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THE WORKS OF HENRY FIELDING
EDITED BY GEORGE SAINTSBURY
IN TWELVE VOLUMES
VOL. II.
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-maîtres_ 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 beauté
mediocré plait plus généralement qu'une beauté sans défaut._ 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 £200. 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 _achevée_. "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,_
Anglicè, 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 £3000 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
£3000. Adams snapped his fingers at these words in an ecstasy of joy;
which, however, did not continue long; for the gentleman thus
proceeded:--Alas! sir, this was only a trick of Fortune to sink me the
deeper; for I had disposed of this lottery-ticket two days before to a
relation, who refused lending me a shilling without it, in order to
procure myself bread. As soon as my friend was acquainted with my
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 £200.--"£200?"
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.
CHAPTER X.
_A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this
history but to divert the reader._
Before we proceed any farther in this tragedy we shall leave Mr Joseph
and Mr Adams to themselves, and imitate the wise conductors of the
stage, who in the midst of a grave action entertain you with some
excellent piece of satire or humour called a dance. Which piece, indeed,
is therefore danced, and not spoke, as it is delivered to the audience
by persons whose thinking faculty is by most people held to lie in their
heels; and to whom, as well as heroes, who think with their hands,
Nature hath only given heads for the sake of conformity, and as they are
of use in dancing, to hang their hats on.
The poet, addressing the player, proceeded thus, "As I was saying" (for
they had been at this discourse all the time of the engagement
above-stairs), "the reason you have no good new plays is evident; it is
from your discouragement of authors. Gentlemen will not write, sir, they
will not write, without the expectation of fame or profit, or perhaps
both. Plays are like trees, which will not grow without nourishment; but
like mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneously, as it were, in a rich soil.
The muses, like vines, may be pruned, but not with a hatchet. The town,
like a peevish child, knows not what it desires, and is always best
pleased with a rattle. A farce-writer hath indeed some chance for
success: but they have lost all taste for the sublime. Though I believe
one reason of their depravity is the badness of the actors. If a man
writes like an angel, sir, those fellows know not how to give a
sentiment utterance."--"Not so fast," says the player: "the modern
actors are as good at least as their authors, nay, they come nearer
their illustrious predecessors; and I expect a Booth on the stage again,
sooner than a Shakespear or an Otway; and indeed I may turn your
observation against you, and with truth say, that the reason no authors
are encouraged is because we have no good new plays."--"I have not
affirmed the contrary," said the poet; "but I am surprized you grow so
warm; you cannot imagine yourself interested in this dispute; I hope you
have a better opinion of my taste than to apprehend I squinted at
yourself. No, sir, if we had six such actors as you, we should soon
rival the Bettertons and Sandfords of former times; for, without a
compliment to you, I think it impossible for any one to have excelled
you in most of your parts. Nay, it is solemn truth, and I have heard
many, and all great judges, express as much; and, you will pardon me if
I tell you, I think every time I have seen you lately you have
constantly acquired some new excellence, like a snowball. You have
deceived me in my estimation of perfection, and have outdone what I
thought inimitable."--"You are as little interested," answered the
player, "in what I have said of other poets; for d--n me if there are
not many strokes, ay, whole scenes, in your last tragedy, which at least
equal Shakespear. There is a delicacy of sentiment, a dignity of
expression in it, which I will own many of our gentlemen did not do
adequate justice to. To confess the truth, they are bad enough, and I
pity an author who is present at the murder of his works."--"Nay, it is
but seldom that it can happen," returned the poet; "the works of most
modern authors, like dead-born children, cannot be murdered. It is such
wretched half-begotten, half-writ, lifeless, spiritless, low, grovelling
stuff, that I almost pity the actor who is obliged to get it by heart,
which must be almost as difficult to remember as words in a language you
don't understand."--"I am sure," said the player, "if the sentences have
little meaning when they are writ, when they are spoken they have less.
I know scarce one who ever lays an emphasis right, and much less adapts
his action to his character. I have seen a tender lover in an attitude
of fighting with his mistress, and a brave hero suing to his enemy with
his sword in his hand. I don't care to abuse my profession, but rot me
if in my heart I am not inclined to the poet's side."--"It is rather
generous in you than just," said the poet; "and, though I hate to speak
ill of any person's production--nay, I never do it, nor will--but yet,
to do justice to the actors, what could Booth or Betterton have made of
such horrible stuff as Fenton's Mariamne, Frowd's Philotas, or Mallet's
Eurydice; or those low, dirty, last-dying-speeches, which a fellow in
the city of Wapping, your Dillo or Lillo, what was his name, called
tragedies?"--"Very well," says the player; "and pray what do you think
of such fellows as Quin and Delane, or that face-making puppy young
Cibber, that ill-looked dog Macklin, or that saucy slut Mrs Clive? What
work would they make with your Shakespears, Otways, and Lees? How would
those harmonious lines of the last come from their tongues?--
"'--No more; for I disdain
All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise
Of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls
Our kinder fates have steer'd another way.
