This smart dialogue between some people and some folks was going on at

the coach door when a solemn person, riding into the inn, and seeing

Miss Grave-airs, immediately accosted her with "Dear child, how do you?"

She presently answered, "O papa, I am glad you have overtaken me."--"So

am I," answered he; "for one of our coaches is just at hand; and, there

being room for you in it, you shall go no farther in the stage unless

you desire it."--"How can you imagine I should desire it?" says she; so,

bidding Slipslop ride with her fellow, if she pleased, she took her

father by the hand, who was just alighted, and walked with him into

a room.

Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, "If he knew who the

gentleman was?" The coachman answered, "He was now a gentleman, and kept

his horse and man; but times are altered, master," said be; "I remember

when he was no better born than myself."--"Ay! ay!" says Adams. "My

father drove the squire's coach," answered he, "when that very man rode

postillion; but he is now his steward; and a great gentleman." Adams

then snapped his fingers, and cried, "He thought she was some

such trollop."

Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs Slipslop with this good news, as he

imagined it; but it found a reception different from what he expected.

The prudent gentlewoman, who despised the anger of Miss Grave-airs

whilst she conceived her the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune,

now she heard her alliance with the upper servants of a great family in

her neighbourhood, began to fear her interest with the mistress. She

wished she had not carried the dispute so far, and began to think of

endeavouring to reconcile herself to the young lady before she left the

inn; when, luckily, the scene at London, which the reader can scarce

have forgotten, presented itself to her mind, and comforted her with

such assurance, that she no longer apprehended any enemy with

her mistress.

Everything being now adjusted, the company entered the coach, which was

just on its departure, when one lady recollected she had left her fan, a

second her gloves, a third a snuff-box, and a fourth a smelling-bottle

behind her; to find all which occasioned some delay and much swearing to

the coachman.

As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women all together fell to

the character of Miss Grave-airs; whom one of them declared she had

suspected to be some low creature, from the beginning of their journey,

and another affirmed she had not even the looks of a gentlewoman: a

third warranted she was no better than she should be; and, turning to

the lady who had related the story in the coach, said, "Did you ever

hear, madam, anything so prudish as her remarks? Well, deliver me from

the censoriousness of such a prude." The fourth added, "O madam! all

these creatures are censorious; but for my part, I wonder where the

wretch was bred; indeed, I must own I have seldom conversed with these

mean kind of people, so that it may appear stranger to me; but to refuse

the general desire of a whole company had something in it so

astonishing, that, for my part, I own I should hardly believe it if my

own ears had not been witnesses to it."--"Yes, and so handsome a young

fellow," cries Slipslop; "the woman must have no compulsion in her: I

believe she is more of a Turk than a Christian; I am certain, if she had

any Christian woman's blood in her veins, the sight of such a young

fellow must have warmed it. Indeed, there are some wretched, miserable

old objects, that turn one's stomach; I should not wonder if she had

refused such a one; I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no

more than herself for the company of stinking old fellows; but, hold up

thy head, Joseph, thou art none of those; and she who hath not

compulsion for thee is a Myhummetman, and I will maintain it." This

conversation made Joseph uneasy as well as the ladies; who, perceiving

the spirits which Mrs Slipslop was in (for indeed she was not a cup too

low), began to fear the consequence; one of them therefore desired the

lady to conclude the story. "Aye, madam," said Slipslop, "I beg your

ladyship to give us that story you commensated in the morning;" which

request that well-bred woman immediately complied with.

CHAPTER VI.

_Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt._

Leonora, having once broke through the bounds which custom and modesty

impose on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indulgence to her passion. Her

visits to Bellarmine were more constant, as well as longer, than his

surgeon's: in a word, she became absolutely his nurse; made his

water-gruel, administered him his medicines; and, notwithstanding the

prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost intirely resided in

her wounded lover's apartment.

The ladies of the town began to take her conduct under consideration: it

was the chief topic of discourse at their tea-tables, and was very

severely censured by the most part; especially by Lindamira, a lady

whose discreet and starch carriage, together with a constant attendance

at church three times a day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks

on her own reputation; for such was the envy that Lindamira's virtue had

attracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict behaviour and strict

enquiry into the lives of others, she had not been able to escape being

the mark of some arrows herself, which, however, did her no injury; a

blessing, perhaps, owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief male

companions, and with two or three of whom she had been barbarously and

unjustly calumniated.

"Not so unjustly neither, perhaps," says Slipslop; "for the clergy are

men, as well as other folks."

The extreme delicacy of Lindamira's virtue was cruelly hurt by those

freedoms which Leonora allowed herself: she said, "It was an affront to

her sex; that she did not imagine it consistent with any woman's honour

to speak to the creature, or to be seen in her company; and that, for

her part, she should always refuse to dance at an assembly with her,

for fear of contamination by taking her by the hand."

But to return to my story: as soon as Bellarmine was recovered, which

was somewhat within a month from his receiving the wound, he set out,

according to agreement, for Leonora's father's, in order to propose the

match, and settle all matters with him touching settlements, and

the like.

A little before his arrival the old gentleman had received an intimation

of the affair by the following letter, which I can repeat verbatim, and

which, they say, was written neither by Leonora nor her aunt, though it

was in a woman's hand. The letter was in these words:--

"SIR,--I am sorry to acquaint you that your daughter, Leonora, hath

acted one of the basest as well as most simple parts with a young

gentleman to whom she had engaged herself, and whom she hath (pardon the

word) jilted for another of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his

superior figure. You may take what measures you please on this occasion;

I have performed what I thought my duty; as I have, though unknown to

you, a very great respect for your family."

The old gentleman did not give himself the trouble to answer this kind

epistle; nor did he take any notice of it, after he had read it, till he

saw Bellarmine. He was, to say the truth, one of those fathers who look

on children as an unhappy consequence of their youthful pleasures;

which, as he would have been delighted not to have had attended them, so

was he no less pleased with any opportunity to rid himself of the

incumbrance. He passed, in the world's language, as an exceeding good

father; being not only so rapacious as to rob and plunder all mankind to

the utmost of his power, but even to deny himself the conveniencies, and

almost necessaries, of life; which his neighbours attributed to a desire

of raising immense fortunes for his children: but in fact it was not

so; he heaped up money for its own sake only, and looked on his children

as his rivals, who were to enjoy his beloved mistress when he was

incapable of possessing her, and which he would have been much more

charmed with the power of carrying along with him; nor had his children

any other security of being his heirs than that the law would constitute

them such without a will, and that he had not affection enough for any

one living to take the trouble of writing one.

