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Joseph Andrews, Vol. 2 by Henry Fielding

Part 2 out of 4

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who are, in reality, the worst-bred part of mankind. Well, sir, whilst I
continued in this miserable state, with scarce sufficient business to
keep me from starving, the reputation of a poet being my bane, I
accidentally became acquainted with a bookseller, who told me, "It was a
pity a man of my learning and genius should be obliged to such a method
of getting his livelihood; that he had a compassion for me, and, if I
would engage with him, he would undertake to provide handsomely for me."
A man in my circumstances, as he very well knew, had no choice. I
accordingly accepted his proposal with his conditions, which were none
of the most favourable, and fell to translating with all my might. I had
no longer reason to lament the want of business; for he furnished me
with so much, that in half a year I almost writ myself blind. I likewise
contracted a distemper by my sedentary life, in which no part of my body
was exercised but my right arm, which rendered me incapable of writing
for a long time. This unluckily happening to delay the publication of a
work, and my last performance not having sold well, the bookseller
declined any further engagement, and aspersed me to his brethren as a
careless idle fellow. I had, however, by having half worked and half
starved myself to death during the time I was in his service, saved a
few guineas, with which I bought a lottery-ticket, resolving to throw
myself into Fortune's lap, and try if she would make me amends for the
injuries she had done me at the gaming-table. This purchase, being made,
left me almost pennyless; when, as if I had not been sufficiently
miserable, a bailiff in woman's clothes got admittance to my chamber,
whither he was directed by the bookseller. He arrested me at my taylor's
suit for thirty-five pounds; a sum for which I could not procure bail;
and was therefore conveyed to his house, where I was locked up in an
upper chamber. I had now neither health (for I was scarce recovered from
my indisposition), liberty, money, or friends; and had abandoned all
hopes, and even the desire, of life. "But this could not last long,"
said Adams; "for doubtless the taylor released you the moment he was
truly acquainted with your affairs, and knew that your circumstances
would not permit you to pay him." "Oh, sir," answered the gentleman, "he
knew that before he arrested me; nay, he knew that nothing but
incapacity could prevent me paying my debts; for I had been his customer
many years, had spent vast sums of money with him, and had always paid
most punctually in my prosperous days; but when I reminded him of this,
with assurances that, if he would not molest my endeavours, I would pay
him all the money I could by my utmost labour and industry procure,
reserving only what was sufficient to preserve me alive, he answered,
his patience was worn out; that I had put him off from time to time;
that he wanted the money; that he had put it into a lawyer's hands; and
if I did not pay him immediately, or find security, I must die in gaol
and expect no mercy." "He may expect mercy," cries Adams, starting from
his chair, "where he will find none! How can such a wretch repeat the
Lord's Prayer; where the word, which is translated, I know not for what
reason, trespasses, is in the original, debts? And as surely as we do
not forgive others their debts, when they are unable to pay them, so
surely shall we ourselves be unforgiven when we are in no condition of
paying." He ceased, and the gentleman proceeded. While I was in this
deplorable situation, a former acquaintance, to whom I had communicated
my lottery-ticket, found me out, and, making me a visit, with great
delight in his countenance, shook me heartily by the hand, and wished me
joy of my good fortune: for, says he, your ticket is come up a prize of
3000. Adams snapped his fingers at these words in an ecstasy of joy;
which, however, did not continue long; for the gentleman thus
proceeded:--Alas! sir, this was only a trick of Fortune to sink me the
deeper; for I had disposed of this lottery-ticket two days before to a
relation, who refused lending me a shilling without it, in order to
procure myself bread. As soon as my friend was acquainted with my
unfortunate sale he began to revile me and remind me of all the
ill-conduct and miscarriages of my life. He said I was one whom Fortune
could not save if she would; that I was now ruined without any hopes of
retrieval, nor must expect any pity from my friends; that it would be
extreme weakness to compassionate the misfortunes of a man who ran
headlong to his own destruction. He then painted to me, in as lively
colours as he was able, the happiness I should have now enjoyed, had I
not foolishly disposed of my ticket. I urged the plea of necessity; but
he made no answer to that, and began again to revile me, till I could
bear it no longer, and desired him to finish his visit. I soon exchanged
the bailiff's house for a prison; where, as I had not money sufficient
to procure me a separate apartment, I was crouded in with a great number
of miserable wretches, in common with whom I was destitute of every
convenience of life, even that which all the brutes enjoy, wholesome
air. In these dreadful circumstances I applied by letter to several of
my old acquaintance, and such to whom I had formerly lent money without
any great prospect of its being returned, for their assistance; but in
vain. An excuse, instead of a denial, was the gentlest answer I
received. Whilst I languished in a condition too horrible to be
described, and which, in a land of humanity, and, what is much more,
Christianity, seems a strange punishment for a little inadvertency and
indiscretion; whilst I was in this condition, a fellow came into the
prison, and, enquiring me out, delivered me the following letter:--

"SIR,--My father, to whom you sold your ticket in the last
lottery, died the same day in which it came up a prize, as you
have possibly heard, and left me sole heiress of all his
fortune. I am so much touched with your present circumstances,
and the uneasiness you must feel at having been driven to
dispose of what might have made you happy, that I must desire
your acceptance of the enclosed, and am your humble servant,

"HARRIET HEARTY."

And what do you think was enclosed? "I don't know," cried Adams; "not
less than a guinea, I hope." Sir, it was a bank-note for 200.--"200?"
says Adams, in a rapture. No less, I assure you, answered the gentleman;
a sum I was not half so delighted with as with the dear name of the
generous girl that sent it me; and who was not only the best but the
handsomest creature in the universe, and for whom I had long had a
passion which I never durst disclose to her. I kissed her name a
thousand times, my eyes overflowing with tenderness and gratitude; I
repeated--But not to detain you with these raptures, I immediately
acquired my liberty; and, having paid all my debts, departed, with
upwards of fifty pounds in my pocket, to thank my kind deliverer. She
happened to be then out of town, a circumstance which, upon reflection,
pleased me; for by that means I had an opportunity to appear before her
in a more decent dress. At her return to town, within a day or two, I
threw myself at her feet with the most ardent acknowledgments, which she
rejected with an unfeigned greatness of mind, and told me I could not
oblige her more than by never mentioning, or if possible thinking on, a
circumstance which must bring to my mind an accident that might be
grievous to me to think on. She proceeded thus: "What I have done is in
my own eyes a trifle, and perhaps infinitely less than would have become
me to do. And if you think of engaging in any business where a larger
sum may be serviceable to you, I shall not be over-rigid either as to
the security or interest." I endeavoured to express all the gratitude in
my power to this profusion of goodness, though perhaps it was my enemy,
and began to afflict my mind with more agonies than all the miseries I
had underwent; it affected me with severer reflections than poverty,
distress, and prisons united had been able to make me feel; for, sir,
these acts and professions of kindness, which were sufficient to have
raised in a good heart the most violent passion of friendship to one of
the same, or to age and ugliness in a different sex, came to me from a
woman, a young and beautiful woman; one whose perfections I had long
known, and for whom I had long conceived a violent passion, though with
a despair which made me endeavour rather to curb and conceal, than to
nourish or acquaint her with it. In short, they came upon me united with
beauty, softness, and tenderness: such bewitching smiles!--O Mr Adams,
in that moment I lost myself, and, forgetting our different situations,
nor considering what return I was making to her goodness by desiring
her, who had given me so much, to bestow her all, I laid gently hold on
her hand, and, conveying it to my lips, I prest it with inconceivable
ardour; then, lifting up my swimming eyes, I saw her face and neck
overspread with one blush; she offered to withdraw her hand, yet not so
as to deliver it from mine, though I held it with the gentlest force. We
both stood trembling; her eyes cast on the ground, and mine stedfastly
fixed on her. Good G--d, what was then the condition of my soul! burning
with love, desire, admiration, gratitude, and every tender passion, all
bent on one charming object. Passion at last got the better of both
reason and respect, and, softly letting go her hand, I offered madly to
clasp her in my arms; when, a little recovering herself, she started
from me, asking me, with some show of anger, "If she had any reason to
expect this treatment from me." I then fell prostrate before her, and
told her, if I had offended, my life was absolutely in her power, which
I would in any manner lose for her sake. Nay, madam, said I, you shall
not be so ready to punish me as I to suffer. I own my guilt. I detest
the reflection that I would have sacrificed your happiness to mine.
Believe me, I sincerely repent my ingratitude; yet, believe me too, it
was my passion, my unbounded passion for you, which hurried me so far: I
have loved you long and tenderly, and the goodness you have shown me
hath innocently weighed down a wretch undone before. Acquit me of all
mean, mercenary views; and, before I take my leave of you for ever,
which I am resolved instantly to do, believe me that Fortune could have
raised me to no height to which I could not have gladly lifted you. O,
curst be Fortune!--"Do not," says she, interrupting me with the sweetest
voice, "do not curse Fortune, since she hath made me happy; and, if she
hath put your happiness in my power, I have told you you shall ask
nothing in reason which I will refuse." Madam, said I, you mistake me if
you imagine, as you seem, my happiness is in the power of Fortune now.
You have obliged me too much already; if I have any wish, it is for some
blest accident, by which I may contribute with my life to the least
augmentation of your felicity. As for myself, the only happiness I can
ever have will be hearing of yours; and if Fortune will make that
complete, I will forgive her all her wrongs to me. "You may, indeed,"
answered she, smiling, "for your own happiness must be included in mine.
I have long known your worth; nay, I must confess," said she, blushing,
"I have long discovered that passion for me you profess, notwithstanding
those endeavours, which I am convinced were unaffected, to conceal it;
and if all I can give with reason will not suffice, take reason away;
and now I believe you cannot ask me what I will deny."--She uttered
these words with a sweetness not to be imagined. I immediately started;
my blood, which lay freezing at my heart, rushed tumultuously through
every vein. I stood for a moment silent; then, flying to her, I caught
her in my arms, no longer resisting, and softly told her she must give
me then herself. O, sir! can I describe her look? She remained silent,
and almost motionless, several minutes. At last, recovering herself a
little, she insisted on my leaving her, and in such a manner that I
instantly obeyed: you may imagine, however, I soon saw her again.--But I
ask pardon: I fear I have detained you too long in relating the
particulars of the former interview. "So far otherwise," said Adams,
licking his lips, "that I could willingly hear it over again." Well,
sir, continued the gentleman, to be as concise as possible, within a
week she consented to make me the happiest of mankind. We were married
shortly after; and when I came to examine the circumstances of my wife's
fortune (which, I do assure you, I was not presently at leisure enough
to do), I found it amounted to about six thousand pounds, most part of
which lay in effects; for her father had been a wine-merchant, and she
seemed willing, if I liked it, that I should carry on the same trade. I
readily, and too inconsiderately, undertook it; for, not having been
bred up to the secrets of the business, and endeavouring to deal with
the utmost honesty and uprightness, I soon found our fortune in a
declining way, and my trade decreasing by little and little; for my
wines, which I never adulterated after their importation, and were sold
as neat as they came over, were universally decried by the vintners, to
whom I could not allow them quite as cheap as those who gained double
the profit by a less price. I soon began to despair of improving our
fortune by these means; nor was I at all easy at the visits and
familiarity of many who had been my acquaintance in my prosperity, but
had denied and shunned me in my adversity, and now very forwardly
renewed their acquaintance with me. In short, I had sufficiently seen
that the pleasures of the world are chiefly folly, and the business of
it mostly knavery, and both nothing better than vanity; the men of
pleasure tearing one another to pieces from the emulation of spending
money, and the men of business from envy in getting it. My happiness
consisted entirely in my wife, whom I loved with an inexpressible
fondness, which was perfectly returned; and my prospects were no other
than to provide for our growing family; for she was now big of her
second child: I therefore took an opportunity to ask her opinion of
entering into a retired life, which, after hearing my reasons and
perceiving my affection for it, she readily embraced. We soon put our
small fortune, now reduced under three thousand pounds, into money, with
part of which we purchased this little place, whither we retired soon
after her delivery, from a world full of bustle, noise, hatred, envy,
and ingratitude, to ease, quiet, and love. We have here lived almost
twenty years, with little other conversation than our own, most of the
neighbourhood taking us for very strange people; the squire of the
parish representing me as a madman, and the parson as a presbyterian,
because I will not hunt with the one nor drink with the other. "Sir,"
says Adams, "Fortune hath, I think, paid you all her debts in this sweet
retirement." Sir, replied the gentleman, I am thankful to the great
Author of all things for the blessings I here enjoy. I have the best of
wives, and three pretty children, for whom I have the true tenderness of
a parent. But no blessings are pure in this world: within three years of
my arrival here I lost my eldest son. (Here he sighed bitterly.) "Sir,"
says Adams, "we must submit to Providence, and consider death as common
to all." We must submit, indeed, answered the gentleman; and if he had
died I could have borne the loss with patience; but alas! sir, he was
stolen away from my door by some wicked travelling people whom they call
gipsies; nor could I ever, with the most diligent search, recover him.
Poor child! he had the sweetest look--the exact picture of his mother;
at which some tears unwittingly dropt from his eyes, as did likewise
from those of Adams, who always sympathized with his friends on those
occasions. Thus, sir, said the gentleman, I have finished my story, in
which if I have been too particular, I ask your pardon; and now, if you
please, I will fetch you another bottle: which proposal the parson
thankfully accepted.

