of the law: but as she had the [...] luck to escape me during that ferment, [...] afterwards cooled; and having [...] that I [...] been the first aggressor, and had done her an inju­ry, for which I could make her [...] by robbing her of the innocence of her mind; and hearing at the same time, that the [...] her mother had [...] her heart [...] elopement from her, [...] concluding [...] murderer, ('as [...] with a groan;) was pleased [...] God. [...] had taken this method of punishing me; [...] salved quietly to submit to the [...] could wish I [...] turn, who became [...] and, after [...], at last [...] her [...] the gentleman [...] Mr. Adams echoed [...] silent, looking on each other, [...] At last the gentleman proceeded [...] I [...]d been perfectly constant in this girl [...] whole time I kept her: but she had [...] before I discovered more [...] than the [...] forced to make [...] my [...] whose hands [...] discharge [...] I now foreswore [...] with [...] complained loudly that [...] pleasure did not [...] the pain, and railed at the beautiful [...], in as gross language [...] himself [...] reviled the [...] in. [...] all the town [...] with a detestation not [...] [Page 32] [...] persons appeared to me as printed palaces; inhabited by [...] and death: [...] beauty make them more desirable objects in my eyes, [...] make me covet a pill, [...]. But tho' I was no longer [...] absolute [...]ave, I found some reasons to own my­self still the subject of love. My hatred for women decreased daily; and I am not positive but [...] might have betrayed me again to some [...], had [...] not been secured by a passion for the ch [...]rming Sapphir [...], which having [...] entered up­on, made a violent [...] in my heart. Sapphi­ra was wife [...] fashion, and gallantry, and [...] who [...]. I own, every way worthy of [...] affections, which however he [...] not the reputation of [...] coquette [...] but as it is a [...] kind of [...] to describe it. Were all [...] to be [...] in the order of creation, [...] usefulness, I know few animals that [...] of a coquette; [...] indeed [...] pretence [...] any [...] by the [...] variety, yet [...] several absurd [...] foolish than what [...] observed in [...] [...]iculous birds and [...] and which would [...] the beholders, that the silly wretch [...] at our contempt. [...] its [...], and this [...] [Page 33] [...]: for as beauty, wisdom, [...], and health, are sometimes [...] by [...] creature; so are ugliness, folly [...] ill-nature, ill-breeding, and sickness, [...] put on by it in their turn. Its life [...] [...] ­stant lye; and the only rule by which you can [...] any judgment of them is, that they are never what, they [...]. If it was possible [...] a coquette to love (as it is not, for if ever it attains this passion, the [...] ceases instantly) it would [...] the [...] indifference, if not of [...] the beloved object [...] therefore [...], when they endeavour to [...] you of their liking, that they [...] to you at [...]. And [...] case with my [...] These [...] and [...] the rest of her [...] more directly to [...] affected the [...] and many other indications [...] which [...] deceive thousands. When [...] whist [...] me, and at the [...] then burst [...] laugh, [...] I can't [...] what I was thinking [...] detain you no [...] I had [...] course of [...], as I thought, [...] thoroughly [...] I had raised a violent [...] in my mistress; [...] an opportunity of [...] with her. She avoid [...] [Page 34] [...] presented [...] I will [...] all [...] of this [...] suffice, that [...] could [...] first affected [...] and immediately [...] what I [...] which could [...] breaking [...] first [...] me, I had no [...]. wiser [...] I thought my­self [...] first [...] in the possession [...] would have [...] forfeited [...]; but it had a [...] effect [...] carried my [...] by [...] had been [...] [Page 35] [...] continue [...] lay under from the [...] of her [...], gave us great uneasiness. Poor wretch! ' [...] pity him,' cried Adams. He did indeed [...] it, said the gentleman; for he [...] his wife with great tenderness; and I assure you it [...] sa­tisfaction to me, that I was not the [...] her affect [...] from him. The [...]e appre­hensions appeared also too well grounded; for at the end he discovered us, and procured witnesses of our caresses: [...] at [...] and recovered 3000l: damaged, which much [...] my fortune to pay: and what [...] worse, his [...] divorced, [...] a very uneasy life with [...] for [...] my [...] now much [...]

[...] now bade adieu to love; and resolved [...] less dangerous and [...] into the acquaintance of [...] of jolly [...], who [...]ept all [...] all [...] who might rather be said to [...]. Their [...] were the chief [...] of our [...] And yet [...]ad as [...], they were [...] which were either [...] of dull common [...] about trifling [...] is a wager. This [...] period to; [...] [Page 36] [...] of a [...] by young [...] of [...]. The [...] was now only [...] in [...] assistance of our conversation, which rolled on [...] of philosophy. These gentleman were [...] search after truth, in the pursuit [...] which they threw aside all the prejudices of edu­cation, and governed themselves only by the infalli­ble guide of human reason. This great guide, [...] having shewn them the falshood of that very ancient but simple tenet, that there is such a being [...] a Deity in the universe, helped them to establish [...] a certain rule of right, by adhering to [...] they all arrived at the utmost purity of [...]. Reflections made me as much delighted with [...], us it had taught me to despise and [...]. I began now to esteem myself a being of a [...] than I and [...]ver [...] with this [...] other [...] to virtue [...] I [...] have [...] philosophers, [...] from us, taking [...] him the wife of [...] his most intimate friends. Secondly, [...] the same society left the club without remembering to take leave of his [...]. A third having bo [...]rowed a [...] of [...] for which I received as se­curity, [...] to repay it, [...] several practices, so [...] [Page 37] [...] golden rule, made me begin [...]; but when I communicated my [...] 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 a wife, might be one of very good inclinations, but over- [...] 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 [...] created [...] him an uneasiness, he had a right from nature [...] relieve himself; with many other things, which I then detested so much, that I took leave of the so­ciety that very evening, and never [...] to [...] again. Being now reduced to a [...] of solitude, which I did [...], I became a great frequenter of the play [...], which [...] was always [...] favourite [...], and most [...] two or three hours behind the [...] with several poets, [...] of the players [...]. A [...] [...] we were gene­rally entertained by the [...] with rending their performances, and by the players with repeating their parts; upon which occasions [...] the gentleman who [...] our entertainment, was commonly the [...] company: who [...] [...] they were [...] him to his face, [...] failed to take [...] opportunity of his [...] to ridicule him. How I made some [...], which probably are [...] obvious to be worth [...]. 'Sir,' says Adams 'your remarks if you please.' First then, says [...] I concluded that [...] general observation, that [...], is not true. Men [...] vain of [Page 38] [...] strength, [...], honour, [...] pear of themselves to the eyes [...] whereas the poor [...]it is obliged to produce his [...] to shew you his perfection: and [...] readiness to do this, that vulgar opinon I have be­fore mentioned is grounded: but doth not the per­son who expends vast sums in the furniture of his house, [...] the ornament of his person, who consumes much [...], and employs great pains in dressing himself, or who thinks himself paid for self-denial, labour, or even villainy, 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 [...] apt to [...] the mind [...] praise-worthy in another [...] antipathy, Adams [...] his pockets, and [...] I have it 'not about [...]'—Upon th [...] the gentleman [...] him [...] searching for, he said [...] a sermon, [...] vanity. [...] upon [...] why do I ever leave [...] sermon out of [...] I wish it was within five miles; I would willingly fetch it, to read it to you. [...] 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 [...] it: Indeed I have never [...] [Page 39] [...] that [...] gentleman [...] and [...]— [...] this society I easily pass'd [...] that of the [...], where nothing remarks [...] but the finishing of my fortune, which these gentleman soon, helped me to the end of. This opened scenes of life hitherto unknown [...] poverty and distress, [...] their horrid train of [...]uns, attorneys, [...] me day and night. My clothes grew shabby, my credit bad, my friends and acquaintance of all kinds cold. In this [...], the strangest thought imaginable came into my head; and what was this, but to write a pity? for I had sufficient leisured fear of bailiffs confined me every day to my room [...] and having always had a [...] inclinations, and something of a [...] that way, I set myself [...] work [...] produced a [...] at the [...] I remember [...] tickets [...] their [...] of their performances▪ and resolving to [...] a precedent which was so well [...] my present circumstances, I immediately provided myself with a large number of little [...]. Happy, indeed would be the state of [...] these tickets pass current at the bake-house, the ale-house, and the chandler's shop: But alas! [...] otherwise; [...] will take them [...] stay-tape; [...] the civility [...]. They are indeed [...] a passport to [...] with, a certification [...] wants five shil­lings, which induces [...] christians to charity. I now [...] is worse than poverty, or rather what [...] consequences of poverty, I mean attende [...] [...] dependance on the great. Many a morning [...] I [...] hours [Page 40] [...] the [...] man of [...] the [...] in [...] and [...] pimps and [...] in fashion [...] I [...] been sometimes [...] [...]ending in my [...] my [...] could not [...] this mornings [...] sufficient assurance that I should never [...] into that house. [...] I have been [...] admitted; and the great [...] hath thought pro­per to excuse himself, by [...]lling me he was tied up. 'Tied up,' says Adams, 'pray what's [...]' Sir, says [...] gentleman, the profit which [...] authors for the best works, was so very small, [...] certain man of birth and [...] who were [...] of wit and [...] for what was not [...] in this [...] persons [...] good from [...] authors, [...] genius was [...] this was to [...] of money [...] of [...] if ever [...] scribed: [...], and many more have [...], in order to silence all solicitation. [...] method was likewise ta­ken with [...] tickets, which w [...] no [...] [Page 41] [...] and this is what [...] being [...] is apt enough, and somewhat [...] Adams for a man of large fortune [...] himself up, as you call it, from the encouragement of men of merit, ought to [...] tied up in [...]lity. [...] says the gentleman, to [...] to my story. [...] 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 [...] in honest industry, might have brought me more pro­fit with infinitely more satisfaction. After [...] two months spent in this disagreeable way with the utmost, mortification, when I was pluming [...] the prospect of a plentiful harvest from my play, upon [...] to the prompter to know what [...] me he had, [...] season; but if I would [...] it and [...] the next they [...] for it again. I snatch'd it from, him with [...] and retired to my room, where I [...] myself on the [...] in a fit of despair—You should rather [...] thrown yourself on your [...] for despair is sinful. As soon, continued the gentleman, as I had indulged the first [...] passion, I began to [...] should take in a [...] credit, or reputation [...] After revolving any things in my [...] no other pos­sibility of furnishing my [...] miserable ne­cessaries of life than to [...] near the Temple, and commence [...] writer to the [...]; for which I was well [...], being an [Page 42] [...]. This [...] who [...] me, and to him I applied. But [...] of [...] me with any business, [...] at my undertaking and told me, 'he was [...] I should turn his [...] into plays and [...] should expect to see them on the stage.'

