fielding_joseph.txt

JOSEPH ANDREWS, OR THE HISTORY OF THE ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS AND
OF HIS FRIEND MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS

BY
JOSEPH FIELDING


BOOK I
CHAPTER I
Of writing lives in general, and particularly of Pamela; with a word by
the bye of Colley Cibber and others.
It is a trite but true observation, that examples work more forcibly on
the mind than precepts: and if this be just in what is odious and
blameable, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and praiseworthy.
Here emulation most effectually operates upon us, and inspires our
imitation in an irresistible manner. A good man therefore is a standing
lesson to all his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrow
circle than a good book.
But as it often happens that the best men are but little known, and
consequently cannot extend the usefulness of their examples a great way;
the writer may be called in aid to spread their history farther, and to
present the amiable pictures to those who have not the happiness of
knowing the originals; and so, by communicating such valuable patterns
to the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive service to mankind than
the person whose life originally afforded the pattern.
In this light I have always regarded those biographers who have recorded
the actions of great and worthy persons of both sexes. Not to mention
those antient writers which of late days are little read, being written
in obsolete, and as they are generally thought, unintelligible
languages, such as Plutarch, Nepos, and others which I heard of in my
youth; our own language affords many of excellent use and instruction,
finely calculated to sow the seeds of virtue in youth, and very easy to
be comprehended by persons of moderate capacity. Such as the history of
John the Great, who, by his brave and heroic actions against men of
large and athletic bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the
Giant-killer; that of an Earl of Warwick, whose Christian name was Guy;
the lives of Argalus and Parthenia; and above all, the history of those
seven worthy personages, the Champions of Christendom. In all these
delight is mixed with instruction, and the reader is almost as much
improved as entertained.
But I pass by these and many others to mention two books lately
published, which represent an admirable pattern of the amiable in either
sex. The former of these, which deals in male virtue, was written by the
great person himself, who lived the life he hath recorded, and is by
many thought to have lived such a life only in order to write it. The
other is communicated to us by an historian who borrows his lights, as
the common method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, I
believe, already conjectures, I mean the lives of Mr Colley Cibber and
of Mrs Pamela Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by insinuating that
he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in Church and State,
teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcate
an absolute submission to our superiors! Lastly, how completely doth he
arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a passion as the fear of shame!
how clearly doth he expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom,
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.
CHAPTER II.
_Of Mr Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, education, and great
endowments; with a word or two concerning ancestors._
Mr Joseph Andrews, the hero of our ensuing history, was esteemed to be
the only son of Gaffar and Gammer Andrews, and brother to the
illustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so famous. As to his
ancestors, we have searched with great diligence, but little success;
being unable to trace them farther than his great-grandfather, who, as
an elderly person in the parish remembers to have heard his father say,
was an excellent cudgel-player. Whether he had any ancestors before
this, we must leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding
nothing of sufficient certainty to rely on. However, we cannot omit
inserting an epitaph which an ingenious friend of ours hath
communicated:--
Stay, traveller, for underneath this pew
Lies fast asleep that merry man Andrew:
When the last day's great sun shall gild the skies,
Then he shall from his tomb get up and rise.
Be merry while thou canst: for surely thou
Shalt shortly be as sad as he is now.
The words are almost out of the stone with antiquity. But it is needless
to observe that Andrew here is writ without an _s_, and is, besides, a
Christian name. My friend, moreover, conjectures this to have been the
founder of that sect of laughing philosophers since called
Merry-andrews.
To waive, therefore, a circumstance which, though mentioned in
conformity to the exact rules of biography, is not greatly material, I
proceed to things of more consequence. Indeed, it is sufficiently
certain that he had as many ancestors as the best man living, and,
perhaps, if we look five or six hundred years backwards, might be
related to some persons of very great figure at present, whose ancestors
within half the last century are buried in as great obscurity. But
suppose, for argument's sake, we should admit that he had no ancestors
at all, but had sprung up, according to the modern phrase, out of a
dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they themselves did from the earth,
would not this autokopros[A] have been justly entitled to all the
praise arising from his own virtues? Would it not be hard that a man who
hath no ancestors should therefore be rendered incapable of acquiring
honour; when we see so many who have no virtues enjoying the honour of
their forefathers? At ten years old (by which time his education was
advanced to writing and reading) he was bound an apprentice, according
to the statute, to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr Booby's by the
father's side. Sir Thomas having then an estate in his own hands, the
young Andrews was at first employed in what in the country they call
keeping birds. His office was to perform the part the ancients assigned
to the god Priapus, which deity the moderns call by the name of Jack o'
Lent; but his voice being so extremely musical, that it rather allured
the birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the fields
into the dog-kennel, where he was placed under the huntsman, and made
what the sportsmen term whipper-in. For this place likewise the
sweetness of his voice disqualified him; the dogs preferring the melody
of his chiding to all the alluring notes of the huntsman, who soon
became so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to provide
otherwise for him, and constantly laid every fault the dogs were at to
the account of the poor boy, who was now transplanted to the stable.
Here he soon gave proofs of strength and agility beyond his years, and
constantly rode the most spirited and vicious horses to water, with an
intrepidity which surprized every one. While he was in this station, he
rode several races for Sir Thomas, and this with such expertness and
success, that the neighbouring gentlemen frequently solicited the knight
to permit little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their matches. The
best gamesters, before they laid their money, always inquired which
horse little Joey was to ride; and the bets were rather proportioned by
the rider than by the horse himself; especially after he had scornfully
refused a considerable bribe to play booty on such an occasion. This
extremely raised his character, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that she
desired to have him (being now seventeen years of age) for her
own footboy.
[A] In English, sprung from a dunghill.
Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend on his lady, to go on
her errands, stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry
her prayer-book to church; at which place his voice gave him an
opportunity of distinguishing himself by singing psalms: he behaved
likewise in every other respect so well at Divine service, that it
recommended him to the notice of Mr Abraham Adams, the curate, who took
an opportunity one day, as he was drinking a cup of ale in Sir Thomas's
kitchen, to ask the young man several questions concerning religion;
with his answers to which he was wonderfully pleased.
CHAPTER III.
_Of Mr Abraham Adams the curate, Mrs Slipslop the chambermaid, and
others._
Mr Abraham Adams was an excellent scholar. He was a perfect master of
the Greek and Latin languages; to which he added a great share of
knowledge in the Oriental tongues; and could read and translate French,
Italian, and Spanish. He had applied many years to the most severe
study, and had treasured up a fund of learning rarely to be met with in
a university. He was, besides, a man of good sense, good parts, and good
nature; but was at the same time as entirely ignorant of the ways of
this world as an infant just entered into it could possibly be. As he
had never any intention to deceive, so he never suspected such a design
in others. He was generous, friendly, and brave to an excess; but
simplicity was his characteristick: he did, no more than Mr Colley
Cibber, apprehend any such passions as malice and envy to exist in
mankind; which was indeed less remarkable in a country parson than in a
gentleman who hath passed his life behind the scenes,--a place which
hath been seldom thought the school of innocence, and where a very
little observation would have convinced the great apologist that those
passions have a real existence in the human mind.
His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered him equal to
his office, so they made him an agreeable and valuable companion, and
had so much endeared and well recommended him to a bishop, that at the
age of fifty he was provided with a handsome income of twenty-three
pounds a year; which, however, he could not make any great figure with,
because he lived in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a
wife and six children.
It was this gentleman, who having, as I have said, observed the singular
devotion of young Andrews, had found means to question him concerning
several particulars; as, how many books there were in the New Testament?
which were they? how many chapters they contained? and such like: to all
which, Mr Adams privately said, he answered much better than Sir Thomas,
or two other neighbouring justices of the peace could probably
have done.
Mr Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what time, and by what
opportunity, the youth became acquainted with these matters: Joey told
him that he had very early learnt to read and write by the goodness of
his father, who, though he had not interest enough to get him into a
charity school, because a cousin of his father's landlord did not vote
on the right side for a churchwarden in a borough town, yet had been
himself at the expense of sixpence a week for his learning. He told him
likewise, that ever since he was in Sir Thomas's family he had employed
all his hours of leisure in reading good books; that he had read the
Bible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas a Kempis; and that as often as
he could, without being perceived, he had studied a great good book
which lay open in the hall window, where he had read, "as how the devil
carried away half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one of the
congregation; and as how a field of corn ran away down a hill with all
the trees upon it, and covered another man's meadow." This sufficiently
assured Mr Adams that the good book meant could be no other than Baker's
Chronicle.
The curate, surprized to find such instances of industry and application
in a young man who had never met with the least encouragement, asked
him, If he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal education, and
the not having been born of parents who might have indulged his talents
and desire of knowledge? To which he answered, "He hoped he had profited
somewhat better from the books he had read than to lament his condition
in this world. That, for his part, he was perfectly content with the
state to which he was called; that he should endeavour to improve his
talent, which was all required of him; but not repine at his own lot,
nor envy those of his betters." "Well said, my lad," replied the curate;
"and I wish some who have read many more good books, nay, and some who
have written good books themselves, had profited so much by them."
Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady than through the
waiting-gentlewoman; for Sir Thomas was too apt to estimate men merely
by their dress or fortune; and my lady was a woman of gaiety, who had
been blest with a town education, and never spoke of any of her country
neighbours by any other appellation than that of the brutes. They both
regarded the curate as a kind of domestic only, belonging to the parson
of the parish, who was at this time at variance with the knight; for the
parson had for many years lived in a constant state of civil war, or,
which is perhaps as bad, of civil law, with Sir Thomas himself and the
tenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel was a modus, by
setting which aside an advantage of several shillings _per annum_ would
have accrued to the rector; but he had not yet been able to accomplish
his purpose, and had reaped hitherto nothing better from the suits than
the pleasure (which he used indeed frequently to say was no small one)
of reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the poor tenants,
though he had at the same time greatly impoverished himself.
Mrs Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, being herself the daughter of a
curate, preserved some respect for Adams: she professed great regard for
his learning, and would frequently dispute with him on points of
theology; but always insisted on a deference to be paid to her
understanding, as she had been frequently at London, and knew more of
the world than a country parson could pretend to.
She had in these disputes a particular advantage over Adams: for she was
a mighty affecter of hard words, which she used in such a manner that
the parson, who durst not offend her by calling her words in question,
was frequently at some loss to guess her meaning, and would have been
much less puzzled by an Arabian manuscript.
Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after a pretty long
discourse with her on the essence (or, as she pleased to term it, the
incence) of matter, to mention the case of young Andrews; desiring her
to recommend him to her lady as a youth very susceptible of learning,
and one whose instruction in Latin he would himself undertake; by which
means he might be qualified for a higher station than that of a footman;
and added, she knew it was in his master's power easily to provide for
him in a better manner. He therefore desired that the boy might be left
behind under his care.
"La! Mr Adams," said Mrs Slipslop, "do you think my lady will suffer any
preambles about any such matter? She is going to London very concisely,
and I am confidous would not leave Joey behind her on any account; for
he is one of the genteelest young fellows you may see in a summer's day;
and I am confidous she would as soon think of parting with a pair of her
grey mares, for she values herself as much on one as the other." Adams
would have interrupted, but she proceeded: "And why is Latin more
necessitous for a footman than a gentleman? It is very proper that you
clergymen must learn it, because you can't preach without it: but I have
heard gentlemen say in London, that it is fit for nobody else. I am
confidous my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it; and I shall
draw myself into no such delemy." At which words her lady's bell rung,
and Mr Adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a second
opportunity with her before their London journey, which happened a few
days afterwards. However, Andrews behaved very thankfully and gratefully
to him for his intended kindness, which he told him he never would
forget, and at the same time received from the good man many admonitions
concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and his perseverance in
innocence and industry.
CHAPTER IV.
_What happened after their journey to London._
No sooner was young Andrews arrived at London than he began to scrape an
acquaintance with his party-coloured brethren, who endeavoured to make
him despise his former course of life. His hair was cut after the newest
fashion, and became his chief care; he went abroad with it all the
morning in papers, and drest it out in the afternoon. They could not,
however, teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the
town abounded with. He applied most of his leisure hours to music, in
which he greatly improved himself; and became so perfect a connoisseur
in that art, that he led the opinion of all the other footmen at an
opera, and they never condemned or applauded a single song contrary to
his approbation or dislike. He was a little too forward in riots at the
play-houses and assemblies; and when he attended his lady at church
(which was but seldom) he behaved with less seeming devotion than
formerly: however, if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals
remained entirely uncorrupted, though he was at the same time smarter
and genteeler than any of the beaus in town, either in or out of livery.
His lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the handsomest and
genteelest footman in the kingdom, but that it was pity he wanted
spirit, began now to find that fault no longer; on the contrary, she was
frequently heard to cry out, "Ay, there is some life in this fellow."
She plainly saw the effects which the town air hath on the soberest
constitutions. She would now walk out with him into Hyde Park in a
morning, and when tired, which happened almost every minute, would lean
on his arm, and converse with him in great familiarity. Whenever she
stept out of her coach, she would take him by the hand, and sometimes,
for fear of stumbling, press it very hard; she admitted him to deliver
messages at her bedside in a morning, leered at him at table, and
indulged him in all those innocent freedoms which women of figure may
permit without the least sully of their virtue.
But though their virtue remains unsullied, yet now and then some small
arrows will glance on the shadow of it, their reputation; and so it fell
out to Lady Booby, who happened to be walking arm-in-arm with Joey one
morning in Hyde Park, when Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentally
by in their coach. "Bless me," says Lady Tittle, "can I believe my eyes?
Is that Lady Booby?"--"Surely," says Tattle. "But what makes you
surprized?"--"Why, is not that her footman?" replied Tittle. At which
Tattle laughed, and cried, "An old business, I assure you: is it
possible you should not have heard it? The whole town hath known it this
half-year." The consequence of this interview was a whisper through a
hundred visits, which were separately performed by the two ladies[A] the
same afternoon, and might have had a mischievous effect, had it not been
stopt by two fresh reputations which were published the day afterwards,
and engrossed the whole talk of the town.
[A] It may seem an absurdity that Tattle should visit, as she actually
did, to spread a known scandal: but the reader may reconcile this by
supposing, with me, that, notwithstanding what she says, this was
her first acquaintance with it.
But, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous inclination of
defamers might entertain of Lady Booby's innocent freedoms, it is
certain they made no impression on young Andrews, who never offered to
encroach beyond the liberties which his lady allowed him,--a behaviour
which she imputed to the violent respect he preserved for her, and which
served only to heighten a something she began to conceive, and which
the next chapter will open a little farther.
CHAPTER V.
_The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and mournful
behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of Joseph Andrews._
At this time an accident happened which put a stop to those agreeable
walks, which probably would have soon puffed up the cheeks of Fame, and
caused her to blow her brazen trumpet through the town; and this was no
other than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who, departing this life, left
his disconsolate lady confined to her house, as closely as if she
herself had been attacked by some violent disease. During the first six
days the poor lady admitted none but Mrs. Slipslop, and three female
friends, who made a party at cards: but on the seventh she ordered Joey,
whom, for a good reason, we shall hereafter call JOSEPH, to bring up her
tea-kettle. The lady being in bed, called Joseph to her, bade him sit
down, and, having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked him if he
had ever been in love. Joseph answered, with some confusion, it was time
enough for one so young as himself to think on such things. "As young as
you are," replied the lady, "I am convinced you are no stranger to that
passion. Come, Joey," says she, "tell me truly, who is the happy girl
whose eyes have made a conquest of you?" Joseph returned, that all the
women he had ever seen were equally indifferent to him. "Oh then," said
the lady, "you are a general lover. Indeed, you handsome fellows, like
handsome women, are very long and difficult in fixing; but yet you
shall never persuade me that your heart is so insusceptible of
affection; I rather impute what you say to your secrecy, a very
commendable quality, and what I am far from being angry with you for.
Nothing can be more unworthy in a young man, than to betray any
intimacies with the ladies." "Ladies! madam," said Joseph, "I am sure I
never had the impudence to think of any that deserve that name." "Don't
pretend to too much modesty," said she, "for that sometimes may be
impertinent: but pray answer me this question. Suppose a lady should
happen to like you; suppose she should prefer you to all your sex, and
admit you to the same familiarities as you might have hoped for if you
had been born her equal, are you certain that no vanity could tempt you
to discover her? Answer me honestly, Joseph; have you so much more sense
and so much more virtue than you handsome young fellows generally have,
who make no scruple of sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride,
without considering the great obligation we lay on you by our
condescension and confidence? Can you keep a secret, my Joey?" "Madam,"
says he, "I hope your ladyship can't tax me with ever betraying the
secrets of the family; and I hope, if you was to turn me away, I might
have that character of you." "I don't intend to turn you away, Joey,"
said she, and sighed; "I am afraid it is not in my power." She then
raised herself a little in her bed, and discovered one of the whitest
necks that ever was seen; at which Joseph blushed. "La!" says she, in an
affected surprize, "what am I doing? I have trusted myself with a man
alone, naked in bed; suppose you should have any wicked intentions upon
my honour, how should I defend myself?" Joseph protested that he never
had the least evil design against her. "No," says she, "perhaps you may
not call your designs wicked; and perhaps they are not so."--He swore
they were not. "You misunderstand me," says she; "I mean if they were
against my honour, they may not be wicked; but the world calls them so.
But then, say you, the world will never know anything of the matter; yet
would not that be trusting to your secrecy? Must not my reputation be
then in your power? Would you not then be my master?" Joseph begged her
ladyship to be comforted; for that he would never imagine the least
wicked thing against her, and that he had rather die a thousand deaths
than give her any reason to suspect him. "Yes," said she, "I must have
reason to suspect you. Are you not a man? and, without vanity, I may
pretend to some charms. But perhaps you may fear I should prosecute you;
indeed I hope you do; and yet Heaven knows I should never have the
confidence to appear before a court of justice; and you know, Joey, I am
of a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don't you think I should forgive
you?"--"Indeed, madam," says Joseph, "I will never do anything to
disoblige your ladyship."--"How," says she, "do you think it would not
disoblige me then? Do you think I would willingly suffer you?"--"I don't
understand you, madam," says Joseph.--"Don't you?" said she, "then you
are either a fool, or pretend to be so; I find I was mistaken in you. So
get you downstairs, and never let me see your face again; your pretended
innocence cannot impose on me."--"Madam," said Joseph, "I would not have
your ladyship think any evil of me. I have always endeavoured to be a
dutiful servant both to you and my master."--"O thou villain!" answered
my lady; "why didst thou mention the name of that dear man, unless to
torment me, to bring his precious memory to my mind?" (and then she
burst into a fit of tears.) "Get thee from my sight! I shall never
endure thee more." At which words she turned away from him; and Joseph
retreated from the room in a most disconsolate condition, and writ that
letter which the reader will find in the next chapter.
CHAPTER VI.
_How Joseph Andrews writ a letter to his sister Pamela._
"To MRS PAMELA ANDREWS, LIVING WITH SQUIRE BOOBY.
"DEAR SISTER,--Since I received your letter of your good lady's death,
we have had a misfortune of the same kind in our family. My worthy
master Sir Thomas died about four days ago; and, what is worse, my poor
lady is certainly gone distracted. None of the servants expected her to
take it so to heart, because they quarrelled almost every day of their
lives: but no more of that, because you know, Pamela, I never loved to
tell the secrets of my master's family; but to be sure you must have
known they never loved one another; and I have heard her ladyship wish
his honour dead above a thousand times; but nobody knows what it is to
lose a friend till they have lost him.
"Don't tell anybody what I write, because I should not care to have
folks say I discover what passes in our family; but if it had not been
so great a lady, I should have thought she had had a mind to me. Dear
Pamela, don't tell anybody; but she ordered me to sit down by her
bedside, when she was in naked bed; and she held my hand, and talked
exactly as a lady does to her sweetheart in a stage-play, which I have
seen in Covent Garden, while she wanted him to be no better than he
should be.
"If madam be mad, I shall not care for staying long in the family; so I
heartily wish you could get me a place, either at the squire's, or some
other neighbouring gentleman's, unless it be true that you are going to
be married to parson Williams, as folks talk, and then I should be very
willing to be his clerk; for which you know I am qualified, being able
to read and to set a psalm.
"I fancy I shall be discharged very soon; and the moment I am, unless I
hear from you, I shall return to my old master's country-seat, if it be
only to see parson Adams, who is the best man in the world. London is a
bad place, and there is so little good fellowship, that the next-door
neighbours don't know one another. Pray give my service to all friends
that inquire for me. So I rest
"Your loving brother,
"JOSEPH ANDREWS."
As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this letter he walked
downstairs, where he met Mrs. Slipslop, with whom we shall take this
opportunity to bring the reader a little better acquainted. She was a
maiden gentlewoman of about forty-five years of age, who, having made a
small slip in her youth, had continued a good maid ever since. She was
not at this time remarkably handsome; being very short, and rather too
corpulent in body, and somewhat red, with the addition of pimples in the
face. Her nose was likewise rather too large, and her eyes too little;
nor did she resemble a cow so much in her breath as in two brown globes
which she carried before her; one of her legs was also a little shorter
than the other, which occasioned her to limp as she walked. This fair
creature had long cast the eyes of affection on Joseph, in which she had
not met with quite so good success as she probably wished, though,
besides the allurements of her native charms, she had given him tea,
sweetmeats, wine, and many other delicacies, of which, by keeping the
keys, she had the absolute command. Joseph, however, had not returned
the least gratitude to all these favours, not even so much as a kiss;
though I would not insinuate she was so easily to be satisfied; for
surely then he would have been highly blameable. The truth is, she was
arrived at an age when she thought she might indulge herself in any
liberties with a man, without the danger of bringing a third person into
the world to betray them. She imagined that by so long a self-denial she
had not only made amends for the small slip of her youth above hinted
at, but had likewise laid up a quantity of merit to excuse any future
failings. In a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorous
inclinations, and to pay off the debt of pleasure which she found she
owed herself, as fast as possible.
With these charms of person, and in this disposition of mind, she
encountered poor Joseph at the bottom of the stairs, and asked him if he
would drink a glass of something good this morning. Joseph, whose
spirits were not a little cast down, very readily and thankfully
accepted the offer; and together they went into a closet, where, having
delivered him a full glass of ratafia, and desired him to sit down, Mrs.
Slipslop thus began:--
"Sure nothing can be a more simple contract in a woman than to place her
affections on a boy. If I had ever thought it would have been my fate, I
should have wished to die a thousand deaths rather than live to see that
day. If we like a man, the lightest hint sophisticates. Whereas a boy
proposes upon us to break through all the regulations of modesty, before
we can make any oppression upon him." Joseph, who did not understand a
word she said, answered, "Yes, madam."--"Yes, madam!" replied Mrs.
Slipslop with some warmth, "Do you intend to result my passion? Is it
not enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the favours
I have done you; but you must treat me with ironing? Barbarous monster!
how have I deserved that my passion should be resulted and treated with
ironing?" "Madam," answered Joseph, "I don't understand your hard words;
but I am certain you have no occasion to call me ungrateful, for, so far
from intending you any wrong, I have always loved you as well as if you
had been my own mother." "How, sirrah!" says Mrs. Slipslop in a rage;
"your own mother? Do you assinuate that I am old enough to be your
mother? I don't know what a stripling may think, but I believe a man
would refer me to any green-sickness silly girl whatsomdever: but I
ought to despise you rather than be angry with you, for referring the
conversation of girls to that of a woman of sense."--"Madam," says
Joseph, "I am sure I have always valued the honour you did me by your
conversation, for I know you are a woman of learning."--"Yes, but,
Joseph," said she, a little softened by the compliment to her learning,
"if you had a value for me, you certainly would have found some method
of showing it me; for I am convicted you must see the value I have for
you. Yes, Joseph, my eyes, whether I would or no, must have declared a
passion I cannot conquer.--Oh! Joseph!"
As when a hungry tigress, who long has traversed the woods in fruitless
search, sees within the reach of her claws a lamb, she prepares to leap
on her prey; or as a voracious pike, of immense size, surveys through
the liquid element a roach or gudgeon, which cannot escape her jaws,
opens them wide to swallow the little fish; so did Mrs. Slipslop prepare
to lay her violent amorous hands on the poor Joseph, when luckily her
mistress's bell rung, and delivered the intended martyr from her
clutches. She was obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer the
execution of her purpose till some other time. We shall therefore return
to the Lady Booby, and give our reader some account of her behaviour,
after she was left by Joseph in a temper of mind not greatly different
from that of the inflamed Slipslop.
CHAPTER VII.
_Sayings of wise men. A dialogue between the lady and her maid; and a
panegyric, or rather satire, on the passion of love, in the
sublime style._
It is the observation of some antient sage, whose name I have forgot,
that passions operate differently on the human mind, as diseases on the
body, in proportion to the strength or weakness, soundness or
rottenness, of the one and the other.
We hope, therefore, a judicious reader will give himself some pains to
observe, what we have so greatly laboured to describe, the different
operations of this passion of love in the gentle and cultivated mind of
the Lady Booby, from those which it effected in the less polished and
coarser disposition of Mrs Slipslop.
Another philosopher, whose name also at present escapes my memory, hath
somewhere said, that resolutions taken in the absence of the beloved
object are very apt to vanish in its presence; on both which wise
sayings the following chapter may serve as a comment.
No sooner had Joseph left the room in the manner we have before related
than the lady, enraged at her disappointment, began to reflect with
severity on her conduct. Her love was now changed to disdain, which
pride assisted to torment her. She despised herself for the meanness of
her passion, and Joseph for its ill success. However, she had now got
the better of it in her own opinion, and determined immediately to
dismiss the object. After much tossing and turning in her bed, and many
soliloquies, which if we had no better matter for our reader we would
give him, she at last rung the bell as above mentioned, and was
presently attended by Mrs Slipslop, who was not much better pleased with
Joseph than the lady herself.
"Slipslop," said Lady Booby, "when did you see Joseph?" The poor woman
was so surprized at the unexpected sound of his name at so critical a
time, that she had the greatest difficulty to conceal the confusion she
was under from her mistress; whom she answered, nevertheless, with
pretty good confidence, though not entirely void of fear of suspicion,
that she had not seen him that morning. "I am afraid," said Lady Booby,
"he is a wild young fellow."--"That he is," said Slipslop, "and a
wicked one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, and fights
eternally; besides, he is horribly indicted to wenching."--"Ay!" said
the lady, "I never heard that of him."--"O madam!" answered the other,
"he is so lewd a rascal, that if your ladyship keeps him much longer,
you will not have one virgin in your house except myself. And yet I
can't conceive what the wenches see in him, to be so foolishly fond as
they are; in my eyes, he is as ugly a scarecrow as I ever
upheld."--"Nay," said the lady, "the boy is well enough."--"La! ma'am,"
cries Slipslop, "I think him the ragmaticallest fellow in the
family."--"Sure, Slipslop," says she, "you are mistaken: but which of
the women do you most suspect?"--"Madam," says Slipslop, "there is Betty
the chambermaid, I am almost convicted, is with child by him."--"Ay!"
says the lady, "then pray pay her her wages instantly. I will keep no
such sluts in my family. And as for Joseph, you may discard him
too."--"Would your ladyship have him paid off immediately?" cries
Slipslop, "for perhaps, when Betty is gone he may mend: and really the
boy is a good servant, and a strong healthy luscious boy enough."--
"This morning," answered the lady with some vehemence. "I wish, madam,"
cries Slipslop, "your ladyship would be so good as to try him a little
longer."--"I will not have my commands disputed," said the lady; "sure
you are not fond of him yourself?"--"I, madam!" cries Slipslop,
reddening, if not blushing, "I should be sorry to think your ladyship
had any reason to respect me of fondness for a fellow; and if it be your
pleasure, I shall fulfil it with as much reluctance as possible."--"As
little, I suppose you mean," said the lady; "and so about it instantly."
Mrs. Slipslop went out, and the lady had scarce taken two turns before
she fell to knocking and ringing with great violence. Slipslop, who did
not travel post haste, soon returned, and was countermanded as to
Joseph, but ordered to send Betty about her business without delay. She
went out a second time with much greater alacrity than before; when the
lady began immediately to accuse herself of want of resolution, and to
apprehend the return of her affection, with its pernicious consequences;
she therefore applied herself again to the bell, and re-summoned Mrs.
Slipslop into her presence; who again returned, and was told by her
mistress that she had considered better of the matter, and was
absolutely resolved to turn away Joseph; which she ordered her to do
immediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of her lady's temper, and
would not venture her place for any Adonis or Hercules in the universe,
left her a third time; which she had no sooner done, than the little god
Cupid, fearing he had not yet done the lady's business, took a fresh
arrow with the sharpest point out of his quiver, and shot it directly
into her heart; in other and plainer language, the lady's passion got
the better of her reason. She called back Slipslop once more, and told
her she had resolved to see the boy, and examine him herself; therefore
bid her send him up. This wavering in her mistress's temper probably put
something into the waiting-gentlewoman's head not necessary to mention
to the sagacious reader.
Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could not prevail with
herself. The next consideration therefore was, how she should behave to
Joseph when he came in. She resolved to preserve all the dignity of the
woman of fashion to her servant, and to indulge herself in this last
view of Joseph (for that she was most certainly resolved it should be)
at his own expense, by first insulting and then discarding him.
O Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play with thy votaries of both
sexes! How dost thou deceive them, and make them deceive themselves!
Their follies are thy delight! Their sighs make thee laugh, and their
pangs are thy merriment!
Not the great Rich, who turns men into monkeys, wheel-barrows, and
whatever else best humours his fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed
the human shape; nor the great Cibber, who confounds all number, gender,
and breaks through every rule of grammar at his will, hath so distorted
the English language as thou dost metamorphose and distort the
human senses.
Thou puttest out our eyes, stoppest up our ears, and takest away the
power of our nostrils; so that we can neither see the largest object,
hear the loudest noise, nor smell the most poignant perfume. Again, when
thou pleasest, thou canst make a molehill appear as a mountain, a
Jew's-harp sound like a trumpet, and a daisy smell like a violet. Thou
canst make cowardice brave, avarice generous, pride humble, and cruelty
tender-hearted. In short, thou turnest the heart of man inside out, as a
juggler doth a petticoat, and bringest whatsoever pleaseth thee out
from it. If there be any one who doubts all this, let him read the
next chapter.
CHAPTER VIII.
_In which, after some very fine writing, the history goes on, and
relates the interview between the lady and Joseph; where the latter hath
set an example which we despair of seeing followed by his sex in this
vicious age._
Now the rake Hesperus had called for his breeches, and, having well
rubbed his drowsy eyes, prepared to dress himself for all night; by
whose example his brother rakes on earth likewise leave those beds in
which they had slept away the day. Now Thetis, the good housewife, began
to put on the pot, in order to regale the good man Phoebus after his
daily labours were over. In vulgar language, it was in the evening when
Joseph attended his lady's orders.
But as it becomes us to preserve the character of this lady, who is the
heroine of our tale; and as we have naturally a wonderful tenderness for
that beautiful part of the human species called the fair sex; before we
discover too much of her frailty to our reader, it will be proper to
give him a lively idea of the vast temptation, which overcame all the
efforts of a modest and virtuous mind; and then we humbly hope his good
nature will rather pity than condemn the imperfection of human virtue.
[Illustration]
Nay, the ladies themselves will, we hope, be induced, by considering the
uncommon variety of charms which united in this young man's person, to
bridle their rampant passion for chastity, and be at least as mild as
their violent modesty and virtue will permit them, in censuring the
conduct of a woman who, perhaps, was in her own disposition as chaste
as those pure and sanctified virgins who, after a life innocently spent
in the gaieties of the town, begin about fifty to attend twice _per
diem_ at the polite churches and chapels, to return thanks for the grace
which preserved them formerly amongst beaus from temptations perhaps
less powerful than what now attacked the Lady Booby.
Mr Joseph Andrews was now in the one-and-twentieth year of his age. He
was of the highest degree of middle stature; his limbs were put together
with great elegance, and no less strength; his legs and thighs were
formed in the exactest proportion; his shoulders were broad and brawny,
but yet his arm hung so easily, that he had all the symptoms of strength
without the least clumsiness. His hair was of a nut-brown colour, and
was displayed in wanton ringlets down his back; his forehead was high,
his eyes dark, and as full of sweetness as of fire; his nose a little
inclined to the Roman; his teeth white and even; his lips full, red, and
soft; his beard was only rough on his chin and upper lip; but his
cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread with a thick down;
his countenance had a tenderness joined with a sensibility
inexpressible. Add to this the most perfect neatness in his dress, and
an air which, to those who have not seen many noblemen, would give an
idea of nobility.
Such was the person who now appeared before the lady. She viewed him
some time in silence, and twice or thrice before she spake changed her
mind as to the manner in which she should begin. At length she said to
him, "Joseph, I am sorry to hear such complaints against you: I am told
you behave so rudely to the maids, that they cannot do their business in
quiet; I mean those who are not wicked enough to hearken to your
solicitations. As to others, they may, perhaps, not call you rude; for
there are wicked sluts who make one ashamed of one's own sex, and are as
ready to admit any nauseous familiarity as fellows to offer it: nay,
there are such in my family, but they shall not stay in it; that
impudent trollop who is with child by you is discharged by this time."
As a person who is struck through the heart with a thunderbolt looks
extremely surprised, nay, and perhaps is so too--thus the poor Joseph
received the false accusation of his mistress; he blushed and looked
confounded, which she misinterpreted to be symptoms of his guilt, and
thus went on:--
"Come hither, Joseph: another mistress might discard you for these
offences; but I have a compassion for your youth, and if I could be
certain you would be no more guilty--Consider, child," laying her hand
carelessly upon his, "you are a handsome young fellow, and might do
better; you might make your fortune." "Madam," said Joseph, "I do assure
your ladyship I don't know whether any maid in the house is man or
woman." "Oh fie! Joseph," answered the lady, "don't commit another crime
in denying the truth. I could pardon the first; but I hate a lyar."
"Madam," cries Joseph, "I hope your ladyship will not be offended at my
asserting my innocence; for, by all that is sacred, I have never offered
more than kissing." "Kissing!" said the lady, with great discomposure of
countenance, and more redness in her cheeks than anger in her eyes; "do
you call that no crime? Kissing, Joseph, is as a prologue to a play. Can
I believe a young fellow of your age and complexion will be content with
kissing? No, Joseph, there is no woman who grants that but will grant
more; and I am deceived greatly in you if you would not put her closely
to it. What would you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to kiss me?"
Joseph replied he would sooner die than have any such thought. "And
yet, Joseph," returned she, "ladies have admitted their footmen to such
familiarities; and footmen, I confess to you, much less deserving them;
fellows without half your charms--for such might almost excuse the
crime. Tell me therefore, Joseph, if I should admit you to such freedom,
what would you think of me?--tell me freely." "Madam," said Joseph, "I
should think your ladyship condescended a great deal below yourself."
"Pugh!" said she; "that I am to answer to myself: but would not you
insist on more? Would you be contented with a kiss? Would not your
inclinations be all on fire rather by such a favour?" "Madam," said
Joseph, "if they were, I hope I should be able to controul them, without
suffering them to get the better of my virtue." You have heard, reader,
poets talk of the statue of Surprize; you have heard likewise, or else
you have heard very little, how Surprize made one of the sons of Croesus
speak, though he was dumb. You have seen the faces, in the
eighteen-penny gallery, when, through the trap-door, to soft or no
music, Mr. Bridgewater, Mr. William Mills, or some other of ghostly
appearance, hath ascended, with a face all pale with powder, and a shirt
all bloody with ribbons;--but from none of these, nor from Phidias or
Praxiteles, if they should return to life--no, not from the inimitable
pencil of my friend Hogarth, could you receive such an idea of surprize
as would have entered in at your eyes had they beheld the Lady Booby
when those last words issued out from the lips of Joseph. "Your virtue!"
said the lady, recovering after a silence of two minutes; "I shall never
survive it. Your virtue!--intolerable confidence! Have you the assurance
to pretend, that when a lady demeans herself to throw aside the rules of
decency, in order to honour you with the highest favour in her power,
your virtue should resist her inclination? that, when she had conquered
her own virtue, she should find an obstruction in yours?" "Madam," said
Joseph, "I can't see why her having no virtue should be a reason against
my having any; or why, because I am a man, or because I am poor, my
virtue must be subservient to her pleasures." "I am out of patience,"
cries the lady: "did ever mortal hear of a man's virtue? Did ever the
greatest or the gravest men pretend to any of this kind? Will
magistrates who punish lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make
any scruple of committing it? And can a boy, a stripling, have the
confidence to talk of his virtue?" "Madam," says Joseph, "that boy is
the brother of Pamela, and would be ashamed that the chastity of his
family, which is preserved in her, should be stained in him. If there
are such men as your ladyship mentions, I am sorry for it; and I wish
they had an opportunity of reading over those letters which my father
hath sent me of my sister Pamela's; nor do I doubt but such an example
would amend them." "You impudent villain!" cries the lady in a rage; "do
you insult me with the follies of my relation, who hath exposed himself
all over the country upon your sister's account? a little vixen, whom I
have always wondered my late Lady Booby ever kept in her house. Sirrah!
get out of my sight, and prepare to set out this night; for I will order
you your wages immediately, and you shall be stripped and turned away."
"Madam," says Joseph, "I am sorry I have offended your ladyship, I am
sure I never intended it." "Yes, sirrah," cries she, "you have had the
vanity to misconstrue the little innocent freedom I took, in order to
try whether what I had heard was true. O' my conscience, you have had
the assurance to imagine I was fond of you myself." Joseph answered, he
had only spoke out of tenderness for his virtue; at which words she
flew into a violent passion, and refusing to hear more, ordered him
instantly to leave the room.
He was no sooner gone than she burst forth into the following
exclamation:--"Whither doth this violent passion hurry us? What
meannesses do we submit to from its impulse! Wisely we resist its first
and least approaches; for it is then only we can assure ourselves the
victory. No woman could ever safely say, so far only will I go. Have I
not exposed myself to the refusal of my footman? I cannot bear the
reflection." Upon which she applied herself to the bell, and rung it
with infinite more violence than was necessary--the faithful Slipslop
attending near at hand: to say the truth, she had conceived a suspicion
at her last interview with her mistress, and had waited ever since in
the antechamber, having carefully applied her ears to the keyhole during
the whole time that the preceding conversation passed between Joseph
and the lady.
CHAPTER IX.
_What passed between the lady and Mrs Slipslop; in which we prophesy
there are some strokes which every one will not truly comprehend at the
first reading._
"Slipslop," said the lady, "I find too much reason to believe all thou
hast told me of this wicked Joseph; I have determined to part with him
instantly; so go you to the steward, and bid him pay his wages."
Slipslop, who had preserved hitherto a distance to her lady--rather out
of necessity than inclination--and who thought the knowledge of this
secret had thrown down all distinction between them, answered her
mistress very pertly--"She wished she knew her own mind; and that she
was certain she would call her back again before she was got half-way
downstairs." The lady replied, she had taken a resolution, and was
resolved to keep it. "I am sorry for it," cries Slipslop, "and, if I had
known you would have punished the poor lad so severely, you should never
have heard a particle of the matter. Here's a fuss indeed about
nothing!" "Nothing!" returned my lady; "do you think I will countenance
lewdness in my house?" "If you will turn away every footman," said
Slipslop, "that is a lover of the sport, you must soon open the coach
door yourself, or get a set of mophrodites to wait upon you; and I am
sure I hated the sight of them even singing in an opera." "Do as I bid
you," says my lady, "and don't shock my ears with your beastly
language." "Marry-come-up," cries Slipslop, "people's ears are sometimes
the nicest part about them."
The lady, who began to admire the new style in which her
waiting-gentlewoman delivered herself, and by the conclusion of her
speech suspected somewhat of the truth, called her back, and desired to
know what she meant by the extraordinary degree of freedom in which she
thought proper to indulge her tongue. "Freedom!" says Slipslop; "I don't
know what you call freedom, madam; servants have tongues as well as
their mistresses." "Yes, and saucy ones too," answered the lady; "but I
assure you I shall bear no such impertinence." "Impertinence! I don't
know that I am impertinent," says Slipslop. "Yes, indeed you are," cries
my lady, "and, unless you mend your manners, this house is no place for
you." "Manners!" cries Slipslop; "I never was thought to want manners
nor modesty neither; and for places, there are more places than one; and
I know what I know." "What do you know, mistress?" answered the lady. "I
am not obliged to tell that to everybody," says Slipslop, "any more than
I am obliged to keep it a secret." "I desire you would provide
yourself," answered the lady. "With all my heart," replied the
waiting-gentlewoman; and so departed in a passion, and slapped the door
after her.
The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting-gentlewoman knew more
than she would willingly have had her acquainted with; and this she
imputed to Joseph's having discovered to her what passed at the first
interview. This, therefore, blew up her rage against him, and confirmed
her in a resolution of parting with him.
But the dismissing Mrs Slipslop was a point not so easily to be resolved
upon. She had the utmost tenderness for her reputation, as she knew on
that depended many of the most valuable blessings of life; particularly
cards, making curtsies in public places, and, above all, the pleasure of
demolishing the reputations of others, in which innocent amusement she
had an extraordinary delight. She therefore determined to submit to any
insult from a servant, rather than run a risque of losing the title to
so many great privileges.
She therefore sent for her steward, Mr Peter Pounce, and ordered him to
pay Joseph his wages, to strip off his livery, and to turn him out of
the house that evening.
She then called Slipslop up, and, after refreshing her spirits with a
small cordial, which she kept in her corset, she began in the
following manner:--
"Slipslop, why will you, who know my passionate temper, attempt to
provoke me by your answers? I am convinced you are an honest servant,
and should be very unwilling to part with you. I believe, likewise, you
have found me an indulgent mistress on many occasions, and have as
little reason on your side to desire a change. I can't help being
surprized, therefore, that you will take the surest method to offend
me--I mean, repeating my words, which you know I have always detested."
The prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly weighed the whole matter, and
found, on mature deliberation, that a good place in possession was
better than one in expectation. As she found her mistress, therefore,
inclined to relent, she thought proper also to put on some small
condescension, which was as readily accepted; and so the affair was
reconciled, all offences forgiven, and a present of a gown and petticoat
made her, as an instance of her lady's future favour.
She offered once or twice to speak in favour of Joseph; but found her
lady's heart so obdurate, that she prudently dropt all such efforts. She
considered there were more footmen in the house, and some as stout
fellows, though not quite so handsome, as Joseph; besides, the reader
hath already seen her tender advances had not met with the encouragement
she might have reasonable expected. She thought she had thrown away a
great deal of sack and sweetmeats on an ungrateful rascal; and, being a
little inclined to the opinion of that female sect, who hold one lusty
young fellow to be nearly as good as another lusty young fellow, she at
last gave up Joseph and his cause, and, with a triumph over her passion
highly commendable, walked off with her present, and with great
tranquillity paid a visit to a stone-bottle, which is of sovereign use
to a philosophical temper.
She left not her mistress so easy. The poor lady could not reflect
without agony that her dear reputation was in the power of her servants.
all her comfort as to Joseph was, that she hoped he did not understand
her meaning; at least she could say for herself, she had not plainly
expressed anything to him; and as to Mrs Slipslop, she imagines she
could bribe her to secrecy.
But what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not so entirely
conquered her passion; the little god lay lurking in her heart, though
anger and distain so hood-winked her, that she could not see him. She
was a thousand times on the very brink of revoking the sentence she had
passed against the poor youth. Love became his advocate, and whispered
many things in his favour. Honour likewise endeavoured to vindicate his
crime, and Pity to mitigate his punishment. On the other side, Pride and
Revenge spoke as loudly against him. And thus the poor lady was tortured
with perplexity, opposite passions distracting and tearing her mind
different ways.
So have I seen, in the hall of Westminster, where Serjeant Bramble hath
been retained on the right side, and Serjeant Puzzle on the left, the
balance of opinion (so equal were their fees) alternately incline to
either scale. Now Bramble throws in an argument, and Puzzle's scale
strikes the beam; again Bramble shares the like fate, overpowered by the
weight of Puzzle. Here Bramble hits, there Puzzle strikes; here one has
you, there t'other has you; till at last all becomes one scene of
confusion in the tortured minds of the hearers; equal wagers are laid on
the success, and neither judge nor jury can possibly make anything of
the matter; all things are so enveloped by the careful serjeants in
doubt and obscurity.
Or, as it happens in the conscience, where honour and honesty pull one
way, and a bribe and necessity another.--If it was our present
business only to make similes, we could produce many more to this
purpose; but a simile (as well as a word) to the wise.--We shall
therefore see a little after our hero, for whom the reader is doubtless
in some pain.
CHAPTER X.
_Joseph writes another letter: his transactions with Mr Peter Pounce,
&c., with his departure from Lady Booby._
The disconsolate Joseph would not have had an understanding sufficient
for the principal subject of such a book as this, if he had any longer
misunderstood the drift of his mistress; and indeed, that he did not
discern it sooner, the reader will be pleased to impute to an
unwillingness in him to discover what he must condemn in her as a fault.
Having therefore quitted her presence, he retired into his own garret,
and entered himself into an ejaculation on the numberless calamities
which attended beauty, and the misfortune it was to be handsomer than
one's neighbours.
He then sat down, and addressed himself to his sister Pamela in the
following words:--
"Dear Sister Pamela,--Hoping you are well, what news have I to tell you!
O Pamela! my mistress is fallen in love with me-that is, what great
folks call falling in love-she has a mind to ruin me; but I hope I shall
have more resolution and more grace than to part with my virtue to any
lady upon earth.
"Mr Adams hath often told me, that chastity is as great a virtue in a
man as in a woman. He says he never knew any more than his wife, and I
shall endeavour to follow his example. Indeed, it is owing entirely to
his excellent sermons and advice, together with your letters, that I
have been able to resist a temptation, which, he says, no man complies
with, but he repents in this world, or is damned for it in the next; and
why should I trust to repentance on my deathbed, since I may die in my
sleep? What fine things are good advice and good examples! But I am
glad she turned me out of the chamber as she did: for I had once almost
forgotten every word parson Adams had ever said to me.
"I don't doubt, dear sister, but you will have grace to preserve your
virtue against all trials; and I beg you earnestly to pray I may be
enabled to preserve mine; for truly it is very severely attacked by more
than one; but I hope I shall copy your example, and that of Joseph my
namesake, and maintain my virtue against all temptations."
Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned downstairs by
Mr Peter Pounce, to receive his wages; for, besides that out of eight
pounds a year he allowed his father and mother four, he had been
obliged, in order to furnish himself with musical instruments, to apply
to the generosity of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent occasions, used
to advance the servants their wages: not before they were due, but
before they were payable; that is, perhaps, half a year after they were
due; and this at the moderate premium of fifty per cent, or a little
more: by which charitable methods, together with lending money to other
people, and even to his own master and mistress, the honest man had,
from nothing, in a few years amassed a small sum of twenty thousand
pounds or thereabouts.
Joseph having received his little remainder of wages, and having stript
off his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and breeches of one of the
servants (for he was so beloved in the family, that they would all have
lent him anything): and, being told by Peter that he must not stay a
moment longer in the house than was necessary to pack up his linen,
which he easily did in a very narrow compass, he took a melancholy leave
of his fellow-servants, and set out at seven in the evening.
He had proceeded the length of two or three streets, before he
absolutely determined with himself whether he should leave the town that
night, or, procuring a lodging, wait till the morning. At last, the moon
shining very bright helped him to come to a resolution of beginning his
journey immediately, to which likewise he had some other inducements;
which the reader, without being a conjurer, cannot possibly guess, till
we have given him those hints which it may be now proper to open.
CHAPTER XI.
_Of several new matters not expected._
It is an observation sometimes made, that to indicate our idea of a
simple fellow, we say, he is easily to be seen through: nor do I believe
it a more improper denotation of a simple book. Instead of applying this
to any particular performance, we chuse rather to remark the contrary in
this history, where the scene opens itself by small degrees; and he is a
sagacious reader who can see two chapters before him.