CHAPTER IV.

_A description of Mr Wilson's way of living. The tragical adventure of
the dog, and other grave matters._

The gentleman returned with the bottle; and Adams and he sat some time
silent, when the former started up, and cried, "No, that won't do." The
gentleman inquired into his meaning; he answered, "He had been
considering that it was possible the late famous king Theodore might
have been that very son whom he had lost;" but added, "that his age
could not answer that imagination. However," says he, "G-- disposes all
things for the best; and very probably he may be some great man, or
duke, and may, one day or other, revisit you in that capacity." The
gentleman answered, he should know him amongst ten thousand, for he had
a mark on his left breast of a strawberry, which his mother had given
him by longing for that fruit.

That beautiful young lady the Morning now rose from her bed, and with a
countenance blooming with fresh youth and sprightliness, like Miss
----[A], with soft dews hanging on her pouting lips, began to take her
early walk over the eastern hills; and presently after, that gallant
person the Sun stole softly from his wife's chamber to pay his addresses
to her; when the gentleman asked his guest if he would walk forth and
survey his little garden, which he readily agreed to, and Joseph at the
same time awaking from a sleep in which he had been two hours buried,
went with them. No parterres, no fountains, no statues, embellished this
little garden. Its only ornament was a short walk, shaded on each side
by a filbert-hedge, with a small alcove at one end, whither in hot
weather the gentleman and his wife used to retire and divert themselves
with their children, who played in the walk before them. But, though
vanity had no votary in this little spot, here was variety of fruit and
everything useful for the kitchen, which was abundantly sufficient to
catch the admiration of Adams, who told the gentleman he had certainly a
good gardener. Sir, answered he, that gardener is now before you:
whatever you see here is the work solely of my own hands. Whilst I am
providing necessaries for my table, I likewise procure myself an
appetite for them. In fair seasons I seldom pass less than six hours of
the twenty-four in this place, where I am not idle; and by these means I
have been able to preserve my health ever since my arrival here, without
assistance from physic. Hither I generally repair at the dawn, and
exercise myself whilst my wife dresses her children and prepares our
breakfast; after which we are seldom asunder during the residue of the
day, for, when the weather will not permit them to accompany me here, I
am usually within with them; for I am neither ashamed of conversing with
my wife nor of playing with my children: to say the truth, I do not
perceive that inferiority of understanding which the levity of rakes,
the dulness of men of business, or the austerity of the learned, would
persuade us of in women. As for my woman, I declare I have found none of
my own sex capable of making juster observations on life, or of
delivering them more agreeably; nor do I believe any one possessed of a
faithfuller or braver friend. And sure as this friendship is sweetened
with more delicacy and tenderness, so is it confirmed by dearer pledges
than can attend the closest male alliance; for what union can be so fast
as our common interest in the fruits of our embraces? Perhaps, sir, you
are not yourself a father; if you are not, be assured you cannot
conceive the delight I have in my little ones. Would you not despise me
if you saw me stretched on the ground, and my children playing round me?
"I should reverence the sight," quoth Adams; "I myself am now the father
of six, and have been of eleven, and I can say I never scourged a child
of my own, unless as his schoolmaster, and then have felt every stroke
on my own posteriors. And as to what you say concerning women, I have
often lamented my own wife did not understand Greek."--The gentleman
smiled, and answered, he would not be apprehended to insinuate that his
own had an understanding above the care of her family; on the contrary,
says he, my Harriet, I assure you, is a notable housewife, and few
gentlemen's housekeepers understand cookery or confectionery better; but
these are arts which she hath no great occasion for now: however, the
wine you commended so much last night at supper was of her own making,
as is indeed all the liquor in my house, except my beer, which falls to
my province. "And I assure you it is as excellent," quoth Adams, "as
ever I tasted." We formerly kept a maid-servant, but since my girls have
been growing up she is unwilling to indulge them in idleness; for as the
fortunes I shall give them will be very small, we intend not to breed
them above the rank they are likely to fill hereafter, nor to teach them
to despise or ruin a plain husband. Indeed, I could wish a man of my own
temper, and a retired life, might fall to their lot; for I have
experienced that calm serene happiness, which is seated in content, is
inconsistent with the hurry and bustle of the world. He was proceeding
thus when the little things, being just risen, ran eagerly towards him
and asked him blessing. They were shy to the strangers, but the eldest
acquainted her father, that her mother and the young gentlewoman were
up, and that breakfast was ready. They all went in, where the gentleman
was surprized at the beauty of Fanny, who had now recovered herself from
her fatigue, and was entirely clean drest; for the rogues who had taken
away her purse had left her her bundle. But if he was so much amazed at
the beauty of this young creature, his guests were no less charmed at
the tenderness which appeared in the behaviour of the husband and wife
to each other, and to their children, and at the dutiful and
affectionate behaviour of these to their parents. These instances
pleased the well-disposed mind of Adams equally with the readiness which
they exprest to oblige their guests, and their forwardness to offer them
the best of everything in their house; and what delighted him still more
was an instance or two of their charity; for whilst they were at
breakfast the good woman was called for to assist her sick neighbour,
which she did with some cordials made for the public use, and the good
man went into his garden at the same time to supply another with
something which he wanted thence, for they had nothing which those who
wanted it were not welcome to. These good people were in the utmost
cheerfulness, when they heard the report of a gun, and immediately
afterwards a little dog, the favourite of the eldest daughter, came
limping in all bloody and laid himself at his mistress's feet: the poor
girl, who was about eleven years old, burst into tears at the sight; and
presently one of the neighbours came in and informed them that the young
squire, the son of the lord of the manor, had shot him as he past by,
swearing at the same time he would prosecute the master of him for
keeping a spaniel, for that he had given notice he would not suffer one
in the parish. The dog, whom his mistress had taken into her lap, died
in a few minutes, licking her hand. She exprest great agony at his loss,
and the other children began to cry for their sister's misfortune; nor
could Fanny herself refrain. Whilst the father and mother attempted to
comfort her, Adams grasped his crabstick and would have sallied out
after the squire had not Joseph withheld him. He could not however
bridle his tongue--he pronounced the word rascal with great emphasis;
said he deserved to be hanged more than a highwayman, and wished he had
the scourging him. The mother took her child, lamenting and carrying the
dead favourite in her arms, out of the room, when the gentleman said
this was the second time this squire had endeavoured to kill the little
wretch, and had wounded him smartly once before; adding, he could have
no motive but ill-nature, for the little thing, which was not near as
big as one's fist, had never been twenty yards from the house in the six
years his daughter had had it. He said he had done nothing to deserve
this usage, but his father had too great a fortune to contend with: that
he was as absolute as any tyrant in the universe, and had killed all the
dogs and taken away all the guns in the neighbourhood; and not only
that, but he trampled down hedges and rode over corn and gardens, with
no more regard than if they were the highway. "I wish I could catch him
in my garden," said Adams, "though I would rather forgive him riding
through my house than such an ill-natured act as this."

The cheerfulness of their conversation being interrupted by this
accident, in which the guests could be of no service to their kind
entertainer; and as the mother was taken up in administering consolation
to the poor girl, whose disposition was too good hastily to forget the
sudden loss of her little favourite, which had been fondling with her
a few minutes before; and as Joseph and Fanny were impatient to get home
and begin those previous ceremonies to their happiness which Adams had
insisted on, they now offered to take their leave. The gentleman
importuned them much to stay dinner; but when he found their eagerness
to depart he summoned his wife; and accordingly, having performed all
the usual ceremonies of bows and curtsies more pleasant to be seen than
to be related, they took their leave, the gentleman and his wife
heartily wishing them a good journey, and they as heartily thanking them
for their kind entertainment. They then departed, Adams declaring that
this was the manner in which the people had lived in the golden age.

[A] Whoever the reader pleases.

CHAPTER V.

_A disputation on schools held on the road between Mr Abraham Adams and
Joseph; and a discovery not unwelcome to them both._

Our travellers, having well refreshed themselves at the gentleman's
house, Joseph and Fanny with sleep, and Mr Abraham Adams with ale and
tobacco, renewed their journey with great alacrity; and pursuing the
road into which they were directed, travelled many miles before they
met with any adventure worth relating. In this interval we shall
present our readers with a very curious discourse, as we apprehend it,
concerning public schools, which passed between Mr Joseph Andrews and
Mr Abraham Adams.

They had not gone far before Adams, calling to Joseph, asked him, "If
he had attended to the gentleman's story?" He answered, "To all the
former part."--"And don't you think," says he, "he was a very unhappy
man in his youth?"--"A very unhappy man, indeed," answered the other.
"Joseph," cries Adams, screwing up his mouth, "I have found it; I have
discovered the cause of all the misfortunes which befel him: a public
school, Joseph, was the cause of all the calamities which he
afterwards suffered. Public schools are the nurseries of all vice and
immorality. All the wicked fellows whom I remember at the university
were bred at them.--Ah, Lord! I can remember as well as if it was but
yesterday, a knot of them; they called them King's scholars, I forget
why--very wicked fellows! Joseph, you may thank the Lord you were not
bred at a public school; you would never have preserved your virtue as
you have. The first care I always take is of a boy's morals; I had
rather he should be a blockhead than an atheist or a presbyterian.
What is all the learning in the world compared to his immortal soul?
What shall a man take in exchange for his soul? But the masters of
great schools trouble themselves about no such thing. I have known a
lad of eighteen at the university, who hath not been able to say his
catechism; but for my own part, I always scourged a lad sooner for
missing that than any other lesson. Believe me, child, all that
gentleman's misfortunes arose from his being educated at a public
school."

"It doth not become me," answered Joseph, "to dispute anything, sir,
with you, especially a matter of this kind; for to be sure you must be
allowed by all the world to be the best teacher of a school in all our
county." "Yes, that," says Adams, "I believe, is granted me; that I may
without much vanity pretend to--nay, I believe I may go to the next
county too--but _gloriari non est meum_."--"However, sir, as you are
pleased to bid me speak," says Joseph, "you know my late master, Sir
Thomas Booby, was bred at a public school, and he was the finest
gentleman in all the neighbourhood. And I have often heard him say, if
he had a hundred boys he would breed them all at the same place. It was
his opinion, and I have often heard him deliver it, that a boy taken
from a public school and carried into the world, will learn more in one
year there than one of a private education will in five. He used to say
the school itself initiated him a great way (I remember that was his
very expression), for great schools are little societies, where a boy
of any observation may see in epitome what he will afterwards find in
the world at large."--"_Hinc illae lachrymae_: for that very reason,"
quoth Adams, "I prefer a private school, where boys may be kept in
innocence and ignorance; for, according to that fine passage in the
play of Cato, the only English tragedy I ever read--

"'If knowledge of the world must make men villains
May Juba ever live in ignorance!'