Free as the forest birds we'll pair together,
Without rememb'ring who our fathers were:
Fly to the arbors, grots, and flow'ry meads;
There in soft murmurs interchange our souls;
Together drink the crystal of the stream,
Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields,
And, when the golden evening calls us home,
Wing to our downy nests, and sleep till morn.'
"Or how would this disdain of Otway--
"'Who'd be that foolish sordid thing call'd man?'"
"Hold! hold! hold!" said the poet: "Do repeat that tender speech in the
third act of my play which you made such a figure in."--"I would
willingly," said the player, "but I have forgot it."--"Ay, you was not
quite perfect in it when you played it," cries the poet, "or you would
have had such an applause as was never given on the stage; an applause I
was extremely concerned for your losing."--"Sure," says the player, "if
I remember, that was hissed more than any passage in the whole
play."--"Ay, your speaking it was hissed," said the poet.--"My speaking
it!" said the player.--"I mean your not speaking it," said the poet.
"You was out, and then they hissed."--"They hissed, and then I was out,
if I remember," answered the player; "and I must say this for myself,
that the whole audience allowed I did your part justice; so don't lay
the damnation of your play to my account."--"I don't know what you mean
by damnation," replied the poet.--"Why, you know it was acted but one
night," cried the player.--"No," said the poet, "you and the whole town
were enemies; the pit were all my enemies, fellows that would cut my
throat, if the fear of hanging did not restrain them. All taylors, sir,
all taylors."--"Why should the taylors be so angry with you?" cries the
player. "I suppose you don't employ so many in making your clothes."--"I
admit your jest," answered the poet; "but you remember the affair as
well as myself; you know there was a party in the pit and upper gallery
that would not suffer it to be given out again; though much, ay
infinitely, the majority, all the boxes in particular, were desirous of
it; nay, most of the ladies swore they never would come to the house
till it was acted again. Indeed, I must own their policy was good in not
letting it be given out a second time: for the rascals knew if it had
gone a second night it would have run fifty; for if ever there was
distress in a tragedy--I am not fond of my own performance; but if I
should tell you what the best judges said of it--Nor was it entirely
owing to my enemies neither that it did not succeed on the stage as well
as it hath since among the polite readers; for you can't say it had
justice done it by the performers."--"I think," answered the player,
"the performers did the distress of it justice; for I am sure we were in
distress enough, who were pelted with oranges all the last act: we all
imagined it would have been the last act of our lives."
The poet, whose fury was now raised, had just attempted to answer when
they were interrupted, and an end put to their discourse, by an
accident, which if the reader is impatient to know, he must skip over
the next chapter, which is a sort of counterpart to this, and contains
some of the best and gravest matters in the whole book, being a
discourse between parson Abraham Adams and Mr Joseph Andrews.
CHAPTER XI.
_Containing the exhortations of parson Adams to his friend in
affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of the
reader._
Joseph no sooner came perfectly to himself than, perceiving his mistress
gone, he bewailed her loss with groans which would have pierced any
heart but those which are possessed by some people, and are made of a
certain composition not unlike flint in its hardness and other
properties; for you may strike fire from them, which will dart through
the eyes, but they can never distil one drop of water the same way. His
own, poor youth! was of a softer composition; and at those words, "O my
dear Fanny! O my love! shall I never, never see thee more?" his eyes
overflowed with tears, which would have become any but a hero. In a
word, his despair was more easy to be conceived than related.
Mr Adams, after many groans, sitting with his back to Joseph, began thus
in a sorrowful tone: "You cannot imagine, my good child, that I entirely
blame these first agonies of your grief; for, when misfortunes attack us
by surprize, it must require infinitely more learning than you are
master of to resist them; but it is the business of a man and a
Christian to summon Reason as quickly as he can to his aid; and she will
presently teach him patience and submission. Be comforted, therefore,
child; I say be comforted. It is true, you have lost the prettiest,
kindest, loveliest, sweetest young woman, one with whom you might have
expected to have lived in happiness, virtue, and innocence; by whom you
might have promised yourself many little darlings, who would have been
the delight of your youth and the comfort of your age. You have not only
lost her, but have reason to fear the utmost violence which lust and
power can inflict upon her. Now, indeed, you may easily raise ideas of
horror, which might drive you to despair."--"O I shall run mad!" cries
Joseph. "O that I could but command my hands to tear my eyes out and my
flesh off!"--"If you would use them to such purposes, I am glad you
can't," answered Adams. "I have stated your misfortune as strong as I
possibly can; but, on the other side, you are to consider you are a
Christian, that no accident happens to us without the Divine permission,
and that it is the duty of a man, and a Christian, to submit. We did not
make ourselves; but the same power which made us rules over us, and we
are absolutely at his disposal; he may do with us what he pleases, nor
have we any right to complain. A second reason against our complaint is
our ignorance; for, as we know not future events, so neither can we tell
to what purpose any accident tends; and that which at first threatens us
with evil may in the end produce our good. I should indeed have said our
ignorance is twofold (but I have not at present time to divide
properly), for, as we know not to what purpose any event is ultimately
directed, so neither can we affirm from what cause it originally sprung.