For this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a matter which now seems
necessary to be explained; since it may be wondered at, first, that
Joseph made such extraordinary haste out of town, which hath been
already shewn; and secondly, which will be now shewn, that, instead of
proceeding to the habitation of his father and mother, or to his beloved
sister Pamela, he chose rather to set out full speed to the Lady Booby's
country-seat, which he had left on his journey to London.
Be it known, then, that in the same parish where this seat stood there
lived a young girl whom Joseph (though the best of sons and brothers)
longed more impatiently to see than his parents or his sister. She was a
poor girl, who had formerly been bred up in Sir John's family; whence, a
little before the journey to London, she had been discarded by Mrs
Slipslop, on account of her extraordinary beauty: for I never could find
any other reason.
This young creature (who now lived with a farmer in the parish) had been
always beloved by Joseph, and returned his affection. She was two years
only younger than our hero. They had been acquainted from their infancy,
and had conceived a very early liking for each other; which had grown to
such a degree of affection, that Mr Adams had with much ado prevented
them from marrying, and persuaded them to wait till a few years' service
and thrift had a little improved their experience, and enabled them to
live comfortably together.
They followed this good man's advice, as indeed his word was little less
than a law in his parish; for as he had shown his parishioners, by an
uniform behaviour of thirty-five years' duration, that he had their good
entirely at heart, so they consulted him on every occasion, and very
seldom acted contrary to his opinion.
Nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting between these
two lovers. A thousand sighs heaved the bosom of Joseph, a thousand
tears distilled from the lovely eyes of Fanny (for that was her name).
Though her modesty would only suffer her to admit his eager kisses, her
violent love made her more than passive in his embraces; and she often
pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure, which though perhaps it
would not have squeezed an insect to death, caused more emotion in the
heart of Joseph than the closest Cornish hug could have done.
The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a pair should, during a
twelvemonth's absence, never converse with one another: indeed, there
was but one reason which did or could have prevented them; and this was,
that poor Fanny could neither write nor read: nor could she be prevailed
upon to transmit the delicacies of her tender and chaste passion by the
hands of an amanuensis.
They contented themselves therefore with frequent inquiries after each
other's health, with a mutual confidence in each other's fidelity, and
the prospect of their future happiness.
Having explained these matters to our reader, and, as far as possible,
satisfied all his doubts, we return to honest Joseph, whom we left just
set out on his travels by the light of the moon.
Those who have read any romance or poetry, antient or modern, must have
been informed that love hath wings: by which they are not to understand,
as some young ladies by mistake have done, that a lover can fly; the
writers, by this ingenious allegory, intending to insinuate no more than
that lovers do not march like horse-guards; in short, that they put the
best leg foremost; which our lusty youth, who could walk with any man,
did so heartily on this occasion, that within four hours he reached a
famous house of hospitality well known to the western traveller. It
presents you a lion on the sign-post: and the master, who was christened
Timotheus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some have conceived that he
hath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he doth in
countenance greatly resemble that magnanimous beast, though his
disposition savours more of the sweetness of the lamb. He is a person
well received among all sorts of men, being qualified to render himself
agreeable to any; as he is well versed in history and politics, hath a
smattering in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, and plays
wonderfully well on the French horn.
A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take shelter in this inn, where
he remembered Sir Thomas had dined in his way to town. Joseph had no
sooner seated himself by the kitchen fire than Timotheus, observing his
livery, began to condole the loss of his late master; who was, he said,
his very particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he had cracked
many a merry bottle, ay many a dozen, in his time. He then remarked,
that all these things were over now, all passed, and just as if they had
never been; and concluded with an excellent observation on the certainty
of death, which his wife said was indeed very true. A fellow now arrived
at the same inn with two horses, one of which he was leading farther
down into the country to meet his master; these he put into the stable,
and came and took his place by Joseph's side, who immediately knew him
to be the servant of a neighbouring gentleman, who used to visit at
their house.
This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm; for he had orders to go
twenty miles farther that evening, and luckily on the same road which
Joseph himself intended to take. He, therefore, embraced this
opportunity of complimenting his friend with his master's horse
(notwithstanding he had received express commands to the contrary),
which was readily accepted; and so, after they had drank a loving pot,
and the storm was over, they set out together.
CHAPTER XII.
_Containing many surprizing adventures which Joseph Andrews met with on
the road, scarce credible to those who have never travelled in a
stage-coach._
Nothing remarkable happened on the road till their arrival at the inn to
which the horses were ordered; whither they came about two in the
morning. The moon then shone very bright; and Joseph, making his friend
a present of a pint of wine, and thanking him for the favour of his
horse, notwithstanding all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his
journey on foot.
He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hope of shortly seeing
his beloved Fanny, when he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and
ordered to stand and deliver. He readily gave them all the money he had,
which was somewhat less than two pounds; and told them he hoped they
would be so generous as to return him a few shillings, to defray his
charges on his way home.
One of the ruffians answered with an oath, "Yes, we'll give you
something presently: but first strip and be d---n'd to you."--"Strip,"
cried the other, "or I'll blow your brains to the devil." Joseph,
remembering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches of a friend, and
that he should be ashamed of making any excuse for not returning them,
replied, he hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which were not
worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. "You are cold, are
you, you rascal?" said one of the robbers: "I'll warm you with a
vengeance;" and, damning his eyes, snapped a pistol at his head; which
he had no sooner done than the other levelled a blow at him with his
stick, which Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with his,
and returned the favour so successfully on his adversary, that he laid
him sprawling at his feet, and at the same instant received a blow from
behind, with the butt end of a pistol, from the other villain, which
felled him to the ground, and totally deprived him of his senses.
The thief who had been knocked down had now recovered himself; and both
together fell to belabouring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they
were convinced they had put an end to his miserable being: they then
stripped him entirely naked, threw him into a ditch, and departed with
their booty.
The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began to recover
his senses as a stage-coach came by. The postillion, hearing a man's
groans, stopt his horses, and told the coachman he was certain there was
a dead man lying in the ditch, for he heard him groan. "Go on, sirrah,"
says the coachman; "we are confounded late, and have no time to look
after dead men." A lady, who heard what the postillion said, and
likewise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coachman to stop and see
what was the matter. Upon which he bid the postillion alight, and look
into the ditch. He did so, and returned, "that there was a man sitting
upright, as naked as ever he was born."--"O J--sus!" cried the lady; "a
naked man! Dear coachman, drive on and leave him." Upon this the
gentlemen got out of the coach; and Joseph begged them to have mercy
upon him: for that he had been robbed and almost beaten to death.
"Robbed!" cries an old gentleman: "let us make all the haste imaginable,
or we shall be robbed too." A young man who belonged to the law
answered, "He wished they had passed by without taking any notice; but
that now they might be proved to have been last in his company; if he
should die they might be called to some account for his murder. He
therefore thought it advisable to save the poor creature's life, for
their own sakes, if possible; at least, if he died, to prevent the
jury's finding that they fled for it. He was therefore of opinion to
take the man into the coach, and carry him to the next inn." The lady
insisted, "That he should not come into the coach. That if they lifted
him in, she would herself alight: for she had rather stay in that place
to all eternity than ride with a naked man." The coachman objected,
"That he could not suffer him to be taken in unless somebody would pay a
shilling for his carriage the four miles." Which the two gentlemen
refused to do. But the lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief happening
to himself, if the wretch was left behind in that condition, saying no
man could be too cautious in these matters, and that he remembered very
extraordinary cases in the books, threatened the coachman, and bid him
deny taking him up at his peril; for that, if he died, he should be
indicted for his murder; and if he lived, and brought an action against
him, he would willingly take a brief in it. These words had a sensible
effect on the coachman, who was well acquainted with the person who
spoke them; and the old gentleman above mentioned, thinking the naked
man would afford him frequent opportunities of showing his wit to the
lady, offered to join with the company in giving a mug of beer for his
fare; till, partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the
promises of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with compassion
at the poor creature's condition, who stood bleeding and shivering with
the cold, he at length agreed; and Joseph was now advancing to the
coach, where, seeing the lady, who held the sticks of her fan before her
eyes, he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, unless he
was furnished with sufficient covering to prevent giving the least
offence to decency--so perfectly modest was this young man; such mighty
effects had the spotless example of the amiable Pamela, and the
excellent sermons of Mr Adams, wrought upon him.
Though there were several greatcoats about the coach, it was not easy to
get over this difficulty which Joseph had started. The two gentlemen
complained they were cold, and could not spare a rag; the man of wit
saying, with a laugh, that charity began at home; and the coachman, who
had two greatcoats spread under him, refused to lend either, lest they
should be made bloody: the lady's footman desired to be excused for the
same reason, which the lady herself, notwithstanding her abhorrence of a
naked man, approved: and it is more than probable poor Joseph, who
obstinately adhered to his modest resolution, must have perished, unless
the postillion (a lad who hath been since transported for robbing a
hen-roost) had voluntarily stript off a greatcoat, his only garment, at
the same time swearing a great oath (for which he was rebuked by the
passengers), "that he would rather ride in his shirt all his life than
suffer a fellow-creature to lie in so miserable a condition."
Joseph, having put on the greatcoat, was lifted into the coach, which
now proceeded on its journey. He declared himself almost dead with the
cold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the lady if she could
not accommodate him with a dram. She answered, with some resentment,
"She wondered at his asking her such a question; but assured him she
never tasted any such thing."
The lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances of the robbery, when the
coach stopt, and one of the ruffians, putting a pistol in, demanded
their money of the passengers, who readily gave it them; and the lady,
in her fright, delivered up a little silver bottle, of about a
half-pint size, which the rogue, clapping it to his mouth, and drinking
her health, declared, held some of the best Nantes he had ever tasted:
this the lady afterwards assured the company was the mistake of her
maid, for that she had ordered her to fill the bottle with
Hungary-water.
As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, it seems, a
case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the company, that if
it had been daylight, and he could have come at his pistols, he would
not have submitted to the robbery: he likewise set forth that he had
often met highwaymen when he travelled on horseback, but none ever durst
attack him; concluding that, if he had not been more afraid for the lady
than for himself, he should not have now parted with his money
so easily.
As wit is generally observed to love to reside in empty pockets, so the
gentleman whose ingenuity we have above remarked, as soon as he had
parted with his money, began to grow wonderfully facetious. He made
frequent allusions to Adam and Eve, and said many excellent things on
figs and fig-leaves; which perhaps gave more offence to Joseph than to
any other in the company.
The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests without departing
from his profession. He said, "If Joseph and the lady were alone, he
would be more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his affairs were
not fettered with any incumbrance; he'd warrant he soon suffered a
recovery by a writ of entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in
tail; that, for his own part, he would engage to make so firm a
settlement in a coach, that there should be no danger of an ejectment,"
with an inundation of the like gibberish, which he continued to vent
till the coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid only was up, in
readiness to attend the coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and a
dram. Joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed prepared
for him, which the maid readily promised to perform; and, being a
good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapt
a large fagot on the fire, and, furnishing Joseph with a greatcoat
belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm
himself whilst she made his bed. The coachman, in the meantime, took an
opportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors; after
which, he reminded his passengers how late they were, and, after they
had taken leave of Joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could.
The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use her interest to
borrow him a shirt; but imagining, as she afterwards said, by his being
so bloody, that he must be a dead man, she ran with all speed to hasten
the surgeon, who was more than half drest, apprehending that the coach
had been overturned, and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as the
wench had informed him at his window that it was a poor foot-passenger
who had been stripped of all he had, and almost murdered, he chid her
for disturbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very
quietly returned to bed and to sleep.
Aurora now began to shew her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten
millions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes a
thousand times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sung both the day
and the song; when the master of the inn, Mr Tow-wouse, arose, and
learning from his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of
his poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, "good-lack-a-day!"
and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his own shirts.
Mrs Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched out her arms in vain to
fold her departed husband, when the maid entered the room. "Who's there?
Betty?"--"Yes, madam."--"Where's your master?"--"He's without, madam;
he hath sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been
robbed and murdered."--"Touch one if you dare, you slut," said Mrs
Tow-wouse: "your master is a pretty sort of a man, to take in naked
vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have no such
doings. If you offer to touch anything, I'll throw the chamber-pot at
your head. Go, send your master to me."--"Yes, madam," answered Betty.
As soon as he came in, she thus began: "What the devil do you mean by
this, Mr Tow-wouse? Am I to buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby
rascals?"--"My dear," said Mr Tow-wouse, "this is a poor
wretch."--"Yes," says she, "I know it is a poor wretch; but what the
devil have we to do with poor wretches? The law makes us provide for too
many already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red coats
shortly."--"My dear," cries Tow-wouse, "this man hath been robbed of all
he hath."--"Well then," said she, "where's his money to pay his
reckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go to an alehouse? I shall send
him packing as soon as I am up, I assure you."--"My dear," said he,
"common charity won't suffer you to do that."--"Common charity, a f--t!"
says she, "common charity teaches us to provide for ourselves and our
families; and I and mine won't be ruined by your charity, I assure
you."--"Well," says he, "my dear, do as you will, when you are up; you
know I never contradict you."--"No," says she; "if the devil was to
contradict me, I would make the house too hot to hold him."
With such like discourses they consumed near half-an-hour, whilst Betty
provided a shirt from the hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and
put it on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last visited him, and
washed and drest his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr Tow-wouse
that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he scarce
saw any hopes of his recovery. "Here's a pretty kettle of fish," cries
Mrs Tow-wouse, "you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeral
at our own expense." Tow-wouse (who, notwithstanding his charity, would
have given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that any
other house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his guest)
answered, "My dear, I am not to blame; he was brought hither by the
stage-coach, and Betty had put him to bed before I was stirring."--"I'll
Betty her," says she.--At which, with half her garments on, the other
half under her arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate Betty,
whilst Tow-wouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor Joseph, and
inquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair.
CHAPTER XIII.
_What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with the
curious discourse between him and Mr Barnabas, the parson of
the parish._
As soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history of the robbery,
together with a short account of himself, and his intended journey, he
asked the surgeon if he apprehended him to be in any danger: to which
the surgeon very honestly answered, "He feared he was; for that his
pulse was very exalted and feverish, and, if his fever should prove more
than symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him." Joseph, fetching
a deep sigh, cried, "Poor Fanny, I would I could have lived to see thee!
but God's will be done."
The surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly affairs to settle,
that he would do it as soon as possible; for, though he hoped he might
recover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he was in great
danger; and if the malign concoction of his humours should cause a
suscitation of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and incapable to
make his will. Joseph answered, "That it was impossible for any creature
in the universe to be in a poorer condition than himself; for since the
robbery he had not one thing of any kind whatever which he could call
his own." "I had," said he, "a poor little piece of gold, which they
took away, that would have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions;
but surely, Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I have thy dear
image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence."
Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but they were refused
him; and he was advised to use all his endeavours to compose himself.
They then left him; and Mr Tow-wouse sent to a clergyman to come and
administer his good offices to the soul of poor Joseph, since the
surgeon despaired of making any successful applications to his body.
Mr Barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) came as soon as sent
for; and, having first drank a dish of tea with the landlady, and
afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the room
where Joseph lay; but, finding him asleep, returned to take the other
sneaker; which when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the
chamber-door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talking to
himself in the following manner:--
"O most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sister! whose example could alone
enable me to withstand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to
preserve my virtue pure and chaste for the arms of my dear Fanny, if it
had pleased Heaven that I should ever have come unto them. What riches,
or honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the loss of innocence?
Doth not that alone afford us more consolation than all worldly
acquisitions? What but innocence and virtue could give any comfort to
such a miserable wretch as I am? Yet these can make me prefer this sick
and painful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in my lady's.
These can make me face death without fear; and though I love my Fanny
more than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me to resign myself to
the Divine will without repining. O thou delightful charming creature!
if Heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest state
would have been a paradise; I could have lived with thee in the lowest
cottage without envying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any
man breathing. But I must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest
angel! I must think of another world; and I heartily pray thou may'st
meet comfort in this."--Barnabas thought he had heard enough, so
downstairs he went, and told Tow-wouse he could do his guest no service;
for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a
rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room.
The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his patient in a higher
fever, as he said, than when he left him, though not delirious; for,
notwithstanding Mr Barnabas's opinion, he had not been once out of his
senses since his arrival at the inn.
Mr Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty prevailed on to
make another visit. As soon as he entered the room he told Joseph "He
was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for another world: in the
first place, therefore, he hoped he had repented of all his sins."
Joseph answered, "He hoped he had; but there was one thing which he knew
not whether he should call a sin; if it was, he feared he should die in
the commission of it; and that was, the regret of parting with a young
woman whom he loved as tenderly as he did his heart-strings." Barnabas
bad him be assured "that any repining at the Divine will was one of the
greatest sins he could commit; that he ought to forget all carnal
affections, and think of better things." Joseph said, "That neither in
this world nor the next he could forget his Fanny; and that the thought,
however grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not half so
tormenting as the fear of what she would suffer when she knew his
misfortune." Barnabas said, "That such fears argued a diffidence and
despondence very criminal; that he must divest himself of all human
passions, and fix his heart above." Joseph answered, "That was what he
desired to do, and should be obliged to him if he would enable him to
accomplish it." Barnabas replied, "That must be done by grace." Joseph
besought him to discover how he might attain it. Barnabas answered, "By
prayer and faith." He then questioned him concerning his forgiveness of
the thieves. Joseph answered, "He feared that was more than he could do;
for nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear they were
taken."--"That," cries Barnabas, "is for the sake of justice."--"Yes,"
said Joseph, "but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I should
attack them, and kill them too, if I could."--"Doubtless," answered
Barnabas, "it is lawful to kill a thief; but can you say you forgive
them as a Christian ought?" Joseph desired to know what that forgiveness
was. "That is," answered Barnabas, "to forgive them as--as--it is to
forgive them as--in short, it is to forgive them as a Christian."--
Joseph replied, "He forgave them as much as he could."--"Well, well,"
said Barnabas, "that will do." He then demanded of him, "If he
remembered any more sins unrepented of; and if he did, he desired him to
make haste and repent of them as fast as he could, that they might
repeat over a few prayers together." Joseph answered, "He could not
recollect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he had
committed he was sincerely sorry for." Barnabas said that was enough,
and then proceeded to prayer with all the expedition he was master of,
some company then waiting for him below in the parlour, where the
ingredients for punch were all in readiness; but no one would squeeze
the oranges till he came.
Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little tea; which Barnabas
reported to Mrs Tow-wouse, who answered, "She had just done drinking it,
and could not be slopping all day;" but ordered Betty to carry him up
some small beer.
Betty obeyed her mistress's commands; but Joseph, as soon as he had
tasted it, said, he feared it would increase his fever, and that he
longed very much for tea; to which the good-natured Betty answered, he
should have tea, if there was any in the land; she accordingly went and
bought him some herself, and attended him with it; where we will leave
her and Joseph together for some time, to entertain the reader with
other matters.
CHAPTER XIV.
_Being very full of adventures which succeeded each other at the inn._
It was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave person rode into the
inn, and, committing his horse to the hostler, went directly into the
kitchen, and, having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the
fireside, where several other persons were likewise assembled.
The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was committed the
night before, and on the poor wretch who lay above in the dreadful
condition in which we have already seen him. Mrs Tow-wouse said, "She
wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell meant by bringing such guests to
her house, when there were so many alehouses on the road proper for
their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the parish should be
at the expense of the funeral." She added, "Nothing would serve the
fellow's turn but tea, she would assure him." Betty, who was just
returned from her charitable office, answered, she believed he was a
gentleman, for she never saw a finer skin in her life. "Pox on his
skin!" replied Mrs Tow-wouse, "I suppose that is all we are like to have
for the reckoning. I desire no such gentlemen should ever call at the
Dragon" (which it seems was the sign of the inn).
The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of emotion at the
distress of this poor creature, whom he observed to be fallen not into
the most compassionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs Tow-wouse had given no
utterance to the sweetness of her temper, nature had taken such pains in
her countenance, that Hogarth himself never gave more expression to
a picture.
Her person was short, thin, and crooked. Her forehead projected in the
middle, and thence descended in a declivity to the top of her nose,
which was sharp and red, and would have hung over her lips, had not
nature turned up the end of it. Her lips were two bits of skin, which,
whenever she spoke, she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked;
and at the upper end of that skin which composed her cheeks, stood two
bones, that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. Add to this a voice
most wonderfully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being both
loud and hoarse.
It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had conceived a greater
dislike for his landlady or compassion for her unhappy guest. He
inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, who was now come into the
kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery? He begged him to use
all possible means towards it, telling him, "it was I the duty of men of
all professions to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor
and necessitous." The surgeon answered, "He should take proper care; but
he defied all the surgeons in London to do him any good."--"Pray, sir,"
said the gentleman, "what are his wounds?"--"Why, do you know anything
of wounds?" says the surgeon (winking upon Mrs Tow-wouse).--"Sir, I have
a small smattering in surgery," answered the gentleman.--"A
smattering--ho, ho, ho!" said the surgeon; "I believe it is a
smattering indeed."
The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor, who was
what they call a dry fellow, expose the gentleman.
He began therefore with an air of triumph: "I I suppose, sir, you have
travelled?"--"No, really, sir," said the gentleman.--"Ho! then you have
practised in the hospitals perhaps?"--"No, sir."--"Hum! not that
neither? Whence, sir, then, if I may be so bold to inquire, have you got
your knowledge in surgery?"--"Sir," answered the gentleman, "I do not
pretend to much; but the little I know I have from books."--"Books!"
cries the doctor. "What, I suppose you have read Galen and
Hippocrates!"--"No, sir," said the gentleman.--"How! you understand
surgery," answers the doctor, "and not read Galen and Hippocrates?"--
"Sir," cries the other, "I believe there are many surgeons who have
never read these authors."--"I believe so too," says the doctor, "more
shame for them; but, thanks to my education, I have them by heart, and
very seldom go without them both in my pocket."--"They are pretty large
books," said the gentleman.--"Aye," said the doctor, "I believe I know
how large they are better than you." (At which he fell a winking, and
the whole company burst into a laugh.)
The doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman, "If he did not
understand physic as well as surgery." "Rather better," answered the
gentleman.--"Aye, like enough," cries the doctor, with a wink. "Why, I
know a little of physic too."--"I wish I knew half so much," said
Tow-wouse, "I'd never wear an apron again."--"Why, I believe, landlord,"
cries the doctor, "there are few men, though I say it, within twelve
miles of the place, that handle a fever better. _Veniente accurrite
morbo_: that is my method. I suppose, brother, you understand
_Latin_?"--"A little," says the gentleman.--"Aye, and Greek now, I'll
warrant you: _Ton dapomibominos poluflosboio Thalasses_. But I have
almost forgot these things: I could have repeated Homer by heart
once."--"Ifags! the gentleman has caught a traytor," says Mrs Tow-wouse;
at which they all fell a laughing.
The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, very
contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, which he did with
no small satisfaction; and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, told
him, "He was thoroughly convinced of his great learning and abilities;
and that he would be obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion
of his patient's case above-stairs."--"Sir," says the doctor, "his case
is that of a dead man--the contusion on his head has perforated the
internal membrane of the occiput, and divelicated that radical small
minute invisible nerve which coheres to the pericranium; and this was
attended with a fever at first symptomatic, then pneumatic; and he is at
length grown deliriuus, or delirious, as the vulgar express it."
He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty noise
interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighbourhood had taken one
of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty ran upstairs
with this news to Joseph, who begged they might search for a little
piece of broken gold, which had a ribband tied to it, and which he could
swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in the universe.
Notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his innocence, the mob were
very busy in searching him, and presently, among other things, pulled
out the piece of gold just mentioned; which Betty no sooner saw than she
laid violent hands on it, and conveyed it up to Joseph, who received it
with raptures of joy, and, hugging it in his bosom, declared he could
now die contented.
Within a few minutes afterwards came in some other fellows, with a
bundle which they had found in a ditch, and which was indeed the cloaths
which had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other things they had
taken from him.
The gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he declared he knew the
livery; and, if it had been taken from the poor creature above-stairs,
desired he might see him; for that he was very well acquainted with the
family to whom that livery belonged.
He was accordingly conducted up by Betty; but what, reader, was the
surprize on both sides, when he saw Joseph was the person in bed, and
when Joseph discovered the face of his good friend Mr Abraham Adams!
It would be impertinent to insert a discourse which chiefly turned on
the relation of matters already well known to the reader; for, as soon
as the curate had satisfied Joseph concerning the perfect health of his
Fanny, he was on his side very inquisitive into all the particulars
which had produced this unfortunate accident.
To return therefore to the kitchen, where a great variety of company
were now assembled from all the rooms of the house, as well as the
neighbourhood: so much delight do men take in contemplating the
countenance of a thief.
Mr Tow-wouse began to rub his hands with pleasure at seeing so large an
assembly; who would, he hoped, shortly adjourn into several apartments,
in order to discourse over the robbery, and drink a health to all honest
men. But Mrs Tow-wouse, whose misfortune it was commonly to see things a
little perversely, began to rail at those who brought the fellow into
her house; telling her husband, "They were very likely to thrive who
kept a house of entertainment for beggars and thieves."
The mob had now finished their search, and could find nothing about the
captive likely to prove any evidence; for as to the cloaths, though the
mob were very well satisfied with that proof, yet, as the surgeon
observed, they could not convict him, because they were not found in his
custody; to which Barnabas agreed, and added that these were _bona
waviata_, and belonged to the lord of the manor.
"How," says the surgeon, "do you say these goods belong to the lord of
the manor?"--"I do," cried Barnabas.--"Then I deny it," says the
surgeon: "what can the lord of the manor have to do in the case? Will
any one attempt to persuade me that what a man finds is not his
own?"--"I have heard," says an old fellow in the corner, "justice
Wise-one say, that, if every man had his right, whatever is found
belongs to the king of London."--"That may be true," says Barnabas, "in
some sense; for the law makes a difference between things stolen and
things found; for a thing may be stolen that never is found, and a thing
may be found that never was stolen: Now, goods that are both stolen and
found are _waviata_; and they belong to the lord of the manor."--"So the
lord of the manor is the receiver of stolen goods," says the doctor; at
which there was an universal laugh, being first begun by himself.
While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had almost (as there
was no evidence against him) brought over Barnabas, the surgeon,
Tow-wouse, and several others to his side, Betty informed them that they
had overlooked a little piece of gold, which she had carried up to the
man in bed, and which he offered to swear to amongst a million, aye,
amongst ten thousand. This immediately turned the scale against the
prisoner, and every one now concluded him guilty. It was resolved,
therefore, to keep him secured that night, and early in the morning to
carry him before a justice.
CHAPTER XV.
_Showing how Mrs Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how officious Mr
Barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the thief: with a
dissertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other persons
not mentioned in this history._
Betty told her mistress she believed the man in bed was a greater man
than they took him for; for, besides the extreme whiteness of his skin,
and the softness of his hands, she observed a very great familiarity
between the gentleman and him; and added, she was certain they were
intimate acquaintance, if not relations.
This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs Tow-wouse's countenance. She
said, "God forbid she should not discharge the duty of a Christian,
since the poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had a natural
antipathy to vagabonds; but could pity the misfortunes of a Christian
as soon as another." Tow-wouse said, "If the traveller be a gentleman,
though he hath no money about him now, we shall most likely be paid
hereafter; so you may begin to score whenever you will." Mrs Tow-wouse
answered, "Hold your simple tongue, and don't instruct me in my
business. I am sure I am sorry for the gentleman's misfortune with all
my heart; and I hope the villain who hath used him so barbarously will
be hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. God forbid he should want
anything in my house."
Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to satisfy themselves
concerning the piece of gold; Joseph was with difficulty prevailed upon
to show it them, but would by no entreaties be brought to deliver it out
of his own possession. He however attested this to be the same which had
been taken from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the finding it on
the thief.
The only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this gold before
the justice; for as to carrying Joseph himself, it seemed impossible;
nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him, for he had
fastened it with a ribband to his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing
but irresistible force should ever separate them; in which resolution,
Mr Adams, clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle of an ox,
declared he would support him.
A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence not very necessary
to be related here; after which the surgeon dressed Mr Joseph's head,
still persisting in the imminent danger in which his patient lay, but
concluding, with a very important look, "That he began to have some
hopes; that he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and
would see him in the morning." After which Barnabas and he departed, and
left Mr Joseph and Mr Adams together.
Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey which he was
making to London, namely, to publish three volumes of sermons; being
encouraged, as he said, by an advertisement lately set forth by the
society of booksellers, who proposed to purchase any copies offered to
them, at a price to be settled by two persons; but though he imagined he
should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his
family were in urgent need of, he protested he would not leave Joseph in
his present condition: finally, he told him, "He had nine shillings and
threepence halfpenny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as
he pleased."
This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into Joseph's eyes; he
declared, "He had now a second reason to desire life, that he might show
his gratitude to such a friend." Adams bade him "be cheerful; for that
he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his ignorance, desired to make a
merit of curing him, though the wounds in his head, he perceived, were
by no means dangerous; that he was convinced he had no fever, and
doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day or two."
These words infused a spirit into Joseph; he said, "He found himself
very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to think any of his bones
injured, or that he had received any harm in his inside, unless that he
felt something very odd in his stomach; but he knew not whether that
might not arise from not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four
hours." Being then asked if he had any inclination to eat, he answered
in the affirmative. Then parson Adams desired him to "name what he had
the greatest fancy for; whether a poached egg, or chicken-broth." He
answered, "He could eat both very well; but that he seemed to have the
greatest appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage."
Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he had not the
least fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for that evening. He
accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl, I never could with any
tolerable certainty discover which; after this he was, by Mrs
Tow-wouse's order, conveyed into a better bed and equipped with one of
her husband's shirts.
In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to the inn, in order
to see the thief conveyed before the justice. They had consumed the
whole night in debating what measures they should take to produce the
piece of gold in evidence against him; for they were both extremely
zealous in the business, though neither of them were in the least
interested in the prosecution; neither of them had ever received any
private injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever been
suspected of loving the publick well enough to give them a sermon or a
dose of physic for nothing.
To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible to account for this
zeal, we must inform him that, as this parish was so unfortunate as to
have no lawyer in it, there had been a constant contention between the
two doctors, spiritual and physical, concerning their abilities in a
science, in which, as neither of them professed it, they had equal
pretensions to dispute each other's opinions. These disputes were
carried on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided the
parish; Mr Tow-wouse and one half of the neighbours inclining to the
surgeon, and Mrs Tow-wouse with the other half to the parson. The
surgeon drew his knowledge from those inestimable fountains, called The
Attorney's Pocket Companion, and Mr Jacob's Law-Tables; Barnabas trusted
entirely to Wood's Institutes. It happened on this occasion, as was
pretty frequently the case, that these two learned men differed about
the sufficiency of evidence; the doctor being of opinion that the maid's
oath would convict the prisoner without producing the gold; the parson,
_e contra, totis viribus._ To display their parts, therefore, before
the justice and the parish, was the sole motive which we can discover to
this zeal which both of them pretended to have for public justice.
O Vanity! how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy operations
discerned! How wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under different
disguises! Sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity, sometimes of
generosity: nay, thou hast the assurance even to put on those glorious
ornaments which belong only to heroic virtue. Thou odious, deformed
monster! whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, and poets
ridiculed; is there a wretch so abandoned as to own thee for an
acquaintance in public?--yet, how few will refuse to enjoy thee in
private? nay, thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. The
greatest villainies are daily practised to please thee; nor is the
meanest thief below, or the greatest hero above, thy notice. Thy
embraces are often the sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery
and the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, that
we attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to withhold
from them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves. Avarice itself
is often no more than thy handmaid, and even Lust thy pimp. The bully
Fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and Joy and Grief hide their
heads in thy presence.
I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee I court thee, and that
thy love hath inspired me to write this sarcastical panegyric on thee;
but thou art deceived: I value thee not of a farthing; nor will it give
me any pain if thou shouldst prevail on the reader to censure this
digression as arrant nonsense; for know, to thy confusion, that I have
introduced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a short
chapter, and so I return to my history.
CHAPTER XVI.
_The escape of the thief. Mr Adams's disappointment. The arrival of
two very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of parson Adams
to parson Barnabas._
Barnabas and the surgeon, being returned, as we have said, to the inn,
in order to convey the thief before the justice, were greatly concerned
to find a small accident had happened, which somewhat disconcerted them;
and this was no other than the thief's escape, who had modestly
withdrawn himself by night, declining all ostentation, and not chusing,
in imitation of some great men, to distinguish himself at the expense of
being pointed at.
When the company had retired the evening before, the thief was detained
in a room where the constable, and one of the young fellows who took
him, were planted as his guard. About the second watch a general
complaint of drought was made, both by the prisoner and his keepers.
Among whom it was at last agreed that the constable should remain on
duty, and the young fellow call up the tapster; in which disposition the
latter apprehended not the least danger, as the constable was well
armed, and could besides easily summon him back to his assistance, if
the prisoner made the least attempt to gain his liberty.
The young fellow had not long left the room before it came into the
constable's head that the prisoner might leap on him by surprize, and,
thereby preventing him of the use of his weapons, especially the long
staff in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the success of a
struggle to a equal chance. He wisely, therefore, to prevent this
inconvenience, slipt out of the room himself, and locked the door,
waiting without with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the
unhappy prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt to break out.
But human life, as hath been discovered by some great man or other (for
I would by no means be understood to affect the honour of making any
such discovery), very much resembles a game at chess; for as in the
latter, while a gamester is too attentive to secure himself very
strongly on one side the board, he is apt to leave an unguarded opening
on the other; so doth it often happen in life, and so did it happen on
this occasion; for whilst the cautious constable with such wonderful
sagacity had possessed himself of the door, he most unhappily forgot
the window.
The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner perceived this
opening than he began to move that way; and, finding the passage easy,
he took with him the young fellow's hat, and without any ceremony
stepped into the street and made the best of his way.
The young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong beer, was a
little surprized to find the constable at the door; but much more so
when, the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made his
escape, and which way. He threw down the beer, and, without uttering
anything to the constable except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt
out of the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, being very
unwilling to lose the reward which he had assured himself of.
The constable hath not been discharged of suspicion on this account; it
hath been said that, not being concerned in the taking the thief, he
could not have been entitled to any part of the reward if he had been
convicted; that the thief had several guineas in his pocket; that it was
very unlikely he should have been guilty of such an oversight; that his
pretence for leaving the room was absurd; that it was his constant
maxim, that a wise man never refused money on any conditions; that at
every election he always had sold his vote to both parties, &c.
But, notwithstanding these and many other such allegations, I am
sufficiently convinced of his innocence; having been positively assured
of it by those who received their informations from his own mouth;
which, in the opinion of some moderns, is the best and indeed
only evidence.
All the family were now up, and with many others assembled in the
kitchen, where Mr Tow-wouse was in some tribulation; the surgeon having
declared that by law he was liable to be indicted for the thief's
escape, as it was out of his house; he was a little comforted, however,
by Mr Barnabas's opinion, that as the escape was by night the indictment
would not lie.
Mrs Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following words: "Sure never was
such a fool as my husband; would any other person living have left a man
in the custody of such a drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom Suckbribe?"
(which was the constable's name); "and if he could be indicted without
any harm to his wife and children, I should be glad of it." (Then the
bell rung in Joseph's room.) "Why Betty, John, Chamberlain, where the
devil are you all? Have you no ears, or no conscience, not to tend the
sick better? See what the gentleman wants. Why don't you go yourself, Mr
Tow-wouse? But any one may die for you; you have no more feeling than a
deal board. If a man lived a fortnight in your house without spending a
penny, you would never put him in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea
or coffee for breakfast." "Yes, my dear," cried Tow-wouse. She then
asked the doctor and Mr Barnabas what morning's draught they chose, who
answered, they had a pot of cyder-and at the fire; which we will leave
them merry over, and return to Joseph.
He had rose pretty early this morning; but, though his wounds were far
from threatening any danger, he was so sore with the bruises, that it
was impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey yet; Mr Adams,
therefore, whose stock was visibly decreased with the expenses of supper
and breakfast, and which could not survive that day's scoring, began to
consider how it was possible to recruit it. At last he cried, "He had
luckily hit on a sure method, and, though it would oblige him to return
himself home together with Joseph, it mattered not much." He then sent
for Tow-wouse, and, taking him into another room, told him "he wanted to
borrow three guineas, for which he would put ample security into his
hands." Tow-wouse, who expected a watch, or ring, or something of double
the value, answered, "He believed he could furnish him." Upon which
Adams, pointing to his saddle-bag, told him, with a face and voice full
of solemnity, "that there were in that bag no less than nine volumes of
manuscript sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds as a shilling was
worth twelve pence, and that he would deposit one of the volumes in his
hands by way of pledge; not doubting but that he would have the honesty
to return it on his repayment of the money; for otherwise he must be a
very great loser, seeing that every volume would at least bring him ten
pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in the
country; for," said he, "as to my own part, having never yet dealt in
printing, I do not pretend to ascertain the exact value of such things."
Tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, said (and not without
some truth), "That he was no judge of the price of such kind of goods;
and as for money, he really was very short." Adams answered, "Certainly
he would not scruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedly
worth at least ten." The landlord replied, "He did not believe he had
so much money in the house, and besides, he was to make up a sum. He was
very confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily sorry
it did not suit him." He then cried out, "Coming sir!" though nobody
called; and ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his neck.
Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this disappointment, nor knew he
what further stratagem to try. He immediately applied to his pipe, his
constant friend and comfort in his afflictions; and, leaning over the
rails, he devoted himself to meditation, assisted by the inspiring fumes
of tobacco.
He had on a nightcap drawn over his wig, and a short greatcoat, which
half covered his cassock--a dress which, added to something comical
enough in his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract the eyes
of those who were not over given to observation.
Whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this posture, a coach and six, with a
numerous attendance, drove into the inn. There alighted from the coach a
young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which another young fellow
leapt from the box, and shook the former by the hand; and both, together
with the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr Tow-wouse into an
apartment; whither as they passed, they entertained themselves with the
following short facetious dialogue:--
"You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack!" says he from the coach;
"you had almost overturned us just now."--"Pox take you!" says the
coachman; "if I had only broke your neck, it would have been saving
somebody else the trouble; but I should have been sorry for the
pointers."--"Why, you son of a b--," answered the other, "if nobody
could shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no use."--"D--n
me," says the coachman, "I will shoot with you five guineas a
shot."--"You be hanged," says the other; "for five guineas you shall
shoot at my a--."--"Done," says the coachman; "I'll pepper you better
than ever you was peppered by Jenny Bouncer."--"Pepper your
grandmother," says the other: "Here's Tow-wouse will let you shoot at
him for a shilling a time."--"I know his honour better," cries
Tow-wouse; "I never saw a surer shot at a partridge. Every man misses
now and then; but if I could shoot half as well as his honour, I would
desire no better livelihood than I could get by my gun."--"Pox on you,"
said the coachman, "you demolish more game now than your head's worth.
There's a bitch, Tow-wouse: by G-- she never blinked[A] a bird in her
life."--"I have a puppy, not a year old, shall hunt with her for a
hundred," cries the other gentleman.--"Done," says the coachman: "but
you will be pox'd before you make the bett."--"If you have a mind for a
bett," cries the coachman, "I will match my spotted dog with your white
bitch for a hundred, play or pay."--"Done," says the other: "and I'll
run Baldface against Slouch with you for another."--"No," cries he from
the box; "but I'll venture Miss Jenny against Baldface, or Hannibal
either."--"Go to the devil," cries he from the coach: "I will make every
bett your own way, to be sure! I will match Hannibal with Slouch for a
thousand, if you dare; and I say done first."
[Footnote A:
To blink is a term used to signify the dog's passing by a bird without
pointing at it.]
They were now arrived; and the reader will be very contented to leave
them, and repair to the kitchen; where Barnabas, the surgeon, and an
exciseman were smoaking their pipes over some cyder-and; and where the
servants, who attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen alight,
were now arrived.
"Tom," cries one of the footmen, "there's parson Adams smoaking his
pipe in the gallery."--"Yes," says Tom; "I pulled off my hat to him, and
the parson spoke to me."
"Is the gentleman a clergyman, then?" says Barnabas (for his cassock had
been tied up when he arrived). "Yes, sir," answered the footman; "and
one there be but few like."--"Aye," said Barnabas; "if I had known it
sooner, I should have desired his company; I would always shew a proper
respect for the cloth: but what say you, doctor, shall we adjourn into a
room, and invite him to take part of a bowl of punch?"
This proposal was immediately agreed to and executed; and parson Adams
accepting the invitation, much civility passed between the two
clergymen, who both declared the great honour they had for the cloth.
They had not been long together before they entered into a discourse on
small tithes, which continued a full hour, without the doctor or
exciseman's having one opportunity to offer a word.
It was then proposed to begin a general conversation, and the exciseman
opened on foreign affairs; but a word unluckily dropping from one of
them introduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered by the inferior
clergy; which, after a long duration, concluded with bringing the nine
volumes of sermons on the carpet.
Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams; he said, "The age was so
wicked, that nobody read sermons: would you think it, Mr Adams?" said
he, "I once intended to print a volume of sermons myself, and they had
the approbation of two or three bishops; but what do you think a
bookseller offered me?"--"Twelve guineas perhaps," cried Adams.--"Not
twelve pence, I assure you," answered Barnabas: "nay, the dog refused me
a Concordance in exchange. At last I offered to give him the printing
them, for the sake of dedicating them to that very gentleman who just
now drove his own coach into the inn; and, I assure you, he had the
impudence to refuse my offer; by which means I lost a good living, that
was afterwards given away in exchange for a pointer, to one who--but I
will not say anything against the cloth. So you may guess, Mr Adams,
what you are to expect; for if sermons would have gone down, I
believe--I will not be vain; but to be concise with you, three bishops
said they were the best that ever were writ: but indeed there are a
pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold yet."--"Pray,
sir," said Adams, "to what do you think the numbers may amount?"--"Sir,"
answered Barnabas, "a bookseller told me, he believed five thousand
volumes at least."--"Five thousand?" quoth the surgeon: "What can they
be writ upon? I remember when I was a boy, I used to read one
Tillotson's sermons; and, I am sure, if a man practised half so much as
is in one of those sermons, he will go to heaven."--"Doctor," cried
Barnabas, "you have a prophane way of talking, for which I must reprove
you. A man can never have his duty too frequently inculcated into him.
And as for Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and said things
very well; but comparisons are odious; another man may write as well as
he--I believe there are some of my sermons,"--and then he applied the
candle to his pipe.--"And I believe there are some of my discourses,"
cries Adams, "which the bishops would not think totally unworthy of
being printed; and I have been informed I might procure a very large sum
(indeed an immense one) on them."--"I doubt that," answered Barnabas:
"however, if you desire to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell
them by advertising the manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately
deceased, all warranted originals, and never printed. And now I think of
it, I should be obliged to you, if there be ever a funeral one among
them, to lend it me; for I am this very day to preach a funeral sermon,
for which I have not penned a line, though I am to have a double
price."--Adams answered, "He had but one, which he feared would not
serve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magistrate, who had
exerted himself very singularly in the preservation of the morality of
his neighbours, insomuch that he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman in
the parish where he lived."--"No," replied Barnabas, "that will not do
quite so well; for the deceased, upon whose virtues I am to harangue,
was a little too much addicted to liquor, and publickly kept a
mistress.--I believe I must take a common sermon, and trust to my memory
to introduce something handsome on him."--"To your invention rather,"
said the doctor: "your memory will be apter to put you out; for no man
living remembers anything good of him."
With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied the bowl of punch,
paid their reckoning, and separated: Adams and the doctor went up to
Joseph, parson Barnabas departed to celebrate the aforesaid deceased,
and the exciseman descended into the cellar to gauge the vessels.
Joseph was now ready to sit down to a loin of mutton, and waited for Mr
Adams, when he and the doctor came in. The doctor, having felt his pulse
and examined his wounds, declared him much better, which he imputed to
that sanative soporiferous draught, a medicine "whose virtues," he said,
"were never to be sufficiently extolled." And great indeed they must be,
if Joseph was so much indebted to them as the doctor imagined; since
nothing more than those effluvia which escaped the cork could have
contributed to his recovery; for the medicine had stood untouched in the
window ever since its arrival.
Joseph passed that day, and the three following, with his friend Adams,
in which nothing so remarkable happened as the swift progress of his
recovery. As he had an excellent habit of body, his wounds were now
almost healed; and his bruises gave him so little uneasiness, that he
pressed Mr Adams to let him depart; told him he should never be able to
return sufficient thanks for all his favours, but begged that he might
no longer delay his journey to London.
Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he conceived it, of Mr
Tow-wouse, and the envy (for such he thought it) of Mr Barnabas, had
great expectations from his sermons: seeing therefore Joseph in so good
a way, he told him he would agree to his setting out the next morning in
the stage-coach, that he believed he should have sufficient, after the
reckoning paid, to procure him one day's conveyance in it, and
afterwards he would be able to get on on foot, or might be favoured with
a lift in some neighbour's waggon, especially as there was then to be a
fair in the town whither the coach would carry him, to which numbers
from his parish resorted--And as to himself, he agreed to proceed to the
great city.
They were now walking in the inn-yard, when a fat, fair, short person
rode in, and, alighting from his horse, went directly up to Barnabas,
who was smoaking his pipe on a bench. The parson and the stranger shook
one another very lovingly by the hand, and went into a room together.
The evening now coming on, Joseph retired to his chamber, whither the
good Adams accompanied him, and took this opportunity to expatiate on
the great mercies God had lately shown him, of which he ought not only
to have the deepest inward sense, but likewise to express outward
thankfulness for them. They therefore fell both on their knees, and
spent a considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving.
They had just finished when Betty came in and told Mr Adams Mr Barnabas
desired to speak to him on some business of consequence below-stairs.
Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, he would let him
know it, that he might go to bed, which Adams promised, and in that case
they wished one another good-night.
CHAPTER XVII.
_A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the bookseller, 'which
was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn, which
produced a dialogue between Mrs Tow-wouse and her maid of no
gentle kind._
As soon as Adams came into the room, Mr Barnabas introduced him to the
stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely to
deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting the
stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; that
nothing could be more convenient, for he had no other business to the
great city, and was heartily desirous of returning with the young man,
who was just recovered of his misfortune. He then snapt his fingers (as
was usual with him), and took two or three turns about the room in an
extasy. And to induce the bookseller to be as expeditious as possible,
as likewise to offer him a better price for his commodity, he assured
them their meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for that he had the
most pressing occasion for money at that time, his own being almost
spent, and having a friend then in the same inn, who was just recovered
from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a most
indigent condition. "So that nothing," says he, "could be so opportune
for the supplying both our necessities as my making an immediate bargain
with you."
As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in these words:
"Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engaging in what my friend Mr
Barnabas recommends; but sermons are mere drugs. The trade is so vastly
stocked with them, that really, unless they come out with the name of
Whitefield or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or
those sort of people, I don't care to touch; unless now it was a sermon
preached on the 30th of January; or we could say in the title-page,
published at the earnest request of the congregation, or the
inhabitants; but, truly, for a dry piece of sermons, I had rather be
excused; especially as my hands are so full at present. However, sir, as
Mr Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take the
manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very
short time."
"Oh!" said Adams, "if you desire it, I will read two or three discourses
as a specimen." This Barnabas, who loved sermons no better than a grocer
doth figs, immediately objected to, and advised Adams to let the
bookseller have his sermons: telling him, "If he gave him a direction,
he might be certain of a speedy answer;" adding, he need not scruple
trusting them in his possession. "No," said the bookseller, "if it was a
play that had been acted twenty nights together, I believe it would
be safe."
Adams did not at all relish the last expression; he said "he was sorry
to hear sermons compared to plays." "Not by me, I assure you," cried the
bookseller, "though I don't know whether the licensing act may not
shortly bring them to the same footing; but I have formerly known a
hundred guineas given for a play."--"More shame for those who gave it,"
cried Barnabas.--"Why so?" said the bookseller, "for they got hundreds
by it."--"But is there no difference between conveying good or ill
instructions to mankind?" said Adams: "Would not an honest mind rather
lose money by the one, than gain it by the other?"--"If you can find any
such, I will not be their hindrance," answered the bookseller; "but I
think those persons who get by preaching sermons are the properest to
lose by printing them: for my part, the copy that sells best will be
always the best copy in my opinion; I am no enemy to sermons, but
because they don't sell: for I would as soon print one of Whitefield's
as any farce whatever."
"Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged," says Barnabas.
"Sir," said he, turning to Adams, "this fellow's writings (I know not
whether you have seen them) are levelled at the clergy. He would reduce
us to the example of the primitive ages, forsooth! and would insinuate
to the people that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and praying.
He pretends to understand the Scripture literally; and would make
mankind believe that the poverty and low estate which was recommended to
the Church in its infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to
her under persecution, was to be preserved in her flourishing and
established state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all the
freethinkers, are not calculated to do half the mischief, as those
professed by this fellow and his followers."
"Sir," answered Adams, "if Mr Whitefield had carried his doctrine no
farther than you mention, I should have remained, as I once was, his
well-wisher. I am, myself, as great an enemy to the luxury and splendour
of the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing
estate of the Church, understand the palaces, equipages, dress,
furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. Surely
those things, which savour so strongly of this world, become not the
servants of one who professed His kingdom was not of it. But when he
began to call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the
detestable doctrine of faith against good works, I was his friend no
longer; for surely that doctrine was coined in hell; and one would think
none but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach it. For
can anything be more derogatory to the honour of God than for men to
imagine that the all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good and
virtuous, 'Notwithstanding the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that
constant rule of virtue and goodness in which you walked upon earth,
still, as thou didst not believe everything in the true orthodox manner,
thy want of faith shall condemn thee?' Or, on the other side, can any
doctrine have a more pernicious influence on society, than a persuasion
that it will be a good plea for the villain at the last day--'Lord, it
is true I never obeyed one of thy commandments, yet punish me not, for I
believe them all?'"--"I suppose, sir," said the bookseller, "your
sermons are of a different kind."--"Aye, sir," said Adams; "the
contrary, I thank Heaven, is inculcated in almost every page, or I
should belye my own opinion, which hath always been, that a virtuous and
good Turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the sight of their Creator
than a vicious and wicked Christian, though his faith was as perfectly
orthodox as St Paul's himself."--"I wish you success," says the
bookseller, "but must beg to be excused, as my hands are so very full at
present; and, indeed, I am afraid you will find a backwardness in the
trade to engage in a book which the clergy would be certain to cry
down."--"God forbid," says Adams, "any books should be propagated which
the clergy would cry down; but if you mean by the clergy, some few
designing factious men, who have it at heart to establish some favourite
schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence of
religion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any book they
please; witness that excellent book called, 'A Plain Account of the
Nature and End of the Sacrament;' a book written (if I may venture on
the expression) with the pen of an angel, and calculated to restore the
true use of Christianity, and of that sacred institution; for what could
tend more to the noble purposes of religion than frequent chearful
meetings among the members of a society, in which they should, in the
presence of one another, and in the service of the Supreme Being, make
promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each other? Now,
this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully." At
these words Barnabas fell a-ringing with all the violence imaginable;
upon which a servant attending, he bid him "bring a bill immediately;
for that he was in company, for aught he knew, with the devil himself;
and he expected to hear the Alcoran, the Leviathan, or Woolston
commended, if he staid a few minutes longer." Adams desired, "as he was
so much moved at his mentioning a book which he did without apprehending
any possibility of offence, that he would be so kind to propose any
objections he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer."--"I
propose objections!" said Barnabas, "I never read a syllable in any such
wicked book; I never saw it in my life, I assure you."--Adams was going
to answer, when a most hideous uproar began in the inn. Mrs Tow-wouse,
Mr Tow-wouse, and Betty, all lifting up their voices together; but Mrs
Tow-wouse's voice, like a bass viol in a concert, was clearly and
distinctly distinguished among the rest, and was heard to articulate the
following sounds:--"O you damn'd villain! is this the return to all the
care I have taken of your family? This the reward of my virtue? Is this
the manner in which you behave to one who brought you a fortune, and
preferred you to so many matches, all your betters? To abuse my bed, my
own bed, with my own servant! but I'll maul the slut, I'll tear her
nasty eyes out! Was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such a mean
trollop? If she had been a gentlewoman, like myself, it had been some
excuse; but a beggarly, saucy, dirty servant-maid. Get you out of my
house, you whore." To which she added another name, which we do not care
to stain our paper with. It was a monosyllable beginning with a b--, and
indeed was the same as if she had pronounced the words, she-dog. Which
term we shall, to avoid offence, use on this occasion, though indeed
both the mistress and maid uttered the above-mentioned b--, a word
extremely disgustful to females of the lower sort. Betty had borne all
hitherto with patience, and had uttered only lamentations; but the last
appellation stung her to the quick. "I am a woman as well as yourself,"
she roared out, "and no she-dog; and if I have been a little naughty, I
am not the first; if I have been no better than I should be," cries she,
sobbing, "that's no reason you should call me out of my name; my
be-betters are wo-rse than me."--"Huzzy, huzzy," says Mrs Tow-wouse,
"have you the impudence to answer me? Did I not catch you, you
saucy"--and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to female
ears. "I can't bear that name," answered Betty: "if I have been wicked,
I am to answer for it myself in the other world; but I have done nothing
that's unnatural; and I will go out of your house this moment, for I
will never be called she-dog by any mistress in England." Mrs Tow-wouse
then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from executing any
dreadful purpose by Mr Adams, who confined her arms with the strength
of a wrist which Hercules would not have been ashamed of. Mr Tow-wouse,
being caught, as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no
defence to make, very prudently withdrew himself; and Betty committed
herself to the protection of the hostler, who, though she could not
conceive him pleased with what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather
a gentler beast than her mistress.
Mrs Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr Adams, and finding the enemy
vanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usual
serenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to the
reader the steps which led to a catastrophe, common enough, and comical
enough too perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and
well-being of families, and the subject of many tragedies, both in life
and on the stage.
CHAPTER XVIII.
_The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of what occasioned
the violent scene in the preceding chapter._
Betty, who was the occasion of all this hurry, had some good qualities.
She had good-nature, generosity, and compassion, but unfortunately, her
constitution was composed of those warm ingredients which, though the
purity of courts or nunneries might have happily controuled them, were
by no means able to endure the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at an
inn; who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers of all
complexions; to the dangerous addresses of fine gentlemen of the army,
who sometimes are obliged to reside with them a whole year together;
and, above all, are exposed to the caresses of footmen, stage-coachmen,
and drawers; all of whom employ the whole artillery of kissing,
flattering, bribing, and every other weapon which is to be found in the
whole armoury of love, against them.
Betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now lived three years in this
dangerous situation, during which she had escaped pretty well. An ensign
of foot was the first person who made an impression on her heart; he did
indeed raise a flame in her which required the care of a surgeon
to cool.
While she burnt for him, several others burnt for her. Officers of the
army, young gentlemen travelling the western circuit, inoffensive
squires, and some of graver character, were set a-fire by her charms!
At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappy
passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual chastity. She was
long deaf to all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a
neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hostler, with a new straw
hat and a pint of wine, made a second conquest over her.
She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this occasion which
had been the consequence of her former amour; nor, indeed, those other
ill effects which prudent young women very justly apprehend from too
absolute an indulgence to the pressing endearments of their lovers. This
latter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being entirely constant
to John, with whom she permitted Tom Whipwell the stage-coachman, and
now and then a handsome young traveller, to share her favours.
Mr Tow-wouse had for some time cast the languishing eyes of affection on
this young maiden. He had laid hold on every opportunity of saying
tender things to her, squeezing her by the hand, and sometimes kissing
her lips; for, as the violence of his passion had considerably abated to
Mrs Tow-wouse, so, like water, which is stopt from its usual current in
one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs Tow-wouse is
thought to have perceived this abatement, and, probably, it added very
little to the natural sweetness of her temper; for though she was as
true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous
of being shone on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth.
Ever since Joseph's arrival, Betty had conceived an extraordinary liking
to him, which discovered itself more and more as he grew better and
better; till that fatal evening, when, as she was warming his bed, her
passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly mastered both her
modesty and her reason, that, after many fruitless hints and sly
insinuations, she at last threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him
with great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature she had
ever seen.
Joseph, in great confusion, leapt from her, and told her he was sorry to
see a young woman cast off all regard to modesty; but she had gone too
far to recede, and grew so very indecent, that Joseph was obliged,
contrary to his inclination, to use some violence to her; and, taking
her in his arms, he shut her out of the room, and locked the door.
How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is always in his own power;
that, if he hath sufficient strength of mind, he hath always a competent
strength of body to defend himself, and cannot, like a poor weak woman,
be ravished against his will!
Betty was in the most violent agitation at this disappointment. Rage and
lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different ways; one
moment she thought of stabbing Joseph; the next, of taking him in her
arms, and devouring him with kisses; but the latter passion was far more
prevalent. Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself; but,
whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death presented
himself to her in so many shapes, of drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c.,
that her distracted mind could resolve on none. In this perturbation of
spirit, it accidentally occurred to her memory that her master's bed was
not made; she therefore went directly to his room, where he happened at
that time to be engaged at his bureau. As soon as she saw him, she
attempted to retire; but he called her back, and, taking her by the
hand, squeezed her so tenderly, at the same time whispering so many soft
things into her ears, and then pressed her so closely with his kisses,
that the vanquished fair one, whose passions were already raised, and
which were not so whimsically capricious that one man only could lay
them, though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that one--the
vanquished fair one quietly submitted, I say, to her master's will, who
had just attained the accomplishment of his bliss when Mrs Tow-wouse
unexpectedly entered the room, and caused all that confusion which we
have before seen, and which it is not necessary, at present, to take any
farther notice of; since, without the assistance of a single hint from
us, every reader of any speculation or experience, though not married
himself, may easily conjecture that it concluded with the discharge of
Betty, the submission of Mr Tow-wouse, with some things to be performed
on his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness in being
reconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any more in
the like manner; and, lastly, his quietly and contentedly bearing to be
reminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a
day during the residue of his life.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.
_Of Divisions in Authors_.
There are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades, from the highest
to the lowest, from that of prime-ministering to this of authoring,
which are seldom discovered unless to members of the same calling. Among
those used by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of
dividing our works into books and chapters to be none of the least
considerable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this secret,
common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing we mean only to
swell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwise be
extended to. These several places therefore in our paper, which are
filled with our books and chapters, are understood as so much buckram,
stays, and stay-tape in a taylor's bill, serving only to make up the sum
total, commonly found at the bottom of our first page and of his last.
But in reality the case is otherwise, and in this as well as all other
instances we consult the advantage of our reader, not our own; and
indeed, many notable uses arise to him from this method; for, first,
those little spaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn or
resting-place where he may stop and take a glass or any other
refreshment as it pleases him. Nay, our fine readers will, perhaps, be
scarce able to travel farther than through one of them in a day. As to
those vacant pages which are placed between our books, they are to be
regarded as those stages where in long journies the traveller stays some
time to repose himself, and consider of what he hath seen in the parts
he hath already passed through; a consideration which I take the liberty
to recommend a little to the reader; for, however swift his capacity may
be, I would not advise him to travel through these pages too fast; for
if he doth, he may probably miss the seeing some curious productions of
nature, which will be observed by the slower and more accurate reader. A
volume without any such places of rest resembles the opening of wilds or
seas, which tires the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon.
Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter but so many
inscriptions over the gates of inns (to continue the same metaphor),
informing the reader what entertainment he is to expect, which if he
likes not, he may travel on to the next; for, in biography, as we are
not tied down to an exact concatenation equally with other historians,
so a chapter or two (for instance, this I am now writing) may be often
passed over without any injury to the whole. And in these inscriptions I
have been as faithful as possible, not imitating the celebrated
Montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives you another; nor some
title-page authors, who promise a great deal and produce nothing at all.
There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several others which our
readers enjoy from this art of dividing; though perhaps most of them too
mysterious to be presently understood by any who are not initiated into
the science of authoring. To mention, therefore, but one which is most
obvious, it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning down its
leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those readers who (though they
read with great improvement and advantage) are apt, when they return to
their study after half-an-hour's absence, to forget where they left off.
These divisions have the sanction of great antiquity. Homer not only
divided his great work into twenty-four books (in compliment perhaps to
the twenty-four letters to which he had very particular obligations),
but, according to the opinion of some very sagacious critics, hawked
them all separately, delivering only one book at a time (probably by
subscription). He was the first inventor of the art which hath so long
lain dormant, of publishing by numbers; an art now brought to such
perfection, that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited piecemeal
to the public; nay, one bookseller hath (to encourage learning and ease
the public) contrived to give them a dictionary in this divided manner
for only fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire.
Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an argument of his
modesty; for by that, doubtless, he would insinuate that he pretends to
no more than half the merit of the Greek; for the same reason, our
Milton went originally no farther than ten; till, being puffed up by the
praise of his friends, he put himself on the same footing with the
Roman poet.
I shall not, however, enter so deep into this matter as some very
learned criticks have done; who have with infinite labour and acute
discernment discovered what books are proper for embellishment, and what
require simplicity only, particularly with regard to similes, which I
think are now generally agreed to become any book but the first.
I will dismiss this chapter with the following observation: that it
becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it does a butcher to
joint his meat, for such assistance is of great help to both the reader
and the carver. And now, having indulged myself a little, I will
endeavour to indulge the curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt
impatient to know what he will find in the subsequent chapters of
this book.
CHAPTER II.
_A surprizing instance of Mr Adams's short memory, with the unfortunate
consequences which it brought on Joseph._
Mr Adams and Joseph were now ready to depart different ways, when an
accident determined the former to return with his friend, which
Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been able to do. This
accident was, that those sermons, which the parson was travelling to
London to publish, were, O my good reader! left behind; what he had
mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other than three shirts, a
pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, which Mrs Adams, who thought
her husband would want shirts more than sermons on his journey, had
carefully provided him.
This discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of Joseph at the
opening the saddlebags; who, having heard his friend say he carried with
him nine volumes of sermons, and not being of that sect of philosophers
who can reduce all the matter of the world into a nutshell, seeing there
was no room for them in the bags, where the parson had said they were
deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, "Bless me, sir, where are your
sermons?" The parson answered, "There, there, child; there they are,
under my shirts." Now it happened that he had taken forth his last
shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty. "Sure, sir," says
Joseph, "there is nothing in the bags." Upon which Adams, starting, and
testifying some surprize, cried, "Hey! fie, fie upon it! they are not
here sure enough. Ay, they are certainly left behind."
Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he apprehended his
friend must feel from this disappointment; he begged him to pursue his
journey, and promised he would himself return with the books to him with
the utmost expedition. "No, thank you, child," answered Adams; "it shall
not be so. What would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, unless I
had my discourses with me, which are _ut ita dicam_, the sole cause, the
_aitia monotate_ of my peregrination? No, child, as this accident hath
happened, I am resolved to return back to my cure, together with you;
which indeed my inclination sufficiently leads me to. This
disappointment may perhaps be intended for my good." He concluded with a
verse out of Theocritus, which signifies no more than that sometimes it
rains, and sometimes the sun shines.
Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the inclination which
the parson expressed of returning with him; and now the bill was called
for, which, on examination, amounted within a shilling to the sum Mr
Adams had in his pocket. Perhaps the reader may wonder how he was able
to produce a sufficient sum for so many days: that he may not be
surprized, therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to acquaint him that he
had borrowed a guinea of a servant belonging to the coach and six, who
had been formerly one of his parishioners, and whose master, the owner
of the coach, then lived within three miles of him; for so good was the
credit of Mr Adams, that even Mr Peter, the Lady Booby's steward, would
have lent him a guinea with very little security.
[Illustration]
Mr Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting out, having
agreed to ride and tie; a method of travelling much used by persons who
have but one horse between them, and is thus performed. The two
travellers set out together, one on horseback, the other on foot: now,
as it generally happens that he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the
custom is, that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is to
dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other thing, and
then proceed on foot; when the other comes up to the horse he unties
him, mounts, and gallops on, till, having passed by his
fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place of tying. And this is
that method of travelling so much in use among our prudent ancestors,
who knew that horses had mouths as well as legs, and that they could not
use the latter without being at the expense of suffering the beasts
themselves to use the former. This was the method in use in those days
when, instead of a coach and six, a member of parliament's lady used to
mount a pillion behind her husband; and a grave serjeant at law
condescended to amble to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk
kicking his heels behind him.
Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted on Joseph's beginning
the journey on horseback, and Joseph had his foot in the stirrup, when
the hostler presented him a bill for the horse's board during his
residence at the inn. Joseph said Mr Adams had paid all; but this
matter, being referred to Mr Tow-wouse, was by him decided in favour of
the hostler, and indeed with truth and justice; for this was a fresh
instance of that shortness of memory which did not arise from want of
parts, but that continual hurry in which parson Adams was
always involved.
Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely puzzled him. The sum
due for horse-meat was twelve shillings (for Adams, who had borrowed the
beast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as well as they could
feed him), and the cash in his pocket amounted to sixpence (for Adams
had divided the last shilling with him). Now, though there have been
some ingenious persons who have contrived to pay twelve shillings with
sixpence, Joseph was not one of them. He had never contracted a debt in
his life, and was consequently the less ready at an expedient to
extricate himself. Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit till next
time, to which Mrs Tow-wouse would probably have consented (for such was
Joseph's beauty, that it had made some impression even on that piece of
flint which that good woman wore in her bosom by way of heart). Joseph
would have found, therefore, very likely the passage free, had he not,
when he honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out
that little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. This caused
Mrs Tow-wouse's eyes to water; she told Joseph she did not conceive a
man could want money whilst he had gold in his pocket. Joseph answered
he had such a value for that little piece of gold, that he would not
part with it for a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquire
in the county was worth. "A pretty way, indeed," said Mrs Tow-wouse, "to
run in debt, and then refuse to part with your money, because you have a
value for it! I never knew any piece of gold of more value than as many
shillings as it would change for."--"Not to preserve my life from
starving, nor to redeem it from a robber, would I part with this dear
piece!" answered Joseph. "What," says Mrs Tow-wouse, "I suppose it was
given you by some vile trollop, some miss or other; if it had been the
present of a virtuous woman, you would not have had such a value for it.
My husband is a fool if he parts with the horse without being paid for
him."--"No, no, I can't part with the horse, indeed, till I have the
money," cried Tow-wouse. A resolution highly commended by a lawyer then
in the yard, who declared Mr Tow-wouse might justify the detainer.
As we cannot therefore at present get Mr Joseph out of the inn, we shall
leave him in it, and carry our reader on after parson Adams, who, his
mind being perfectly at ease, fell into a contemplation on a passage in
Aeschylus, which entertained him for three miles together, without
suffering him once to reflect on his fellow-traveller.
At length, having spun out his thread, and being now at the summit of a
hill, he cast his eyes backwards, and wondered that he could not see any
sign of Joseph. As he left him ready to mount the horse, he could not
apprehend any mischief had happened, neither could he suspect that he
missed his way, it being so broad and plain; the only reason which
presented itself to him was, that he had met with an acquaintance who
had prevailed with him to delay some time in discourse.
He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not doubting but that
he should be shortly overtaken; and soon came to a large water, which,
filling the whole road, he saw no method of passing unless by wading
through, which he accordingly did up to his middle; but was no sooner
got to the other side than he perceived, if he had looked over the
hedge, he would have found a footpath capable of conducting him without
wetting his shoes.
His surprize at Joseph's not coming up grew now very troublesome: he
began to fear he knew not what; and as he determined to move no farther,
and, if he did not shortly overtake him, to return back, he wished to
find a house of public entertainment where he might dry his clothes and
refresh himself with a pint; but, seeing no such (for no other reason
than because he did not cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards), he sat
himself down on a stile, and pulled out his Aeschylus.
A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him if he could direct him
to an alehouse. The fellow, who had just left it, and perceived the
house and sign to be within sight, thinking he had jeered him, and being
of a morose temper, bade him follow his nose and be d---n'd. Adams told
him he was a saucy jackanapes; upon which the fellow turned about
angrily; but, perceiving Adams clench his fist, he thought proper to go
on without taking any farther notice.
A horseman, following immediately after, and being asked the same
question, answered, "Friend, there is one within a stone's throw; I
believe you may see it before you." Adams, lifting up his eyes, cried,
"I protest, and so there is;" and, thanking his informer, proceeded
directly to it.
CHAPTER III.
_The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, with Mr
Adams's inquiry into the religion of his host._
He had just entered the house, and called for his pint, and seated
himself, when two horsemen came to the door, and, fastening their horses
to the rails, alighted. They said there was a violent shower of rain
coming on, which they intended to weather there, and went into a little
room by themselves, not perceiving Mr Adams.
One of these immediately asked the other, "If he had seen a more comical
adventure a great while?" Upon which the other said, "He doubted
whether, by law, the landlord could justify detaining the horse for his
corn and hay." But the former answered, "Undoubtedly he can; it is an
adjudged case, and I have known it tried."
Adams, who, though he was, as the reader may suspect, a little inclined
to forgetfulness, never wanted more than a hint to remind him,
overhearing their discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this
was his own horse, and that he had forgot to pay for him, which, upon
inquiry, he was certified of by the gentlemen; who added, that the horse
was likely to have more rest than food, unless he was paid for.
The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, though he knew
no more than Joseph how to procure his horse his liberty; he was,
however, prevailed on to stay under covert, till the shower, which was
now very violent, was over.
The three travellers then sat down together over a mug of good beer;
when Adams, who had observed a gentleman's house as he passed along the
road, inquired to whom it belonged; one of the horsemen had no sooner
mentioned the owner's name, than the other began to revile him in the
most opprobrious terms. The English language scarce affords a single
reproachful word, which he did not vent on this occasion. He charged him
likewise with many particular facts. He said, "He no more regarded a
field of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he had
injured several poor farmers by trampling their corn under his horse's
heels; and if any of them begged him with the utmost submission to
refrain, his horsewhip was always ready to do them justice." He said,
"That he was the greatest tyrant to the neighbours in every other
instance, and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though he might
justify it by law; and in his own family so cruel a master, that he
never kept a servant a twelvemonth. In his capacity as a justice,"
continued he, "he behaves so partially, that he commits or acquits just
as he is in the humour, without any regard to truth or evidence; the
devil may carry any one before him for me; I would rather be tried
before some judges, than be a prosecutor before him: if I had an estate
in the neighbourhood, I would sell it for half the value rather than
live near him."
Adams shook his head, and said, "He was sorry such men were suffered to
proceed with impunity, and that riches could set any man above the law."
The reviler, a little after, retiring into the yard, the gentleman who
had first mentioned his name to Adams began to assure him "that his
companion was a prejudiced person. It is true," says he, "perhaps, that
he may have sometimes pursued his game over a field of corn, but he hath
always made the party ample satisfaction: that so far from tyrannising
over his neighbours, or taking away their guns, he himself knew several
farmers not qualified, who not only kept guns, but killed game with
them; that he was the best of masters to his servants, and several of
them had grown old in his service; that he was the best justice of peace
in the kingdom, and, to his certain knowledge, had decided many
difficult points, which were referred to him, with the greatest equity
and the highest wisdom; and he verily believed, several persons would
give a year's purchase more for an estate near him, than under the wings
of any other great man." He had just finished his encomium when his
companion returned and acquainted him the storm was over. Upon which
they presently mounted their horses and departed.
Adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those different characters of
the same person, asked his host if he knew the gentleman: for he began
to imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two several gentlemen.
"No, no, master," answered the host (a shrewd, cunning fellow); "I know
the gentleman very well of whom they have been speaking, as I do the
gentlemen who spoke of him. As for riding over other men's corn, to my
knowledge he hath not been on horseback these two years. I never heard
he did any injury of that kind; and as to making reparation, he is not
so free of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear of
his taking away any man's gun; nay, I know several who have guns in
their houses; but as for killing game with them, no man is stricter; and
I believe he would ruin any who did. You heard one of the gentlemen say
he was the worst master in the world, and the other that he is the best;
but for my own part, I know all his servants, and never heard from any
of them that he was either one or the other."--"Aye! aye!" says Adams;
"and how doth he behave as a justice, pray?"--"Faith, friend," answered
the host, "I question whether he is in the commission; the only cause I
have heard he hath decided a great while, was one between those very two
persons who just went out of this house; and I am sure he determined
that justly, for I heard the whole matter."--"Which did He decide it in
favour of?" quoth Adams.--"I think I need not answer that question,"
cried the host, "after the different characters you have heard of him.
It is not my business to contradict gentlemen while they are drinking in
my house; but I knew neither of them spoke a syllable of truth."--"God
forbid!" said Adams, "that men should arrive at such a pitch of
wickedness to belye the character of their neighbour from a little
private affection, or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. I
rather believe we have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons;
for there are many houses on the road."--"Why, prithee, friend," cries
the host, "dost thou pretend never to have told a lye in thy
life?"--"Never a malicious one, I am certain," answered Adams, "nor with
a design to injure the reputation of any man living."--"Pugh! malicious;
no, no," replied the host; "not malicious with a design to hang a man,
or bring him into trouble; but surely, out of love to oneself, one must
speak better of a friend than an enemy."--"Out of love to yourself, you
should confine yourself to truth," says Adams, "for by doing otherwise
you injure the noblest part of yourself, your immortal soul. I can
hardly believe any man such an idiot to risque the loss of that by any
trifling gain, and the greatest gain in this world is but dirt in
comparison of what shall be revealed hereafter." Upon which the host,
taking up the cup, with a smile, drank a health to hereafter; adding,
"He was for something present."--"Why," says Adams very gravely, "do not
you believe another world?" To which the host answered, "Yes; he was no
atheist."--"And you believe you have an immortal soul?" cries Adams. He
answered, "God forbid he should not."--"And heaven and hell?" said the
parson. The host then bid him "not to profane; for those were things not
to be mentioned nor thought of but in church." Adams asked him, "Why he
went to church, if what he learned there had no influence on his conduct
in life?" "I go to church," answered the host, "to say my prayers and
behave godly."--"And dost not thou," cried Adams, "believe what thou
hearest at church?"--"Most part of it, master," returned the host. "And
dost not thou then tremble," cries Adams, "at the thought of eternal
punishment?"--"As for that, master," said he, "I never once thought
about it; but what signifies talking about matters so far off? The mug
is out, shall I draw another?"
Whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage-coach drove up to the
door. The coachman coming into the house was asked by the mistress what
passengers he had in his coach? "A parcel of squinny-gut b--s," says he;
"I have a good mind to overturn them; you won't prevail upon them to
drink anything, I assure you." Adams asked him, "If he had not seen a
young man on horseback on the road" (describing Joseph). "Aye," said
the coachman, "a gentlewoman in my coach that is his acquaintance
redeemed him and his horse; he would have been here before this time,
had not the storm driven him to shelter." "God bless her!" said Adams,
in a rapture; nor could he delay walking out to satisfy himself who this
charitable woman was; but what was his surprize when he saw his old
acquaintance, Madam Slipslop? Hers indeed was not so great, because she
had been informed by Joseph that he was on the road. Very civil were the
salutations on both sides; and Mrs Slipslop rebuked the hostess for
denying the gentleman to be there when she asked for him; but indeed the
poor woman had not erred designedly; for Mrs Slipslop asked for a
clergyman, and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a person travelling
to a neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or some other such
operation; for he marched in a swinging great but short white coat with
black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, so far from having a black
hatband, had nothing black about it.
Joseph was now come up, and Mrs Slipslop would have had him quit his
horse to the parson, and come himself into the coach; but he absolutely
refused, saying, he thanked Heaven he was well enough recovered to be
very able to ride; and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to
ride in a coach while Mr Adams was on horseback.
Mrs Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a lady in the coach
put a short end to the dispute, by refusing to suffer a fellow in a
livery to ride in the same coach with herself; so it was at length
agreed that Adams should fill the vacant place in the coach, and Joseph
should proceed on horseback.
They had not proceeded far before Mrs Slipslop, addressing herself to
the parson, spoke thus:--"There hath been a strange alteration in our
family, Mr Adams, since Sir Thomas's death." "A strange alteration
indeed," says Adams, "as I gather from some hints which have dropped
from Joseph."--"Aye," says she, "I could never have believed it; but the
longer one lives in the world, the more one sees. So Joseph hath given
you hints." "But of what nature will always remain a perfect secret with
me," cries the parson: "he forced me to promise before he would
communicate anything. I am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behave
in so unbecoming a manner. I always thought her in the main a good lady,
and should never have suspected her of thoughts so unworthy a Christian,
and with a young lad her own servant." "These things are no secrets to
me, I assure you," cries Slipslop, "and I believe they will be none
anywhere shortly; for ever since the boy's departure, she hath behaved
more like a mad woman than anything else." "Truly, I am heartily
concerned," says Adams, "for she was a good sort of a lady. Indeed, I
have often wished she had attended a little more constantly at the
service, but she hath done a great deal of good in the parish." "O Mr
Adams," says Slipslop, "people that don't see all, often know nothing.
Many things have been given away in our family, I do assure you, without
her knowledge. I have heard you say in the pulpit we ought not to brag;
but indeed I can't avoid saying, if she had kept the keys herself, the
poor would have wanted many a cordial which I have let them have. As for
my late master, he was as worthy a man as ever lived, and would have
done infinite good if he had not been controlled; but he loved a quiet
life, Heaven rest his soul! I am confident he is there, and enjoys a
quiet life, which some folks would not allow him here."--Adams answered,
"He had never heard this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for he
remembered she used to commend her mistress and blame her master) had
not formerly been of another opinion." "I don't know," replied she,
"what I might once think; but now I am confidous matters are as I tell
you; the world will shortly see who hath been deceived; for my part, I
say nothing, but that it is wondersome how some people can carry all
things with a grave face."
Thus Mr Adams and she discoursed, till they came opposite to a great
house which stood at some distance from the road: a lady in the coach,
spying it, cried, "Yonder lives the unfortunate Leonora, if one can
justly call a woman unfortunate whom we must own at the same time guilty
and the author of her own calamity." This was abundantly sufficient to
awaken the curiosity of Mr Adams, as indeed it did that of the whole
company, who jointly solicited the lady to acquaint them with Leonora's
history, since it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something
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.
CHAPTER IV.
_The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt._
Leonora was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune; she was tall and
well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance which often
attracts beyond more regular features joined with an insipid air: nor is
this kind of beauty less apt to deceive than allure; the good humour
which it indicates being often mistaken for good nature, and the
vivacity for true understanding.
Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with an aunt of hers
in a town in the north of England. She was an extreme lover of gaiety,
and very rarely missed a ball or any other public assembly; where she
had frequent opportunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity,
with the preference which was given her by the men to almost every other
woman present.
Among many young fellows who were particular in their gallantries
towards her, Horatio soon distinguished himself in her eyes beyond all
his competitors; she danced with more than ordinary gaiety when he
happened to be her partner; neither the fairness of the evening, nor the
musick of the nightingale, could lengthen her walk like his company. She
affected no longer to understand the civilities of others; whilst she
inclined so attentive an ear to every compliment of Horatio, that she
often smiled even when it was too delicate for her comprehension.
"Pray, madam," says Adams, "who was this squire Horatio?"
Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of a good family, bred to
the law, and had been some few years called to the degree of a
barrister. His face and person were such as the generality allowed
handsome; but he had a dignity in his air very rarely to be seen. His
temper was of the saturnine complexion, and without the least taint of
moroseness. He had wit and humour, with an inclination to satire, which
he indulged rather too much.
This gentleman, who had contracted the most violent passion for Leonora,
was the last person who perceived the probability of its success. The
whole town had made the match for him before he himself had drawn a
confidence from her actions sufficient to mention his passion to her;
for it was his opinion (and perhaps he was there in the right) that it
is highly impolitick to talk seriously of love to a woman before you
have made such a progress in her affections, that she herself expects
and desires to hear it.
But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may create, which are apt
to magnify every favour conferred on a rival, and to see the little
advances towards themselves through the other end of the perspective, it
was impossible that Horatio's passion should so blind his discernment as
to prevent his conceiving hopes from the behaviour of Leonora, whose
fondness for him was now as visible to an indifferent person in their
company as his for her.
"I never knew any of these forward sluts come to good" (says the lady
who refused Joseph's entrance into the coach), "nor shall I wonder at
anything she doth in the sequel."
The lady proceeded in her story thus: It was in the midst of a gay
conversation in the walks one evening, when Horatio whispered Leonora,
that he was desirous to take a turn or two with her in private, for that
he had something to communicate to her of great consequence. "Are you
sure it is of consequence?" said she, smiling. "I hope," answered he,
"you will think so too, since the whole future happiness of my life must
depend on the event."
Leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, would have deferred it
till another time; but Horatio, who had more than half conquered the
difficulty of speaking by the first motion, was so very importunate,
that she at last yielded, and, leaving the rest of the company, they
turned aside into an unfrequented walk.
They had retired far out of the sight of the company, both maintaining a
strict silence. At last Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leonora,
who stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he fetched a deep
sigh, and then, looking on her eyes with all the tenderness imaginable,
he cried out in a faltering accent, "O Leonora! is it necessary for me
to declare to you on what the future happiness of my life must be
founded? Must I say there is something belonging to you which is a bar
to my happiness, and which unless you will part with, I must be
miserable!"--"What can that be?" replied Leonora. "No wonder," said he,
"you are surprized that I should make an objection to anything which is
yours: yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the riches
of the world, if they were mine, should purchase for me. Oh, it is that
which you must part with to bestow all the rest! Can Leonora, or rather
will she, doubt longer? Let me then whisper it in her ears--It is your
name, madam. It is by parting with that, by your condescension to be for
ever mine, which must at once prevent me from being the most miserable,
and will render me the happiest of mankind."
Leonora, covered with blushes, and with as angry a look as she could
possibly put on, told him, "That had she suspected what his declaration
would have been, he should not have decoyed her from her company, that
he had so surprized and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her
back as quick as possible;" which he, trembling very near as much as
herself, did.
"More fool he," cried Slipslop; "it is a sign he knew very little of our
sect."--"Truly, madam," said Adams, "I think you are in the right: I
should have insisted to know a piece of her mind, when I had carried
matters so far." But Mrs Grave-airs desired the lady to omit all such
fulsome stuff in her story, for that it made her sick.
Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, said the lady, many
weeks had not passed after this interview before Horatio and Leonora
were what they call on a good footing together. All ceremonies except
the last were now over; the writings were now drawn, and everything was
in the utmost forwardness preparative to the putting Horatio in
possession of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a letter
from each of them, which I have got by heart, and which will give you no
small idea of their passion on both sides.
Mrs Grave-airs objected to hearing these letters; but being put to the
vote, it was carried against her by all the rest in the coach; parson
Adams contending for it with the utmost vehemence.
HORATIO TO LEONORA.
"How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of pleasure in the
absence of an object to which the mind is entirely devoted, unless it
have some relation to that object! I was last night condemned to the
society of men of wit and learning, which, however agreeable it might
have formerly been to me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputed
my absence in conversation to the true cause. For which reason, when
your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of seeing you, I am
always desirous to be alone; since my sentiments for Leonora are so
delicate, that I cannot bear the apprehension of another's prying into
those delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a lover
will sometimes indulge him, and which I suspect my eyes then betray. To
fear this discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too ridiculous a
nicety to minds not susceptible of all the tendernesses of this delicate
passion. And surely we shall suspect there are few such, when we
consider that it requires every human virtue to exert itself in its full
extent; since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, may
give us charming opportunities of being brave in her defence, generous
to her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grateful to her
kindness; and in the same manner, of exercising every other virtue,
which he who would not do to any degree, and that with the utmost
rapture, can never deserve the name of a lover. It is, therefore, with a
view to the delicate modesty of your mind that I cultivate it so purely
in my own; and it is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the
uneasiness I bear from those liberties, which men to whom the world
allow politeness will sometimes give themselves on these occasions.
"Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival of that blest
day, when I shall experience the falsehood of a common assertion, that
the greatest human happiness consists in hope? A doctrine which no
person had ever stronger reason to believe than myself at present, since
none ever tasted such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts of
spending my future days with such a companion, and that every action of
my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conducing to your
happiness."
LEONORA TO HORATIO.[A]
[A] This letter was written by a young lady on reading the former.
"The refinement of your mind has been so evidently proved by every word
and action ever since I had the first pleasure of knowing you, that I
thought it impossible my good opinion of Horatio could have been
heightened to any additional proof of merit. This very thought was my
amusement when I received your last letter, which, when I opened, I
confess I was surprized to find the delicate sentiments expressed there
so far exceeding what I thought could come even from you (although I
know all the generous principles human nature is capable of are centred
in your breast), that words cannot paint what I feel on the reflection
that my happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your actions.
"Oh, Horatio! what a life must that be, where the meanest domestic cares
are sweetened by the pleasing consideration that the man on earth who
best deserves, and to whom you are most inclined to give your
affections, is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do! In
such a case toils must be turned into diversions, and nothing but the
unavoidable inconveniences of life can make us remember that we
are mortal.
"If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of keeping them
undiscovered, makes even the conversation of men of wit and learning
tedious to you, what anxious hours must I spend, who am condemned by
custom to the conversation of women, whose natural curiosity leads them
to pry into all my thoughts, and whose envy can never suffer Horatio's
heart to be possessed by any one, without forcing them into malicious
designs against the person who is so happy as to possess it! But,
indeed, if ever envy can possibly have any excuse, or even alleviation,
it is in this case, where the good is so great, and it must be equally
natural to all to wish it for themselves; nor am I ashamed to own it:
and to your merit, Horatio, I am obliged, that prevents my being in that
most uneasy of all the situations I can figure in my imagination, of
being led by inclination to love the person whom my own judgment forces
me to condemn."
Matters were in so great forwardness between this fond couple, that the
day was fixed for their marriage, and was now within a fortnight, when
the sessions chanced to be held for that county in a town about twenty
miles' distance from that which is the scene of our story. It seems, it
is usual for the young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these sessions,
not so much for the sake of profit as to show their parts and learn the
law of the justices of peace; for which purpose one of the wisest and
gravest of all the justices is appointed speaker, or chairman, as they
modestly call it, and he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in the
true knowledge of the law.
"You are here guilty of a little mistake," says Adams, "which, if you
please, I will correct: I have attended at one of these
quarter-sessions, where I observed the counsel taught the justices,
instead of learning anything of them."
It is not very material, said the lady. Hither repaired Horatio, who, as
he hoped by his profession to advance his fortune, which was not at
present very large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, he resolved to
spare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of improving or advancing
himself in it.
The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora stood at her
window, a coach and six passed by, which she declared to be the
completest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding these
remarkable words, "Oh, I am in love with that equipage!" which, though
her friend Florella at that time did not greatly regard, she hath since
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.
Oh, why have not women as good resolution to maintain their vows as they
have often good inclinations in making them!
The gentleman who owned the coach and six came to the assembly. His
clothes were as remarkably fine as his equipage could be. He soon
attracted the eyes of the company; all the smarts, all the silk
waistcoats with silver and gold edgings, were eclipsed in an instant.
"Madam," said Adams, "if it be not impertinent, I should be glad to know
how this gentleman was drest."
Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had on a cut velvet coat of
a cinnamon colour, lined with a pink satten, embroidered all over with
gold; his waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was embroidered with
gold likewise. I cannot be particular as to the rest of his dress; but
it was all in the French fashion, for Bellarmine (that was his name) was
just arrived from Paris.
This fine figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of every lady in
the assembly than Leonora did his. He had scarce beheld her, but he
stood motionless and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done so
if good breeding had permitted him. However, he carried it so far before
he had power to correct himself, that every person in the room easily
discovered where his admiration was settled. The other ladies began to
single out their former partners, all perceiving who would be
Bellarmine's choice; which they however endeavoured, by all possible
means, to prevent: many of them saying to Leonora, "O madam! I suppose
we shan't have the pleasure of seeing you dance to-night;" and then
crying out, in Bellarmine's hearing, "Oh! Leonora will not dance, I
assure you: her partner is not here." One maliciously attempted to
prevent her, by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her, that so she
might be obliged either to dance with him, or sit down; but this scheme
proved abortive.
Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, and envied by every
woman present. Her little heart began to flutter within her, and her
head was agitated with a convulsive motion: she seemed as if she would
speak to several of her acquaintance, but had nothing to say; for, as
she would not mention her present triumph, so she could not disengage
her thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. She had never
tasted anything like this happiness. She had before known what it was to
torment a single woman; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a whole
assembly was a joy reserved for this blessed moment. As this vast
profusion of ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there was
nothing so foolish as her behaviour: she played a thousand childish
tricks, distorted her person into several shapes, and her face into
several laughs, without any reason. In a word, her carriage was as
absurd as her desires, which were to affect an insensibility of the
stranger's admiration, and at the same time a triumph, from that
admiration, over every woman in the room.
In this temper of mind, Bellarmine, having inquired who she was,
advanced to her, and with a low bow begged the honour of dancing with
her, which she, with as low a curtesy, immediately granted. She danced
with him all night, and enjoyed, perhaps, the highest pleasure that she
was capable of feeling.
At these words, Adams fetched a deep groan, which frighted the ladies,
who told him, "They hoped he was not ill." He answered, "He groaned only
for the folly of Leonora."
Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in the morning, but not
to rest. She tumbled and tossed in her bed, with very short intervals of
sleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage and fine
clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, and ridottos, which had
been the subject of their conversation.
In the afternoon, Bellarmine, in the dear coach and six, came to wait on
her. He was indeed charmed with her person, and was, on inquiry, so well
pleased with the circumstances of her father (for he himself,
notwithstanding all his finery, was not quite so rich as a Croesus or
an Attalus).--"Attalus," says Mr. Adams: "but pray how came you
acquainted with these names?" The lady smiled at the question, and
proceeded. He was so pleased, I say, that he resolved to make his
addresses to her directly. He did so accordingly, and that with so much
warmth and briskness, that he quickly baffled her weak repulses, and
obliged the lady to refer him to her father, who, she knew, would
quickly declare in favour of a coach and six.
Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love and tenderness, been so
long obtaining, the French-English Bellarmine with gaiety and gallantry
possessed himself of in an instant. In other words, what modesty had
employed a full year in raising, impudence demolished in
twenty-four hours.
Here Adams groaned a second time; but the ladies, who began to smoke
him, took no notice.
From the opening of the assembly till the end of Bellarmine's visit,
Leonora had scarce once thought of Horatio; but he now began, though an
unwelcome guest, to enter into her mind. She wished she had seen the
charming Bellarmine and his charming equipage before matters had gone so
far. "Yet why," says she, "should I wish to have seen him before; or
what signifies it that I have seen him now? Is not Horatio my lover,
almost my husband? Is he not as handsome, nay handsomer than Bellarmine?
Aye, but Bellarmine is the genteeler, and the finer man; yes, that he
must be allowed. Yes, yes, he is that certainly. But did not I, no
longer ago than yesterday, love Horatio more than all the world? Aye,
but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. But doth not Horatio doat on
me, and may he not in despair break his heart if I abandon him? Well,
and hath not Bellarmine a heart to break too? Yes, but I promised
Horatio first; but that was poor Bellarmine's misfortune; if I had seen
him first, I should certainly have preferred him. Did not the dear
creature prefer me to every woman in the assembly, when every she was
laying out for him? When was it in Horatio's power to give me such an
instance of affection? Can he give me an equipage, or any of those
things which Bellarmine will make me mistress of? How vast is the
difference between being the wife of a poor counsellor and the wife of
one of Bellarmine's fortune! If I marry Horatio, I shall triumph over no
more than one rival; but by marrying Bellarmine, I shall be the envy of
all my acquaintance. What happiness! But can I suffer Horatio to die?
for he hath sworn he cannot survive my loss: but perhaps he may not die:
if he should, can I prevent it? Must I sacrifice myself to him? besides,
Bellarmine may be as miserable for me too." She was thus arguing with
herself, when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a little
relieved her anxiety for the present.
The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in presence of her
aunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his passion for Leonora. He was
no sooner withdrawn than the old lady began to advise her niece on this
occasion. "You see, child," says she, "what fortune hath thrown in your
way; and I hope you will not withstand your own preferment." Leonora,
sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing, when she knew her
engagements to Horatio. "Engagements to a fig!" cried the aunt; "you
should thank Heaven on your knees that you have it yet in your power to
break them. Will any woman hesitate a moment whether she shall ride in a
coach or walk on foot all the days of her life? But Bellarmine drives
six, and Horatio not even a pair."--"Yes, but, madam, what will the
world say?" answered Leonora: "will not they condemn me?"--"The world is
always on the side of prudence," cries the aunt, "and would surely
condemn you if you sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. Oh!
I know the world very well; and you shew your ignorance, my dear, by
your objection. O' my conscience! the world is wiser. I have lived
longer in it than you; and I assure you there is not anything worth our
regard besides money; nor did I ever know one person who married from
other considerations, who did not afterwards heartily repent it.
Besides, if we examine the two men, can you prefer a sneaking fellow,
who hath been bred at the university, to a fine gentleman just come from
his travels. All the world must allow Bellarmine to be a fine gentleman,
positively a fine gentleman, and a handsome man."--"Perhaps, madam, I
should not doubt, if I knew how to be handsomely off with the
other."--"Oh! leave that to me," says the aunt. "You know your father
hath not been acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for my part I thought
it might do well enough, not dreaming of such an offer; but I'll
disengage you: leave me to give the fellow an answer. I warrant you
shall have no farther trouble."
Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's reasoning; and
Bellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed he should the
next morning go to her father and propose the match, which she consented
should be consummated at his return.
The aunt retired soon after supper; and, the lovers being left together,
Bellarmine began in the following manner: "Yes, madam; this coat, I
assure you, was made at Paris, and I defy the best English taylor even
to imitate it. There is not one of them can cut, madam; they can't cut.
If you observe how this skirt is turned, and this sleeve: a clumsy
English rascal can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you like my
liveries?" Leonora answered, "She thought them very pretty."--"All
French," says he, "I assure you, except the greatcoats; I never trust
anything more than a greatcoat to an Englishman. You know one must
encourage our own people what one can, especially as, before I had a
place, I was in the country interest, he, he, he! But for myself, I
would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear a
single rag of English work about me: and I am sure, after you have made
one tour to Paris, you will be of the same opinion with regard to your
own clothes. You can't conceive what an addition a French dress would be
to your beauty; I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since
I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chambermaids, he, he, he!"
With such sort of polite discourse did the gay Bellarmine entertain his
beloved Leonora, when the door opened on a sudden, and Horatio entered
the room. Here 'tis impossible to express the surprize of Leonora.
"Poor woman!" says Mrs Slipslop, "what a terrible quandary she must be
in!"--"Not at all," says Mrs Grave-airs; "such sluts can never be
confounded."--"She must have then more than Corinthian assurance," said
Adams; "aye, more than Lais herself."
A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in the whole company. If
the familiar entrance of Horatio struck the greatest astonishment into
Bellarmine, the unexpected presence of Bellarmine no less surprized
Horatio. At length Leonora, collecting all the spirit she was mistress
of, addressed herself to the latter, and pretended to wonder at the
reason of so late a visit. "I should indeed," answered he, "have made
some apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not my finding you in
company assured me I do not break in upon your repose." Bellarmine rose
from his chair, traversed the room in a minuet step, and hummed an
opera tune, while Horatio, advancing to Leonora, asked her in a whisper
if that gentleman was not a relation of hers; to which she answered with
a smile, or rather sneer, "No, he is no relation of mine yet;" adding,
"she could not guess the meaning of his question." Horatio told her
softly, "It did not arise from jealousy."--"Jealousy! I assure you, it
would be very strange in a common acquaintance to give himself any of
those airs." These words a little surprized Horatio; but, before he had
time to answer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady and told her, "He
feared he interrupted some business between her and the gentleman."--"I
can have no business," said she, "with the gentleman, nor any other,
which need be any secret to you."