"Who would not rather preserve the purity of his child than wish him to
attain the whole circle of arts and sciences? which, by the bye, he may
learn in the classes of a private school; for I would not be vain, but I
esteem myself to be second to none, _nulli secundum_, in teaching these
things; so that a lad may have as much learning in a private as in a
public education."--"And, with submission," answered Joseph, "he may get
as much vice: witness several country gentlemen, who were educated
within five miles of their own houses, and are as wicked as if they had
known the world from their infancy. I remember when I was in the stable,
if a young horse was vicious in his nature, no correction would make him
otherwise: I take it to be equally the same among men: if a boy be of a
mischievous wicked inclination, no school, though ever so private, will
ever make him good: on the contrary, if he be of a righteous temper, you
may trust him to London, or wherever else you please--he will be in no
danger of being corrupted. Besides, I have often heard my master say
that the discipline practised in public schools was much better than
that in private."--"You talk like a jackanapes," says Adams, "and so did
your master. Discipline indeed! Because one man scourges twenty or
thirty boys more in a morning than another, is he therefore a better
disciplinarian? I do presume to confer in this point with all who have
taught from Chiron's time to this day; and, if I was master of six boys
only, I would preserve as good discipline amongst them as the master of
the greatest school in the world. I say nothing, young man; remember I
say nothing; but if Sir Thomas himself had been educated nearer home,
and under the tuition of somebody--remember I name nobody--it might have
been better for him:--but his father must institute him in the knowledge
of the world. _Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit_." Joseph, seeing him
run on in this manner, asked pardon many times, assuring him he had no
intention to offend. "I believe you had not, child," said he, "and I am
not angry with you; but for maintaining good discipline in a school; for
this."--And then he ran on as before, named all the masters who are
recorded in old books, and preferred himself to them all. Indeed, if
this good man had an enthusiasm, or what the vulgar call a blind side,
it was this: he thought a schoolmaster the greatest character in the
world, and himself the greatest of all schoolmasters: neither of which
points he would have given up to Alexander the Great at the head of
his army.

Adams continued his subject till they came to one of the beautifullest
spots of ground in the universe. It was a kind of natural amphitheatre,
formed by the winding of a small rivulet, which was planted with thick
woods, and the trees rose gradually above each other by the natural
ascent of the ground they stood on; which ascent as they hid with their
boughs, they seemed to have been disposed by the design of the most
skilful planter. The soil was spread with a verdure which no paint could
imitate; and the whole place might have raised romantic ideas in elder
minds than those of Joseph and Fanny, without the assistance of love.

Here they arrived about noon, and Joseph proposed to Adams that they
should rest awhile in this delightful place, and refresh themselves with
some provisions which the good-nature of Mrs Wilson had provided them
with. Adams made no objection to the proposal; so down they sat, and,
pulling out a cold fowl and a bottle of wine, they made a repast with a
cheerfulness which might have attracted the envy of more splendid
tables. I should not omit that they found among their provision a little
paper containing a piece of gold, which Adams imagining had been put
there by mistake, would have returned back to restore it; but he was at
last convinced by Joseph that Mr Wilson had taken this handsome way of
furnishing them with a supply for their journey, on his having related
the distress which they had been in, when they were relieved by the
generosity of the pedlar. Adams said he was glad to see such an instance
of goodness, not so much for the conveniency which it brought them as
for the sake of the doer, whose reward would be great in heaven. He
likewise comforted himself with a reflection that he should shortly have
an opportunity of returning it him; for the gentleman was within a week
to make a journey into Somersetshire, to pass through Adams's parish,
and had faithfully promised to call on him; a circumstance which we
thought too immaterial to mention before; but which those who have as
great an affection for that gentleman as ourselves will rejoice at, as
it may give them hopes of seeing him again. Then Joseph made a speech on
charity, which the reader, if he is so disposed, may see in the next
chapter; for we scorn to betray him into any such reading, without first
giving him warning.

CHAPTER VI.

_Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the hunting adventure, and
parson Adams's miraculous escape._

"I have often wondered, sir," said Joseph, "to observe so few instances
of charity among mankind; for though the goodness of a man's heart did
not incline him to relieve the distresses of his fellow-creatures,
methinks the desire of honour should move him to it. What inspires a man
to build fine houses, to purchase fine furniture, pictures, clothes, and
other things, at a great expense, but an ambition to be respected more
than other people? Now, would not one great act of charity, one instance
of redeeming a poor family from all the miseries of poverty, restoring
an unfortunate tradesman by a sum of money to the means of procuring a
livelihood by his industry, discharging an undone debtor from his debts
or a gaol, or any suchlike example of goodness, create a man more honour
and respect than he could acquire by the finest house, furniture,
pictures, or clothes, that were ever beheld? For not only the object
himself who was thus relieved, but all who heard the name of such a
person, must, I imagine, reverence him infinitely more than the
possessor of all those other things; which when we so admire, we rather
praise the builder, the workman, the painter, the lace-maker, the
taylor, and the rest, by whose ingenuity they are produced, than the
person who by his money makes them his own. For my own part, when I have
waited behind my lady in a room hung with fine pictures, while I have
been looking at them I have never once thought of their owner, nor hath
any one else, as I ever observed; for when it hath been asked whose
picture that was, it was never once answered the master's of the house;
but Ammyconni, Paul Varnish, Hannibal Scratchi, or Hogarthi, which I
suppose were the names of the painters; but if it was asked--Who
redeemed such a one out of prison? Who lent such a ruined tradesman
money to set up? Who clothed that family of poor small children? it is
very plain what must be the answer. And besides, these great folks are
mistaken if they imagine they get any honour at all by these means; for
I do not remember I ever was with my lady at any house where she
commended the house or furniture but I have heard her at her return home
make sport and jeer at whatever she had before commended; and I have
been told by other gentlemen in livery that it is the same in their
families: but I defy the wisest man in the world to turn a true good
action into ridicule. I defy him to do it. He who should endeavour it
would be laughed at himself, instead of making others laugh. Nobody
scarce doth any good, yet they all agree in praising those who do.
Indeed, it is strange that all men should consent in commending
goodness, and no man endeavour to deserve that commendation; whilst, on
the contrary, all rail at wickedness, and all are as eager to be what
they abuse. This I know not the reason of; but it is as plain as
daylight to those who converse in the world, as I have done these three
years." "Are all the great folks wicked then?" says Fanny. "To be sure
there are some exceptions," answered Joseph. "Some gentlemen of our
cloth report charitable actions done by their lords and masters; and I
have heard Squire Pope, the great poet, at my lady's table, tell stories
of a man that lived at a place called Ross, and another at the Bath, one
Al--Al--I forget his name, but it is in the book of verses. This
gentleman hath built up a stately house too, which the squire likes very
well; but his charity is seen farther than his house, though it stands
on a hill,--ay, and brings him more honour too. It was his charity that
put him in the book, where the squire says he puts all those who deserve
it; and to be sure, as he lives among all the great people, if there
were any such, he would know them." This was all of Mr Joseph Andrews's
speech which I could get him to recollect, which I have delivered as
near as was possible in his own words, with a very small embellishment.
But I believe the reader hath not been a little surprized at the long
silence of parson Adams, especially as so many occasions offered
themselves to exert his curiosity and observation. The truth is, he was
fast asleep, and had so been from the beginning of the preceding
narrative; and, indeed, if the reader considers that so many hours had
passed since he had closed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repose,
though even Henley himself, or as great an orator (if any such be), had
been in his rostrum or tub before him.

Joseph, who whilst he was speaking had continued in one attitude, with
his head reclining on one side, and his eyes cast on the ground, no
sooner perceived, on looking up, the position of Adams, who was
stretched on his back, and snored louder than the usual braying of the
animal with long ears, than he turned towards Fanny, and, taking her
by the hand, began a dalliance, which, though consistent with the
purest innocence and decency, neither he would have attempted nor she
permitted before any witness. Whilst they amused themselves in this
harmless and delightful manner they heard a pack of hounds approaching
in full cry towards them, and presently afterwards saw a hare pop
forth from the wood, and, crossing the water, land within a few yards
of them in the meadows. The hare was no sooner on shore than it seated
itself on its hinder legs, and listened to the sound of the pursuers.
Fanny was wonderfully pleased with the little wretch, and eagerly
longed to have it in her arms that she might preserve it from the
dangers which seemed to threaten it; but the rational part of the
creation do not always aptly distinguish their friends from their foes;
what wonder then if this silly creature, the moment it beheld her,
fled from the friend who would have protected it, and, traversing the
meadows again, passed the little rivulet on the opposite side? It was,
however, so spent and weak, that it fell down twice or thrice in its
way. This affected the tender heart of Fanny, who exclaimed, with tears
in her eyes, against the barbarity of worrying a poor innocent
defenceless animal out of its life, and putting it to the extremest
torture for diversion. She had not much time to make reflections of
this kind, for on a sudden the hounds rushed through the wood, which
resounded with their throats and the throats of their retinue, who
attended on them on horseback. The dogs now past the rivulet, and
pursued the footsteps of the hare; five horsemen attempted to leap
over, three of whom succeeded, and two were in the attempt thrown from
their saddles into the water; their companions, and their own horses
too, proceeded after their sport, and left their friends and riders to
invoke the assistance of Fortune, or employ the more active means of
strength and agility for their deliverance. Joseph, however, was not
so unconcerned on this occasion; he left Fanny for a moment to herself,
and ran to the gentlemen, who were immediately on their legs, shaking
their ears, and easily, with the help of his hand, obtained the bank
(for the rivulet was not at all deep); and, without staying to thank
their kind assister, ran dripping across the meadow, calling to their
brother sportsmen to stop their horses; but they heard them not.

The hounds were now very little behind their poor reeling, staggering
prey, which, fainting almost at every step, crawled through the wood,
and had almost got round to the place where Fanny stood, when it was
overtaken by its enemies, and being driven out of the covert, was
caught, and instantly tore to pieces before Fanny's face, who was unable
to assist it with any aid more powerful than pity; nor could she prevail
on Joseph, who had been himself a sportsman in his youth, to attempt
anything contrary to the laws of hunting in favour of the hare, which he
said was killed fairly.

The hare was caught within a yard or two of Adams, who lay asleep at
some distance from the lovers; and the hounds, in devouring it, and
pulling it backwards and forwards, had drawn it so close to him, that
some of them (by mistake perhaps for the hare's skin) laid hold of the
skirts of his cassock; others at the same time applying their teeth to
his wig, which he had with a handkerchief fastened to his head, began to
pull him about; and had not the motion of his body had more effect on
him than seemed to be wrought by the noise, they must certainly have
tasted his flesh, which delicious flavour might have been fatal to him;
but being roused by these tuggings, he instantly awaked, and with a jerk
delivering his head from his wig, he with most admirable dexterity
recovered his legs, which now seemed the only members he could entrust
his safety to. Having, therefore, escaped likewise from at least a third
part of his cassock, which he willingly left as his _exuviae_ or spoils
to the enemy, he fled with the utmost speed he could summon to his
assistance. Nor let this be any detraction from the bravery of his
character: let the number of the enemies, and the surprize in which he
was taken, be considered; and if there be any modern so outrageously
brave that he cannot admit of flight in any circumstance whatever, I say
(but I whisper that softly, and I solemnly declare without any intention
of giving offence to any brave man in the nation), I say, or rather I
whisper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and hath never read Homer nor
Virgil, nor knows he anything of Hector or Turnus; nay, he is
unacquainted with the history of some great men living, who, though as
brave as lions, ay, as tigers, have run away, the Lord knows how far,
and the Lord knows why, to the surprize of their friends and the
entertainment of their enemies. But if persons of such heroic
disposition are a little offended at the behaviour of Adams, we assure
them they shall be as much pleased with what we shall immediately relate
of Joseph Andrews. The master of the pack was just arrived, or, as the
sportsmen call it, come in, when Adams set out, as we have before
mentioned. This gentleman was generally said to be a great lover of
humour; but, not to mince the matter, especially as we are upon this
subject, he was a great hunter of men; indeed, he had hitherto followed
the sport only with dogs of his own species; for he kept two or three
couple of barking curs for that use only. However, as he thought he had
now found a man nimble enough, he was willing to indulge himself with
other sport, and accordingly, crying out, "Stole away," encouraged the
hounds to pursue Mr Adams, swearing it was the largest jack-hare he ever
saw; at the same time hallooing and hooping as if a conquered foe was
flying before him; in which he was imitated by these two or three couple
of human or rather two-legged curs on horseback which we have mentioned
before.

Now, thou, whoever thou art, whether a muse, or by what other name soever
thou choosest to be called, who presidest over biography, and hast
inspired all the writers of lives in these our times: thou who didst
infuse such wonderful humour into the pen of immortal Gulliver; who hast
carefully guided the judgment whilst thou hast exalted the nervous manly
style of thy Mallet: thou who hadst no hand in that dedication and
preface, or the translations, which thou wouldst willingly have struck
out of the life of Cicero: lastly, thou who, without the assistance of
the least spice of literature, and even against his inclination, hast,
in some pages of his book, forced Colley Cibber to write English; do
thou assist me in what I find myself unequal to. Do thou introduce on
the plain the young, the gay, the brave Joseph Andrews, whilst men shall
view him with admiration and envy, tender virgins with love and anxious
concern for his safety.