You are a man, and consequently a sinner; and this may be a punishment
to you for your sins: indeed in this sense it may be esteemed as a good,
yea, as the greatest good, which satisfies the anger of Heaven, and
averts that wrath which cannot continue without our destruction.
Thirdly, our impotency of relieving ourselves demonstrates the folly and
absurdity of our complaints: for whom do we resist, or against whom do
we complain, but a power from whose shafts no armour can guard us, no
speed can fly?--a power which leaves us no hope but in submission." "O
sir!" cried Joseph, "all this is very true, and very fine, and I could
hear you all day if I was not so grieved at heart as now I am."--"Would
you take physic," says Adams, "when you are well, and refuse it when you
are sick? Is not comfort to be administered to the afflicted, and not to
those who rejoice or those who are at ease?" "O! you have not spoken one
word of comfort to me yet!" returned Joseph. "No!" cries Adams; "what am
I then doing? what can I say to comfort you?" "O tell me," cries Joseph,
"that Fanny will escape back to my arms, that they shall again enclose
that lovely creature, with all her sweetness, all her untainted
innocence about her!" "Why, perhaps you may," cries Adams, "but I can't
promise you what's to come. You must, with perfect resignation, wait the
event: if she be restored to you again, it is your duty to be thankful,
and so it is if she be not. Joseph, if you are wise and truly know your
own interest, you will peaceably and quietly submit to all the
dispensations of Providence, being thoroughly assured that all the
misfortunes, how great soever, which happen to the righteous, happen to
them for their own good. Nay, it is not your interest only, but your
duty, to abstain from immoderate grief; which if you indulge, you are
not worthy the name of a Christian." He spoke these last words with an
accent a little severer than usual; upon which Joseph begged him not to
be angry, saying, he mistook him if he thought he denied it was his
duty, for he had known that long ago. "What signifies knowing your duty,
if you do not perform it?" answered Adams. "Your knowledge increases
your guilt. O Joseph! I never thought you had this stubbornness in your
mind." Joseph replied, "He fancied he misunderstood him; which I assure
you," says he, "you do, if you imagine I endeavour to grieve; upon my
soul I don't." Adams rebuked him for swearing, and then proceeded to
enlarge on the folly of grief, telling him, all the wise men and
philosophers, even among the heathens, had written against it, quoting
several passages from Seneca, and the Consolation, which, though it was
not Cicero's, was, he said, as good almost as any of his works; and
concluded all by hinting that immoderate grief in this case might
incense that power which alone could restore him his Fanny. This reason,
or indeed rather the idea which it raised of the restoration of his
mistress, had more effect than all which the parson had said before, and
for a moment abated his agonies; but, when his fears sufficiently set
before his eyes the danger that poor creature was in, his grief returned
again with repeated violence, nor could Adams in the least asswage it;
though it may be doubted in his behalf whether Socrates himself could
have prevailed any better.
They remained some time in silence, and groans and sighs issued from
them both; at length Joseph burst out into the following soliloquy:--
"Yes, I will bear my sorrows like a man,
But I must also feel them as a man.
I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me."
Adams asked him what stuff that was he repeated? To which he answered,
they were some lines he had gotten by heart out of a play. "Ay, there is
nothing but heathenism to be learned from plays," replied he. "I never
heard of any plays fit for a Christian to read, but Cato and the
Conscious Lovers; and, I must own, in the latter there are some things
almost solemn enough for a sermon." But we shall now leave them a
little, and enquire after the subject of their conversation.
CHAPTER XII.
_More adventures, which we hope will as much please as surprize
the reader._
Neither the facetious dialogue which passed between the poet and the
player, nor the grave and truly solemn discourse of Mr Adams, will, we
conceive, make the reader sufficient amends for the anxiety which he
must have felt on the account of poor Fanny, whom we left in so
deplorable a condition. We shall therefore now proceed to the relation
of what happened to that beautiful and innocent virgin, after she fell
into the wicked hands of the captain.