Not to [...] you with [...] of this kind from others, I found that Pla [...]e himself did not hold po­ets in greater abhorrence than these men of busi­ness do. Whenever I durst venture to a coffee- [...], which was on Sundays only, a whisper ran [...] the room; which was constantly attended [...]— [...] Wilson [...] for I know not whether you have observed it, but there [...] in the [...] out, or [...] in all [...] hath sexes, whose births and [...] place them just without the polite [...]; I [...] the lower [...] of the [...], and the higher of [...] world, who are in reality the [...] part of mankind. Well, Sir, whilst I [...] with [...] starving the [...] of a [...] I accidentally be­came acquainted [...], who told me, it was a pity a [...] learning and genius should [...] a method of getting his livelihood; [...] a compassion for me, and if I would [...] him, he would undertake to provide handsomely for me. A man in my [Page 43] [...] very well [...] acceptant his [...] actions, which were none of [...] and fell to translating with all [...] longer reason [...] lament [...] for he furnished me with so much, that in [...] year I almost [...] myself blind. I likewise [...] at­tracted a distemper by my sedentary [...] no part of my body was exercised [...] right arm, which rendered me incapable of writing for a long time. This unluckily happened to delay the publication of a work, and my last [...] not having sold well, the bookseller [...] further engagement, and aspersed [...] as a careless, idle fellow. [...] by having half worked and half starved myself [...] death, during the time [...] in his [...], [...] a few guineas, with which [...] a lottery [...] resolving to [...] myself into [...] if she [...] she had done me at [...] purchase being made, [...] when, as if I had not been sufficiently miserable, a bailiff in woman's clothes [...] admittance to [...] chamber, where [...] directed by the bookseller. He arrested me at my taylor's [...] thirty-five [...]; a sum for which I could not procure bail and was therefore [...] to his [...] was locked up in [...]. I [...] [...]either health (for [...] recovered [...] indisposition) liberty, [...] friends; and [...] [...]andoned all hopes, [...] the desire of [...]. But this could not [...] Adams: for doubtless the taylor [...] moment he was truly acquainted with you [...] and knew that your circumstances would [...] permit you to [Page 44] [...] could prevent me [...] been his [...] with him, and [...] if he would not [...] my [...] pay him all the money I could by [...] labour and industry procure, reserving [...] what was sufficient to preserve me alive; he [...], his [...] time to time; that [...] put it [...] expect no money. [...] is in the original [...] to pay them, so [...] ourselves he forgiven when we are in [...] of paying. He [...] and the gen­tleman [...] While I was in this [...] former acquaintance, to [...] my [...] by the [...] wished [...] fortune: [...] up a price of 3000l [...] Adams [...] did not [...] long: for [...]. Alas, [...] this was [...] to sink me the [...] [Page 45] For I [...] of this [...] shilling without it, in order [...]. As [...] friend was [...] with my unfortunate [...] he [...] and remind, [...] of the [...] of my life. He said, I was [...] without any hopes of retrieval, nor [...] expect any pity from my friends; that it [...] ex­treme weakness to compassionate the [...] of a man who ran [...] to his own destruc­tion. He then [...] me, [...] as he was [...] the happiness I should [...], had I not [...] of [...] the plan of [...] with whom I [...] of life, even that which [...] en­joy, wholesome air, In these [...] circumstan­ces I applied by letter is [...] and such to whom I had [...] without any great prospect of [...], for their [...] of a denial was the [...].—Whilst I [...] in a [...] horrible to be [...] which [...], and what [...] christianity, [...] a strange punishment [...] and indiscretion; whilst I [...] condition [...] came into the prison, [...] delivered me the [...].

And what do you think was inclosed? I don't [...] Adams: 'Not less than a [...] I had long had [...] disclose to her. [...] thousand times; my eyes [...] repeated—But [...] I immediately [...] liberty, and, having paid all my [...] She happened [...] out of [...] which [...] for by that means [...] before her in a [...] to town [...] [Page 47] could not oblige her more than by never mention­ing, or, if possible, thinking on a circumstance which must bring to my mind an [...]cident 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 [...] rigid, either as to the security or interest. I endea­voured to express all the gratitude in my power to this profusion of goodness, tho' perhaps it [...] my enemy, and began to afflict my mind with [...] than all the miseries I had [...] afflicted me with [...] poverty, distress, and prisons [...], had been able [...] me feel [...], for, Sir, these [...] kindness, [...] have raised [...] good heart the most [...] passion, of friendship [...] of the same, [...] and [...] came to [...] from [...] beautiful woman, one [...] known; and for whom I had [...] passion, though with a despair, which [...] me endeavour rather to cur [...] and conceal, than to nourish or acquaint her with it. In short, they came upon me united with beauty, softness, and tenderness, such be witching smiles— [...], in that moment I lost myself, and [...] our different situations, and considering [...] I was making to her [...], by desiring [...] who had given me so [...] to bestow has all, [...] gently hold on her [...] it to my lips, I press'd it [...] overspread [...] [Page 48] to withdraw her hand, yet not so as to [...] it from mine though I held it with the gentlest [...]. We both [...] trembling, her eyes cast on the ground, and mine stedfastly fixed on her. [...], what was then the condition of my [...] with love, desire, admiration, gratitude, and every under passion, all [...] 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 shew of anger, 'If she had any reason to [...] this treatment from me.' I then fell [...] before her, and told her, If I had offended, my life was absolutely in her power, [...] in any manner [...] her [...]. said I [...] not [...] me, as [...] I have [...] you long [...] and the [...] you have [...] mean, [...] views; [...] I who [...] leave of you for ever, [...] [Page 49] [...] you seem, my happiness is in the [...] of for­tune now. You have obliged me too [...] alrea­dy, if I have my wish, it is for [...] lost acci­dent, by which I may contribute with my life to the least augmentation of your felicity, [...] myself, the only happiness I can ever [...] hearing of yours; and if fortune [...] make that complete, I will forgive her all her [...] to me. 'You may, indeed,' answered she, smiling, for your own happiness must be included in mine. I have long known your worth; may: I must con­fess, said she blushing, I have long discovered that passion for me you profess, notwithstanding those endeavours, which I am convinced were. [...], to [...] it; and if all I can give with [...] what I will [...] through [...] silent; then flying to [...] arms, no longer resisting,—and [...] her, [...] must give me then herself,—O Sir,— [...] her look? She remained Silent; [...] motionless, several minutes. At last, recovering herself a little, she insisted [...] my having [...] in such a [...] that [...] however, I [...] her again.— [...] pardon, I have [...] you too long [...] particulars of the former [...] otherwise, said Adams, [...] willingly hear it [...] the gentleman [...] within a week [...] of [...] [Page 50] after; [...] I came to examine the circum­stances of my [...] fortune, (which I do assure you [...] at leisure enough to do) I found it accounted to about six thousand pounds, most part of [...] lay in effects; for her father had been [...], and she seemed willing, if I liked [...] that I should carry on the same trade. I readi­ly, and [...] inconsiderately, undertook it: for, not having been bred up to the secrets of the business, and endeavouring to deal with the utmost honesty [...] uprightness, I soon found our fortune in a [...] and my trade decreasing by little and [...] my wines, which I never, [...]terated [...] and were [...] as they [...] of spending money, and [...] from envy in getting [...] in my [...] I loved [...] which was perfectly [...] were no other than [...]; for she was [...] which that [...] [Page 51] affection for it, she readily [...]. We [...] put our small fortune, now reduced under [...] thousand pounds, into money, with [...] of which we purchased this little place, whither we retired soon after her delivery, from a world full of [...] noise, hatred, envy and ingratitude, to [...] 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 represent [...] a madman, and the [...] cause I will not [...] with the [...] other, 'Sir,' says Adams, [...] think, paid you all her debts in [...] Sir, replied the gentleman, [...] I have [...] whom [...]. Within three years of my [...] my eldest son. (Here he [...]) says Adams, ‘we must submit to [...] consider death is common to all.’ We [...], indeed, answered the gentleman; and [...] died, I could have borne the loss with patience [...]! Sir, he was stolen away [...] wicked travelling people whom they call [...]; not could I ever with the most diligent [...] him. [...] child! he had the [...] the exact [...] of his mother; at [...] tears unwittingly [...] from his eyes, [...] likewise from those of Adams, [...] with his friends [...] those [...] said the gentleman [...] which, if I have been too particular [...] and now, [...] please, I [...] you an­other [Page 52] bottle; which proposal the parson [...] accepted.

CHAP. IV.

THE gentleman returned with the bottle; and Adams and he sat some time silent, when the [...] started up, and cried, 'No, that won't do,' [...] gentleman enquired into, his meaning; he [...] He had been considering that it [...] famous king [...] son whom he had [...] his [...] could not [...] for [...] fruit.

[...] had and with [...] soft dews [...] on her [...] to take her [...] over the [...] and presently after, that [...] from his wife's chamber to pay his [...] to her [...] gentleman [...] if he would [...] and survey his [...] which he [...] Joseph at [...] [Page 53] [...] from asleep in which [...] hours buried, went with them. No [...] fountains, no statues, [...] Its only ornament was a short walk, [...] each side by a filbert hedge, with a small [...] one end, whither in hot weather the [...] and his wife used to retire and [...] with their children, who played in the [...] them▪ but tho' vanity had no votary [...] spot, here was variety of fruit, and every [...] for the kitchen, which was [...] to catch the admiration of Adams [...] the gentleman he had certainly a good [...] answered he, that gardener is [...] whatever you see [...] is the [...] self while my [...] pares our [...] which [...] the [...] of the [...] weather will not [...] here, I am usually [...] with my [...] say the truth, [...] perceive that [...] understanding which [...] levity of rakes, the [...] of [...] of business [...] the austerity of the learned [...] in women. [...] found none of [...] own [...] observations [...] them [Page 54] [...] not do I believe any [...] a faithfuller [...] friend. And [...] with more delicacy [...] so it is consumed by dearer [...] can attend the closest male alliance [...] can be so fast, as our common interest [...] of ou [...] embraced, Perhaps, Sir, you [...] yourself a father; if you are not, [...] delight I have in my [...] Would you not despise me, if you [...] the [...] and my children play­ing [...] I should [...] the sight [...] myself [...] now the father of [...] and I am say, I [...] house [...] better; [...] occasion [...] my [...] (And) [...] Adams, as [...] a maid-servant, but [...] up, she is unwilling [...] them [...] the fortunes I [...] very [...] intend not to [...] the rank they are likely to [...] hereafter, [...] to teach them to [...]espise, [...] [Page 55] [...]. Indeed I could wish a [...] of [...] and a retired lift, might fall to their [...] for I have experienced that circumstance [...] which is seated in content, is inconsistent with the hurry and bustle of the world. [...] proceeding [...], when the little things being last risen, ran eagerly towards him, and asked [...]; they were [...] to the strange [...] but the oldest acquainted her father; that her mother and the young gentlewoman [...] up, and that [...] fast was ready. They all [...] in, where the gen­tleman was surprized at the beauty of [...] had now recovered herself [...] was entirely clean [...] taken away her [...] had [...] in the [...] children, and [...] of Adams [...] the reading which [...] their guests, and [...] forwardness to [...] the best of every thing in their house; [...] delighted him still [...], was an [...] of their charity: for whilst [...] at [...] the good woman was [...], which [...] some [...] for the public use; and the good man went into his garden as the same time, to supply another with something which he wanted thence; for they [...] nothing which those who [...] were not [...] to. These good people went in the [...], when they heard the [...] of [...] immediately afterwards a [...] the fa­vourite [Page 56] of the eldest daughter, came [...] [...]loody, and laid himself at his mistress [...] [...] 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 [...] squire the son of the lord of the manor, ha [...] [...] him as he pass'd by, swearing at the same time he would prosecute the master of him for keeping a [...]; for that he had given notice; he would [...] suffer one in the parish. The dog, whom his [...] had taken into her lap, died in a few mi­nutes, licking her hand. She express'd great [...] at his loss▪ and the other children began to [...] for their [...] misfortune, nor could Fanny himself refrain. Whilst the father and mother at­tempted to [...] her, Adams glasped his [...], and would have [...] Joseph with [...] him. [...] bridle his [...] with great [...]; said [...] the [...] lamenting and carrying the dead [...] in [...], out of the room, when the gentle­man said, this was the second [...] this squire had endeavoured to kill the little [...], and ha [...] [...] him [...] once before, adding [...] motive but ill-nature; for the [...] which was not near [...] never [...] twenty yards from [...] years his daughter had had it. He [...] nothing to deserve this usage: [...] too great a fortune to contend with. That [...] as absolute [...] any tyrant in the universe, [...] dogs, and taken away all the [...] and not only [...] [Page 57] [...] hedges, and rode over corn and gardens, with no more regard than if they were the high way. 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 [...] 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 [...] hastily to forget the sudden loss of her little favour­ite which had been fondling with her a few [...] before; and as Joseph and Fanny were im­patient to get home and begin those [...] to their happiness which Adams had insisted on they now offered to take their learn. The [...] to stay dinner; [...] when he found, their [...] to depart, he [...] his wife, and accordingly having [...] usual [...] pleasant to be seen that to be related, they [...] leave, the gentleman and [...] heartily [...] them a good journey, and they as heartily thanking them for their kind entertainment. They [...] de­parted, Adams declaring, that this [...] the manner in which the people had lived in the golden [...].

