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Joseph Andrews Vol. 1 by Henry Fielding

Part 3 out of 4

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quiet life, which some folks would not allow him here."--Adams answered,
"He had never heard this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for he
remembered she used to commend her mistress and blame her master) had
not formerly been of another opinion." "I don't know," replied she,
"what I might once think; but now I am confidous matters are as I tell
you; the world will shortly see who hath been deceived; for my part, I
say nothing, but that it is wondersome how some people can carry all
things with a grave face."

Thus Mr Adams and she discoursed, till they came opposite to a great
house which stood at some distance from the road: a lady in the coach,
spying it, cried, "Yonder lives the unfortunate Leonora, if one can
justly call a woman unfortunate whom we must own at the same time guilty
and the author of her own calamity." This was abundantly sufficient to
awaken the curiosity of Mr Adams, as indeed it did that of the whole
company, who jointly solicited the lady to acquaint them with Leonora's
history, since it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something

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


_The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt._

Leonora was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune; she was tall and
well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance which often
attracts beyond more regular features joined with an insipid air: nor is
this kind of beauty less apt to deceive than allure; the good humour
which it indicates being often mistaken for good nature, and the
vivacity for true understanding.

Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with an aunt of hers
in a town in the north of England. She was an extreme lover of gaiety,
and very rarely missed a ball or any other public assembly; where she
had frequent opportunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity,
with the preference which was given her by the men to almost every other
woman present.

Among many young fellows who were particular in their gallantries
towards her, Horatio soon distinguished himself in her eyes beyond all
his competitors; she danced with more than ordinary gaiety when he
happened to be her partner; neither the fairness of the evening, nor the
musick of the nightingale, could lengthen her walk like his company. She
affected no longer to understand the civilities of others; whilst she
inclined so attentive an ear to every compliment of Horatio, that she
often smiled even when it was too delicate for her comprehension.

"Pray, madam," says Adams, "who was this squire Horatio?"

Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of a good family, bred to
the law, and had been some few years called to the degree of a
barrister. His face and person were such as the generality allowed
handsome; but he had a dignity in his air very rarely to be seen. His
temper was of the saturnine complexion, and without the least taint of
moroseness. He had wit and humour, with an inclination to satire, which
he indulged rather too much.

This gentleman, who had contracted the most violent passion for Leonora,
was the last person who perceived the probability of its success. The
whole town had made the match for him before he himself had drawn a
confidence from her actions sufficient to mention his passion to her;
for it was his opinion (and perhaps he was there in the right) that it
is highly impolitick to talk seriously of love to a woman before you
have made such a progress in her affections, that she herself expects
and desires to hear it.

But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may create, which are apt
to magnify every favour conferred on a rival, and to see the little
advances towards themselves through the other end of the perspective, it
was impossible that Horatio's passion should so blind his discernment as
to prevent his conceiving hopes from the behaviour of Leonora, whose
fondness for him was now as visible to an indifferent person in their
company as his for her.

"I never knew any of these forward sluts come to good" (says the lady
who refused Joseph's entrance into the coach), "nor shall I wonder at
anything she doth in the sequel."

The lady proceeded in her story thus: It was in the midst of a gay
conversation in the walks one evening, when Horatio whispered Leonora,
that he was desirous to take a turn or two with her in private, for that
he had something to communicate to her of great consequence. "Are you
sure it is of consequence?" said she, smiling. "I hope," answered he,
"you will think so too, since the whole future happiness of my life must
depend on the event."

Leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, would have deferred it
till another time; but Horatio, who had more than half conquered the
difficulty of speaking by the first motion, was so very importunate,
that she at last yielded, and, leaving the rest of the company, they
turned aside into an unfrequented walk.

They had retired far out of the sight of the company, both maintaining a
strict silence. At last Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leonora,
who stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he fetched a deep
sigh, and then, looking on her eyes with all the tenderness imaginable,
he cried out in a faltering accent, "O Leonora! is it necessary for me
to declare to you on what the future happiness of my life must be
founded? Must I say there is something belonging to you which is a bar
to my happiness, and which unless you will part with, I must be
miserable!"--"What can that be?" replied Leonora. "No wonder," said he,
"you are surprized that I should make an objection to anything which is
yours: yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the riches
of the world, if they were mine, should purchase for me. Oh, it is that
which you must part with to bestow all the rest! Can Leonora, or rather
will she, doubt longer? Let me then whisper it in her ears--It is your
name, madam. It is by parting with that, by your condescension to be for
ever mine, which must at once prevent me from being the most miserable,
and will render me the happiest of mankind."

Leonora, covered with blushes, and with as angry a look as she could
possibly put on, told him, "That had she suspected what his declaration
would have been, he should not have decoyed her from her company, that
he had so surprized and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her
back as quick as possible;" which he, trembling very near as much as
herself, did.

"More fool he," cried Slipslop; "it is a sign he knew very little of our
sect."--"Truly, madam," said Adams, "I think you are in the right: I
should have insisted to know a piece of her mind, when I had carried
matters so far." But Mrs Grave-airs desired the lady to omit all such
fulsome stuff in her story, for that it made her sick.

Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, said the lady, many
weeks had not passed after this interview before Horatio and Leonora
were what they call on a good footing together. All ceremonies except
the last were now over; the writings were now drawn, and everything was
in the utmost forwardness preparative to the putting Horatio in
possession of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a letter
from each of them, which I have got by heart, and which will give you no
small idea of their passion on both sides.

Mrs Grave-airs objected to hearing these letters; but being put to the
vote, it was carried against her by all the rest in the coach; parson
Adams contending for it with the utmost vehemence.


"How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of pleasure in the
absence of an object to which the mind is entirely devoted, unless it
have some relation to that object! I was last night condemned to the
society of men of wit and learning, which, however agreeable it might
have formerly been to me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputed
my absence in conversation to the true cause. For which reason, when
your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of seeing you, I am
always desirous to be alone; since my sentiments for Leonora are so
delicate, that I cannot bear the apprehension of another's prying into
those delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a lover
will sometimes indulge him, and which I suspect my eyes then betray. To
fear this discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too ridiculous a
nicety to minds not susceptible of all the tendernesses of this delicate
passion. And surely we shall suspect there are few such, when we
consider that it requires every human virtue to exert itself in its full
extent; since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, may
give us charming opportunities of being brave in her defence, generous
to her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grateful to her
kindness; and in the same manner, of exercising every other virtue,
which he who would not do to any degree, and that with the utmost
rapture, can never deserve the name of a lover. It is, therefore, with a
view to the delicate modesty of your mind that I cultivate it so purely
in my own; and it is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the
uneasiness I bear from those liberties, which men to whom the world
allow politeness will sometimes give themselves on these occasions.

"Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival of that blest
day, when I shall experience the falsehood of a common assertion, that
the greatest human happiness consists in hope? A doctrine which no
person had ever stronger reason to believe than myself at present, since
none ever tasted such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts of
spending my future days with such a companion, and that every action of
my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conducing to your


[A] This letter was written by a young lady on reading the former.

"The refinement of your mind has been so evidently proved by every word
and action ever since I had the first pleasure of knowing you, that I
thought it impossible my good opinion of Horatio could have been
heightened to any additional proof of merit. This very thought was my
amusement when I received your last letter, which, when I opened, I
confess I was surprized to find the delicate sentiments expressed there
so far exceeding what I thought could come even from you (although I
know all the generous principles human nature is capable of are centred
in your breast), that words cannot paint what I feel on the reflection
that my happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your actions.

"Oh, Horatio! what a life must that be, where the meanest domestic cares
are sweetened by the pleasing consideration that the man on earth who
best deserves, and to whom you are most inclined to give your
affections, is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do! In
such a case toils must be turned into diversions, and nothing but the
unavoidable inconveniences of life can make us remember that we
are mortal.

"If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of keeping them
undiscovered, makes even the conversation of men of wit and learning
tedious to you, what anxious hours must I spend, who am condemned by
custom to the conversation of women, whose natural curiosity leads them
to pry into all my thoughts, and whose envy can never suffer Horatio's
heart to be possessed by any one, without forcing them into malicious
designs against the person who is so happy as to possess it! But,
indeed, if ever envy can possibly have any excuse, or even alleviation,
it is in this case, where the good is so great, and it must be equally
natural to all to wish it for themselves; nor am I ashamed to own it:
and to your merit, Horatio, I am obliged, that prevents my being in that
most uneasy of all the situations I can figure in my imagination, of
being led by inclination to love the person whom my own judgment forces
me to condemn."

Matters were in so great forwardness between this fond couple, that the
day was fixed for their marriage, and was now within a fortnight, when
the sessions chanced to be held for that county in a town about twenty
miles' distance from that which is the scene of our story. It seems, it
is usual for the young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these sessions,
not so much for the sake of profit as to show their parts and learn the
law of the justices of peace; for which purpose one of the wisest and
gravest of all the justices is appointed speaker, or chairman, as they
modestly call it, and he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in the
true knowledge of the law.

"You are here guilty of a little mistake," says Adams, "which, if you
please, I will correct: I have attended at one of these
quarter-sessions, where I observed the counsel taught the justices,
instead of learning anything of them."

It is not very material, said the lady. Hither repaired Horatio, who, as
he hoped by his profession to advance his fortune, which was not at
present very large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, he resolved to
spare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of improving or advancing
himself in it.

The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora stood at her
window, a coach and six passed by, which she declared to be the
completest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding these
remarkable words, "Oh, I am in love with that equipage!" which, though
her friend Florella at that time did not greatly regard, she hath since

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

Oh, why have not women as good resolution to maintain their vows as they
have often good inclinations in making them!

The gentleman who owned the coach and six came to the assembly. His
clothes were as remarkably fine as his equipage could be. He soon
attracted the eyes of the company; all the smarts, all the silk
waistcoats with silver and gold edgings, were eclipsed in an instant.

"Madam," said Adams, "if it be not impertinent, I should be glad to know
how this gentleman was drest."

Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had on a cut velvet coat of
a cinnamon colour, lined with a pink satten, embroidered all over with
gold; his waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was embroidered with
gold likewise. I cannot be particular as to the rest of his dress; but
it was all in the French fashion, for Bellarmine (that was his name) was
just arrived from Paris.