The man of war, having conveyed his charming prize out of the inn a
little before day, made the utmost expedition in his power towards the
squire's house, where this delicate creature was to be offered up a
sacrifice to the lust of a ravisher. He was not only deaf to all her
bewailings and entreaties on the road, but accosted her ears with
impurities which, having been never before accustomed to them, she
happily for herself very little understood. At last he changed his note,
and attempted to soothe and mollify her, by setting forth the splendor
and luxury which would be her fortune with a man who would have the
inclination, and power too, to give her whatever her utmost wishes could
desire; and told her he doubted not but she would soon look kinder on
him, as the instrument of her happiness, and despise that pitiful fellow
whom her ignorance only could make her fond of. She answered, she knew
not whom he meant; she never was fond of any pitiful fellow. "Are you
affronted, madam," says he, "at my calling him so? But what better can
be said of one in a livery, notwithstanding your fondness for him?" She
returned, that she did not understand him, that the man had been her
fellow-servant, and she believed was as honest a creature as any alive;
but as for fondness for men--"I warrant ye," cries the captain, "we
shall find means to persuade you to be fond; and I advise you to yield
to gentle ones, for you may be assured that it is not in your power, by
any struggles whatever, to preserve your virginity two hours longer. It
will be your interest to consent; for the squire will be much kinder to
you if he enjoys you willingly than by force." At which words she began
to call aloud for assistance (for it was now open day), but, finding
none, she lifted her eyes to heaven, and supplicated the Divine
assistance to preserve her innocence. The captain told her, if she
persisted in her vociferation, he would find a means of stopping her
mouth. And now the poor wretch, perceiving no hopes of succour,
abandoned herself to despair, and, sighing out the name of Joseph!
Joseph! a river of tears ran down her lovely cheeks, and wet the
handkerchief which covered her bosom. A horseman now appeared in the
road, upon which the captain threatened her violently if she complained;
however, the moment they approached each other she begged him with the
utmost earnestness to relieve a distressed creature who was in the hands
of a ravisher. The fellow stopt at those words, but the captain assured
him it was his wife, and that he was carrying her home from her
adulterer, which so satisfied the fellow, who was an old one (and
perhaps a married one too), that he wished him a good journey, and rode
on. He was no sooner past than the captain abused her violently for
breaking his commands, and threatened to gagg her, when two more
horsemen, armed with pistols, came into the road just before them. She
again solicited their assistance, and the captain told the same story as
before. Upon which one said to the other, "That's a charming wench,
Jack; I wish I had been in the fellow's place, whoever he is." But the
other, instead of answering him, cried out, "Zounds, I know her;" and
then, turning to her, said, "Sure you are not Fanny Goodwill?"--"Indeed,
indeed, I am," she cried--"O John, I know you now-Heaven hath sent you
to my assistance, to deliver me from this wicked man, who is carrying me
away for his vile purposes--O for God's sake rescue me from him!" A
fierce dialogue immediately ensued between the captain and these two
men, who, being both armed with pistols, and the chariot which they
attended being now arrived, the captain saw both force and stratagem
were vain, and endeavoured to make his escape, in which however he could
not succeed. The gentleman who rode in the chariot ordered it to stop,
and with an air of authority examined into the merits of the cause; of
which being advertised by Fanny, whose credit was confirmed by the
fellow who knew her, he ordered the captain, who was all bloody from his
encounter at the inn, to be conveyed as a prisoner behind the chariot,
and very gallantly took Fanny into it; for, to say the truth, this
gentleman (who was no other than the celebrated Mr Peter Pounce, and who
preceded the Lady Booby only a few miles, by setting out earlier in the
morning) was a very gallant person, and loved a pretty girl better than
anything besides his own money or the money of other people.
The chariot now proceeded towards the inn, which, as Fanny was informed,
lay in their way, and where it arrived at that very time while the poet
and player were disputing below-stairs, and Adams and Joseph were
discoursing back to back above; just at that period to which we brought
them both in the two preceding chapters the chariot stopt at the door,
and in an instant Fanny, leaping from it, ran up to her Joseph.--O
reader! conceive if thou canst the joy which fired the breasts of these
lovers on this meeting; and if thy own heart doth not sympathetically
assist thee in this conception, I pity thee sincerely from my own; for
let the hard-hearted villain know this, that there is a pleasure in a
tender sensation beyond any which he is capable of tasting.
Peter, being informed by Fanny of the presence of Adams, stopt to see
him, and receive his homage; for, as Peter was an hypocrite, a sort of
people whom Mr Adams never saw through, the one paid that respect to his
seeming goodness which the other believed to be paid to his riches;
hence Mr Adams was so much his favourite, that he once lent him four
pounds thirteen shillings and sixpence to prevent his going to gaol, on
no greater security than a bond and judgment, which probably he would
have made no use of, though the money had not been (as it was) paid
exactly at the time.