To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the errand I have mentioned. His

person, his equipage, his family, and his estate, seemed to the father

to make him an advantageous match for his daughter: he therefore very

readily accepted his proposals: but when Bellarmine imagined the

principal affair concluded, and began to open the incidental matters of

fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his countenance, saying,

"He resolved never to marry his daughter on a Smithfield match; that

whoever had love for her to take her would, when he died, find her share

of his fortune in his coffers; but he had seen such examples of

undutifulness happen from the too early generosity of parents, that he

had made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived." He

commended the saying of Solomon, "He that spareth the rod spoileth the

child;" but added, "he might have likewise asserted, That he that

spareth the purse saveth the child." He then ran into a discourse on the

extravagance of the youth of the age; whence he launched into a

dissertation on horses; and came at length to commend those Bellarmine

drove. That fine gentleman, who at another season would have been well

enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very eager to

resume the circumstance of fortune. He said, "He had a very high value

for the young lady, and would receive her with less than he would any

other whatever; but that even his love to her made some regard to

worldly matters necessary; for it would be a most distracting sight for

him to see her, when he had the honour to be her husband, in less than a

coach and six." The old gentleman answered, "Four will do, four will

do;" and then took a turn from horses to extravagance and from

extravagance to horses, till he came round to the equipage again;

whither he was no sooner arrived than Bellarmine brought him back to the

point; but all to no purpose; he made his escape from that subject in a

minute; till at last the lover declared, "That in the present situation

of his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved Leonora more

than _tout le monde_, to marry her without any fortune." To which the

father answered, "He was sorry that his daughter must lose so valuable a

match; that, if he had an inclination, at present it was not in his

power to advance a shilling: that he had had great losses, and been at

great expenses on projects; which, though he had great expectation from

them, had yet produced him nothing: that he did not know what might

happen hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such accident; but he

would make no promise, or enter into any article, for he would not break

his vow for all the daughters in the world."

In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, Bellarmine, having

tried every argument and persuasion which he could invent, and finding

them all ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order to

return to Leonora; he proceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after

a few days' stay, he returned to Paris, to the great delight of the

French and the honour of the English nation.

But as soon as he arrived at his home he presently despatched a

messenger with the following epistle to Leonora:--

"ADORABLE AND CHARMANTE,--I am sorry to have the honour to tell you I

am not the _heureux_ person destined for your divine arms. Your papa

hath told me so with a _politesse_ not often seen on this side Paris.

You may perhaps guess his manner of refusing me. _Ah, mon Dieu!_ You

will certainly believe me, madam, incapable myself of delivering this

_triste_ message, which I intend to try the French air to cure the

consequences of. _A jamais! Coeur! Ange! Au diable!_ If your papa

obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall see you at Paris; till when,

the wind that flows from thence will be the warmest _dans le monde_, for

it will consist almost entirely of my sighs. _Adieu, ma princesse!

Ah, l'amour!_

"BELLARMINE."

I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's condition when she

received this letter. It is a picture of horror, which I should have as

little pleasure in drawing as you in beholding. She immediately left the

place where she was the subject of conversation and ridicule, and

retired to that house I showed you when I began the story; where she

hath ever since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, perhaps, pity for

her misfortunes, more than our censure for a behaviour to which the

artifices of her aunt very probably contributed, and to which very young

women are often rendered too liable by that blameable levity in the

education of our sex.

"If I was inclined to pity her," said a young lady in the coach, "it

would be for the loss of Horatio; for I cannot discern any misfortune in

her missing such a husband as Bellarmine."

"Why, I must own," says Slipslop, "the gentleman was a little

false-hearted; but howsumever, it was hard to have two lovers, and get

never a husband at all. But pray, madam, what became of _Our-asho_?"

He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath applied himself so

strictly to his business, that he hath raised, I hear, a very

considerable fortune. And what is remarkable, they say he never hears

the name of Leonora without a sigh, nor hath ever uttered one syllable

to charge her with her ill-conduct towards him.

CHAPTER VII.

_A very short chapter, in which parson Adams went a great way._

The lady, having finished her story, received the thanks of the company;

and now Joseph, putting his head out of the coach, cried out, "Never

believe me if yonder be not our parson Adams walking along without his

horse!"--"On my word, and so he is," says Slipslop: "and as sure as

twopence he hath left him behind at the inn." Indeed, true it is, the

parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind; for he was

so pleased with having got Joseph into the coach, that he never once

thought of the beast in the stable; and, finding his legs as nimble as

he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a crabstick, and had kept on

before the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so that

he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile

distant from it.

Mrs Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted,

but in vain; for the faster he drove the faster ran the parson, often

crying out, "Aye, aye, catch me if you can;" till at length the coachman

swore he would as soon attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, giving

the parson two or three hearty curses, he cry'd, "Softly, softly, boys,"

to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately obeyed.

But we will be more courteous to our reader than he was to Mrs

Slipslop; and, leaving the coach and its company to pursue their

journey, we will carry our reader on after parson Adams, who stretched

forwards without once looking behind him, till, having left the coach

full three miles in his rear, he came to a place where, by keeping the

extremest track to the right, it was just barely possible for a human

creature to miss his way. This track, however, did he keep, as indeed he

had a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare possibilities, and,

travelling in it about three miles over the plain, he arrived at the

summit of a hill, whence looking a great way backwards, and perceiving

no coach in sight, he sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling out his

Aeschylus, determined to wait here for its arrival.

He had not sat long here before a gun going off very near, a little

startled him; he looked up and saw a gentleman within a hundred paces

taking up a partridge which he had just shot.

Adams stood up and presented a figure to the gentleman which would have

moved laughter in many; for his cassock had just again fallen down below

his greatcoat, that is to say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts

of his greatcoat descended no lower than half-way down his thighs; but

the gentleman's mirth gave way to his surprize at beholding such a

personage in such a place.

Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he had good sport,

to which the other answered, "Very little."--"I see, sir," says Adams,

"you have smote one partridge;" to which the sportsman made no reply,

but proceeded to charge his piece.

Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in silence, which he at last

broke by observing that it was a delightful evening. The gentleman, who

had at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of the parson,

began, on perceiving a book in his hand and smoaking likewise the

information of the cassock, to change his thoughts, and made a small

advance to conversation on his side by saying, "Sir, I suppose you are

not one of these parts?"

Adams immediately told him, "No; that he was a traveller, and invited by

the beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little and amuse

himself with reading."--"I may as well repose myself too," said the

sportsman, "for I have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil a

bird have I seen till I came hither."

"Perhaps then the game is not very plenty hereabouts?" cries Adams. "No,

sir," said the gentleman: "the soldiers, who are quartered in the

neighbourhood, have killed it all."--"It is very probable," cries Adams,

"for shooting is their profession."--"Ay, shooting the game," answered

the other; "but I don't see they are so forward to shoot our enemies. I

don't like that affair of Carthagena; if I had been there, I believe I

should have done other-guess things, d--n me: what's a man's life when

his country demands it? a man who won't sacrifice his life for his

country deserves to be hanged, d--n me." Which words he spoke with so

violent a gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so fierce a

countenance, that he might have frightened a captain of trained bands at

the head of his company; but Mr Adams was not greatly subject to fear;

he told him intrepidly that he very much approved his virtue, but

disliked his swearing, and begged him not to addict himself to so bad a

custom, without which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did.

Indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he told the gentleman he

would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generous

way of thinking; that, if he pleased to sit down, he should be greatly

delighted to commune with him; for, though he was a clergyman, he would

himself be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his life for

his country.

The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; and then the latter began, as

in the following chapter, a discourse which we have placed by itself, as

it is not only the most curious in this but perhaps in any other book.

CHAPTER VIII.