"You'll pardon me," said Horatio, "if I desire to know who this
gentleman is who is to be entrusted with all our secrets."--"You'll know
soon enough," cries Leonora; "but I can't guess what secrets can ever
pass between us of such mighty consequence."--"No, madam!" cries
Horatio; "I am sure you would not have me understand you in
earnest."--"'Tis indifferent to me," says she, "how you understand me;
but I think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be understood at
all, at least when people find one engaged: though one's servants do not
deny one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon take the hint."
"Madam," said Horatio, "I did not imagine any engagement with a
stranger, as it seems this gentleman is, would have made my visit
impertinent, or that any such ceremonies were to be preserved between
persons in our situation." "Sure you are in a dream," says she, "or
would persuade me that I am in one. I know no pretensions a common
acquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies of good breeding."
"Sure," said he, "I am in a dream; for it is impossible I should be
really esteemed a common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has passed
between us?" "Passed between us! Do you intend to affront me before this
gentleman?" "D--n me, affront the lady," says Bellarmine, cocking his
hat, and strutting up to Horatio: "does any man dare affront this lady
before me, d--n me?" "Hark'ee, sir," says Horatio, "I would advise you
to lay aside that fierce air; for I am mightily deceived if this lady
has not a violent desire to get your worship a good drubbing." "Sir,"
said Bellarmine, "I have the honour to be her protector; and, d--n me,
if I understand your meaning." "Sir," answered Horatio, "she is rather
your protectress; but give yourself no more airs, for you see I am
prepared for you" (shaking his whip at him). "Oh! _serviteur tres
humble_," says Bellarmine: "_Je vous entend parfaitment bien_." At which
time the aunt, who had heard of Horatio's visit, entered the room, and
soon satisfied all his doubts. She convinced him that he was never more
awake in his life, and that nothing more extraordinary had happened in
his three days' absence than a small alteration in the affections of
Leonora; who now burst into tears, and wondered what reason she had
given him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desired
Bellarmine to withdraw with him; but the ladies prevented it by laying
violent hands on the latter; upon which the former took his leave
without any great ceremony, and departed, leaving the lady with his
rival to consult for his safety, which Leonora feared her indiscretion
might have endangered; but the aunt comforted her with assurances that
Horatio would not venture his person against so accomplished a cavalier
as Bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge in his
own way, and the most they had to apprehend from him was an action.
They at length therefore agreed to permit Bellarmine to retire to his
lodgings, having first settled all matters relating to the journey which
he was to undertake in the morning, and their preparations for the
nuptials at his return.
But, alas! as wise men have observed, the seat of valour is not the
countenance; and many a grave and plain man will, on a just provocation,
betake himself to that mischievous metal, cold iron; while men of a
fiercer brow, and sometimes with that emblem of courage, a cockade, will
more prudently decline it.
Leonora was waked in the morning, from a visionary coach and six, with
the dismal account that Bellarmine was run through the body by Horatio;
that he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had declared the
wound mortal. She immediately leaped out of the bed, danced about the
room in a frantic manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all the
agonies of despair; in which sad condition her aunt, who likewise arose
at the news, found her. The good old lady applied her utmost art to
comfort her niece. She told her, "While there was life there was hope;
but that if he should die her affliction would be of no service to
Bellarmine, and would only expose herself, which might, probably, keep
her some time without any future offer; that, as matters had happened,
her wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, but to endeavour
to regain the affections of Horatio." "Speak not to me," cried the
disconsolate Leonora; "is it not owing to me that poor Bellarmine has
lost his life? Have not these cursed charms (at which words she looked
steadfastly in the glass) been the ruin of the most charming man of this
age? Can I ever bear to contemplate my own face again (with her eyes
still fixed on the glass)? Am I not the murderess of the finest
gentleman? No other woman in the town could have made any impression on
him." "Never think of things past," cries the aunt: "think of regaining
the affections of Horatio." "What reason," said the niece, "have I to
hope he would forgive me? No, I have lost him as well as the other, and
it was your wicked advice which was the occasion of all; you seduced me,
contrary to my inclinations, to abandon poor Horatio (at which words she
burst into tears); you prevailed upon me, whether I would or no, to give
up my affections for him; had it not been for you, Bellarmine never
would have entered into my thoughts; had not his addresses been backed
by your persuasions, they never would have made any impression on me; I
should have defied all the fortune and equipage in the world; but it was
you, it was you, who got the better of my youth and simplicity, and
forced me to lose my dear Horatio for ever."
The aunt was almost borne down with this torrent of words; she, however,
rallied all the strength she could, and, drawing her mouth up in a
purse, began: "I am not surprized, niece, at this ingratitude. Those who
advise young women for their interest, must always expect such a return:
I am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off your match with
Horatio, at any rate."--"That may not be in your power yet," answered
Leonora, "though it is very ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it,
after the presents you have received from him." (For indeed true it is,
that many presents, and some pretty valuable ones, had passed from
Horatio to the old lady; but as true it is, that Bellarmine, when he
breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented her with a
brilliant from his finger, of much greater value than all she had
touched of the other.)
The aunt's gall was on float to reply, when a servant brought a letter
into the room, which Leonora, hearing it came from Bellarmine, with
great eagerness opened, and read as follows:--
"MOST DIVINE CREATURE,--The wound which I fear you have heard I
received from my rival is not like to be so fatal as those shot into my
heart which have been fired from your eyes, _tout brilliant_. Those are
the only cannons by which I am to fall; for my surgeon gives me hopes of
being soon able to attend your _ruelle_; till when, unless you would do
me an honour which I have scarce the _hardiesse_ to think of, your
absence will be the greatest anguish which can be felt by,
"Madam,
"_Avec toute le respecte_ in the world,
"Your most obedient, most absolute _Devote_,
"BELLARMINE."
As soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of Bellarmine's recovery, and
that the gossip Fame had, according to custom, so enlarged his danger,
she presently abandoned all further thoughts of Horatio, and was soon
reconciled to her aunt, who received her again into favour, with a more
Christian forgiveness than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is
possible she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her niece had
given her concerning the presents. She might apprehend such rumours,
should they get abroad, might injure a reputation which, by frequenting
church twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigour and strictness in
her countenance and behaviour for many years, she had established.
Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine with greater force, after
its small relaxation, than ever. She proposed to her aunt to make him a
visit in his confinement, which the old lady, with great and commendable
prudence, advised her to decline: "For," says she, "should any accident
intervene to prevent your intended match, too forward a behaviour with
this lover may injure you in the eyes of others. Every woman, till she
is married, ought to consider of, and provide against, the possibility
of the affair's breaking off." Leonora said, "She should be indifferent
to whatever might happen in such a case; for she had now so absolutely
placed her affections on this dear man (so she called him), that, if it
was her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever abandon all thoughts
of mankind." She, therefore, resolved to visit him, notwithstanding all
the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very afternoon
executed her resolution.
The lady was proceeding in her story, when the coach drove into the inn
where the company were to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of Mr
Adams, whose ears were the most hungry part about him; he being, as the
reader may perhaps guess, of an insatiable curiosity, and heartily
desirous of hearing the end of this amour, though he professed he could
scarce wish success to a lady of so inconstant a disposition.
CHAPTER V.
_A dreadful quarrel which happened at the Inn where the company dined,
with its bloody consequences to Mr Adams._
As soon as the passengers had alighted from the coach, Mr Adams, as was
his custom, made directly to the kitchen, where he found Joseph sitting
by the fire, and the hostess anointing his leg; for the horse which Mr
Adams had borrowed of his clerk had so violent a propensity to kneeling,
that one would have thought it had been his trade, as well as his
master's; nor would he always give any notice of such his intention; he
was often found on his knees when the rider least expected it. This
foible, however, was of no great inconvenience to the parson, who was
accustomed to it; and, as his legs almost touched the ground when he
bestrode the beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himself
forward on such occasions with so much dexterity that he never received
any mischief; the horse and he frequently rolling many paces' distance,
and afterwards both getting up and meeting as good friends as ever.
Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle, though an
excellent horseman, did not so happily disengage himself; but, falling
with his leg under the beast, received a violent contusion, to which the
good woman was, as we have said, applying a warm hand, with some
camphorated spirits, just at the time when the parson entered
the kitchen.
He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph's misfortune before the
host likewise entered. He was by no means of Mr Tow-wouse's gentle
disposition; and was, indeed, perfect master of his house, and
everything in it but his guests.
This surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to the appearance
of a traveller, from "God bless your honour," down to plain "Coming
presently," observing his wife on her knees to a footman, cried out,
without considering his circumstances, "What a pox is the woman about?
why don't you mind the company in the coach? Go and ask them what they
will have for dinner." "My dear," says she, "you know they can have
nothing but what is at the fire, which will be ready presently; and
really the poor young man's leg is very much bruised." At which words
she fell to chafing more violently than before: the bell then happening
to ring, he damn'd his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and not
stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe the young fellow's
leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, within twenty miles he
would find a surgeon to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams fetched two
strides across the room; and snapping his fingers over his head,
muttered aloud, He would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for
he believed the devil had more humanity. These words occasioned a
dialogue between Adams and the host, in which there were two or three
sharp replies, till Joseph bad the latter know how to behave himself to
his betters. At which the host (having first strictly surveyed Adams)
scornfully repeating the word "betters," flew into a rage, and, telling
Joseph he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been to walk
into it, offered to lay violent hands on him; which perceiving, Adams
dealt him so sound a compliment over his face with his fist, that the
blood immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. The host, being
unwilling to be outdone in courtesy, especially by a person of Adams's
figure, returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson's
nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. Upon which he again
assailed his antagonist, and with another stroke laid him sprawling on
the floor.
The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband deserved,
seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along, hastened presently to
his assistance, or rather to revenge the blow, which, to all appearance,
was the last he would ever receive; when, lo! a pan full of hog's blood,
which unluckily stood on the dresser, presented itself first to her
hands. She seized it in her fury, and without any reflection, discharged
it into the parson's face; and with so good an aim, that much the
greater part first saluted his countenance, and trickled thence in so
large a current down to his beard, and over his garments, that a more
horrible spectacle was hardly to be seen, or even imagined. All which
was perceived by Mrs Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant.
This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool and
patient as perhaps was required to ask many questions on this occasion,
flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, together with
some of her hair, she plucked from her head in a moment, giving her, at
the same time, several hearty cuffs in the face; which by frequent
practice on the inferior servants, she had learned an excellent knack of
delivering with a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise from his
chair; the parson was employed in wiping the blood from his eyes, which
had entirely blinded him; and the landlord was but just beginning to
stir; whilst Mrs Slipslop, holding down the landlady's face with her
left hand, made so dexterous an use of her right, that the poor woman
began to roar, in a key which alarmed all the company in the inn.
There happened to be in the inn, at this time, besides the ladies who
arrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen who were present at Mr
Tow-wouse's when Joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and whom we
have before mentioned to have stopt at the alehouse with Adams. There
was likewise a gentleman just returned from his travels to Italy; all
whom the horrid outcry of murder presently brought into the kitchen,
where the several combatants were found in the postures already
described.
It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the conquerors being
satisfied with the vengeance they had taken, and the conquered having no
appetite to renew the fight. The principal figure, and which engaged the
eyes of all, was Adams, who was all over covered with blood, which the
whole company concluded to be his own, and consequently imagined him no
longer for this world. But the host, who had now recovered from his
blow, and was risen from the ground, soon delivered them from this
apprehension, by damning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings, and
telling her all would have been very well if she had not intermeddled,
like a b--as she was; adding, he was very glad the gentlewoman had paid
her, though not half what she deserved. The poor woman had indeed fared
much the worst; having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a
quantity of hair, which Mrs Slipslop in triumph held in her left hand.
The traveller, addressing himself to Mrs Grave-airs, desired her not to
be frightened; for here had been only a little boxing, which he said, to
their _disgracia_, the English were _accustomata_ to: adding, it must
be, however, a sight somewhat strange to him, who was just come from
Italy; the Italians not being addicted to the _cuffardo_ but _bastonza_,
says he. He then went up to Adams, and telling him he looked like the
ghost of Othello, bid him not shake his gory locks at him, for he could
not say he did it. Adams very innocently answered, "Sir, I am far from
accusing you." He then returned to the lady, and cried, "I find the
bloody gentleman is _uno insipido del nullo senso_. _Dammato di me_, if
I have seen such a _spectaculo_ in my way from Viterbo."
One of the gentlemen having learnt from the host the occasion of this
bustle, and being assured by him that Adams had struck the first blow,
whispered in his ear, "He'd warrant he would recover."--"Recover!
master," said the host, smiling: "yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying
with a blow or two neither; I am not such a chicken as that."--"Pugh!"
said the gentleman, "I mean you will recover damages in that action
which, undoubtedly, you intend to bring, as soon as a writ can be
returned from London; for you look like a man of too much spirit and
courage to suffer any one to beat you without bringing your action
against him: he must be a scandalous fellow indeed who would put up with
a drubbing whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides, he hath drawn
blood from you, and spoiled your coat; and the jury will give damages
for that too. An excellent new coat upon my word; and now not worth a
shilling! I don't care," continued he, "to intermeddle in these cases;
but you have a right to my evidence; and if I am sworn, I must speak the
truth. I saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing from your
nostrils. You may take your own opinion; but was I in your
circumstances, every drop of my blood should convey an ounce of gold
into my pocket: remember I don't advise you to go to law; but if your
jury were Christians, they must give swinging damages. That's
all."--"Master," cried the host, scratching his head, "I have no stomach
to law, I thank you. I have seen enough of that in the parish, where two
of my neighbours have been at law about a house, till they have both
lawed themselves into a gaol." At which words he turned about, and began
to inquire again after his hog's puddings; nor would it probably have
been a sufficient excuse for his wife, that she spilt them in his
defence, had not some awe of the company, especially of the Italian
traveller, who was a person of great dignity, withheld his rage.
Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was employed, as we have
seen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was no less hearty on
the side of Mr Adams, whom he advised to bring his action immediately.
He said the assault of the wife was in law the assault of the husband,
for they were but one person; and he was liable to pay damages, which he
said must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition appeared. Adams
answered, If it was true that they were but one person, he had assaulted
the wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck the husband the first
blow. "I am sorry you own it too," cries the gentleman; "for it could
not possibly appear to the court; for here was no evidence present but
the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be your friend, and would
consequently say nothing but what made for you."--"How, sir," says
Adams, "do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute revenge in
cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to obtain it? If you knew me,
and my order, I should think you affronted both." At the word order, the
gentleman stared (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of
knights); and, turning hastily about, said, "Every man knew his own
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--
'_Je voi_ very well _que tutta e pace_,
So send up dinner, good Boniface.'"
The coachman began now to grow importunate with his passengers, whose
entrance into the coach was retarded by Miss Grave-airs insisting,
against the remonstrance of all the rest, that she would not admit a
footman into the coach; for poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. A
young lady, who was, as it seems, an earl's grand-daughter, begged it
with almost tears in her eyes. Mr Adams prayed, and Mrs Slipslop
scolded; but all to no purpose. She said, "She would not demean herself
to ride with a footman: that there were waggons on the road: that if the
master of the coach desired it, she would pay for two places; but would
suffer no such fellow to come in."--"Madam," says Slipslop, "I am sure
no one can refuse another coming into a stage-coach."--"I don't know,
madam," says the lady; "I am not much used to stage-coaches; I seldom
travel in them."--"That may be, madam," replied Slipslop; "very good
people do; and some people's betters, for aught I know." Miss Grave-airs
said, "Some folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty, to some
people that were their betters, which did not become them; for her part,
she was not used to converse with servants." Slipslop returned, "Some
people kept no servants to converse with; for her part, she thanked
Heaven she lived in a family where there were a great many, and had more
under her own command than any paultry little gentlewoman in the
kingdom." Miss Grave-airs cried, "She believed her mistress would not
encourage such sauciness to her betters."--"My betters," says Slipslop,
"who is my betters, pray?"--"I am your betters," answered Miss
Grave-airs, "and I'll acquaint your mistress."--At which Mrs Slipslop
laughed aloud, and told her, "Her lady was one of the great gentry; and
such little paultry gentlewomen as some folks, who travelled in
stagecoaches, would not easily come at her."
This smart dialogue between some people and some folks was going on at
the coach door when a solemn person, riding into the inn, and seeing
Miss Grave-airs, immediately accosted her with "Dear child, how do you?"
She presently answered, "O papa, I am glad you have overtaken me."--"So
am I," answered he; "for one of our coaches is just at hand; and, there
being room for you in it, you shall go no farther in the stage unless
you desire it."--"How can you imagine I should desire it?" says she; so,
bidding Slipslop ride with her fellow, if she pleased, she took her
father by the hand, who was just alighted, and walked with him into
a room.
Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, "If he knew who the
gentleman was?" The coachman answered, "He was now a gentleman, and kept
his horse and man; but times are altered, master," said be; "I remember
when he was no better born than myself."--"Ay! ay!" says Adams. "My
father drove the squire's coach," answered he, "when that very man rode
postillion; but he is now his steward; and a great gentleman." Adams
then snapped his fingers, and cried, "He thought she was some
such trollop."
Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs Slipslop with this good news, as he
imagined it; but it found a reception different from what he expected.
The prudent gentlewoman, who despised the anger of Miss Grave-airs
whilst she conceived her the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune,
now she heard her alliance with the upper servants of a great family in
her neighbourhood, began to fear her interest with the mistress. She
wished she had not carried the dispute so far, and began to think of
endeavouring to reconcile herself to the young lady before she left the
inn; when, luckily, the scene at London, which the reader can scarce
have forgotten, presented itself to her mind, and comforted her with
such assurance, that she no longer apprehended any enemy with
her mistress.
Everything being now adjusted, the company entered the coach, which was
just on its departure, when one lady recollected she had left her fan, a
second her gloves, a third a snuff-box, and a fourth a smelling-bottle
behind her; to find all which occasioned some delay and much swearing to
the coachman.
As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women all together fell to
the character of Miss Grave-airs; whom one of them declared she had
suspected to be some low creature, from the beginning of their journey,
and another affirmed she had not even the looks of a gentlewoman: a
third warranted she was no better than she should be; and, turning to
the lady who had related the story in the coach, said, "Did you ever
hear, madam, anything so prudish as her remarks? Well, deliver me from
the censoriousness of such a prude." The fourth added, "O madam! all
these creatures are censorious; but for my part, I wonder where the
wretch was bred; indeed, I must own I have seldom conversed with these
mean kind of people, so that it may appear stranger to me; but to refuse
the general desire of a whole company had something in it so
astonishing, that, for my part, I own I should hardly believe it if my
own ears had not been witnesses to it."--"Yes, and so handsome a young
fellow," cries Slipslop; "the woman must have no compulsion in her: I
believe she is more of a Turk than a Christian; I am certain, if she had
any Christian woman's blood in her veins, the sight of such a young
fellow must have warmed it. Indeed, there are some wretched, miserable
old objects, that turn one's stomach; I should not wonder if she had
refused such a one; I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no
more than herself for the company of stinking old fellows; but, hold up
thy head, Joseph, thou art none of those; and she who hath not
compulsion for thee is a Myhummetman, and I will maintain it." This
conversation made Joseph uneasy as well as the ladies; who, perceiving
the spirits which Mrs Slipslop was in (for indeed she was not a cup too
low), began to fear the consequence; one of them therefore desired the
lady to conclude the story. "Aye, madam," said Slipslop, "I beg your
ladyship to give us that story you commensated in the morning;" which
request that well-bred woman immediately complied with.
CHAPTER VI.
_Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt._
Leonora, having once broke through the bounds which custom and modesty
impose on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indulgence to her passion. Her
visits to Bellarmine were more constant, as well as longer, than his
surgeon's: in a word, she became absolutely his nurse; made his
water-gruel, administered him his medicines; and, notwithstanding the
prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost intirely resided in
her wounded lover's apartment.
The ladies of the town began to take her conduct under consideration: it
was the chief topic of discourse at their tea-tables, and was very
severely censured by the most part; especially by Lindamira, a lady
whose discreet and starch carriage, together with a constant attendance
at church three times a day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks
on her own reputation; for such was the envy that Lindamira's virtue had
attracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict behaviour and strict
enquiry into the lives of others, she had not been able to escape being
the mark of some arrows herself, which, however, did her no injury; a
blessing, perhaps, owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief male
companions, and with two or three of whom she had been barbarously and
unjustly calumniated.
"Not so unjustly neither, perhaps," says Slipslop; "for the clergy are
men, as well as other folks."
The extreme delicacy of Lindamira's virtue was cruelly hurt by those
freedoms which Leonora allowed herself: she said, "It was an affront to
her sex; that she did not imagine it consistent with any woman's honour
to speak to the creature, or to be seen in her company; and that, for
her part, she should always refuse to dance at an assembly with her,
for fear of contamination by taking her by the hand."
But to return to my story: as soon as Bellarmine was recovered, which
was somewhat within a month from his receiving the wound, he set out,
according to agreement, for Leonora's father's, in order to propose the
match, and settle all matters with him touching settlements, and
the like.
A little before his arrival the old gentleman had received an intimation
of the affair by the following letter, which I can repeat verbatim, and
which, they say, was written neither by Leonora nor her aunt, though it
was in a woman's hand. The letter was in these words:--
"SIR,--I am sorry to acquaint you that your daughter, Leonora, hath
acted one of the basest as well as most simple parts with a young
gentleman to whom she had engaged herself, and whom she hath (pardon the
word) jilted for another of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his
superior figure. You may take what measures you please on this occasion;
I have performed what I thought my duty; as I have, though unknown to
you, a very great respect for your family."
The old gentleman did not give himself the trouble to answer this kind
epistle; nor did he take any notice of it, after he had read it, till he
saw Bellarmine. He was, to say the truth, one of those fathers who look
on children as an unhappy consequence of their youthful pleasures;
which, as he would have been delighted not to have had attended them, so
was he no less pleased with any opportunity to rid himself of the
incumbrance. He passed, in the world's language, as an exceeding good
father; being not only so rapacious as to rob and plunder all mankind to
the utmost of his power, but even to deny himself the conveniencies, and
almost necessaries, of life; which his neighbours attributed to a desire
of raising immense fortunes for his children: but in fact it was not
so; he heaped up money for its own sake only, and looked on his children
as his rivals, who were to enjoy his beloved mistress when he was
incapable of possessing her, and which he would have been much more
charmed with the power of carrying along with him; nor had his children
any other security of being his heirs than that the law would constitute
them such without a will, and that he had not affection enough for any
one living to take the trouble of writing one.
To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the errand I have mentioned. His
person, his equipage, his family, and his estate, seemed to the father
to make him an advantageous match for his daughter: he therefore very
readily accepted his proposals: but when Bellarmine imagined the
principal affair concluded, and began to open the incidental matters of
fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his countenance, saying,
"He resolved never to marry his daughter on a Smithfield match; that
whoever had love for her to take her would, when he died, find her share
of his fortune in his coffers; but he had seen such examples of
undutifulness happen from the too early generosity of parents, that he
had made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived." He
commended the saying of Solomon, "He that spareth the rod spoileth the
child;" but added, "he might have likewise asserted, That he that
spareth the purse saveth the child." He then ran into a discourse on the
extravagance of the youth of the age; whence he launched into a
dissertation on horses; and came at length to commend those Bellarmine
drove. That fine gentleman, who at another season would have been well
enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very eager to
resume the circumstance of fortune. He said, "He had a very high value
for the young lady, and would receive her with less than he would any
other whatever; but that even his love to her made some regard to
worldly matters necessary; for it would be a most distracting sight for
him to see her, when he had the honour to be her husband, in less than a
coach and six." The old gentleman answered, "Four will do, four will
do;" and then took a turn from horses to extravagance and from
extravagance to horses, till he came round to the equipage again;
whither he was no sooner arrived than Bellarmine brought him back to the
point; but all to no purpose; he made his escape from that subject in a
minute; till at last the lover declared, "That in the present situation
of his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved Leonora more
than _tout le monde_, to marry her without any fortune." To which the
father answered, "He was sorry that his daughter must lose so valuable a
match; that, if he had an inclination, at present it was not in his
power to advance a shilling: that he had had great losses, and been at
great expenses on projects; which, though he had great expectation from
them, had yet produced him nothing: that he did not know what might
happen hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such accident; but he
would make no promise, or enter into any article, for he would not break
his vow for all the daughters in the world."
In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, Bellarmine, having
tried every argument and persuasion which he could invent, and finding
them all ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order to
return to Leonora; he proceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after
a few days' stay, he returned to Paris, to the great delight of the
French and the honour of the English nation.
But as soon as he arrived at his home he presently despatched a
messenger with the following epistle to Leonora:--
"ADORABLE AND CHARMANTE,--I am sorry to have the honour to tell you I
am not the _heureux_ person destined for your divine arms. Your papa
hath told me so with a _politesse_ not often seen on this side Paris.
You may perhaps guess his manner of refusing me. _Ah, mon Dieu!_ You
will certainly believe me, madam, incapable myself of delivering this
_triste_ message, which I intend to try the French air to cure the
consequences of. _A jamais! Coeur! Ange! Au diable!_ If your papa
obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall see you at Paris; till when,
the wind that flows from thence will be the warmest _dans le monde_, for
it will consist almost entirely of my sighs. _Adieu, ma princesse!
Ah, l'amour!_
"BELLARMINE."
I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's condition when she
received this letter. It is a picture of horror, which I should have as
little pleasure in drawing as you in beholding. She immediately left the
place where she was the subject of conversation and ridicule, and
retired to that house I showed you when I began the story; where she
hath ever since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, perhaps, pity for
her misfortunes, more than our censure for a behaviour to which the
artifices of her aunt very probably contributed, and to which very young
women are often rendered too liable by that blameable levity in the
education of our sex.
"If I was inclined to pity her," said a young lady in the coach, "it
would be for the loss of Horatio; for I cannot discern any misfortune in
her missing such a husband as Bellarmine."
"Why, I must own," says Slipslop, "the gentleman was a little
false-hearted; but howsumever, it was hard to have two lovers, and get
never a husband at all. But pray, madam, what became of _Our-asho_?"
He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath applied himself so
strictly to his business, that he hath raised, I hear, a very
considerable fortune. And what is remarkable, they say he never hears
the name of Leonora without a sigh, nor hath ever uttered one syllable
to charge her with her ill-conduct towards him.
CHAPTER VII.
_A very short chapter, in which parson Adams went a great way._
The lady, having finished her story, received the thanks of the company;
and now Joseph, putting his head out of the coach, cried out, "Never
believe me if yonder be not our parson Adams walking along without his
horse!"--"On my word, and so he is," says Slipslop: "and as sure as
twopence he hath left him behind at the inn." Indeed, true it is, the
parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind; for he was
so pleased with having got Joseph into the coach, that he never once
thought of the beast in the stable; and, finding his legs as nimble as
he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a crabstick, and had kept on
before the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so that
he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile
distant from it.
Mrs Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted,
but in vain; for the faster he drove the faster ran the parson, often
crying out, "Aye, aye, catch me if you can;" till at length the coachman
swore he would as soon attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, giving
the parson two or three hearty curses, he cry'd, "Softly, softly, boys,"
to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately obeyed.
But we will be more courteous to our reader than he was to Mrs
Slipslop; and, leaving the coach and its company to pursue their
journey, we will carry our reader on after parson Adams, who stretched
forwards without once looking behind him, till, having left the coach
full three miles in his rear, he came to a place where, by keeping the
extremest track to the right, it was just barely possible for a human
creature to miss his way. This track, however, did he keep, as indeed he
had a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare possibilities, and,
travelling in it about three miles over the plain, he arrived at the
summit of a hill, whence looking a great way backwards, and perceiving
no coach in sight, he sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling out his
Aeschylus, determined to wait here for its arrival.
He had not sat long here before a gun going off very near, a little
startled him; he looked up and saw a gentleman within a hundred paces
taking up a partridge which he had just shot.
Adams stood up and presented a figure to the gentleman which would have
moved laughter in many; for his cassock had just again fallen down below
his greatcoat, that is to say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts
of his greatcoat descended no lower than half-way down his thighs; but
the gentleman's mirth gave way to his surprize at beholding such a
personage in such a place.
Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he had good sport,
to which the other answered, "Very little."--"I see, sir," says Adams,
"you have smote one partridge;" to which the sportsman made no reply,
but proceeded to charge his piece.
Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in silence, which he at last
broke by observing that it was a delightful evening. The gentleman, who
had at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of the parson,
began, on perceiving a book in his hand and smoaking likewise the
information of the cassock, to change his thoughts, and made a small
advance to conversation on his side by saying, "Sir, I suppose you are
not one of these parts?"
Adams immediately told him, "No; that he was a traveller, and invited by
the beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little and amuse
himself with reading."--"I may as well repose myself too," said the
sportsman, "for I have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil a
bird have I seen till I came hither."
"Perhaps then the game is not very plenty hereabouts?" cries Adams. "No,
sir," said the gentleman: "the soldiers, who are quartered in the
neighbourhood, have killed it all."--"It is very probable," cries Adams,
"for shooting is their profession."--"Ay, shooting the game," answered
the other; "but I don't see they are so forward to shoot our enemies. I
don't like that affair of Carthagena; if I had been there, I believe I
should have done other-guess things, d--n me: what's a man's life when
his country demands it? a man who won't sacrifice his life for his
country deserves to be hanged, d--n me." Which words he spoke with so
violent a gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so fierce a
countenance, that he might have frightened a captain of trained bands at
the head of his company; but Mr Adams was not greatly subject to fear;
he told him intrepidly that he very much approved his virtue, but
disliked his swearing, and begged him not to addict himself to so bad a
custom, without which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did.
Indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he told the gentleman he
would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generous
way of thinking; that, if he pleased to sit down, he should be greatly
delighted to commune with him; for, though he was a clergyman, he would
himself be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his life for
his country.
The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; and then the latter began, as
in the following chapter, a discourse which we have placed by itself, as
it is not only the most curious in this but perhaps in any other book.
CHAPTER VIII.
_A notable dissertation by Mr Abraham Adams; wherein that gentleman
appears in a political light._
"I do assure you, sir" (says he, taking the gentleman by the hand), "I
am heartily glad to meet with a man of your kidney; for, though I am a
poor parson, I will be bold to say I am an honest man, and would not do
an ill thing to be made a bishop; nay, though it hath not fallen in my
way to offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not been without opportunities
of suffering for the sake of my conscience, I thank Heaven for them; for
I have had relations, though I say it, who made some figure in the
world; particularly a nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a
corporation. He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy; and I
believe would do what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like
extreme vanity in me to affect being a man of such consequence as to
have so great an interest in an alderman; but others have thought so
too, as manifestly appeared by the rector, whose curate I formerly was,
sending for me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if I
expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephew to vote
for one Colonel Courtly, a gentleman whom I had never heard tidings of
till that instant. I told the rector I had no power over my nephew's
vote (God forgive me for such prevarication!); that I supposed he would
give it according to his conscience; that I would by no means endeavour
to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it was in vain to
equivocate; that he knew I had already spoke to him in favour of esquire
Fickle, my neighbour; and, indeed, it was true I had; for it was at a
season when the church was in danger, and when all good men expected
they knew not what would happen to us all. I then answered boldly, if he
thought I had given my promise, he affronted me in proposing any breach
of it. Not to be too prolix; I persevered, and so did my nephew, in the
esquire's interest, who was chose chiefly through his means; and so I
lost my curacy, Well, sir, but do you think the esquire ever mentioned a
word of the church? _Ne verbum quidem, ut ita dicam_: within two years
he got a place, and hath ever since lived in London; where I have been
informed (but God forbid I should believe that,) that he never so much
as goeth to church. I remained, sir, a considerable time without any
cure, and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which I preached on
the indisposition of a clergyman; but this by the bye. At last, when Mr
Fickle got his place, Colonel Courtly stood again; and who should make
interest for him but Mr Fickle himself! that very identical Mr Fickle,
who had formerly told me the colonel was an enemy to both the church and
state, had the confidence to sollicit my nephew for him; and the colonel
himself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, which I refused
in favour of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us he would sacrifice
everything to his country; and I believe he would, except his hunting,
which he stuck so close to, that in five years together he went but
twice up to parliament; and one of those times, I have been told, never
was within sight of the House. However, he was a worthy man, and the
best friend I ever had; for, by his interest with a bishop, he got me
replaced into my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket
to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. He had our interest
while he lived, which was not many years. On his death I had fresh
applications made to me; for all the world knew the interest I had with
my good nephew, who now was a leading man in the corporation; and Sir
Thomas Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver's, proposed
himself a candidate. He was then a young gentleman just come from his
travels; and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs which, for
my part, I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a thousand votes he
should have had them all. I engaged my nephew in his interest, and he
was elected; and a very fine parliament-man he was. They tell me he made
speeches of an hour long, and, I have been told, very fine ones; but he
could never persuade the parliament to be of his opinion. _Non omnia
possumus omnes_. He promised me a living, poor man! and I believe I
should have had it, but an accident happened, which was, that my lady
had promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I never heard till
afterwards; for my nephew, who died about a month before the incumbent,
always told me I might be assured of it. Since that time, Sir Thomas,
poor man, had always so much business, that he never could find leisure
to see me. I believe it was partly my lady's fault too, who did not
think my dress good enough for the gentry at her table. However, I must
do him the justice to say he never was ungrateful; and I have always
found his kitchen, and his cellar too, open to me: many a time, after
service on a Sunday--for I preach at four churches--have I recruited my
spirits with a glass of his ale. Since my nephew's death, the
corporation is in other hands; and I am not a man of that consequence I
was formerly. I have now no longer any talents to lay out in the service
of my country; and to whom nothing is given, of him can nothing be
required. However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach of an
election, I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I have
the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas and the other
honest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me these five
years to procure an ordination for a son of mine, who is now near
thirty, hath an infinite stock of learning, and is, I thank Heaven, of
an unexceptionable life; though, as he was never at an university, the
bishop refuses to ordain him. Too much care cannot indeed be taken in
admitting any to the sacred office; though I hope he will never act so
as to be a disgrace to any order, but will serve his God and his country
to the utmost of his power, as I have endeavoured to do before him; nay,
and will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose. I am sure I
have educated him in those principles; so that I have acquitted my duty,
and shall have nothing to answer for on that account. But I do not
distrust him, for he is a good boy; and if Providence should throw it in
his way to be of as much consequence in a public light as his father
once was, I can answer for him he will use his talents as honestly as I
have done."
CHAPTER IX.
_In which the gentleman discants on bravery and heroic virtue, till an
unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse._
The gentleman highly commended Mr Adams for his good resolutions, and
told him, "He hoped his son would tread in his steps;" adding, "that if
he would not die for his country, he would not be worthy to live in it.
I'd make no more of shooting a man that would not die for his
country, than--
"Sir," said he, "I have disinherited a nephew, who is in the army,
because he would not exchange his commission and go to the West Indies.
I believe the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in love
forsooth. I would have all such fellows hanged, sir; I would have them
hanged." Adams answered, "That would be too severe; that men did not
make themselves; and if fear had too much ascendance in the mind, the
man was rather to be pitied than abhorred; that reason and time might
teach him to subdue it." He said, "A man might be a coward at one time,
and brave at another. Homer," says he, "who so well understood and
copied Nature, hath taught us this lesson; for Paris fights and Hector
runs away. Nay, we have a mighty instance of this in the history of
later ages, no longer ago than the 705th year of Rome, when the great
Pompey, who had won so many battles and been honoured with so many
triumphs, and of whose valour several authors, especially Cicero and
Paterculus, have formed such elogiums; this very Pompey left the battle
of Pharsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to his tent, where he
sat like the most pusillanimous rascal in a fit of despair, and yielded
a victory, which was to determine the empire of the world, to Caesar. I
am not much travelled in the history of modern times, that is to say,
these last thousand years; but those who are can, I make no question,
furnish you with parallel instances." He concluded, therefore, that, had
he taken any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he
would consider better, and retract them. The gentleman answered with
great warmth, and talked much of courage and his country, till,
perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams, "What place he intended for
that night?" He told him, "He waited there for the stage-coach."--"The
stage-coach, sir!" said the gentleman; "they are all passed by long ago.
You may see the last yourself almost three miles before us."--"I protest
and so they are," cries Adams; "then I must make haste and follow them."
The gentleman told him, "he would hardly be able to overtake them; and
that, if he did not know his way, he would be in danger of losing
himself on the downs, for it would be presently dark; and he might
ramble about all night, and perhaps find himself farther from his
journey's end in the morning than he was now." He advised him,
therefore, "to accompany him to his house, which was very little out of
his way," assuring him "that he would find some country fellow in his
parish who would conduct him for sixpence to the city where he was
going." Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, the
gentleman renewing his discourse on courage, and the infamy of not being
ready, at all times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night
overtook them much about the same time as they arrived near some bushes;
whence, on a sudden, they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a
female voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his companion's
hand. "What are you doing?" said he. "Doing!" said Adams; "I am
hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains are
murdering." "You are not mad enough, I hope," says the gentleman,
trembling: "do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that
the robbers are most probably furnished with pistols loaded with
bullets? This is no business of ours; let us make as much haste as
possible out of the way, or we may fall into their hands ourselves." The
shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but snapt his fingers,
and, brandishing his crabstick, made directly to the place whence the
voice issued; and the man of courage made as much expedition towards his
own home, whither he escaped in a very short time without once looking
behind him; where we will leave him, to contemplate his own bravery, and
to censure the want of it in others, and return to the good Adams, who,
on coming up to the place whence the noise proceeded, found a woman
struggling with a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almost
overpowered her. The great abilities of Mr Adams were not necessary to
have formed a right judgment of this affair on the first sight. He did
not, therefore, want the entreaties of the poor wretch to assist her;
but, lifting up his crabstick, he immediately levelled a blow at that
part of the ravisher's head where, according to the opinion of the
ancients, the brains of some persons are deposited, and which he had
undoubtedly let forth, had not Nature (who, as wise men have observed,
equips all creatures with what is most expedient for them) taken a
provident care (as she always doth with those she intends for
encounters) to make this part of the head three times as thick as those
of ordinary men who are designed to exercise talents which are vulgarly
called rational, and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged
to leave some room for them in the cavity of the skull; whereas, those
ingredients being entirely useless to persons of the heroic calling, she
hath an opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it less
subject to any impression, or liable to be cracked or broken: and
indeed, in some who are predestined to the command of armies and
empires, she is supposed sometimes to make that part perfectly solid.
As a game cock, when engaged in amorous toying with a hen, if perchance
he espies another cock at hand, immediately quits his female, and
opposes himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on the information of
the crabstick, immediately leap from the woman and hasten to assail the
man. He had no weapons but what Nature had furnished him with. However,
he clenched his fist, and presently darted it at that part of Adams's
breast where the heart is lodged. Adams staggered at the violence of the
blow, when, throwing away his staff, he likewise clenched that fist
which we have before commemorated, and would have discharged it full in
the breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it with his
left hand, at the same time darting his head (which some modern heroes
of the lower class use, like the battering-ram of the ancients, for a
weapon of offence; another reason to admire the cunningness of Nature,
in composing it of those impenetrable materials); dashing his head, I
say, into the stomach of Adams, he tumbled him on his back; and, not
having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have restrained
him from any farther attack on his enemy till he was again on his legs,
he threw himself upon him, and, laying hold on the ground with his left
hand, he with his right belaboured the body of Adams till he was weary,
and indeed till he concluded (to use the language of fighting) "that he
had done his business;" or, in the language of poetry, "that he had sent
him to the shades below;" in plain English, "that he was dead."
But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear a drubbing as well as any
boxing champion in the universe, lay still only to watch his
opportunity; and now, perceiving his antagonist to pant with his
labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and with such success that
he overturned him, and became his superior; when, fixing one of his
knees in his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, "It is my turn
now;" and, after a few minutes' constant application, he gave him so
dexterous a blow just under his chin that the fellow no longer retained
any motion, and Adams began to fear he had struck him once too often;
for he often asserted "he should be concerned to have the blood of even
the wicked upon him."
Adams got up and called aloud to the young woman. "Be of good cheer,
damsel," said he, "you are no longer in danger of your ravisher, who, I
am terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet; but God forgive me what I have
done in defence of innocence!" The poor wretch, who had been some time
in recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, during the
engagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear even from running
away, hearing her champion was victorious, came up to him, but not
without apprehensions even of her deliverer; which, however, she was
soon relieved from by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. They
were both standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, and
which Adams wished to see stir much more than the woman did, when he
earnestly begged her to tell him "by what misfortune she came, at such a
time of night, into so lonely a place." She acquainted him, "She was
travelling towards London, and had accidentally met with the person from
whom he had delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his journey
to the same place, and would keep her company; an offer which,
suspecting no harm, she had accepted; that he told her they were at a
small distance from an inn where she might take up her lodging that
evening, and he would show her a nearer way to it than by following the
road; that if she had suspected him (which she did not, he spoke so
kindly to her), being alone on these downs in the dark, she had no human
means to avoid him; that, therefore, she put her whole trust in
Providence, and walked on, expecting every moment to arrive at the inn;
when on a sudden, being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop,
and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties,
which she rejected, he laid violent hands on her, and was attempting to
execute his wicked will, when, she thanked G--, he timely came up and
prevented him." Adams encouraged her for saying she had put her whole
trust in Providence, and told her, "He doubted not but Providence had
sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. He wished
indeed he had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but G--'s will be
done;" said, "He hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse him in
the next world, and he trusted in her evidence to acquit him in this."
He was then silent, and began to consider with himself whether it would
be properer to make his escape, or to deliver himself into the hands of
justice; which meditation ended as the reader will see in the
next chapter.
CHAPTER X.
_Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding
adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities; and who the
woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to his
victorious arm._
The silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night and loneliness
of the place, struck dreadful apprehension into the poor woman's mind;
she began to fear as great an enemy in her deliverer as he had
delivered her from; and as she had not light enough to discover the age
of Adams, and the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspected
he had used her as some very honest men have used their country; and had
rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in order to rifle her
himself. Such were the suspicions she drew from his silence; but indeed
they were ill-grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely
weighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of the
two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgment
sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the other; for both
seemed to him so equally advisable and so equally dangerous, that
probably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, on
that very spot, before he had taken any resolution; at length he lifted
up his eyes, and spied a light at a distance, to which he instantly
addressed himself with _Heus tu, traveller, heus tu!_ He presently heard
several voices, and perceived the light approaching toward him. The
persons who attended the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and
others to hollow, at which the woman testified some fear (for she had
concealed her suspicions of the parson himself); but Adams said, "Be of
good cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Providence which
hath hitherto protected thee, and never will forsake the innocent."
These people, who now approached, were no other, reader, than a set of
young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit of a diversion which
they call bird-batting. This, if you are ignorant of it (as perhaps if
thou hast never travelled beyond Kensington, Islington, Hackney, or the
Borough, thou mayst be), I will inform thee, is performed by holding a
large clap-net before a lanthorn, and at the same time beating the
bushes; for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places of
rest, or roost, immediately make to the light, and so are inticed
within the net. Adams immediately told them what happened, and desired
them to hold the lanthorn to the face of the man on the ground, for he
feared he had smote him fatally. But indeed his fears were frivolous;
for the fellow, though he had been stunned by the last blow he received,
had long since recovered his senses, and, finding himself quit of Adams,
had listened attentively to the discourse between him and the young
woman; for whose departure he had patiently waited, that he might
likewise withdraw himself, having no longer hopes of succeeding in his
desires, which were moreover almost as well cooled by Mr Adams as they
could have been by the young woman herself had he obtained his utmost
wish. This fellow, who had a readiness at improving any accident,
thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man; and,
accordingly, the moment the candle was held to his face he leapt up,
and, laying hold on Adams, cried out, "No, villain, I am not dead,
though you and your wicked whore might well think me so, after the
barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. Gentlemen," said he, "you
are luckily come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who would
otherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman, who
led me hither out of my way from the high-road, and both falling on me
have used me as you see." Adams was going to answer, when one of the
young fellows cried, "D--n them, let's carry them both before the
justice." The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his
voice, but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him; and one
holding the lanthorn to his face, they all agreed he had the most
villainous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney's clerk, who
was of the company, declared he was sure he had remembered him at the
bar. As to the woman, her hair was dishevelled in the struggle, and her
nose had bled; so that they could not perceive whether she was handsome
or ugly, but they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. And
searching her pockets, as they did those of Adams, for money, which the
fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a purse with some gold
in it, which abundantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offered
to swear to it. Mr Adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny
about him. This the clerk said "was a great presumption that he was an
old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman." To which
all the rest readily assented.
This accident promising them better sport than what they had proposed,
they quitted their intention of catching birds, and unanimously resolved
to proceed to the justice with the offenders. Being informed what a
desperate fellow Adams was, they tied his hands behind him; and, having
hid their nets among the bushes, and the lanthorn being carried before
them, they placed the two prisoners in their front, and then began their
march; Adams not only submitting patiently to his own fate, but
comforting and encouraging his companion under her sufferings.
Whilst they were on their way the clerk informed the rest that this
adventure would prove a very beneficial one; for that they would all be
entitled to their proportions of L80 for apprehending the robbers. This
occasioned a contention concerning the parts which they had severally
borne in taking them; one insisting he ought to have the greatest share,
for he had first laid his hands on Adams; another claiming a superior
part for having first held the lanthorn to the man's face on the ground,
by which, he said, "the whole was discovered." The clerk claimed
four-fifths of the reward for having proposed to search the prisoners,
and likewise the carrying them before the justice: he said, "Indeed, in
strict justice, he ought to have the whole." These claims, however,
they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed all to
agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated what
money should be allotted to the young fellow who had been employed only
in holding the nets. He very modestly said, "That he did not apprehend
any large proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would allow
him something; he desired them to consider that they had assigned their
nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in
laying hold of the robbers" (for so those innocent people were called);
"that if he had not occupied the nets, some other must;" concluding,
however, "that he should be contented with the smallest share
imaginable, and should think that rather their bounty than his merit."
But they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever, the
clerk particularly swearing, "If they gave him a shilling they might do
what they pleased with the rest; for he would not concern himself with
the affair." This contention was so hot, and so totally engaged the
attention of all the parties, that a dexterous nimble thief, had he been
in Mr Adams's situation, would have taken care to have given the justice
no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art of a Sheppard
to escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so much
befriended him; but Adams trusted rather to his innocence than his
heels, and, without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance
(which was impossible, as there were six lusty young fellows, besides
the villain himself, present), he walked with perfect resignation the
way they thought proper to conduct him.
Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations during their journey; at
last, poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his mind, he could not refrain
sighing forth his name, which being heard by his companion in
affliction, she cried with some vehemence, "Sure I should know that
voice; you cannot certainly, sir, be Mr Abraham Adams?"--"Indeed,
damsel," says he, "that is my name; there is something also in your
voice which persuades me I have heard it before."--"La! sir," says she,
"don't you remember poor Fanny?"--"How, Fanny!" answered Adams: "indeed
I very well remember you; what can have brought you hither?"--"I have
told you, sir," replied she, "I was travelling towards London; but I
thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews; pray what is become of him?"--"I
left him, child, this afternoon," said Adams, "in the stage-coach, in
his way towards our parish, whither he is going to see you."--"To see
me! La, sir," answered Fanny, "sure you jeer me; what should he be going
to see me for?"--"Can you ask that?" replied Adams. "I hope, Fanny, you
are not inconstant; I assure you he deserves much better of you."--"La!
Mr Adams," said she, "what is Mr Joseph to me? I am sure I never had
anything to say to him, but as one fellow-servant might to another."--"I
am sorry to hear this," said Adams; "a virtuous passion for a young man
is what no woman need be ashamed of. You either do not tell me truth, or
you are false to a very worthy man." Adams then told her what had
happened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively; and a sigh
often escaped from her, notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to the
contrary; nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousand
questions, which would have assured any one but Adams, who never saw
farther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of a
passion she endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that this poor
girl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune, by some of the servants
belonging to the coach which we have formerly mentioned to have stopt at
the inn while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that instant
abandoned the cow she was milking, and, taking with her a little bundle
of clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth in her own
purse, without consulting any one, immediately set forward in pursuit of
one whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved with
inexpressible violence, though with the purest and most delicate
passion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend her
character to all our female readers, and not greatly surprize such of
our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex,
we shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindicate.