It is not perhaps easy to describe the figure of Adams; he had risen in
such a hurry, that he had on neither breeches, garters, nor stockings;
nor had he taken from his head a red spotted handkerchief, which by
night bound his wig, turned inside out, around his head. He had on his
torn cassock and his greatcoat; but, as the remainder of his cassock
hung down below his greatcoat, so did a small stripe of white, or rather
whitish, linen appear below that; to which we may add the several
colours which appeared on his face, where a long piss-burnt beard served
to retain the liquor of the stone-pot, and that of a blacker hue which
distilled from the mop.--This figure, which Fanny had delivered from his
captivity, was no sooner spied by Peter than it disordered the composed
gravity of his muscles; however, he advised him immediately to make
himself clean, nor would accept his homage in that pickle.
The poet and player no sooner saw the captain in captivity than they
began to consider of their own safety, of which flight presented itself
as the only means; they therefore both of them mounted the poet's horse,
and made the most expeditious retreat in their power.
The host, who well knew Mr Pounce and Lady Booby's livery, was not a
little surprized at this change of the scene; nor was his confusion much
helped by his wife, who was now just risen, and, having heard from him
the account of what had passed, comforted him with a decent number of
fools and blockheads; asked him why he did not consult her, and told him
he would never leave following the nonsensical dictates of his own
numskull till she and her family were ruined.
Joseph, being informed of the captain's arrival, and seeing his Fanny
now in safety, quitted her a moment, and, running downstairs, went
directly to him, and stripping off his coat, challenged him to fight;
but the captain refused, saying he did not understand boxing. He then
grasped a cudgel in one hand, and, catching the captain by the collar
with the other, gave him a most severe drubbing, and ended with telling
him he had now had some revenge for what his dear Fanny had suffered.
When Mr Pounce had a little regaled himself with some provision which he
had in his chariot, and Mr Adams had put on the best appearance his
clothes would allow him, Pounce ordered the captain into his presence,
for he said he was guilty of felony, and the next justice of peace
should commit him; but the servants (whose appetite for revenge is soon
satisfied), being sufficiently contented with the drubbing which Joseph
had inflicted on him, and which was indeed of no very moderate kind, had
suffered him to go off, which he did, threatening a severe revenge
against Joseph, which I have never heard he thought proper to take.
The mistress of the house made her voluntary appearance before Mr
Pounce, and with a thousand curtsies told him, "She hoped his honour
would pardon her husband, who was a very nonsense man, for the sake of
his poor family; that indeed if he could be ruined alone, she should be
very willing of it; for because as why, his worship very well knew he
deserved it; but she had three poor small children, who were not capable
to get their own living; and if her husband was sent to gaol, they must
all come to the parish; for she was a poor weak woman, continually
a-breeding, and had no time to work for them. She therefore hoped his
honour would take it into his worship's consideration, and forgive her
husband this time; for she was sure he never intended any harm to man,
woman, or child; and if it was not for that block-head of his own, the
man in some things was well enough; for she had had three children by
him in less than three years, and was almost ready to cry out the fourth
time." She would have proceeded in this manner much longer, had not
Peter stopt her tongue, by telling her he had nothing to say to her
husband nor her neither. So, as Adams and the rest had assured her of
forgiveness, she cried and curtsied out of the room.
Mr Pounce was desirous that Fanny should continue her journey with him
in the chariot; but she absolutely refused, saying she would ride behind
Joseph on a horse which one of Lady Booby's servants had equipped him
with. But, alas! when the horse appeared, it was found to be no other
than that identical beast which Mr Adams had left behind him at the inn,
and which these honest fellows, who knew him, had redeemed. Indeed,
whatever horse they had provided for Joseph, they would have prevailed
with him to mount none, no, not even to ride before his beloved Fanny,
till the parson was supplied; much less would he deprive his friend of
the beast which belonged to him, and which he knew the moment he saw,
though Adams did not; however, when he was reminded of the affair, and
told that they had brought the horse with them which he left behind, he
answered--Bless me! and so I did.
Adams was very desirous that Joseph and Fanny should mount this horse,
and declared he could very easily walk home. "If I walked alone," says
he, "I would wage a shilling that the pedestrian outstripped the
equestrian travellers; but, as I intend to take the company of a pipe,
peradventure I may be an hour later." One of the servants whispered
Joseph to take him at his word, and suffer the old put to walk if he
would: this proposal was answered with an angry look and a peremptory
refusal by Joseph, who, catching Fanny up in his arms, averred he would
rather carry her home in that manner, than take away Mr Adams's horse
and permit him to walk on foot.