CHAP. V.

OUR travellers having well refreshed [...] at the gentleman's house. Joseph [...] [Page 58] with sleep, and Mr. Abraham Adams [...] tobacco, renewed their journey with great [...]; and pursuing the road in which they were [...] travelled many miles before they met with any ad­venture worth relating. In this interval, we shall [...] our reader with a very curious discourse, as [...] apprehend it, concerning public schools, which [...] between Mr. Joseph Andrews and Mr. Abraham Adams.

They [...] 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.' ' [...] don't you think,' says he, 'he was a very [...] in his youth?' 'A very unhappy man [...] the other. 'Joseph,' cries A­dams, [...], I have [...] discovered the [...] preserved your virtue as you have. The first care I always [...] is of a [...]. What is all [...] man take in exchange for his [...] schools trouble themselves [...]. I have known [...], who hath not been [...] [Page 59] his [...]; but for my own part, I always scourged a lad sooner for missing that than any o­ther [...]. Believe me, child, all that gentle­man's misfortunes arose from his being [...] of a public school.

'It doth not become me,' answered Joseph, ‘to dispute any thing, Sir, with you especially [...] matter of this kind; for to be sure you must be allowed by all the world to [...] teacher of a school in all our county.’ [...] says A­dams, ‘I believe, is granted me; that I may with­out much vanity pretend to— [...]ay, I believe [...] may go to the next county too— [...] [...] non est moum—However, Sir a [...] you are [...] to bid me speak, says Joseph, [...] you know [...], Sir, [...] was [...] school, and [...] he had a hundred [...] at the someplace. [...] heard him [...] a public school, and [...] learn more in one year [...] education will in [...]. He used to say [...] itself initiated him a great way, (I [...] was his very expression) [...] schools [...] societies, where a Boy of any [...] in epitome what he will afterwards [...] in the world at large. [...] quoth Adams [...] prefer a [...] school, where boys may [...] innocence and [...] fine passage is [...] play of Cato, the only English tragedy I even [...]’.

‘If knowledge of the world [...] Juba ever live in [...]’ [Page 60] Who would not rather preserve the purity of [...] child, than wish him to attain the whole [...] of arts and sciences; which, by-the-bye, [...] learn in the classes of a private school? [...] I would not be vain, but I esteem myself to be [...] to none, [...] secundum, in teaching these things; so that a lad may have [...] much learning in a private as in a public education, And, with submission [...] Joseph, [...] may get [...] much vice, [...] 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 [...] I was in the stable, if a young horse was [...] in his nature, no correction would [...] otherwise; I take i [...] to be equally the [...] men: [...] corrupted. [...] that the [...] in public schools was much [...] in private—You [...] says Adams, and so did [...] twenty or thirty boys more in a [...] presume to [...] in this [...] have taught from [...] master of six boys only, [...] discipline amongst them as the [...] greatest school in the world. I say [...] I say nothing [...] himself had been educated [...] [Page 61] [...], and under the tuition of [...] I name nobody, it [...] have been [...] him—but his father must institute him [...] knowledge of the [...]. [...] horis [...]. Joseph seeing him run on in this manner, asked pardon many times assuring him he had no intention to offend. I better you had not child, said he, and I am not [...] but for maintaining [...] a school; for this—And [...] named all the [...] old books, and presented himself to [...] if this good [...] had an enthusiastic of [...] the vulgar call a blind side, it was [...] a school-master the [...] and himself the [...] the beautiful [...]. It was a kind of [...] formed by the winding of a [...] was planted with [...] words, and the [...] gradually above each other by the natural ascent [...] she ground they [...] on; which ascent as the hid with their [...] to have [...] disposed by the design of the most skilful planter. The soil was spread with [...] which no paint [...] 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 a while in [...] delightful place, and refresh themselves with [...] which the good nature of Mrs. [...] provided them with. Adams made [...] object [...] [Page 62] to the [...]; so down they sat, and pulling but a cold [...], and a [...] of [...], they [...] which might have [...] of more [...] did [...]. I [...], that they found [...] their provisions a little paper, containing a piece of gold, which Adams [...] had been put there by mistake, would have returned back, to restore it: but he was at [...] that Mr. Wilson had [...] furnishing them with a [...] for their [...], on his having [...] the [...] were [...] of the [...]. Adams [...] such an [...] of [...] which it [...] to call [...] him; [...] too [...] which those who have as great [...] as ourselves, [...] hopes of seeing him again. Then Joseph made a speech on [...] which the reader, if [...] so disposed, may [...]; for we scorn to [...] such reading, without first giving him warning.

CHAP. VI.

I HAVE often wondered, Sir, said Joseph to [...] serve so few instances of charity among man­kind; for tho' the goodness of a man's heart did not incline him to relieve the distresses of his fellow-creatures, methinks the desire of honour [...] move him to it. What inspires a man to build [...] houses, or [...] clothes, and other things [...] ambition to be [...] would not [...] of poverty [...] a sum of [...] livelihood [...] respect th [...] [...] house, furniture, pictures, or [...] ever beheld? For not only the object himself [...] was thus relieved, [...] all who [...] such a person, must, [...] in­finitely more than [...] things: which when we [...] we [...] praise the builder, the [...] the painted, the [...] 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, [...] I have waited behind my lady in a room [...] pictures, while I have [...] never once thought [...] [Page 64] any one else, as I ever observed; for when it [...] been asked whose picture that was, it was never once answered, the master's of the house; but [...], Paul Varnish, Hannibal Scr [...]tchi,, [...], which, I suppose were the [...] of [...] painters: but if it was asked who redeemed such a [...] out of [...] who lent [...] a ruined [...] money to set up? who cloathed that family of [...] 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 [...] means; for [...] where she [...] house [...], but I [...] they all [...] who do, [...] it is strange that all men should consent in com­mending goodness, and [...] endeavour to de­serve [...] whilst on the [...] all [...] wickedness, [...] to be what they abuse. This I know not the reason of; but it is as [...] as [...]-light to those who [...] the world. As I have done these three years ‘A [...] all the great folks wicked then?’ says Fanny. To be [...] there are some exceptions, answered Joseph. Some gentlemen of our cloth report [...] actions done by their [...] and [...] Pope, the great [...] of a man that lived [...] [Page 65] [...] 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 [...]he [...]quire 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 [...] hath not been a little surprised at the long [...] of person Adams, especially as so many occasions offered themselves to exert his curiosity and observa­tion. The truth is, he was [...] asleep and [...] been from the beginning of the preceding [...]: and indeed if the reader considers that so ma­ny hours had past since he had closed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repose, though even Hen [...]ey himself, or as great an orator (if any such he) 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 [...] ground, no sooner per­ceived, on looking up, the position of Adams, who was stretched on his back, and [...] louder than the usual braying of the animal with long ears; then he turned towards Fanny, and [...] her by she hand, began a dalliance, which, [...] consist­ent with the purest innocence and [...] neither he would have attempted, [...] before [...] witness. Whilst [...] themselves [...] his harmless and delight [...], they heard [...] [Page 66] pack of [...] approaching in fall cry towards them, and presently afterwards saw a [...] pop forth [...] the [...], and, [...] the water, land with­in a few yards of them in the meadows. The [...] no sooner on shore, than it seated itself on its [...] legs, and listened to the sound of the pursu­ers. Fanny was wonderfully pleased with the little wretch, and [...] longed to have it in her [...] she might preserve it from the dangers that [...] to threaten it: but the rational part of the creation do not always aptly distinguish their friends [...] their foes; what wonder than if this filly [...] the moment it beheld her, fled from the friend, who would [...] protected it, and, traversing [...] meadows again, [...] the little rivulet on the op­posite side. It was, however, so spent and [...] down twice or [...] in [...] way. The [...] tender heart of Fanny, who [...] in her eyes, against the [...] poor [...] out of its [...] to the extreme [...] [...]. She had not much time to make reflecti­ons of this kind; for on a [...] the [...] the wood, which resounded with their [...] and the [...] of their retinue who attend­ed [...]. The dogs now past the rivulet, and [...] the [...] of the hare; five Horsemen [...] to leap [...], three of whom [...] two were in the attempt throws [...] into the water; their compani­ons [...] own horses too, proceeded after their sport, [...] left, their friends and riders to invoke [...] of [...], or employ the more active [...] strength [...] for their delivera [...]. [...] however, [...] not so unconcerned on [...]; he left Fanny for a moment to herself, [Page 67] and [...] to the gentlemen, who were immediately on their legs, making their ears, and easily with the help of his hand attained 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 [...]eeling, staggering prey, which, fainting al­most at every [...] crawled thro' 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 [...] nor could [...]he prevail on Joseph, who had been himself a [...] in his youth, to [...] any thing contrary to the laws of hunting, [...] of the hare, which he said was killed [...].