No sooner did Joseph Andrews perceive the distress of his friend, when
first the quick-scenting dogs attacked him, than he grasped his cudgel
in his right hand--a cudgel which his father had of his grandfather, to
whom a mighty strong man of Kent had given it for a present in that day
when he broke three heads on the stage. It was a cudgel of mighty
strength and wonderful art, made by one of Mr Deard's best workmen, whom
no other artificer can equal, and who hath made all those sticks which
the beaus have lately walked with about the Park in a morning; but this
was far his masterpiece. On its head was engraved a nose and chin, which
might have been mistaken for a pair of nutcrackers. The learned have
imagined it designed to represent the Gorgon; but it was in fact copied
from the face of a certain long English baronet, of infinite wit, humour,
and gravity. He did intend to have engraved here many histories: as the
first night of Captain B----'s play, where you would have seen critics
in embroidery transplanted from the boxes to the pit, whose ancient
inhabitants were exalted to the galleries, where they played on
catcalls. He did intend to have painted an auction room, where Mr Cock
would have appeared aloft in his pulpit, trumpeting forth the praises of
a china basin, and with astonishment wondering that "Nobody bids more
for that fine, that superb--" He did intend to have engraved many other
things, but was forced to leave all out for want of room.

No sooner had Joseph grasped his cudgel in his hands than lightning
darted from his eyes; and the heroick youth, swift of foot, ran with the
utmost speed to his friend's assistance. He overtook him just as
Rockwood had laid hold of the skirt of his cassock, which, being torn,
hung to the ground. Reader, we would make a simile on this occasion, but
for two reasons: the first is, it would interrupt the description, which
should be rapid in this part; but that doth not weigh much, many
precedents occurring for such an interruption: the second and much the
greater reason is, that we could find no simile adequate to our purpose:
for indeed, what instance could we bring to set before our reader's eyes
at once the idea of friendship, courage, youth, beauty, strength, and
swiftness? all which blazed in the person of Joseph Andrews. Let those,
therefore, that describe lions and tigers, and heroes fiercer than both,
raise their poems or plays with the simile of Joseph Andrews, who is
himself above the reach of any simile.

Now Rockwood had laid fast hold on the parson's skirts, and stopt his
flight; which Joseph no sooner perceived than he levelled his cudgel at
his head and laid him sprawling. Jowler and Ringwood then fell on his
greatcoat, and had undoubtedly brought him to the ground, had not
Joseph, collecting all his force, given Jowler such a rap on the back,
that, quitting his hold, he ran howling over the plain. A harder fate
remained for thee, O Ringwood! Ringwood the best hound that ever pursued
a hare, who never threw his tongue but where the scent was undoubtedly
true; good at trailing, and sure in a highway; no babler, no overrunner;
respected by the whole pack, who, whenever he opened, knew the game was
at hand. He fell by the stroke of Joseph. Thunder and Plunder, and
Wonder and Blunder, were the next victims of his wrath, and measured
their lengths on the ground. Then Fairmaid, a bitch which Mr John Temple
had bred up in his house, and fed at his own table, and lately sent the
squire fifty miles for a present, ran fiercely at Joseph and bit him by
the leg: no dog was ever fiercer than she, being descended from an
Amazonian breed, and had worried bulls in her own country, but now waged
an unequal fight, and had shared the fate of those we have mentioned
before, had not Diana (the reader may believe it or not if he pleases)
in that instant interposed, and, in the shape of the huntsman, snatched
her favourite up in her arms.

The parson now faced about, and with his crabstick felled many to the
earth, and scattered others, till he was attacked by Caesar and pulled
to the ground. Then Joseph flew to his rescue, and with such might
fell on the victor, that, O eternal blot to his name! Caesar ran
yelping away.

The battle now raged with the most dreadful violence, when, lo! the
huntsman, a man of years and dignity, lifted his voice, and called his
hounds from the fight, telling them, in a language they understood, that
it was in vain to contend longer, for that fate had decreed the victory
to their enemies.

Thus far the muse hath with her usual dignity related this prodigious
battle, a battle we apprehend never equalled by any poet, romance or
life writer whatever, and, having brought it to a conclusion, she
ceased; we shall therefore proceed in our ordinary style with the
continuation of this history. The squire and his companions, whom the
figure of Adams and the gallantry of Joseph had at first thrown into a
violent fit of laughter, and who had hitherto beheld the engagement with
more delight than any chase, shooting-match, race, cock-fighting, bull
or bear baiting, had ever given them, began now to apprehend the danger
of their hounds, many of which lay sprawling in the fields. The squire,
therefore, having first called his friends about him, as guards for
safety of his person, rode manfully up to the combatants, and, summoning
all the terror he was master of into his countenance, demanded with an
authoritative voice of Joseph what he meant by assaulting his dogs in
that manner? Joseph answered, with great intrepidity, that they had
first fallen on his friend; and if they had belonged to the greatest man
in the kingdom, he would have treated them in the same way; for, whilst
his veins contained a single drop of blood, he would not stand idle by
and see that gentleman (pointing to Adams) abused either by man or
beast; and, having so said, both he and Adams brandished their wooden
weapons, and put themselves into such a posture, that the squire and his
company thought proper to preponderate before they offered to revenge
the cause of their four-footed allies.

At this instant Fanny, whom the apprehension of Joseph's danger had
alarmed so much that, forgetting her own, she had made the utmost
expedition, came up. The squire and all the horsemen were so
surprized with her beauty, that they immediately fixed both their
eyes and thoughts solely on her, every one declaring he had never
seen so charming a creature. Neither mirth nor anger engaged them a
moment longer, but all sat in silent amaze. The huntsman only was
free from her attraction, who was busy in cutting the ears of the
dogs, and endeavouring to recover them to life; in which he succeeded
so well, that only two of no great note remained slaughtered on the
field of action. Upon this the huntsman declared, "'Twas well it was
no worse; for his part he could not blame the gentleman, and wondered
his master would encourage the dogs to hunt Christians; that it was
the surest way to spoil them, to make them follow vermin instead of
sticking to a hare."

The squire, being informed of the little mischief that had been done,
and perhaps having more mischief of another kind in his head, accosted
Mr Adams with a more favourable aspect than before: he told him he was
sorry for what had happened; that he had endeavoured all he could to
prevent it the moment he was acquainted with his cloth, and greatly
commended the courage of his servant, for so he imagined Joseph to be.
He then invited Mr Adams to dinner, and desired the young woman might
come with him. Adams refused a long while; but the invitation was
repeated with so much earnestness and courtesy, that at length he was
forced to accept it. His wig and hat, and other spoils of the field,
being gathered together by Joseph (for otherwise probably they would
have been forgotten), he put himself into the best order he could; and
then the horse and foot moved forward in the same pace towards the
squire's house, which stood at a very little distance.

Whilst they were on the road the lovely Fanny attracted the eyes of all:
they endeavoured to outvie one another in encomiums on her beauty; which
the reader will pardon my not relating, as they had not anything new or
uncommon in them: so must he likewise my not setting down the many
curious jests which were made on Adams; some of them declaring that
parson-hunting was the best sport in the world; others commending his
standing at bay, which they said he had done as well as any badger; with
such like merriment, which, though it would ill become the dignity of
this history, afforded much laughter and diversion to the squire and his
facetious companions.

CHAPTER VII.

_A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste
and times._

They arrived at the squire's house just as his dinner was ready. A
little dispute arose on the account of Fanny, whom the squire, who was a
bachelor, was desirous to place at his own table; but she would not
consent, nor would Mr Adams permit her to be parted from Joseph; so that
she was at length with him consigned over to the kitchen, where the
servants were ordered to make him drunk; a favour which was likewise
intended for Adams; which design being executed, the squire thought he
should easily accomplish what he had when he first saw her intended to
perpetrate with Fanny.

It may not be improper, before we proceed farther, to open a little the
character of this gentleman, and that of his friends. The master of this
house, then, was a man of a very considerable fortune; a bachelor, as we
have said, and about forty years of age: he had been educated (if we may
use the expression) in the country, and at his own home, under the care
of his mother, and a tutor who had orders never to correct him, nor to
compel him to learn more than he liked, which it seems was very little,
and that only in his childhood; for from the age of fifteen he addicted
himself entirely to hunting and other rural amusements, for which his
mother took care to equip him with horses, hounds, and all other
necessaries; and his tutor, endeavouring to ingratiate himself with his
young pupil, who would, he knew, be able handsomely to provide for him,
became his companion, not only at these exercises, but likewise over a
bottle, which the young squire had a very early relish for. At the age
of twenty his mother began to think she had not fulfilled the duty of a
parent; she therefore resolved to persuade her son, if possible, to that
which she imagined would well supply all that he might have learned at a
public school or university--this is what they commonly call travelling;
which, with the help of the tutor, who was fixed on to attend him, she
easily succeeded in. He made in three years the tour of Europe, as they
term it, and returned home well furnished with French clothes, phrases,
and servants, with a hearty contempt for his own country; especially
what had any savour of the plain spirit and honesty of our ancestors.
His mother greatly applauded herself at his return. And now, being
master of his own fortune, he soon procured himself a seat in
Parliament, and was in the common opinion one of the finest gentlemen of
his age: but what distinguished him chiefly was a strange delight which
he took in everything which is ridiculous, odious, and absurd in his own
species; so that he never chose a companion without one or more of these
ingredients, and those who were marked by nature in the most eminent
degree with them were most his favourites. If he ever found a man who
either had not, or endeavoured to conceal, these imperfections, he took
great pleasure in inventing methods of forcing him into absurdities
which were not natural to him, or in drawing forth and exposing those
that were; for which purpose he was always provided with a set of
fellows, whom we have before called curs, and who did, indeed, no great
honour to the canine kind; their business was to hunt out and display
everything that had any savour of the above-mentioned qualities, and
especially in the gravest and best characters; but if they failed in
their search, they were to turn even virtue and wisdom themselves into
ridicule, for the diversion of their master and feeder. The gentlemen of
curlike disposition who were now at his house, and whom he had brought
with him from London, were, an old half-pay officer, a player, a dull
poet, a quack-doctor, a scraping fiddler, and a lame German
dancing-master.

As soon as dinner was served, while Mr Adams was saying grace, the
captain conveyed his chair from behind him; so that when he endeavoured
to seat himself he fell down on the ground, and this completed joke the
first, to the great entertainment of the whole company. The second joke
was performed by the poet, who sat next him on the other side, and took
an opportunity, while poor Adams was respectfully drinking to the master
of the house, to overturn a plate of soup into his breeches; which, with
the many apologies he made, and the parson's gentle answers, caused much
mirth in the company. Joke the third was served up by one of the
waiting-men, who had been ordered to convey a quantity of gin into Mr
Adams's ale, which he declaring to be the best liquor he ever drank, but
rather too rich of the malt, contributed again to their laughter. Mr
Adams, from whom we had most of this relation, could not recollect all
the jests of this kind practised on him, which the inoffensive
disposition of his own heart made him slow in discovering; and indeed,
had it not been for the information which we received from a servant of
the family, this part of our history, which we take to be none of the
least curious, must have been deplorably imperfect; though we must own
it probable that some more jokes were (as they call it) cracked during
their dinner; but we have by no means been able to come at the knowledge
of them. When dinner was removed, the poet began to repeat some verses,
which, he said, were made extempore. The following is a copy of them,
procured with the greatest difficulty:--

_An extempore Poem on parson Adams._

Did ever mortal such a parson view?
His cassock old, his wig not over-new,
Well might the hounds have him for fox mistaken,
In smell more like to that than rusty bacon[A];
But would it not make any mortal stare
To see this parson taken for a hare?
Could Phoebus err thus grossly, even he
For a good player might have taken thee.

[A] All hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will hunt a piece of
rusty bacon trailed on the ground.