Perhaps, reader, thou hast seen a contest between two gentlemen, or two
ladies, quickly decided, though they have both asserted they would not
eat such a nice morsel, and each insisted on the other's accepting it;
but in reality both were very desirous to swallow it themselves. Do not
therefore conclude hence that this dispute would have come to a speedy
decision: for here both parties were heartily in earnest, and it is very
probable they would have remained in the inn-yard to this day, had not
the good Peter Pounce put a stop to it; for, finding he had no longer
hopes of satisfying his old appetite with Fanny, and being desirous of
having some one to whom he might communicate his grandeur, he told the
parson he would convey him home in his chariot. This favour was by
Adams, with many bows and acknowledgments, accepted, though he
afterwards said, "he ascended the chariot rather that he might not
offend than from any desire of riding in it, for that in his heart he
preferred the pedestrian even to the vehicular expedition." All matters
being now settled, the chariot, in which rode Adams and Pounce, moved
forwards; and Joseph having borrowed a pillion from the host, Fanny had
just seated herself thereon, and had laid hold of the girdle which her
lover wore for that purpose, when the wise beast, who concluded that one
at a time was sufficient, that two to one were odds, &c., discovered
much uneasiness at his double load, and began to consider his hinder as
his fore legs, moving the direct contrary way to that which is called
forwards. Nor could Joseph, with all his horsemanship, persuade him to
advance; but, without having any regard to the lovely part of the lovely
girl which was on his back, he used such agitations, that, had not one
of the men come immediately to her assistance, she had, in plain
English, tumbled backwards on the ground. This inconvenience was
presently remedied by an exchange of horses; and then Fanny being again
placed on her pillion, on a better-natured and somewhat a better-fed
beast, the parson's horse, finding he had no longer odds to contend
with, agreed to march; and the whole procession set forwards for
Booby-hall, where they arrived in a few hours without anything
remarkable happening on the road, unless it was a curious dialogue
between the parson and the steward: which, to use the language of a late
Apologist, a pattern to all biographers, "waits for the reader in the
next chapter."
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._
The chariot had not proceeded far before Mr Adams observed it was a very
fine day. "Ay, and a very fine country too," answered Pounce.--"I should
think so more," returned Adams, "if I had not lately travelled over the
Downs, which I take to exceed this and all other prospects in the
universe."--"A fig for prospects!" answered Pounce; "one acre here is
worth ten there; and for my own part, I have no delight in the prospect
of any land but my own."--"Sir," said Adams, "you can indulge yourself
with many fine prospects of that kind."--"I thank God I have a little,"
replied the other, "with which I am content, and envy no man: I have a
little, Mr Adams, with which I do as much good as I can." Adams
answered, "That riches without charity were nothing worth; for that they
were a blessing only to him who made them a blessing to others."--"You
and I," said Peter, "have different notions of charity. I own, as it is
generally used, I do not like the word, nor do I think it becomes one of
us gentlemen; it is a mean parson-like quality; though I would not infer
many parsons have it neither."--"Sir," said Adams, "my definition of
charity is, a generous disposition to relieve the distressed."--"There
is something in that definition," answered Peter, "which I like well
enough; it is, as you say, a disposition, and does not so much consist
in the act as in the disposition to do it. But, alas! Mr Adams, who are
meant by the distressed? Believe me, the distresses of mankind are
mostly imaginary, and it would be rather folly than goodness to relieve
them."--"Sure, sir," replied Adams, "hunger and thirst, cold and
nakedness, and other distresses which attend the poor, can never be said
to be imaginary evils."--"How can any man complain of hunger," said
Peter, "in a country where such excellent salads are to be gathered in
almost every field? or of thirst, where every river and stream produces
such delicious potations? And as for cold and nakedness, they are evils
introduced by luxury and custom. A man naturally wants clothes no more
than a horse or any other animal; and there are whole nations who go
without them; but these are things perhaps which you, who do not know
the world"--"You will pardon me, sir," returned Adams; "I have read of
the Gymnosophists."--"A plague of your Jehosaphats!" cried Peter; "the
greatest fault in our constitution is the provision made for the poor,
except that perhaps made for some others. Sir, I have not an estate
which doth not contribute almost as much again to the poor as to the
land-tax; and I do assure you I expect to come myself to the parish in
the end." To which Adams giving a dissenting smile, Peter thus
proceeded: "I fancy, Mr Adams, you are one of those who imagine I am a
lump of money; for there are many who, I fancy, believe that not only my
pockets, but my whole clothes, are lined with bank-bills; but I assure
you, you are all mistaken; I am not the man the world esteems me. If I
can hold my head above water it is all I can. I have injured myself by
purchasing. I have been too liberal of my money. Indeed, I fear my heir
will find my affairs in a worse situation than they are reputed to be.
Ah! he will have reason to wish I had loved money more and land less.
Pray, my good neighbour, where should I have that quantity of riches the
world is so liberal to bestow on me? Where could I possibly, without I
had stole it, acquire such a treasure?" "Why, truly," says Adams, "I
have been always of your opinion; I have wondered as well as yourself
with what confidence they could report such things of you, which have to
me appeared as mere impossibilities; for you know, sir, and I have often
heard you say it, that your wealth is of your own acquisition; and can
it be credible that in your short time you should have amassed such a
heap of treasure as these people will have you worth? Indeed, had you
inherited an estate like Sir Thomas Booby, which had descended in your
family for many generations, they might have had a colour for their
assertions." "Why, what do they say I am worth?" cries Peter, with a
malicious sneer. "Sir," answered Adams, "I have heard some aver you are
not worth less than twenty thousand pounds." At which Peter frowned.