This fine figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of every lady in
the assembly than Leonora did his. He had scarce beheld her, but he
stood motionless and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done so
if good breeding had permitted him. However, he carried it so far before
he had power to correct himself, that every person in the room easily
discovered where his admiration was settled. The other ladies began to
single out their former partners, all perceiving who would be
Bellarmine's choice; which they however endeavoured, by all possible
means, to prevent: many of them saying to Leonora, "O madam! I suppose
we shan't have the pleasure of seeing you dance to-night;" and then
crying out, in Bellarmine's hearing, "Oh! Leonora will not dance, I
assure you: her partner is not here." One maliciously attempted to
prevent her, by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her, that so she
might be obliged either to dance with him, or sit down; but this scheme
proved abortive.

Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, and envied by every
woman present. Her little heart began to flutter within her, and her
head was agitated with a convulsive motion: she seemed as if she would
speak to several of her acquaintance, but had nothing to say; for, as
she would not mention her present triumph, so she could not disengage
her thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. She had never
tasted anything like this happiness. She had before known what it was to
torment a single woman; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a whole
assembly was a joy reserved for this blessed moment. As this vast
profusion of ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there was
nothing so foolish as her behaviour: she played a thousand childish
tricks, distorted her person into several shapes, and her face into
several laughs, without any reason. In a word, her carriage was as
absurd as her desires, which were to affect an insensibility of the
stranger's admiration, and at the same time a triumph, from that
admiration, over every woman in the room.

In this temper of mind, Bellarmine, having inquired who she was,
advanced to her, and with a low bow begged the honour of dancing with
her, which she, with as low a curtesy, immediately granted. She danced
with him all night, and enjoyed, perhaps, the highest pleasure that she
was capable of feeling.

At these words, Adams fetched a deep groan, which frighted the ladies,
who told him, "They hoped he was not ill." He answered, "He groaned only
for the folly of Leonora."

Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in the morning, but not
to rest. She tumbled and tossed in her bed, with very short intervals of
sleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage and fine
clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, and ridottos, which had
been the subject of their conversation.

In the afternoon, Bellarmine, in the dear coach and six, came to wait on
her. He was indeed charmed with her person, and was, on inquiry, so well
pleased with the circumstances of her father (for he himself,
notwithstanding all his finery, was not quite so rich as a Croesus or
an Attalus).--"Attalus," says Mr. Adams: "but pray how came you
acquainted with these names?" The lady smiled at the question, and
proceeded. He was so pleased, I say, that he resolved to make his
addresses to her directly. He did so accordingly, and that with so much
warmth and briskness, that he quickly baffled her weak repulses, and
obliged the lady to refer him to her father, who, she knew, would
quickly declare in favour of a coach and six.

Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love and tenderness, been so
long obtaining, the French-English Bellarmine with gaiety and gallantry
possessed himself of in an instant. In other words, what modesty had
employed a full year in raising, impudence demolished in
twenty-four hours.

Here Adams groaned a second time; but the ladies, who began to smoke
him, took no notice.

From the opening of the assembly till the end of Bellarmine's visit,
Leonora had scarce once thought of Horatio; but he now began, though an
unwelcome guest, to enter into her mind. She wished she had seen the
charming Bellarmine and his charming equipage before matters had gone so
far. "Yet why," says she, "should I wish to have seen him before; or
what signifies it that I have seen him now? Is not Horatio my lover,
almost my husband? Is he not as handsome, nay handsomer than Bellarmine?
Aye, but Bellarmine is the genteeler, and the finer man; yes, that he
must be allowed. Yes, yes, he is that certainly. But did not I, no
longer ago than yesterday, love Horatio more than all the world? Aye,
but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. But doth not Horatio doat on
me, and may he not in despair break his heart if I abandon him? Well,
and hath not Bellarmine a heart to break too? Yes, but I promised
Horatio first; but that was poor Bellarmine's misfortune; if I had seen
him first, I should certainly have preferred him. Did not the dear
creature prefer me to every woman in the assembly, when every she was
laying out for him? When was it in Horatio's power to give me such an
instance of affection? Can he give me an equipage, or any of those
things which Bellarmine will make me mistress of? How vast is the
difference between being the wife of a poor counsellor and the wife of
one of Bellarmine's fortune! If I marry Horatio, I shall triumph over no
more than one rival; but by marrying Bellarmine, I shall be the envy of
all my acquaintance. What happiness! But can I suffer Horatio to die?
for he hath sworn he cannot survive my loss: but perhaps he may not die:
if he should, can I prevent it? Must I sacrifice myself to him? besides,
Bellarmine may be as miserable for me too." She was thus arguing with
herself, when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a little
relieved her anxiety for the present.

The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in presence of her
aunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his passion for Leonora. He was
no sooner withdrawn than the old lady began to advise her niece on this
occasion. "You see, child," says she, "what fortune hath thrown in your
way; and I hope you will not withstand your own preferment." Leonora,
sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing, when she knew her
engagements to Horatio. "Engagements to a fig!" cried the aunt; "you
should thank Heaven on your knees that you have it yet in your power to
break them. Will any woman hesitate a moment whether she shall ride in a
coach or walk on foot all the days of her life? But Bellarmine drives
six, and Horatio not even a pair."--"Yes, but, madam, what will the
world say?" answered Leonora: "will not they condemn me?"--"The world is
always on the side of prudence," cries the aunt, "and would surely
condemn you if you sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. Oh!
I know the world very well; and you shew your ignorance, my dear, by
your objection. O' my conscience! the world is wiser. I have lived
longer in it than you; and I assure you there is not anything worth our
regard besides money; nor did I ever know one person who married from
other considerations, who did not afterwards heartily repent it.
Besides, if we examine the two men, can you prefer a sneaking fellow,
who hath been bred at the university, to a fine gentleman just come from
his travels. All the world must allow Bellarmine to be a fine gentleman,
positively a fine gentleman, and a handsome man."--"Perhaps, madam, I
should not doubt, if I knew how to be handsomely off with the
other."--"Oh! leave that to me," says the aunt. "You know your father
hath not been acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for my part I thought
it might do well enough, not dreaming of such an offer; but I'll
disengage you: leave me to give the fellow an answer. I warrant you
shall have no farther trouble."

Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's reasoning; and
Bellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed he should the
next morning go to her father and propose the match, which she consented
should be consummated at his return.

The aunt retired soon after supper; and, the lovers being left together,
Bellarmine began in the following manner: "Yes, madam; this coat, I
assure you, was made at Paris, and I defy the best English taylor even
to imitate it. There is not one of them can cut, madam; they can't cut.
If you observe how this skirt is turned, and this sleeve: a clumsy
English rascal can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you like my
liveries?" Leonora answered, "She thought them very pretty."--"All
French," says he, "I assure you, except the greatcoats; I never trust
anything more than a greatcoat to an Englishman. You know one must
encourage our own people what one can, especially as, before I had a
place, I was in the country interest, he, he, he! But for myself, I
would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear a
single rag of English work about me: and I am sure, after you have made
one tour to Paris, you will be of the same opinion with regard to your
own clothes. You can't conceive what an addition a French dress would be
to your beauty; I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since
I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chambermaids, he, he, he!"

With such sort of polite discourse did the gay Bellarmine entertain his
beloved Leonora, when the door opened on a sudden, and Horatio entered
the room. Here 'tis impossible to express the surprize of Leonora.

"Poor woman!" says Mrs Slipslop, "what a terrible quandary she must be
in!"--"Not at all," says Mrs Grave-airs; "such sluts can never be
confounded."--"She must have then more than Corinthian assurance," said
Adams; "aye, more than Lais herself."

A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in the whole company. If
the familiar entrance of Horatio struck the greatest astonishment into
Bellarmine, the unexpected presence of Bellarmine no less surprized
Horatio. At length Leonora, collecting all the spirit she was mistress
of, addressed herself to the latter, and pretended to wonder at the
reason of so late a visit. "I should indeed," answered he, "have made
some apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not my finding you in
company assured me I do not break in upon your repose." Bellarmine rose
from his chair, traversed the room in a minuet step, and hummed an
opera tune, while Horatio, advancing to Leonora, asked her in a whisper
if that gentleman was not a relation of hers; to which she answered with
a smile, or rather sneer, "No, he is no relation of mine yet;" adding,
"she could not guess the meaning of his question." Horatio told her
softly, "It did not arise from jealousy."--"Jealousy! I assure you, it
would be very strange in a common acquaintance to give himself any of
those airs." These words a little surprized Horatio; but, before he had
time to answer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady and told her, "He
feared he interrupted some business between her and the gentleman."--"I
can have no business," said she, "with the gentleman, nor any other,
which need be any secret to you."

"You'll pardon me," said Horatio, "if I desire to know who this
gentleman is who is to be entrusted with all our secrets."--"You'll know
soon enough," cries Leonora; "but I can't guess what secrets can ever
pass between us of such mighty consequence."--"No, madam!" cries
Horatio; "I am sure you would not have me understand you in
earnest."--"'Tis indifferent to me," says she, "how you understand me;
but I think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be understood at
all, at least when people find one engaged: though one's servants do not
deny one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon take the hint."
"Madam," said Horatio, "I did not imagine any engagement with a
stranger, as it seems this gentleman is, would have made my visit
impertinent, or that any such ceremonies were to be preserved between
persons in our situation." "Sure you are in a dream," says she, "or
would persuade me that I am in one. I know no pretensions a common
acquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies of good breeding."
"Sure," said he, "I am in a dream; for it is impossible I should be
really esteemed a common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has passed
between us?" "Passed between us! Do you intend to affront me before this
gentleman?" "D--n me, affront the lady," says Bellarmine, cocking his
hat, and strutting up to Horatio: "does any man dare affront this lady
before me, d--n me?" "Hark'ee, sir," says Horatio, "I would advise you
to lay aside that fierce air; for I am mightily deceived if this lady
has not a violent desire to get your worship a good drubbing." "Sir,"
said Bellarmine, "I have the honour to be her protector; and, d--n me,
if I understand your meaning." "Sir," answered Horatio, "she is rather
your protectress; but give yourself no more airs, for you see I am
prepared for you" (shaking his whip at him). "Oh! _serviteur tres
humble_," says Bellarmine: "_Je vous entend parfaitment bien_." At which
time the aunt, who had heard of Horatio's visit, entered the room, and
soon satisfied all his doubts. She convinced him that he was never more
awake in his life, and that nothing more extraordinary had happened in
his three days' absence than a small alteration in the affections of
Leonora; who now burst into tears, and wondered what reason she had
given him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desired
Bellarmine to withdraw with him; but the ladies prevented it by laying
violent hands on the latter; upon which the former took his leave
without any great ceremony, and departed, leaving the lady with his
rival to consult for his safety, which Leonora feared her indiscretion
might have endangered; but the aunt comforted her with assurances that
Horatio would not venture his person against so accomplished a cavalier
as Bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge in his
own way, and the most they had to apprehend from him was an action.