At which words the bard whipt off the player's wig, and received the
approbation of the company, rather perhaps for the dexterity of his hand
than his head. The player, instead of retorting the jest on the poet,
began to display his talents on the same subject. He repeated many
scraps of wit out of plays, reflecting on the whole body of the clergy,
which were received with great acclamations by all present. It was now
the dancing-master's turn to exhibit his talents; he therefore,
addressing himself to Adams in broken English, told him, "He was a man
ver well made for de dance, and he suppose by his walk dat he had learn
of some great master." He said, "It was ver pretty quality in clergyman
to dance;" and concluded with desiring him to dance a minuet, telling
him, "his cassock would serve for petticoats; and that he would himself
be his partner." At which words, without waiting for an answer, he
pulled out his gloves, and the fiddler was preparing his fiddle. The
company all offered the dancing-master wagers that the parson out-danced
him, which he refused, saying "he believed so too, for he had never seen
any man in his life who looked de dance so well as de gentleman:" he
then stepped forwards to take Adams by the hand, which the latter
hastily withdrew, and, at the same time clenching his fist, advised him
not to carry the jest too far, for he would not endure being put upon.
The dancing-master no sooner saw the fist than he prudently retired out
of its reach, and stood aloof, mimicking Adams, whose eyes were fixed on
him, not guessing what he was at, but to avoid his laying hold on him,
which he had once attempted. In the meanwhile, the captain, perceiving
an opportunity, pinned a cracker or devil to the cassock, and then
lighted it with their little smoking-candle. Adams, being a stranger to
this sport, and believing he had been blown up in reality, started from
his chair, and jumped about the room, to the infinite joy of the
beholders, who declared he was the best dancer in the universe. As soon
as the devil had done tormenting him, and he had a little recovered his
confusion, he returned to the table, standing up in the posture of one
who intended to make a speech. They all cried out, "Hear him, hear him;"
and he then spoke in the following manner: "Sir, I am sorry to see one
to whom Providence hath been so bountiful in bestowing his favours make
so ill and ungrateful a return for them; for, though you have not
insulted me yourself, it is visible you have delighted in those that do
it, nor have once discouraged the many rudenesses which have been shown
towards me; indeed, towards yourself, if you rightly understood them;
for I am your guest, and by the laws of hospitality entitled to your
protection. One gentleman had thought proper to produce some poetry upon
me, of which I shall only say, that I had rather be the subject than the
composer. He hath pleased to treat me with disrespect as a parson. I
apprehend my order is not the subject of scorn, nor that I can become
so, unless by being a disgrace to it, which I hope poverty will never be
called. Another gentleman, indeed, hath repeated some sentences, where
the order itself is mentioned with contempt. He says they are taken from
plays. I am sure such plays are a scandal to the government which
permits them, and cursed will be the nation where they are represented.
How others have treated me I need not observe; they themselves, when
they reflect, must allow the behaviour to be as improper to my years as
to my cloth. You found me, sir, travelling with two of my parishioners
(I omit your hounds falling on me; for I have quite forgiven it, whether
it proceeded from the wantonness or negligence of the huntsman): my
appearance might very well persuade you that your invitation was an act
of charity, though in reality we were well provided; yes, sir, if we had
had an hundred miles to travel, we had sufficient to bear our expenses
in a noble manner." (At which words he produced the half-guinea which
was found in the basket.) "I do not show you this out of ostentation of
riches, but to convince you I speak truth. Your seating me at your table
was an honour which I did not ambitiously affect. When I was here, I
endeavoured to behave towards you with the utmost respect; if I have
failed, it was not with design; nor could I, certainly, so far be guilty
as to deserve the insults I have suffered. If they were meant,
therefore, either to my order or my poverty (and you see I am not very
poor), the shame doth not lie at my door, and I heartily pray that the
sin may be averted from yours." He thus finished, and received a general
clap from the whole company. Then the gentleman of the house told him,
"He was sorry for what had happened; that he could not accuse him of any
share in it; that the verses were, as himself had well observed, so bad,
that he might easily answer them; and for the serpent, it was
undoubtedly a very great affront done him by the dancing-master, for
which, if he well thrashed him, as he deserved, he should be very much
pleased to see it" (in which, probably, he spoke truth). Adams answered,
"Whoever had done it, it was not his profession to punish him that way;
but for the person whom he had accused, I am a witness," says he, "of
his innocence; for I had my eye on him all the while. Whoever he was,
God forgive him, and bestow on him a little more sense as well as
humanity." The captain answered with a surly look and accent, "That he
hoped he did not mean to reflect upon him; d--n him, he had as much
imanity as another, and, if any man said he had not, he would convince
him of his mistake by cutting his throat." Adams, smiling, said, "He
believed he had spoke right by accident." To which the captain returned,
"What do you mean by my speaking right? If you was not a parson, I would
not take these words; but your gown protects you. If any man who wears a
sword had said so much, I had pulled him by the nose before this." Adams
replied, "If he attempted any rudeness to his person, he would not find
any protection for himself in his gown;" and, clenching his fist,
declared "he had thrashed many a stouter man." The gentleman did all he
could to encourage this warlike disposition in Adams, and was in hopes
to have produced a battle, but he was disappointed; for the captain made
no other answer than, "It is very well you are a parson;" and so,
drinking off a bumper to old mother Church, ended the dispute.

Then the doctor, who had hitherto been silent, and who was the gravest
but most mischievous dog of all, in a very pompous speech highly
applauded what Adams had said, and as much discommended the behaviour
to him. He proceeded to encomiums on the Church and poverty; and,
lastly, recommended forgiveness of what had passed to Adams, who
immediately answered, "That everything was forgiven;" and in the warmth
of his goodness he filled a bumper of strong beer (a liquor he
preferred to wine), and drank a health to the whole company, shaking
the captain and the poet heartily by the hand, and addressing himself
with great respect to the doctor; who, indeed, had not laughed
outwardly at anything that past, as he had a perfect command of his
muscles, and could laugh inwardly without betraying the least symptoms
in his countenance. The doctor now began a second formal speech, in
which he declaimed against all levity of conversation, and what is
usually called mirth. He said, "There were amusements fitted for
persons of all ages and degrees, from the rattle to the discussing a
point of philosophy; and that men discovered themselves in nothing more
than in the choice of their amusements; for," says he, "as it must
greatly raise our expectation of the future conduct in life of boys
whom in their tender years we perceive, instead of taw or balls, or
other childish playthings, to chuse, at their leisure hours, to
exercise their genius in contentions of wit, learning, and such like;
so must it inspire one with equal contempt of a man, if we should
discover him playing at taw or other childish play." Adams highly
commended the doctor's opinion, and said, "He had often wondered at
some passages in ancient authors, where Scipio, Laelius, and other great
men were represented to have passed many hours in amusements of the
most trifling kind." The doctor replied, "He had by him an old Greek
manuscript where a favourite diversion of Socrates was recorded." "Ay!"
says the parson eagerly; "I should be most infinitely obliged to you
for the favour of perusing it." The doctor promised to send it him, and
farther said, "That he believed he could describe it. I think," says
he, "as near as I can remember, it was this: there was a throne
erected, on one side of which sat a king and on the other a queen, with
their guards and attendants ranged on both sides; to them was
introduced an ambassador, which part Socrates always used to perform
himself; and when he was led up to the footsteps of the throne he
addressed himself to the monarchs in some grave speech, full of virtue,
and goodness, and morality, and such like. After which, he was seated
between the king and queen, and royally entertained. This I think was
the chief part. Perhaps I may have forgot some particulars; for it is
long since I read it." Adams said, "It was, indeed, a diversion worthy
the relaxation of so great a man; and thought something resembling it
should be instituted among our great men, instead of cards and other
idle pastime, in which, he was informed, they trifled away too much of
their lives." He added, "The Christian religion was a nobler subject
for these speeches than any Socrates could have invented." The
gentleman of the house approved what Mr Adams said, and declared "he
was resolved to perform the ceremony this very evening." To which the
doctor objected, as no one was prepared with a speech, "unless," said
he (turning to Adams with a gravity of countenance which would have
deceived a more knowing man), "you have a sermon about you, doctor."
"Sir," said Adams, "I never travel without one, for fear of what may
happen." He was easily prevailed on by his worthy friend, as he now
called the doctor, to undertake the part of the ambassador; so that the
gentleman sent immediate orders to have the throne erected, which was
performed before they had drank two bottles; and, perhaps, the reader
will hereafter have no great reason to admire the nimbleness of the
servants. Indeed, to confess the truth, the throne was no more than
this: there was a great tub of water provided, on each side of which
were placed two stools raised higher than the surface of the tub, and
over the whole was laid a blanket; on these stools were placed the king
and queen, namely, the master of the house and the captain. And now the
ambassador was introduced between the poet and the doctor; who, having
read his sermon, to the great entertainment of all present, was led up
to his place and seated between their majesties. They immediately rose
up, when the blanket, wanting its supports at either end, gave way, and
soused Adams over head and ears in the water. The captain made his
escape, but, unluckily, the gentleman himself not being as nimble as he
ought, Adams caught hold of him before he descended from his throne,
and pulled him in with him, to the entire secret satisfaction of all
the company. Adams, after ducking the squire twice or thrice, leapt out
of the tub, and looked sharp for the doctor, whom he would certainly
have conveyed to the same place of honour; but he had wisely withdrawn:
he then searched for his crabstick, and having found that, as well as
his fellow travellers, he declared he would not stay a moment longer in
such a house. He then departed, without taking leave of his host, whom
he had exacted a more severe revenge on than he intended; for, as he
did not use sufficient care to dry himself in time, he caught a cold by
the accident which threw him into a fever that had like to have cost
him his life.

CHAPTER VIII.

_Which some readers will think too short and others too long._

Adams, and Joseph, who was no less enraged than his friend at the
treatment he met with, went out with their sticks in their hands, and
carried off Fanny, notwithstanding the opposition of the servants, who
did all, without proceeding to violence, in their power to detain them.
They walked as fast as they could, not so much from any apprehension of
being pursued as that Mr Adams might, by exercise, prevent any harm from
the water. The gentleman, who had given such orders to his servants
concerning Fanny that he did not in the least fear her getting away, no
sooner heard that she was gone, than he began to rave, and immediately
despatched several with orders either to bring her back or never return.
The poet, the player, and all but the dancing-master and doctor, went on
this errand.

The night was very dark in which our friends began their journey;
however, they made such expedition, that they soon arrived at an inn
which was at seven miles' distance. Here they unanimously consented to
pass the evening, Mr Adams being now as dry as he was before he had set
out on his embassy.

This inn, which indeed we might call an ale-house, had not the words,
The New Inn, been writ on the sign, afforded them no better provision
than bread and cheese and ale; on which, however, they made a very
comfortable meal; for hunger is better than a French cook.

They had no sooner supped, than Adams, returning thanks to the Almighty
for his food, declared he had eat his homely commons with much greater
satisfaction than his splendid dinner; and expressed great contempt for
the folly of mankind, who sacrificed their hopes of heaven to the
acquisition of vast wealth, since so much comfort was to be found in the
humblest state and the lowest provision. "Very true, sir," says a grave
man who sat smoaking his pipe by the fire, and who was a traveller as
well as himself. "I have often been as much surprized as you are, when I
consider the value which mankind in general set on riches, since every
day's experience shows us how little is in their power; for what,
indeed, truly desirable, can they bestow on us? Can they give beauty to
the deformed, strength to the weak, or health to the infirm? Surely if
they could we should not see so many ill-favoured faces haunting the
assemblies of the great, nor would such numbers of feeble wretches
languish in their coaches and palaces. No, not the wealth of a kingdom
can purchase any paint to dress pale Ugliness in the bloom of that young
maiden, nor any drugs to equip Disease with the vigour of that young
man. Do not riches bring us to solicitude instead of rest, envy instead
of affection, and danger instead of safety? Can they prolong their own
possession, or lengthen his days who enjoys them? So far otherwise, that
the sloth, the luxury, the care which attend them, shorten the lives of
millions, and bring them with pain and misery to an untimely grave.
Where, then, is their value if they can neither embellish nor strengthen
our forms, sweeten nor prolong our lives?--Again: Can they adorn the
mind more than the body? Do they not rather swell the heart with vanity,
puff up the cheeks with pride, shut our ears to every call of virtue,
and our bowels to every motive of compassion?" "Give me your hand,
brother," said Adams, in a rapture, "for I suppose you are a
clergyman."--"No, truly," answered the other (indeed, he was a priest of
the Church of Rome; but those who understand our laws will not wonder he
was not over-ready to own it).--"Whatever you are," cries Adams, "you
have spoken my sentiments: I believe I have preached every syllable of
your speech twenty times over; for it hath always appeared to me easier
for a cable-rope (which by the way is the true rendering of that word we
have translated camel) to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich
man to get into the kingdom of heaven."--"That, sir," said the other,
"will be easily granted you by divines, and is deplorably true; but as
the prospect of our good at a distance doth not so forcibly affect us,
it might be of some service to mankind to be made thoroughly
sensible--which I think they might be with very little serious
attention--that even the blessings of this world are not to be purchased
with riches; a doctrine, in my opinion, not only metaphysically, but, if
I may so say, mathematically demonstrable; and which I have been always
so perfectly convinced of that I have a contempt for nothing so much as
for gold." Adams now began a long discourse: but as most which he said
occurs among many authors who have treated this subject, I shall omit
inserting it. During its continuance Joseph and Fanny retired to rest,
and the host likewise left the room. When the English parson had
concluded, the Romish resumed the discourse, which he continued with
great bitterness and invective; and at last ended by desiring Adams to
lend him eighteen-pence to pay his reckoning; promising, if he never
paid him, he might be assured of his prayers. The good man answered that
eighteen-pence would be too little to carry him any very long journey;
that he had half a guinea in his pocket, which he would divide with him.
He then fell to searching his pockets, but could find no money; for
indeed the company with whom he dined had passed one jest upon him which
we did not then enumerate, and had picked his pocket of all that
treasure which he had so ostentatiously produced.