The hare was caught within a yard of [...] of Adams, who lay asleep at some [...] the [...]vers; and the hounds in devouring i [...], [...] it backwards and [...], had drawn it so close to him, that some of them (by [...] per­haps for the hare's skin) laid hold of the [...] 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 [...], they must certainly have tasted his [...], which delicious flavour might have been fatal to him: but being roused by these tuggings, he instantly awaked, and with a jerk [...] his [...] from his wig, he with most [...] dexterity [...] his legs, which now seemed the only members [Page 68] he could entrust his safety [...]o. Having therefore escaped likewise from a [...] least a third part of his cassock, which he willingly left as his [...] 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 [...]ight in my circumstance whatever, I say [...] I whisper that softly, and I [...] declare, without any intention of giving [...] any brave man in the [...]tion) I say, or rather I whisper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and hath [...] or Virgil, nor knows [...] of Hector or Turnus; nay, he is [...] with the history of some great men living who, tho' as brave as [...], have run away, the Lord knows how far, and the Lord knows [...] to the surprise of their friends, and the enter­tainment of their enemies. But [...] persons of such heroic disposition are a little offended at the beha­viour of Adams, we assure them they shall be as much pleased at 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 [...] that use only. However, as he [...] had now found [...] nimble enough, he was [...]illing to indulge himself with other sport, and [Page 69] accordingly crying [...], 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 whooping as if a conquered [...] was [...]ying before him; in which he was imitated by by these two or three couple of human, or rather two legg'd curs on horseback which we have men­tioned before.

Now thou, whoever thou art, whether a [...] or by what other name soever thou chusest to be cal­led, who presidest [...] biography, and hast inspir­ed all the writers of [...] who didst infuse such wonderful [...] pen of immortal Gullive [...]; who [...] guided the judgment, [...] nervous manly style of my [...] had'st no hand in that [...] the translations which [...] willingly [...] struck out of the life of [...] Lastly, Thou who without the assistance [...] of [...] and even against his [...] of his book, forced [...]; do thou assist me in what I [...] equal to. Do thou [...] on the [...] the young, the gay, the brave Joseph Andrews, whilst men shall view him with [...] and [...] tender virgins with love and anxious [...] his safety.

No sooner did Joseph Andrews perceive [...] distress of his friend, when first [...] quick- [...] dogs attacked him, than he grasped his [...] in his right hand, a cudgel which his father had of his grandfather, to whom a mighty [...] man of [...] had given it for a present in that days when he [...] three heads on [...]. It was a [...] mighty strength and wonderful [...] [Page 70] one of Mr. Deard's best [...], whom no other [...] the equal; and who [...] made all th [...]se [...] which the [...] have lately walked with about [...] Park in a morning: But [...] was far his [...]-piece; [...] its [...] was engraved [...] and [...], which might [...] for a [...] of [...] designed to represent the [...]; but is [...] the face of a certain [...] of infinite [...], humour, and gravi [...]. He [...] intend [...] have [...] many [...]. [...] of the [...] to the [...] on this [...] reasons: The [...] it would [...] which should he [...] part; but [...] doth not weigh much, many [...] for such [...] to our [...] [Page 71] indeed, what [...] we bring to set [...] our reader's [...] at once the [...] of friendship, [...] youth, beauty, [...] and [...] all which [...] the person of Joseph Andrews but those therefore, that describe [...] and tigers, [...] than [...], raise their poems or plays [...] of Joseph Andrews, who is himself [...] the reach of any simile.

[...] Rockwood [...] and [...] than fell on his [...] brought him to [...] all [...] trailing; and [...] whenever [...] He fell by the [...] Plunder, and [...] victims of his [...] on the ground. Then [...] Mr. John Temple had [...] up in [...] house, and [...] at his own table, and lately sent the [...] for a present, can [...] at Joseph, [...] by the leg; no dog was [...]over fiercer [...] b [...]ing descended from [...] worried bulls in [...] country, but now [...] an unequal [...] the [...] we have [...] may believe [...] [Page 72] [...] interposed, and in the shape of the [...] her [...] up in [...].

[...] with his [...] to the [...] Then Joseph [...] to his [...], and with [...] might fell on the victor, [...] to his [...]! Caesar ran yel [...]ing away.

The [...] with the most [...] man of [...] a language [...] vain to contend longer; for [...] their [...] with her [...] battle, a battle we [...] poet, [...] shall [...] with the [...] and his companions, [...] and the [...] sit of laughter, [...] who had [...] delight [...] many of which lay, [...] in the [...]. The [...] therefore having first called his friends [...] guards, for the safety of his person, [...] up to the combatants, and [...] all [...] he was master of into his [...] demanded with an authoritative voice of [...] what he [...] by assaulting his dogs in [...]. Joseph [...] with great [...] they had first [...] on his friend; and of [...] had [Page 73] belonged to the greatest man in the kingdom, [...] would have treated there in the same way; [...] whilst his veins contained a single drop of [...] he would not stand idle by, and see [...] gentleman (pointing to Adams) abused either by ma [...] [...] having so said, both he and [...] their wooden weapons, and put themselves [...] such a posture, that the squire and his company thought proper to preponderate, before they [...] to revenge the [...] of their four-footed [...]. At this instant [...], whom the [...] of Joseph's danger had [...] so which that, [...] getting her own, she had made the [...], came up. The [...] so surprized with [...] im­mediately fixed both [...] on [...], every one [...] charming a creature. [...] engaged them a moment [...]; but all [...] amaze. The [...] only [...] her attraction, who was [...] he cutting [...] the dogs, and [...] in which he succeed [...] so [...], that only [...] no great note remained [...] on the [...] of action. Upon this the [...] well it was [...] worse; [...] his part, he could not blame the gentleman, and wondered his master would encourage the dogs to [...] 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. [...] with a more favourable aspect than be­fore [...] told him he was [...] for what had hap­pened [...] that he had endeavoured all he could to [Page 74] [...] with his [...] commanded the courage of his [...]; for so he imagined Joseph to be. He [...] Mr. Adams to dinner, and desired the [...] might come with him. Adams [...]; but the invitation was we [...] at length he [...] accept it. His wig and [...] of the field, being [...] Joseph [...] otherwise probably they [...] himself into the [...] the house and [...] towards the [...] a very little distance, [...] which they [...] which, the [...] laughter and [...] to the squire and his facetious [...].

CHAP. VII.

TH [...] [...] at the squire's [...]. A little [...] [Page 75] the account of Fanny, whom the squire who [...] [...]tchelor, was [...] to place at his own [...] but she would not consent, nor [...] Mr. Adams permit her to be parted from Joseph: so their she was at length with him consigned over to the [...] then, where the servants were [...]; a favour which was [...] Adams: which design being [...] the squire thought he should [...] when he [...] her, [...] Fanny.

It may not be [...], to open a little [...], and that of his [...] house then was a [...] (if we [...]) [...] under [...] had orders [...] very [...] the [...] in hunting [...] his mother [...] horses, hounds, and [...] en­deavouring [...] with his young [...] who would, he [...] able handsomely to provide for him, [...] his companion, not [...] at these exercises, but likewise [...] the young squire had a very [...] the age of twenty, his mother began to [...] not fulfilled the duty of a parent; she [...] to persuade her [...], if possible, [...] she imagined would will [...] have learned at a [...] [Page 76] This is what they commonly call travelling; which with the help of the tutor who was fixed on to [...] him, she easily succeeded in. He made in [...] years the tour of Europe, as they term it, and [...] home well furnished with French clothes, [...] and [...], with a hearty contempt for [...] own [...] especially what had any favour of the plain spirit and honesty of our Ancestors. His [...] applauded herself at his return; and [...] being master of his own fortune, he soon [...] himself a sent in parliament; and was in the [...] of the [...] gentlemen of his [...] but what [...] chiefly, was a strange delight [...] thing which is redi­culous, [...] in his own species; [...] without one or [...] these [...] and those who were [...] by nature [...] most his [...] pleasure in [...] methods [...] he was always [...] indeed no [...] honour to the [...] business was to bunt out and display every thing that had any [...] of the above mentioned qualities, and espe­cially in the gr [...]est and best characters: But if they [...] in their search, they were to turn even virtue and wisdom themselves into ridicule for the [...] of their master and [...]. The gentle­men of our-like disposition, who were now [...] house, and whom he had brought with [...] London, were an old half-pay officer, a [...], a [Page 77] [...]-poet, a quack-doctor, a scraping- [...], and a lame German dancing-master.

As soon as dinner was served, while Mr. Adams was saying grace, the captain [...] his [...] from behind him; so that when he endeavoured [...]o seat himself, he [...] down on the [...] and [...] compleated joke the [...] 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 [...] which, with the many apologies [...] person's gentle answers; [...] compa­ny. Joke the third [...] up by one of the waiting-men, who [...] ordered to [...] a quantity of gin into Mr. Adams's ale, which [...] to be the [...] ever drunk, [...] rather too rich of [...] contributed [...] to their laughter. Mr. Adams [...] we had most of this relation, [...] all the [...] of this kind practised [...] which the [...] disposition of his own heart [...] him [...] in dis­covering; and indeed, [...] not been for the in­formation which we received from a servant of the family, this part of our history, which [...] none of the least curious, must have been deplora­bly imperfect; tho' 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 [...] [...]rses, which he [...] were made extempore. The following is a copy of them procured with the [...] difficulty.

At [...] the hard [...] off the player's [...] of the company, [...] of his hand than his [...]. The player [...] the jest on the [...] began to [...] his [...] the same [...]: He [...] reflecting [...] received [...] in broken English [...] man very [...] for [...] suppose by his walk dat he had learn of some great ma­ster. He said it was [...] pretty [...] in clergy­men to [...]; and [...] desiring him to dance a [...] telling him. [...] cassock would serve for pettico [...]; and that he would himself he his partner. At which words, without waiting for an answer, he pulled out his gloves, and the [...] was preparing his fiddle. The company all [...] the dancing-master wagers that the parson [...] him, which he refused, saying, [...] ^* [Page 79] [...] so too; for he had [...] his life who looked de dance [...] man: He than stopped forwards to take Adams by the hand, which the letter [...] at the [...] his [...] to carry the j [...]st too far, for [...] put upon. The dancing master no sooner [...] the fist then he prudently retired out of its [...] and stood aloof mimicking Adams, whose eyes were fixed on him, not [...] what he was at, [...] avoid laying hold on him, which he had once at­tempted. In the [...] while, the captain perceiv­ing an opportunity [...] or [...] to the cassock, and then [...] their little smo [...]k­ing-candle. Adams [...] to this [...] and believing he had [...] blown up [...] from his [...] about the [...] to the infinite joy of [...], who [...] he [...] the best [...]. As [...] the devil had done [...] him, and he ha [...] a little recovered his [...] he returned to the ta­ble, standing up in the [...] of one who [...] to make a speech. They all cried out, Hear him, hear him; and he them [...] in the following man­ner: Sir, I am [...] one to [...] Provi­dence hath been so [...] in [...] his fa­vours, make so [...] a return for them; for tho' you have not insulted me yourself, it is visible you have delighted in those that do it, [...]or have once discouraged the many rudenesses which have been shewn towards me; indeed to­wards yourself, if you rightly understood [...] I am your [...], and by the laws of hospitals▪ [...] to your protection. One gentleman [...] thought proper [...] produce same poetry upon [...] of which I shall [...] that I had rather be [Page 80] the [...] composer. He hath [...] [...]reat me with disrespect as a person. I [...] my order is not the object of [...] so, unless by being a dis­grace to [...] I hope poverty will [...] gentleman indeed hath repeated some sentence where the order itself in mention [...] 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 [...] me, I [...]. You [...] with two of [...] your [...] [...]alling [...] whether it [...] of [...] very well [...], of [...] you, Sir, [...] which words to [...] the half guinea which was found in the basket) I do not [...] you this [...] of riches, [...] truth. Your [...], me [...] table [...] honour which I did not ambition [...] affect: [...] endeavoured to behave towards you [...] most respect; if I have failed, it was [...] sign; nor could I, certainly, so far [...] to deserve the insults I have [...] meant therefore either to my [...] (and you see I am not very poor) the [...] not lie at my door, and I heartily pray [...] may be averted [...].