CHAPTER XI.
_What happened to them while before the justice. A chapter very full of
learning._
Their fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dispute concerning
the division of the reward for apprehending these innocent people, that
they attended very little to their discourse. They were now arrived at
the justice's house, and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint his
worship that they had taken two robbers and brought them before him. The
justice, who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not yet
finished his dinner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into the
stable, whither they were attended by all the servants in the house, and
all the people in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see them
with as much curiosity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, or
that a rogue did not look like other people.
The justice, now being in the height of his mirth and his cups,
bethought himself of the prisoners; and, telling his company he believed
they should have good sport in their examination, he ordered them into
his presence. They had no sooner entered the room than he began to
revile them, saying, "That robberies on the highway were now grown so
frequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, and assured
them they both should be made examples of at the ensuing assizes." After
he had gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded by his clerk,
"That it would be proper to take the depositions of the witnesses
against them." Which he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the
meantime. Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the deposition
of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice employed
himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by all
the company at table. One asked, "Whether she was to be indicted for a
highwayman?" Another whispered in her ear, "If she had not provided
herself a great belly, he was at her service." A third said, "He
warranted she was a relation of Turpin." To which one of the company, a
great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered, "He believed
she was nearer related to Turpis;" at which there was an universal
laugh. They were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when somebody,
smoking the cassock peeping forth from under the greatcoat of Adams,
cried out, "What have we here, a parson?" "How, sirrah," says the
justice, "do you go robbing in the dress of a clergyman? let me tell you
your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy." "Yes,"
said the witty fellow, "he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be
exalted above the heads of the people;" at which there was a second
laugh. And now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in
spirits; and, turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verses, and,
provoking him by giving the first blow, he repeated--
_"Molle meum levibus cord est vilebile telis."_
Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told him, "He
deserved scourging for his pronunciation." The witty fellow answered,
"What do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer the first
time? Why, I'll give one, you blockhead, with an S.
_"'Si licet, ut fulvum spectatur in ignibus haurum.'_
"What, canst not with an M neither? Thou art a pretty fellow for a
parson! Why didst not steal some of the parson's Latin as well as his
gown?" Another at the table then answered, "If he had, you would have
been too hard for him; I remember you at the college a very devil at
this sport; I have seen you catch a freshman, for nobody that knew you
would engage with you." "I have forgot those things now," cried the wit.
"I believe I could have done pretty well formerly. Let's see, what did I
end with?--an M again--aye--
_"'Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.'_
I could have done it once." "Ah! evil betide you, and so you can now,"
said the other: "nobody in this country will undertake you." Adams could
hold no longer: "Friend," said he, "I have a boy not above eight years
old who would instruct thee that the last verse runs thus:--
_"'Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.'"_
"I'll hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, throwing the money on
the table. "And I'll go your halves," cries the other. "Done," answered
Adams; but upon applying to his pocket he was forced to retract, and own
he had no money about him; which set them all a-laughing, and confirmed
the triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more than the
approbation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he must
go a little longer to school before he attempted to attack that
gentleman in Latin.
The clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the fellow
himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered them to
the justice; who, having sworn the several witnesses without reading a
syllable, ordered his clerk to make the mittimus.
Adams then said, "He hoped he should not be condemned unheard." "No,
no," cries the justice, "you will be asked what you have to say for
yourself when you come on your trial: we are not trying you now; I shall
only commit you to gaol: if you can prove your innocence at size, you
will be found ignoramus, and so no harm done." "Is it no punishment,
sir, for an innocent man to lie several months in gaol?" cries Adams: "I
beg you would at least hear me before you sign the mittimus." "What
signifies all you can say?" says the justice: "is it not here in black
and white against you? I must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow
to take up so much of my time. So make haste with his mittimus."
The clerk now acquainted the justice that among other suspicious things,
as a penknife, &c., found in Adams's pocket, they had discovered a book
written, as he apprehended, in cyphers; for no one could read a word in
it. "Ay," says the justice, "the fellow may be more than a common
robber, he may be in a plot against the Government. Produce the book."
Upon which the poor manuscript of Aeschylus, which Adams had transcribed
with his own hand, was brought forth; and the justice, looking at it,
shook his head, and, turning to the prisoner, asked the meaning of those
cyphers. "Cyphers?" answered Adams, "it is a manuscript of Aeschylus."
"Who? who?" said the justice. Adams repeated, "Aeschylus." "That is an
outlandish name," cried the clerk. "A fictitious name rather, I
believe," said the justice. One of the company declared it looked very
much like Greek. "Greek?" said the justice; "why, 'tis all writing."
"No," says the other, "I don't positively say it is so; for it is a very
long time since I have seen any Greek." "There's one," says he, turning
to the parson of the parish, who was present, "will tell us
immediately." The parson, taking up the book, and putting on his
spectacles and gravity together, muttered some words to himself, and
then pronounced aloud--"Ay, indeed, it is a Greek manuscript; a very
fine piece of antiquity. I make no doubt but it was stolen from the same
clergyman from whom the rogue took the cassock." "What did the rascal
mean by his Aeschylus?" says the justice. "Pooh!" answered the doctor,
with a contemptuous grin, "do you think that fellow knows anything of
this book? Aeschylus! ho! ho! I see now what it is--a manuscript of one
of the fathers. I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of money
for such a piece of antiquity. Ay, ay, question and answer. The
beginning is the catechism in Greek. Ay, ay, _Pollaki toi_: What's your
name?"--"Ay, what's your name?" says the justice to Adams; who answered,
"It is Aeschylus, and I will maintain it."--"Oh! it is," says the
justice: "make Mr Aeschylus his mittimus. I will teach you to banter me
with a false name."
One of the company, having looked steadfastly at Adams, asked him, "If
he did not know Lady Booby?" Upon which Adams, presently calling him to
mind, answered in a rapture, "O squire! are you there? I believe you
will inform his worship I am innocent."--"I can indeed say," replied the
squire, "that I am very much surprized to see you in this situation:"
and then, addressing himself to the justice, he said, "Sir, I assure
you Mr Adams is a clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very
good character. I wish you would enquire a little farther into this
affair; for I am convinced of his innocence."--"Nay," says the justice,
"if he is a gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don't desire
to commit him, not I: I will commit the woman by herself, and take your
bail for the gentleman: look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to
take bail--come--and make the mittimus for the woman as fast as you
can."--"Sir," cries Adams, "I assure you she is as innocent as
myself."--"Perhaps," said the squire, "there may be some mistake! pray
let us hear Mr Adams's relation."--"With all my heart," answered the
justice; "and give the gentleman a glass to wet his whistle before he
begins. I know how to behave myself to gentlemen as well as another.
Nobody can say I have committed a gentleman since I have been in the
commission." Adams then began the narrative, in which, though he was
very prolix, he was uninterrupted, unless by several hums and hahs of
the justice, and his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to him
most material. When he had finished, the justice, who, on what the
squire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his bare
affirmation, notwithstanding the depositions on oath to the contrary,
began to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, whom
he ordered to stand forth, but in vain; the said witness, long since
finding what turn matters were likely to take, had privily withdrawn,
without attending the issue. The justice now flew into a violent
passion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocent
fellows who had been imposed on as well as himself. He swore, "They had
best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before
him within two days, or he would bind them all over to their good
behaviour." They all promised to use their best endeavours to that
purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice insisted that Mr Adams
should sit down and take a glass with him; and the parson of the parish
delivered him back the manuscript without saying a word; nor would
Adams, who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she
was, at her own request, recommended to the care of a maid-servant of
the house, who helped her to new dress and clean herself.
The company in the parlour had not been long seated before they were
alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the persons who had
apprehended Adams and Fanny had been regaling, according to the custom
of the house, with the justice's strong beer. These were all fallen
together by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. The
justice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his presence soon
put an end to the fray. On his return into the parlour, he reported,
"That the occasion of the quarrel was no other than a dispute to whom,
if Adams had been convicted, the greater share of the reward for
apprehending him had belonged." All the company laughed at this, except
Adams, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and
said, "He was concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. That he
remembered a story something like it in one of the parishes where his
cure lay:--There was," continued he, "a competition between three young
fellows for the place of the clerk, which I disposed of, to the best of
my abilities, according to merit; that is, I gave it to him who had the
happiest knack at setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner established
in his place than a contention began between the two disappointed
candidates concerning their excellence; each contending on whom, had
they two been the only competitors, my election would have fallen. This
dispute frequently disturbed the congregation, and introduced a discord
into the psalmody, till I was forced to silence them both. But, alas!
the litigious spirit could not be stifled; and, being no longer able to
vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fighting. It produced many
battles (for they were very near a match), and I believe would have
ended fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity to
promote one of them to his place; which presently put an end to the
dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties." Adams then
proceeded to make some philosophical observations on the folly of
growing warm in disputes in which neither party is interested. He then
applied himself vigorously to smoaking; and a long silence ensued, which
was at length broke by the justice, who began to sing forth his own
praises, and to value himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in the
cause which had lately been before him. He was quickly interrupted by Mr
Adams, between whom and his worship a dispute now arose, whether he
ought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said Adams;
in which the latter maintained he ought to have been committed, and the
justice as vehemently held he ought not. This had most probably produced
a quarrel (for both were very violent and positive in their opinions),
had not Fanny accidentally heard that a young fellow was going from the
justice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach in which Joseph
was, put up. Upon this news, she immediately sent for the parson out of
the parlour. Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though she would
not own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces of
those who had suspected her of such a crime), was as fully determined to
go with her; he accordingly took leave of the justice and company: and
so ended a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a
magistrate and a divine together by the ears.
CHAPTER XII.
_A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to the
good-natured reader._
Adams, Fanny, and the guide, set out together about one in the morning,
the moon being then just risen. They had not gone above a mile before a
most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or
rather alehouse, where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a
toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content,
utterly forgetting everything that had happened.
Fanny sat likewise down by the fire; but was much more impatient at the
storm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of
the house, and the young fellow who was their guide; they all conceived
they had never seen anything half so handsome; and indeed, reader, if
thou art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the next
paragraph; which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to set
down, humbly hoping that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion; for if it
should happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, we
should be perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say
to ourselves, _Quod petis est nusquam_. Or, if the finest features in it
should set Lady ----'s image before our eyes, we should be still in as
bad a situation, and might say to our desires, _Coelum ipsum petimus
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 slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchief
discovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest
Italian paint would be unable to reach. Her hair was of a chesnut brown,
and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut,
and on Sundays used to curl down her neck, in the modern fashion. Her
forehead was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise.
Her eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the Roman; her
lips red and moist, and her underlip, according to the opinion of the
ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The
small-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which was so large, it
might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced
one so near a neighbour to it, that the former served only for a foil to
the latter. Her complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, but
overspread with such a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged
all their white for it: add to these a countenance in which, though she
was extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible; and a
sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or description.
To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, superior to the
acquisition of art, and which surprized all who beheld her.
This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, when her
attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room, which sung
the following song:--
THE SONG.
Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray
Who is by thy beauties undone?
To wash their remembrance away,
To what distant Lethe must run?
The wretch who is sentenced to die
May escape, and leave justice behind;
From his country perhaps he may fly,
But oh! can he fly from his mind?
O rapture! unthought of before,
To be thus of Chloe possess'd;
Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power,
Her image can tear from my breast.
But felt not Narcissus more joy,
With his eyes he beheld his loved charms?
Yet what he beheld the fond boy
More eagerly wish'd in his arms.
How can it thy dear image be
Which fills thus my bosom with woe?
Can aught bear resemblance to thee
Which grief and not joy can bestow?
This counterfeit snatch from my heart,
Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave,
Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart:
I then shall find rest in my grave.
Ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain
Come smiling and tripping along!
A thousand Loves dance in her train,
The Graces around her all throng.
To meet her soft Zephyrus flies,
And wafts all the sweets from the flowers,
Ah, rogue I whilst he kisses her eyes,
More sweets from her breath he devours.
My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire:
But her looks were so tender and kind,
My hope almost reach'd my desire,
And left lame despair far behind.
Transported with madness, I flew,
And eagerly seized on my bliss;
Her bosom but half she withdrew,
But half she refused my fond kiss.
Advances like these made me bold;
I whisper'd her--Love, we're alone.--
The rest let immortals unfold;
No language can tell but their own.
Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried,
How long I thy cruelty bore!
Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied,
You ne'er was so pressing before.
Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in Aeschylus,
without attending in the least to the voice, though one of the most
melodious that ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on Fanny, he cried
out, "Bless us, you look extremely pale!"--"Pale! Mr Adams," says she;
"O Jesus!" and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung his
Aeschylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the people of the house
for help. He soon summoned every one into the room, and the songster
among the rest; but, O reader! when this nightingale, who was no other
than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in the situation we
have described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind? If
thou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his happiness, when,
clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her
cheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the
softest accent whisper, "Are you Joseph Andrews?"--"Art thou my Fanny?"
he answered eagerly: and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted
numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present.
If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, they may
take their eyes off from it, and survey parson Adams dancing about the
room in a rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps doubt whether he
was not the happiest of the three: for the goodness of his heart enjoyed
the blessings which were exulting in the breasts of both the other two,
together with his own. But we shall leave such disquisitions, as too
deep for us, to those who are building some favourite hypothesis, which
they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support: for our
part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not
only greater than the parson's, but of longer duration: for as soon as
the first tumults of Adams's rapture were over he cast his eyes towards
the fire, where Aeschylus lay expiring; and immediately rescued the
poor remains, to wit, the sheepskin covering, of his dear friend, which
was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion
for upwards of thirty years.
Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she began to
restrain the impetuosity of her transports; and, reflecting on what she
had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was immediately
covered with confusion; and, pushing Joseph gently from her, she begged
him to be quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer.
Then, seeing Mrs Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to advance to her;
but that high woman would not return her curtsies; but, casting her eyes
another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as she
went, she wondered who the creature was.
CHAPTER XIII.
_A dissertation concerning high people and low people, with Mrs
Slipslop's departure in no very good temper of mind, and the evil plight
in which she left Adams and his company._
It will doubtless seem extremely odd to many readers, that Mrs Slipslop,
who had lived several years in the same house with Fanny, should, in a
short separation, utterly forget her. And indeed the truth is, that she
remembered her very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, that
anything should appear unnatural in this our history, we will endeavour
to explain the reasons of her conduct; nor do we doubt being able to
satisfy the most curious reader that Mrs Slipslop did not in the least
deviate from the common road in this behaviour; and, indeed, had she
done otherwise, she must have descended below herself, and would have
very justly been liable to censure.
Be it known then, that the human species are divided into two sorts of
people, to wit, high people and low people. As by high people I would
not be understood to mean persons literally born higher in their
dimensions than the rest of the species, nor metaphorically those of
exalted characters or abilities; so by low people I cannot be construed
to intend the reverse. High people signify no other than people of
fashion, and low people those of no fashion. Now, this word fashion hath
by long use lost its original meaning, from which at present it gives us
a very different idea; for I am deceived if by persons of fashion we do
not generally include a conception of birth and accomplishments superior
to the herd of mankind; whereas, in reality, nothing more was originally
meant by a person of fashion than a person who drest himself in the
fashion of the times; and the word really and truly signifies no more at
this day. Now, the world being thus divided into people of fashion and
people of no fashion, a fierce contention arose between them; nor would
those of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publicly to speak to
those of the other, though they often held a very good correspondence in
private. In this contention it is difficult to say which party
succeeded; for, whilst the people of fashion seized several places to
their own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas, balls, &c., the
people of no fashion, besides one royal place, called his Majesty's
Bear-garden, have been in constant possession of all hops, fairs,
revels, &c. Two places have been agreed to be divided between them,
namely, the church and the playhouse, where they segregate themselves
from each other in a remarkable manner; for, as the people of fashion
exalt themselves at church over the heads of the people of no fashion,
so in the playhouse they abase themselves in the same degree under
their feet. This distinction I have never met with any one able to
account for: it is sufficient that, so far from looking on each other as
brethren in the Christian language, they seem scarce to regard each
other as of the same species. This, the terms "strange persons, people
one does not know, the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes," and many
other appellations evidently demonstrate; which Mrs Slipslop, having
often heard her mistress use, thought she had also a right to use in her
turn; and perhaps she was not mistaken; for these two parties,
especially those bordering nearly on each other, to wit, the lowest of
the high, and the highest of the low, often change their parties
according to place and time; for those who are people of fashion in one
place are often people of no fashion in another. And with regard to
time, it may not be unpleasant to survey the picture of dependance like
a kind of ladder; as, for instance; early in the morning arises the
postillion, or some other boy, which great families, no more than great
ships, are without, and falls to brushing the clothes and cleaning the
shoes of John the footman; who, being drest himself, applies his hands
to the same labours for Mr Second-hand, the squire's gentleman; the
gentleman in the like manner, a little later in the day, attends the
squire; the squire is no sooner equipped than he attends the levee of my
lord; which is no sooner over than my lord himself is seen at the levee
of the favourite, who, after the hour of homage is at an end, appears
himself to pay homage to the levee of his sovereign. Nor is there,
perhaps, in this whole ladder of dependance, any one step at a greater
distance from the other than the first from the second; so that to a
philosopher the question might only seem, whether you would chuse to be
a great man at six in the morning, or at two in the afternoon. And yet
there are scarce two of these who do not think the least familiarity
with the persons below them a condescension, and, if they were to go one
step farther, a degradation.
And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this long digression, which
seemed to me necessary to vindicate the great character of Mrs Slipslop
from what low people, who have never seen high people, might think an
absurdity; but we who know them must have daily found very high persons
know us in one place and not in another, to-day and not to-morrow; all
which it is difficult to account for otherwise than I have here
endeavoured; and perhaps, if the gods, according to the opinion of some,
made men only to laugh at them, there is no part of our behaviour which
answers the end of our creation better than this.
But to return to our history: Adams, who knew no more of this than the
cat which sat on the table, imagining Mrs Slipslop's memory had been
much worse than it really was, followed her into the next room, crying
out, "Madam Slipslop, here is one of your old acquaintance; do but see
what a fine woman she is grown since she left Lady Booby's service."--"I
think I reflect something of her," answered she, with great dignity,
"but I can't remember all the inferior servants in our family." She then
proceeded to satisfy Adams's curiosity, by telling him, "When she
arrived at the inn, she found a chaise ready for her; that, her lady
being expected very shortly in the country, she was obliged to make the
utmost haste; and, in commensuration of Joseph's lameness, she had taken
him with her;" and lastly, "that the excessive virulence of the storm
had driven them into the house where he found them." After which, she
acquainted Adams with his having left his horse, and exprest some wonder
at his having strayed so far out of his way, and at meeting him, as she
said, "in the company of that wench, who she feared was no better than
she should be."
The horse was no sooner put into Adams's head but he was immediately
driven out by this reflection on the character of Fanny. He protested,
"He believed there was not a chaster damsel in the universe. I heartily
wish, I heartily wish," cried he (snapping his fingers), "that all her
betters were as good." He then proceeded to inform her of the accident
of their meeting; but when he came to mention the circumstance of
delivering her from the rape, she said, "She thought him properer for
the army than the clergy; that it did not become a clergyman to lay
violent hands on any one; that he should have rather prayed that she
might be strengthened." Adams said, "He was very far from being ashamed
of what he had done:" she replied, "Want of shame was not the
currycuristic of a clergyman." This dialogue might have probably grown
warmer, had not Joseph opportunely entered the room, to ask leave of
Madam Slipslop to introduce Fanny: but she positively refused to admit
any such trollops, and told him, "She would have been burnt before she
would have suffered him to get into a chaise with her, if she had once
respected him of having his sluts waylaid on the road for him;" adding,
"that Mr Adams acted a very pretty part, and she did not doubt but to
see him a bishop." He made the best bow he could, and cried out, "I
thank you, madam, for that right-reverend appellation, which I shall
take all honest means to deserve."-"Very honest means," returned she,
with a sneer, "to bring people together." At these words Adams took two
or three strides across the room, when the coachman came to inform Mrs
Slipslop, "That the storm was over, and the moon shone very bright." She
then sent for Joseph, who was sitting without with his Fanny, and would
have had him gone with her; but he peremptorily refused to leave Fanny
behind, which threw the good woman into a violent rage. She said, "She
would inform her lady what doings were carrying on, and did not doubt
but she would rid the parish of all such people;" and concluded a long
speech, full of bitterness and very hard words, with some reflections on
the clergy not decent to repeat; at last, finding Joseph unmoveable, she
flung herself into the chaise, casting a look at Fanny as she went, not
unlike that which Cleopatra gives Octavia in the play. To say the truth,
she was most disagreeably disappointed by the presence of Fanny: she
had, from her first seeing Joseph at the inn, conceived hopes of
something which might have been accomplished at an alehouse as well as a
palace. Indeed, it is probable Mr Adams had rescued more than Fanny from
the clanger of a rape that evening.
When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slipslop, Adams, Joseph, and
Fanny assembled over the fire, where they had a great deal of innocent
chat, pretty enough; but, as possibly it would not be very entertaining
to the reader, we shall hasten to the morning; only observing that none
of them went to bed that night. Adams, when he had smoaked three pipes,
took a comfortable nap in a great chair, and left the lovers, whose eyes
were too well employed to permit any desire of shutting them, to enjoy
by themselves, during some hours, an happiness which none of my readers
who have never been in love are capable of the least conception of,
though we had as many tongues as Homer desired, to describe it with, and
which all true lovers will represent to their own minds without the
least assistance from us.
Let it suffice then to say, that Fanny, after a thousand entreaties, at
last gave up her whole soul to Joseph; and, almost fainting in his arms,
with a sigh infinitely softer and sweeter too than any Arabian breeze,
she whispered to his lips, which were then close to hers, "O Joseph,
you have won me: I will be yours for ever." Joseph, having thanked
her on his knees, and embraced her with an eagerness which she now
almost returned, leapt up in a rapture, and awakened the parson,
earnestly begging him "that he would that instant join their hands
together." Adams rebuked him for his request, and told him "He would by
no means consent to anything contrary to the forms of the Church; that
he had no licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one; that
the Church had prescribed a form--namely, the publication of banns--with
which all good Christians ought to comply, and to the omission of which
he attributed the many miseries which befell great folks in marriage;"
concluding, "As many as are joined together otherwise than G--'s word
doth allow are not joined together by G--, neither is their matrimony
lawful." Fanny agreed with the parson, saying to Joseph, with a blush,
"She assured him she would not consent to any such thing, and that she
wondered at his offering it." In which resolution she was comforted and
commended by Adams; and Joseph was obliged to wait patiently till after
the third publication of the banns, which, however, he obtained the
consent of Fanny, in the presence of Adams, to put in at their arrival.
The sun had been now risen some hours, when Joseph, finding his leg
surprizingly recovered, proposed to walk forwards; but when they were
all ready to set out, an accident a little retarded them. This was no
other than the reckoning, which amounted to seven shillings; no great
sum if we consider the immense quantity of ale which Mr Adams poured in.
Indeed, they had no objection to the reasonableness of the bill, but
many to the probability of paying it; for the fellow who had taken poor
Fanny's purse had unluckily forgot to return it. So that the account
stood thus:--
L S D
Mr Adams and company, Dr. 0 7 0
In Mr Adams's pocket 0 0 6 1/2
In Mr Joseph's 0 0 0
In Mrs Fanny's 0 0 0
Balance 0 6 5 1/2
They stood silent some few minutes, staring at each other, when Adams
whipt out on his toes, and asked the hostess, "If there was no clergyman
in that parish?" She answered, "There was."--"Is he wealthy?" replied
he; to which she likewise answered in the affirmative. Adams then
snapping his fingers returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out,
"Heureka, Heureka;" which not being understood, he told them in plain
English, "They need give themselves no trouble, for he had a brother in
the parish who would defray the reckoning, and that he would just step
to his house and fetch the money, and return to them instantly."
END OF VOL. I
JOSEPH ANDREWS
VOL. II.
CONTENTS
BOOK II.--continued.
CHAPTER XIV.
_An interview between parson Adams and parson Trulliber._
CHAPTER XV.
_An adventure, the consequence of a new instance which parson Adams
gave of his forgetfulness._
CHAPTER XVI.
_A very curious adventure, in which Mr Adams gave a much greater
instance of the honest simplicity of his heart, than of his experience
in the ways of this world._
CHAPTER XVII.
_A dialogue between Mr Abraham Adams and his host, which, by the
disagreement in their opinions, seemed to threaten an unlucky
catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented by the return of
the lovers._
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
_Matter prefatory in praise of biography._
CHAPTER II.
_A night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befel Adams and
his fellow-travellers._
CHAPTER III.
_In which the gentleman relates the history of his life._
CHAPTER IV.
_A description of Mr Wilson's way of living. The tragical adventure
of the dog, and other grave matters._
CHAPTER V.
_A disputation on schools held on the road between Mr Abraham Adams
and Joseph; and a discovery not unwelcome to them both._
CHAPTER VI.
_Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the hunting adventure, and
parson Adams's miraculous escape._
CHAPTER VII.
_A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste and
times._
CHAPTER VIII.
_Which some readers will think too short and others too long._
CHAPTER IX.
_Containing as surprizing and bloody adventures as can be found in
this or perhaps any other authentic history._
CHAPTER X.
_A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this
history but to divert the reader._
CHAPTER XI.
_Containing the exhortations of parson Adams to his friend in
affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of the
reader._
CHAPTER XII.
_More adventures, which we hope will as much please as surprize
the reader._
CHAPTER XIII.
_A curious dialogue which passed between Mr Abraham Adams and Mr
Peter Pounce, better worth reading than all the works of Colley
Cibber and many others._
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I.
_The arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at Booby-hall._
CHAPTER II.
_A dialogue between Mr Abraham Adams and the Lady Booby._
CHAPTER III.
_What passed between the lady and lawyer Scout._
CHAPTER IV.
_A short chapter, but very full of matter; particularly the arrival
of Mr Booby and his lady._
CHAPTER V.
_Containing justice business; curious precedents of depositions, and
other matters necessary to be perused by all justices of the peace
and their clerks._
CHAPTER VI.
_Of which you are desired to read no more than you like._
CHAPTER VII.
_Philosophical reflections, the like not to be found in any light
French romance. Mr Booby's grave advice to Joseph, and Fanny's
encounter with a beau._
CHAPTER VIII.
_A discourse which happened between Mr Adams, Mrs Adams, Joseph, and
Fanny, with some behaviour of Mr Adams which will be called by some
few readers very low, absurd, and unnatural._
CHAPTER IX
_A visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite friend paid to
the parson._
CHAPTER X.
_The history of two friends, which may afford an useful lesson to
all those persons who happen to take up their residence in married
families._
CHAPTER XI.
_In which the history is continued._
CHAPTER XII.
_Where the good-natured reader will see something which will give
him no great pleasure._
CHAPTER XIII
_The history, returning to the Lady Booby, gives some account of the
terrible conflict in her breast between love and pride, with what
happened on the present discovery._
CHAPTER XIV.
_Containing several curious night-adventures, in which Mr Adams fell
into many hair-breadth scapes, partly owing to his goodness, and
partly to his inadvertency._
CHAPTER XV.
_The arrival of Gaffar and Gammar Andrews with another person not
much expected, and a perfect solution of the difficulties raised by
the pedlar._
CHAPTER XVI.
_Being the last. In which this true history is brought to a happy
conclusion._
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
MR WILSON RELATES HIS HISTORY
PARSON ADAMS
HE RAN TOWARDS HER
BOOK II.--continued.
CHAPTER XIV.
_An interview between parson Adams and parson Trulliber._
Parson Adams came to the house of parson Trulliber, whom he found
stript into his waistcoat, with an apron on, and a pail in his hand,
just come from serving his hogs; for Mr Trulliber was a parson on
Sundays, but all the other six might more properly be called a farmer.
He occupied a small piece of land of his own, besides which he rented a
considerable deal more. His wife milked his cows, managed his dairy,
and followed the markets with butter and eggs. The hogs fell chiefly to
his care, which he carefully waited on at home, and attended to fairs;
on which occasion he was liable to many jokes, his own size being, with
much ale, rendered little inferior to that of the beasts he sold. He
was indeed one of the largest men you should see, and could have acted
the part of Sir John Falstaff without stuffing. Add to this that the
rotundity of his belly was considerably increased by the shortness of
his stature, his shadow ascending very near as far in height, when he
lay on his back, as when he stood on his legs. His voice was loud and
hoarse, and his accents extremely broad. To complete the whole, he had
a stateliness in his gait, when he walked, not unlike that of a goose,
only he stalked slower.
Mr Trulliber, being informed that somebody wanted to speak with him,
immediately slipt off his apron and clothed himself in an old
night-gown, being the dress in which he always saw his company at home.
His wife, who informed him of Mr Adams's arrival, had made a small
mistake; for she had told her husband, "She believed there was a man
come for some of his hogs." This supposition made Mr Trulliber hasten
with the utmost expedition to attend his guest. He no sooner saw Adams
than, not in the least doubting the cause of his errand to be what his
wife had imagined, he told him, "He was come in very good time; that he
expected a dealer that very afternoon;" and added, "they were all pure
and fat, and upwards of twenty score a-piece." Adams answered, "He
believed he did not know him." "Yes, yes," cried Trulliber, "I have seen
you often at fair; why, we have dealt before now, mun, I warrant you.
Yes, yes," cries he, "I remember thy face very well, but won't mention a
word more till you have seen them, though I have never sold thee a
flitch of such bacon as is now in the stye." Upon which he laid violent
hands on Adams, and dragged him into the hog-stye, which was indeed but
two steps from his parlour window. They were no sooner arrived there
than he cry'd out, "Do but handle them! step in, friend! art welcome to
handle them, whether dost buy or no." At which words, opening the gate,
he pushed Adams into the pig-stye, insisting on it that he should handle
them before he would talk one word with him.
Adams, whose natural complacence was beyond any artificial, was obliged
to comply before he was suffered to explain himself; and, laying hold on
one of their tails, the unruly beast gave such a sudden spring, that he
threw poor Adams all along in the mire. Trulliber, instead of assisting
him to get up, burst into a laughter, and, entering the stye, said to
Adams, with some contempt, "Why, dost not know how to handle a hog?" and
was going to lay hold of one himself, but Adams, who thought he had
carried his complacence far enough, was no sooner on his legs than he
escaped out of the reach of the animals, and cried out, "_Nihil habeo
cum porcis_: I am a clergyman, sir, and am not come to buy hogs."
Trulliber answered, "He was sorry for the mistake, but that he must
blame his wife," adding, "she was a fool, and always committed
blunders." He then desired him to walk in and clean himself, that he
would only fasten up the stye and follow him. Adams desired leave to dry
his greatcoat, wig, and hat by the fire, which Trulliber granted. Mrs
Trulliber would have brought him a basin of water to wash his face, but
her husband bid her be quiet like a fool as she was, or she would commit
more blunders, and then directed Adams to the pump. While Adams was thus
employed, Trulliber, conceiving no great respect for the appearance of
his guest, fastened the parlour door, and now conducted him into the
kitchen, telling him he believed a cup of drink would do him no harm,
and whispered his wife to draw a little of the worst ale. After a short
silence Adams said, "I fancy, sir, you already perceive me to be a
clergyman."--"Ay, ay," cries Trulliber, grinning, "I perceive you have
some cassock; I will not venture to caale it a whole one." Adams
answered, "It was indeed none of the best, but he had the misfortune to
tear it about ten years ago in passing over a stile." Mrs Trulliber,
returning with the drink, told her husband, "She fancied the gentleman
was a traveller, and that he would be glad to eat a bit." Trulliber bid
her hold her impertinent tongue, and asked her, "If parsons used to
travel without horses?" adding, "he supposed the gentleman had none by
his having no boots on."--"Yes, sir, yes," says Adams; "I have a horse,
but I have left him behind me."--"I am glad to hear you have one," says
Trulliber; "for I assure you I don't love to see clergymen on foot; it
is not seemly nor suiting the dignity of the cloth." Here Trulliber made
a long oration on the dignity of the cloth (or rather gown) not much
worth relating, till his wife had spread the table and set a mess of
porridge on it for his breakfast. He then said to Adams, "I don't know,
friend, how you came to caale on me; however, as you are here, if you
think proper to eat a morsel, you may." Adams accepted the invitation,
and the two parsons sat down together; Mrs Trulliber waiting behind her
husband's chair, as was, it seems, her custom. Trulliber eat heartily,
but scarce put anything in his mouth without finding fault with his
wife's cookery. All which the poor woman bore patiently. Indeed, she was
so absolute an admirer of her husband's greatness and importance, of
which she had frequent hints from his own mouth, that she almost carried
her adoration to an opinion of his infallibility. To say the truth, the
parson had exercised her more ways than one; and the pious woman had so
well edified by her husband's sermons, that she had resolved to receive
the bad things of this world together with the good. She had indeed been
at first a little contentious; but he had long since got the better;
partly by her love for this, partly by her fear of that, partly by her
religion, partly by the respect he paid himself, and partly by that
which he received from the parish. She had, in short, absolutely
submitted, and now worshipped her husband, as Sarah did Abraham, calling
him (not lord, but) master. Whilst they were at table her husband gave
her a fresh example of his greatness; for, as she had just delivered a
cup of ale to Adams, he snatched it out of his hand, and, crying out, "I
caal'd vurst," swallowed down the ale. Adams denied it; it was referred
to the wife, who, though her conscience was on the side of Adams, durst
not give it against her husband; upon which he said, "No, sir, no; I
should not have been so rude to have taken it from you if you had caal'd
vurst, but I'd have you know I'm a better man than to suffer the best he
in the kingdom to drink before me in my own house when I caale vurst."
As soon as their breakfast was ended, Adams began in the following
manner: "I think, sir, it is high time to inform you of the business of
my embassy. I am a traveller, and am passing this way in company with
two young people, a lad and a damsel, my parishioners, towards my own
cure; we stopt at a house of hospitality in the parish, where they
directed me to you as having the cure."--"Though I am but a curate,"
says Trulliber, "I believe I am as warm as the vicar himself, or perhaps
the rector of the next parish too; I believe I could buy them
both."--"Sir," cries Adams, "I rejoice thereat. Now, sir, my business
is, that we are by various accidents stript of our money, and are not
able to pay our reckoning, being seven shillings. I therefore request
you to assist me with the loan of those seven shillings, and also seven
shillings more, which, peradventure, I shall return to you; but if not,
I am convinced you will joyfully embrace such an opportunity of laying
up a treasure in a better place than any this world affords."
Suppose a stranger, who entered the chambers of a lawyer, being imagined
a client, when the lawyer was preparing his palm for the fee, should
pull out a writ against him. Suppose an apothecary, at the door of a
chariot containing some great doctor of eminent skill, should, instead
of directions to a patient, present him with a potion for himself.
Suppose a minister should, instead of a good round sum, treat my lord
----, or sir ----, or esq. ---- with a good broomstick. Suppose a civil
companion, or a led captain, should, instead of virtue, and honour, and
beauty, and parts, and admiration, thunder vice, and infamy, and
ugliness, and folly, and contempt, in his patron's ears. Suppose, when a
tradesman first carries in his bill, the man of fashion should pay it;
or suppose, if he did so, the tradesman should abate what he had
overcharged, on the supposition of waiting. In short--suppose what you
will, you never can nor will suppose anything equal to the astonishment
which seized on Trulliber, as soon as Adams had ended his speech. A
while he rolled his eyes in silence; sometimes surveying Adams, then his
wife; then casting them on the ground, then lifting them up to heaven.
At last he burst forth in the following accents: "Sir, I believe I know
where to lay up my little treasure as well as another. I thank G--, if I
am not so warm as some, I am content; that is a blessing greater than
riches; and he to whom that is given need ask no more. To be content
with a little is greater than to possess the world; which a man may
possess without being so. Lay up my treasure! what matters where a man's
treasure is whose heart is in the Scriptures? there is the treasure of a
Christian." At these words the water ran from Adams's eyes; and,
catching Trulliber by the hand in a rapture, "Brother," says he,
"heavens bless the accident by which I came to see you! I would have
walked many a mile to have communed with you; and, believe me, I will
shortly pay you a second visit; but my friends, I fancy, by this time,
wonder at my stay; so let me have the money immediately." Trulliber then
put on a stern look, and cried out, "Thou dost not intend to rob me?" At
which the wife, bursting into tears, fell on her knees and roared out,
"O dear sir! for Heaven's sake don't rob my master; we are but poor
people." "Get up, for a fool as thou art, and go about thy business,"
said Trulliber; "dost think the man will venture his life? he is a
beggar, and no robber." "Very true, indeed," answered Adams. "I wish,
with all my heart, the tithing-man was here," cries Trulliber; "I would
have thee punished as a vagabond for thy impudence. Fourteen shillings
indeed! I won't give thee a farthing. I believe thou art no more a
clergyman than the woman there" (pointing to his wife); "but if thou
art, dost deserve to have thy gown stript over thy shoulders for running
about the country in such a manner." "I forgive your suspicions," says
Adams; "but suppose I am not a clergyman, I am nevertheless thy brother;
and thou, as a Christian, much more as a clergyman, art obliged to
relieve my distress." "Dost preach to me?" replied Trulliber; "dost
pretend to instruct me in my duty?" "Ifacks, a good story," cries Mrs
Trulliber, "to preach to my master." "Silence, woman," cries Trulliber.
"I would have thee know, friend" (addressing himself to Adams), "I shall
not learn my duty from such as thee. I know what charity is, better than
to give to vagabonds." "Besides, if we were inclined, the poor's rate
obliges us to give so much charity," cries the wife. "Pugh! thou art a
fool. Poor's reate! Hold thy nonsense," answered Trulliber; and then,
turning to Adams, he told him, "he would give him nothing." "I am
sorry," answered Adams, "that you do know what charity is, since you
practise it no better: I must tell you, if you trust to your knowledge
for your justification, you will find yourself deceived, though you
should add faith to it, without good works." "Fellow," cries Trulliber,
"dost thou speak against faith in my house? Get out of my doors: I will
no longer remain under the same roof with a wretch who speaks wantonly
of faith and the Scriptures." "Name not the Scriptures," says Adams.
"How! not name the Scriptures! Do you disbelieve the Scriptures?" cries
Trulliber. "No; but you do," answered Adams, "if I may reason from your
practice; for their commands are so explicit, and their rewards and
punishments so immense, that it is impossible a man should stedfastly
believe without obeying. Now, there is no command more express, no duty
more frequently enjoined, than charity. Whoever, therefore, is void of
charity, I make no scruple of pronouncing that he is no Christian." "I
would not advise thee," says Trulliber, "to say that I am no Christian:
I won't take it of you; for I believe I am as good a man as thyself"
(and indeed, though he was now rather too corpulent for athletic
exercises, he had, in his youth, been one of the best boxers and
cudgel-players in the county). His wife, seeing him clench his fist,
interposed, and begged him not to fight, but show himself a true
Christian, and take the law of him. As nothing could provoke Adams to
strike, but an absolute assault on himself or his friend, he smiled at
the angry look and gestures of Trulliber; and, telling him he was sorry
to see such men in orders, departed without further ceremony.
CHAPTER XV.
_An adventure, the consequence of a new instance which parson Adams gave
of his forgetfulness._
When he came back to the inn he found Joseph and Fanny sitting together.
They were so far from thinking his absence long, as he had feared they
would, that they never once missed or thought of him. Indeed, I have
been often assured by both, that they spent these hours in a most
delightful conversation; but, as I never could prevail on either to
relate it, so I cannot communicate it to the reader.
Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success of his enterprize. They
were all greatly confounded, none being able to propose any method of
departing, till Joseph at last advised calling in the hostess, and
desiring her to trust them; which Fanny said she despaired of her doing,
as she was one of the sourest-faced women she had ever beheld.
But she was agreeably disappointed; for the hostess was no sooner asked
the question than she readily agreed; and, with a curtsy and smile,
wished them a good journey. However, lest Fanny's skill in physiognomy
should be called in question, we will venture to assign one reason
which might probably incline her to this confidence and good-humour.
When Adams said he was going to visit his brother, he had unwittingly
imposed on Joseph and Fanny, who both believed he had meant his natural
brother, and not his brother in divinity, and had so informed the
hostess, on her enquiry after him. Now Mr Trulliber had, by his
professions of piety, by his gravity, austerity, reserve, and the
opinion of his great wealth, so great an authority in his parish, that
they all lived in the utmost fear and apprehension of him. It was
therefore no wonder that the hostess, who knew it was in his option
whether she should ever sell another mug of drink, did not dare to
affront his supposed brother by denying him credit.
They were now just on their departure when Adams recollected he had left
his greatcoat and hat at Mr Trulliber's. As he was not desirous of
renewing his visit, the hostess herself, having no servant at home,
offered to fetch it.
This was an unfortunate expedient; for the hostess was soon undeceived
in the opinion she had entertained of Adams, whom Trulliber abused in
the grossest terms, especially when he heard he had had the assurance to
pretend to be his near relation.
At her return, therefore, she entirely changed her note. She said,
"Folks might be ashamed of travelling about, and pretending to be what
they were not. That taxes were high, and for her part she was obliged to
pay for what she had; she could not therefore possibly, nor would she,
trust anybody; no, not her own father. That money was never scarcer, and
she wanted to make up a sum. That she expected, therefore, they should
pay their reckoning before they left the house."
Adams was now greatly perplexed; but, as he knew that he could easily
have borrowed such a sum in his own parish, and as he knew he would have
lent it himself to any mortal in distress, so he took fresh courage, and
sallied out all round the parish, but to no purpose; he returned as
pennyless as he went, groaning and lamenting that it was possible, in a
country professing Christianity, for a wretch to starve in the midst of
his fellow-creatures who abounded.
Whilst he was gone, the hostess, who stayed as a sort of guard with
Joseph and Fanny, entertained them with the goodness of parson
Trulliber. And, indeed, he had not only a very good character as to
other qualities in the neighbourhood, but was reputed a man of great
charity; for, though he never gave a farthing, he had always that word
in his mouth.
Adams was no sooner returned the second time than the storm grew
exceedingly high, the hostess declaring, among other things, that, if
they offered to stir without paying her, she would soon overtake them
with a warrant.
Plato and Aristotle, or somebody else, hath said, _that when the most
exquisite cunning fails, chance often hits the mark, and that by means
the least expected_. Virgil expresses this very boldly:--
_Turne, quod optanti divum promittere nemo
Auderet, volvenda dies, en! attulit ultro._
I would quote more great men if I could; but my memory not permitting
me, I will proceed to exemplify these observations by the following
instance:--
There chanced (for Adams had not cunning enough to contrive it) to be at
that time in the alehouse a fellow who had been formerly a drummer in an
Irish regiment, and now travelled the country as a pedlar. This man,
having attentively listened to the discourse of the hostess, at last
took Adams aside, and asked him what the sum was for which they were
detained. As soon as he was informed, he sighed, and said, "He was sorry
it was so much; for that he had no more than six shillings and sixpence
in his pocket, which he would lend them with all his heart." Adams gave
a caper, and 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.
CHAPTER XVI.
_A very curious adventure, in which Mr Adams gave a much greater
instance of the honest simplicity of his heart, than of his experience
in the ways of this world._
Our travellers had walked about two miles from that inn, which they had
more reason to have mistaken for a castle than Don Quixote ever had any
of those in which he sojourned, seeing they had met with such difficulty
in escaping out of its walls, when they came to a parish, and beheld a
sign of invitation hanging out. A gentleman sat smoaking a pipe at the
door, of whom Adams inquired the road, and received so courteous and
obliging an answer, accompanied with so smiling a countenance, that the
good parson, whose heart was naturally disposed to love and affection,
began to ask several other questions; particularly the name of the
parish, and who was the owner of a large house whose front they then had
in prospect. The gentleman answered as obligingly as before; and as to
the house, acquainted him it was his own. He then proceeded in the
following manner: "Sir, I presume by your habit you are a clergyman; and
as you are travelling on foot I suppose a glass of good beer will not be
disagreeable to you; and I can recommend my landlord's within as some of
the best in all this country. What say you, will you halt a little and
let us take a pipe together? there is no better tobacco in the kingdom."
This proposal was not displeasing to Adams, who had allayed his thirst
that day with no better liquor than what Mrs Trulliber's cellar had
produced; and which was indeed little superior, either in richness or
flavour, to that which distilled from those grains her generous husband
bestowed on his hogs. Having, therefore, abundantly thanked the
gentleman for his kind invitation, and bid Joseph and Fanny follow him,
he entered the alehouse, where a large loaf and cheese and a pitcher of
beer, which truly answered the character given of it, being set before
them, the three travellers fell to eating, with appetites infinitely
more voracious than are to be found at the most exquisite eating-houses
in the parish of St. James's.
The gentleman expressed great delight in the hearty and cheerful
behaviour of Adams; and particularly in the familiarity with which he
conversed with Joseph and Fanny, whom he often called his children; a
term he explained to mean no more than his parishioners; saying, "He
looked on all those whom God had intrusted to his care to stand to him
in that relation." The gentleman, shaking him by the hand, highly
applauded those sentiments. "They are, indeed," says he, "the true
principles of a Christian divine; and I heartily wish they were
universal; but, on the contrary, I am sorry to say the parson of our
parish, instead of esteeming his poor parishioners as a part of his
family, seems rather to consider them as not of the same species with
himself. He seldom speaks to any, unless some few of the richest of
us; nay, indeed, he will not move his hat to the others. I often laugh
when I behold him on Sundays strutting along the churchyard like a
turkey-cock through rows of his parishioners, who bow to him with as
much submission, and are as unregarded, as a set of servile courtiers
by the proudest prince in Christendom. But if such temporal pride is
ridiculous, surely the spiritual is odious and detestable; if such a
puffed--up empty human bladder, strutting in princely robes, justly
moves one's derision, surely in the habit of a priest it must raise
our scorn."