They at length therefore agreed to permit Bellarmine to retire to his
lodgings, having first settled all matters relating to the journey which
he was to undertake in the morning, and their preparations for the
nuptials at his return.

But, alas! as wise men have observed, the seat of valour is not the
countenance; and many a grave and plain man will, on a just provocation,
betake himself to that mischievous metal, cold iron; while men of a
fiercer brow, and sometimes with that emblem of courage, a cockade, will
more prudently decline it.

Leonora was waked in the morning, from a visionary coach and six, with
the dismal account that Bellarmine was run through the body by Horatio;
that he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had declared the
wound mortal. She immediately leaped out of the bed, danced about the
room in a frantic manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all the
agonies of despair; in which sad condition her aunt, who likewise arose
at the news, found her. The good old lady applied her utmost art to
comfort her niece. She told her, "While there was life there was hope;
but that if he should die her affliction would be of no service to
Bellarmine, and would only expose herself, which might, probably, keep
her some time without any future offer; that, as matters had happened,
her wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, but to endeavour
to regain the affections of Horatio." "Speak not to me," cried the
disconsolate Leonora; "is it not owing to me that poor Bellarmine has
lost his life? Have not these cursed charms (at which words she looked
steadfastly in the glass) been the ruin of the most charming man of this
age? Can I ever bear to contemplate my own face again (with her eyes
still fixed on the glass)? Am I not the murderess of the finest
gentleman? No other woman in the town could have made any impression on
him." "Never think of things past," cries the aunt: "think of regaining
the affections of Horatio." "What reason," said the niece, "have I to
hope he would forgive me? No, I have lost him as well as the other, and
it was your wicked advice which was the occasion of all; you seduced me,
contrary to my inclinations, to abandon poor Horatio (at which words she
burst into tears); you prevailed upon me, whether I would or no, to give
up my affections for him; had it not been for you, Bellarmine never
would have entered into my thoughts; had not his addresses been backed
by your persuasions, they never would have made any impression on me; I
should have defied all the fortune and equipage in the world; but it was
you, it was you, who got the better of my youth and simplicity, and
forced me to lose my dear Horatio for ever."

The aunt was almost borne down with this torrent of words; she, however,
rallied all the strength she could, and, drawing her mouth up in a
purse, began: "I am not surprized, niece, at this ingratitude. Those who
advise young women for their interest, must always expect such a return:
I am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off your match with
Horatio, at any rate."--"That may not be in your power yet," answered
Leonora, "though it is very ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it,
after the presents you have received from him." (For indeed true it is,
that many presents, and some pretty valuable ones, had passed from
Horatio to the old lady; but as true it is, that Bellarmine, when he
breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented her with a
brilliant from his finger, of much greater value than all she had
touched of the other.)

The aunt's gall was on float to reply, when a servant brought a letter
into the room, which Leonora, hearing it came from Bellarmine, with
great eagerness opened, and read as follows:--

"MOST DIVINE CREATURE,--The wound which I fear you have heard I
received from my rival is not like to be so fatal as those shot into my
heart which have been fired from your eyes, _tout brilliant_. Those are
the only cannons by which I am to fall; for my surgeon gives me hopes of
being soon able to attend your _ruelle_; till when, unless you would do
me an honour which I have scarce the _hardiesse_ to think of, your
absence will be the greatest anguish which can be felt by,


"_Avec toute le respecte_ in the world,

"Your most obedient, most absolute _Devote_,


As soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of Bellarmine's recovery, and
that the gossip Fame had, according to custom, so enlarged his danger,
she presently abandoned all further thoughts of Horatio, and was soon
reconciled to her aunt, who received her again into favour, with a more
Christian forgiveness than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is
possible she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her niece had
given her concerning the presents. She might apprehend such rumours,
should they get abroad, might injure a reputation which, by frequenting
church twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigour and strictness in
her countenance and behaviour for many years, she had established.

Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine with greater force, after
its small relaxation, than ever. She proposed to her aunt to make him a
visit in his confinement, which the old lady, with great and commendable
prudence, advised her to decline: "For," says she, "should any accident
intervene to prevent your intended match, too forward a behaviour with
this lover may injure you in the eyes of others. Every woman, till she
is married, ought to consider of, and provide against, the possibility
of the affair's breaking off." Leonora said, "She should be indifferent
to whatever might happen in such a case; for she had now so absolutely
placed her affections on this dear man (so she called him), that, if it
was her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever abandon all thoughts
of mankind." She, therefore, resolved to visit him, notwithstanding all
the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very afternoon
executed her resolution.

The lady was proceeding in her story, when the coach drove into the inn
where the company were to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of Mr
Adams, whose ears were the most hungry part about him; he being, as the
reader may perhaps guess, of an insatiable curiosity, and heartily
desirous of hearing the end of this amour, though he professed he could
scarce wish success to a lady of so inconstant a disposition.


_A dreadful quarrel which happened at the Inn where the company dined,
with its bloody consequences to Mr Adams._

As soon as the passengers had alighted from the coach, Mr Adams, as was
his custom, made directly to the kitchen, where he found Joseph sitting
by the fire, and the hostess anointing his leg; for the horse which Mr
Adams had borrowed of his clerk had so violent a propensity to kneeling,
that one would have thought it had been his trade, as well as his
master's; nor would he always give any notice of such his intention; he
was often found on his knees when the rider least expected it. This
foible, however, was of no great inconvenience to the parson, who was
accustomed to it; and, as his legs almost touched the ground when he
bestrode the beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himself
forward on such occasions with so much dexterity that he never received
any mischief; the horse and he frequently rolling many paces' distance,
and afterwards both getting up and meeting as good friends as ever.

Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle, though an
excellent horseman, did not so happily disengage himself; but, falling
with his leg under the beast, received a violent contusion, to which the
good woman was, as we have said, applying a warm hand, with some
camphorated spirits, just at the time when the parson entered
the kitchen.

He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph's misfortune before the
host likewise entered. He was by no means of Mr Tow-wouse's gentle
disposition; and was, indeed, perfect master of his house, and
everything in it but his guests.

This surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to the appearance
of a traveller, from "God bless your honour," down to plain "Coming
presently," observing his wife on her knees to a footman, cried out,
without considering his circumstances, "What a pox is the woman about?
why don't you mind the company in the coach? Go and ask them what they
will have for dinner." "My dear," says she, "you know they can have
nothing but what is at the fire, which will be ready presently; and
really the poor young man's leg is very much bruised." At which words
she fell to chafing more violently than before: the bell then happening
to ring, he damn'd his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and not
stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe the young fellow's
leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, within twenty miles he
would find a surgeon to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams fetched two
strides across the room; and snapping his fingers over his head,
muttered aloud, He would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for
he believed the devil had more humanity. These words occasioned a
dialogue between Adams and the host, in which there were two or three
sharp replies, till Joseph bad the latter know how to behave himself to
his betters. At which the host (having first strictly surveyed Adams)
scornfully repeating the word "betters," flew into a rage, and, telling
Joseph he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been to walk
into it, offered to lay violent hands on him; which perceiving, Adams
dealt him so sound a compliment over his face with his fist, that the
blood immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. The host, being
unwilling to be outdone in courtesy, especially by a person of Adams's
figure, returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson's
nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. Upon which he again
assailed his antagonist, and with another stroke laid him sprawling on
the floor.

The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband deserved,
seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along, hastened presently to
his assistance, or rather to revenge the blow, which, to all appearance,
was the last he would ever receive; when, lo! a pan full of hog's blood,
which unluckily stood on the dresser, presented itself first to her
hands. She seized it in her fury, and without any reflection, discharged
it into the parson's face; and with so good an aim, that much the
greater part first saluted his countenance, and trickled thence in so
large a current down to his beard, and over his garments, that a more
horrible spectacle was hardly to be seen, or even imagined. All which
was perceived by Mrs Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant.
This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool and
patient as perhaps was required to ask many questions on this occasion,
flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, together with
some of her hair, she plucked from her head in a moment, giving her, at
the same time, several hearty cuffs in the face; which by frequent
practice on the inferior servants, she had learned an excellent knack of
delivering with a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise from his
chair; the parson was employed in wiping the blood from his eyes, which
had entirely blinded him; and the landlord was but just beginning to
stir; whilst Mrs Slipslop, holding down the landlady's face with her
left hand, made so dexterous an use of her right, that the poor woman
began to roar, in a key which alarmed all the company in the inn.

There happened to be in the inn, at this time, besides the ladies who
arrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen who were present at Mr
Tow-wouse's when Joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and whom we
have before mentioned to have stopt at the alehouse with Adams. There
was likewise a gentleman just returned from his travels to Italy; all
whom the horrid outcry of murder presently brought into the kitchen,
where the several combatants were found in the postures already

It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the conquerors being
satisfied with the vengeance they had taken, and the conquered having no
appetite to renew the fight. The principal figure, and which engaged the
eyes of all, was Adams, who was all over covered with blood, which the
whole company concluded to be his own, and consequently imagined him no
longer for this world. But the host, who had now recovered from his
blow, and was risen from the ground, soon delivered them from this
apprehension, by damning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings, and
telling her all would have been very well if she had not intermeddled,
like a b--as she was; adding, he was very glad the gentlewoman had paid
her, though not half what she deserved. The poor woman had indeed fared
much the worst; having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a
quantity of hair, which Mrs Slipslop in triumph held in her left hand.

The traveller, addressing himself to Mrs Grave-airs, desired her not to
be frightened; for here had been only a little boxing, which he said, to
their _disgracia_, the English were _accustomata_ to: adding, it must
be, however, a sight somewhat strange to him, who was just come from
Italy; the Italians not being addicted to the _cuffardo_ but _bastonza_,
says he. He then went up to Adams, and telling him he looked like the
ghost of Othello, bid him not shake his gory locks at him, for he could
not say he did it. Adams very innocently answered, "Sir, I am far from
accusing you." He then returned to the lady, and cried, "I find the
bloody gentleman is _uno insipido del nullo senso_. _Dammato di me_, if
I have seen such a _spectaculo_ in my way from Viterbo."