"Bless me!" cried Adams, "I have certainly lost it; I can never have
spent it. Sir, as I am a Christian, I had a whole half-guinea in my
pocket this morning, and have not now a single halfpenny of it left.
Sure the devil must have taken it from me!"--"Sir," answered the priest,
smiling, "you need make no excuses; if you are not willing to lend me
the money, I am contented."--"Sir," cries Adams, "if I had the greatest
sum in the world--aye, if I had ten pounds about me--I would bestow it
all to rescue any Christian from distress. I am more vexed at my loss on
your account than my own. Was ever anything so unlucky? Because I have
no money in my pocket I shall be suspected to be no Christian."--"I am
more unlucky," quoth the other, "if you are as generous as you say; for
really a crown would have made me happy, and conveyed me in plenty to
the place I am going, which is not above twenty miles off, and where I
can arrive by to-morrow night. I assure you I am not accustomed to
travel pennyless. I am but just arrived in England; and we were forced
by a storm in our passage to throw all we had overboard. I don't suspect
but this fellow will take my word for the trifle I owe him; but I hate
to appear so mean as to confess myself without a shilling to such
people; for these, and indeed too many others, know little difference in
their estimation between a beggar and a thief." However, he thought he
should deal better with the host that evening than the next morning: he
therefore resolved to set out immediately, notwithstanding the darkness;
and accordingly, as soon as the host returned, he communicated to him
the situation of his affairs; upon which the host, scratching his head,
answered, "Why, I do not know, master; if it be so, and you have no
money, I must trust, I think, though I had rather always have ready
money if I could; but, marry, you look like so honest a gentleman that I
don't fear your paying me if it was twenty times as much." The priest
made no reply, but, taking leave of him and Adams as fast as he could,
not without confusion, and perhaps with some distrust of Adams's
sincerity, departed.

He was no sooner gone than the host fell a-shaking his head, and
declared, if he had suspected the fellow had no money, he would not have
drawn him a single drop of drink, saying he despaired of ever seeing his
face again, for that he looked like a confounded rogue.

"Rabbit the fellow," cries he, "I thought, by his talking so much about
riches, that he had a hundred pounds at least in his pocket." Adams chid
him for his suspicions, which, he said, were not becoming a Christian;
and then, without reflecting on his loss, or considering how he himself
should depart in the morning, he retired to a very homely bed, as his
companions had before; however, health and fatigue gave them a sweeter
repose than is often in the power of velvet and down to bestow.

CHAPTER IX.

_Containing as surprizing and bloody adventures as can be found in this
or perhaps any other authentic history._

It was almost morning when Joseph Andrews, whose eyes the thoughts of
his dear Fanny had opened, as he lay fondly meditating on that lovely
creature, heard a violent knocking at the door over which he lay. He
presently jumped out of bed, and, opening the window, was asked if there
were no travellers in the house? and presently, by another voice, if two
men and a woman had not taken up there their lodging that night? Though
he knew not the voices, he began to entertain a suspicion of the
truth--for indeed he had received some information from one of the
servants of the squire's house of his design--and answered in the
negative. One of the servants, who knew the host well, called out to him
by his name just as he had opened another window, and asked him the same
question; to which he answered in the affirmative. O ho! said another,
have we found you? and ordered the host to come down and open his door.
Fanny, who was as wakeful as Joseph, no sooner heard all this than she
leaped from her bed, and, hastily putting on her gown and petticoats,
ran as fast as possible to Joseph's room, who then was almost drest. He
immediately let her in, and, embracing her with the most passionate
tenderness, bid her fear nothing, for he would die in her defence. "Is
that a reason why I should not fear," says she, "when I should lose what
is dearer to me than the whole world?" Joseph, then kissing her hand,
said, "He could almost thank the occasion which had extorted from her a
tenderness she would never indulge him with before." He then ran and
waked his bedfellow Adams, who was yet fast asleep, notwithstanding many
calls from Joseph; but was no sooner made sensible of their danger than
he leaped from his bed, without considering the presence of Fanny, who
hastily turned her face from him, and enjoyed a double benefit from the
dark, which, as it would have prevented any offence, to an innocence
less pure, or a modesty less delicate, so it concealed even those
blushes which were raised in her.

Adams had soon put on all his clothes but his breeches, which, in the
hurry, he forgot; however, they were pretty well supplied by the length
of his other garments; and now, the house-door being opened, the
captain, the poet, the player, and three servants came in. The captain
told the host that two fellows, who were in his house, had run away with
a young woman, and desired to know in which room she lay. The host, who
presently believed the story, directed them, and instantly the captain
and poet, justling one another, ran up. The poet, who was the nimblest,
entering the chamber first, searched the bed, and every other part, but
to no purpose; the bird was flown, as the impatient reader, who might
otherwise have been in pain for her, was before advertised. They then
enquired where the men lay, and were approaching the chamber, when
Joseph roared out, in a loud voice, that he would shoot the first man
who offered to attack the door. The captain enquired what fire-arms they
had; to which the host answered, he believed they had none; nay, he was
almost convinced of it, for he had heard one ask the other in the
evening what they should have done if they had been overtaken, when they
had no arms; to which the other answered, they would have defended
themselves with their sticks as long as they were able, and God would
assist a just cause. This satisfied the captain, but not the poet, who
prudently retreated downstairs, saying, it was his business to record
great actions, and not to do them. The captain was no sooner well
satisfied that there were no fire-arms than, bidding defiance to
gunpowder, and swearing he loved the smell of it, he ordered the
servants to follow him, and, marching boldly up, immediately attempted
to force the door, which the servants soon helped him to accomplish.
When it was opened, they discovered the enemy drawn up three deep; Adams
in the front, and Fanny in the rear. The captain told Adams that if they
would go all back to the house again they should be civilly treated; but
unless they consented he had orders to carry the young lady with him,
whom there was great reason to believe they had stolen from her parents;
for, notwithstanding her disguise, her air, which she could not conceal,
sufficiently discovered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs.
Fanny, bursting into tears, solemnly assured him he was mistaken; that
she was a poor helpless foundling, and had no relation in the world
which she knew of; and, throwing herself on her knees, begged that he
would not attempt to take her from her friends, who, she was convinced,
would die before they would lose her; which Adams confirmed with words
not far from amounting to an oath. The captain swore he had no leisure
to talk, and, bidding them thank themselves for what happened, he
ordered the servants to fall on, at the same time endeavouring to pass
by Adams, in order to lay hold on Fanny; but the parson, interrupting
him, received a blow from one of them, which, without considering whence
it came, he returned to the captain, and gave him so dexterous a knock
in that part of the stomach which is vulgarly called the pit, that he
staggered some paces backwards. The captain, who was not accustomed to
this kind of play, and who wisely apprehended the consequence of such
another blow, two of them seeming to him equal to a thrust through the
body, drew forth his hanger, as Adams approached him, and was levelling
a blow at his head, which would probably have silenced the preacher for
ever, had not Joseph in that instant lifted up a certain huge stone pot
of the chamber with one hand, which six beaus could not have lifted with
both, and discharged it, together with the contents, full in the
captain's face. The uplifted hanger dropped from his hand, and he fell
prostrated on the floor with a lumpish noise, and his halfpence rattled
in his pocket; the red liquor which his veins contained, and the white
liquor which the pot contained, ran in one stream down his face and his
clothes. Nor had Adams quite escaped, some of the water having in its
passage shed its honours on his head, and began to trickle down the
wrinkles or rather furrows of his cheeks, when one of the servants,
snatching a mop out of a pail of water, which had already done its duty
in washing the house, pushed it in the parson's face; yet could not he
bear him down, for the parson, wresting the mop from the fellow with one
hand, with the other brought his enemy as low as the earth, having given
him a stroke over that part of the face where, in some men of pleasure,
the natural and artificial noses are conjoined.

Hitherto, Fortune seemed to incline the victory on the travellers' side,
when, according to her custom, she began to show the fickleness of her
disposition; for now the host, entering the field, or rather chamber of
battle, flew directly at Joseph, and, darting his head into his stomach
(for he was a stout fellow and an expert boxer), almost staggered him:
but Joseph, stepping one leg back, did with his left hand so chuck him
under the chin that he reeled. The youth was pursuing his blow with his
right hand when he received from one of the servants such a stroke with
a cudgel on his temples, that it instantly deprived him of sense, and he
measured his length on the ground.

Fanny rent the air with her cries, and Adams was coming to the
assistance of Joseph; but the two serving-men and the host now fell on
him, and soon subdued him, though he fought like a madman, and looked so
black with the impressions he had received from the mop, that Don
Quixote would certainly have taken him for an inchanted Moor. But now
follows the most tragical part; for the captain was risen again, and,
seeing Joseph on the floor, and Adams secured, he instantly laid hold on
Fanny, and, with the assistance of the poet and player, who, hearing the
battle was over, were now come up, dragged her, crying and tearing her
hair, from the sight of her Joseph, and, with a perfect deafness to all
her entreaties, carried her downstairs by violence, and fastened her on
the player's horse; and the captain, mounting his own, and leading that
on which this poor miserable wretch was, departed, without any more
consideration of her cries than a butcher hath of those of a lamb; for
indeed his thoughts were entertained only with the degree of favour
which he promised himself from the squire on the success of this
adventure.

The servants, who were ordered to secure Adams and Joseph as safe as
possible, that the squire might receive no interruption to his design on
poor Fanny, immediately, by the poet's advice, tied Adams to one of the
bed-posts, as they did Joseph on the other side, as soon as they could
bring him to himself; and then, leaving them together, back to back, and
desiring the host not to set them at liberty, nor to go near them, till
he had further orders, they departed towards their master; but happened
to take a different road from that which the captain had fallen into.

CHAPTER X.

_A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this
history but to divert the reader._

Before we proceed any farther in this tragedy we shall leave Mr Joseph
and Mr Adams to themselves, and imitate the wise conductors of the
stage, who in the midst of a grave action entertain you with some
excellent piece of satire or humour called a dance. Which piece, indeed,
is therefore danced, and not spoke, as it is delivered to the audience
by persons whose thinking faculty is by most people held to lie in their
heels; and to whom, as well as heroes, who think with their hands,
Nature hath only given heads for the sake of conformity, and as they are
of use in dancing, to hang their hats on.