"Doubtless," answered Adams, "your opinion is right; but I hope such
examples are rare. The clergy whom I have the honour to know maintain a
different behaviour; and you will allow me, sir, that the readiness
which too many of the laity show to contemn the order may be one reason
of their avoiding too much humility." "Very true, indeed," says the
gentleman; "I find, sir, you are a man of excellent sense, and am happy
in this opportunity of knowing you; perhaps our accidental meeting may
not be disadvantageous to you neither. At present I shall only say to
you that the incumbent of this living is old and infirm, and that it is
in my gift. Doctor, give me your hand; and assure yourself of it at his
decease." Adams told him, "He was never more confounded in his life than
at his utter incapacity to make any return to such noble and unmerited
generosity." "A mere trifle, sir," cries the gentleman, "scarce worth
your acceptance; a little more than three hundred a year. I wish it was
double the value for your sake." Adams bowed, and cried from the
emotions of his gratitude; when the other asked him, "If he was married,
or had any children, besides those in the spiritual sense he had
mentioned." "Sir," replied the parson, "I have a wife and six at your
service." "That is unlucky," says the gentleman; "for I would otherwise
have taken you into my own house as my chaplain; however, I have another
in the parish (for the parsonage-house is not good enough), which I will
furnish for you. Pray, does your wife understand a dairy?" "I can't
profess she does," says Adams. "I am sorry for it," quoth the gentleman;
"I would have given you half-a-dozen cows, and very good grounds to have
maintained them." "Sir," said Adams, in an ecstasy, "you are too
liberal; indeed you are." "Not at all," cries the gentleman: "I esteem
riches only as they give me an opportunity of doing good; and I never
saw one whom I had a greater inclination to serve." At which words he
shook him heartily by the hand, and told him he had sufficient room in
his house to entertain him and his friends. Adams begged he might give
him no such trouble; that they could be very well accommodated in the
house where they were; forgetting they had not a sixpenny piece among
them. The gentleman would not be denied; and, informing himself how far
they were travelling, he said it was too long a journey to take on foot,
and begged that they would favour him by suffering him to lend them a
servant and horses; adding, withal, that, if they would do him the
pleasure of their company only two days, he would furnish them with his
coach and six. Adams, turning to Joseph, said, "How lucky is this
gentleman's goodness to you, who I am afraid would be scarce able to
hold out on your lame leg!" and then, addressing the person who made him
these liberal promises, after much bowing, he cried out, "Blessed be the
hour which first introduced me to a man of your charity! you are indeed
a Christian of the true primitive kind, and an honour to the country
wherein you live. I would willingly have taken a pilgrimage to the Holy
Land to have beheld you; for the advantages which we draw from your
goodness give me little pleasure, in comparison of what I enjoy for your
own sake when I consider the treasures you are by these means laying up
for yourself in a country that passeth not away. We will therefore, most
generous sir, accept your goodness, as well the entertainment you have
so kindly offered us at your house this evening, as the accommodation of
your horses to-morrow morning." He then began to search for his hat, as
did Joseph for his; and both they and Fanny were in order of departure,
when the gentleman, stopping short, and seeming to meditate by himself
for the space of about a minute, exclaimed thus: "Sure never anything
was so unlucky; I had forgot that my house-keeper was gone abroad, and
hath locked up all my rooms; indeed, I would break them open for you,
but shall not be able to furnish you with a bed; for she has likewise
put away all my linen. I am glad it entered into my head before I had
given you the trouble of walking there; besides, I believe you will find
better accommodations here than you expected.--Landlord, you can provide
good beds for these people, can't you?" "Yes, and please your worship,"
cries the host, "and such as no lord or justice of the peace in the
kingdom need be ashamed to lie in." "I am heartily sorry," says the
gentleman, "for this disappointment. I am resolved I will never suffer
her to carry away the keys again." "Pray, sir, let it not make you
uneasy," cries Adams; "we shall do very well here; and the loan of your
horses is a favour we shall be incapable of making any return to." "Ay!"
said the squire, "the horses shall attend you here at what hour in the
morning you please;" and now, after many civilities too tedious to
enumerate, many squeezes by the hand, with most affectionate looks and
smiles at each other, and after appointing the horses at seven the next
morning, the gentleman took his leave of them, and departed to his own
house. Adams and his companions returned to the table, where the parson
smoaked another pipe, and then they all retired to rest.
Mr Adams rose very early, and called Joseph out of his bed, between whom
a very fierce dispute ensued, whether Fanny should ride behind Joseph,
or behind the gentleman's servant; Joseph insisting on it that he was
perfectly recovered, and was as capable of taking care of Fanny as any
other person could be. But Adams would not agree to it, and declared he
would not trust her behind him; for that he was weaker than he imagined
himself to be.
This dispute continued a long time, and had begun to be very hot, when a
servant arrived from their good friend, to acquaint them that he was
unfortunately prevented from lending them any horses; for that his groom
had, unknown to him, put his whole stable under a course of physic.
This advice presently struck the two disputants dumb: Adams cried out,
"Was ever anything so unlucky as this poor gentleman? I protest I am
more sorry on his account than my own. You see, Joseph, how this
good-natured man is treated by his servants; one locks up his linen,
another physics his horses, and I suppose, by his being at this house
last night, the butler had locked up his cellar. Bless us! how
good-nature is used in this world! I protest I am more concerned on his
account than my own." "So am not I," cries Joseph; "not that I am much
troubled about walking on foot; all my concern is, how we shall get out
of the house, unless God sends another pedlar to redeem us. But
certainly this gentleman has such an affection for you, that he would
lend you a larger sum than we owe here, which is not above four or five
shillings." "Very true, child," answered Adams; "I will write a letter
to him, and will even venture to solicit him for three half-crowns;
there will be no harm in having two or three shillings in our pockets;
as we have full forty miles to travel, we may possibly have occasion for
them."
Fanny being now risen, Joseph paid her a visit, and left Adams to
write his letter, which having finished, he despatched a boy with it to
the gentleman, and then seated himself by the door, lighted his pipe,
and betook himself to meditation.
The boy staying longer than seemed to be necessary, Joseph, who with
Fanny was now returned to the parson, expressed some apprehensions that
the gentleman's steward had locked up his purse too. To which Adams
answered, "It might very possibly be, and he should wonder at no
liberties which the devil might put into the head of a wicked servant
to take with so worthy a master;" but added, "that, as the sum was so
small, so noble a gentleman would be easily able to procure it in the
parish, though he had it not in his own pocket. Indeed," says he, "if
it was four or five guineas, or any such large quantity of money, it
might be a different matter."
They were now sat down to breakfast over some toast and ale, when the
boy returned and informed them that the gentleman was not at home. "Very
well!" cries Adams; "but why, child, did you not stay till his return?
Go back again, my good boy, and wait for his coming home; he cannot be
gone far, as his horses are all sick; and besides, he had no intention
to go abroad, for he invited us to spend this day and tomorrow at his
house. Therefore go back, child, and tarry till his return home." The
messenger departed, and was back again with great expedition, bringing
an account that the gentleman was gone a long journey, and would not be
at home again this month. At these words Adams seemed greatly
confounded, saying, "This must be a sudden accident, as the sickness or
death of a relation or some such unforeseen misfortune;" and then,
turning to Joseph, cried, "I wish you had reminded me to have borrowed
this money last night." Joseph, smiling, answered, "He was very much
deceived if the gentleman would not have found some excuse to avoid
lending it.--I own," says he, "I was never much pleased with his
professing so much kindness for you at first sight; for I have heard the
gentlemen of our cloth in London tell many such stories of their
masters. But when the boy brought the message back of his not being at
home, I presently knew what would follow; for, whenever a man of fashion
doth not care to fulfil his promises, the custom is to order his
servants that he will never be at home to the person so promised. In
London they call it denying him. I have myself denied Sir Thomas Booby
above a hundred times, and when the man hath danced attendance for about
a month or sometimes longer, he is acquainted in the end that the
gentleman is gone out of town and could do nothing in the
business."--"Good Lord!" says Adams, "what wickedness is there in the
Christian world! I profess almost equal to what I have read of the
heathens. But surely, Joseph, your suspicions of this gentleman must be
unjust, for what a silly fellow must he be who would do the devil's work
for nothing! and canst thou tell me any interest he could possibly
propose to himself by deceiving us in his professions?"--"It is not for
me," answered Joseph, "to give reasons for what men do, to a gentleman
of your learning."--"You say right," quoth Adams; "knowledge of men is
only to be learned from books; Plato and Seneca for that; and those are
authors, I am afraid, child, you never read."--"Not I, sir, truly,"
answered Joseph; "all I know is, it is a maxim among the gentlemen of
our cloth, that those masters who promise the most perform the least;
and I have often heard them say they have found the largest vails in
those families where they were not promised any. But, sir, instead of
considering any farther these matters, it would be our wisest way to
contrive some method of getting out of this house; for the generous
gentleman, instead of doing us any service, hath left us the whole
reckoning to pay." Adams was going to answer, when their host came in,
and, with a kind of jeering smile, said, "Well, masters! the squire hath
not sent his horses for you yet. Laud help me! how easily some folks
make promises!"--"How!" says Adams; "have you ever known him do anything
of this kind before?"--"Ay! marry have I," answered the host: "it is no
business of mine, you know, sir, to say anything to a gentleman to his
face; but now he is not here, I will assure you, he hath not his fellow
within the three next market-towns. I own I could not help laughing when
I heard him offer you the living, for thereby hangs a good jest. I
thought he would have offered you my house next, for one is no more his
to dispose of than the other." At these words Adams, blessing himself,
declared, "He had never read of such a monster. But what vexes me most,"
says he, "is, that he hath decoyed us into running up a long debt with
you, which we are not able to pay, for we have no money about us, and,
what is worse, live at such a distance, that if you should trust us, I
am afraid you would lose your money for want of our finding any
conveniency of sending it."--"Trust you, master!" says the host, "that I
will with all my heart. I honour the clergy too much to deny trusting
one of them for such a trifle; besides, I like your fear of never paying
me. I have lost many a debt in my lifetime, but was promised to be paid
them all in a very short time. I will score this reckoning for the
novelty of it. It is the first, I do assure you, of its kind. But what
say you, master, shall we have t'other pot before we part? It will waste
but a little chalk more, and if you never pay me a shilling the loss
will not ruin me." Adams liked the invitation very well, especially as
it was delivered with so hearty an accent. He shook his host by the
hand, and thanking him, said, "He would tarry another pot rather for the
pleasure of such worthy company than for the liquor;" adding, "he was
glad to find some Christians left in the kingdom, for that he almost
began to suspect that he was sojourning in a country inhabited only by
Jews and Turks."
The kind host produced the liquor, and Joseph with Fanny retired into
the garden, where, while they solaced themselves with amorous discourse,
Adams sat down with his host; and, both filling their glasses, and
lighting their pipes, they began that dialogue which the reader will
find in the next chapter.
CHAPTER XVII.
_A dialogue between Mr Abraham Adams and his host, which, by the
disagreement in their opinions, seemed to threaten an unlucky
catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented by the return of
the lovers._
"Sir," said the host, "I assure you you are not the first to whom our
squire hath promised more than he hath performed. He is so famous for
this practice, that his word will not be taken for much by those who
know him. I remember a young fellow whom he promised his parents to make
an exciseman. The poor people, who could ill afford it, bred their son
to writing and accounts, and other learning to qualify him for the
place; and the boy held up his head above his condition with these
hopes; nor would he go to plough, nor to any other kind of work, and
went constantly drest as fine as could be, with two clean Holland shirts
a week, and this for several years; till at last he followed the squire
up to London, thinking there to mind him of his promises; but he could
never get sight of him. So that, being out of money and business, he
fell into evil company and wicked courses; and in the end came to a
sentence of transportation, the news of which broke the mother's
heart.--I will tell you another true story of him. There was a neighbour
of mine, a farmer, who had two sons whom he bred up to the business.
Pretty lads they were. Nothing would serve the squire but that the
youngest must be made a parson. Upon which he persuaded the father to
send him to school, promising that he would afterwards maintain him at
the university, and, when he was of a proper age, give him a living. But
after the lad had been seven years at school, and his father brought him
to the squire, with a letter from his master that he was fit for the
university, the squire, instead of minding his promise, or sending him
thither at his expense, only told his father that the young man was a
fine scholar, and it was pity he could not afford to keep him at Oxford
for four or five years more, by which time, if he could get him a
curacy, he might have him ordained. The farmer said, 'He was not a man
sufficient to do any such thing.'--'Why, then,' answered the squire, 'I
am very sorry you have given him so much learning; for, if he cannot get
his living by that, it will rather spoil him for anything else; and your
other son, who can hardly write his name, will do more at ploughing and
sowing, and is in a better condition, than he.' And indeed so it proved;
for the poor lad, not finding friends to maintain him in his learning,
as he had expected, and being unwilling to work, fell to drinking,
though he was a very sober lad before; and in a short time, partly with
grief, and partly with good liquor, fell into a consumption, and
died.--Nay, I can tell you more still: there was another, a young woman,
and the handsomest in all this neighbourhood, whom he enticed up to
London, promising to make her a gentlewoman to one of your women of
quality; but, instead of keeping his word, we have since heard, after
having a child by her himself, she became a common whore; then kept a
coffeehouse in Covent Garden; and a little after died of the French
distemper in a gaol.--I could tell you many more stories; but how do you
imagine he served me myself? You must know, sir, I was bred a seafaring
man, and have been many voyages; till at last I came to be master of a
ship myself, and was in a fair way of making a fortune, when I was
attacked by one of those cursed guarda-costas who took our ships before
the beginning of the war; and after a fight, wherein I lost the greater
part of my crew, my rigging being all demolished, and two shots received
between wind and water, I was forced to strike. The villains carried off
my ship, a brigantine of 150 tons--a pretty creature she was--and put me,
a man, and a boy, into a little bad pink, in which, with much ado, we at
last made Falmouth; though I believe the Spaniards did not imagine she
could possibly live a day at sea. Upon my return hither, where my wife,
who was of this country, then lived, the squire told me he was so
pleased with the defence I had made against the enemy, that he did not
fear getting me promoted to a lieutenancy of a man-of-war, if I would
accept of it; which I thankfully assured him I would. Well, sir, two or
three years passed, during which I had many repeated promises, not only
from the squire, but (as he told me) from the lords of the admiralty. He
never returned from London but I was assured I might be satisfied now,
for I was certain of the first vacancy; and, what surprizes me still,
when I reflect on it, these assurances were given me with no less
confidence, after so many disappointments, than at first. At last, sir,
growing weary, and somewhat suspicious, after so much delay, I wrote to
a friend in London, who I knew had some acquaintance at the best house
in the admiralty, and desired him to back the squire's interest; for
indeed I feared he had solicited the affair with more coldness than he
pretended. And what answer do you think my friend sent me? Truly, sir,
he acquainted me that the squire had never mentioned my name at the
admiralty in his life; and, unless I had much faithfuller interest,
advised me to give over my pretensions; which I immediately did, and,
with the concurrence of my wife, resolved to set up an alehouse, where
you are heartily welcome; and so my service to you; and may the squire,
and all such sneaking rascals, go to the devil together."--"O fie!" says
Adams, "O fie! He is indeed a wicked man; but G-- will, I hope, turn his
heart to repentance. Nay, if he could but once see the meanness of this
detestable vice; would he but once reflect that he is one of the most
scandalous as well as pernicious lyars; sure he must despise himself to
so intolerable a degree, that it would be impossible for him to continue
a moment in such a course. And to confess the truth, notwithstanding the
baseness of this character, which he hath too well deserved, he hath in
his countenance sufficient symptoms of that _bona indoles_, that
sweetness of disposition, which furnishes out a good Christian."--"Ah,
master! master!" says the host, "if you had travelled as far as I have,
and conversed with the many nations where I have traded, you would not
give any credit to a man's countenance. Symptoms in his countenance,
quotha! I would look there, perhaps, to see whether a man had the
small-pox, but for nothing else." He spoke this with so little regard to
the parson's observation, that it a good deal nettled him; and, taking
the pipe hastily from his mouth, he thus answered: "Master of mine,
perhaps I have travelled a great deal farther than you without the
assistance of a ship. Do you imagine sailing by different cities or
countries is travelling? No.
"Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.
"I can go farther in an afternoon than you in a twelvemonth. What, I
suppose you have seen the Pillars of Hercules, and perhaps the walls of
Carthage. Nay, you may have heard Scylla, and seen Charybdis; you may
have entered the closet where Archimedes was found at the taking of
Syracuse. I suppose you have sailed among the Cyclades, and passed the
famous straits which take their name from the unfortunate Helle, whose
fate is sweetly described by Apollonius Rhodius; you have passed the
very spot, I conceive, where Daedalus fell into that sea, his waxen
wings being melted by the sun; you have traversed the Euxine sea, I make
no doubt; nay, you may have been on the banks of the Caspian, and called
at Colchis, to see if there is ever another golden fleece." "Not I,
truly, master," answered the host: "I never touched at any of these
places."--"But I have been at all these," replied Adams. "Then, I
suppose," cries the host, "you have been at the East Indies; for there
are no such, I will be sworn, either in the West or the Levant."--"Pray
where's the Levant?" quoth Adams; "that should be in the East Indies by
right." "Oho! you are a pretty traveller," cries the host, "and not know
the Levant! My service to you, master; you must not talk of these things
with me! you must not tip us the traveller; it won't go here." "Since
thou art so dull to misunderstand me still," quoth Adams, "I will inform
thee; the travelling I mean is in books, the only way of travelling by
which any knowledge is to be acquired. From them I learn what I asserted
just now, that nature generally imprints such a portraiture of the mind
in the countenance, that a skilful physiognomist will rarely be
deceived. I presume you have never read the story of Socrates to this
purpose, and therefore I will tell it you. A certain physiognomist
asserted of Socrates, that he plainly discovered by his features that he
was a rogue in his nature. A character so contrary to the tenour of all
this great man's actions, and the generally received opinion concerning
him, incensed the boys of Athens so that they threw stones at the
physiognomist, and would have demolished him for his ignorance, had not
Socrates himself prevented them by confessing the truth of his
observations, and acknowledging that, though he corrected his
disposition by philosophy, he was indeed naturally as inclined to vice
as had been predicated of him. Now, pray resolve me--How should a man
know this story if he had not read it?" "Well, master," said the host,
"and what signifies it whether a man knows it or no? He who goes abroad,
as I have done, will always have opportunities enough of knowing the
world without troubling his head with Socrates, or any such fellows."
"Friend," cries Adams, "if a man should sail round the world, and anchor
in every harbour of it, without learning, he would return home as
ignorant as he went out." "Lord help you!" answered the host; "there was
my boatswain, poor fellow! he could scarce either write or read, and yet
he would navigate a ship with any master of a man-of-war; and a very
pretty knowledge of trade he had too." "Trade," answered Adams, "as
Aristotle proves in his first chapter of Politics, is below a
philosopher, and unnatural as it is managed now." The host looked
stedfastly at Adams, and after a minute's silence asked him, "If he was
one of the writers of the Gazetteers? for I have heard," says he, "they
are writ by parsons." "Gazetteers!" answered Adams, "what is that?" "It
is a dirty newspaper," replied the host, "which hath been given away all
over the nation for these many years, to abuse trade and honest men,
which I would not suffer to lye on my table, though it hath been offered
me for nothing." "Not I truly," said Adams; "I never write anything but
sermons; and I assure you I am no enemy to trade, whilst it is
consistent with honesty; nay, I have always looked on the tradesman as a
very valuable member of society, and, perhaps, inferior to none but the
man of learning." "No, I believe he is not, nor to him neither,"
answered the host. "Of what use would learning be in a country without
trade? What would all you parsons do to clothe your backs and feed your
bellies? Who fetches you your silks, and your linens, and your wines,
and all the other necessaries of life? I speak chiefly with regard to
the sailors." "You should say the extravagancies of life," replied the
parson; "but admit they were the necessaries, there is something more
necessary than life itself, which is provided by learning; I mean the
learning of the clergy. Who clothes you with piety, meekness, humility,
charity, patience, and all the other Christian virtues? Who feeds your
souls with the milk of brotherly love, and diets them with all the
dainty food of holiness, which at once cleanses them of all impure
carnal affections, and fattens them with the truly rich spirit of grace?
Who doth this?" "Ay, who, indeed?" cries the host; "for I do not
remember ever to have seen any such clothing or such feeding. And so, in
the mean time, master, my service to you." Adams was going to answer
with some severity, when Joseph and Fanny returned and pressed his
departure so eagerly that he would not refuse them; and so, grasping his
crabstick, he took leave of his host (neither of them being so well
pleased with each other as they had been at their first sitting down
together), and with Joseph and Fanny, who both expressed much
impatience, departed, and now all together renewed their journey.
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
_Matter prefatory in praise of biography._
Notwithstanding the preference which may be vulgarly given to the
authority of those romance writers who entitle their books "the History
of England, the History of France, of Spain, &c.," it is most certain
that truth is to be found only in the works of those who celebrate the
lives of great men, and are commonly called biographers, as the others
should indeed be termed topographers, or chorographers; words which
might well mark the distinction between them; it being the business of
the latter chiefly to describe countries and cities, which, with the
assistance of maps, they do pretty justly, and may be depended upon; but
as to the actions and characters of men, their writings are not quite so
authentic, of which there needs no other proof than those eternal
contradictions occurring between two topographers who undertake the
history of the same country: for instance, between my Lord Clarendon and
Mr Whitelocke, between Mr Echard and Rapin, and many others; where,
facts being set forth in a different light, every reader believes as he
pleases; and, indeed, the more judicious and suspicious very justly
esteem the whole as no other than a romance, in which the writer hath
indulged a happy and fertile invention. But though these widely differ
in the narrative of facts; some ascribing victory to the one, and others
to the other party; some representing the same man as a rogue, while
others give him a great and honest character; yet all agree in the scene
where the fact is supposed to have happened, and where the person, who
is both a rogue and an honest man, lived. Now with us biographers the
case is different; the facts we deliver may be relied on, though we
often mistake the age and country wherein they happened: for, though it
may be worth the examination of critics, whether the shepherd
Chrysostom, who, as Cervantes informs us, died for love of the fair
Marcella, who hated him, was ever in Spain, will any one doubt but that
such a silly fellow hath really existed? Is there in the world such a
sceptic as to disbelieve the madness of Cardenio, the perfidy of
Ferdinand, the impertinent curiosity of Anselmo, the weakness of
Camilla, the irresolute friendship of Lothario? though perhaps, as to
the time and place where those several persons lived, that good
historian may be deplorably deficient. But the most known instance of
this kind is in the true history of Gil Blas, where the inimitable
biographer hath made a notorious blunder in the country of Dr Sangrado,
who used his patients as a vintner doth his wine-vessels, by letting out
their blood, and filling them up with water. Doth not every one, who is
the least versed in physical history, know that Spain was not the
country in which this doctor lived? The same writer hath likewise erred
in the country of his archbishop, as well as that of those great
personages whose understandings were too sublime to taste anything but
tragedy, and in many others. The same mistakes may likewise be observed
in Scarron, the Arabian Nights, the History of Marianne and le Paisan
Parvenu, and perhaps some few other writers of this class, whom I have
not read, or do not at present recollect; for I would by no means be
thought to comprehend those persons of surprizing genius, the authors of
immense romances, or the modern novel and Atalantis writers; who,
without any assistance from nature or history, record persons who never
were, or will be, and facts which never did, nor possibly can, happen;
whose heroes are of their own creation, and their brains the chaos
whence all their materials are selected. Not that such writers deserve
no honour; so far otherwise, that perhaps they merit the highest; for
what can be nobler than to be as an example of the wonderful extent of
human genius? One may apply to them what Balzac says of Aristotle, that
they are a second nature (for they have no communication with the first;
by which, authors of an inferior class, who cannot stand alone, are
obliged to support themselves as with crutches); but these of whom I am
now speaking seem to be possessed of those stilts, which the excellent
Voltaire tells us, in his letters, "carry the genius far off, but with
an regular pace." Indeed, far out of the sight of the reader,
Beyond the realm of Chaos and old Night.
But to return to the former class, who are contented to copy nature,
instead of forming originals from the confused heap of matter in their
own brains, is not such a book as that which records the achievements of
the renowned Don Quixote more worthy the name of a history than even
Mariana's: for, whereas the latter is confined to a particular period of
time, and to a particular nation, the former is the history of the world
in general, at least that part which is polished by laws, arts, and
sciences; and of that from the time it was first polished to this day;
nay, and forwards as long as it shall so remain?
I shall now proceed to apply these observations to the work before us;
for indeed I have set them down principally to obviate some
constructions which the good nature of mankind, who are always forward
to see their friends' virtues recorded, may put to particular parts. I
question not but several of my readers will know the lawyer in the
stage-coach the moment they hear his voice. It is likewise odds but the
wit and the prude meet with some of their acquaintance, as well as all
the rest of my characters. To prevent, therefore, any such malicious
applications, I declare here, once for all, I describe not men, but
manners; not an individual, but a species. Perhaps it will be answered,
Are not the characters then taken from life? To which I answer in the
affirmative; nay, I believe I might aver that I have writ little more
than I have seen. The lawyer is not only alive, but hath been so these
four thousand years; and I hope G-- will indulge his life as many yet to
come. He hath not indeed confined himself to one profession, one
religion, or one country; but when the first mean selfish creature
appeared on the human stage, who made self the centre of the whole
creation, would give himself no pain, incur no danger, advance no money,
to assist or preserve his fellow-creatures; then was our lawyer born;
and, whilst such a person as I have described exists on earth, so long
shall he remain upon it. It is, therefore, doing him little honour to
imagine he endeavours to mimick some little obscure fellow, because he
happens to resemble him in one particular feature, or perhaps in his
profession; whereas his appearance in the world is calculated for much
more general and noble purposes; not to expose one pitiful wretch to the
small and contemptible circle of his acquaintance; but to hold the glass
to thousands in their closets, that they may contemplate their
deformity, and endeavour to reduce it, and thus by suffering private
mortification may avoid public shame. This places the boundary between,
and distinguishes the satirist from the libeller: for the former
privately corrects the fault for the benefit of the person, like a
parent; the latter publickly exposes the person himself, as an example
to others, like an executioner.
There are besides little circumstances to be considered; as the drapery
of a picture, which though fashion varies at different times, the
resemblance of the countenance is not by those means diminished. Thus I
believe we may venture to say Mrs Tow-wouse is coeval with our lawyer:
and, though perhaps, during the changes which so long an existence must
have passed through, she may in her turn have stood behind the bar at an
inn, I will not scruple to affirm she hath likewise in the revolution of
ages sat on a throne. In short, where extreme turbulency of temper,
avarice, and an insensibility of human misery, with a degree of
hypocrisy, have united in a female composition, Mrs Tow-wouse was that
woman; and where a good inclination, eclipsed by a poverty of spirit and
understanding, hath glimmered forth in a man, that man hath been no
other than her sneaking husband.
I shall detain my reader no longer than to give him one caution more of
an opposite kind: for, as in most of our particular characters we mean
not to lash individuals, but all of the like sort, so, in our general
descriptions, we mean not universals, but would be understood with many
exceptions: for instance, in our description of high people, we cannot
be intended to include such as, whilst they are an honour to their high
rank, by a well-guided condescension make their superiority as easy as
possible to those whom fortune chiefly hath placed below them. Of this
number I could name a peer no less elevated by nature than by fortune;
who, whilst he wears the noblest ensigns of honour on his person, bears
the truest stamp of dignity on his mind, adorned with greatness,
enriched with knowledge, and embellished with genius. I have seen this
man relieve with generosity, while he hath conversed with freedom, and
be to the same person a patron and a companion. I could name a commoner,
raised higher above the multitude by superior talents than is in the
power of his prince to exalt him, whose behaviour to those he hath
obliged is more amiable than the obligation itself; and who is so great
a master of affability, that, if he could divest himself of an inherent
greatness in his manner, would often make the lowest of his acquaintance
forget who was the master of that palace in which they are so
courteously entertained. These are pictures which must be, I believe,
known: I declare they are taken from the life, and not intended to
exceed it. By those high people, therefore, whom I have described, I
mean a set of wretches, who, while they are a disgrace to their
ancestors, whose honours and fortunes they inherit (or perhaps a greater
to their mother, for such degeneracy is scarce credible), have the
insolence to treat those with disregard who are at least equal to the
founders of their own splendor. It is, I fancy, impossible to conceive a
spectacle more worthy of our indignation, than that of a fellow, who is
not only a blot in the escutcheon of a great family, but a scandal to
the human species, maintaining a supercilious behaviour to men who are
an honour to their nature and a disgrace to their fortune.
And now, reader, taking these hints along with you, you may, if you
please, proceed to the sequel of this our true history.
CHAPTER II.
_A night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befel Adams and his
fellow-travellers._
It was so late when our travellers left the inn or alehouse (for it
might be called either), that they had not travelled many miles before
night overtook them, or met them, which you please. The reader must
excuse me if I am not particular as to the way they took; for, as we are
now drawing near the seat of the Boobies, and as that is a ticklish
name, which malicious persons may apply, according to their evil
inclinations, to several worthy country squires, a race of men whom we
look upon as entirely inoffensive, and for whom we have an adequate
regard, we shall lend no assistance to any such malicious purposes.
Darkness had now overspread the hemisphere, when Fanny whispered Joseph
"that she begged to rest herself a little; for that she was so tired
she could walk no farther." Joseph immediately prevailed with parson
Adams, who was as brisk as a bee, to stop. He had no sooner seated
himself than he lamented the loss of his dear Aeschylus; but was a
little comforted when reminded that, if he had it in his possession, he
could not see to read.
The sky was so clouded, that not a star appeared. It was indeed,
according to Milton, darkness visible. This was a circumstance, however,
very favourable to Joseph; for Fanny, not suspicious of being overseen
by Adams, gave a loose to her passion which she had never done before,
and, reclining her head on his bosom, threw her arm carelessly round
him, and suffered him to lay his cheek close to hers. All this infused
such happiness into Joseph, that he would not have changed his turf for
the finest down in the finest palace in the universe.
Adams sat at some distance from the lovers, and, being unwilling to
disturb them, applied himself to meditation; in which he had not
spent much time before he discovered a light at some distance that
seemed approaching towards him. He immediately hailed it; but, to his
sorrow and surprize, it stopped for a moment, and then disappeared.
He then called to Joseph, asking him, "if he had not seen the light?"
Joseph answered, "he had."--"And did you not mark how it vanished?"
returned he: "though I am not afraid of ghosts, I do not absolutely
disbelieve them."
He then entered into a meditation on those unsubstantial beings; which
was soon interrupted by several voices, which he thought almost at his
elbow, though in fact they were not so extremely near. However, he could
distinctly hear them agree on the murder of any one they met; and a
little after heard one of them say, "he had killed a dozen since that
day fortnight."
Adams now fell on his knees, and committed himself to the care of
Providence; and poor Fanny, who likewise heard those terrible words,
embraced Joseph so closely, that had not he, whose ears were also open,
been apprehensive on her account, he would have thought no danger which
threatened only himself too dear a price for such embraces.
Joseph now drew forth his penknife, and Adams, having finished his
ejaculations, grasped his crab-stick, his only weapon, and, coming up to
Joseph, would have had him quit Fanny, and place her in the rear; but
his advice was fruitless; she clung closer to him, not at all regarding
the presence of Adams, and in a soothing voice declared, "she would die
in his arms." Joseph, clasping her with inexpressible eagerness,
whispered her, "that he preferred death in hers to life out of them."
Adams, brandishing his crabstick, said, "he despised death as much as
any man," and then repeated aloud--
"Est hic, est animus lucis contemptor et illum,
Qui vita bene credat emi quo tendis, honorem."
Upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and then one of them called
out, "D--n you, who is there?" To which Adams was prudent enough to make
no reply; and of a sudden he observed half-a-dozen lights, which seemed
to rise all at once from the ground and advance briskly towards him.
This he immediately concluded to be an apparition; and now, beginning to
conceive that the voices were of the same kind, he called out, "In the
name of the L--d, what wouldst thou have?" He had no sooner spoke than
he heard one of the voices cry out, "D--n them, here they come;" and
soon after heard several hearty blows, as if a number of men had been
engaged at quarterstaff. He was just advancing towards the place of
combat, when Joseph, catching him by the skirts, begged him that they
might take the opportunity of the dark to convey away Fanny from the
danger which threatened her. He presently complied, and, Joseph lifting
up Fanny, they all three made the best of their way; and without looking
behind them, or being overtaken, they had travelled full two miles, poor
Fanny not once complaining of being tired, when they saw afar off
several lights scattered at a small distance from each other, and at the
same time found themselves on the descent of a very steep hill. Adams's
foot slipping, he instantly disappeared, which greatly frightened both
Joseph and Fanny: indeed, if the light had permitted them to see it,
they would scarce have refrained laughing to see the parson rolling down
the hill; which he did from top to bottom, without receiving any harm.
He then hollowed as loud as he could, to inform them of his safety, and
relieve them from the fears which they had conceived for him. Joseph and
Fanny halted some time, considering what to do; at last they advanced a
few paces, where the declivity seemed least steep; and then Joseph,
taking his Fanny in his arms, walked firmly down the hill, without
making a false step, and at length landed her at the bottom, where Adams
soon came to them.
Learn hence, my fair countrywomen, to consider your own weakness, and
the many occasions on which the strength of a man may be useful to you;
and, duly weighing this, take care that you match not yourselves with
the spindle-shanked beaus and _petit-maitres_ of the age, who, instead
of being able, like Joseph Andrews, to carry you in lusty arms through
the rugged ways and downhill steeps of life, will rather want to support
their feeble limbs with your strength and assistance.
Our travellers now moved forwards where the nearest light presented
itself; and, having crossed a common field, they came to a meadow, where
they seemed to be at a very little distance from the light, when, to
their grief, they arrived at the banks of a river. Adams here made a
full stop, and declared he could swim, but doubted how it was possible
to get Fanny over: to which Joseph answered, "If they walked along its
banks, they might be certain of soon finding a bridge, especially as by
the number of lights they might be assured a parish was near." "Odso,
that's true indeed," said Adams; "I did not think of that."
Accordingly, Joseph's advice being taken, they passed over two meadows,
and came to a little orchard, which led them to a house. Fanny begged of
Joseph to knock at the door, assuring him "she was so weary that she
could hardly stand on her feet." Adams, who was foremost, performed this
ceremony; and, the door being immediately opened, a plain kind of man
appeared at it: Adams acquainted him "that they had a young woman with
them who was so tired with her journey that he should be much obliged to
him if he would suffer her to come in and rest herself." The man, who
saw Fanny by the light of the candle which he held in his hand,
perceiving her innocent and modest look, and having no apprehensions
from the civil behaviour of Adams, presently answered, "That the young
woman was very welcome to rest herself in his house, and so were her
company." He then ushered them into a very decent room, where his wife
was sitting at a table: she immediately rose up, and assisted them in
setting forth chairs, and desired them to sit down; which they had no
sooner done than the man of the house asked them if they would have
anything to refresh themselves with? Adams thanked him, and answered he
should be obliged to him for a cup of his ale, which was likewise chosen
by Joseph and Fanny. Whilst he was gone to fill a very large jug with
this liquor, his wife told Fanny she seemed greatly fatigued, and
desired her to take something stronger than ale; but she refused with
many thanks, saying it was true she was very much tired, but a little
rest she hoped would restore her. As soon as the company were all
seated, Mr Adams, who had filled himself with ale, and by public
permission had lighted his pipe, turned to the master of the house,
asking him, "If evil spirits did not use to walk in that neighbourhood?"
To which receiving no answer, he began to inform him of the adventure
which they met with on the downs; nor had he proceeded far in the story
when somebody knocked very hard at the door. The company expressed some
amazement, and Fanny and the good woman turned pale: her husband went
forth, and whilst he was absent, which was some time, they all remained
silent, looking at one another, and heard several voices discoursing
pretty loudly. Adams was fully persuaded that spirits were abroad, and
began to meditate some exorcisms; Joseph a little inclined to the same
opinion; Fanny was more afraid of men; and the good woman herself began
to suspect her guests, and imagined those without were rogues belonging
to their gang. At length the master of the house returned, and,
laughing, told Adams he had discovered his apparition; that the
murderers were sheep-stealers, and the twelve persons murdered were no
other than twelve sheep; adding, that the shepherds had got the better
of them, had secured two, and were proceeding with them to a justice of
peace. This account greatly relieved the fears of the whole company; but
Adams muttered to himself, "He was convinced of the truth of apparitions
for all that."
They now sat chearfully round the fire, till the master of the house,
having surveyed his guests, and conceiving that the cassock, which,
having fallen down, appeared under Adams's greatcoat, and the shabby
livery on Joseph Andrews, did not well suit with the familiarity
between them, began to entertain some suspicions not much to their
advantage: addressing himself therefore to Adams, he said, "He
perceived he was a clergyman by his dress, and supposed that honest man
was his footman." "Sir," answered Adams, "I am a clergyman at your
service; but as to that young man, whom you have rightly termed honest,
he is at present in nobody's service; he never lived in any other
family than that of Lady Booby, from whence he was discharged, I assure
you, for no crime." Joseph said, "He did not wonder the gentleman was
surprized to see one of Mr Adams's character condescend to so much
goodness with a poor man."--"Child," said Adams, "I should be ashamed
of my cloth if I thought a poor man, who is honest, below my notice or
my familiarity. I know not how those who think otherwise can profess
themselves followers and servants of Him who made no distinction,
unless, peradventure, by preferring the poor to the rich.--Sir," said
he, addressing himself to the gentleman, "these two poor young people
are my parishioners, and I look on them and love them as my children.
There is something singular enough in their history, but I have not now
time to recount it." The master of the house, notwithstanding the
simplicity which discovered itself in Adams, knew too much of the world
to give a hasty belief to professions. He was not yet quite certain
that Adams had any more of the clergyman in him than his cassock. To
try him therefore further, he asked him, "If Mr Pope had lately
published anything new?" Adams answered, "He had heard great
commendations of that poet, but that he had never read nor knew any of
his works."--"Ho! ho!" says the gentleman to himself, "have I caught
you? What!" said he, "have you never seen his Homer?" Adams answered,
"he had never read any translation of the classicks." "Why, truly,"
reply'd the gentleman, "there is a dignity in the Greek language which
I think no modern tongue can reach."--"Do you understand Greek, sir?"
said Adams hastily. "A little, sir," answered the gentleman. "Do you
know, sir," cry'd Adams, "where I can buy an Aeschylus? an unlucky
misfortune lately happened to mine." Aeschylus was beyond the
gentleman, though he knew him very well by name; he therefore,
returning back to Homer, asked Adams, "What part of the Iliad he
thought most excellent?" Adams returned, "His question would be
properer, What kind of beauty was the chief in poetry? for that Homer
was equally excellent in them all. And, indeed," continued he, "what
Cicero says of a complete orator may well be applied to a great poet:
'He ought to comprehend all perfections.' Homer did this in the most
excellent degree; it is not without reason, therefore, that the
philosopher, in the twenty-second chapter of his Poeticks, mentions him
by no other appellation than that of the Poet. He was the father of the
drama as well as the epic; not of tragedy only, but of comedy also; for
his Margites, which is deplorably lost, bore, says Aristotle, the same
analogy to comedy as his Odyssey and Iliad to tragedy. To him,
therefore, we owe Aristophanes as well as Euripides, Sophocles, and my
poor Aeschylus. But if you please we will confine ourselves (at least
for the present) to the Iliad, his noblest work; though neither
Aristotle nor Horace give it the preference, as I remember, to the
Odyssey. First, then, as to his subject, can anything be more simple,
and at the same time more noble? He is rightly praised by the first of
those judicious critics for not chusing the whole war, which, though he
says it hath a complete beginning and end, would have been too great
for the understanding to comprehend at one view. I have, therefore,
often wondered why so correct a writer as Horace should, in his epistle
to Lollius, call him the Trojani Belli Scriptorem. Secondly, his
action, termed by Aristotle, Pragmaton Systasis; is it possible for the
mind of man to conceive an idea of such perfect unity, and at the same
time so replete with greatness? And here I must observe, what I do not
remember to have seen noted by any, the Harmotton, that agreement of
his action to his subject: for, as the subject is anger, how agreeable
is his action, which is war; from which every incident arises and to
which every episode immediately relates. Thirdly, his manners, which
Aristotle places second in his description of the several parts of
tragedy, and which he says are included in the action; I am at a loss
whether I should rather admire the exactness of his judgment in the
nice distinction or the immensity of his imagination in their variety.
For, as to the former of these, how accurately is the sedate, injured
resentment of Achilles, distinguished from the hot, insulting passion
of Agamemnon! How widely doth the brutal courage of Ajax differ from
the amiable bravery of Diomedes; and the wisdom of Nestor, which is the
result of long reflection and experience, from the cunning of Ulysses,
the effect of art and subtlety only! If we consider their variety, we
may cry out, with Aristotle in his 24th chapter, that no part of this
divine poem is destitute of manners. Indeed, I might affirm that there
is scarce a character in human nature untouched in some part or other.
And, as there is no passion which he is not able to describe, so is
there none in his reader which he cannot raise. If he hath any superior
excellence to the rest, I have been inclined to fancy it is in the
pathetic. I am sure I never read with dry eyes the two episodes where
Andromache is introduced in the former lamenting the danger, and in the
latter the death, of Hector. The images are so extremely tender in
these, that I am convinced the poet had the worthiest and best heart
imaginable. Nor can I help observing how Sophocles falls short of the
beauties of the original, in that imitation of the dissuasive speech of
Andromache which he hath put into the mouth of Tecmessa. And yet
Sophocles was the greatest genius who ever wrote tragedy; nor have any
of his successors in that art, that is to say, neither Euripides nor
Seneca the tragedian, been able to come near him. As to his sentiments
and diction, I need say nothing; the former are particularly remarkable
for the utmost perfection on that head, namely, propriety; and as to
the latter, Aristotle, whom doubtless you have read over and over, is
very diffuse. I shall mention but one thing more, which that great
critic in his division of tragedy calls Opsis, or the scenery; and
which is as proper to the epic as to the drama, with this difference,
that in the former it falls to the share of the poet, and in the latter
to that of the painter. But did ever painter imagine a scene like that
in the 13th and 14th Iliads? where the reader sees at one view the
prospect of Troy, with the army drawn up before it; the Grecian army,
camp, and fleet; Jupiter sitting on Mount Ida, with his head wrapt in a
cloud, and a thunderbolt in his hand, looking towards Thrace; Neptune
driving through the sea, which divides on each side to permit his
passage, and then seating himself on Mount Samos; the heavens opened,
and the deities all seated on their thrones. This is sublime! This is
poetry!" Adams then rapt out a hundred Greek verses, and with such a
voice, emphasis, and action, that he almost frightened the women; and
as for the gentleman, he was so far from entertaining any further
suspicion of Adams, that he now doubted whether he had not a bishop in
his house. He ran into the most extravagant encomiums on his learning;
and the goodness of his heart began to dilate to all the strangers. He
said he had great compassion for the poor young woman, who looked pale
and faint with her journey; and in truth he conceived a much higher
opinion of her quality than it deserved. He said he was sorry he could
not accommodate them all; but if they were contented with his fireside,
he would sit up with the men; and the young woman might, if she
pleased, partake his wife's bed, which he advised her to; for that they
must walk upwards of a mile to any house of entertainment, and that not
very good neither. Adams, who liked his seat, his ale, his tobacco, and
his company, persuaded Fanny to accept this kind proposal, in which
sollicitation he was seconded by Joseph. Nor was she very difficultly
prevailed on; for she had slept little the last night and not at all
the preceding; so that love itself was scarce able to keep her eyes
open any longer. The offer, therefore, being kindly accepted, the good
woman produced everything eatable in her house on the table, and the
guests, being heartily invited, as heartily regaled themselves,
especially parson Adams. As to the other two, they were examples of the
truth of that physical observation, that love, like other sweet things,
is no whetter of the stomach.
Supper was no sooner ended, than Fanny at her own request retired, and
the good woman bore her company. The man of the house, Adams, and
Joseph, who would modestly have withdrawn, had not the gentleman
insisted on the contrary, drew round the fireside, where Adams (to use
his own words) replenished his pipe, and the gentleman produced a bottle
of excellent beer, being the best liquor in his house.
The modest behaviour of Joseph, with the gracefulness of his person, the
character which Adams gave of him, and the friendship he seemed to
entertain for him, began to work on the gentleman's affections, and
raised in him a curiosity to know the singularity which Adams had
mentioned in his history. This curiosity Adams was no sooner informed of
than, with Joseph's consent, he agreed to gratify it; and accordingly
related all he knew, with as much tenderness as was possible for the
character of Lady Booby; and concluded with the long, faithful, and
mutual passion between him and Fanny, not concealing the meanness of her
birth and education. These latter circumstances entirely cured a
jealousy which had lately risen in the gentleman's mind, that Fanny was
the daughter of some person of fashion, and that Joseph had run away
with her, and Adams was concerned in the plot. He was now enamoured of
his guests, drank their healths with great chearfulness, and returned
many thanks to Adams, who had spent much breath, for he was a
circumstantial teller of a story.
Adams told him it was now in his power to return that favour; for his
extraordinary goodness, as well as that fund of literature he was master
of,[A] which he did not expect to find under such a roof, had raised in
him more curiosity than he had ever known. "Therefore," said he, "if it
be not too troublesome, sir, your history, if you please."
[A] The author hath by some been represented to have made a blunder
here: for Adams had indeed shown some learning (say they), perhaps
all the author had; but the gentleman hath shown none, unless his
approbation of Mr Adams be such: but surely it would be preposterous
in him to call it so. I have, however, notwithstanding this
criticism, which I am told came from the mouth of a great orator in
a public coffee-house, left this blunder as it stood in the first
edition. I will not have the vanity to apply to anything in this
work the observation which M. Dacier makes in her preface to her
Aristophanes: _Je tiens pour une maxime constante, qu'une beaute
mediocre plait plus generalement qu'une beaute sans defaut._ Mr
Congreve hath made such another blunder in his Love for Love, where
Tattle tells Miss Prue, "She should admire him as much for the
beauty he commends in her as if he himself was possessed of it."
The gentleman answered, he could not refuse him what he had so much
right to insist on; and after some of the common apologies, which are
the usual preface to a story, he thus began.
CHAPTER III.
_In which the gentleman relates the history of his life._
Sir, I am descended of a good family, and was born a gentleman. My
education was liberal, and at a public school, in which I proceeded so
far as to become master of the Latin, and to be tolerably versed in the
Greek language. My father died when I was sixteen, and left me master of
myself. He bequeathed me a moderate fortune, which he intended I should
not receive till I attained the age of twenty-five: for he constantly
asserted that was full early enough to give up any man entirely to the
guidance of his own discretion. However, as this intention was so
obscurely worded in his will that the lawyers advised me to contest the
point with my trustees, I own I paid so little regard to the
inclinations of my dead father, which were sufficiently certain to me,
that I followed their advice, and soon succeeded, for the trustees did
not contest the matter very obstinately on their side. "Sir," said
Adams, "may I crave the favour of your name?" The gentleman answered his
name was Wilson, and then proceeded.
I stayed a very little while at school after his death; for, being a
forward youth, I was extremely impatient to be in the world, for which I
thought my parts, knowledge, and manhood thoroughly qualified me. And to
this early introduction into life, without a guide, I impute all my
future misfortunes; for, besides the obvious mischiefs which attend
this, there is one which hath not been so generally observed: the first
impression which mankind receives of you will be very difficult to
eradicate. How unhappy, therefore, must it be to fix your character in
life, before you can possibly know its value, or weigh the consequences
of those actions which are to establish your future reputation!
A little under seventeen I left my school, and went to London with no
more than six pounds in my pocket; a great sum, as I then conceived; and
which I was afterwards surprized to find so soon consumed.
The character I was ambitious of attaining was that of a fine gentleman;
the first requisites to which I apprehended were to be supplied by a
taylor, a periwig-maker, and some few more tradesmen, who deal in
furnishing out the human body. Notwithstanding the lowness of my purse,
I found credit with them more easily than I expected, and was soon
equipped to my wish. This I own then agreeably surprized me; but I have
since learned that it is a maxim among many tradesmen at the polite end
of the town to deal as largely as they can, reckon as high as they can,
and arrest as soon as they can.
The next qualifications, namely, dancing, fencing, riding the great
horse, and music, came into my head: but, as they required expense and
time, I comforted myself, with regard to dancing, that I had learned a
little in my youth, and could walk a minuet genteelly enough; as to
fencing, I thought my good-humour would preserve me from the danger of a
quarrel; as to the horse, I hoped it would not be thought of; and for
music, I imagined I could easily acquire the reputation of it; for I had
heard some of my schoolfellows pretend to knowledge in operas, without
being able to sing or play on the fiddle.
Knowledge of the town seemed another ingredient; this I thought I should
arrive at by frequenting public places. Accordingly I paid constant
attendance to them all; by which means I was soon master of the
fashionable phrases, learned to cry up the fashionable diversions, and
knew the names and faces of the most fashionable men and women.
Nothing now seemed to remain but an intrigue, which I was resolved to
have immediately; I mean the reputation of it; and indeed I was so
successful, that in a very short time I had half-a-dozen with the finest
women in town.
At these words Adams fetched a deep groan, and then, blessing himself,
cried out, "Good Lord! what wicked times these are!"
Not so wicked as you imagine, continued the gentleman; for I assure you
they were all vestal virgins for anything which I knew to the contrary.
The reputation of intriguing with them was all I sought, and was what I
arrived at: and perhaps I only flattered myself even in that; for very
probably the persons to whom I showed their billets knew as well as I
that they were counterfeits, and that I had written them to myself.