One of the gentlemen having learnt from the host the occasion of this
bustle, and being assured by him that Adams had struck the first blow,
whispered in his ear, "He'd warrant he would recover."--"Recover!
master," said the host, smiling: "yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying
with a blow or two neither; I am not such a chicken as that."--"Pugh!"
said the gentleman, "I mean you will recover damages in that action
which, undoubtedly, you intend to bring, as soon as a writ can be
returned from London; for you look like a man of too much spirit and
courage to suffer any one to beat you without bringing your action
against him: he must be a scandalous fellow indeed who would put up with
a drubbing whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides, he hath drawn
blood from you, and spoiled your coat; and the jury will give damages
for that too. An excellent new coat upon my word; and now not worth a
shilling! I don't care," continued he, "to intermeddle in these cases;
but you have a right to my evidence; and if I am sworn, I must speak the
truth. I saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing from your
nostrils. You may take your own opinion; but was I in your
circumstances, every drop of my blood should convey an ounce of gold
into my pocket: remember I don't advise you to go to law; but if your
jury were Christians, they must give swinging damages. That's
all."--"Master," cried the host, scratching his head, "I have no stomach
to law, I thank you. I have seen enough of that in the parish, where two
of my neighbours have been at law about a house, till they have both
lawed themselves into a gaol." At which words he turned about, and began
to inquire again after his hog's puddings; nor would it probably have
been a sufficient excuse for his wife, that she spilt them in his
defence, had not some awe of the company, especially of the Italian
traveller, who was a person of great dignity, withheld his rage.

Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was employed, as we have
seen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was no less hearty on
the side of Mr Adams, whom he advised to bring his action immediately.
He said the assault of the wife was in law the assault of the husband,
for they were but one person; and he was liable to pay damages, which he
said must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition appeared. Adams
answered, If it was true that they were but one person, he had assaulted
the wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck the husband the first
blow. "I am sorry you own it too," cries the gentleman; "for it could
not possibly appear to the court; for here was no evidence present but
the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be your friend, and would
consequently say nothing but what made for you."--"How, sir," says
Adams, "do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute revenge in
cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to obtain it? If you knew me,
and my order, I should think you affronted both." At the word order, the
gentleman stared (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of
knights); and, turning hastily about, said, "Every man knew his own

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

'_Je voi_ very well _que tutta e pace_,
So send up dinner, good Boniface.'"

The coachman began now to grow importunate with his passengers, whose
entrance into the coach was retarded by Miss Grave-airs insisting,
against the remonstrance of all the rest, that she would not admit a
footman into the coach; for poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. A
young lady, who was, as it seems, an earl's grand-daughter, begged it
with almost tears in her eyes. Mr Adams prayed, and Mrs Slipslop
scolded; but all to no purpose. She said, "She would not demean herself
to ride with a footman: that there were waggons on the road: that if the
master of the coach desired it, she would pay for two places; but would
suffer no such fellow to come in."--"Madam," says Slipslop, "I am sure
no one can refuse another coming into a stage-coach."--"I don't know,
madam," says the lady; "I am not much used to stage-coaches; I seldom
travel in them."--"That may be, madam," replied Slipslop; "very good
people do; and some people's betters, for aught I know." Miss Grave-airs
said, "Some folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty, to some
people that were their betters, which did not become them; for her part,
she was not used to converse with servants." Slipslop returned, "Some
people kept no servants to converse with; for her part, she thanked
Heaven she lived in a family where there were a great many, and had more
under her own command than any paultry little gentlewoman in the
kingdom." Miss Grave-airs cried, "She believed her mistress would not
encourage such sauciness to her betters."--"My betters," says Slipslop,
"who is my betters, pray?"--"I am your betters," answered Miss
Grave-airs, "and I'll acquaint your mistress."--At which Mrs Slipslop
laughed aloud, and told her, "Her lady was one of the great gentry; and
such little paultry gentlewomen as some folks, who travelled in
stagecoaches, would not easily come at her."

This smart dialogue between some people and some folks was going on at
the coach door when a solemn person, riding into the inn, and seeing
Miss Grave-airs, immediately accosted her with "Dear child, how do you?"
She presently answered, "O papa, I am glad you have overtaken me."--"So
am I," answered he; "for one of our coaches is just at hand; and, there
being room for you in it, you shall go no farther in the stage unless
you desire it."--"How can you imagine I should desire it?" says she; so,
bidding Slipslop ride with her fellow, if she pleased, she took her
father by the hand, who was just alighted, and walked with him into
a room.

Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, "If he knew who the
gentleman was?" The coachman answered, "He was now a gentleman, and kept
his horse and man; but times are altered, master," said be; "I remember
when he was no better born than myself."--"Ay! ay!" says Adams. "My
father drove the squire's coach," answered he, "when that very man rode
postillion; but he is now his steward; and a great gentleman." Adams
then snapped his fingers, and cried, "He thought she was some
such trollop."

Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs Slipslop with this good news, as he
imagined it; but it found a reception different from what he expected.
The prudent gentlewoman, who despised the anger of Miss Grave-airs
whilst she conceived her the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune,
now she heard her alliance with the upper servants of a great family in
her neighbourhood, began to fear her interest with the mistress. She
wished she had not carried the dispute so far, and began to think of
endeavouring to reconcile herself to the young lady before she left the
inn; when, luckily, the scene at London, which the reader can scarce
have forgotten, presented itself to her mind, and comforted her with
such assurance, that she no longer apprehended any enemy with
her mistress.

Everything being now adjusted, the company entered the coach, which was
just on its departure, when one lady recollected she had left her fan, a
second her gloves, a third a snuff-box, and a fourth a smelling-bottle
behind her; to find all which occasioned some delay and much swearing to
the coachman.

As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women all together fell to
the character of Miss Grave-airs; whom one of them declared she had
suspected to be some low creature, from the beginning of their journey,
and another affirmed she had not even the looks of a gentlewoman: a
third warranted she was no better than she should be; and, turning to
the lady who had related the story in the coach, said, "Did you ever
hear, madam, anything so prudish as her remarks? Well, deliver me from
the censoriousness of such a prude." The fourth added, "O madam! all
these creatures are censorious; but for my part, I wonder where the
wretch was bred; indeed, I must own I have seldom conversed with these
mean kind of people, so that it may appear stranger to me; but to refuse
the general desire of a whole company had something in it so
astonishing, that, for my part, I own I should hardly believe it if my
own ears had not been witnesses to it."--"Yes, and so handsome a young
fellow," cries Slipslop; "the woman must have no compulsion in her: I
believe she is more of a Turk than a Christian; I am certain, if she had
any Christian woman's blood in her veins, the sight of such a young
fellow must have warmed it. Indeed, there are some wretched, miserable
old objects, that turn one's stomach; I should not wonder if she had
refused such a one; I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no
more than herself for the company of stinking old fellows; but, hold up
thy head, Joseph, thou art none of those; and she who hath not
compulsion for thee is a Myhummetman, and I will maintain it." This
conversation made Joseph uneasy as well as the ladies; who, perceiving
the spirits which Mrs Slipslop was in (for indeed she was not a cup too
low), began to fear the consequence; one of them therefore desired the
lady to conclude the story. "Aye, madam," said Slipslop, "I beg your
ladyship to give us that story you commensated in the morning;" which
request that well-bred woman immediately complied with.


_Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt._

Leonora, having once broke through the bounds which custom and modesty
impose on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indulgence to her passion. Her
visits to Bellarmine were more constant, as well as longer, than his
surgeon's: in a word, she became absolutely his nurse; made his
water-gruel, administered him his medicines; and, notwithstanding the
prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost intirely resided in
her wounded lover's apartment.

The ladies of the town began to take her conduct under consideration: it
was the chief topic of discourse at their tea-tables, and was very
severely censured by the most part; especially by Lindamira, a lady
whose discreet and starch carriage, together with a constant attendance
at church three times a day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks
on her own reputation; for such was the envy that Lindamira's virtue had
attracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict behaviour and strict
enquiry into the lives of others, she had not been able to escape being
the mark of some arrows herself, which, however, did her no injury; a
blessing, perhaps, owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief male
companions, and with two or three of whom she had been barbarously and
unjustly calumniated.

"Not so unjustly neither, perhaps," says Slipslop; "for the clergy are
men, as well as other folks."

The extreme delicacy of Lindamira's virtue was cruelly hurt by those
freedoms which Leonora allowed herself: she said, "It was an affront to
her sex; that she did not imagine it consistent with any woman's honour
to speak to the creature, or to be seen in her company; and that, for
her part, she should always refuse to dance at an assembly with her,
for fear of contamination by taking her by the hand."

But to return to my story: as soon as Bellarmine was recovered, which
was somewhat within a month from his receiving the wound, he set out,
according to agreement, for Leonora's father's, in order to propose the
match, and settle all matters with him touching settlements, and
the like.

A little before his arrival the old gentleman had received an intimation
of the affair by the following letter, which I can repeat verbatim, and
which, they say, was written neither by Leonora nor her aunt, though it
was in a woman's hand. The letter was in these words:--

"SIR,--I am sorry to acquaint you that your daughter, Leonora, hath
acted one of the basest as well as most simple parts with a young
gentleman to whom she had engaged herself, and whom she hath (pardon the
word) jilted for another of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his
superior figure. You may take what measures you please on this occasion;
I have performed what I thought my duty; as I have, though unknown to
you, a very great respect for your family."

The old gentleman did not give himself the trouble to answer this kind
epistle; nor did he take any notice of it, after he had read it, till he
saw Bellarmine. He was, to say the truth, one of those fathers who look
on children as an unhappy consequence of their youthful pleasures;
which, as he would have been delighted not to have had attended them, so
was he no less pleased with any opportunity to rid himself of the
incumbrance. He passed, in the world's language, as an exceeding good
father; being not only so rapacious as to rob and plunder all mankind to
the utmost of his power, but even to deny himself the conveniencies, and
almost necessaries, of life; which his neighbours attributed to a desire
of raising immense fortunes for his children: but in fact it was not
so; he heaped up money for its own sake only, and looked on his children
as his rivals, who were to enjoy his beloved mistress when he was
incapable of possessing her, and which he would have been much more
charmed with the power of carrying along with him; nor had his children
any other security of being his heirs than that the law would constitute
them such without a will, and that he had not affection enough for any
one living to take the trouble of writing one.