[Page 81] He thus, finished and received a [...] the whole company. Then the [...] of the house told him, he was forty [...] happened; that he could not [...] any share in it: That the verses [...] as himself [...] well observed, so had, that he might easily an­swer them; and for the serpent [...] a very great affront done him [...] the dancing master, for which, if he [...] threshed [...], as he deserved, he should be very much pleased [...] in which probably he spoke with.) Adams an­swered. Whoever had done it, [...] was not his [...] to punish him that way; but [...] par­son whom he had accused Law a witness [...] he, of his innocence; for I had my eye on himself the while. Whoever [...] and bestow on him a [...] humanity. The captain answer'd with a [...] look and accent, That he [...] he did [...] reflect on him; [...] ­imanity as another, and [...] man [...] not, he would convince [...] of his [...] cutting his throat. Adams [...] said [...] believed he had spoke tight [...] account. [...] which the captain returned What [...] you [...] by my speaking right [...] you [...] I would not take them [...]; 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 [...] his fist, declared, he had threshed many a [...] man. The gentleman did all he could to [...] this warlike disposition in Adams, and was [...] hopes to have produced a battle: But he was [Page 82] [...] made no other [...] very well you are a person [...] so old mother church, [...].

[...], who had hitherto been [...] who [...] gravest, but most [...] all, in a [...] speech highly [...] Adams had said; and as much [...] the behaviour to [...]. He proceeded to who [...] who immediately [...] in [...] to [...] a health to the [...] the captain and the [...] and what is [...] There were amuse­ments [...] and degrees, from the [...] a point of philo­sophy, and that [...] discovered themselves in no­thing more than in the choice of their [...]; for, says he, ‘as it must [...] of the future conduct in [...] of [...], whom in their tender years we perceive [...] of taw or balls, or other [...] play- [...] chuse, at their leisure-hours, to exercise [...] in contentions of wit, learning, [...] like; so must it inspire one with equal [...] [Page 83] [...] man, if we should discount him [...] or other childish play.’ Adams [...] the doctor's opinion, and said, ‘ [...] had [...] wondered at some passages in [...] au­thors, where Scipio. Laeli [...], and other [...] men were represented to have passed many [...] amusements, of the most [...].’ The doctor replied, ‘He had by him [...] ma­nuscript where a favourite diversion of Socrates was recorded.’ 'Ay,' says the person [...] ‘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 [...] could describe it.’ 'I think,' says [...] ‘as I can remember, it was [...] throne erected, on one [...] of which [...] and on the other, a queen with their [...] attendants ranged on, both sides; to them [...] introduced an ambassador which part [...] always, used to [...] was led up to the [...] the [...] ad­dressed himself to the [...] in [...] speech, full of virtue, and goodness, and [...] and such like. After which [...] was [...] be­tween the king and queen and [...] entertain­ed. This I think was [...] chief [...]— [...] I may have forgot [...]; 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 [...] informed they trifled away too much of their [...].’ He added, ‘The christian religion was a [...] subject for these speeches than any [...] have invented.’ The [...] of the [Page 84] [...] Adams said, [...] to perform the [...].' To which the doctor [...] prepared with a speech, [...] Adams with a gravity of [...] which would have deceived a more [...] Sir,' says Adams, ‘I never travel without [...] for [...] happen.’ He was easily [...] his worthy friend, as he now called for doctor. [...] of the [...] so that the gentleman sent immediate [...] have the [...]; which was perfor [...] [...] had drunk two [...]: and perhaps the [...] will hereafter [...] great reason to [...] of the servants. [...] the truth, the throne was [...] more than this; [...] a great [...] of [...] provided, on each [...] of which [...] and queen; namely, the master of his house, and the captain. And now the [...] the poet and the doctor, who [...] his [...] to the great enter­tainment [...] all present [...] led up to his place, and seated between their majesties. They [...] rose up, when the blanket, [...] its [...] at either end, gave way, and [...] Adams over head and ears in the water; the captain [...] his escape, but unluckily the gentleman him­self not being as nimble as he ought, Adams caught hold of him before he descended from his [...] and pulled him in with him, to [...] satisfaction of all the company. [...] the squire twice or [...] [Page 85] 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 hast, whom he had exacted a more severe revenge on than he intended: for as he did not use sufficient care to dry himself in time, he caught a cold by the accident, which threw him into a fever, that had like to have cost him his life.

CHAP. VIII.

ADAMS, and Joseph, who was no less [...] than his friend at the treatment he [...] 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 dispatched several with orders, either [...]bring her back, or never return. The poet, the [...] and all but the dancing-master and doctor; [...] this errand.

[...] might was very dark, in which our friends [Page 86] 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 ale­house, 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 [...]at 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 prevision. ‘Very true, Sir,’ says a grave man, who set smocking his pipe by the fire, and who was a traveller as well as himself, ‘I have often been as much surprised as you are, when I consider the value which mankind [...] general set on riches; since every day's experi­ence shews 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 dre [...] [...] in the bloom of that young maiden, [...] equip disease with the vigour of that young [Page 87] man. Do not riches bring us solicitude instead of [...], envy instead of affection, and danger instead of safety? Can they prolong their own possessions, or lengthen his days who enjoys them? So far o­therwise, that the sloth, the luxury, the care which attended 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, or strengthen our forms, sweet­en or 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 chee [...]s with pride, shut our ears to every call of virtue, and our bowels to [...] of compassion!’ ‘Give me your hand, [...],’ said Adams [...] rapture; 'for I suppose you are a clergyman.' 'No truly.' answered the [...], (indeed he was a priest of the church of [...]; but those who un­derstand our laws, will [...] he was not [...]ver-ready to own it.) 'Whatever you are,' [...] Adams, ‘you have spoken my sentiments: I be­lieve I have preached every syllable of your [...] twenty times over: For it hath always appeared to me easier for a cable [...] (which by the way is the true rendering of that word we have [...] 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 [Page 88] 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 person had concluded, the Rom­is [...] 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 [...] 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 past one jest upon him which we did not then [...], and had picked his pocket of all that treasure which he had so ostentatiously produced.

'Bless me,' 'cried Adams, ‘I have certainly lost [...]; I can never have spent it. Sir, as I am a christian, I had a whole half guinea in my pocket this morning, and have not now a single half­penny of it left. Sure the devil must have taken it from me.’ 'Sir,' answered the priest smiling, ‘You need make no excuses; if you are not wil­ling to lend me the money, I am contented.’ 'Sir,' cries Adams, ‘if I had the greatest sum in the world; ay, if I had ten pounds about me, I would bestow it all to rescue any christian from distress. I am more vexed at my loss on your account than my own. Was ever any thing so [Page 89] 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 over-board. I don't suspect but this fellow will take my word for the tri [...]le 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 other know little difference in their estimation between a beggar and a thief.’ However, he thought he should deal better with the host that evening then 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, tho' 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 [...] reply, but [...] leave of him and Adams as [...] 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 [...] him a single drop of drink; saying he despaired [Page 90] of ever seeing his face again; for that he [...] 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 [...]l­vet and down to bestow.

CHAP. IX.

IT was almost meaning, when Joseph Andrews, whose eyes the thoughts of his dear Fanny had opened, as he lay [...] meditating on this lovely [...], heard a violent knocking at the door over which he [...]ay. He presently jumped out of [...], and opening the window, was asked if there were no travellers in the house; and presently by ano­ther voice, if two men and a young woman had not taken up there their lodging that night. Though he knew not the voices, he began to entertain a suspicion of the truth; for indeed he had [...] 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 [...] opened another window, and asked him the same question; to which he answered in the [...]. [Page 91] O [...] [...]aid 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 that he would die in her defence. 'Is that a reason why I should not [...]' says she, ‘when I should lose what is dearer to [...] 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 [...]. He then [...] waked his bed-fellow Adams, who was yet fast asleep, notwithstanding many [...] Joseph▪ but was no sooner made sensible of [...] than he leaped from his [...] without [...] the presence of Fanny, [...] hastily turned her [...] from him, and enjoyed a double benefit from [...], which as it would have prevented any [...] to an innocence less pure, or a modesty [...] deli­cate, so it concealed even those blushes which [...] raised in her.

Adams had soon put on all his clothes [...] breeches, which in the hurry he forgot; [...] or they were pretty well supplied by the length of [...] 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 [...], who presently be­lieved the story, directed them, and instantly the captain and poet, jostling one another, ran up. [Page 92] The poet, who was the nimblest, entering the chamber first, searched the bed and [...] other part, but to no purpose; the bird was flow [...] 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 [...] 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 [...]; to which the [...] 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 [...], who prudently retreated down stairs, saying, it was his business to record great actions, and not to do [...]. The captain was no sooner well satisfied that them were no fire-arms, than bidding defiance to gun-powder, and swearing he loved the smell of [...] ordered the [...]ervants to follow him, and [...]arching 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 from, 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 [...] stolen from her parents: for notwithstanding her disguise, her air, which she could not conceal, sufficiently discovered her birth [Page 93] 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 kn [...]w 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 [...] lay hold on Fanny; but the person interruption him, received a blow from one of them, which [...] considering whence it [...], he returned to the captain, and gave him so dexterous a knock in that part of the stomach, which is [...] pit, that he staggered some [...] backwards. The captain, whoever not [...] to this [...] play, and who wisely apprehended the [...] of such another blow, two of them forming 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 [...] 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 f [...]ll prostrate on the floor with a lumpish noise, and his halfpence rattled in his pocket; the red liquor which his veins contained, and the white liqu [...] which the pot contained, ran in one stream [...] his face and his clothes. Nor had Adams quite [Page 94] escaped, some of the water having in its passage shed its honours on his head, and began to trickle down the wrinkles or rather surrows of his [...] when one of the servants snatching a [...] out of a [...]il of water which had already done its duty in washing the house, pushed it in the person's face; yet could not be bear him down; for the person 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 ever that part of [...], where, in some men of pleasure, the natu­ral and artificial [...]oses are conjoined.

Hitherto fortune shamed to incline the victory on the [...] acording to her custom, [...] of her disposition: [...] the field, or rather cham­ber of [...] at Joseph, and [...] his [...] his stomach (for he was a stout fellow, and [...] almost staggered him; but Joseph [...]pping [...], did with his left hand so [...] him under the chin that he reeled. The [...] who pursuing his blow with his right hand, when he received from one of the servants such a stroke with a [...] on his temples, that it instant­ly [...] of sense, and he measured his length on the ground.

Fanny [...] the air with her cries, and Adams was coming to the assistance of Joseph: but the two serving men and the [...] 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 M [...]r. But now follows the most tragical part; for the cap­tain was risen again; and seeing Joseph on the [...], and Adams secured, he instantly laid [...] on [Page 95] Fenny, and with the assistance of the poet and play­er, who hearing the battle was over, were now [...], dragged her, crying and tearing her hair, from the sight of her Joseph, and with a perfect deaf­ness to all her entreaties, carried her down stairs by viloence, and fastened her on the player's horse; and the captain mounting his own, and loading that on which this poor miserable wretch was, departed without any more consideration of her cries than a butcher of th [...]se of a lamb; for indeed his thoughts were entertained only with the degree of favour which he promised himself from the squire on the success of this adventure.