"Write letters to yourself!" said Adams, staring. O sir, answered the
gentleman, it is the very error of the times. Half our modern plays have
one of these characters in them. It is incredible the pains I have
taken, and the absurd methods I employed, to traduce the character of
women of distinction. When another had spoken in raptures of any one, I
have answered, "D--n her, she! We shall have her at H----d's very soon."
When he hath replied, "He thought her virtuous," I have answered, "Ay,
thou wilt always think a woman virtuous, till she is in the streets; but
you and I, Jack or Tom (turning to another in company), know better." At
which I have drawn a paper out of my pocket, perhaps a taylor's bill,
and kissed it, crying at the same time, "By Gad I was once fond of her."
"Proceed, if you please, but do not swear any more," said Adams.
Sir, said the gentleman, I ask your pardon. Well, sir, in this course of
life I continued full three years.--"What course of life?" answered
Adams; "I do not remember you have mentioned any."--Your remark is just,
said the gentleman, smiling; I should rather have said, in this course
of doing nothing. I remember some time afterwards I wrote the journal of
one day, which would serve, I believe, as well for any other during the
whole time. I will endeavour to repeat it to you.
In the morning I arose, took my great stick, and walked out in my green
frock, with my hair in papers (a groan from Adams), and sauntered about
till ten. Went to the auction; told lady ---- she had a dirty face;
laughed heartily at something captain ---- said, I can't remember what,
for I did not very well hear it; whispered lord ----; bowed to the duke
of ----; and was going to bid for a snuff-box, but did not, for fear I
should have had it.
From 2 to 4, drest myself. _A groan._
4 to 6, dined. _A groan._
6 to 8, coffee-house.
8 to 9, Drury-lane playhouse.
9 to 10, Lincoln's Inn Fields.
10 to 12, Drawing-room. _A great groan._
At all which places nothing happened worth remark.
At which Adams said, with some vehemence, "Sir, this is below the life
of an animal, hardly above vegetation: and I am surprized what could
lead a man of your sense into it." What leads us into more follies than
you imagine, doctor, answered the gentleman--vanity; for as contemptible
a creature as I was, and I assure you, yourself cannot have more
contempt for such a wretch than I now have, I then admired myself, and
should have despised a person of your present appearance (you will
pardon me), with all your learning and those excellent qualities which I
have remarked in you. Adams bowed, and begged him to proceed. After I
had continued two years in this course of life, said the gentleman, an
accident happened which obliged me to change the scene. As I was one day
at St James's coffee-house, making very free with the character of a
young lady of quality, an officer of the guards, who was present,
thought proper to give me the lye. I answered I might possibly be
mistaken, but I intended to tell no more than the truth. To which he
made no reply but by a scornful sneer. After this I observed a strange
coldness in all my acquaintance; none of them spoke to me first, and
very few returned me even the civility of a bow. The company I used to
dine with left me out, and within a week I found myself in as much
solitude at St James's as if I had been in a desart. An honest elderly
man, with a great hat and long sword, at last told me he had a
compassion for my youth, and therefore advised me to show the world I
was not such a rascal as they thought me to be. I did not at first
understand him; but he explained himself, and ended with telling me, if
I would write a challenge to the captain, he would, out of pure charity,
go to him with it. "A very charitable person, truly!" cried Adams. I
desired till the next day, continued the gentleman, to consider on it,
and, retiring to my lodgings, I weighed the consequences on both sides
as fairly as I could. On the one, I saw the risk of this alternative,
either losing my own life, or having on my hands the blood of a man with
whom I was not in the least angry. I soon determined that the good which
appeared on the other was not worth this hazard. I therefore resolved to
quit the scene, and presently retired to the Temple, where I took
chambers. Here I soon got a fresh set of acquaintance, who knew nothing
of what had happened to me. Indeed, they were not greatly to my
approbation; for the beaus of the Temple are only the shadows of the
others. They are the affectation of affectation. The vanity of these is
still more ridiculous, if possible, than of the others. Here I met with
smart fellows who drank with lords they did not know, and intrigued with
women they never saw. Covent Garden was now the farthest stretch of my
ambition; where I shone forth in the balconies at the playhouses,
visited whores, made love to orange-wenches, and damned plays. This
career was soon put a stop to by my surgeon, who convinced me of the
necessity of confining myself to my room for a month. At the end of
which, having had leisure to reflect, I resolved to quit all farther
conversation with beaus and smarts of every kind, and to avoid, if
possible, any occasion of returning to this place of confinement. "I
think," said Adams, "the advice of a month's retirement and reflection
was very proper; but I should rather have expected it from a divine than
a surgeon." The gentleman smiled at Adams's simplicity, and, without
explaining himself farther on such an odious subject, went on thus: I
was no sooner perfectly restored to health than I found my passion for
women, which I was afraid to satisfy as I had done, made me very uneasy;
I determined, therefore, to keep a mistress. Nor was I long before I
fixed my choice on a young woman, who had before been kept by two
gentlemen, and to whom I was recommended by a celebrated bawd. I took
her home to my chambers, and made her a settlement during cohabitation.
This would, perhaps, have been very ill paid: however, she did not
suffer me to be perplexed on that account; for, before quarter-day, I
found her at my chambers in too familiar conversation with a young
fellow who was drest like an officer, but was indeed a city apprentice.
Instead of excusing her inconstancy, she rapped out half-a-dozen oaths,
and, snapping her fingers at me, swore she scorned to confine herself to
the best man in England. Upon this we parted, and the same bawd
presently provided her another keeper. I was not so much concerned at
our separation as I found, within a day or two, I had reason to be for
our meeting; for I was obliged to pay a second visit to my surgeon. I
was now forced to do penance for some weeks, during which time I
contracted an acquaintance with a beautiful young girl, the daughter of
a gentleman who, after having been forty years in the army, and in all
the campaigns under the Duke of Marlborough, died a lieutenant on
half-pay, and had left a widow, with this only child, in very distrest
circumstances: they had only a small pension from the government, with
what little the daughter could add to it by her work, for she had great
excellence at her needle. This girl was, at my first acquaintance with
her, solicited in marriage by a young fellow in good circumstances. He
was apprentice to a linendraper, and had a little fortune, sufficient to
set up his trade. The mother was greatly pleased with this match, as
indeed she had sufficient reason. However, I soon prevented it. I
represented him in so low a light to his mistress, and made so good an
use of flattery, promises, and presents, that, not to dwell longer on
this subject than is necessary, I prevailed with the poor girl, and
conveyed her away from her mother! In a word, I debauched her.--(At
which words Adams started up, fetched three strides across the room, and
then replaced himself in his chair.) You are not more affected with this
part of my story than myself; I assure you it will never be sufficiently
repented of in my own opinion: but, if you already detest it, how much
more will your indignation be raised when you hear the fatal
consequences of this barbarous, this villanous action! If you please,
therefore, I will here desist.--"By no means," cries Adams; "go on, I
beseech you; and Heaven grant you may sincerely repent of this and many
other things you have related!"--I was now, continued the gentleman, as
happy as the possession of a fine young creature, who had a good
education, and was endued with many agreeable qualities, could make me.
We lived some months with vast fondness together, without any company or
conversation, more than we found in one another: but this could not
continue always; and, though I still preserved great affection for her,
I began more and more to want the relief of other company, and
consequently to leave her by degrees--at last whole days to herself. She
failed not to testify some uneasiness on these occasions, and complained
of the melancholy life she led; to remedy which, I introduced her into
the acquaintance of some other kept mistresses, with whom she used to
play at cards, and frequent plays and other diversions. She had not
lived long in this intimacy before I perceived a visible alteration in
her behaviour; all her modesty and innocence vanished by degrees, till
her mind became thoroughly tainted. She affected the company of rakes,
gave herself all manner of airs, was never easy but abroad, or when she
had a party at my chambers. She was rapacious of money, extravagant to
excess, loose in her conversation; and, if ever I demurred to any of her
demands, oaths, tears, and fits were the immediate consequences. As the
first raptures of fondness were long since over, this behaviour soon
estranged my affections from her; I began to reflect with pleasure that
she was not my wife, and to conceive an intention of parting with her;
of which, having given her a hint, she took care to prevent me the pains
of turning her out of doors, and accordingly departed herself, having
first broken open my escrutore, and taken with her all she could find,
to the amount of about L200. In the first heat of my resentment I
resolved to pursue her with all the vengeance of the law: but, as she
had the good luck to escape me during that ferment, my passion
afterwards cooled; and, having reflected that I had been the first
aggressor, and had done her an injury for which I could make her no
reparation, by robbing her of the innocence of her mind; and hearing at
the same time that the poor old woman her mother had broke her heart on
her daughter's elopement from her, I, concluding myself her murderer
("As you very well might," cries Adams, with a groan), was pleased that
God Almighty had taken this method of punishing me, and resolved quietly
to submit to the loss. Indeed, I could wish I had never heard more of
the poor creature, who became in the end an abandoned profligate; and,
after being some years a common prostitute, at last ended her miserable
life in Newgate.--Here the gentleman fetched a deep sigh, which Mr Adams
echoed very loudly; and both continued silent, looking on each other for
some minutes. At last the gentleman proceeded thus: I had been perfectly
constant to this girl during the whole time I kept her: but she had
scarce departed before I discovered more marks of her infidelity to me
than the loss of my money. In short, I was forced to make a third visit
to my surgeon, out of whose hands I did not get a hasty discharge.
I now forswore all future dealings with the sex, complained loudly that
the pleasure did not compensate the pain, and railed at the beautiful
creatures in as gross language as Juvenal himself formerly reviled them
in. I looked on all the town harlots with a detestation not easy to be
conceived, their persons appeared to me as painted palaces, inhabited by
Disease and Death: nor could their beauty make them more desirable
objects in my eyes than gilding could make me covet a pill, or golden
plates a coffin. But though I was no longer the absolute slave, I found
some reasons to own myself still the subject, of love. My hatred for
women decreased daily; and I am not positive but time might have
betrayed me again to some common harlot, had I not been secured by a
passion for the charming Sapphira, which, having once entered upon, made
a violent progress in my heart. Sapphira was wife to a man of fashion
and gallantry, and one who seemed, I own, every way worthy of her
affections; which, however, he had not the reputation of having. She was
indeed a coquette _achevee_. "Pray, sir," says Adams, "what is a
coquette? I have met with the word in French authors, but never could
assign any idea to it. I believe it is the same with _une sotte,_
Anglice, a fool." Sir, answered the gentleman, perhaps you are not much
mistaken; but, as it is a particular kind of folly, I will endeavour to
describe it. Were all creatures to be ranked in the order of creation
according to their usefulness, I know few animals that would not take
place of a coquette; nor indeed hath this creature much pretence to
anything beyond instinct; for, though sometimes we might imagine it was
animated by the passion of vanity, yet far the greater part of its
actions fall beneath even that low motive; for instance, several absurd
gestures and tricks, infinitely more foolish than what can be observed
in the most ridiculous birds and beasts, and which would persuade the
beholder that the silly wretch was aiming at our contempt. Indeed its
characteristic is affectation, and this led and governed by whim only:
for as beauty, wisdom, wit, good-nature, politeness, and health are
sometimes affected by this creature, so are ugliness, folly, nonsense,
ill-nature, ill-breeding, and sickness likewise put on by it in their
turn. Its life is one constant lie; and the only rule by which you can
form any judgment of them is, that they are never what they seem. If it
was possible for a coquette to love (as it is not, for if ever it
attains this passion the coquette ceases instantly), it would wear the
face of indifference, if not of hatred, to the beloved object; you may
therefore be assured, when they endeavour to persuade you of their
liking, that they are indifferent to you at least. And indeed this was
the case of my Sapphira, who no sooner saw me in the number of her
admirers than she gave me what is commonly called encouragement: she
would often look at me, and, when she perceived me meet her eyes, would
instantly take them off, discovering at the same time as much surprize
and emotion as possible. These arts failed not of the success she
intended; and, as I grew more particular to her than the rest of her
admirers, she advanced, in proportion, more directly to me than to the
others. She affected the low voice, whisper, lisp, sigh, start, laugh,
and many other indications of passion which daily deceive thousands.
When I played at whist with her, she would look earnestly at me, and at
the same time lose deal or revoke; then burst into a ridiculous laugh
and cry, "La! I can't imagine what I was thinking of." To detain you no
longer, after I had gone through a sufficient course of gallantry, as I
thought, and was thoroughly convinced I had raised a violent passion in
my mistress, I sought an opportunity of coming to an eclaircissement
with her. She avoided this as much as possible; however, great assiduity
at length presented me one. I will not describe all the particulars of
this interview; let it suffice that, when she could no longer pretend
not to see my drift, she first affected a violent surprize, and
immediately after as violent a passion: she wondered what I had seen in
her conduct which could induce me to affront her in this manner; and,
breaking from me the first moment she could, told me I had no other way
to escape the consequence of her resentment than by never seeing, or at
least speaking to her more. I was not contented with this answer; I
still pursued her, but to no purpose; and was at length convinced that
her husband had the sole possession of her person, and that neither he
nor any other had made any impression on her heart. I was taken off from
following this _ignis fatuus_ by some advances which were made me by the
wife of a citizen, who, though neither very young nor handsome, was yet
too agreeable to be rejected by my amorous constitution. I accordingly
soon satisfied her that she had not cast away her hints on a barren or
cold soil: on the contrary, they instantly produced her an eager and
desiring lover. Nor did she give me any reason to complain; she met the
warmth she had raised with equal ardour. I had no longer a coquette to
deal with, but one who was wiser than to prostitute the noble passion of
love to the ridiculous lust of vanity. We presently understood one
another; and, as the pleasures we sought lay in a mutual gratification,
we soon found and enjoyed them. I thought myself at first greatly happy
in the possession of this new mistress, whose fondness would have
quickly surfeited a more sickly appetite; but it had a different effect
on mine: she carried my passion higher by it than youth or beauty had
been able. But my happiness could not long continue uninterrupted. The
apprehensions we lay under from the jealousy of her husband gave us
great uneasiness. "Poor wretch! I pity him," cried Adams. He did indeed
deserve it, said the gentleman; for he loved his wife with great
tenderness; and, I assure you, it is a great satisfaction to me that I
was not the man who first seduced her affections from him. These
apprehensions appeared also too well grounded, for in the end he
discovered us, and procured witnesses of our caresses. He then
prosecuted me at law, and recovered L3000 damages, which much distressed
my fortune to pay; and, what was worse, his wife, being divorced, came
upon my hands. I led a very uneasy life with her; for, besides that my
passion was now much abated, her excessive jealousy was very
troublesome. At length death rid me of an inconvenience which the
consideration of my having been the author of her misfortunes would
never suffer me to take any other method of discarding.
I now bad adieu to love, and resolved to pursue other less dangerous and
expensive pleasures. I fell into the acquaintance of a set of jolly
companions, who slept all day and drank all night; fellows who might
rather be said to consume time than to live. Their best conversation was
nothing but noise: singing, hollowing, wrangling, drinking, toasting,
sp--wing, smoaking were the chief ingredients of our entertainment. And
yet, bad as these were, they were more tolerable than our graver scenes,
which were either excessive tedious narratives of dull common matters of
fact, or hot disputes about trifling matters, which commonly ended in a
wager. This way of life the first serious reflection put a period to;
and I became member of a club frequented by young men of great
abilities. The bottle was now only called in to the assistance of our
conversation, which rolled on the deepest points of philosophy. These
gentlemen were engaged in a search after truth, in the pursuit of which
they threw aside all the prejudices of education, and governed
themselves only by the infallible guide of human reason. This great
guide, after having shown them the falsehood of that very ancient but
simple tenet, that there is such a being as a Deity in the universe,
helped them to establish in his stead a certain rule of right, by
adhering to which they all arrived at the utmost purity of morals.
Reflection made me as much delighted with this society as it had taught
me to despise and detest the former. I began now to esteem myself a
being of a higher order than I had ever before conceived; and was the
more charmed with this rule of right, as I really found in my own nature
nothing repugnant to it. I held in utter contempt all persons who wanted
any other inducement to virtue besides her intrinsic beauty and
excellence; and had so high an opinion of my present companions, with
regard to their morality, that I would have trusted them with whatever
was nearest and dearest to me. Whilst I was engaged in this delightful
dream, two or three accidents happened successively, which at first much
surprized me;--for one of our greatest philosophers, or rule-of-right
men, withdrew himself from us, taking with him the wife of one of his
most intimate friends. Secondly, another of the same society left the
club without remembering to take leave of his bail. A third, having
borrowed a sum of money of me, for which I received no security, when I
asked him to repay it, absolutely denied the loan. These several
practices, so inconsistent with our golden rule, made me begin to
suspect its infallibility; but when I communicated my thoughts to one of
the club, he said, "There was nothing absolutely good or evil in itself;
that actions were denominated good or bad by the circumstances of the
agent. That possibly the man who ran away with his neighbour's wife
might be one of very good inclinations, but over-prevailed on by the
violence of an unruly passion; and, in other particulars, might be a
very worthy member of society; that if the beauty of any woman created
in him an uneasiness, he had a right from nature to relieve
himself;"--with many other things, which I then detested so much, that I
took leave of the society that very evening and never returned to it
again. Being now reduced to a state of solitude which I did not like, I
became a great frequenter of the playhouses, which indeed was always my
favourite diversion; and most evenings passed away two or three hours
behind the scenes, where I met with several poets, with whom I made
engagements at the taverns. Some of the players were likewise of our
parties. At these meetings we were generally entertained by the poets
with reading their performances, and by the players with repeating their
parts: upon which occasions, I observed the gentleman who furnished our
entertainment was commonly the best pleased of the company; who, though
they were pretty civil to him to his face, seldom failed to take the
first opportunity of his absence to ridicule him. Now I made some
remarks which probably are too obvious to be worth relating. "Sir," says
Adams, "your remarks if you please." First then, says he, I concluded
that the general observation, that wits are most inclined to vanity, is
not true. Men are equally vain of riches, strength, beauty, honours, &c.
But these appear of themselves to the eyes of the beholders, whereas the
poor wit is obliged to produce his performance to show you his
perfection; and on his readiness to do this that vulgar opinion I have
before mentioned is grounded; but doth not the person who expends vast
sums in the furniture of his house or the ornaments of his person, who
consumes much time and employs great pains in dressing himself, or who
thinks himself paid for self-denial, labour, or even villany, by a title
or a ribbon, sacrifice as much to vanity as the poor wit who is desirous
to read you his poem or his play? My second remark was, that vanity is
the worst of passions, and more apt to contaminate the mind than any
other: for, as selfishness is much more general than we please to allow
it, so it is natural to hate and envy those who stand between us and the
good we desire. Now, in lust and ambition these are few; and even in
avarice we find many who are no obstacles to our pursuits; but the vain
man seeks pre-eminence; and everything which is excellent or
praiseworthy in another renders him the mark of his antipathy. Adams now
began to fumble in his pockets, and soon cried out, "O la! I have it not
about me." Upon this, the gentleman asking him what he was searching
for, he said he searched after a sermon, which he thought his
masterpiece, against vanity. "Fie upon it, fie upon it!" cries he, "why
do I ever leave that sermon out of my pocket? I wish it was within five
miles; I would willingly fetch it, to read it you." The gentleman
answered that there was no need, for he was cured of the passion. "And
for that very reason," quoth Adams, "I would read it, for I am confident
you would admire it: indeed, I have never been a greater enemy to any
passion than that silly one of vanity." The gentleman smiled, and
proceeded--From this society I easily passed to that of the gamesters,
where nothing remarkable happened but the finishing my fortune, which
those gentlemen soon helped me to the end of. This opened scenes of life
hitherto unknown; poverty and distress, with their horrid train of duns,
attorneys, bailiffs, haunted me day and night. My clothes grew shabby,
my credit bad, my friends and acquaintance of all kinds cold. In this
situation the strangest thought imaginable came into my head; and what
was this but to write a play? for I had sufficient leisure: fear of
bailiffs confined me every day to my room: and, having always had a
little inclination and something of a genius that way, I set myself to
work, and within a few months produced a piece of five acts, which was
accepted of at the theatre. I remembered to have formerly taken tickets
of other poets for their benefits, long before the appearance of their
performances; and, resolving to follow a precedent which was so well
suited to my present circumstances, I immediately provided myself with a
large number of little papers. Happy indeed would be the state of
poetry, would these tickets pass current at the bakehouse, the
ale-house, and the chandler's shop: but alas! far otherwise; no taylor
will take them in payment for buckram, canvas, stay-tape; nor no bailiff
for civility money. They are, indeed, no more than a passport to beg
with; a certificate that the owner wants five shillings, which induces
well-disposed Christians to charity. I now experienced what is worse
than poverty, or rather what is the worst consequence of poverty--I mean
attendance and dependance on the great. Many a morning have I waited
hours in the cold parlours of men of quality; where, after seeing the
lowest rascals in lace and embroidery, the pimps and buffoons in
fashion, admitted, I have been sometimes told, on sending in my name,
that my lord could not possibly see me this morning; a sufficient
assurance that I should never more get entrance into that house.
Sometimes I have been at last admitted; and the great man hath thought
proper to excuse himself, by telling me he was tied up. "Tied up," says
Adams, "pray what's that?" Sir, says the gentleman, the profit which
booksellers allowed authors for the best works was so very small, that
certain men of birth and fortune some years ago, who were the patrons of
wit and learning, thought fit to encourage them farther by entering into
voluntary subscriptions for their encouragement. Thus Prior, Rowe, Pope,
and some other men of genius, received large sums for their labours from
the public. This seemed so easy a method of getting money, that many of
the lowest scribblers of the times ventured to publish their works in
the same way; and many had the assurance to take in subscriptions for
what was not writ, nor ever intended. Subscriptions in this manner
growing infinite, and a kind of tax on the publick, some persons,
finding it not so easy a task to discern good from bad authors, or to
know what genius was worthy encouragement and what was not, to prevent
the expense of subscribing to so many, invented a method to excuse
themselves from all subscriptions whatever; and this was to receive a
small sum of money in consideration of giving a large one if ever they
subscribed; which many have done, and many more have pretended to have
done, in order to silence all solicitation. The same method was likewise
taken with playhouse tickets, which were no less a public grievance; and
this is what they call being tied up from subscribing. "I can't say but
the term is apt enough, and somewhat typical," said Adams; "for a man of
large fortune, who ties himself up, as you call it, from the
encouragement of men of merit, ought to be tied up in reality." Well,
sir, says the gentleman, to return to my story. Sometimes I have
received a guinea from a man of quality, given with as ill a grace as
alms are generally to the meanest beggar; and purchased too with as much
time spent in attendance as, if it had been spent in honest industry,
might have brought me more profit with infinitely more satisfaction.
After about two months spent in this disagreeable way, with the utmost
mortification, when I was pluming my hopes on the prospect of a
plentiful harvest from my play, upon applying to the prompter to know
when it came into rehearsal, he informed me he had received orders from
the managers to return me the play again, for that they could not
possibly act it that season; but, if I would take it and revise it
against the next, they would be glad to see it again. I snatched it from
him with great indignation, and retired to my room, where I threw myself
on the bed in a fit of despair. "You should rather have thrown yourself
on your knees," says Adams, "for despair is sinful." As soon, continued
the gentleman, as I had indulged the first tumult of my passion, I began
to consider coolly what course I should take, in a situation without
friends, money, credit, or reputation of any kind. After revolving many
things in my mind, I could see no other possibility of furnishing myself
with the miserable necessaries of life than to retire to a garret near
the Temple, and commence hackney-writer to the lawyers, for which I was
well qualified, being an excellent penman. This purpose I resolved on,
and immediately put it in execution. I had an acquaintance with an
attorney who had formerly transacted affairs for me, and to him I
applied; but, instead of furnishing me with any business, he laughed at
my undertaking, and told me, "He was afraid I should turn his deeds into
plays, and he should expect to see them on the stage." Not to tire you
with instances of this kind from others, I found that Plato himself did
not hold poets in greater abhorrence than these men of business do.
Whenever I durst venture to a coffeehouse, which was on Sundays only, a
whisper ran round the room, which was constantly attended with a
sneer--That's poet Wilson; for I know not whether you have observed it,
but there is a malignity in the nature of man, which, when not weeded
out, or at least covered by a good education and politeness, delights in
making another uneasy or dissatisfied with himself. This abundantly
appears in all assemblies, except those which are filled by people of
fashion, and especially among the younger people of both sexes whose
birth and fortunes place them just without the polite circles; I mean
the lower class of the gentry, and the higher of the mercantile world,
who are, in reality, the worst-bred part of mankind. Well, sir, whilst I
continued in this miserable state, with scarce sufficient business to
keep me from starving, the reputation of a poet being my bane, I
accidentally became acquainted with a bookseller, who told me, "It was a
pity a man of my learning and genius should be obliged to such a method
of getting his livelihood; that he had a compassion for me, and, if I
would engage with him, he would undertake to provide handsomely for me."
A man in my circumstances, as he very well knew, had no choice. I
accordingly accepted his proposal with his conditions, which were none
of the most favourable, and fell to translating with all my might. I had
no longer reason to lament the want of business; for he furnished me
with so much, that in half a year I almost writ myself blind. I likewise
contracted a distemper by my sedentary life, in which no part of my body
was exercised but my right arm, which rendered me incapable of writing
for a long time. This unluckily happening to delay the publication of a
work, and my last performance not having sold well, the bookseller
declined any further engagement, and aspersed me to his brethren as a
careless idle fellow. I had, however, by having half worked and half
starved myself to death during the time I was in his service, saved a
few guineas, with which I bought a lottery-ticket, resolving to throw
myself into Fortune's lap, and try if she would make me amends for the
injuries she had done me at the gaming-table. This purchase, being made,
left me almost pennyless; when, as if I had not been sufficiently
miserable, a bailiff in woman's clothes got admittance to my chamber,
whither he was directed by the bookseller. He arrested me at my taylor's
suit for thirty-five pounds; a sum for which I could not procure bail;
and was therefore conveyed to his house, where I was locked up in an
upper chamber. I had now neither health (for I was scarce recovered from
my indisposition), liberty, money, or friends; and had abandoned all
hopes, and even the desire, of life. "But this could not last long,"
said Adams; "for doubtless the taylor released you the moment he was
truly acquainted with your affairs, and knew that your circumstances
would not permit you to pay him." "Oh, sir," answered the gentleman, "he
knew that before he arrested me; nay, he knew that nothing but
incapacity could prevent me paying my debts; for I had been his customer
many years, had spent vast sums of money with him, and had always paid
most punctually in my prosperous days; but when I reminded him of this,
with assurances that, if he would not molest my endeavours, I would pay
him all the money I could by my utmost labour and industry procure,
reserving only what was sufficient to preserve me alive, he answered,
his patience was worn out; that I had put him off from time to time;
that he wanted the money; that he had put it into a lawyer's hands; and
if I did not pay him immediately, or find security, I must die in gaol
and expect no mercy." "He may expect mercy," cries Adams, starting from
his chair, "where he will find none! How can such a wretch repeat the
Lord's Prayer; where the word, which is translated, I know not for what
reason, trespasses, is in the original, debts? And as surely as we do
not forgive others their debts, when they are unable to pay them, so
surely shall we ourselves be unforgiven when we are in no condition of
paying." He ceased, and the gentleman proceeded. While I was in this
deplorable situation, a former acquaintance, to whom I had communicated
my lottery-ticket, found me out, and, making me a visit, with great
delight in his countenance, shook me heartily by the hand, and wished me
joy of my good fortune: for, says he, your ticket is come up a prize of
L3000. Adams snapped his fingers at these words in an ecstasy of joy;
which, however, did not continue long; for the gentleman thus
proceeded:--Alas! sir, this was only a trick of Fortune to sink me the
deeper; for I had disposed of this lottery-ticket two days before to a
relation, who refused lending me a shilling without it, in order to
procure myself bread. As soon as my friend was acquainted with my
unfortunate sale he began to revile me and remind me of all the
ill-conduct and miscarriages of my life. He said I was one whom Fortune
could not save if she would; that I was now ruined without any hopes of
retrieval, nor must expect any pity from my friends; that it would be
extreme weakness to compassionate the misfortunes of a man who ran
headlong to his own destruction. He then painted to me, in as lively
colours as he was able, the happiness I should have now enjoyed, had I
not foolishly disposed of my ticket. I urged the plea of necessity; but
he made no answer to that, and began again to revile me, till I could
bear it no longer, and desired him to finish his visit. I soon exchanged
the bailiff's house for a prison; where, as I had not money sufficient
to procure me a separate apartment, I was crouded in with a great number
of miserable wretches, in common with whom I was destitute of every
convenience of life, even that which all the brutes enjoy, wholesome
air. In these dreadful circumstances I applied by letter to several of
my old acquaintance, and such to whom I had formerly lent money without
any great prospect of its being returned, for their assistance; but in
vain. An excuse, instead of a denial, was the gentlest answer I
received. Whilst I languished in a condition too horrible to be
described, and which, in a land of humanity, and, what is much more,
Christianity, seems a strange punishment for a little inadvertency and
indiscretion; whilst I was in this condition, a fellow came into the
prison, and, enquiring me out, delivered me the following letter:--
"SIR,--My father, to whom you sold your ticket in the last
lottery, died the same day in which it came up a prize, as you
have possibly heard, and left me sole heiress of all his
fortune. I am so much touched with your present circumstances,
and the uneasiness you must feel at having been driven to
dispose of what might have made you happy, that I must desire
your acceptance of the enclosed, and am your humble servant,
"HARRIET HEARTY."
And what do you think was enclosed? "I don't know," cried Adams; "not
less than a guinea, I hope." Sir, it was a bank-note for L200.--"L200?"
says Adams, in a rapture. No less, I assure you, answered the gentleman;
a sum I was not half so delighted with as with the dear name of the
generous girl that sent it me; and who was not only the best but the
handsomest creature in the universe, and for whom I had long had a
passion which I never durst disclose to her. I kissed her name a
thousand times, my eyes overflowing with tenderness and gratitude; I
repeated--But not to detain you with these raptures, I immediately
acquired my liberty; and, having paid all my debts, departed, with
upwards of fifty pounds in my pocket, to thank my kind deliverer. She
happened to be then out of town, a circumstance which, upon reflection,
pleased me; for by that means I had an opportunity to appear before her
in a more decent dress. At her return to town, within a day or two, I
threw myself at her feet with the most ardent acknowledgments, which she
rejected with an unfeigned greatness of mind, and told me I could not
oblige her more than by never mentioning, or if possible thinking on, a
circumstance which must bring to my mind an accident that might be
grievous to me to think on. She proceeded thus: "What I have done is in
my own eyes a trifle, and perhaps infinitely less than would have become
me to do. And if you think of engaging in any business where a larger
sum may be serviceable to you, I shall not be over-rigid either as to
the security or interest." I endeavoured to express all the gratitude in
my power to this profusion of goodness, though perhaps it was my enemy,
and began to afflict my mind with more agonies than all the miseries I
had underwent; it affected me with severer reflections than poverty,
distress, and prisons united had been able to make me feel; for, sir,
these acts and professions of kindness, which were sufficient to have
raised in a good heart the most violent passion of friendship to one of
the same, or to age and ugliness in a different sex, came to me from a
woman, a young and beautiful woman; one whose perfections I had long
known, and for whom I had long conceived a violent passion, though with
a despair which made me endeavour rather to curb and conceal, than to
nourish or acquaint her with it. In short, they came upon me united with
beauty, softness, and tenderness: such bewitching smiles!--O Mr Adams,
in that moment I lost myself, and, forgetting our different situations,
nor considering what return I was making to her goodness by desiring
her, who had given me so much, to bestow her all, I laid gently hold on
her hand, and, conveying it to my lips, I prest it with inconceivable
ardour; then, lifting up my swimming eyes, I saw her face and neck
overspread with one blush; she offered to withdraw her hand, yet not so
as to deliver it from mine, though I held it with the gentlest force. We
both stood trembling; her eyes cast on the ground, and mine stedfastly
fixed on her. Good G--d, what was then the condition of my soul! burning
with love, desire, admiration, gratitude, and every tender passion, all
bent on one charming object. Passion at last got the better of both
reason and respect, and, softly letting go her hand, I offered madly to
clasp her in my arms; when, a little recovering herself, she started
from me, asking me, with some show of anger, "If she had any reason to
expect this treatment from me." I then fell prostrate before her, and
told her, if I had offended, my life was absolutely in her power, which
I would in any manner lose for her sake. Nay, madam, said I, you shall
not be so ready to punish me as I to suffer. I own my guilt. I detest
the reflection that I would have sacrificed your happiness to mine.
Believe me, I sincerely repent my ingratitude; yet, believe me too, it
was my passion, my unbounded passion for you, which hurried me so far: I
have loved you long and tenderly, and the goodness you have shown me
hath innocently weighed down a wretch undone before. Acquit me of all
mean, mercenary views; and, before I take my leave of you for ever,
which I am resolved instantly to do, believe me that Fortune could have
raised me to no height to which I could not have gladly lifted you. O,
curst be Fortune!--"Do not," says she, interrupting me with the sweetest
voice, "do not curse Fortune, since she hath made me happy; and, if she
hath put your happiness in my power, I have told you you shall ask
nothing in reason which I will refuse." Madam, said I, you mistake me if
you imagine, as you seem, my happiness is in the power of Fortune now.
You have obliged me too much already; if I have any wish, it is for some
blest accident, by which I may contribute with my life to the least
augmentation of your felicity. As for myself, the only happiness I can
ever have will be hearing of yours; and if Fortune will make that
complete, I will forgive her all her wrongs to me. "You may, indeed,"
answered she, smiling, "for your own happiness must be included in mine.
I have long known your worth; nay, I must confess," said she, blushing,
"I have long discovered that passion for me you profess, notwithstanding
those endeavours, which I am convinced were unaffected, to conceal it;
and if all I can give with reason will not suffice, take reason away;
and now I believe you cannot ask me what I will deny."--She uttered
these words with a sweetness not to be imagined. I immediately started;
my blood, which lay freezing at my heart, rushed tumultuously through
every vein. I stood for a moment silent; then, flying to her, I caught
her in my arms, no longer resisting, and softly told her she must give
me then herself. O, sir! can I describe her look? She remained silent,
and almost motionless, several minutes. At last, recovering herself a
little, she insisted on my leaving her, and in such a manner that I
instantly obeyed: you may imagine, however, I soon saw her again.--But I
ask pardon: I fear I have detained you too long in relating the
particulars of the former interview. "So far otherwise," said Adams,
licking his lips, "that I could willingly hear it over again." Well,
sir, continued the gentleman, to be as concise as possible, within a
week she consented to make me the happiest of mankind. We were married
shortly after; and when I came to examine the circumstances of my wife's
fortune (which, I do assure you, I was not presently at leisure enough
to do), I found it amounted to about six thousand pounds, most part of
which lay in effects; for her father had been a wine-merchant, and she
seemed willing, if I liked it, that I should carry on the same trade. I
readily, and too inconsiderately, undertook it; for, not having been
bred up to the secrets of the business, and endeavouring to deal with
the utmost honesty and uprightness, I soon found our fortune in a
declining way, and my trade decreasing by little and little; for my
wines, which I never adulterated after their importation, and were sold
as neat as they came over, were universally decried by the vintners, to
whom I could not allow them quite as cheap as those who gained double
the profit by a less price. I soon began to despair of improving our
fortune by these means; nor was I at all easy at the visits and
familiarity of many who had been my acquaintance in my prosperity, but
had denied and shunned me in my adversity, and now very forwardly
renewed their acquaintance with me. In short, I had sufficiently seen
that the pleasures of the world are chiefly folly, and the business of
it mostly knavery, and both nothing better than vanity; the men of
pleasure tearing one another to pieces from the emulation of spending
money, and the men of business from envy in getting it. My happiness
consisted entirely in my wife, whom I loved with an inexpressible
fondness, which was perfectly returned; and my prospects were no other
than to provide for our growing family; for she was now big of her
second child: I therefore took an opportunity to ask her opinion of
entering into a retired life, which, after hearing my reasons and
perceiving my affection for it, she readily embraced. We soon put our
small fortune, now reduced under three thousand pounds, into money, with
part of which we purchased this little place, whither we retired soon
after her delivery, from a world full of bustle, noise, hatred, envy,
and ingratitude, to ease, quiet, and love. We have here lived almost
twenty years, with little other conversation than our own, most of the
neighbourhood taking us for very strange people; the squire of the
parish representing me as a madman, and the parson as a presbyterian,
because I will not hunt with the one nor drink with the other. "Sir,"
says Adams, "Fortune hath, I think, paid you all her debts in this sweet
retirement." Sir, replied the gentleman, I am thankful to the great
Author of all things for the blessings I here enjoy. I have the best of
wives, and three pretty children, for whom I have the true tenderness of
a parent. But no blessings are pure in this world: within three years of
my arrival here I lost my eldest son. (Here he sighed bitterly.) "Sir,"
says Adams, "we must submit to Providence, and consider death as common
to all." We must submit, indeed, answered the gentleman; and if he had
died I could have borne the loss with patience; but alas! sir, he was
stolen away from my door by some wicked travelling people whom they call
gipsies; nor could I ever, with the most diligent search, recover him.
Poor child! he had the sweetest look--the exact picture of his mother;
at which some tears unwittingly dropt from his eyes, as did likewise
from those of Adams, who always sympathized with his friends on those
occasions. Thus, sir, said the gentleman, I have finished my story, in
which if I have been too particular, I ask your pardon; and now, if you
please, I will fetch you another bottle: which proposal the parson
thankfully accepted.
CHAPTER IV.
_A description of Mr Wilson's way of living. The tragical adventure of
the dog, and other grave matters._
The gentleman returned with the bottle; and Adams and he sat some time
silent, when the former started up, and cried, "No, that won't do." The
gentleman inquired into his meaning; he answered, "He had been
considering that it was possible the late famous king Theodore might
have been that very son whom he had lost;" but added, "that his age
could not answer that imagination. However," says he, "G-- disposes all
things for the best; and very probably he may be some great man, or
duke, and may, one day or other, revisit you in that capacity." The
gentleman answered, he should know him amongst ten thousand, for he had
a mark on his left breast of a strawberry, which his mother had given
him by longing for that fruit.
That beautiful young lady the Morning now rose from her bed, and with a
countenance blooming with fresh youth and sprightliness, like Miss
----[A], with soft dews hanging on her pouting lips, began to take her
early walk over the eastern hills; and presently after, that gallant
person the Sun stole softly from his wife's chamber to pay his addresses
to her; when the gentleman asked his guest if he would walk forth and
survey his little garden, which he readily agreed to, and Joseph at the
same time awaking from a sleep in which he had been two hours buried,
went with them. No parterres, no fountains, no statues, embellished this
little garden. Its only ornament was a short walk, shaded on each side
by a filbert-hedge, with a small alcove at one end, whither in hot
weather the gentleman and his wife used to retire and divert themselves
with their children, who played in the walk before them. But, though
vanity had no votary in this little spot, here was variety of fruit and
everything useful for the kitchen, which was abundantly sufficient to
catch the admiration of Adams, who told the gentleman he had certainly a
good gardener. Sir, answered he, that gardener is now before you:
whatever you see here is the work solely of my own hands. Whilst I am
providing necessaries for my table, I likewise procure myself an
appetite for them. In fair seasons I seldom pass less than six hours of
the twenty-four in this place, where I am not idle; and by these means I
have been able to preserve my health ever since my arrival here, without
assistance from physic. Hither I generally repair at the dawn, and
exercise myself whilst my wife dresses her children and prepares our
breakfast; after which we are seldom asunder during the residue of the
day, for, when the weather will not permit them to accompany me here, I
am usually within with them; for I am neither ashamed of conversing with
my wife nor of playing with my children: to say the truth, I do not
perceive that inferiority of understanding which the levity of rakes,
the dulness of men of business, or the austerity of the learned, would
persuade us of in women. As for my woman, I declare I have found none of
my own sex capable of making juster observations on life, or of
delivering them more agreeably; nor do I believe any one possessed of a
faithfuller or braver friend. And sure as this friendship is sweetened
with more delicacy and tenderness, so is it confirmed by dearer pledges
than can attend the closest male alliance; for what union can be so fast
as our common interest in the fruits of our embraces? Perhaps, sir, you
are not yourself a father; if you are not, be assured you cannot
conceive the delight I have in my little ones. Would you not despise me
if you saw me stretched on the ground, and my children playing round me?
"I should reverence the sight," quoth Adams; "I myself am now the father
of six, and have been of eleven, and I can say I never scourged a child
of my own, unless as his schoolmaster, and then have felt every stroke
on my own posteriors. And as to what you say concerning women, I have
often lamented my own wife did not understand Greek."--The gentleman
smiled, and answered, he would not be apprehended to insinuate that his
own had an understanding above the care of her family; on the contrary,
says he, my Harriet, I assure you, is a notable housewife, and few
gentlemen's housekeepers understand cookery or confectionery better; but
these are arts which she hath no great occasion for now: however, the
wine you commended so much last night at supper was of her own making,
as is indeed all the liquor in my house, except my beer, which falls to
my province. "And I assure you it is as excellent," quoth Adams, "as
ever I tasted." We formerly kept a maid-servant, but since my girls have
been growing up she is unwilling to indulge them in idleness; for as the
fortunes I shall give them will be very small, we intend not to breed
them above the rank they are likely to fill hereafter, nor to teach them
to despise or ruin a plain husband. Indeed, I could wish a man of my own
temper, and a retired life, might fall to their lot; for I have
experienced that calm serene happiness, which is seated in content, is
inconsistent with the hurry and bustle of the world. He was proceeding
thus when the little things, being just risen, ran eagerly towards him
and asked him blessing. They were shy to the strangers, but the eldest
acquainted her father, that her mother and the young gentlewoman were
up, and that breakfast was ready. They all went in, where the gentleman
was surprized at the beauty of Fanny, who had now recovered herself from
her fatigue, and was entirely clean drest; for the rogues who had taken
away her purse had left her her bundle. But if he was so much amazed at
the beauty of this young creature, his guests were no less charmed at
the tenderness which appeared in the behaviour of the husband and wife
to each other, and to their children, and at the dutiful and
affectionate behaviour of these to their parents. These instances
pleased the well-disposed mind of Adams equally with the readiness which
they exprest to oblige their guests, and their forwardness to offer them
the best of everything in their house; and what delighted him still more
was an instance or two of their charity; for whilst they were at
breakfast the good woman was called for to assist her sick neighbour,
which she did with some cordials made for the public use, and the good
man went into his garden at the same time to supply another with
something which he wanted thence, for they had nothing which those who
wanted it were not welcome to. These good people were in the utmost
cheerfulness, when they heard the report of a gun, and immediately
afterwards a little dog, the favourite of the eldest daughter, came
limping in all bloody and laid himself at his mistress's feet: the poor
girl, who was about eleven years old, burst into tears at the sight; and
presently one of the neighbours came in and informed them that the young
squire, the son of the lord of the manor, had shot him as he past by,
swearing at the same time he would prosecute the master of him for
keeping a spaniel, for that he had given notice he would not suffer one
in the parish. The dog, whom his mistress had taken into her lap, died
in a few minutes, licking her hand. She exprest great agony at his loss,
and the other children began to cry for their sister's misfortune; nor
could Fanny herself refrain. Whilst the father and mother attempted to
comfort her, Adams grasped his crabstick and would have sallied out
after the squire had not Joseph withheld him. He could not however
bridle his tongue--he pronounced the word rascal with great emphasis;
said he deserved to be hanged more than a highwayman, and wished he had
the scourging him. The mother took her child, lamenting and carrying the
dead favourite in her arms, out of the room, when the gentleman said
this was the second time this squire had endeavoured to kill the little
wretch, and had wounded him smartly once before; adding, he could have
no motive but ill-nature, for the little thing, which was not near as
big as one's fist, had never been twenty yards from the house in the six
years his daughter had had it. He said he had done nothing to deserve
this usage, but his father had too great a fortune to contend with: that
he was as absolute as any tyrant in the universe, and had killed all the
dogs and taken away all the guns in the neighbourhood; and not only
that, but he trampled down hedges and rode over corn and gardens, with
no more regard than if they were the highway. "I wish I could catch him
in my garden," said Adams, "though I would rather forgive him riding
through my house than such an ill-natured act as this."
The cheerfulness of their conversation being interrupted by this
accident, in which the guests could be of no service to their kind
entertainer; and as the mother was taken up in administering consolation
to the poor girl, whose disposition was too good hastily to forget the
sudden loss of her little favourite, which had been fondling with her
a few minutes before; and as Joseph and Fanny were impatient to get home
and begin those previous ceremonies to their happiness which Adams had
insisted on, they now offered to take their leave. The gentleman
importuned them much to stay dinner; but when he found their eagerness
to depart he summoned his wife; and accordingly, having performed all
the usual ceremonies of bows and curtsies more pleasant to be seen than
to be related, they took their leave, the gentleman and his wife
heartily wishing them a good journey, and they as heartily thanking them
for their kind entertainment. They then departed, Adams declaring that
this was the manner in which the people had lived in the golden age.
[A] Whoever the reader pleases.
CHAPTER V.
_A disputation on schools held on the road between Mr Abraham Adams and
Joseph; and a discovery not unwelcome to them both._
Our travellers, having well refreshed themselves at the gentleman's
house, Joseph and Fanny with sleep, and Mr Abraham Adams with ale and
tobacco, renewed their journey with great alacrity; and pursuing the
road into which they were directed, travelled many miles before they
met with any adventure worth relating. In this interval we shall
present our readers with a very curious discourse, as we apprehend it,
concerning public schools, which passed between Mr Joseph Andrews and
Mr Abraham Adams.
They had not gone far before Adams, calling to Joseph, asked him, "If
he had attended to the gentleman's story?" He answered, "To all the
former part."--"And don't you think," says he, "he was a very unhappy
man in his youth?"--"A very unhappy man, indeed," answered the other.
"Joseph," cries Adams, screwing up his mouth, "I have found it; I have
discovered the cause of all the misfortunes which befel him: a public
school, Joseph, was the cause of all the calamities which he
afterwards suffered. Public schools are the nurseries of all vice and
immorality. All the wicked fellows whom I remember at the university
were bred at them.--Ah, Lord! I can remember as well as if it was but
yesterday, a knot of them; they called them King's scholars, I forget
why--very wicked fellows! Joseph, you may thank the Lord you were not
bred at a public school; you would never have preserved your virtue as
you have. The first care I always take is of a boy's morals; I had
rather he should be a blockhead than an atheist or a presbyterian.
What is all the learning in the world compared to his immortal soul?
What shall a man take in exchange for his soul? But the masters of
great schools trouble themselves about no such thing. I have known a
lad of eighteen at the university, who hath not been able to say his
catechism; but for my own part, I always scourged a lad sooner for
missing that than any other lesson. Believe me, child, all that
gentleman's misfortunes arose from his being educated at a public
school."
"It doth not become me," answered Joseph, "to dispute anything, sir,
with you, especially a matter of this kind; for to be sure you must be
allowed by all the world to be the best teacher of a school in all our
county." "Yes, that," says Adams, "I believe, is granted me; that I may
without much vanity pretend to--nay, I believe I may go to the next
county too--but _gloriari non est meum_."--"However, sir, as you are
pleased to bid me speak," says Joseph, "you know my late master, Sir
Thomas Booby, was bred at a public school, and he was the finest
gentleman in all the neighbourhood. And I have often heard him say, if
he had a hundred boys he would breed them all at the same place. It was
his opinion, and I have often heard him deliver it, that a boy taken
from a public school and carried into the world, will learn more in one
year there than one of a private education will in five. He used to say
the school itself initiated him a great way (I remember that was his
very expression), for great schools are little societies, where a boy
of any observation may see in epitome what he will afterwards find in
the world at large."--"_Hinc illae lachrymae_: for that very reason,"
quoth Adams, "I prefer a private school, where boys may be kept in
innocence and ignorance; for, according to that fine passage in the
play of Cato, the only English tragedy I ever read--
"'If knowledge of the world must make men villains
May Juba ever live in ignorance!'