_A notable dissertation by Mr Abraham Adams; wherein that gentleman

appears in a political light._

"I do assure you, sir" (says he, taking the gentleman by the hand), "I

am heartily glad to meet with a man of your kidney; for, though I am a

poor parson, I will be bold to say I am an honest man, and would not do

an ill thing to be made a bishop; nay, though it hath not fallen in my

way to offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not been without opportunities

of suffering for the sake of my conscience, I thank Heaven for them; for

I have had relations, though I say it, who made some figure in the

world; particularly a nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a

corporation. He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy; and I

believe would do what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like

extreme vanity in me to affect being a man of such consequence as to

have so great an interest in an alderman; but others have thought so

too, as manifestly appeared by the rector, whose curate I formerly was,

sending for me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if I

expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephew to vote

for one Colonel Courtly, a gentleman whom I had never heard tidings of

till that instant. I told the rector I had no power over my nephew's

vote (God forgive me for such prevarication!); that I supposed he would

give it according to his conscience; that I would by no means endeavour

to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it was in vain to

equivocate; that he knew I had already spoke to him in favour of esquire

Fickle, my neighbour; and, indeed, it was true I had; for it was at a

season when the church was in danger, and when all good men expected

they knew not what would happen to us all. I then answered boldly, if he

thought I had given my promise, he affronted me in proposing any breach

of it. Not to be too prolix; I persevered, and so did my nephew, in the

esquire's interest, who was chose chiefly through his means; and so I

lost my curacy, Well, sir, but do you think the esquire ever mentioned a

word of the church? _Ne verbum quidem, ut ita dicam_: within two years

he got a place, and hath ever since lived in London; where I have been

informed (but God forbid I should believe that,) that he never so much

as goeth to church. I remained, sir, a considerable time without any

cure, and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which I preached on

the indisposition of a clergyman; but this by the bye. At last, when Mr

Fickle got his place, Colonel Courtly stood again; and who should make

interest for him but Mr Fickle himself! that very identical Mr Fickle,

who had formerly told me the colonel was an enemy to both the church and

state, had the confidence to sollicit my nephew for him; and the colonel

himself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, which I refused

in favour of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us he would sacrifice

everything to his country; and I believe he would, except his hunting,

which he stuck so close to, that in five years together he went but

twice up to parliament; and one of those times, I have been told, never

was within sight of the House. However, he was a worthy man, and the

best friend I ever had; for, by his interest with a bishop, he got me

replaced into my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket

to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. He had our interest

while he lived, which was not many years. On his death I had fresh

applications made to me; for all the world knew the interest I had with

my good nephew, who now was a leading man in the corporation; and Sir

Thomas Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver's, proposed

himself a candidate. He was then a young gentleman just come from his

travels; and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs which, for

my part, I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a thousand votes he

should have had them all. I engaged my nephew in his interest, and he

was elected; and a very fine parliament-man he was. They tell me he made

speeches of an hour long, and, I have been told, very fine ones; but he

could never persuade the parliament to be of his opinion. _Non omnia

possumus omnes_. He promised me a living, poor man! and I believe I

should have had it, but an accident happened, which was, that my lady

had promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I never heard till

afterwards; for my nephew, who died about a month before the incumbent,

always told me I might be assured of it. Since that time, Sir Thomas,

poor man, had always so much business, that he never could find leisure

to see me. I believe it was partly my lady's fault too, who did not

think my dress good enough for the gentry at her table. However, I must

do him the justice to say he never was ungrateful; and I have always

found his kitchen, and his cellar too, open to me: many a time, after

service on a Sunday--for I preach at four churches--have I recruited my

spirits with a glass of his ale. Since my nephew's death, the

corporation is in other hands; and I am not a man of that consequence I

was formerly. I have now no longer any talents to lay out in the service

of my country; and to whom nothing is given, of him can nothing be

required. However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach of an

election, I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I have

the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas and the other

honest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me these five

years to procure an ordination for a son of mine, who is now near

thirty, hath an infinite stock of learning, and is, I thank Heaven, of

an unexceptionable life; though, as he was never at an university, the

bishop refuses to ordain him. Too much care cannot indeed be taken in

admitting any to the sacred office; though I hope he will never act so

as to be a disgrace to any order, but will serve his God and his country

to the utmost of his power, as I have endeavoured to do before him; nay,

and will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose. I am sure I

have educated him in those principles; so that I have acquitted my duty,

and shall have nothing to answer for on that account. But I do not

distrust him, for he is a good boy; and if Providence should throw it in

his way to be of as much consequence in a public light as his father

once was, I can answer for him he will use his talents as honestly as I

have done."

CHAPTER IX.

_In which the gentleman discants on bravery and heroic virtue, till an

unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse._

The gentleman highly commended Mr Adams for his good resolutions, and

told him, "He hoped his son would tread in his steps;" adding, "that if

he would not die for his country, he would not be worthy to live in it.

I'd make no more of shooting a man that would not die for his

country, than--

"Sir," said he, "I have disinherited a nephew, who is in the army,

because he would not exchange his commission and go to the West Indies.

I believe the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in love

forsooth. I would have all such fellows hanged, sir; I would have them

hanged." Adams answered, "That would be too severe; that men did not

make themselves; and if fear had too much ascendance in the mind, the

man was rather to be pitied than abhorred; that reason and time might

teach him to subdue it." He said, "A man might be a coward at one time,

and brave at another. Homer," says he, "who so well understood and

copied Nature, hath taught us this lesson; for Paris fights and Hector

runs away. Nay, we have a mighty instance of this in the history of

later ages, no longer ago than the 705th year of Rome, when the great

Pompey, who had won so many battles and been honoured with so many

triumphs, and of whose valour several authors, especially Cicero and

Paterculus, have formed such elogiums; this very Pompey left the battle

of Pharsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to his tent, where he

sat like the most pusillanimous rascal in a fit of despair, and yielded

a victory, which was to determine the empire of the world, to Caesar. I

am not much travelled in the history of modern times, that is to say,

these last thousand years; but those who are can, I make no question,

furnish you with parallel instances." He concluded, therefore, that, had

he taken any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he

would consider better, and retract them. The gentleman answered with

great warmth, and talked much of courage and his country, till,

perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams, "What place he intended for

that night?" He told him, "He waited there for the stage-coach."--"The

stage-coach, sir!" said the gentleman; "they are all passed by long ago.

You may see the last yourself almost three miles before us."--"I protest

and so they are," cries Adams; "then I must make haste and follow them."