The poet, addressing the player, proceeded thus, "As I was saying" (for
they had been at this discourse all the time of the engagement
above-stairs), "the reason you have no good new plays is evident; it is
from your discouragement of authors. Gentlemen will not write, sir, they
will not write, without the expectation of fame or profit, or perhaps
both. Plays are like trees, which will not grow without nourishment; but
like mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneously, as it were, in a rich soil.
The muses, like vines, may be pruned, but not with a hatchet. The town,
like a peevish child, knows not what it desires, and is always best
pleased with a rattle. A farce-writer hath indeed some chance for
success: but they have lost all taste for the sublime. Though I believe
one reason of their depravity is the badness of the actors. If a man
writes like an angel, sir, those fellows know not how to give a
sentiment utterance."--"Not so fast," says the player: "the modern
actors are as good at least as their authors, nay, they come nearer
their illustrious predecessors; and I expect a Booth on the stage again,
sooner than a Shakespear or an Otway; and indeed I may turn your
observation against you, and with truth say, that the reason no authors
are encouraged is because we have no good new plays."--"I have not
affirmed the contrary," said the poet; "but I am surprized you grow so
warm; you cannot imagine yourself interested in this dispute; I hope you
have a better opinion of my taste than to apprehend I squinted at
yourself. No, sir, if we had six such actors as you, we should soon
rival the Bettertons and Sandfords of former times; for, without a
compliment to you, I think it impossible for any one to have excelled
you in most of your parts. Nay, it is solemn truth, and I have heard
many, and all great judges, express as much; and, you will pardon me if
I tell you, I think every time I have seen you lately you have
constantly acquired some new excellence, like a snowball. You have
deceived me in my estimation of perfection, and have outdone what I
thought inimitable."--"You are as little interested," answered the
player, "in what I have said of other poets; for d--n me if there are
not many strokes, ay, whole scenes, in your last tragedy, which at least
equal Shakespear. There is a delicacy of sentiment, a dignity of
expression in it, which I will own many of our gentlemen did not do
adequate justice to. To confess the truth, they are bad enough, and I
pity an author who is present at the murder of his works."--"Nay, it is
but seldom that it can happen," returned the poet; "the works of most
modern authors, like dead-born children, cannot be murdered. It is such
wretched half-begotten, half-writ, lifeless, spiritless, low, grovelling
stuff, that I almost pity the actor who is obliged to get it by heart,
which must be almost as difficult to remember as words in a language you
don't understand."--"I am sure," said the player, "if the sentences have
little meaning when they are writ, when they are spoken they have less.
I know scarce one who ever lays an emphasis right, and much less adapts
his action to his character. I have seen a tender lover in an attitude
of fighting with his mistress, and a brave hero suing to his enemy with
his sword in his hand. I don't care to abuse my profession, but rot me
if in my heart I am not inclined to the poet's side."--"It is rather
generous in you than just," said the poet; "and, though I hate to speak
ill of any person's production--nay, I never do it, nor will--but yet,
to do justice to the actors, what could Booth or Betterton have made of
such horrible stuff as Fenton's Mariamne, Frowd's Philotas, or Mallet's
Eurydice; or those low, dirty, last-dying-speeches, which a fellow in
the city of Wapping, your Dillo or Lillo, what was his name, called
tragedies?"--"Very well," says the player; "and pray what do you think
of such fellows as Quin and Delane, or that face-making puppy young
Cibber, that ill-looked dog Macklin, or that saucy slut Mrs Clive? What
work would they make with your Shakespears, Otways, and Lees? How would
those harmonious lines of the last come from their tongues?--

"'--No more; for I disdain
All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise
Of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls
Our kinder fates have steer'd another way.
Free as the forest birds we'll pair together,
Without rememb'ring who our fathers were:
Fly to the arbors, grots, and flow'ry meads;
There in soft murmurs interchange our souls;
Together drink the crystal of the stream,
Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields,
And, when the golden evening calls us home,
Wing to our downy nests, and sleep till morn.'

"Or how would this disdain of Otway--

"'Who'd be that foolish sordid thing call'd man?'"

"Hold! hold! hold!" said the poet: "Do repeat that tender speech in the
third act of my play which you made such a figure in."--"I would
willingly," said the player, "but I have forgot it."--"Ay, you was not
quite perfect in it when you played it," cries the poet, "or you would
have had such an applause as was never given on the stage; an applause I
was extremely concerned for your losing."--"Sure," says the player, "if
I remember, that was hissed more than any passage in the whole
play."--"Ay, your speaking it was hissed," said the poet.--"My speaking
it!" said the player.--"I mean your not speaking it," said the poet.
"You was out, and then they hissed."--"They hissed, and then I was out,
if I remember," answered the player; "and I must say this for myself,
that the whole audience allowed I did your part justice; so don't lay
the damnation of your play to my account."--"I don't know what you mean
by damnation," replied the poet.--"Why, you know it was acted but one
night," cried the player.--"No," said the poet, "you and the whole town
were enemies; the pit were all my enemies, fellows that would cut my
throat, if the fear of hanging did not restrain them. All taylors, sir,
all taylors."--"Why should the taylors be so angry with you?" cries the
player. "I suppose you don't employ so many in making your clothes."--"I
admit your jest," answered the poet; "but you remember the affair as
well as myself; you know there was a party in the pit and upper gallery
that would not suffer it to be given out again; though much, ay
infinitely, the majority, all the boxes in particular, were desirous of
it; nay, most of the ladies swore they never would come to the house
till it was acted again. Indeed, I must own their policy was good in not
letting it be given out a second time: for the rascals knew if it had
gone a second night it would have run fifty; for if ever there was
distress in a tragedy--I am not fond of my own performance; but if I
should tell you what the best judges said of it--Nor was it entirely
owing to my enemies neither that it did not succeed on the stage as well
as it hath since among the polite readers; for you can't say it had
justice done it by the performers."--"I think," answered the player,
"the performers did the distress of it justice; for I am sure we were in
distress enough, who were pelted with oranges all the last act: we all
imagined it would have been the last act of our lives."

The poet, whose fury was now raised, had just attempted to answer when
they were interrupted, and an end put to their discourse, by an
accident, which if the reader is impatient to know, he must skip over
the next chapter, which is a sort of counterpart to this, and contains
some of the best and gravest matters in the whole book, being a
discourse between parson Abraham Adams and Mr Joseph Andrews.

CHAPTER XI.

_Containing the exhortations of parson Adams to his friend in
affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of the
reader._

Joseph no sooner came perfectly to himself than, perceiving his mistress
gone, he bewailed her loss with groans which would have pierced any
heart but those which are possessed by some people, and are made of a
certain composition not unlike flint in its hardness and other
properties; for you may strike fire from them, which will dart through
the eyes, but they can never distil one drop of water the same way. His
own, poor youth! was of a softer composition; and at those words, "O my
dear Fanny! O my love! shall I never, never see thee more?" his eyes
overflowed with tears, which would have become any but a hero. In a
word, his despair was more easy to be conceived than related.

Mr Adams, after many groans, sitting with his back to Joseph, began thus
in a sorrowful tone: "You cannot imagine, my good child, that I entirely
blame these first agonies of your grief; for, when misfortunes attack us
by surprize, it must require infinitely more learning than you are
master of to resist them; but it is the business of a man and a
Christian to summon Reason as quickly as he can to his aid; and she will
presently teach him patience and submission. Be comforted, therefore,
child; I say be comforted. It is true, you have lost the prettiest,
kindest, loveliest, sweetest young woman, one with whom you might have
expected to have lived in happiness, virtue, and innocence; by whom you
might have promised yourself many little darlings, who would have been
the delight of your youth and the comfort of your age. You have not only
lost her, but have reason to fear the utmost violence which lust and
power can inflict upon her. Now, indeed, you may easily raise ideas of
horror, which might drive you to despair."--"O I shall run mad!" cries
Joseph. "O that I could but command my hands to tear my eyes out and my
flesh off!"--"If you would use them to such purposes, I am glad you
can't," answered Adams. "I have stated your misfortune as strong as I
possibly can; but, on the other side, you are to consider you are a
Christian, that no accident happens to us without the Divine permission,
and that it is the duty of a man, and a Christian, to submit. We did not
make ourselves; but the same power which made us rules over us, and we
are absolutely at his disposal; he may do with us what he pleases, nor
have we any right to complain. A second reason against our complaint is
our ignorance; for, as we know not future events, so neither can we tell
to what purpose any accident tends; and that which at first threatens us
with evil may in the end produce our good. I should indeed have said our
ignorance is twofold (but I have not at present time to divide
properly), for, as we know not to what purpose any event is ultimately
directed, so neither can we affirm from what cause it originally sprung.
You are a man, and consequently a sinner; and this may be a punishment
to you for your sins: indeed in this sense it may be esteemed as a good,
yea, as the greatest good, which satisfies the anger of Heaven, and
averts that wrath which cannot continue without our destruction.
Thirdly, our impotency of relieving ourselves demonstrates the folly and
absurdity of our complaints: for whom do we resist, or against whom do
we complain, but a power from whose shafts no armour can guard us, no
speed can fly?--a power which leaves us no hope but in submission." "O
sir!" cried Joseph, "all this is very true, and very fine, and I could
hear you all day if I was not so grieved at heart as now I am."--"Would
you take physic," says Adams, "when you are well, and refuse it when you
are sick? Is not comfort to be administered to the afflicted, and not to
those who rejoice or those who are at ease?" "O! you have not spoken one
word of comfort to me yet!" returned Joseph. "No!" cries Adams; "what am
I then doing? what can I say to comfort you?" "O tell me," cries Joseph,
"that Fanny will escape back to my arms, that they shall again enclose
that lovely creature, with all her sweetness, all her untainted
innocence about her!" "Why, perhaps you may," cries Adams, "but I can't
promise you what's to come. You must, with perfect resignation, wait the
event: if she be restored to you again, it is your duty to be thankful,
and so it is if she be not. Joseph, if you are wise and truly know your
own interest, you will peaceably and quietly submit to all the
dispensations of Providence, being thoroughly assured that all the
misfortunes, how great soever, which happen to the righteous, happen to
them for their own good. Nay, it is not your interest only, but your
duty, to abstain from immoderate grief; which if you indulge, you are
not worthy the name of a Christian." He spoke these last words with an
accent a little severer than usual; upon which Joseph begged him not to
be angry, saying, he mistook him if he thought he denied it was his
duty, for he had known that long ago. "What signifies knowing your duty,
if you do not perform it?" answered Adams. "Your knowledge increases
your guilt. O Joseph! I never thought you had this stubbornness in your
mind." Joseph replied, "He fancied he misunderstood him; which I assure
you," says he, "you do, if you imagine I endeavour to grieve; upon my
soul I don't." Adams rebuked him for swearing, and then proceeded to
enlarge on the folly of grief, telling him, all the wise men and
philosophers, even among the heathens, had written against it, quoting
several passages from Seneca, and the Consolation, which, though it was
not Cicero's, was, he said, as good almost as any of his works; and
concluded all by hinting that immoderate grief in this case might
incense that power which alone could restore him his Fanny. This reason,
or indeed rather the idea which it raised of the restoration of his
mistress, had more effect than all which the parson had said before, and
for a moment abated his agonies; but, when his fears sufficiently set
before his eyes the danger that poor creature was in, his grief returned
again with repeated violence, nor could Adams in the least asswage it;
though it may be doubted in his behalf whether Socrates himself could
have prevailed any better.

They remained some time in silence, and groans and sighs issued from
them both; at length Joseph burst out into the following soliloquy:--

"Yes, I will bear my sorrows like a man,
But I must also feel them as a man.
I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me."

Adams asked him what stuff that was he repeated? To which he answered,
they were some lines he had gotten by heart out of a play. "Ay, there is
nothing but heathenism to be learned from plays," replied he. "I never
heard of any plays fit for a Christian to read, but Cato and the
Conscious Lovers; and, I must own, in the latter there are some things
almost solemn enough for a sermon." But we shall now leave them a
little, and enquire after the subject of their conversation.

CHAPTER XII.

_More adventures, which we hope will as much please as surprize
the reader._

Neither the facetious dialogue which passed between the poet and the
player, nor the grave and truly solemn discourse of Mr Adams, will, we
conceive, make the reader sufficient amends for the anxiety which he
must have felt on the account of poor Fanny, whom we left in so
deplorable a condition. We shall therefore now proceed to the relation
of what happened to that beautiful and innocent virgin, after she fell
into the wicked hands of the captain.