"Who would not rather preserve the purity of his child than wish him to
attain the whole circle of arts and sciences? which, by the bye, he may
learn in the classes of a private school; for I would not be vain, but I
esteem myself to be second to none, _nulli secundum_, in teaching these
things; so that a lad may have as much learning in a private as in a
public education."--"And, with submission," answered Joseph, "he may get
as much vice: witness several country gentlemen, who were educated
within five miles of their own houses, and are as wicked as if they had
known the world from their infancy. I remember when I was in the stable,
if a young horse was vicious in his nature, no correction would make him
otherwise: I take it to be equally the same among men: if a boy be of a
mischievous wicked inclination, no school, though ever so private, will
ever make him good: on the contrary, if he be of a righteous temper, you
may trust him to London, or wherever else you please--he will be in no
danger of being corrupted. Besides, I have often heard my master say
that the discipline practised in public schools was much better than
that in private."--"You talk like a jackanapes," says Adams, "and so did
your master. Discipline indeed! Because one man scourges twenty or
thirty boys more in a morning than another, is he therefore a better
disciplinarian? I do presume to confer in this point with all who have
taught from Chiron's time to this day; and, if I was master of six boys
only, I would preserve as good discipline amongst them as the master of
the greatest school in the world. I say nothing, young man; remember I
say nothing; but if Sir Thomas himself had been educated nearer home,
and under the tuition of somebody--remember I name nobody--it might have
been better for him:--but his father must institute him in the knowledge
of the world. _Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit_." Joseph, seeing him
run on in this manner, asked pardon many times, assuring him he had no
intention to offend. "I believe you had not, child," said he, "and I am
not angry with you; but for maintaining good discipline in a school; for
this."--And then he ran on as before, named all the masters who are
recorded in old books, and preferred himself to them all. Indeed, if
this good man had an enthusiasm, or what the vulgar call a blind side,
it was this: he thought a schoolmaster the greatest character in the
world, and himself the greatest of all schoolmasters: neither of which
points he would have given up to Alexander the Great at the head of
his army.
Adams continued his subject till they came to one of the beautifullest
spots of ground in the universe. It was a kind of natural amphitheatre,
formed by the winding of a small rivulet, which was planted with thick
woods, and the trees rose gradually above each other by the natural
ascent of the ground they stood on; which ascent as they hid with their
boughs, they seemed to have been disposed by the design of the most
skilful planter. The soil was spread with a verdure which no paint could
imitate; and the whole place might have raised romantic ideas in elder
minds than those of Joseph and Fanny, without the assistance of love.
Here they arrived about noon, and Joseph proposed to Adams that they
should rest awhile in this delightful place, and refresh themselves with
some provisions which the good-nature of Mrs Wilson had provided them
with. Adams made no objection to the proposal; so down they sat, and,
pulling out a cold fowl and a bottle of wine, they made a repast with a
cheerfulness which might have attracted the envy of more splendid
tables. I should not omit that they found among their provision a little
paper containing a piece of gold, which Adams imagining had been put
there by mistake, would have returned back to restore it; but he was at
last convinced by Joseph that Mr Wilson had taken this handsome way of
furnishing them with a supply for their journey, on his having related
the distress which they had been in, when they were relieved by the
generosity of the pedlar. Adams said he was glad to see such an instance
of goodness, not so much for the conveniency which it brought them as
for the sake of the doer, whose reward would be great in heaven. He
likewise comforted himself with a reflection that he should shortly have
an opportunity of returning it him; for the gentleman was within a week
to make a journey into Somersetshire, to pass through Adams's parish,
and had faithfully promised to call on him; a circumstance which we
thought too immaterial to mention before; but which those who have as
great an affection for that gentleman as ourselves will rejoice at, as
it may give them hopes of seeing him again. Then Joseph made a speech on
charity, which the reader, if he is so disposed, may see in the next
chapter; for we scorn to betray him into any such reading, without first
giving him warning.
CHAPTER VI.
_Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the hunting adventure, and
parson Adams's miraculous escape._
"I have often wondered, sir," said Joseph, "to observe so few instances
of charity among mankind; for though the goodness of a man's heart did
not incline him to relieve the distresses of his fellow-creatures,
methinks the desire of honour should move him to it. What inspires a man
to build fine houses, to purchase fine furniture, pictures, clothes, and
other things, at a great expense, but an ambition to be respected more
than other people? Now, would not one great act of charity, one instance
of redeeming a poor family from all the miseries of poverty, restoring
an unfortunate tradesman by a sum of money to the means of procuring a
livelihood by his industry, discharging an undone debtor from his debts
or a gaol, or any suchlike example of goodness, create a man more honour
and respect than he could acquire by the finest house, furniture,
pictures, or clothes, that were ever beheld? For not only the object
himself who was thus relieved, but all who heard the name of such a
person, must, I imagine, reverence him infinitely more than the
possessor of all those other things; which when we so admire, we rather
praise the builder, the workman, the painter, the lace-maker, the
taylor, and the rest, by whose ingenuity they are produced, than the
person who by his money makes them his own. For my own part, when I have
waited behind my lady in a room hung with fine pictures, while I have
been looking at them I have never once thought of their owner, nor hath
any one else, as I ever observed; for when it hath been asked whose
picture that was, it was never once answered the master's of the house;
but Ammyconni, Paul Varnish, Hannibal Scratchi, or Hogarthi, which I
suppose were the names of the painters; but if it was asked--Who
redeemed such a one out of prison? Who lent such a ruined tradesman
money to set up? Who clothed that family of poor small children? it is
very plain what must be the answer. And besides, these great folks are
mistaken if they imagine they get any honour at all by these means; for
I do not remember I ever was with my lady at any house where she
commended the house or furniture but I have heard her at her return home
make sport and jeer at whatever she had before commended; and I have
been told by other gentlemen in livery that it is the same in their
families: but I defy the wisest man in the world to turn a true good
action into ridicule. I defy him to do it. He who should endeavour it
would be laughed at himself, instead of making others laugh. Nobody
scarce doth any good, yet they all agree in praising those who do.
Indeed, it is strange that all men should consent in commending
goodness, and no man endeavour to deserve that commendation; whilst, on
the contrary, all rail at wickedness, and all are as eager to be what
they abuse. This I know not the reason of; but it is as plain as
daylight to those who converse in the world, as I have done these three
years." "Are all the great folks wicked then?" says Fanny. "To be sure
there are some exceptions," answered Joseph. "Some gentlemen of our
cloth report charitable actions done by their lords and masters; and I
have heard Squire Pope, the great poet, at my lady's table, tell stories
of a man that lived at a place called Ross, and another at the Bath, one
Al--Al--I forget his name, but it is in the book of verses. This
gentleman hath built up a stately house too, which the squire likes very
well; but his charity is seen farther than his house, though it stands
on a hill,--ay, and brings him more honour too. It was his charity that
put him in the book, where the squire says he puts all those who deserve
it; and to be sure, as he lives among all the great people, if there
were any such, he would know them." This was all of Mr Joseph Andrews's
speech which I could get him to recollect, which I have delivered as
near as was possible in his own words, with a very small embellishment.
But I believe the reader hath not been a little surprized at the long
silence of parson Adams, especially as so many occasions offered
themselves to exert his curiosity and observation. The truth is, he was
fast asleep, and had so been from the beginning of the preceding
narrative; and, indeed, if the reader considers that so many hours had
passed since he had closed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repose,
though even Henley himself, or as great an orator (if any such be), had
been in his rostrum or tub before him.
Joseph, who whilst he was speaking had continued in one attitude, with
his head reclining on one side, and his eyes cast on the ground, no
sooner perceived, on looking up, the position of Adams, who was
stretched on his back, and snored louder than the usual braying of the
animal with long ears, than he turned towards Fanny, and, taking her
by the hand, began a dalliance, which, though consistent with the
purest innocence and decency, neither he would have attempted nor she
permitted before any witness. Whilst they amused themselves in this
harmless and delightful manner they heard a pack of hounds approaching
in full cry towards them, and presently afterwards saw a hare pop
forth from the wood, and, crossing the water, land within a few yards
of them in the meadows. The hare was no sooner on shore than it seated
itself on its hinder legs, and listened to the sound of the pursuers.
Fanny was wonderfully pleased with the little wretch, and eagerly
longed to have it in her arms that she might preserve it from the
dangers which seemed to threaten it; but the rational part of the
creation do not always aptly distinguish their friends from their foes;
what wonder then if this silly creature, the moment it beheld her,
fled from the friend who would have protected it, and, traversing the
meadows again, passed the little rivulet on the opposite side? It was,
however, so spent and weak, that it fell down twice or thrice in its
way. This affected the tender heart of Fanny, who exclaimed, with tears
in her eyes, against the barbarity of worrying a poor innocent
defenceless animal out of its life, and putting it to the extremest
torture for diversion. She had not much time to make reflections of
this kind, for on a sudden the hounds rushed through the wood, which
resounded with their throats and the throats of their retinue, who
attended on them on horseback. The dogs now past the rivulet, and
pursued the footsteps of the hare; five horsemen attempted to leap
over, three of whom succeeded, and two were in the attempt thrown from
their saddles into the water; their companions, and their own horses
too, proceeded after their sport, and left their friends and riders to
invoke the assistance of Fortune, or employ the more active means of
strength and agility for their deliverance. Joseph, however, was not
so unconcerned on this occasion; he left Fanny for a moment to herself,
and ran to the gentlemen, who were immediately on their legs, shaking
their ears, and easily, with the help of his hand, obtained the bank
(for the rivulet was not at all deep); and, without staying to thank
their kind assister, ran dripping across the meadow, calling to their
brother sportsmen to stop their horses; but they heard them not.
The hounds were now very little behind their poor reeling, staggering
prey, which, fainting almost at every step, crawled through the wood,
and had almost got round to the place where Fanny stood, when it was
overtaken by its enemies, and being driven out of the covert, was
caught, and instantly tore to pieces before Fanny's face, who was unable
to assist it with any aid more powerful than pity; nor could she prevail
on Joseph, who had been himself a sportsman in his youth, to attempt
anything contrary to the laws of hunting in favour of the hare, which he
said was killed fairly.
The hare was caught within a yard or two of Adams, who lay asleep at
some distance from the lovers; and the hounds, in devouring it, and
pulling it backwards and forwards, had drawn it so close to him, that
some of them (by mistake perhaps for the hare's skin) laid hold of the
skirts of his cassock; others at the same time applying their teeth to
his wig, which he had with a handkerchief fastened to his head, began to
pull him about; and had not the motion of his body had more effect on
him than seemed to be wrought by the noise, they must certainly have
tasted his flesh, which delicious flavour might have been fatal to him;
but being roused by these tuggings, he instantly awaked, and with a jerk
delivering his head from his wig, he with most admirable dexterity
recovered his legs, which now seemed the only members he could entrust
his safety to. Having, therefore, escaped likewise from at least a third
part of his cassock, which he willingly left as his _exuviae_ or spoils
to the enemy, he fled with the utmost speed he could summon to his
assistance. Nor let this be any detraction from the bravery of his
character: let the number of the enemies, and the surprize in which he
was taken, be considered; and if there be any modern so outrageously
brave that he cannot admit of flight in any circumstance whatever, I say
(but I whisper that softly, and I solemnly declare without any intention
of giving offence to any brave man in the nation), I say, or rather I
whisper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and hath never read Homer nor
Virgil, nor knows he anything of Hector or Turnus; nay, he is
unacquainted with the history of some great men living, who, though as
brave as lions, ay, as tigers, have run away, the Lord knows how far,
and the Lord knows why, to the surprize of their friends and the
entertainment of their enemies. But if persons of such heroic
disposition are a little offended at the behaviour of Adams, we assure
them they shall be as much pleased with what we shall immediately relate
of Joseph Andrews. The master of the pack was just arrived, or, as the
sportsmen call it, come in, when Adams set out, as we have before
mentioned. This gentleman was generally said to be a great lover of
humour; but, not to mince the matter, especially as we are upon this
subject, he was a great hunter of men; indeed, he had hitherto followed
the sport only with dogs of his own species; for he kept two or three
couple of barking curs for that use only. However, as he thought he had
now found a man nimble enough, he was willing to indulge himself with
other sport, and accordingly, crying out, "Stole away," encouraged the
hounds to pursue Mr Adams, swearing it was the largest jack-hare he ever
saw; at the same time hallooing and hooping as if a conquered foe was
flying before him; in which he was imitated by these two or three couple
of human or rather two-legged curs on horseback which we have mentioned
before.
Now, thou, whoever thou art, whether a muse, or by what other name soever
thou choosest to be called, who presidest over biography, and hast
inspired all the writers of lives in these our times: thou who didst
infuse such wonderful humour into the pen of immortal Gulliver; who hast
carefully guided the judgment whilst thou hast exalted the nervous manly
style of thy Mallet: thou who hadst no hand in that dedication and
preface, or the translations, which thou wouldst willingly have struck
out of the life of Cicero: lastly, thou who, without the assistance of
the least spice of literature, and even against his inclination, hast,
in some pages of his book, forced Colley Cibber to write English; do
thou assist me in what I find myself unequal to. Do thou introduce on
the plain the young, the gay, the brave Joseph Andrews, whilst men shall
view him with admiration and envy, tender virgins with love and anxious
concern for his safety.
No sooner did Joseph Andrews perceive the distress of his friend, when
first the quick-scenting dogs attacked him, than he grasped his cudgel
in his right hand--a cudgel which his father had of his grandfather, to
whom a mighty strong man of Kent had given it for a present in that day
when he broke three heads on the stage. It was a cudgel of mighty
strength and wonderful art, made by one of Mr Deard's best workmen, whom
no other artificer can equal, and who hath made all those sticks which
the beaus have lately walked with about the Park in a morning; but this
was far his masterpiece. On its head was engraved a nose and chin, which
might have been mistaken for a pair of nutcrackers. The learned have
imagined it designed to represent the Gorgon; but it was in fact copied
from the face of a certain long English baronet, of infinite wit, humour,
and gravity. He did intend to have engraved here many histories: as the
first night of Captain B----'s play, where you would have seen critics
in embroidery transplanted from the boxes to the pit, whose ancient
inhabitants were exalted to the galleries, where they played on
catcalls. He did intend to have painted an auction room, where Mr Cock
would have appeared aloft in his pulpit, trumpeting forth the praises of
a china basin, and with astonishment wondering that "Nobody bids more
for that fine, that superb--" He did intend to have engraved many other
things, but was forced to leave all out for want of room.
No sooner had Joseph grasped his cudgel in his hands than lightning
darted from his eyes; and the heroick youth, swift of foot, ran with the
utmost speed to his friend's assistance. He overtook him just as
Rockwood had laid hold of the skirt of his cassock, which, being torn,
hung to the ground. Reader, we would make a simile on this occasion, but
for two reasons: the first is, it would interrupt the description, which
should be rapid in this part; but that doth not weigh much, many
precedents occurring for such an interruption: the second and much the
greater reason is, that we could find no simile adequate to our purpose:
for indeed, what instance could we bring to set before our reader's eyes
at once the idea of friendship, courage, youth, beauty, strength, and
swiftness? all which blazed in the person of Joseph Andrews. Let those,
therefore, that describe lions and tigers, and heroes fiercer than both,
raise their poems or plays with the simile of Joseph Andrews, who is
himself above the reach of any simile.
Now Rockwood had laid fast hold on the parson's skirts, and stopt his
flight; which Joseph no sooner perceived than he levelled his cudgel at
his head and laid him sprawling. Jowler and Ringwood then fell on his
greatcoat, and had undoubtedly brought him to the ground, had not
Joseph, collecting all his force, given Jowler such a rap on the back,
that, quitting his hold, he ran howling over the plain. A harder fate
remained for thee, O Ringwood! Ringwood the best hound that ever pursued
a hare, who never threw his tongue but where the scent was undoubtedly
true; good at trailing, and sure in a highway; no babler, no overrunner;
respected by the whole pack, who, whenever he opened, knew the game was
at hand. He fell by the stroke of Joseph. Thunder and Plunder, and
Wonder and Blunder, were the next victims of his wrath, and measured
their lengths on the ground. Then Fairmaid, a bitch which Mr John Temple
had bred up in his house, and fed at his own table, and lately sent the
squire fifty miles for a present, ran fiercely at Joseph and bit him by
the leg: no dog was ever fiercer than she, being descended from an
Amazonian breed, and had worried bulls in her own country, but now waged
an unequal fight, and had shared the fate of those we have mentioned
before, had not Diana (the reader may believe it or not if he pleases)
in that instant interposed, and, in the shape of the huntsman, snatched
her favourite up in her arms.
The parson now faced about, and with his crabstick felled many to the
earth, and scattered others, till he was attacked by Caesar and pulled
to the ground. Then Joseph flew to his rescue, and with such might
fell on the victor, that, O eternal blot to his name! Caesar ran
yelping away.
The battle now raged with the most dreadful violence, when, lo! the
huntsman, a man of years and dignity, lifted his voice, and called his
hounds from the fight, telling them, in a language they understood, that
it was in vain to contend longer, for that fate had decreed the victory
to their enemies.
Thus far the muse hath with her usual dignity related this prodigious
battle, a battle we apprehend never equalled by any poet, romance or
life writer whatever, and, having brought it to a conclusion, she
ceased; we shall therefore proceed in our ordinary style with the
continuation of this history. The squire and his companions, whom the
figure of Adams and the gallantry of Joseph had at first thrown into a
violent fit of laughter, and who had hitherto beheld the engagement with
more delight than any chase, shooting-match, race, cock-fighting, bull
or bear baiting, had ever given them, began now to apprehend the danger
of their hounds, many of which lay sprawling in the fields. The squire,
therefore, having first called his friends about him, as guards for
safety of his person, rode manfully up to the combatants, and, summoning
all the terror he was master of into his countenance, demanded with an
authoritative voice of Joseph what he meant by assaulting his dogs in
that manner? Joseph answered, with great intrepidity, that they had
first fallen on his friend; and if they had belonged to the greatest man
in the kingdom, he would have treated them in the same way; for, whilst
his veins contained a single drop of blood, he would not stand idle by
and see that gentleman (pointing to Adams) abused either by man or
beast; and, having so said, both he and Adams brandished their wooden
weapons, and put themselves into such a posture, that the squire and his
company thought proper to preponderate before they offered to revenge
the cause of their four-footed allies.
At this instant Fanny, whom the apprehension of Joseph's danger had
alarmed so much that, forgetting her own, she had made the utmost
expedition, came up. The squire and all the horsemen were so
surprized with her beauty, that they immediately fixed both their
eyes and thoughts solely on her, every one declaring he had never
seen so charming a creature. Neither mirth nor anger engaged them a
moment longer, but all sat in silent amaze. The huntsman only was
free from her attraction, who was busy in cutting the ears of the
dogs, and endeavouring to recover them to life; in which he succeeded
so well, that only two of no great note remained slaughtered on the
field of action. Upon this the huntsman declared, "'Twas well it was
no worse; for his part he could not blame the gentleman, and wondered
his master would encourage the dogs to hunt Christians; that it was
the surest way to spoil them, to make them follow vermin instead of
sticking to a hare."
The squire, being informed of the little mischief that had been done,
and perhaps having more mischief of another kind in his head, accosted
Mr Adams with a more favourable aspect than before: he told him he was
sorry for what had happened; that he had endeavoured all he could to
prevent it the moment he was acquainted with his cloth, and greatly
commended the courage of his servant, for so he imagined Joseph to be.
He then invited Mr Adams to dinner, and desired the young woman might
come with him. Adams refused a long while; but the invitation was
repeated with so much earnestness and courtesy, that at length he was
forced to accept it. His wig and hat, and other spoils of the field,
being gathered together by Joseph (for otherwise probably they would
have been forgotten), he put himself into the best order he could; and
then the horse and foot moved forward in the same pace towards the
squire's house, which stood at a very little distance.
Whilst they were on the road the lovely Fanny attracted the eyes of all:
they endeavoured to outvie one another in encomiums on her beauty; which
the reader will pardon my not relating, as they had not anything new or
uncommon in them: so must he likewise my not setting down the many
curious jests which were made on Adams; some of them declaring that
parson-hunting was the best sport in the world; others commending his
standing at bay, which they said he had done as well as any badger; with
such like merriment, which, though it would ill become the dignity of
this history, afforded much laughter and diversion to the squire and his
facetious companions.
CHAPTER VII.
_A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste
and times._
They arrived at the squire's house just as his dinner was ready. A
little dispute arose on the account of Fanny, whom the squire, who was a
bachelor, was desirous to place at his own table; but she would not
consent, nor would Mr Adams permit her to be parted from Joseph; so that
she was at length with him consigned over to the kitchen, where the
servants were ordered to make him drunk; a favour which was likewise
intended for Adams; which design being executed, the squire thought he
should easily accomplish what he had when he first saw her intended to
perpetrate with Fanny.
It may not be improper, before we proceed farther, to open a little the
character of this gentleman, and that of his friends. The master of this
house, then, was a man of a very considerable fortune; a bachelor, as we
have said, and about forty years of age: he had been educated (if we may
use the expression) in the country, and at his own home, under the care
of his mother, and a tutor who had orders never to correct him, nor to
compel him to learn more than he liked, which it seems was very little,
and that only in his childhood; for from the age of fifteen he addicted
himself entirely to hunting and other rural amusements, for which his
mother took care to equip him with horses, hounds, and all other
necessaries; and his tutor, endeavouring to ingratiate himself with his
young pupil, who would, he knew, be able handsomely to provide for him,
became his companion, not only at these exercises, but likewise over a
bottle, which the young squire had a very early relish for. At the age
of twenty his mother began to think she had not fulfilled the duty of a
parent; she therefore resolved to persuade her son, if possible, to that
which she imagined would well supply all that he might have learned at a
public school or university--this is what they commonly call travelling;
which, with the help of the tutor, who was fixed on to attend him, she
easily succeeded in. He made in three years the tour of Europe, as they
term it, and returned home well furnished with French clothes, phrases,
and servants, with a hearty contempt for his own country; especially
what had any savour of the plain spirit and honesty of our ancestors.
His mother greatly applauded herself at his return. And now, being
master of his own fortune, he soon procured himself a seat in
Parliament, and was in the common opinion one of the finest gentlemen of
his age: but what distinguished him chiefly was a strange delight which
he took in everything which is ridiculous, odious, and absurd in his own
species; so that he never chose a companion without one or more of these
ingredients, and those who were marked by nature in the most eminent
degree with them were most his favourites. If he ever found a man who
either had not, or endeavoured to conceal, these imperfections, he took
great pleasure in inventing methods of forcing him into absurdities
which were not natural to him, or in drawing forth and exposing those
that were; for which purpose he was always provided with a set of
fellows, whom we have before called curs, and who did, indeed, no great
honour to the canine kind; their business was to hunt out and display
everything that had any savour of the above-mentioned qualities, and
especially in the gravest and best characters; but if they failed in
their search, they were to turn even virtue and wisdom themselves into
ridicule, for the diversion of their master and feeder. The gentlemen of
curlike disposition who were now at his house, and whom he had brought
with him from London, were, an old half-pay officer, a player, a dull
poet, a quack-doctor, a scraping fiddler, and a lame German
dancing-master.
As soon as dinner was served, while Mr Adams was saying grace, the
captain conveyed his chair from behind him; so that when he endeavoured
to seat himself he fell down on the ground, and this completed joke the
first, to the great entertainment of the whole company. The second joke
was performed by the poet, who sat next him on the other side, and took
an opportunity, while poor Adams was respectfully drinking to the master
of the house, to overturn a plate of soup into his breeches; which, with
the many apologies he made, and the parson's gentle answers, caused much
mirth in the company. Joke the third was served up by one of the
waiting-men, who had been ordered to convey a quantity of gin into Mr
Adams's ale, which he declaring to be the best liquor he ever drank, but
rather too rich of the malt, contributed again to their laughter. Mr
Adams, from whom we had most of this relation, could not recollect all
the jests of this kind practised on him, which the inoffensive
disposition of his own heart made him slow in discovering; and indeed,
had it not been for the information which we received from a servant of
the family, this part of our history, which we take to be none of the
least curious, must have been deplorably imperfect; though we must own
it probable that some more jokes were (as they call it) cracked during
their dinner; but we have by no means been able to come at the knowledge
of them. When dinner was removed, the poet began to repeat some verses,
which, he said, were made extempore. The following is a copy of them,
procured with the greatest difficulty:--
_An extempore Poem on parson Adams._
Did ever mortal such a parson view?
His cassock old, his wig not over-new,
Well might the hounds have him for fox mistaken,
In smell more like to that than rusty bacon[A];
But would it not make any mortal stare
To see this parson taken for a hare?
Could Phoebus err thus grossly, even he
For a good player might have taken thee.
[A] All hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will hunt a piece of
rusty bacon trailed on the ground.
At which words the bard whipt off the player's wig, and received the
approbation of the company, rather perhaps for the dexterity of his hand
than his head. The player, instead of retorting the jest on the poet,
began to display his talents on the same subject. He repeated many
scraps of wit out of plays, reflecting on the whole body of the clergy,
which were received with great acclamations by all present. It was now
the dancing-master's turn to exhibit his talents; he therefore,
addressing himself to Adams in broken English, told him, "He was a man
ver well made for de dance, and he suppose by his walk dat he had learn
of some great master." He said, "It was ver pretty quality in clergyman
to dance;" and concluded with desiring him to dance a minuet, telling
him, "his cassock would serve for petticoats; and that he would himself
be his partner." At which words, without waiting for an answer, he
pulled out his gloves, and the fiddler was preparing his fiddle. The
company all offered the dancing-master wagers that the parson out-danced
him, which he refused, saying "he believed so too, for he had never seen
any man in his life who looked de dance so well as de gentleman:" he
then stepped forwards to take Adams by the hand, which the latter
hastily withdrew, and, at the same time clenching his fist, advised him
not to carry the jest too far, for he would not endure being put upon.
The dancing-master no sooner saw the fist than he prudently retired out
of its reach, and stood aloof, mimicking Adams, whose eyes were fixed on
him, not guessing what he was at, but to avoid his laying hold on him,
which he had once attempted. In the meanwhile, the captain, perceiving
an opportunity, pinned a cracker or devil to the cassock, and then
lighted it with their little smoking-candle. Adams, being a stranger to
this sport, and believing he had been blown up in reality, started from
his chair, and jumped about the room, to the infinite joy of the
beholders, who declared he was the best dancer in the universe. As soon
as the devil had done tormenting him, and he had a little recovered his
confusion, he returned to the table, standing up in the posture of one
who intended to make a speech. They all cried out, "Hear him, hear him;"
and he then spoke in the following manner: "Sir, I am sorry to see one
to whom Providence hath been so bountiful in bestowing his favours make
so ill and ungrateful a return for them; for, though you have not
insulted me yourself, it is visible you have delighted in those that do
it, nor have once discouraged the many rudenesses which have been shown
towards me; indeed, towards yourself, if you rightly understood them;
for I am your guest, and by the laws of hospitality entitled to your
protection. One gentleman had thought proper to produce some poetry upon
me, of which I shall only say, that I had rather be the subject than the
composer. He hath pleased to treat me with disrespect as a parson. I
apprehend my order is not the subject of scorn, nor that I can become
so, unless by being a disgrace to it, which I hope poverty will never be
called. Another gentleman, indeed, hath repeated some sentences, where
the order itself is mentioned with contempt. He says they are taken from
plays. I am sure such plays are a scandal to the government which
permits them, and cursed will be the nation where they are represented.
How others have treated me I need not observe; they themselves, when
they reflect, must allow the behaviour to be as improper to my years as
to my cloth. You found me, sir, travelling with two of my parishioners
(I omit your hounds falling on me; for I have quite forgiven it, whether
it proceeded from the wantonness or negligence of the huntsman): my
appearance might very well persuade you that your invitation was an act
of charity, though in reality we were well provided; yes, sir, if we had
had an hundred miles to travel, we had sufficient to bear our expenses
in a noble manner." (At which words he produced the half-guinea which
was found in the basket.) "I do not show you this out of ostentation of
riches, but to convince you I speak truth. Your seating me at your table
was an honour which I did not ambitiously affect. When I was here, I
endeavoured to behave towards you with the utmost respect; if I have
failed, it was not with design; nor could I, certainly, so far be guilty
as to deserve the insults I have suffered. If they were meant,
therefore, either to my order or my poverty (and you see I am not very
poor), the shame doth not lie at my door, and I heartily pray that the
sin may be averted from yours." He thus finished, and received a general
clap from the whole company. Then the gentleman of the house told him,
"He was sorry for what had happened; that he could not accuse him of any
share in it; that the verses were, as himself had well observed, so bad,
that he might easily answer them; and for the serpent, it was
undoubtedly a very great affront done him by the dancing-master, for
which, if he well thrashed him, as he deserved, he should be very much
pleased to see it" (in which, probably, he spoke truth). Adams answered,
"Whoever had done it, it was not his profession to punish him that way;
but for the person whom he had accused, I am a witness," says he, "of
his innocence; for I had my eye on him all the while. Whoever he was,
God forgive him, and bestow on him a little more sense as well as
humanity." The captain answered with a surly look and accent, "That he
hoped he did not mean to reflect upon him; d--n him, he had as much
imanity as another, and, if any man said he had not, he would convince
him of his mistake by cutting his throat." Adams, smiling, said, "He
believed he had spoke right by accident." To which the captain returned,
"What do you mean by my speaking right? If you was not a parson, I would
not take these words; but your gown protects you. If any man who wears a
sword had said so much, I had pulled him by the nose before this." Adams
replied, "If he attempted any rudeness to his person, he would not find
any protection for himself in his gown;" and, clenching his fist,
declared "he had thrashed many a stouter man." The gentleman did all he
could to encourage this warlike disposition in Adams, and was in hopes
to have produced a battle, but he was disappointed; for the captain made
no other answer than, "It is very well you are a parson;" and so,
drinking off a bumper to old mother Church, ended the dispute.
Then the doctor, who had hitherto been silent, and who was the gravest
but most mischievous dog of all, in a very pompous speech highly
applauded what Adams had said, and as much discommended the behaviour
to him. He proceeded to encomiums on the Church and poverty; and,
lastly, recommended forgiveness of what had passed to Adams, who
immediately answered, "That everything was forgiven;" and in the warmth
of his goodness he filled a bumper of strong beer (a liquor he
preferred to wine), and drank a health to the whole company, shaking
the captain and the poet heartily by the hand, and addressing himself
with great respect to the doctor; who, indeed, had not laughed
outwardly at anything that past, as he had a perfect command of his
muscles, and could laugh inwardly without betraying the least symptoms
in his countenance. The doctor now began a second formal speech, in
which he declaimed against all levity of conversation, and what is
usually called mirth. He said, "There were amusements fitted for
persons of all ages and degrees, from the rattle to the discussing a
point of philosophy; and that men discovered themselves in nothing more
than in the choice of their amusements; for," says he, "as it must
greatly raise our expectation of the future conduct in life of boys
whom in their tender years we perceive, instead of taw or balls, or
other childish playthings, to chuse, at their leisure hours, to
exercise their genius in contentions of wit, learning, and such like;
so must it inspire one with equal contempt of a man, if we should
discover him playing at taw or other childish play." Adams highly
commended the doctor's opinion, and said, "He had often wondered at
some passages in ancient authors, where Scipio, Laelius, and other great
men were represented to have passed many hours in amusements of the
most trifling kind." The doctor replied, "He had by him an old Greek
manuscript where a favourite diversion of Socrates was recorded." "Ay!"
says the parson eagerly; "I should be most infinitely obliged to you
for the favour of perusing it." The doctor promised to send it him, and
farther said, "That he believed he could describe it. I think," says
he, "as near as I can remember, it was this: there was a throne
erected, on one side of which sat a king and on the other a queen, with
their guards and attendants ranged on both sides; to them was
introduced an ambassador, which part Socrates always used to perform
himself; and when he was led up to the footsteps of the throne he
addressed himself to the monarchs in some grave speech, full of virtue,
and goodness, and morality, and such like. After which, he was seated
between the king and queen, and royally entertained. This I think was
the chief part. Perhaps I may have forgot some particulars; for it is
long since I read it." Adams said, "It was, indeed, a diversion worthy
the relaxation of so great a man; and thought something resembling it
should be instituted among our great men, instead of cards and other
idle pastime, in which, he was informed, they trifled away too much of
their lives." He added, "The Christian religion was a nobler subject
for these speeches than any Socrates could have invented." The
gentleman of the house approved what Mr Adams said, and declared "he
was resolved to perform the ceremony this very evening." To which the
doctor objected, as no one was prepared with a speech, "unless," said
he (turning to Adams with a gravity of countenance which would have
deceived a more knowing man), "you have a sermon about you, doctor."
"Sir," said Adams, "I never travel without one, for fear of what may
happen." He was easily prevailed on by his worthy friend, as he now
called the doctor, to undertake the part of the ambassador; so that the
gentleman sent immediate orders to have the throne erected, which was
performed before they had drank two bottles; and, perhaps, the reader
will hereafter have no great reason to admire the nimbleness of the
servants. Indeed, to confess the truth, the throne was no more than
this: there was a great tub of water provided, on each side of which
were placed two stools raised higher than the surface of the tub, and
over the whole was laid a blanket; on these stools were placed the king
and queen, namely, the master of the house and the captain. And now the
ambassador was introduced between the poet and the doctor; who, having
read his sermon, to the great entertainment of all present, was led up
to his place and seated between their majesties. They immediately rose
up, when the blanket, wanting its supports at either end, gave way, and
soused Adams over head and ears in the water. The captain made his
escape, but, unluckily, the gentleman himself not being as nimble as he
ought, Adams caught hold of him before he descended from his throne,
and pulled him in with him, to the entire secret satisfaction of all
the company. Adams, after ducking the squire twice or thrice, leapt out
of the tub, and looked sharp for the doctor, whom he would certainly
have conveyed to the same place of honour; but he had wisely withdrawn:
he then searched for his crabstick, and having found that, as well as
his fellow travellers, he declared he would not stay a moment longer in
such a house. He then departed, without taking leave of his host, whom
he had exacted a more severe revenge on than he intended; for, as he
did not use sufficient care to dry himself in time, he caught a cold by
the accident which threw him into a fever that had like to have cost
him his life.
CHAPTER VIII.
_Which some readers will think too short and others too long._
Adams, and Joseph, who was no less enraged than his friend at the
treatment he met with, went out with their sticks in their hands, and
carried off Fanny, notwithstanding the opposition of the servants, who
did all, without proceeding to violence, in their power to detain them.
They walked as fast as they could, not so much from any apprehension of
being pursued as that Mr Adams might, by exercise, prevent any harm from
the water. The gentleman, who had given such orders to his servants
concerning Fanny that he did not in the least fear her getting away, no
sooner heard that she was gone, than he began to rave, and immediately
despatched several with orders either to bring her back or never return.
The poet, the player, and all but the dancing-master and doctor, went on
this errand.
The night was very dark in which our friends began their journey;
however, they made such expedition, that they soon arrived at an inn
which was at seven miles' distance. Here they unanimously consented to
pass the evening, Mr Adams being now as dry as he was before he had set
out on his embassy.
This inn, which indeed we might call an ale-house, had not the words,
The New Inn, been writ on the sign, afforded them no better provision
than bread and cheese and ale; on which, however, they made a very
comfortable meal; for hunger is better than a French cook.
They had no sooner supped, than Adams, returning thanks to the Almighty
for his food, declared he had eat his homely commons with much greater
satisfaction than his splendid dinner; and expressed great contempt for
the folly of mankind, who sacrificed their hopes of heaven to the
acquisition of vast wealth, since so much comfort was to be found in the
humblest state and the lowest provision. "Very true, sir," says a grave
man who sat smoaking his pipe by the fire, and who was a traveller as
well as himself. "I have often been as much surprized as you are, when I
consider the value which mankind in general set on riches, since every
day's experience shows us how little is in their power; for what,
indeed, truly desirable, can they bestow on us? Can they give beauty to
the deformed, strength to the weak, or health to the infirm? Surely if
they could we should not see so many ill-favoured faces haunting the
assemblies of the great, nor would such numbers of feeble wretches
languish in their coaches and palaces. No, not the wealth of a kingdom
can purchase any paint to dress pale Ugliness in the bloom of that young
maiden, nor any drugs to equip Disease with the vigour of that young
man. Do not riches bring us to solicitude instead of rest, envy instead
of affection, and danger instead of safety? Can they prolong their own
possession, or lengthen his days who enjoys them? So far otherwise, that
the sloth, the luxury, the care which attend them, shorten the lives of
millions, and bring them with pain and misery to an untimely grave.
Where, then, is their value if they can neither embellish nor strengthen
our forms, sweeten nor prolong our lives?--Again: Can they adorn the
mind more than the body? Do they not rather swell the heart with vanity,
puff up the cheeks with pride, shut our ears to every call of virtue,
and our bowels to every motive of compassion?" "Give me your hand,
brother," said Adams, in a rapture, "for I suppose you are a
clergyman."--"No, truly," answered the other (indeed, he was a priest of
the Church of Rome; but those who understand our laws will not wonder he
was not over-ready to own it).--"Whatever you are," cries Adams, "you
have spoken my sentiments: I believe I have preached every syllable of
your speech twenty times over; for it hath always appeared to me easier
for a cable-rope (which by the way is the true rendering of that word we
have translated camel) to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich
man to get into the kingdom of heaven."--"That, sir," said the other,
"will be easily granted you by divines, and is deplorably true; but as
the prospect of our good at a distance doth not so forcibly affect us,
it might be of some service to mankind to be made thoroughly
sensible--which I think they might be with very little serious
attention--that even the blessings of this world are not to be purchased
with riches; a doctrine, in my opinion, not only metaphysically, but, if
I may so say, mathematically demonstrable; and which I have been always
so perfectly convinced of that I have a contempt for nothing so much as
for gold." Adams now began a long discourse: but as most which he said
occurs among many authors who have treated this subject, I shall omit
inserting it. During its continuance Joseph and Fanny retired to rest,
and the host likewise left the room. When the English parson had
concluded, the Romish resumed the discourse, which he continued with
great bitterness and invective; and at last ended by desiring Adams to
lend him eighteen-pence to pay his reckoning; promising, if he never
paid him, he might be assured of his prayers. The good man answered that
eighteen-pence would be too little to carry him any very long journey;
that he had half a guinea in his pocket, which he would divide with him.
He then fell to searching his pockets, but could find no money; for
indeed the company with whom he dined had passed one jest upon him which
we did not then enumerate, and had picked his pocket of all that
treasure which he had so ostentatiously produced.
"Bless me!" cried Adams, "I have certainly lost it; I can never have
spent it. Sir, as I am a Christian, I had a whole half-guinea in my
pocket this morning, and have not now a single halfpenny of it left.
Sure the devil must have taken it from me!"--"Sir," answered the priest,
smiling, "you need make no excuses; if you are not willing to lend me
the money, I am contented."--"Sir," cries Adams, "if I had the greatest
sum in the world--aye, if I had ten pounds about me--I would bestow it
all to rescue any Christian from distress. I am more vexed at my loss on
your account than my own. Was ever anything so unlucky? Because I have
no money in my pocket I shall be suspected to be no Christian."--"I am
more unlucky," quoth the other, "if you are as generous as you say; for
really a crown would have made me happy, and conveyed me in plenty to
the place I am going, which is not above twenty miles off, and where I
can arrive by to-morrow night. I assure you I am not accustomed to
travel pennyless. I am but just arrived in England; and we were forced
by a storm in our passage to throw all we had overboard. I don't suspect
but this fellow will take my word for the trifle I owe him; but I hate
to appear so mean as to confess myself without a shilling to such
people; for these, and indeed too many others, know little difference in
their estimation between a beggar and a thief." However, he thought he
should deal better with the host that evening than the next morning: he
therefore resolved to set out immediately, notwithstanding the darkness;
and accordingly, as soon as the host returned, he communicated to him
the situation of his affairs; upon which the host, scratching his head,
answered, "Why, I do not know, master; if it be so, and you have no
money, I must trust, I think, though I had rather always have ready
money if I could; but, marry, you look like so honest a gentleman that I
don't fear your paying me if it was twenty times as much." The priest
made no reply, but, taking leave of him and Adams as fast as he could,
not without confusion, and perhaps with some distrust of Adams's
sincerity, departed.
He was no sooner gone than the host fell a-shaking his head, and
declared, if he had suspected the fellow had no money, he would not have
drawn him a single drop of drink, saying he despaired of ever seeing his
face again, for that he looked like a confounded rogue.
"Rabbit the fellow," cries he, "I thought, by his talking so much about
riches, that he had a hundred pounds at least in his pocket." Adams chid
him for his suspicions, which, he said, were not becoming a Christian;
and then, without reflecting on his loss, or considering how he himself
should depart in the morning, he retired to a very homely bed, as his
companions had before; however, health and fatigue gave them a sweeter
repose than is often in the power of velvet and down to bestow.
CHAPTER IX.
_Containing as surprizing and bloody adventures as can be found in this
or perhaps any other authentic history._
It was almost morning when Joseph Andrews, whose eyes the thoughts of
his dear Fanny had opened, as he lay fondly meditating on that lovely
creature, heard a violent knocking at the door over which he lay. He
presently jumped out of bed, and, opening the window, was asked if there
were no travellers in the house? and presently, by another voice, if two
men and a woman had not taken up there their lodging that night? Though
he knew not the voices, he began to entertain a suspicion of the
truth--for indeed he had received some information from one of the
servants of the squire's house of his design--and answered in the
negative. One of the servants, who knew the host well, called out to him
by his name just as he had opened another window, and asked him the same
question; to which he answered in the affirmative. O ho! said another,
have we found you? and ordered the host to come down and open his door.
Fanny, who was as wakeful as Joseph, no sooner heard all this than she
leaped from her bed, and, hastily putting on her gown and petticoats,
ran as fast as possible to Joseph's room, who then was almost drest. He
immediately let her in, and, embracing her with the most passionate
tenderness, bid her fear nothing, for he would die in her defence. "Is
that a reason why I should not fear," says she, "when I should lose what
is dearer to me than the whole world?" Joseph, then kissing her hand,
said, "He could almost thank the occasion which had extorted from her a
tenderness she would never indulge him with before." He then ran and
waked his bedfellow Adams, who was yet fast asleep, notwithstanding many
calls from Joseph; but was no sooner made sensible of their danger than
he leaped from his bed, without considering the presence of Fanny, who
hastily turned her face from him, and enjoyed a double benefit from the
dark, which, as it would have prevented any offence, to an innocence
less pure, or a modesty less delicate, so it concealed even those
blushes which were raised in her.
Adams had soon put on all his clothes but his breeches, which, in the
hurry, he forgot; however, they were pretty well supplied by the length
of his other garments; and now, the house-door being opened, the
captain, the poet, the player, and three servants came in. The captain
told the host that two fellows, who were in his house, had run away with
a young woman, and desired to know in which room she lay. The host, who
presently believed the story, directed them, and instantly the captain
and poet, justling one another, ran up. The poet, who was the nimblest,
entering the chamber first, searched the bed, and every other part, but
to no purpose; the bird was flown, as the impatient reader, who might
otherwise have been in pain for her, was before advertised. They then
enquired where the men lay, and were approaching the chamber, when
Joseph roared out, in a loud voice, that he would shoot the first man
who offered to attack the door. The captain enquired what fire-arms they
had; to which the host answered, he believed they had none; nay, he was
almost convinced of it, for he had heard one ask the other in the
evening what they should have done if they had been overtaken, when they
had no arms; to which the other answered, they would have defended
themselves with their sticks as long as they were able, and God would
assist a just cause. This satisfied the captain, but not the poet, who
prudently retreated downstairs, saying, it was his business to record
great actions, and not to do them. The captain was no sooner well
satisfied that there were no fire-arms than, bidding defiance to
gunpowder, and swearing he loved the smell of it, he ordered the
servants to follow him, and, marching boldly up, immediately attempted
to force the door, which the servants soon helped him to accomplish.
When it was opened, they discovered the enemy drawn up three deep; Adams
in the front, and Fanny in the rear. The captain told Adams that if they
would go all back to the house again they should be civilly treated; but
unless they consented he had orders to carry the young lady with him,
whom there was great reason to believe they had stolen from her parents;
for, notwithstanding her disguise, her air, which she could not conceal,
sufficiently discovered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs.
Fanny, bursting into tears, solemnly assured him he was mistaken; that
she was a poor helpless foundling, and had no relation in the world
which she knew of; and, throwing herself on her knees, begged that he
would not attempt to take her from her friends, who, she was convinced,
would die before they would lose her; which Adams confirmed with words
not far from amounting to an oath. The captain swore he had no leisure
to talk, and, bidding them thank themselves for what happened, he
ordered the servants to fall on, at the same time endeavouring to pass
by Adams, in order to lay hold on Fanny; but the parson, interrupting
him, received a blow from one of them, which, without considering whence
it came, he returned to the captain, and gave him so dexterous a knock
in that part of the stomach which is vulgarly called the pit, that he
staggered some paces backwards. The captain, who was not accustomed to
this kind of play, and who wisely apprehended the consequence of such
another blow, two of them seeming to him equal to a thrust through the
body, drew forth his hanger, as Adams approached him, and was levelling
a blow at his head, which would probably have silenced the preacher for
ever, had not Joseph in that instant lifted up a certain huge stone pot
of the chamber with one hand, which six beaus could not have lifted with
both, and discharged it, together with the contents, full in the
captain's face. The uplifted hanger dropped from his hand, and he fell
prostrated on the floor with a lumpish noise, and his halfpence rattled
in his pocket; the red liquor which his veins contained, and the white
liquor which the pot contained, ran in one stream down his face and his
clothes. Nor had Adams quite escaped, some of the water having in its
passage shed its honours on his head, and began to trickle down the
wrinkles or rather furrows of his cheeks, when one of the servants,
snatching a mop out of a pail of water, which had already done its duty
in washing the house, pushed it in the parson's face; yet could not he
bear him down, for the parson, wresting the mop from the fellow with one
hand, with the other brought his enemy as low as the earth, having given
him a stroke over that part of the face where, in some men of pleasure,
the natural and artificial noses are conjoined.
Hitherto, Fortune seemed to incline the victory on the travellers' side,
when, according to her custom, she began to show the fickleness of her
disposition; for now the host, entering the field, or rather chamber of
battle, flew directly at Joseph, and, darting his head into his stomach
(for he was a stout fellow and an expert boxer), almost staggered him:
but Joseph, stepping one leg back, did with his left hand so chuck him
under the chin that he reeled. The youth was pursuing his blow with his
right hand when he received from one of the servants such a stroke with
a cudgel on his temples, that it instantly deprived him of sense, and he
measured his length on the ground.
Fanny rent the air with her cries, and Adams was coming to the
assistance of Joseph; but the two serving-men and the host now fell on
him, and soon subdued him, though he fought like a madman, and looked so
black with the impressions he had received from the mop, that Don
Quixote would certainly have taken him for an inchanted Moor. But now
follows the most tragical part; for the captain was risen again, and,
seeing Joseph on the floor, and Adams secured, he instantly laid hold on
Fanny, and, with the assistance of the poet and player, who, hearing the
battle was over, were now come up, dragged her, crying and tearing her
hair, from the sight of her Joseph, and, with a perfect deafness to all
her entreaties, carried her downstairs by violence, and fastened her on
the player's horse; and the captain, mounting his own, and leading that
on which this poor miserable wretch was, departed, without any more
consideration of her cries than a butcher hath of those of a lamb; for
indeed his thoughts were entertained only with the degree of favour
which he promised himself from the squire on the success of this
adventure.
The servants, who were ordered to secure Adams and Joseph as safe as
possible, that the squire might receive no interruption to his design on
poor Fanny, immediately, by the poet's advice, tied Adams to one of the
bed-posts, as they did Joseph on the other side, as soon as they could
bring him to himself; and then, leaving them together, back to back, and
desiring the host not to set them at liberty, nor to go near them, till
he had further orders, they departed towards their master; but happened
to take a different road from that which the captain had fallen into.