To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the errand I have mentioned. His
person, his equipage, his family, and his estate, seemed to the father
to make him an advantageous match for his daughter: he therefore very
readily accepted his proposals: but when Bellarmine imagined the
principal affair concluded, and began to open the incidental matters of
fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his countenance, saying,
"He resolved never to marry his daughter on a Smithfield match; that
whoever had love for her to take her would, when he died, find her share
of his fortune in his coffers; but he had seen such examples of
undutifulness happen from the too early generosity of parents, that he
had made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived." He
commended the saying of Solomon, "He that spareth the rod spoileth the
child;" but added, "he might have likewise asserted, That he that
spareth the purse saveth the child." He then ran into a discourse on the
extravagance of the youth of the age; whence he launched into a
dissertation on horses; and came at length to commend those Bellarmine
drove. That fine gentleman, who at another season would have been well
enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very eager to
resume the circumstance of fortune. He said, "He had a very high value
for the young lady, and would receive her with less than he would any
other whatever; but that even his love to her made some regard to
worldly matters necessary; for it would be a most distracting sight for
him to see her, when he had the honour to be her husband, in less than a
coach and six." The old gentleman answered, "Four will do, four will
do;" and then took a turn from horses to extravagance and from
extravagance to horses, till he came round to the equipage again;
whither he was no sooner arrived than Bellarmine brought him back to the
point; but all to no purpose; he made his escape from that subject in a
minute; till at last the lover declared, "That in the present situation
of his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved Leonora more
than _tout le monde_, to marry her without any fortune." To which the
father answered, "He was sorry that his daughter must lose so valuable a
match; that, if he had an inclination, at present it was not in his
power to advance a shilling: that he had had great losses, and been at
great expenses on projects; which, though he had great expectation from
them, had yet produced him nothing: that he did not know what might
happen hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such accident; but he
would make no promise, or enter into any article, for he would not break
his vow for all the daughters in the world."

In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, Bellarmine, having
tried every argument and persuasion which he could invent, and finding
them all ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order to
return to Leonora; he proceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after
a few days' stay, he returned to Paris, to the great delight of the
French and the honour of the English nation.

But as soon as he arrived at his home he presently despatched a
messenger with the following epistle to Leonora:--

"ADORABLE AND CHARMANTE,--I am sorry to have the honour to tell you I
am not the _heureux_ person destined for your divine arms. Your papa
hath told me so with a _politesse_ not often seen on this side Paris.
You may perhaps guess his manner of refusing me. _Ah, mon Dieu!_ You
will certainly believe me, madam, incapable myself of delivering this
_triste_ message, which I intend to try the French air to cure the
consequences of. _A jamais! Coeur! Ange! Au diable!_ If your papa
obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall see you at Paris; till when,
the wind that flows from thence will be the warmest _dans le monde_, for
it will consist almost entirely of my sighs. _Adieu, ma princesse!
Ah, l'amour!_


I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's condition when she
received this letter. It is a picture of horror, which I should have as
little pleasure in drawing as you in beholding. She immediately left the
place where she was the subject of conversation and ridicule, and
retired to that house I showed you when I began the story; where she
hath ever since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, perhaps, pity for
her misfortunes, more than our censure for a behaviour to which the
artifices of her aunt very probably contributed, and to which very young
women are often rendered too liable by that blameable levity in the
education of our sex.

"If I was inclined to pity her," said a young lady in the coach, "it
would be for the loss of Horatio; for I cannot discern any misfortune in
her missing such a husband as Bellarmine."

"Why, I must own," says Slipslop, "the gentleman was a little
false-hearted; but howsumever, it was hard to have two lovers, and get
never a husband at all. But pray, madam, what became of _Our-asho_?"

He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath applied himself so
strictly to his business, that he hath raised, I hear, a very
considerable fortune. And what is remarkable, they say he never hears
the name of Leonora without a sigh, nor hath ever uttered one syllable
to charge her with her ill-conduct towards him.


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

The lady, having finished her story, received the thanks of the company;
and now Joseph, putting his head out of the coach, cried out, "Never
believe me if yonder be not our parson Adams walking along without his
horse!"--"On my word, and so he is," says Slipslop: "and as sure as
twopence he hath left him behind at the inn." Indeed, true it is, the
parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind; for he was
so pleased with having got Joseph into the coach, that he never once
thought of the beast in the stable; and, finding his legs as nimble as
he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a crabstick, and had kept on
before the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so that
he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile
distant from it.

Mrs Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted,
but in vain; for the faster he drove the faster ran the parson, often
crying out, "Aye, aye, catch me if you can;" till at length the coachman
swore he would as soon attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, giving
the parson two or three hearty curses, he cry'd, "Softly, softly, boys,"
to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately obeyed.

But we will be more courteous to our reader than he was to Mrs
Slipslop; and, leaving the coach and its company to pursue their
journey, we will carry our reader on after parson Adams, who stretched
forwards without once looking behind him, till, having left the coach
full three miles in his rear, he came to a place where, by keeping the
extremest track to the right, it was just barely possible for a human
creature to miss his way. This track, however, did he keep, as indeed he
had a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare possibilities, and,
travelling in it about three miles over the plain, he arrived at the
summit of a hill, whence looking a great way backwards, and perceiving
no coach in sight, he sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling out his
Aeschylus, determined to wait here for its arrival.

He had not sat long here before a gun going off very near, a little
startled him; he looked up and saw a gentleman within a hundred paces
taking up a partridge which he had just shot.

Adams stood up and presented a figure to the gentleman which would have
moved laughter in many; for his cassock had just again fallen down below
his greatcoat, that is to say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts
of his greatcoat descended no lower than half-way down his thighs; but
the gentleman's mirth gave way to his surprize at beholding such a
personage in such a place.

Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he had good sport,
to which the other answered, "Very little."--"I see, sir," says Adams,
"you have smote one partridge;" to which the sportsman made no reply,
but proceeded to charge his piece.

Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in silence, which he at last
broke by observing that it was a delightful evening. The gentleman, who
had at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of the parson,
began, on perceiving a book in his hand and smoaking likewise the
information of the cassock, to change his thoughts, and made a small
advance to conversation on his side by saying, "Sir, I suppose you are
not one of these parts?"

Adams immediately told him, "No; that he was a traveller, and invited by
the beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little and amuse
himself with reading."--"I may as well repose myself too," said the
sportsman, "for I have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil a
bird have I seen till I came hither."

"Perhaps then the game is not very plenty hereabouts?" cries Adams. "No,
sir," said the gentleman: "the soldiers, who are quartered in the
neighbourhood, have killed it all."--"It is very probable," cries Adams,
"for shooting is their profession."--"Ay, shooting the game," answered
the other; "but I don't see they are so forward to shoot our enemies. I
don't like that affair of Carthagena; if I had been there, I believe I
should have done other-guess things, d--n me: what's a man's life when
his country demands it? a man who won't sacrifice his life for his
country deserves to be hanged, d--n me." Which words he spoke with so
violent a gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so fierce a
countenance, that he might have frightened a captain of trained bands at
the head of his company; but Mr Adams was not greatly subject to fear;
he told him intrepidly that he very much approved his virtue, but
disliked his swearing, and begged him not to addict himself to so bad a
custom, without which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did.
Indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he told the gentleman he
would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generous
way of thinking; that, if he pleased to sit down, he should be greatly
delighted to commune with him; for, though he was a clergyman, he would
himself be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his life for
his country.

The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; and then the latter began, as
in the following chapter, a discourse which we have placed by itself, as
it is not only the most curious in this but perhaps in any other book.


_A notable dissertation by Mr Abraham Adams; wherein that gentleman
appears in a political light._

"I do assure you, sir" (says he, taking the gentleman by the hand), "I
am heartily glad to meet with a man of your kidney; for, though I am a
poor parson, I will be bold to say I am an honest man, and would not do
an ill thing to be made a bishop; nay, though it hath not fallen in my
way to offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not been without opportunities
of suffering for the sake of my conscience, I thank Heaven for them; for
I have had relations, though I say it, who made some figure in the
world; particularly a nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a
corporation. He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy; and I
believe would do what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like
extreme vanity in me to affect being a man of such consequence as to
have so great an interest in an alderman; but others have thought so
too, as manifestly appeared by the rector, whose curate I formerly was,
sending for me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if I
expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephew to vote
for one Colonel Courtly, a gentleman whom I had never heard tidings of
till that instant. I told the rector I had no power over my nephew's
vote (God forgive me for such prevarication!); that I supposed he would
give it according to his conscience; that I would by no means endeavour
to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it was in vain to
equivocate; that he knew I had already spoke to him in favour of esquire
Fickle, my neighbour; and, indeed, it was true I had; for it was at a
season when the church was in danger, and when all good men expected
they knew not what would happen to us all. I then answered boldly, if he
thought I had given my promise, he affronted me in proposing any breach
of it. Not to be too prolix; I persevered, and so did my nephew, in the
esquire's interest, who was chose chiefly through his means; and so I
lost my curacy, Well, sir, but do you think the esquire ever mentioned a
word of the church? _Ne verbum quidem, ut ita dicam_: within two years
he got a place, and hath ever since lived in London; where I have been
informed (but God forbid I should believe that,) that he never so much
as goeth to church. I remained, sir, a considerable time without any
cure, and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which I preached on
the indisposition of a clergyman; but this by the bye. At last, when Mr
Fickle got his place, Colonel Courtly stood again; and who should make
interest for him but Mr Fickle himself! that very identical Mr Fickle,
who had formerly told me the colonel was an enemy to both the church and
state, had the confidence to sollicit my nephew for him; and the colonel
himself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, which I refused
in favour of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us he would sacrifice
everything to his country; and I believe he would, except his hunting,
which he stuck so close to, that in five years together he went but
twice up to parliament; and one of those times, I have been told, never
was within sight of the House. However, he was a worthy man, and the
best friend I ever had; for, by his interest with a bishop, he got me
replaced into my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket
to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. He had our interest
while he lived, which was not many years. On his death I had fresh
applications made to me; for all the world knew the interest I had with
my good nephew, who now was a leading man in the corporation; and Sir
Thomas Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver's, proposed
himself a candidate. He was then a young gentleman just come from his
travels; and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs which, for
my part, I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a thousand votes he
should have had them all. I engaged my nephew in his interest, and he
was elected; and a very fine parliament-man he was. They tell me he made
speeches of an hour long, and, I have been told, very fine ones; but he
could never persuade the parliament to be of his opinion. _Non omnia
possumus omnes_. He promised me a living, poor man! and I believe I
should have had it, but an accident happened, which was, that my lady
had promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I never heard till
afterwards; for my nephew, who died about a month before the incumbent,
always told me I might be assured of it. Since that time, Sir Thomas,
poor man, had always so much business, that he never could find leisure
to see me. I believe it was partly my lady's fault too, who did not
think my dress good enough for the gentry at her table. However, I must
do him the justice to say he never was ungrateful; and I have always
found his kitchen, and his cellar too, open to me: many a time, after
service on a Sunday--for I preach at four churches--have I recruited my
spirits with a glass of his ale. Since my nephew's death, the
corporation is in other hands; and I am not a man of that consequence I
was formerly. I have now no longer any talents to lay out in the service
of my country; and to whom nothing is given, of him can nothing be
required. However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach of an
election, I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I have
the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas and the other
honest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me these five
years to procure an ordination for a son of mine, who is now near
thirty, hath an infinite stock of learning, and is, I thank Heaven, of
an unexceptionable life; though, as he was never at an university, the
bishop refuses to ordain him. Too much care cannot indeed be taken in
admitting any to the sacred office; though I hope he will never act so
as to be a disgrace to any order, but will serve his God and his country
to the utmost of his power, as I have endeavoured to do before him; nay,
and will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose. I am sure I
have educated him in those principles; so that I have acquitted my duty,
and shall have nothing to answer for on that account. But I do not
distrust him, for he is a good boy; and if Providence should throw it in
his way to be of as much consequence in a public light as his father
once was, I can answer for him he will use his talents as honestly as I
have done."