The servants, who [...] A­dams and Joseph as [...] might receive no interruption [...] on poor Fanny, immediately, [...] advice, tied A­dams to one of the [...] they did Joseph on the other sides [...] could bring him to himself; and [...] 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.

CHAP. X.

BEFORE we proceed any farther in this trage­dy, we shall leave Mr. Joseph and Mr. A­dams to themselves, and imitate the wise [...] of the stage; who, in the midst of a grave action, entertain you with some excellent piece of satire or [Page 96] 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 [Page 97] 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 a 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-wit, lifeless, spiritless, low, groveling 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 do not 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 [Page 98] 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 Mariaamne, 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-look'd 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?’

'Hold, hold, hold,' said the poet. ‘Do repeat that tender speech in the third act of my play which you made such a figure in,’— ‘I would willing­ly,’ said the player, 'but I have forgotten it.'— ‘Ay, you were not quite perfect enough in it when you play'd it,’ cries the poet, ‘or you would have had such an applause as never given on the stage; an applause I was extremely concerned for your losing.’—'Sure,' says the player, ‘If I remember, that was hiss'd more than any passage in the whole play.’— ‘Ay, your speaking it was hiss'd’ said the poet, 'My speaking it,' said the player.—'I mean your not speaking it,' said the poet. 'You were out, and then they hiss'd'—'They hiss'd and then I was out, if I remember,' answered the player; ‘and I must say this for my­self, that the whole audience allow'd 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 [...] 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 [...] there was a party in the pit and upper [...] would not suffer it to be given out again; [...] [Page 100] 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 af coun­terpart to this, and contains some of the best and gravest matters in the whole book, being a discourse between person Abraham Adams and Mr. Joseph Andrews.

CHAP. XI.

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 thing 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 [Page 102] 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 [...] 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 [...] that which at first threat­ens us with evil, may [...] the end produce our good. I should have said indeed 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 [...]prung. 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 [Page 103] 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,' cries 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 administred 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 inclose 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 wha't 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 [...] an accent a little severer than usual; upon [...] Joseph-begged him not to be angry, saying, he mistook him, if he thought he denied it was his [...] for he had known that long ago. ‘What [Page 104] 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 stubborness 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 tho' 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 person 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 a [...] ­ [...]wage 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 in the following soliloquy:

Adams asked him what stuff that [...] [Page 105] —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.

CHAP. XII.

NEITHER the facetious dialogue which pas­se [...] between the poet and 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 [...] 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 [...] road, but accosted her ears with impurities, [...] having been never before accustomed to them, she happily for herself very little understood▪ At last he changed his note, and attempted to sooth and mollify her, by setting forth the splendor and [Page 106] 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 [...] ‘at my calling him so? but what better can be [...]aid 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 of 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 up 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 [...] name of Joseph! Joseph! a river of tears ran [...] her lovely cheeks, and wet the handkerchief [...] covered her bosom. A horseman now appeared in the road, upon which the captain threatened her violently if she complained; however, the [Page 107] 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 [...] past, than the captain abused her violently [...] 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 eagerly, '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 [...] the merits of the cause; of which being advert [...] by Fanny, whose credit was confirmed by the fel­low who knew her, he ordered the captain, who [Page 108] was all bloody from his encounter at the inn, to be conveyed as a prisoner behind the chariot, and very gallantry took Fanny into it; for, to say he 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 any thing, besides his own money, or the money of other people.

The cha [...] now proceeded towards the inn, which, as Fanny was informed, lay in their way, and where it arrived that very time where 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 preceeding 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 can'st, 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 [...] him four pounds thirteen shillings and sixpence to prevent his going to goal, on no greater security than a bond and judgment, which probably he [Page 109] would have made no use of, tho' 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 great coat; but as the remainder of his cassock hung down below his great coat; so did a small stripe of white, or rather whitish linen, ap­pear below that; to which we may add the several colours which appeared on his face, where a long piss-burnt beard served to retain the liquor of the stone-pot, and that of a blacker hue which distil­led from the mop.—This figure which Fanny had delivered from his captivity, was no sooner spied by Peter, than it disordered the composed gravity of his muscles; however he advised him immediatel [...] 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 past, comforted him with a decent number of fools and blockheads; asked him why he did not [...] her; and told him, he would never leave following [Page 110] the nonsensical dictates of his own numscull, 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 down stairs, went directly to him, and, stripping off his coat, challenged him to fight; but the captain refused, saying, he did not understand boxing. He then grasped a cudgel in one hand, and catching the captain by the collar in 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 [...] small children, who were not capable to get their own living; and if her husband was sent to goal, they must all come to the parish; for she [Page 111] 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 person was sup­plied; much less would [...]e deprive his friend of the beast which belonged to him, and which he knew the moment he saw, tho' 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 [...] should mount this horse, and declared he could very [Page 112] 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, aver'd 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, tho' 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 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 person he would convey him home in his chariot. This favour was by Adams, with many bows and ac­knowledgements accepted, tho' 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 [...] settled, the chariot, in which rode Adams and Pounce, moved forwards; and Joseph having borrowed a pillion from the host, Fanny had just [Page 113] seated herself thereon, and had laid hóld 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 forelegs, 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 some what a better-fed beast, the person'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 any thing remarkable happen­ing on the road, unless it was a curious dialogue be­tween the person and the steward; which to use the language of a late apologist, a pattern to all biogra­phers, "waits for the reader in the next chapter."

CHAP. XIII.

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. [Page 114] '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 person like quality; though I would not infer many persons have it neither.’ 'Sir,' said Adams, ‘my definition of charity is a generous disposition to relieve the distressed.’ 'There is something in the 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 af 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 [...] man complain of hunger, said Peter, in a country where such excellent sallads are to be gathered in almost every field? or of thirst, where [Page 115] 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 Jehosophats,’ cried Peter; ‘the greatest fault in our constitution, is the provision made for the poor, except that perhaps made for some others. Sir, I have not an estate which doth not contribute almost as much again to the po [...] 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 [...] on­ly my pockets, but my whole clothes, are [...] 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 the 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 [Page 116] could report such things of you, which have ap­peared to me 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 attempr 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 any figure, without that vice of good-nature, about him, would suffer to ride in a chariot with him.’ [Page 117] '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 high-way, 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.

CHAP. I.

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 been 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 [Page 118] 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 benefactor's pockets?

But if their interest inspired so public a joy into every countenance, how much more forcibly did the affection which they bore person Adams operate up­on all who beheld his return? they flocked about him like dutiful children and an indulgent parent, and vied with each other in demonstrations of duty and love. The person 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 express'd 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, [...] 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 splendor, 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 [Page 119] 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; 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 [...] coldness could not abate. Now she imputed that to his youth, his folly, his awe, his religion, to every thing, 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 [Page 120] 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; every thing 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 [...] fate; and with a smile composed of anger, mirth, and scorn, viewed him in the rags in which her fancy had dress'd 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 ac­cordingly 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, as infected every body 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 the truth he was an amorous figure) being told your lady­ship would not give him a character, he sighed and said, he had done nothing willingly to offend; [Page 121] that for his part he should always give your lady­ship a good character wherever he went; and he prayed God to bless you: for you was the best of ladies, though his enemies had set you against him; I wish you had not turned him away; for I believe you had not a faithfuller servant in the house.—'How came you then,' replied the lady, 'to advise me to turn him away?' 'I, Madam!' 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 those occasions.—And was it not you, audacious wretch, cried the lady, who made me angry? Was it not your tittle-tattle in which I beli [...]e you belied the poor fellow, which incensed me a­gainst him? He may thank you for all that hath happened; and so may I for the loss of a good ser­vant, and one who 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, tho' in reality she did, and understood them too. [...] 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 [Page 122] 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 every body, 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 were 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 [Page 123] road, and likewise the adventure with Fanny. At the relation of which, the lady often changed her countenance; and when she had heard all, the or­dered Mr. Adams into her presence, to whom she behaved as the reader will see in the next chapter.

CHAP. II.

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 shew 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 [...] them both.’—'Madam,' says Adams, ‘if your ladyship will but hear me speak, I protest I never heard any harm of Mr. Joseph Andrews; if I had, I should have corrected him for it: for I never have, nor will encourage the faults of those under [Page 124] my cure. As for the young woman, I assure your ladyship I have as good an opinion of her as your ladyship yourself, or any other can have. She is the sweetest-tempered, honestest, worthiest, young creature; indeed, as to her beauty, I do not commend her on that account, though all men allow she is the handsomest woman, gentle, or simple, that ever appeared in the parish.’ 'You are very impertinent,' says she, ‘to talk such fulsome 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 [...]o 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 [Page 125] in the banns, I desire you will publish them no more without my orders.’ 'Madam,' cries A­dams, ‘if any one puts in sufficient caution, and assigns a proper reason against them, I am willing to surcease.’—'I tell you a reason,' says she, ‘he is a vagabond, and he shall not settle here, and bring a nest of beggars into the parish; it will make us but little amends that they will be beau­ties.’ 'Madam,' answered Adams, ‘with the ut­most submission to your ladyship, I have been in­formed by lawyer Scout, that any person who serves a year, gains a settlement in the parish where he serves.’ '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 every thing 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 [...]o 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 you and the greatest beauty in the parish may go and beg together.’ 'Madam,' answered Adams, ‘ [Page 126] 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 endeavous 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 coufe­derate 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.

CHAP. III.

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 [Page 127] 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 [Page 128] 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 a 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 removeable. I will see Mr. Adams, and I make no doubt of prevailing with him. His only objection is, doubtless, that he shall lose his fee; but that being once made easy, as it shall be, I am confident no farther objection will re­main. No, no, it is impossible; but your lady­ship 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 Frolic, 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, [Page 129] ‘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 the 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 make as much of committing a man to Bridewell, as his lordship at size would of hanging him; but it would do a man good to see his worship our justice, commit a fellow to Bridewell: he takes so much pleasure in it: and when once we ha' um there; we sel­dom hear any more o'um. He's either starved or eat up by vermin in a month's time.’—Here she 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 [Page 130] a certain passion for Joseph, and the jealousy and 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 falshoods of little Fanny, which possibly the reader might not have been well able to account for, if we had not thought proper to give him this information.

CHAP. IV.

ALL th [...] night, and the next day, the lady Booby passed with the utmost anxiety; her mind was distracted, and her soul tossed up and down by many turbulent and opposite passions. She loved, hated, pitied, scorned; admired, despised the same person by fits, which changed in a very short interval. On Tuesday morning, which hap­pened to be a holiday, she went to church, where, to her 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 immediate opportunity of returning home to vent her rage, which she could not have concealed from the congregation five minutes; indeed it wad 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 [Page 131] both before the justice. All the parish are in tears, and say they will certainly be hanged: for no body knows what it is for.’— ‘I suppose they deserve it,’ says the lady. ‘Why dost thou men­tion such wretches to me?’ ‘O dear Madam, an­swered Slipslop, is it not a pity such a graceless young man should die a virulent death? I hope the judge will take commensuration on his youth. As for Fanny, I don't think it signifies much what becomes of her; and if poor Joseph hath done any thing, I could venture to swear she traduced him to it: Few men ever come to 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 surprise, when at her entering the room, her nephew presented his wife to her, saying, 'Madam, this is that charming Pamela, of [Page 132] 'whom I am convinced you have heard so much.' The lady received her with more civility than he ex­pected; indeed with the utmost; for she was per­fectly polite, nor had any vice inconsistent with good-breeding. They passed some little time in ordinary discourse, when a servant came and wis­pered 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.