The gentleman told him, "he would hardly be able to overtake them; and

that, if he did not know his way, he would be in danger of losing

himself on the downs, for it would be presently dark; and he might

ramble about all night, and perhaps find himself farther from his

journey's end in the morning than he was now." He advised him,

therefore, "to accompany him to his house, which was very little out of

his way," assuring him "that he would find some country fellow in his

parish who would conduct him for sixpence to the city where he was

going." Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, the

gentleman renewing his discourse on courage, and the infamy of not being

ready, at all times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night

overtook them much about the same time as they arrived near some bushes;

whence, on a sudden, they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a

female voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his companion's

hand. "What are you doing?" said he. "Doing!" said Adams; "I am

hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains are

murdering." "You are not mad enough, I hope," says the gentleman,

trembling: "do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that

the robbers are most probably furnished with pistols loaded with

bullets? This is no business of ours; let us make as much haste as

possible out of the way, or we may fall into their hands ourselves." The

shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but snapt his fingers,

and, brandishing his crabstick, made directly to the place whence the

voice issued; and the man of courage made as much expedition towards his

own home, whither he escaped in a very short time without once looking

behind him; where we will leave him, to contemplate his own bravery, and

to censure the want of it in others, and return to the good Adams, who,

on coming up to the place whence the noise proceeded, found a woman

struggling with a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almost

overpowered her. The great abilities of Mr Adams were not necessary to

have formed a right judgment of this affair on the first sight. He did

not, therefore, want the entreaties of the poor wretch to assist her;

but, lifting up his crabstick, he immediately levelled a blow at that

part of the ravisher's head where, according to the opinion of the

ancients, the brains of some persons are deposited, and which he had

undoubtedly let forth, had not Nature (who, as wise men have observed,

equips all creatures with what is most expedient for them) taken a

provident care (as she always doth with those she intends for

encounters) to make this part of the head three times as thick as those

of ordinary men who are designed to exercise talents which are vulgarly

called rational, and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged

to leave some room for them in the cavity of the skull; whereas, those

ingredients being entirely useless to persons of the heroic calling, she

hath an opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it less

subject to any impression, or liable to be cracked or broken: and

indeed, in some who are predestined to the command of armies and

empires, she is supposed sometimes to make that part perfectly solid.

As a game cock, when engaged in amorous toying with a hen, if perchance

he espies another cock at hand, immediately quits his female, and

opposes himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on the information of

the crabstick, immediately leap from the woman and hasten to assail the

man. He had no weapons but what Nature had furnished him with. However,

he clenched his fist, and presently darted it at that part of Adams's

breast where the heart is lodged. Adams staggered at the violence of the

blow, when, throwing away his staff, he likewise clenched that fist

which we have before commemorated, and would have discharged it full in

the breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it with his

left hand, at the same time darting his head (which some modern heroes

of the lower class use, like the battering-ram of the ancients, for a

weapon of offence; another reason to admire the cunningness of Nature,

in composing it of those impenetrable materials); dashing his head, I

say, into the stomach of Adams, he tumbled him on his back; and, not

having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have restrained

him from any farther attack on his enemy till he was again on his legs,

he threw himself upon him, and, laying hold on the ground with his left

hand, he with his right belaboured the body of Adams till he was weary,

and indeed till he concluded (to use the language of fighting) "that he

had done his business;" or, in the language of poetry, "that he had sent

him to the shades below;" in plain English, "that he was dead."

But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear a drubbing as well as any

boxing champion in the universe, lay still only to watch his

opportunity; and now, perceiving his antagonist to pant with his

labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and with such success that

he overturned him, and became his superior; when, fixing one of his

knees in his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, "It is my turn

now;" and, after a few minutes' constant application, he gave him so

dexterous a blow just under his chin that the fellow no longer retained

any motion, and Adams began to fear he had struck him once too often;

for he often asserted "he should be concerned to have the blood of even

the wicked upon him."

Adams got up and called aloud to the young woman. "Be of good cheer,

damsel," said he, "you are no longer in danger of your ravisher, who, I

am terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet; but God forgive me what I have

done in defence of innocence!" The poor wretch, who had been some time

in recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, during the

engagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear even from running

away, hearing her champion was victorious, came up to him, but not

without apprehensions even of her deliverer; which, however, she was

soon relieved from by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. They

were both standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, and

which Adams wished to see stir much more than the woman did, when he

earnestly begged her to tell him "by what misfortune she came, at such a

time of night, into so lonely a place." She acquainted him, "She was

travelling towards London, and had accidentally met with the person from

whom he had delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his journey

to the same place, and would keep her company; an offer which,

suspecting no harm, she had accepted; that he told her they were at a

small distance from an inn where she might take up her lodging that

evening, and he would show her a nearer way to it than by following the

road; that if she had suspected him (which she did not, he spoke so

kindly to her), being alone on these downs in the dark, she had no human

means to avoid him; that, therefore, she put her whole trust in

Providence, and walked on, expecting every moment to arrive at the inn;

when on a sudden, being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop,

and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties,

which she rejected, he laid violent hands on her, and was attempting to

execute his wicked will, when, she thanked G--, he timely came up and

prevented him." Adams encouraged her for saying she had put her whole

trust in Providence, and told her, "He doubted not but Providence had

sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. He wished

indeed he had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but G--'s will be

done;" said, "He hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse him in

the next world, and he trusted in her evidence to acquit him in this."

He was then silent, and began to consider with himself whether it would

be properer to make his escape, or to deliver himself into the hands of

justice; which meditation ended as the reader will see in the

next chapter.

CHAPTER X.

_Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding

adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities; and who the

woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to his

victorious arm._

The silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night and loneliness

of the place, struck dreadful apprehension into the poor woman's mind;

she began to fear as great an enemy in her deliverer as he had

delivered her from; and as she had not light enough to discover the age

of Adams, and the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspected

he had used her as some very honest men have used their country; and had

rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in order to rifle her

himself. Such were the suspicions she drew from his silence; but indeed

they were ill-grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely

weighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of the

two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgment

sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the other; for both

seemed to him so equally advisable and so equally dangerous, that

probably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, on

that very spot, before he had taken any resolution; at length he lifted

up his eyes, and spied a light at a distance, to which he instantly

addressed himself with _Heus tu, traveller, heus tu!_ He presently heard

several voices, and perceived the light approaching toward him. The

persons who attended the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and

others to hollow, at which the woman testified some fear (for she had

concealed her suspicions of the parson himself); but Adams said, "Be of

good cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Providence which

hath hitherto protected thee, and never will forsake the innocent."

These people, who now approached, were no other, reader, than a set of

young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit of a diversion which

they call bird-batting. This, if you are ignorant of it (as perhaps if

thou hast never travelled beyond Kensington, Islington, Hackney, or the

Borough, thou mayst be), I will inform thee, is performed by holding a

large clap-net before a lanthorn, and at the same time beating the

bushes; for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places of

rest, or roost, immediately make to the light, and so are inticed

within the net. Adams immediately told them what happened, and desired

them to hold the lanthorn to the face of the man on the ground, for he

feared he had smote him fatally. But indeed his fears were frivolous;

for the fellow, though he had been stunned by the last blow he received,

had long since recovered his senses, and, finding himself quit of Adams,

had listened attentively to the discourse between him and the young

woman; for whose departure he had patiently waited, that he might

likewise withdraw himself, having no longer hopes of succeeding in his

desires, which were moreover almost as well cooled by Mr Adams as they

could have been by the young woman herself had he obtained his utmost

wish. This fellow, who had a readiness at improving any accident,

thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man; and,

accordingly, the moment the candle was held to his face he leapt up,

and, laying hold on Adams, cried out, "No, villain, I am not dead,

though you and your wicked whore might well think me so, after the

barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. Gentlemen," said he, "you

are luckily come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who would

otherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman, who

led me hither out of my way from the high-road, and both falling on me

have used me as you see." Adams was going to answer, when one of the

young fellows cried, "D--n them, let's carry them both before the

justice." The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his

voice, but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him; and one

holding the lanthorn to his face, they all agreed he had the most

villainous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney's clerk, who

was of the company, declared he was sure he had remembered him at the

bar. As to the woman, her hair was dishevelled in the struggle, and her

nose had bled; so that they could not perceive whether she was handsome

or ugly, but they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. And

searching her pockets, as they did those of Adams, for money, which the

fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a purse with some gold

in it, which abundantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offered

to swear to it. Mr Adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny

about him. This the clerk said "was a great presumption that he was an

old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman." To which

all the rest readily assented.