_In which the gentleman discants on bravery and heroic virtue, till an
unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse._

The gentleman highly commended Mr Adams for his good resolutions, and
told him, "He hoped his son would tread in his steps;" adding, "that if
he would not die for his country, he would not be worthy to live in it.
I'd make no more of shooting a man that would not die for his
country, than--

"Sir," said he, "I have disinherited a nephew, who is in the army,
because he would not exchange his commission and go to the West Indies.
I believe the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in love
forsooth. I would have all such fellows hanged, sir; I would have them
hanged." Adams answered, "That would be too severe; that men did not
make themselves; and if fear had too much ascendance in the mind, the
man was rather to be pitied than abhorred; that reason and time might
teach him to subdue it." He said, "A man might be a coward at one time,
and brave at another. Homer," says he, "who so well understood and
copied Nature, hath taught us this lesson; for Paris fights and Hector
runs away. Nay, we have a mighty instance of this in the history of
later ages, no longer ago than the 705th year of Rome, when the great
Pompey, who had won so many battles and been honoured with so many
triumphs, and of whose valour several authors, especially Cicero and
Paterculus, have formed such elogiums; this very Pompey left the battle
of Pharsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to his tent, where he
sat like the most pusillanimous rascal in a fit of despair, and yielded
a victory, which was to determine the empire of the world, to Caesar. I
am not much travelled in the history of modern times, that is to say,
these last thousand years; but those who are can, I make no question,
furnish you with parallel instances." He concluded, therefore, that, had
he taken any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he
would consider better, and retract them. The gentleman answered with
great warmth, and talked much of courage and his country, till,
perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams, "What place he intended for
that night?" He told him, "He waited there for the stage-coach."--"The
stage-coach, sir!" said the gentleman; "they are all passed by long ago.
You may see the last yourself almost three miles before us."--"I protest
and so they are," cries Adams; "then I must make haste and follow them."
The gentleman told him, "he would hardly be able to overtake them; and
that, if he did not know his way, he would be in danger of losing
himself on the downs, for it would be presently dark; and he might
ramble about all night, and perhaps find himself farther from his
journey's end in the morning than he was now." He advised him,
therefore, "to accompany him to his house, which was very little out of
his way," assuring him "that he would find some country fellow in his
parish who would conduct him for sixpence to the city where he was
going." Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, the
gentleman renewing his discourse on courage, and the infamy of not being
ready, at all times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night
overtook them much about the same time as they arrived near some bushes;
whence, on a sudden, they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a
female voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his companion's
hand. "What are you doing?" said he. "Doing!" said Adams; "I am
hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains are
murdering." "You are not mad enough, I hope," says the gentleman,
trembling: "do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that
the robbers are most probably furnished with pistols loaded with
bullets? This is no business of ours; let us make as much haste as
possible out of the way, or we may fall into their hands ourselves." The
shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but snapt his fingers,
and, brandishing his crabstick, made directly to the place whence the
voice issued; and the man of courage made as much expedition towards his
own home, whither he escaped in a very short time without once looking
behind him; where we will leave him, to contemplate his own bravery, and
to censure the want of it in others, and return to the good Adams, who,
on coming up to the place whence the noise proceeded, found a woman
struggling with a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almost
overpowered her. The great abilities of Mr Adams were not necessary to
have formed a right judgment of this affair on the first sight. He did
not, therefore, want the entreaties of the poor wretch to assist her;
but, lifting up his crabstick, he immediately levelled a blow at that
part of the ravisher's head where, according to the opinion of the
ancients, the brains of some persons are deposited, and which he had
undoubtedly let forth, had not Nature (who, as wise men have observed,
equips all creatures with what is most expedient for them) taken a
provident care (as she always doth with those she intends for
encounters) to make this part of the head three times as thick as those
of ordinary men who are designed to exercise talents which are vulgarly
called rational, and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged
to leave some room for them in the cavity of the skull; whereas, those
ingredients being entirely useless to persons of the heroic calling, she
hath an opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it less
subject to any impression, or liable to be cracked or broken: and
indeed, in some who are predestined to the command of armies and
empires, she is supposed sometimes to make that part perfectly solid.

As a game cock, when engaged in amorous toying with a hen, if perchance
he espies another cock at hand, immediately quits his female, and
opposes himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on the information of
the crabstick, immediately leap from the woman and hasten to assail the
man. He had no weapons but what Nature had furnished him with. However,
he clenched his fist, and presently darted it at that part of Adams's
breast where the heart is lodged. Adams staggered at the violence of the
blow, when, throwing away his staff, he likewise clenched that fist
which we have before commemorated, and would have discharged it full in
the breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it with his
left hand, at the same time darting his head (which some modern heroes
of the lower class use, like the battering-ram of the ancients, for a
weapon of offence; another reason to admire the cunningness of Nature,
in composing it of those impenetrable materials); dashing his head, I
say, into the stomach of Adams, he tumbled him on his back; and, not
having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have restrained
him from any farther attack on his enemy till he was again on his legs,
he threw himself upon him, and, laying hold on the ground with his left
hand, he with his right belaboured the body of Adams till he was weary,
and indeed till he concluded (to use the language of fighting) "that he
had done his business;" or, in the language of poetry, "that he had sent
him to the shades below;" in plain English, "that he was dead."

But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear a drubbing as well as any
boxing champion in the universe, lay still only to watch his
opportunity; and now, perceiving his antagonist to pant with his
labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and with such success that
he overturned him, and became his superior; when, fixing one of his
knees in his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, "It is my turn
now;" and, after a few minutes' constant application, he gave him so
dexterous a blow just under his chin that the fellow no longer retained
any motion, and Adams began to fear he had struck him once too often;
for he often asserted "he should be concerned to have the blood of even
the wicked upon him."

Adams got up and called aloud to the young woman. "Be of good cheer,
damsel," said he, "you are no longer in danger of your ravisher, who, I
am terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet; but God forgive me what I have
done in defence of innocence!" The poor wretch, who had been some time
in recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, during the
engagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear even from running
away, hearing her champion was victorious, came up to him, but not
without apprehensions even of her deliverer; which, however, she was
soon relieved from by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. They
were both standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, and
which Adams wished to see stir much more than the woman did, when he
earnestly begged her to tell him "by what misfortune she came, at such a
time of night, into so lonely a place." She acquainted him, "She was
travelling towards London, and had accidentally met with the person from
whom he had delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his journey
to the same place, and would keep her company; an offer which,
suspecting no harm, she had accepted; that he told her they were at a
small distance from an inn where she might take up her lodging that
evening, and he would show her a nearer way to it than by following the
road; that if she had suspected him (which she did not, he spoke so
kindly to her), being alone on these downs in the dark, she had no human
means to avoid him; that, therefore, she put her whole trust in
Providence, and walked on, expecting every moment to arrive at the inn;
when on a sudden, being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop,
and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties,
which she rejected, he laid violent hands on her, and was attempting to
execute his wicked will, when, she thanked G--, he timely came up and
prevented him." Adams encouraged her for saying she had put her whole
trust in Providence, and told her, "He doubted not but Providence had
sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. He wished
indeed he had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but G--'s will be
done;" said, "He hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse him in
the next world, and he trusted in her evidence to acquit him in this."
He was then silent, and began to consider with himself whether it would
be properer to make his escape, or to deliver himself into the hands of
justice; which meditation ended as the reader will see in the
next chapter.


_Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding
adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities; and who the
woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to his
victorious arm._

The silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night and loneliness
of the place, struck dreadful apprehension into the poor woman's mind;
she began to fear as great an enemy in her deliverer as he had
delivered her from; and as she had not light enough to discover the age
of Adams, and the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspected
he had used her as some very honest men have used their country; and had
rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in order to rifle her
himself. Such were the suspicions she drew from his silence; but indeed
they were ill-grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely
weighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of the
two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgment
sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the other; for both
seemed to him so equally advisable and so equally dangerous, that
probably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, on
that very spot, before he had taken any resolution; at length he lifted
up his eyes, and spied a light at a distance, to which he instantly
addressed himself with _Heus tu, traveller, heus tu!_ He presently heard
several voices, and perceived the light approaching toward him. The
persons who attended the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and
others to hollow, at which the woman testified some fear (for she had
concealed her suspicions of the parson himself); but Adams said, "Be of
good cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Providence which
hath hitherto protected thee, and never will forsake the innocent."
These people, who now approached, were no other, reader, than a set of
young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit of a diversion which
they call bird-batting. This, if you are ignorant of it (as perhaps if
thou hast never travelled beyond Kensington, Islington, Hackney, or the
Borough, thou mayst be), I will inform thee, is performed by holding a
large clap-net before a lanthorn, and at the same time beating the
bushes; for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places of
rest, or roost, immediately make to the light, and so are inticed
within the net. Adams immediately told them what happened, and desired
them to hold the lanthorn to the face of the man on the ground, for he
feared he had smote him fatally. But indeed his fears were frivolous;
for the fellow, though he had been stunned by the last blow he received,
had long since recovered his senses, and, finding himself quit of Adams,
had listened attentively to the discourse between him and the young
woman; for whose departure he had patiently waited, that he might
likewise withdraw himself, having no longer hopes of succeeding in his
desires, which were moreover almost as well cooled by Mr Adams as they
could have been by the young woman herself had he obtained his utmost
wish. This fellow, who had a readiness at improving any accident,
thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man; and,
accordingly, the moment the candle was held to his face he leapt up,
and, laying hold on Adams, cried out, "No, villain, I am not dead,
though you and your wicked whore might well think me so, after the
barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. Gentlemen," said he, "you
are luckily come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who would
otherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman, who
led me hither out of my way from the high-road, and both falling on me
have used me as you see." Adams was going to answer, when one of the
young fellows cried, "D--n them, let's carry them both before the
justice." The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his
voice, but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him; and one
holding the lanthorn to his face, they all agreed he had the most
villainous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney's clerk, who
was of the company, declared he was sure he had remembered him at the
bar. As to the woman, her hair was dishevelled in the struggle, and her
nose had bled; so that they could not perceive whether she was handsome
or ugly, but they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. And
searching her pockets, as they did those of Adams, for money, which the
fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a purse with some gold
in it, which abundantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offered
to swear to it. Mr Adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny
about him. This the clerk said "was a great presumption that he was an
old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman." To which
all the rest readily assented.