CHAP. V.

THE young squire and his lady were no sooner alighted from their coach, than the servants began to enquire after Mr. Joseph, from whom they said their lady had not heard a word, to her great surprise, 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 endeavor 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 me judgment-seat, and arrived when the justice had almost finished his business. He was conducted in­to [Page 133] 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 houour,' says 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 paper,' answered the justice, shewing 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 & literatim.

'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 [Page 135] how near 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 linen and other-necessaries, he l [...]t 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 flapped 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 Fanny in her place. And conceiving almost at the same instant desires and schemes to accomplish them, he employed the minutes while the squire was absent with Joseph, in assuring her how [...] was for having treated her so roughly before he knew her merit; and told her that since lady Booby was unwilling [...] should settle in her parish, she was heartily [...] come to his, where he promised [...] his protection, adding, that he would take Joseph and her into his [Page 136] own family, if she liked; 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 any thing 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 dress'd in the plainest dress he could find, which was a blue coat and breeches, with a glad 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 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 [...], made her and Joseph, against their wills, get [...] the coach with him, which he [Page 137] 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, hallooed to the parson, who well knowing his voice, made all the haste imagin­able, and soon came up with them. He was de­sired by the master, who could scarce refrain from laughter at his figure, to mount into the coach, which he with many thanks refused, saying he could walk by his 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 expressed an 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 [Page 138] 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 shew 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, dress'd like a gentleman, in which light I intend he shall hereafter to 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 any thing 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 [Page 139] 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,’ reply'd 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 easily quit a sister whom he had not seen so long, and who so tender­ly loved him—Joseph immediately complied; for, indeed, no brother could love a sister more; and recommending Fanny, who rejoiced that she was not to go before lady Booby, to the care of Mr. Adams, he attended the squire up stairs, whilst Fanny repaired with the parson to his house, where she thought herself secure of a kind reception.

CHAP. VI.

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 [Page 140] more pleasure by the nephew than by the aunt, to whose flame they were fuel only; and being assist­ed by the addition of dress, which was indeed not wanted to set off the lively colours in which nature had drawn health, strength, comeliness and youth. In the afternoon Joseph, at their request, entertain­ed them with an account of his adventures; nor could lady Booby conceal her dissatisfaction at those parts in which Fanny was concerned, 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 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 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 [Page 141] 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 complaisance 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 thought of her love kept her waking, and his not returning according to his promise, filled her with uneasiness; of which, however, she could not assign any other cause than merely that of being absent from him.

Mr. Joseph rose early in the morning, and visited her in whom his soul delighted. She no sooner heard his voice in the parson's parlour, than she leaped from her bed, and dressing herself in a 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 [...] Booby's, with whose behaviour since the [...] 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, [Page 142] 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 distinguish 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 accesion,’ 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 every thing to his superiors, yet unattended by that mean servility which is called good behaviour in such persons. Every thing he doth, hath no mark of the base motive of fear, but visibly shews 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 to 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,' said 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 sus­spected of thinking on 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 [Page 143] idle worthless rake, or little puisne 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 well knew which party to take, ‘if I was a woman of your ladyship's fortune and quality, I would be a slave to no bo­dy.’—'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 [...]ase 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 and 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 [Page 144] 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 the 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 [Page 145] reluctance in the granting it. I am sure he himself never suspected how much I loved him.—Since his death, thou knowst, tho' 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 any thing 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 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 ^* are coarser than other people's; 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 any body. Coarse, quotha! I can't bear to hear the poor young fellow run down nei­ther; [Page 146] for I will say this, I never heard him say an ill word of any body 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 [...] 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.

CHAP. VII.

HABIT, my good reader, hath so vast a preva­lence over the human mind, that there is scarce any thing 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 [Page 147] picked his own pocket of a guinea to convey to his hoard, is not impossible or improbable. In like manner it fares with the practicers 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 hope [...] [Page 148] 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 pass'd their second cli­macteric, when their wisdom, grown riper, begins to see a little farther, and from almost daily falling in master's way, to apprehend the great difficulty of keeping out of it; and when they observe him look often at them, and sometimes very eagerly, and earnestly too, (for the monster seldom takes any notice of them till at this age) they then begin to think of their danger; and as they perceive they cannot easily avoid him, the wiser part bethink themselves of providing by other means for their security. They endeavour by all the methods they can invent to render themselves so amiable in his eyes, that he may have no inclination to hurt them; in which they generally succeed so well, that his eyes by frequent languishing, soon lessen their idea of his fierceness, and so far abate their fears, that they venture to parly 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, tho' they no longer apprehend de­vouring, cannot so entirely shake off all that hath been instilled into them; they still entertain the [Page 149] 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 no 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 art 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 [Page 150] 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 shew 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 not the least perfection; nor do I know a virtue which that young creature is not possess'd of.’ 'As to her virtues,' answered Mr. Booby, ‘you can be yet but a slender judge of them: But if she had ever so many, you will find her equal in these among her superiors in both 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 [Page 151] 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 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, tho' 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 centred in Fanny; and whilst I have health, I shall be able to support her with my labour in that station to which she was born, and with which she is content,’ 'Brother,' said Pamela, ‘Mr. Booby advises you as a friend; and, no doubt, my papa and mamma will be of his opi­nion, and will have great reason to be angry with you for destroying what his goodness 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 [Page 150] 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 oathes 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, [Page 153] 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, tho' 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 lo [...] 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 long time; but the deity, who presides over chaste love, sent her Joseph to her assistance. He no soon­er came within sight, and perceiving her struggling with a man, than like a cannon-ball, or like light­ning, or any thing that is swifter, if any thing 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 [Page 154] 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, 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 blows 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 parry'd with one fist, so that it lost its force entirely in air; and stopping 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 [Page 155] 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 immitated 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, and admiration at his silence, together with observing the fixed position of his eyes, pro­duced [Page 156] 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 exchanged to vermillion at the instant when she clapped her handkerchief round her neck. Joseph saw the uneasiness that 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.

CHAP. VIII.

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 dispute; for Mrs. Adams was one of those prudent people, who never do any thing 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 [Page 157] 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; than 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 women 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 every where but at church) when Joseph and Fanny en­tered their kitchen, where the parson and his wife [Page 158] 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 pass'd 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 [Page 159] good lad, I shall give you a sermon gratis, where­in I shall demonstrate how little regard ought to be had to the flesh on such occasions. The text will be [...], Matthew the 5th, and part of the 28th verse, Whoever looketh on a woman so as to lust after her. [...] 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 away 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, [Page 160] 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, [...] is com­mitted to my cure, I cannot see any fault without reminding you of it. You [...] 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 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 how 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 [Page 161] lesson in Quae 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 [...] been an ornament to the church;—such parts, and such goodness, never met in one so young:’ ' [...] handsomest lad too,' says Mrs. Adams, [...] 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 those 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 [...] 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, [...] 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 anothers embraces; not those with which a great man receives the vile, treacherous [Page 162] 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 [...].—No, reader, he felt the ebullition, the overflowings of a full, honest, open [...] the person who had conferred a real [...], 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; be in­terrupted the parson, saying, ‘it was [...] 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 a 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; [Page 163] 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 [...] 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 ca [...]; 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 top at the door put an end to their discourse, and produced a scene which the reader will find in the next chapter.

CHAP. IX.

THE lady Booby had no [...] 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, [...]; and promises of this youth, would prevail on her to [...] 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 soon, 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 mimic had 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; [Page 165] 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 expected such an ho­nour from her ladyship, she should have found her in a better manner.’ The parson made no apo­logies, though he was in his half cassock, and a flannel night-cap. He said, ‘they were 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 Welch;’ 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 probably 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 expences: 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 af­formative [Page 166] side, ‘tho' 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 expence 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 civilities of Mrs. Adams, the lady turning to Mr. Booby, cried out, 'Quelle Bête! 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 were always my aversion.’ ‘I would never mention aversion,’ answered the beau, ‘with that face; ^* dear lady Booby, wash [Page 167] your face before you mention aversion, I beseech you.’ He then laughed, and turned about to co­quet it with Fanny.

Mrs. Adams had been all this time begging and praying the ladies to sit down, a favour which she at last obtained. The little boy to whom the acci­dent had happened, still keeping his place by the fire, 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,' cries 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 mode? 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 for some time, and then the par­son cried twice or thrice, 'Le—e, 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 [Page 168] 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.

CHAP. X.

'LEONARD and Paul were two friends,'—'Pronounce it Lennard, child,' cries 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 [Page 169] 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 circumstances 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 [Page 170] who had always appeared to be of 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 [...] gave the most remarkable, and perhaps most pernicious instance.

A day or two pass'd after Paul's arrival, before any instances of this appear'd; 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 shewing the least [Page 171] 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 any thing 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 wron [...] for supposing she is in the wrong, was the subject of your contention any ways material? What signi­fied it whether you were married in a red or yel­low waistcoat? for that was your dispute. Now suppose she was mistaken, as you love her you say so tenderly, and I believe she deserves it, would it not have been wiser to have yielded, tho' 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 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, which he se­conded her, and both agreed he was the worthiest [Page 172] and wisest man upon earth. When next they met, which was at supper, tho' 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, reply'd the husband, and I am con­vinced that I have not seen a woodcock this year; however, tho' 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 [Page 173] adherence to truth forces me to declare myself of a different opinion. To be plain and honest, you were entirely in the wrong; the cause I own not worth disputing, but the bird was undoubted­ly a partridge. O Sir, replied the lady, I cannot possibly help your taste—Madam, returned Paul, that [...] very little material: for had it been other­wise, a husband might have expected submission—Indeed! Sir, says she, I assure you!—Yes, Madam, cried he, he might from a person of your excellent understanding; and pardon me for saying such a condescension would have shewn 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 [...] affection imaginable: for can any thing [...] greater object of our compassion than a person [...] love; in the wrong? Ay, but I [...] 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 [...] in any contest, are the warmed. Why, says she, I must confess there is [...] what you say, and I will endeavour to practise it. The husband then coming in; Paul departed. And Lennard approaching his wife with an air of good-humour, told her he was sorry for their foolish dispute the last night: but he was now convinced of his error. She answered smiling, she believ­ed she owed his condescension to [...] complai­sance; that she was ashamed to think a word had pass'd on so filly an occasion, especially as [...] [Page 174] was satisfy'd she had been mistaken. A little contention followed, but with the utmost good­will 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 [...] friend.