This accident promising them better sport than what they had proposed,

they quitted their intention of catching birds, and unanimously resolved

to proceed to the justice with the offenders. Being informed what a

desperate fellow Adams was, they tied his hands behind him; and, having

hid their nets among the bushes, and the lanthorn being carried before

them, they placed the two prisoners in their front, and then began their

march; Adams not only submitting patiently to his own fate, but

comforting and encouraging his companion under her sufferings.

Whilst they were on their way the clerk informed the rest that this

adventure would prove a very beneficial one; for that they would all be

entitled to their proportions of £80 for apprehending the robbers. This

occasioned a contention concerning the parts which they had severally

borne in taking them; one insisting he ought to have the greatest share,

for he had first laid his hands on Adams; another claiming a superior

part for having first held the lanthorn to the man's face on the ground,

by which, he said, "the whole was discovered." The clerk claimed

four-fifths of the reward for having proposed to search the prisoners,

and likewise the carrying them before the justice: he said, "Indeed, in

strict justice, he ought to have the whole." These claims, however,

they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed all to

agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated what

money should be allotted to the young fellow who had been employed only

in holding the nets. He very modestly said, "That he did not apprehend

any large proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would allow

him something; he desired them to consider that they had assigned their

nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in

laying hold of the robbers" (for so those innocent people were called);

"that if he had not occupied the nets, some other must;" concluding,

however, "that he should be contented with the smallest share

imaginable, and should think that rather their bounty than his merit."

But they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever, the

clerk particularly swearing, "If they gave him a shilling they might do

what they pleased with the rest; for he would not concern himself with

the affair." This contention was so hot, and so totally engaged the

attention of all the parties, that a dexterous nimble thief, had he been

in Mr Adams's situation, would have taken care to have given the justice

no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art of a Sheppard

to escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so much

befriended him; but Adams trusted rather to his innocence than his

heels, and, without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance

(which was impossible, as there were six lusty young fellows, besides

the villain himself, present), he walked with perfect resignation the

way they thought proper to conduct him.

Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations during their journey; at

last, poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his mind, he could not refrain

sighing forth his name, which being heard by his companion in

affliction, she cried with some vehemence, "Sure I should know that

voice; you cannot certainly, sir, be Mr Abraham Adams?"--"Indeed,

damsel," says he, "that is my name; there is something also in your

voice which persuades me I have heard it before."--"La! sir," says she,

"don't you remember poor Fanny?"--"How, Fanny!" answered Adams: "indeed

I very well remember you; what can have brought you hither?"--"I have

told you, sir," replied she, "I was travelling towards London; but I

thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews; pray what is become of him?"--"I

left him, child, this afternoon," said Adams, "in the stage-coach, in

his way towards our parish, whither he is going to see you."--"To see

me! La, sir," answered Fanny, "sure you jeer me; what should he be going

to see me for?"--"Can you ask that?" replied Adams. "I hope, Fanny, you

are not inconstant; I assure you he deserves much better of you."--"La!

Mr Adams," said she, "what is Mr Joseph to me? I am sure I never had

anything to say to him, but as one fellow-servant might to another."--"I

am sorry to hear this," said Adams; "a virtuous passion for a young man

is what no woman need be ashamed of. You either do not tell me truth, or

you are false to a very worthy man." Adams then told her what had

happened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively; and a sigh

often escaped from her, notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to the

contrary; nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousand

questions, which would have assured any one but Adams, who never saw

farther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of a

passion she endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that this poor

girl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune, by some of the servants

belonging to the coach which we have formerly mentioned to have stopt at

the inn while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that instant

abandoned the cow she was milking, and, taking with her a little bundle

of clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth in her own

purse, without consulting any one, immediately set forward in pursuit of

one whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved with

inexpressible violence, though with the purest and most delicate

passion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend her

character to all our female readers, and not greatly surprize such of

our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex,

we shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindicate.

CHAPTER XI.

_What happened to them while before the justice. A chapter very full of

learning._

Their fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dispute concerning

the division of the reward for apprehending these innocent people, that

they attended very little to their discourse. They were now arrived at

the justice's house, and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint his

worship that they had taken two robbers and brought them before him. The

justice, who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not yet

finished his dinner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into the

stable, whither they were attended by all the servants in the house, and

all the people in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see them

with as much curiosity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, or

that a rogue did not look like other people.

The justice, now being in the height of his mirth and his cups,

bethought himself of the prisoners; and, telling his company he believed

they should have good sport in their examination, he ordered them into

his presence. They had no sooner entered the room than he began to

revile them, saying, "That robberies on the highway were now grown so

frequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, and assured

them they both should be made examples of at the ensuing assizes." After

he had gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded by his clerk,

"That it would be proper to take the depositions of the witnesses

against them." Which he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the

meantime. Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the deposition

of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice employed

himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by all

the company at table. One asked, "Whether she was to be indicted for a

highwayman?" Another whispered in her ear, "If she had not provided

herself a great belly, he was at her service." A third said, "He

warranted she was a relation of Turpin." To which one of the company, a

great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered, "He believed

she was nearer related to Turpis;" at which there was an universal

laugh. They were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when somebody,

smoking the cassock peeping forth from under the greatcoat of Adams,

cried out, "What have we here, a parson?" "How, sirrah," says the

justice, "do you go robbing in the dress of a clergyman? let me tell you

your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy." "Yes,"

said the witty fellow, "he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be

exalted above the heads of the people;" at which there was a second

laugh. And now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in

spirits; and, turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verses, and,

provoking him by giving the first blow, he repeated--

_"Molle meum levibus cord est vilebile telis."_

Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told him, "He

deserved scourging for his pronunciation." The witty fellow answered,

"What do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer the first

time? Why, I'll give one, you blockhead, with an S.

_"'Si licet, ut fulvum spectatur in ignibus haurum.'_

"What, canst not with an M neither? Thou art a pretty fellow for a

parson! Why didst not steal some of the parson's Latin as well as his

gown?" Another at the table then answered, "If he had, you would have

been too hard for him; I remember you at the college a very devil at

this sport; I have seen you catch a freshman, for nobody that knew you

would engage with you." "I have forgot those things now," cried the wit.

"I believe I could have done pretty well formerly. Let's see, what did I

end with?--an M again--aye--

_"'Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.'_

I could have done it once." "Ah! evil betide you, and so you can now,"

said the other: "nobody in this country will undertake you." Adams could

hold no longer: "Friend," said he, "I have a boy not above eight years

old who would instruct thee that the last verse runs thus:--

_"'Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.'"_

"I'll hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, throwing the money on

the table. "And I'll go your halves," cries the other. "Done," answered

Adams; but upon applying to his pocket he was forced to retract, and own

he had no money about him; which set them all a-laughing, and confirmed

the triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more than the

approbation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he must

go a little longer to school before he attempted to attack that

gentleman in Latin.

The clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the fellow

himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered them to

the justice; who, having sworn the several witnesses without reading a

syllable, ordered his clerk to make the mittimus.

Adams then said, "He hoped he should not be condemned unheard." "No,

no," cries the justice, "you will be asked what you have to say for

yourself when you come on your trial: we are not trying you now; I shall

only commit you to gaol: if you can prove your innocence at size, you

will be found ignoramus, and so no harm done." "Is it no punishment,

sir, for an innocent man to lie several months in gaol?" cries Adams: "I

beg you would at least hear me before you sign the mittimus." "What

signifies all you can say?" says the justice: "is it not here in black

and white against you? I must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow

to take up so much of my time. So make haste with his mittimus."

The clerk now acquainted the justice that among other suspicious things,

as a penknife, &c., found in Adams's pocket, they had discovered a book

written, as he apprehended, in cyphers; for no one could read a word in

it. "Ay," says the justice, "the fellow may be more than a common

robber, he may be in a plot against the Government. Produce the book."

Upon which the poor manuscript of Aeschylus, which Adams had transcribed

with his own hand, was brought forth; and the justice, looking at it,

shook his head, and, turning to the prisoner, asked the meaning of those

cyphers. "Cyphers?" answered Adams, "it is a manuscript of Aeschylus."

"Who? who?" said the justice. Adams repeated, "Aeschylus." "That is an

outlandish name," cried the clerk. "A fictitious name rather, I

believe," said the justice. One of the company declared it looked very

much like Greek. "Greek?" said the justice; "why, 'tis all writing."

"No," says the other, "I don't positively say it is so; for it is a very

long time since I have seen any Greek." "There's one," says he, turning

to the parson of the parish, who was present, "will tell us

immediately." The parson, taking up the book, and putting on his

spectacles and gravity together, muttered some words to himself, and

then pronounced aloud--"Ay, indeed, it is a Greek manuscript; a very

fine piece of antiquity. I make no doubt but it was stolen from the same

clergyman from whom the rogue took the cassock." "What did the rascal

mean by his Aeschylus?" says the justice. "Pooh!" answered the doctor,

with a contemptuous grin, "do you think that fellow knows anything of

this book? Aeschylus! ho! ho! I see now what it is--a manuscript of one

of the fathers. I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of money

for such a piece of antiquity. Ay, ay, question and answer. The

beginning is the catechism in Greek. Ay, ay, _Pollaki toi_: What's your

name?"--"Ay, what's your name?" says the justice to Adams; who answered,

"It is Aeschylus, and I will maintain it."--"Oh! it is," says the

justice: "make Mr Aeschylus his mittimus. I will teach you to banter me

with a false name."

One of the company, having looked steadfastly at Adams, asked him, "If

he did not know Lady Booby?" Upon which Adams, presently calling him to

mind, answered in a rapture, "O squire! are you there? I believe you

will inform his worship I am innocent."--"I can indeed say," replied the

squire, "that I am very much surprized to see you in this situation:"

and then, addressing himself to the justice, he said, "Sir, I assure

you Mr Adams is a clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very

good character. I wish you would enquire a little farther into this

affair; for I am convinced of his innocence."--"Nay," says the justice,

"if he is a gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don't desire

to commit him, not I: I will commit the woman by herself, and take your

bail for the gentleman: look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to

take bail--come--and make the mittimus for the woman as fast as you

can."--"Sir," cries Adams, "I assure you she is as innocent as

myself."--"Perhaps," said the squire, "there may be some mistake! pray

let us hear Mr Adams's relation."--"With all my heart," answered the

justice; "and give the gentleman a glass to wet his whistle before he

begins. I know how to behave myself to gentlemen as well as another.

Nobody can say I have committed a gentleman since I have been in the

commission." Adams then began the narrative, in which, though he was

very prolix, he was uninterrupted, unless by several hums and hahs of

the justice, and his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to him

most material. When he had finished, the justice, who, on what the

squire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his bare

affirmation, notwithstanding the depositions on oath to the contrary,

began to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, whom

he ordered to stand forth, but in vain; the said witness, long since

finding what turn matters were likely to take, had privily withdrawn,

without attending the issue. The justice now flew into a violent

passion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocent

fellows who had been imposed on as well as himself. He swore, "They had

best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before

him within two days, or he would bind them all over to their good

behaviour." They all promised to use their best endeavours to that

purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice insisted that Mr Adams

should sit down and take a glass with him; and the parson of the parish

delivered him back the manuscript without saying a word; nor would

Adams, who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she

was, at her own request, recommended to the care of a maid-servant of

the house, who helped her to new dress and clean herself.

The company in the parlour had not been long seated before they were

alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the persons who had

apprehended Adams and Fanny had been regaling, according to the custom

of the house, with the justice's strong beer. These were all fallen

together by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. The

justice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his presence soon

put an end to the fray. On his return into the parlour, he reported,

"That the occasion of the quarrel was no other than a dispute to whom,

if Adams had been convicted, the greater share of the reward for

apprehending him had belonged." All the company laughed at this, except

Adams, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and

said, "He was concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. That he

remembered a story something like it in one of the parishes where his

cure lay:--There was," continued he, "a competition between three young

fellows for the place of the clerk, which I disposed of, to the best of

my abilities, according to merit; that is, I gave it to him who had the

happiest knack at setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner established

in his place than a contention began between the two disappointed

candidates concerning their excellence; each contending on whom, had

they two been the only competitors, my election would have fallen. This

dispute frequently disturbed the congregation, and introduced a discord

into the psalmody, till I was forced to silence them both. But, alas!

the litigious spirit could not be stifled; and, being no longer able to

vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fighting. It produced many

battles (for they were very near a match), and I believe would have

ended fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity to

promote one of them to his place; which presently put an end to the

dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties." Adams then

proceeded to make some philosophical observations on the folly of

growing warm in disputes in which neither party is interested. He then

applied himself vigorously to smoaking; and a long silence ensued, which

was at length broke by the justice, who began to sing forth his own

praises, and to value himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in the

cause which had lately been before him. He was quickly interrupted by Mr

Adams, between whom and his worship a dispute now arose, whether he

ought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said Adams;

in which the latter maintained he ought to have been committed, and the

justice as vehemently held he ought not. This had most probably produced

a quarrel (for both were very violent and positive in their opinions),

had not Fanny accidentally heard that a young fellow was going from the

justice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach in which Joseph

was, put up. Upon this news, she immediately sent for the parson out of

the parlour. Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though she would

not own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces of

those who had suspected her of such a crime), was as fully determined to

go with her; he accordingly took leave of the justice and company: and

so ended a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a

magistrate and a divine together by the ears.

CHAPTER XII.

_A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to the

good-natured reader._

Adams, Fanny, and the guide, set out together about one in the morning,

the moon being then just risen. They had not gone above a mile before a

most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or

rather alehouse, where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a

toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content,

utterly forgetting everything that had happened.