This accident promising them better sport than what they had proposed,
they quitted their intention of catching birds, and unanimously resolved
to proceed to the justice with the offenders. Being informed what a
desperate fellow Adams was, they tied his hands behind him; and, having
hid their nets among the bushes, and the lanthorn being carried before
them, they placed the two prisoners in their front, and then began their
march; Adams not only submitting patiently to his own fate, but
comforting and encouraging his companion under her sufferings.

Whilst they were on their way the clerk informed the rest that this
adventure would prove a very beneficial one; for that they would all be
entitled to their proportions of 80 for apprehending the robbers. This
occasioned a contention concerning the parts which they had severally
borne in taking them; one insisting he ought to have the greatest share,
for he had first laid his hands on Adams; another claiming a superior
part for having first held the lanthorn to the man's face on the ground,
by which, he said, "the whole was discovered." The clerk claimed
four-fifths of the reward for having proposed to search the prisoners,
and likewise the carrying them before the justice: he said, "Indeed, in
strict justice, he ought to have the whole." These claims, however,
they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed all to
agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated what
money should be allotted to the young fellow who had been employed only
in holding the nets. He very modestly said, "That he did not apprehend
any large proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would allow
him something; he desired them to consider that they had assigned their
nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in
laying hold of the robbers" (for so those innocent people were called);
"that if he had not occupied the nets, some other must;" concluding,
however, "that he should be contented with the smallest share
imaginable, and should think that rather their bounty than his merit."
But they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever, the
clerk particularly swearing, "If they gave him a shilling they might do
what they pleased with the rest; for he would not concern himself with
the affair." This contention was so hot, and so totally engaged the
attention of all the parties, that a dexterous nimble thief, had he been
in Mr Adams's situation, would have taken care to have given the justice
no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art of a Sheppard
to escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so much
befriended him; but Adams trusted rather to his innocence than his
heels, and, without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance
(which was impossible, as there were six lusty young fellows, besides
the villain himself, present), he walked with perfect resignation the
way they thought proper to conduct him.

Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations during their journey; at
last, poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his mind, he could not refrain
sighing forth his name, which being heard by his companion in
affliction, she cried with some vehemence, "Sure I should know that
voice; you cannot certainly, sir, be Mr Abraham Adams?"--"Indeed,
damsel," says he, "that is my name; there is something also in your
voice which persuades me I have heard it before."--"La! sir," says she,
"don't you remember poor Fanny?"--"How, Fanny!" answered Adams: "indeed
I very well remember you; what can have brought you hither?"--"I have
told you, sir," replied she, "I was travelling towards London; but I
thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews; pray what is become of him?"--"I
left him, child, this afternoon," said Adams, "in the stage-coach, in
his way towards our parish, whither he is going to see you."--"To see
me! La, sir," answered Fanny, "sure you jeer me; what should he be going
to see me for?"--"Can you ask that?" replied Adams. "I hope, Fanny, you
are not inconstant; I assure you he deserves much better of you."--"La!
Mr Adams," said she, "what is Mr Joseph to me? I am sure I never had
anything to say to him, but as one fellow-servant might to another."--"I
am sorry to hear this," said Adams; "a virtuous passion for a young man
is what no woman need be ashamed of. You either do not tell me truth, or
you are false to a very worthy man." Adams then told her what had
happened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively; and a sigh
often escaped from her, notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to the
contrary; nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousand
questions, which would have assured any one but Adams, who never saw
farther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of a
passion she endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that this poor
girl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune, by some of the servants
belonging to the coach which we have formerly mentioned to have stopt at
the inn while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that instant
abandoned the cow she was milking, and, taking with her a little bundle
of clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth in her own
purse, without consulting any one, immediately set forward in pursuit of
one whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved with
inexpressible violence, though with the purest and most delicate
passion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend her
character to all our female readers, and not greatly surprize such of
our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex,
we shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindicate.


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

Their fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dispute concerning
the division of the reward for apprehending these innocent people, that
they attended very little to their discourse. They were now arrived at
the justice's house, and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint his
worship that they had taken two robbers and brought them before him. The
justice, who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not yet
finished his dinner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into the
stable, whither they were attended by all the servants in the house, and
all the people in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see them
with as much curiosity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, or
that a rogue did not look like other people.

The justice, now being in the height of his mirth and his cups,
bethought himself of the prisoners; and, telling his company he believed
they should have good sport in their examination, he ordered them into
his presence. They had no sooner entered the room than he began to
revile them, saying, "That robberies on the highway were now grown so
frequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, and assured
them they both should be made examples of at the ensuing assizes." After
he had gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded by his clerk,
"That it would be proper to take the depositions of the witnesses
against them." Which he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the
meantime. Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the deposition
of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice employed
himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by all
the company at table. One asked, "Whether she was to be indicted for a
highwayman?" Another whispered in her ear, "If she had not provided
herself a great belly, he was at her service." A third said, "He
warranted she was a relation of Turpin." To which one of the company, a
great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered, "He believed
she was nearer related to Turpis;" at which there was an universal
laugh. They were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when somebody,
smoking the cassock peeping forth from under the greatcoat of Adams,
cried out, "What have we here, a parson?" "How, sirrah," says the
justice, "do you go robbing in the dress of a clergyman? let me tell you
your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy." "Yes,"
said the witty fellow, "he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be
exalted above the heads of the people;" at which there was a second
laugh. And now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in
spirits; and, turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verses, and,
provoking him by giving the first blow, he repeated--

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

Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told him, "He
deserved scourging for his pronunciation." The witty fellow answered,
"What do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer the first
time? Why, I'll give one, you blockhead, with an S.

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

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

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

I could have done it once." "Ah! evil betide you, and so you can now,"
said the other: "nobody in this country will undertake you." Adams could
hold no longer: "Friend," said he, "I have a boy not above eight years
old who would instruct thee that the last verse runs thus:--

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

"I'll hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, throwing the money on
the table. "And I'll go your halves," cries the other. "Done," answered
Adams; but upon applying to his pocket he was forced to retract, and own
he had no money about him; which set them all a-laughing, and confirmed
the triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more than the
approbation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he must
go a little longer to school before he attempted to attack that
gentleman in Latin.

The clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the fellow
himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered them to
the justice; who, having sworn the several witnesses without reading a
syllable, ordered his clerk to make the mittimus.

Adams then said, "He hoped he should not be condemned unheard." "No,
no," cries the justice, "you will be asked what you have to say for
yourself when you come on your trial: we are not trying you now; I shall
only commit you to gaol: if you can prove your innocence at size, you
will be found ignoramus, and so no harm done." "Is it no punishment,
sir, for an innocent man to lie several months in gaol?" cries Adams: "I
beg you would at least hear me before you sign the mittimus." "What
signifies all you can say?" says the justice: "is it not here in black
and white against you? I must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow
to take up so much of my time. So make haste with his mittimus."

The clerk now acquainted the justice that among other suspicious things,
as a penknife, &c., found in Adams's pocket, they had discovered a book
written, as he apprehended, in cyphers; for no one could read a word in
it. "Ay," says the justice, "the fellow may be more than a common
robber, he may be in a plot against the Government. Produce the book."
Upon which the poor manuscript of Aeschylus, which Adams had transcribed
with his own hand, was brought forth; and the justice, looking at it,
shook his head, and, turning to the prisoner, asked the meaning of those
cyphers. "Cyphers?" answered Adams, "it is a manuscript of Aeschylus."
"Who? who?" said the justice. Adams repeated, "Aeschylus." "That is an
outlandish name," cried the clerk. "A fictitious name rather, I
believe," said the justice. One of the company declared it looked very
much like Greek. "Greek?" said the justice; "why, 'tis all writing."
"No," says the other, "I don't positively say it is so; for it is a very
long time since I have seen any Greek." "There's one," says he, turning
to the parson of the parish, who was present, "will tell us
immediately." The parson, taking up the book, and putting on his
spectacles and gravity together, muttered some words to himself, and
then pronounced aloud--"Ay, indeed, it is a Greek manuscript; a very
fine piece of antiquity. I make no doubt but it was stolen from the same
clergyman from whom the rogue took the cassock." "What did the rascal
mean by his Aeschylus?" says the justice. "Pooh!" answered the doctor,
with a contemptuous grin, "do you think that fellow knows anything of
this book? Aeschylus! ho! ho! I see now what it is--a manuscript of one
of the fathers. I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of money
for such a piece of antiquity. Ay, ay, question and answer. The
beginning is the catechism in Greek. Ay, ay, _Pollaki toi_: What's your
name?"--"Ay, what's your name?" says the justice to Adams; who answered,
"It is Aeschylus, and I will maintain it."--"Oh! it is," says the
justice: "make Mr Aeschylus his mittimus. I will teach you to banter me
with a false name."