"Nay, sir," said Adams, "you ask me only the opinion of others; for my
own part, I have always denied it, nor did I ever believe you could
possibly be worth half that sum." "However, Mr Adams," said he,
squeezing him by the hand, "I would not sell them all I am worth for
double that sum; and as to what you believe, or they believe, I care not
a fig, no not a fart. I am not poor because you think me so, nor because
you attempt to undervalue me in the country. I know the envy of mankind
very well; but I thank Heaven I am above them. It is true, my wealth is
of my own acquisition. I have not an estate, like Sir Thomas Booby, that
has descended in my family through many generations; but I know heirs of
such estates who are forced to travel about the country like some people
in torn cassocks, and might be glad to accept of a pitiful curacy for
what I know. Yes, sir, as shabby fellows as yourself, whom no man of my
figure, without that vice of good-nature about him, would suffer to ride
in a chariot with him." "Sir," said Adams, "I value not your chariot of
a rush; and if I had known you had intended to affront me, I would have
walked to the world's end on foot ere I would have accepted a place in
it. However, sir, I will soon rid you of that inconvenience;" and, so
saying, he opened the chariot door, without calling to the coachman, and
leapt out into the highway, forgetting to take his hat along with him;
which, however, Mr Pounce threw after him with great violence. Joseph
and Fanny stopt to bear him company the rest of the way, which was not
above a mile.
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I.
_The arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at Booby-hall._
The coach and six, in which Lady Booby rode, overtook the other
travellers as they entered the parish. She no sooner saw Joseph than her
cheeks glowed with red, and immediately after became as totally pale.
She had in her surprize almost stopt her coach; but recollected herself
timely enough to prevent it. She entered the parish amidst the ringing
of bells and the acclamations of the poor, who were rejoiced to see
their patroness returned after so long an absence, during which time all
her rents had been drafted to London, without a shilling being spent
among them, which tended not a little to their utter impoverishing; for,
if the court would be severely missed in such a city as London, how much
more must the absence of a person of great fortune be felt in a little
country village, for whose inhabitants such a family finds a constant
employment and supply; and with the offals of whose table the infirm,
aged, and infant poor are abundantly fed, with a generosity which hath
scarce a visible effect on their benefactors' pockets!
But, if their interest inspired so public a joy into every
countenance, how much more forcibly did the affection which they bore
parson Adams operate upon all who beheld his return! They flocked
about him like dutiful children round an indulgent parent, and vyed
with each other in demonstrations of duty and love. The parson on his
side shook every one by the hand, enquired heartily after the healths
of all that were absent, of their children, and relations; and exprest
a satisfaction in his face which nothing but benevolence made happy by
its objects could infuse.
Nor did Joseph and Fanny want a hearty welcome from all who saw them. In
short, no three persons could be more kindly received, as, indeed, none
ever more deserved to be universally beloved.
Adams carried his fellow-travellers home to his house, where he insisted
on their partaking whatever his wife, whom, with his children, he found
in health and joy, could provide:--where we shall leave them enjoying
perfect happiness over a homely meal, to view scenes of greater
splendour, but infinitely less bliss.
Our more intelligent readers will doubtless suspect, by this second
appearance of Lady Booby on the stage, that all was not ended by the
dismission of Joseph; and, to be honest with them, they are in the
right: the arrow had pierced deeper than she imagined; nor was the wound
so easily to be cured. The removal of the object soon cooled her rage,
but it had a different effect on her love; that departed with his
person, but this remained lurking in her mind with his image. Restless,
interrupted slumbers, and confused horrible dreams were her portion the
first night. In the morning, fancy painted her a more delicious scene;
but to delude, not delight her; for, before she could reach the promised
happiness, it vanished, and left her to curse, not bless, the vision.
She started from her sleep, her imagination being all on fire with the
phantom, when, her eyes accidentally glancing towards the spot where
yesterday the real Joseph had stood, that little circumstance raised his
idea in the liveliest colours in her memory. Each look, each word, each
gesture rushed back on her mind with charms which all his coldness could
not abate. Nay, she imputed that to his youth, his folly, his awe, his
religion, to everything but what would instantly have produced contempt,
want of passion for the sex, or that which would have roused her hatred,
want of liking to her.