Fanny sat likewise down by the fire; but was much more impatient at the

storm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of

the house, and the young fellow who was their guide; they all conceived

they had never seen anything half so handsome; and indeed, reader, if

thou art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the next

paragraph; which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to set

down, humbly hoping that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion; for if it

should happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, we

should be perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say

to ourselves, _Quod petis est nusquam_. Or, if the finest features in it

should set Lady ----'s image before our eyes, we should be still in as

bad a situation, and might say to our desires, _Coelum ipsum petimus

stultitia_.

Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she was tall and

delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women who seem

rather intended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist than for any

other purpose. On the contrary, she was so plump that she seemed

bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confined

her swelling breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to

extend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbs

which she concealed; and though they were a little reddened by her

labour, yet, if her sleeve slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchief

discovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest

Italian paint would be unable to reach. Her hair was of a chesnut brown,

and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut,

and on Sundays used to curl down her neck, in the modern fashion. Her

forehead was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise.

Her eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the Roman; her

lips red and moist, and her underlip, according to the opinion of the

ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The

small-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which was so large, it

might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced

one so near a neighbour to it, that the former served only for a foil to

the latter. Her complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, but

overspread with such a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged

all their white for it: add to these a countenance in which, though she

was extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible; and a

sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or description.

To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, superior to the

acquisition of art, and which surprized all who beheld her.

This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, when her

attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room, which sung

the following song:--

THE SONG.

Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray

Who is by thy beauties undone?

To wash their remembrance away,

To what distant Lethe must run?

The wretch who is sentenced to die

May escape, and leave justice behind;

From his country perhaps he may fly,

But oh! can he fly from his mind?

O rapture! unthought of before,

To be thus of Chloe possess'd;

Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power,

Her image can tear from my breast.

But felt not Narcissus more joy,

With his eyes he beheld his loved charms?

Yet what he beheld the fond boy

More eagerly wish'd in his arms.

How can it thy dear image be

Which fills thus my bosom with woe?

Can aught bear resemblance to thee

Which grief and not joy can bestow?

This counterfeit snatch from my heart,

Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave,

Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart:

I then shall find rest in my grave.

Ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain

Come smiling and tripping along!

A thousand Loves dance in her train,

The Graces around her all throng.

To meet her soft Zephyrus flies,

And wafts all the sweets from the flowers,

Ah, rogue I whilst he kisses her eyes,

More sweets from her breath he devours.

My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire:

But her looks were so tender and kind,

My hope almost reach'd my desire,

And left lame despair far behind.

Transported with madness, I flew,

And eagerly seized on my bliss;

Her bosom but half she withdrew,

But half she refused my fond kiss.

Advances like these made me bold;

I whisper'd her--Love, we're alone.--

The rest let immortals unfold;

No language can tell but their own.

Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried,

How long I thy cruelty bore!

Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied,

You ne'er was so pressing before.

Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in Aeschylus,

without attending in the least to the voice, though one of the most

melodious that ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on Fanny, he cried

out, "Bless us, you look extremely pale!"--"Pale! Mr Adams," says she;

"O Jesus!" and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung his

Aeschylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the people of the house

for help. He soon summoned every one into the room, and the songster

among the rest; but, O reader! when this nightingale, who was no other

than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in the situation we

have described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind? If

thou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his happiness, when,

clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her

cheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the

softest accent whisper, "Are you Joseph Andrews?"--"Art thou my Fanny?"

he answered eagerly: and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted

numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present.

If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, they may

take their eyes off from it, and survey parson Adams dancing about the

room in a rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps doubt whether he

was not the happiest of the three: for the goodness of his heart enjoyed

the blessings which were exulting in the breasts of both the other two,

together with his own. But we shall leave such disquisitions, as too

deep for us, to those who are building some favourite hypothesis, which

they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support: for our

part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not

only greater than the parson's, but of longer duration: for as soon as

the first tumults of Adams's rapture were over he cast his eyes towards

the fire, where Aeschylus lay expiring; and immediately rescued the

poor remains, to wit, the sheepskin covering, of his dear friend, which

was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion

for upwards of thirty years.

Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she began to

restrain the impetuosity of her transports; and, reflecting on what she

had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was immediately

covered with confusion; and, pushing Joseph gently from her, she begged

him to be quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer.

Then, seeing Mrs Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to advance to her;

but that high woman would not return her curtsies; but, casting her eyes

another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as she

went, she wondered who the creature was.

CHAPTER XIII.

_A dissertation concerning high people and low people, with Mrs

Slipslop's departure in no very good temper of mind, and the evil plight

in which she left Adams and his company._

It will doubtless seem extremely odd to many readers, that Mrs Slipslop,

who had lived several years in the same house with Fanny, should, in a

short separation, utterly forget her. And indeed the truth is, that she

remembered her very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, that

anything should appear unnatural in this our history, we will endeavour

to explain the reasons of her conduct; nor do we doubt being able to

satisfy the most curious reader that Mrs Slipslop did not in the least

deviate from the common road in this behaviour; and, indeed, had she

done otherwise, she must have descended below herself, and would have

very justly been liable to censure.

Be it known then, that the human species are divided into two sorts of

people, to wit, high people and low people. As by high people I would

not be understood to mean persons literally born higher in their

dimensions than the rest of the species, nor metaphorically those of

exalted characters or abilities; so by low people I cannot be construed

to intend the reverse. High people signify no other than people of

fashion, and low people those of no fashion. Now, this word fashion hath

by long use lost its original meaning, from which at present it gives us

a very different idea; for I am deceived if by persons of fashion we do

not generally include a conception of birth and accomplishments superior

to the herd of mankind; whereas, in reality, nothing more was originally

meant by a person of fashion than a person who drest himself in the

fashion of the times; and the word really and truly signifies no more at

this day. Now, the world being thus divided into people of fashion and

people of no fashion, a fierce contention arose between them; nor would

those of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publicly to speak to

those of the other, though they often held a very good correspondence in

private. In this contention it is difficult to say which party

succeeded; for, whilst the people of fashion seized several places to

their own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas, balls, &c., the

people of no fashion, besides one royal place, called his Majesty's

Bear-garden, have been in constant possession of all hops, fairs,

revels, &c. Two places have been agreed to be divided between them,

namely, the church and the playhouse, where they segregate themselves

from each other in a remarkable manner; for, as the people of fashion

exalt themselves at church over the heads of the people of no fashion,

so in the playhouse they abase themselves in the same degree under

their feet. This distinction I have never met with any one able to

account for: it is sufficient that, so far from looking on each other as

brethren in the Christian language, they seem scarce to regard each

other as of the same species. This, the terms "strange persons, people

one does not know, the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes," and many

other appellations evidently demonstrate; which Mrs Slipslop, having

often heard her mistress use, thought she had also a right to use in her

turn; and perhaps she was not mistaken; for these two parties,

especially those bordering nearly on each other, to wit, the lowest of

the high, and the highest of the low, often change their parties

according to place and time; for those who are people of fashion in one

place are often people of no fashion in another. And with regard to

time, it may not be unpleasant to survey the picture of dependance like

a kind of ladder; as, for instance; early in the morning arises the

postillion, or some other boy, which great families, no more than great

ships, are without, and falls to brushing the clothes and cleaning the

shoes of John the footman; who, being drest himself, applies his hands

to the same labours for Mr Second-hand, the squire's gentleman; the

gentleman in the like manner, a little later in the day, attends the

squire; the squire is no sooner equipped than he attends the levee of my

lord; which is no sooner over than my lord himself is seen at the levee

of the favourite, who, after the hour of homage is at an end, appears

himself to pay homage to the levee of his sovereign. Nor is there,

perhaps, in this whole ladder of dependance, any one step at a greater

distance from the other than the first from the second; so that to a

philosopher the question might only seem, whether you would chuse to be

a great man at six in the morning, or at two in the afternoon. And yet

there are scarce two of these who do not think the least familiarity

with the persons below them a condescension, and, if they were to go one

step farther, a degradation.