One of the company, having looked steadfastly at Adams, asked him, "If
he did not know Lady Booby?" Upon which Adams, presently calling him to
mind, answered in a rapture, "O squire! are you there? I believe you
will inform his worship I am innocent."--"I can indeed say," replied the
squire, "that I am very much surprized to see you in this situation:"
and then, addressing himself to the justice, he said, "Sir, I assure
you Mr Adams is a clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very
good character. I wish you would enquire a little farther into this
affair; for I am convinced of his innocence."--"Nay," says the justice,
"if he is a gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don't desire
to commit him, not I: I will commit the woman by herself, and take your
bail for the gentleman: look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to
take bail--come--and make the mittimus for the woman as fast as you
can."--"Sir," cries Adams, "I assure you she is as innocent as
myself."--"Perhaps," said the squire, "there may be some mistake! pray
let us hear Mr Adams's relation."--"With all my heart," answered the
justice; "and give the gentleman a glass to wet his whistle before he
begins. I know how to behave myself to gentlemen as well as another.
Nobody can say I have committed a gentleman since I have been in the
commission." Adams then began the narrative, in which, though he was
very prolix, he was uninterrupted, unless by several hums and hahs of
the justice, and his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to him
most material. When he had finished, the justice, who, on what the
squire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his bare
affirmation, notwithstanding the depositions on oath to the contrary,
began to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, whom
he ordered to stand forth, but in vain; the said witness, long since
finding what turn matters were likely to take, had privily withdrawn,
without attending the issue. The justice now flew into a violent
passion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocent
fellows who had been imposed on as well as himself. He swore, "They had
best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before
him within two days, or he would bind them all over to their good
behaviour." They all promised to use their best endeavours to that
purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice insisted that Mr Adams
should sit down and take a glass with him; and the parson of the parish
delivered him back the manuscript without saying a word; nor would
Adams, who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she
was, at her own request, recommended to the care of a maid-servant of
the house, who helped her to new dress and clean herself.

The company in the parlour had not been long seated before they were
alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the persons who had
apprehended Adams and Fanny had been regaling, according to the custom
of the house, with the justice's strong beer. These were all fallen
together by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. The
justice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his presence soon
put an end to the fray. On his return into the parlour, he reported,
"That the occasion of the quarrel was no other than a dispute to whom,
if Adams had been convicted, the greater share of the reward for
apprehending him had belonged." All the company laughed at this, except
Adams, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and
said, "He was concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. That he
remembered a story something like it in one of the parishes where his
cure lay:--There was," continued he, "a competition between three young
fellows for the place of the clerk, which I disposed of, to the best of
my abilities, according to merit; that is, I gave it to him who had the
happiest knack at setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner established
in his place than a contention began between the two disappointed
candidates concerning their excellence; each contending on whom, had
they two been the only competitors, my election would have fallen. This
dispute frequently disturbed the congregation, and introduced a discord
into the psalmody, till I was forced to silence them both. But, alas!
the litigious spirit could not be stifled; and, being no longer able to
vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fighting. It produced many
battles (for they were very near a match), and I believe would have
ended fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity to
promote one of them to his place; which presently put an end to the
dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties." Adams then
proceeded to make some philosophical observations on the folly of
growing warm in disputes in which neither party is interested. He then
applied himself vigorously to smoaking; and a long silence ensued, which
was at length broke by the justice, who began to sing forth his own
praises, and to value himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in the
cause which had lately been before him. He was quickly interrupted by Mr
Adams, between whom and his worship a dispute now arose, whether he
ought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said Adams;
in which the latter maintained he ought to have been committed, and the
justice as vehemently held he ought not. This had most probably produced
a quarrel (for both were very violent and positive in their opinions),
had not Fanny accidentally heard that a young fellow was going from the
justice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach in which Joseph
was, put up. Upon this news, she immediately sent for the parson out of
the parlour. Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though she would
not own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces of
those who had suspected her of such a crime), was as fully determined to
go with her; he accordingly took leave of the justice and company: and
so ended a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a
magistrate and a divine together by the ears.


_A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to the
good-natured reader._

Adams, Fanny, and the guide, set out together about one in the morning,
the moon being then just risen. They had not gone above a mile before a
most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or
rather alehouse, where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a
toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content,
utterly forgetting everything that had happened.

Fanny sat likewise down by the fire; but was much more impatient at the
storm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of
the house, and the young fellow who was their guide; they all conceived
they had never seen anything half so handsome; and indeed, reader, if
thou art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the next
paragraph; which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to set
down, humbly hoping that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion; for if it
should happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, we
should be perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say
to ourselves, _Quod petis est nusquam_. Or, if the finest features in it
should set Lady ----'s image before our eyes, we should be still in as
bad a situation, and might say to our desires, _Coelum ipsum petimus

Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she was tall and
delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women who seem
rather intended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist than for any
other purpose. On the contrary, she was so plump that she seemed
bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confined
her swelling breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to
extend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbs
which she concealed; and though they were a little reddened by her
labour, yet, if her sleeve slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchief
discovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest
Italian paint would be unable to reach. Her hair was of a chesnut brown,
and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut,
and on Sundays used to curl down her neck, in the modern fashion. Her
forehead was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise.
Her eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the Roman; her
lips red and moist, and her underlip, according to the opinion of the
ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The
small-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which was so large, it
might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced
one so near a neighbour to it, that the former served only for a foil to
the latter. Her complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, but
overspread with such a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged
all their white for it: add to these a countenance in which, though she
was extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible; and a
sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or description.
To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, superior to the
acquisition of art, and which surprized all who beheld her.

This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, when her
attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room, which sung
the following song:--


Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray
Who is by thy beauties undone?
To wash their remembrance away,
To what distant Lethe must run?
The wretch who is sentenced to die
May escape, and leave justice behind;
From his country perhaps he may fly,
But oh! can he fly from his mind?

O rapture! unthought of before,
To be thus of Chloe possess'd;
Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power,
Her image can tear from my breast.
But felt not Narcissus more joy,
With his eyes he beheld his loved charms?
Yet what he beheld the fond boy
More eagerly wish'd in his arms.

How can it thy dear image be
Which fills thus my bosom with woe?
Can aught bear resemblance to thee
Which grief and not joy can bestow?
This counterfeit snatch from my heart,
Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave,
Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart:
I then shall find rest in my grave.

Ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain
Come smiling and tripping along!
A thousand Loves dance in her train,
The Graces around her all throng.
To meet her soft Zephyrus flies,
And wafts all the sweets from the flowers,
Ah, rogue I whilst he kisses her eyes,
More sweets from her breath he devours.

My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire:
But her looks were so tender and kind,
My hope almost reach'd my desire,
And left lame despair far behind.
Transported with madness, I flew,
And eagerly seized on my bliss;
Her bosom but half she withdrew,
But half she refused my fond kiss.

Advances like these made me bold;
I whisper'd her--Love, we're alone.--
The rest let immortals unfold;
No language can tell but their own.
Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried,
How long I thy cruelty bore!
Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied,
You ne'er was so pressing before.

Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in Aeschylus,
without attending in the least to the voice, though one of the most
melodious that ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on Fanny, he cried
out, "Bless us, you look extremely pale!"--"Pale! Mr Adams," says she;
"O Jesus!" and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung his
Aeschylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the people of the house
for help. He soon summoned every one into the room, and the songster
among the rest; but, O reader! when this nightingale, who was no other
than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in the situation we
have described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind? If
thou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his happiness, when,
clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her
cheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the
softest accent whisper, "Are you Joseph Andrews?"--"Art thou my Fanny?"
he answered eagerly: and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted
numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present.

If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, they may
take their eyes off from it, and survey parson Adams dancing about the
room in a rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps doubt whether he
was not the happiest of the three: for the goodness of his heart enjoyed
the blessings which were exulting in the breasts of both the other two,
together with his own. But we shall leave such disquisitions, as too
deep for us, to those who are building some favourite hypothesis, which
they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support: for our
part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not
only greater than the parson's, but of longer duration: for as soon as
the first tumults of Adams's rapture were over he cast his eyes towards
the fire, where Aeschylus lay expiring; and immediately rescued the
poor remains, to wit, the sheepskin covering, of his dear friend, which
was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion
for upwards of thirty years.

Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she began to
restrain the impetuosity of her transports; and, reflecting on what she
had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was immediately
covered with confusion; and, pushing Joseph gently from her, she begged
him to be quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer.
Then, seeing Mrs Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to advance to her;
but that high woman would not return her curtsies; but, casting her eyes
another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as she
went, she wondered who the creature was.


_A dissertation concerning high people and low people, with Mrs
Slipslop's departure in no very good temper of mind, and the evil plight
in which she left Adams and his company._

It will doubtless seem extremely odd to many readers, that Mrs Slipslop,
who had lived several years in the same house with Fanny, should, in a
short separation, utterly forget her. And indeed the truth is, that she
remembered her very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, that
anything should appear unnatural in this our history, we will endeavour
to explain the reasons of her conduct; nor do we doubt being able to
satisfy the most curious reader that Mrs Slipslop did not in the least
deviate from the common road in this behaviour; and, indeed, had she
done otherwise, she must have descended below herself, and would have
very justly been liable to censure.

Be it known then, that the human species are divided into two sorts of
people, to wit, high people and low people. As by high people I would
not be understood to mean persons literally born higher in their
dimensions than the rest of the species, nor metaphorically those of
exalted characters or abilities; so by low people I cannot be construed
to intend the reverse. High people signify no other than people of
fashion, and low people those of no fashion. Now, this word fashion hath
by long use lost its original meaning, from which at present it gives us
a very different idea; for I am deceived if by persons of fashion we do
not generally include a conception of birth and accomplishments superior
to the herd of mankind; whereas, in reality, nothing more was originally
meant by a person of fashion than a person who drest himself in the
fashion of the times; and the word really and truly signifies no more at
this day. Now, the world being thus divided into people of fashion and
people of no fashion, a fierce contention arose between them; nor would
those of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publicly to speak to
those of the other, though they often held a very good correspondence in
private. In this contention it is difficult to say which party
succeeded; for, whilst the people of fashion seized several places to
their own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas, balls, &c., the
people of no fashion, besides one royal place, called his Majesty's
Bear-garden, have been in constant possession of all hops, fairs,
revels, &c. Two places have been agreed to be divided between them,
namely, the church and the playhouse, where they segregate themselves
from each other in a remarkable manner; for, as the people of fashion
exalt themselves at church over the heads of the people of no fashion,
so in the playhouse they abase themselves in the same degree under
their feet. This distinction I have never met with any one able to

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