Reflection then hurried her farther, and told her she must see this
beautiful youth no more; nay, suggested to her that she herself had
dismissed him for no other fault than probably that of too violent an
awe and respect for herself; and which she ought rather to have esteemed
a merit, the effects of which were besides so easily and surely to have
been removed; she then blamed, she cursed the hasty rashness of her
temper; her fury was vented all on herself, and Joseph appeared innocent
in her eyes. Her passion at length grew so violent, that it forced her
on seeking relief, and now she thought of recalling him: but pride
forbad that; pride, which soon drove all softer passions from her soul,
and represented to her the meanness of him she was fond of. That thought
soon began to obscure his beauties; contempt succeeded next, and then
disdain, which presently introduced her hatred of the creature who had
given her so much uneasiness. These enemies of Joseph had no sooner
taken possession of her mind than they insinuated to her a thousand
things in his disfavour; everything but dislike of her person; a thought
which, as it would have been intolerable to bear, she checked the moment
it endeavoured to arise. Revenge came now to her assistance; and she
considered her dismission of him, stript, and without a character, with
the utmost pleasure. She rioted in the several kinds of misery which her
imagination suggested to her might be his fate; and, with a smile
composed of anger, mirth, and scorn, viewed him in the rags in which her
fancy had drest him.
Mrs Slipslop, being summoned, attended her mistress, who had now in her
own opinion totally subdued this passion. Whilst she was dressing she
asked if that fellow had been turned away according to her orders.
Slipslop answered, she had told her ladyship so (as indeed she
had).--"And how did he behave?" replied the lady. "Truly, madam," cries
Slipslop, "in such a manner that infected everybody who saw him. The
poor lad had but little wages to receive; for he constantly allowed his
father and mother half his income; so that, when your ladyship's livery
was stript off, he had not wherewithal to buy a coat, and must have gone
naked if one of the footmen had not incommodated him with one; and
whilst he was standing in his shirt (and, to say truth, he was an
amorous figure), being told your ladyship would not give him a
character, he sighed, and said he had done nothing willingly to offend;
that for his part, he should always give your ladyship a good character
wherever he went; and he prayed God to bless you; for you was the best
of ladies, though his enemies had set you against him. I wish you had
not turned him away; for I believe you have not a faithfuller servant in
the house."--"How came you then," replied the lady, "to advise me to
turn him away?"--"I, madam!" said Slipslop; "I am sure you will do me
the justice to say, I did all in my power to prevent it; but I saw your
ladyship was angry; and it is not the business of us upper servants to
hinterfear on these occasions." "And was it not you, audacious wretch!"
cried the lady, "who made me angry? Was it not your tittle-tattle, in
which I believe you belyed the poor fellow, which incensed me against
him? He may thank you for all that hath happened; and so may I for the
loss of a good servant, and one who probably had more merit than all of
you. Poor fellow! I am charmed with his goodness to his parents. Why did
not you tell me of that, but suffer me to dismiss so good a creature
without a character? I see the reason of your whole behaviour now as
well as your complaint; you was jealous of the wenches." "I jealous!"
said Slipslop; "I assure you, I look upon myself as his betters; I am
not meat for a footman, I hope." These words threw the lady into a
violent passion, and she sent Slipslop from her presence, who departed,
tossing her nose, and crying, "Marry, come up! there are some people
more jealous than I, I believe." Her lady affected not to hear the
words, though in reality she did, and understood them too. Now ensued a
second conflict, so like the former, that it might savour of repetition
to relate it minutely. It may suffice to say that Lady Booby found good
reason to doubt whether she had so absolutely conquered her passion as
she had flattered herself; and, in order to accomplish it quite, took a
resolution, more common than wise, to retire immediately into the
country. The reader hath long ago seen the arrival of Mrs Slipslop, whom
no pertness could make her mistress resolve to part with; lately, that
of Mr Pounce, her forerunners; and, lastly, that of the lady herself.
The morning after her arrival being Sunday, she went to church, to the
great surprize of everybody, who wondered to see her ladyship, being no
very constant church-woman, there so suddenly upon her journey. Joseph
was likewise there; and I have heard it was remarked that she fixed her
eyes on him much more than on the parson; but this I believe to be only
a malicious rumour. When the prayers were ended Mr Adams stood up, and
with a loud voice pronounced, "I publish the banns of marriage between
Joseph Andrews and Frances Goodwill, both of this parish," &c. Whether
this had any effect on Lady Booby or no, who was then in her pew, which
the congregation could not see into, I could never discover: but
certain it is that in about a quarter of an hour she stood up, and
directed her eyes to that part of the church where the women sat, and
persisted in looking that way during the remainder of the sermon in so
scrutinizing a manner, and with so angry a countenance, that most of
the women were afraid she was offended at them. The moment she returned
home she sent for Slipslop into her chamber, and told her she wondered
what that impudent fellow Joseph did in that parish? Upon which
Slipslop gave her an account of her meeting Adams with him on the road,
and likewise the adventure with Fanny. At the relation of which the
lady often changed her countenance; and when she had heard all, she
ordered Mr Adams into her presence, to whom she behaved as the reader
will see in the next chapter.