And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this long digression, which

seemed to me necessary to vindicate the great character of Mrs Slipslop

from what low people, who have never seen high people, might think an

absurdity; but we who know them must have daily found very high persons

know us in one place and not in another, to-day and not to-morrow; all

which it is difficult to account for otherwise than I have here

endeavoured; and perhaps, if the gods, according to the opinion of some,

made men only to laugh at them, there is no part of our behaviour which

answers the end of our creation better than this.

But to return to our history: Adams, who knew no more of this than the

cat which sat on the table, imagining Mrs Slipslop's memory had been

much worse than it really was, followed her into the next room, crying

out, "Madam Slipslop, here is one of your old acquaintance; do but see

what a fine woman she is grown since she left Lady Booby's service."--"I

think I reflect something of her," answered she, with great dignity,

"but I can't remember all the inferior servants in our family." She then

proceeded to satisfy Adams's curiosity, by telling him, "When she

arrived at the inn, she found a chaise ready for her; that, her lady

being expected very shortly in the country, she was obliged to make the

utmost haste; and, in commensuration of Joseph's lameness, she had taken

him with her;" and lastly, "that the excessive virulence of the storm

had driven them into the house where he found them." After which, she

acquainted Adams with his having left his horse, and exprest some wonder

at his having strayed so far out of his way, and at meeting him, as she

said, "in the company of that wench, who she feared was no better than

she should be."

The horse was no sooner put into Adams's head but he was immediately

driven out by this reflection on the character of Fanny. He protested,

"He believed there was not a chaster damsel in the universe. I heartily

wish, I heartily wish," cried he (snapping his fingers), "that all her

betters were as good." He then proceeded to inform her of the accident

of their meeting; but when he came to mention the circumstance of

delivering her from the rape, she said, "She thought him properer for

the army than the clergy; that it did not become a clergyman to lay

violent hands on any one; that he should have rather prayed that she

might be strengthened." Adams said, "He was very far from being ashamed

of what he had done:" she replied, "Want of shame was not the

currycuristic of a clergyman." This dialogue might have probably grown

warmer, had not Joseph opportunely entered the room, to ask leave of

Madam Slipslop to introduce Fanny: but she positively refused to admit

any such trollops, and told him, "She would have been burnt before she

would have suffered him to get into a chaise with her, if she had once

respected him of having his sluts waylaid on the road for him;" adding,

"that Mr Adams acted a very pretty part, and she did not doubt but to

see him a bishop." He made the best bow he could, and cried out, "I

thank you, madam, for that right-reverend appellation, which I shall

take all honest means to deserve."-"Very honest means," returned she,

with a sneer, "to bring people together." At these words Adams took two

or three strides across the room, when the coachman came to inform Mrs

Slipslop, "That the storm was over, and the moon shone very bright." She

then sent for Joseph, who was sitting without with his Fanny, and would

have had him gone with her; but he peremptorily refused to leave Fanny

behind, which threw the good woman into a violent rage. She said, "She

would inform her lady what doings were carrying on, and did not doubt

but she would rid the parish of all such people;" and concluded a long

speech, full of bitterness and very hard words, with some reflections on

the clergy not decent to repeat; at last, finding Joseph unmoveable, she

flung herself into the chaise, casting a look at Fanny as she went, not

unlike that which Cleopatra gives Octavia in the play. To say the truth,

she was most disagreeably disappointed by the presence of Fanny: she

had, from her first seeing Joseph at the inn, conceived hopes of

something which might have been accomplished at an alehouse as well as a

palace. Indeed, it is probable Mr Adams had rescued more than Fanny from

the danger of a rape that evening.

When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slipslop, Adams, Joseph, and

Fanny assembled over the fire, where they had a great deal of innocent

chat, pretty enough; but, as possibly it would not be very entertaining

to the reader, we shall hasten to the morning; only observing that none

of them went to bed that night. Adams, when he had smoaked three pipes,

took a comfortable nap in a great chair, and left the lovers, whose eyes

were too well employed to permit any desire of shutting them, to enjoy

by themselves, during some hours, an happiness which none of my readers

who have never been in love are capable of the least conception of,

though we had as many tongues as Homer desired, to describe it with, and

which all true lovers will represent to their own minds without the

least assistance from us.

Let it suffice then to say, that Fanny, after a thousand entreaties, at

last gave up her whole soul to Joseph; and, almost fainting in his arms,

with a sigh infinitely softer and sweeter too than any Arabian breeze,

she whispered to his lips, which were then close to hers, "O Joseph,

you have won me: I will be yours for ever." Joseph, having thanked

her on his knees, and embraced her with an eagerness which she now

almost returned, leapt up in a rapture, and awakened the parson,

earnestly begging him "that he would that instant join their hands

together." Adams rebuked him for his request, and told him "He would by

no means consent to anything contrary to the forms of the Church; that

he had no licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one; that

the Church had prescribed a form--namely, the publication of banns--with

which all good Christians ought to comply, and to the omission of which

he attributed the many miseries which befell great folks in marriage;"

concluding, "As many as are joined together otherwise than G--'s word

doth allow are not joined together by G--, neither is their matrimony

lawful." Fanny agreed with the parson, saying to Joseph, with a blush,

"She assured him she would not consent to any such thing, and that she

wondered at his offering it." In which resolution she was comforted and

commended by Adams; and Joseph was obliged to wait patiently till after

the third publication of the banns, which, however, he obtained the

consent of Fanny, in the presence of Adams, to put in at their arrival.

The sun had been now risen some hours, when Joseph, finding his leg

surprizingly recovered, proposed to walk forwards; but when they were

all ready to set out, an accident a little retarded them. This was no

other than the reckoning, which amounted to seven shillings; no great

sum if we consider the immense quantity of ale which Mr Adams poured in.

Indeed, they had no objection to the reasonableness of the bill, but

many to the probability of paying it; for the fellow who had taken poor

Fanny's purse had unluckily forgot to return it. So that the account

stood thus:--

£ S D

Mr Adams and company, Dr. 0 7 0

In Mr Adams's pocket 0 0 6 1/2

In Mr Joseph's 0 0 0

In Mrs Fanny's 0 0 0

Balance 0 6 5 1/2

They stood silent some few minutes, staring at each other, when Adams

whipt out on his toes, and asked the hostess, "If there was no clergyman

in that parish?" She answered, "There was."--"Is he wealthy?" replied

he; to which she likewise answered in the affirmative. Adams then

snapping his fingers returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out,

"Heureka, Heureka;" which not being understood, he told them in plain

English, "They need give themselves no trouble, for he had a brother in

the parish who would defray the reckoning, and that he would just step

to his house and fetch the money, and return to them instantly."

END OF VOL. I