Paul now pass'd his time with great [...]; 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 answer'd, 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 [...] entirely in your side, Nay; says she, since you provoke me, I will mention one in­stance. You may remember our dispute about sending Jacky to school in cold weather, which point I gave up to 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 [Page 175] said he would have acted in the same manner. They then proceeded to produce numberless other instances, in all which Paul had, on vows of secre­cy, given his opinion on both sides. In 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 vied with each o­ther in censuring their own conduct, and jointly vented their indignation on Paul, whom the wife, fearing a bloody consequence, earnestly intreated her husband to suffer him 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 Ber­nard may be esteemed, his wife obtained a pro­mise from him (tho' 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, press'd 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 replied with some indignation, he had given him a sufficient proof how capable he was of conceal­ing a secret from his wife. Lennard returned with some warmth, he had more reason to upbraid him, for that he had caused most of the quarrels between them by his strange conduct, and might (if they had not discovered the affair to each other) have been the occasion of their separation. Paul [Page 176] 'then said—But something now happened which put a stop to Dick's reading, and of which we shall treat in the next chapter.

CHAP. XI.

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 paaces 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 [Page 177] 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 [...]ight him at any weapon whatever. The beau now sheathed his hanger, and taking out a pocket glass, and vowing vengeance all the time, readjusted his hair; the parson deposited his shield, and Joseph running to 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 [Page 178] 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 spoken a word to her before, ‘you seem to be a very sensible woman; and I assure you, your husband is acting a very foolish part, and oppos­ing his own interest; seeing my nephew is vio­lently set against this match: and indeed I can't blame him; it is by no means one suitable to our family.’ In this manner the lady proceeded with Mrs. Adams, whilst the beau hopped about the room shaking his head, partly from pain, and partly from anger; and Pamela was chiding Fanny for her assurance, in aiming at such a match as her bro­ther.—Poor Fanny answered only with her tears, which had long since begun to wet her handker­chief; which Joseph perceiving, took her by the arm, and wrapping it in his, carried her off, swear­ing he would own no relation to any one who was an enemy to her he loved more than all the world. He went out with Fanny under his left arm, bran­dishing a cudgel in his right, and neither Mr. Boo­by nor the beau thought proper to oppose him. La­dy Booby 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 [Page 179] 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 any thing 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 run away from? I would not give such a vagabond slut a halfpenny, tho' I had a million of money; no, tho' 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, [Page 180] 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 prophane to talk them in common discourse.’ Joseph told Mr. Adams he was not come with any design to give him or Mrs. Adams any trouble; but to desire the favour of all their company to the George (an alehouse in the parish) where he had 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 oeconomics, 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.

CHAP. XII.

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 [Page 181] they all lent their strictest attention: ‘Tho' 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 woolen 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 drummer, were provided with their women, except myself) she continued to travel on with us I, perceiving she must fall to my lot, advanced presently [...] 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 Galway, she fell ill of a fever, [Page 182] 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 practise 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 3 gui­neas to Sir Thomas Booby, in Somersetshire. Now, you know whether there are any more of that name in this country.’—'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 Pe­male; 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; [Page 183] 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, tho' we com­passionate her ourselves, we shall leave her for a lit­tle while, and pay a short visit to lady Booby.

CHAP. XIII.

THE lady sat down with her company to din­ner; but eat nothing. As soon as the cloth was removed, she whispered Pamela, that she was taken a little ill, and desired her to entertain her husband and beau Didapper. She then went up into her chamber, sent for Slipslop, threw herself on the bed, in the agonies of love, rage, and de­spair; nor could she conceal these boiling passions longer, 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, wall knowing how to humour her mistress's frenzy, proceeded to repeat, with exaggeration, if possible, all her mistress had [Page 184] 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 cry'd 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 a man? Why should not your la­dyship marry the brother, as well as your ne­phew the sister? I am sure, if it was a fragrant crime, I would not persuade your ladyship to it.’—'But, dear Slipslop,' answered the lady, ‘if I could prevail on myself to commit such a weak­ness, there is that cursed Fanny in the way, whom the ideot.—O how I hate and despise him!’— ‘She, a little ugly minx,’ cries Slipslop, ‘leave her to me.—I suppose your ladyship hath heard of Joseph's fitting with one of Mr. Didapper's servants about her; and his master hath ordered them to carry her away by force this evening. I'll take care they shall not want assistance. I was talking with this gentleman, who was below, just when your 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 [Page 185] 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 pass'd 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, tho' I despise him my­self; tho' 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 [...] and [...] vile appetite.— [Page 186] 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 aid 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 cry'd 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 jinkitting; 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 [Page 187] 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 desir­red 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, when 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 falshood of the sto­ry from her ardent desire that it should be true; [Page 188] 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 believe or disbelieve, 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 falshood 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 fals­hood 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 pass'd between the beau and the parson, chiefly on each other's dress; these afforded much diversion to the company. Pamela chid her brother Joseph or the concern which he express'd 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.

[Page 189] 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.

CHAP. XIV.

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 night-gown, 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. [Page 190] I am come to inform thee that I have discovered the falshood of the story we last night heard. I am no longer thy brother, but thy lover; nor will I be delayed the enjoyment of thee one mo­ment longer. You have sufficient 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 tho' she immediately knew the person whom she had mistaken for Joseph, he wa [...]t 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 [...] 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 [Page 191] 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! thou 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 [...] in the dark, where laying hold of the beau's skin [...] Slipslop had torn his shirt almost off) and [...] 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, taht had poor Slipslop received the fist, which in the dark pass'd 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 behind-hand with her in his endeavours, but hap­pily the darkness of the night befriended her.—She then cried she was a woman; but Adams answered she was rather the devil, and if she was, he would grapple with him; and being again irritated by [Page 192] 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 slip on a night-gown, 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 [...] 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 bed-clothes; whence the chaste Slipslop endeavoured in vain to shut him out. Then put­ting forth his head, on which by way of ornament, [Page 193] he wore a flannel nigh-cap, 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 the sleeve itself of a shirt with laced ruffles. ‘Hey­dey!’ 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 such courtesy towards him, which he taking as a hint to be gone, immediately quitted the bed, and [Page 194] 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 cried, ‘Come in, whoever you are.’ Joseph thought he had mistaken the door, though she had given him the most exact directions; however, knowing his friend's voice, he opened it, and saw some female vestments lying on a chair. Fanny waking at the same instant, and stretching out her hand on Adams's beard, she cry'd out.—'O heavens! where am I?' ‘Bless [Page 195] 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?' cri­ed Adams. 'How came you into her's?' cried Joseph, in an astonishment. ‘I know nothing of the matter,’ answered Adams, ‘but that she is a vestal for me. As I am a christian, I know not whether she is a man or woman. He is an infidel who doth not believe in witchcraft. They as surely exist now as in the days of 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 falshood convinced her of his wicked design. 'How!' said Joseph in a rage, 'hath he offered any rudeness to you?'—She an­swered, she could not accuse him of any more than villainously 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 [...] harm and 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. [Page 196] [...] [Page 197] [...] those [...] hand, told him [...] had been Mr. Andrew [...] assured his [...] daughter by [...] than Joseph [...] on lady [...].—At the [...], she is my child.— [...] at this [...] wife; and the [...] of the lovers, [...] her husband, who was [...] rest, and having [...] delivered herself as [...] member, my dear, [...] you [...] Gibralter, you left and [...] with child; you [...], abroad, you know [...] of thee [...] absence I was [...] to bed, I [...] of this daughter, whom I am sure [...] to remember, [...] [Page 198] [...] [Page 199] [...] for I believe he [...] our daughter [...] she [...] him [...] and Lived [...]

The pedlar, [...] of lady [...] had no mark on its [...] Yes, he had as [...] in a garden. [...] unbuttoning his [...] she [...] Andrews, who [...] and very likely [...] he could [...] [Page 200] [...] [Page 201] [...]

CHAP. XVI.

FANNY was very little behind her Joseph, in the duty she express'd towards her parents; and the joy she evidenced in discovering them. Gamm [...]r Andrews kiss'd her, and said she was heartily glad to see her: but for her part she could never love any one better than Joseph. Gaffer An­drews testified no remarkable emotion; he blessed [...] her, but complained bitterly, that he [...] his pipe, not having had a whiff that [...].

Mr. Booby, who knew nothing of his aunt's [...], invented her abrupt departure to her [...] and [...] of the family into which he was [...]; he was therefore desirous to be gone [...] celerity: and now having [...]. Wilson and Joseph on the discovery, [...] Fanny, called her sister, and introduced [...], who behaved with great de­cency on the occasion.

[...] sons a message to his aunt, who return­ed [...] she wished him a good journey; but was [...] to see any company: he therefore [...] out, having invited Mr. Wilson to [...]; and Pamela and Joseph both so insisted [...]sapn [...], that he at last consented, having [...] a messenger from Mr. Booby, to [...] his wife with the news; which, as he knew [...] render her completely happy, he could not [...] on himself to delay a moment in acquaint­ [...] her with.

[Page 203] The company were ranged in this mariner. 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 [...] on the match being deferred till he had [...] mother; in which Joseph perceiving him [...] with great duty obeyed him, to the great [...] 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 spars to his [...] which the generous beast [...]; for he was [...] high mettle, and had been used to [...] than the gentleman who at present [...] him, for whose horsemanship he had perhaps some con­tempt, immediately run away full speed, and play­ed so many antic tricks, that he tumbled she par­son from his back; which Joseph [...] to his relief. This accident afforded [...] to the servants, and no less [...] Fanny, who beheld him as he [...] by [...] but the mirth of the one, and terror of the [...] were soon determined, when the parson [...] he received no damage.

The horse having freed himself from his [...] thy rider, as he probably thought him, proceeded [...] [Page 204] make the best of his way; but was stopped by a gentleman and his servant 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 hail'd 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 goal, where he was charged with ma­ [...] robberies.

Many compliments having passed between the [...] and the justice, the latter proceeded on his journey, and the former having with some disdain [...] Joseph's offer of changing horses, and [...] he was as able [...] 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, [...] full.

The company arriving of 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 pass'd that day with [...] utmost satisfaction; it being perhaps impossible [...] any set of people more solidly and sincerely [...]. Joseph and Fanny found means to be [...] upwards of two hours, which were the short▪ [...], but the sweetest imaginable.

In the morning, Mr. Wilson proposed to his [Page 205] 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 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 dress'd 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 night-gown. 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 round-eared caps and, over it a straw hat, lined with cherry coloured [...] [Page 206] 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 pulickly 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 np 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 deficency on this occasion, were those on whose account the feast was provided: they pampered their imaginations with the much more [...] repast which the approach of night promis­ed them; the thoughts of which filled both their minds, tho' with different sensations; the one all de­sire, [Page 207] 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 bless'd mo­ment arrived, when Fanny retired with her mother, her mother in-law, and her sister. She was soon un­dress'd; 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 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 [Page 208] 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 induced 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 neighbourhood.

As for the lady Booby, she returned to London in a few days, where a young captain of dragoons, together with eternal parties at cards, soon oblite­rated the memory of Joseph.

Joseph remains bless'd with his Fanny, whom he [...] tenderness, which is all re­turned on her side. The happiness of this couple is a perpetual fountain of pleasure to their fond pa­rents; and that is particularly remarkable, he de­clares he will imitate them in their retirement; nor will be prevailed on by any bookseller, or their au­thors, to make his appearance in high life.