The man of war, having conveyed his charming prize out of the inn a
little before day, made the utmost expedition in his power towards the
squire's house, where this delicate creature was to be offered up a
sacrifice to the lust of a ravisher. He was not only deaf to all her
bewailings and entreaties on the road, but accosted her ears with
impurities which, having been never before accustomed to them, she
happily for herself very little understood. At last he changed his note,
and attempted to soothe and mollify her, by setting forth the splendor
and luxury which would be her fortune with a man who would have the
inclination, and power too, to give her whatever her utmost wishes could
desire; and told her he doubted not but she would soon look kinder on
him, as the instrument of her happiness, and despise that pitiful fellow
whom her ignorance only could make her fond of. She answered, she knew
not whom he meant; she never was fond of any pitiful fellow. "Are you
affronted, madam," says he, "at my calling him so? But what better can
be said of one in a livery, notwithstanding your fondness for him?" She
returned, that she did not understand him, that the man had been her
fellow-servant, and she believed was as honest a creature as any alive;
but as for fondness for men--"I warrant ye," cries the captain, "we
shall find means to persuade you to be fond; and I advise you to yield
to gentle ones, for you may be assured that it is not in your power, by
any struggles whatever, to preserve your virginity two hours longer. It
will be your interest to consent; for the squire will be much kinder to
you if he enjoys you willingly than by force." At which words she began
to call aloud for assistance (for it was now open day), but, finding
none, she lifted her eyes to heaven, and supplicated the Divine
assistance to preserve her innocence. The captain told her, if she
persisted in her vociferation, he would find a means of stopping her
mouth. And now the poor wretch, perceiving no hopes of succour,
abandoned herself to despair, and, sighing out the name of Joseph!
Joseph! a river of tears ran down her lovely cheeks, and wet the
handkerchief which covered her bosom. A horseman now appeared in the
road, upon which the captain threatened her violently if she complained;
however, the moment they approached each other she begged him with the
utmost earnestness to relieve a distressed creature who was in the hands
of a ravisher. The fellow stopt at those words, but the captain assured
him it was his wife, and that he was carrying her home from her
adulterer, which so satisfied the fellow, who was an old one (and
perhaps a married one too), that he wished him a good journey, and rode
on. He was no sooner past than the captain abused her violently for
breaking his commands, and threatened to gagg her, when two more
horsemen, armed with pistols, came into the road just before them. She
again solicited their assistance, and the captain told the same story as
before. Upon which one said to the other, "That's a charming wench,
Jack; I wish I had been in the fellow's place, whoever he is." But the
other, instead of answering him, cried out, "Zounds, I know her;" and
then, turning to her, said, "Sure you are not Fanny Goodwill?"--"Indeed,
indeed, I am," she cried--"O John, I know you now-Heaven hath sent you
to my assistance, to deliver me from this wicked man, who is carrying me
away for his vile purposes--O for God's sake rescue me from him!" A
fierce dialogue immediately ensued between the captain and these two
men, who, being both armed with pistols, and the chariot which they
attended being now arrived, the captain saw both force and stratagem
were vain, and endeavoured to make his escape, in which however he could
not succeed. The gentleman who rode in the chariot ordered it to stop,
and with an air of authority examined into the merits of the cause; of
which being advertised by Fanny, whose credit was confirmed by the
fellow who knew her, he ordered the captain, who was all bloody from his
encounter at the inn, to be conveyed as a prisoner behind the chariot,
and very gallantly took Fanny into it; for, to say the truth, this
gentleman (who was no other than the celebrated Mr Peter Pounce, and who
preceded the Lady Booby only a few miles, by setting out earlier in the
morning) was a very gallant person, and loved a pretty girl better than
anything besides his own money or the money of other people.

The chariot now proceeded towards the inn, which, as Fanny was informed,
lay in their way, and where it arrived at that very time while the poet
and player were disputing below-stairs, and Adams and Joseph were
discoursing back to back above; just at that period to which we brought
them both in the two preceding chapters the chariot stopt at the door,
and in an instant Fanny, leaping from it, ran up to her Joseph.--O
reader! conceive if thou canst the joy which fired the breasts of these
lovers on this meeting; and if thy own heart doth not sympathetically
assist thee in this conception, I pity thee sincerely from my own; for
let the hard-hearted villain know this, that there is a pleasure in a
tender sensation beyond any which he is capable of tasting.

Peter, being informed by Fanny of the presence of Adams, stopt to see
him, and receive his homage; for, as Peter was an hypocrite, a sort of
people whom Mr Adams never saw through, the one paid that respect to his
seeming goodness which the other believed to be paid to his riches;
hence Mr Adams was so much his favourite, that he once lent him four
pounds thirteen shillings and sixpence to prevent his going to gaol, on
no greater security than a bond and judgment, which probably he would
have made no use of, though the money had not been (as it was) paid
exactly at the time.

It is not perhaps easy to describe the figure of Adams; he had risen in
such a hurry, that he had on neither breeches, garters, nor stockings;
nor had he taken from his head a red spotted handkerchief, which by
night bound his wig, turned inside out, around his head. He had on his
torn cassock and his greatcoat; but, as the remainder of his cassock
hung down below his greatcoat, so did a small stripe of white, or rather
whitish, linen appear below that; to which we may add the several
colours which appeared on his face, where a long piss-burnt beard served
to retain the liquor of the stone-pot, and that of a blacker hue which
distilled from the mop.--This figure, which Fanny had delivered from his
captivity, was no sooner spied by Peter than it disordered the composed
gravity of his muscles; however, he advised him immediately to make
himself clean, nor would accept his homage in that pickle.

The poet and player no sooner saw the captain in captivity than they
began to consider of their own safety, of which flight presented itself
as the only means; they therefore both of them mounted the poet's horse,
and made the most expeditious retreat in their power.

The host, who well knew Mr Pounce and Lady Booby's livery, was not a
little surprized at this change of the scene; nor was his confusion much
helped by his wife, who was now just risen, and, having heard from him
the account of what had passed, comforted him with a decent number of
fools and blockheads; asked him why he did not consult her, and told him
he would never leave following the nonsensical dictates of his own
numskull till she and her family were ruined.

Joseph, being informed of the captain's arrival, and seeing his Fanny
now in safety, quitted her a moment, and, running downstairs, went
directly to him, and stripping off his coat, challenged him to fight;
but the captain refused, saying he did not understand boxing. He then
grasped a cudgel in one hand, and, catching the captain by the collar
with the other, gave him a most severe drubbing, and ended with telling
him he had now had some revenge for what his dear Fanny had suffered.

When Mr Pounce had a little regaled himself with some provision which he
had in his chariot, and Mr Adams had put on the best appearance his
clothes would allow him, Pounce ordered the captain into his presence,
for he said he was guilty of felony, and the next justice of peace
should commit him; but the servants (whose appetite for revenge is soon
satisfied), being sufficiently contented with the drubbing which Joseph
had inflicted on him, and which was indeed of no very moderate kind, had
suffered him to go off, which he did, threatening a severe revenge
against Joseph, which I have never heard he thought proper to take.

The mistress of the house made her voluntary appearance before Mr
Pounce, and with a thousand curtsies told him, "She hoped his honour
would pardon her husband, who was a very nonsense man, for the sake of
his poor family; that indeed if he could be ruined alone, she should be
very willing of it; for because as why, his worship very well knew he
deserved it; but she had three poor small children, who were not capable
to get their own living; and if her husband was sent to gaol, they must
all come to the parish; for she was a poor weak woman, continually
a-breeding, and had no time to work for them. She therefore hoped his
honour would take it into his worship's consideration, and forgive her
husband this time; for she was sure he never intended any harm to man,
woman, or child; and if it was not for that block-head of his own, the
man in some things was well enough; for she had had three children by
him in less than three years, and was almost ready to cry out the fourth
time." She would have proceeded in this manner much longer, had not
Peter stopt her tongue, by telling her he had nothing to say to her
husband nor her neither. So, as Adams and the rest had assured her of
forgiveness, she cried and curtsied out of the room.

Mr Pounce was desirous that Fanny should continue her journey with him
in the chariot; but she absolutely refused, saying she would ride behind
Joseph on a horse which one of Lady Booby's servants had equipped him
with. But, alas! when the horse appeared, it was found to be no other
than that identical beast which Mr Adams had left behind him at the inn,
and which these honest fellows, who knew him, had redeemed. Indeed,
whatever horse they had provided for Joseph, they would have prevailed
with him to mount none, no, not even to ride before his beloved Fanny,
till the parson was supplied; much less would he deprive his friend of
the beast which belonged to him, and which he knew the moment he saw,
though Adams did not; however, when he was reminded of the affair, and
told that they had brought the horse with them which he left behind, he
answered--Bless me! and so I did.

Adams was very desirous that Joseph and Fanny should mount this horse,
and declared he could very easily walk home. "If I walked alone," says
he, "I would wage a shilling that the pedestrian outstripped the
equestrian travellers; but, as I intend to take the company of a pipe,
peradventure I may be an hour later." One of the servants whispered
Joseph to take him at his word, and suffer the old put to walk if he
would: this proposal was answered with an angry look and a peremptory
refusal by Joseph, who, catching Fanny up in his arms, averred he would
rather carry her home in that manner, than take away Mr Adams's horse
and permit him to walk on foot.

Perhaps, reader, thou hast seen a contest between two gentlemen, or two
ladies, quickly decided, though they have both asserted they would not
eat such a nice morsel, and each insisted on the other's accepting it;
but in reality both were very desirous to swallow it themselves. Do not
therefore conclude hence that this dispute would have come to a speedy
decision: for here both parties were heartily in earnest, and it is very
probable they would have remained in the inn-yard to this day, had not
the good Peter Pounce put a stop to it; for, finding he had no longer
hopes of satisfying his old appetite with Fanny, and being desirous of
having some one to whom he might communicate his grandeur, he told the
parson he would convey him home in his chariot. This favour was by
Adams, with many bows and acknowledgments, accepted, though he
afterwards said, "he ascended the chariot rather that he might not
offend than from any desire of riding in it, for that in his heart he
preferred the pedestrian even to the vehicular expedition." All matters
being now settled, the chariot, in which rode Adams and Pounce, moved
forwards; and Joseph having borrowed a pillion from the host, Fanny had
just seated herself thereon, and had laid hold of the girdle which her
lover wore for that purpose, when the wise beast, who concluded that one
at a time was sufficient, that two to one were odds, &c., discovered
much uneasiness at his double load, and began to consider his hinder as
his fore legs, moving the direct contrary way to that which is called
forwards. Nor could Joseph, with all his horsemanship, persuade him to
advance; but, without having any regard to the lovely part of the lovely
girl which was on his back, he used such agitations, that, had not one
of the men come immediately to her assistance, she had, in plain
English, tumbled backwards on the ground. This inconvenience was
presently remedied by an exchange of horses; and then Fanny being again
placed on her pillion, on a better-natured and somewhat a better-fed
beast, the parson's horse, finding he had no longer odds to contend
with, agreed to march; and the whole procession set forwards for
Booby-hall, where they arrived in a few hours without anything
remarkable happening on the road, unless it was a curious dialogue
between the parson and the steward: which, to use the language of a late
Apologist, a pattern to all biographers, "waits for the reader in the
next chapter."

CHAPTER XIII.

_A curious dialogue which passed between Mr Abraham Adams and Mr Peter
Pounce, better worth reading than all the works of Colley Cibber and
many others._

The chariot had not proceeded far before Mr Adams observed it was a very
fine day. "Ay, and a very fine country too," answered Pounce.--"I should
think so more," returned Adams, "if I had not lately travelled over the
Downs, which I take to exceed this and all other prospects in the
universe."--"A fig for prospects!" answered Pounce; "one acre here is
worth ten there; and for my own part, I have no delight in the prospect
of any land but my own."--"Sir," said Adams, "you can indulge yourself
with many fine prospects of that kind."--"I thank God I have a little,"
replied the other, "with which I am content, and envy no man: I have a
little, Mr Adams, with which I do as much good as I can." Adams
answered, "That riches without charity were nothing worth; for that they
were a blessing only to him who made them a blessing to others."--"You
and I," said Peter, "have different notions of charity. I own, as it is
generally used, I do not like the word, nor do I think it becomes one of
us gentlemen; it is a mean parson-like quality; though I would not infer
many parsons have it neither."--"Sir," said Adams, "my definition of
charity is, a generous disposition to relieve the distressed."--"There
is something in that definition," answered Peter, "which I like well
enough; it is, as you say, a disposition, and does not so much consist
in the act as in the disposition to do it. But, alas! Mr Adams, who are
meant by the distressed? Believe me, the distresses of mankind are
mostly imaginary, and it would be rather folly than goodness to relieve
them."--"Sure, sir," replied Adams, "hunger and thirst, cold and
nakedness, and other distresses which attend the poor, can never be said
to be imaginary evils."--"How can any man complain of hunger," said
Peter, "in a country where such excellent salads are to be gathered in
almost every field? or of thirst, where every river and stream produces
such delicious potations? And as for cold and nakedness, they are evils
introduced by luxury and custom. A man naturally wants clothes no more
than a horse or any other animal; and there are whole nations who go
without them; but these are things perhaps which you, who do not know
the world"--"You will pardon me, sir," returned Adams; "I have read of
the Gymnosophists."--"A plague of your Jehosaphats!" cried Peter; "the
greatest fault in our constitution is the provision made for the poor,
except that perhaps made for some others. Sir, I have not an estate
which doth not contribute almost as much again to the poor as to the
land-tax; and I do assure you I expect to come myself to the parish in
the end." To which Adams giving a dissenting smile, Peter thus
proceeded: "I fancy, Mr Adams, you are one of those who imagine I am a
lump of money; for there are many who, I fancy, believe that not only my
pockets, but my whole clothes, are lined with bank-bills; but I assure
you, you are all mistaken; I am not the man the world esteems me. If I
can hold my head above water it is all I can. I have injured myself by
purchasing. I have been too liberal of my money. Indeed, I fear my heir
will find my affairs in a worse situation than they are reputed to be.
Ah! he will have reason to wish I had loved money more and land less.
Pray, my good neighbour, where should I have that quantity of riches the
world is so liberal to bestow on me? Where could I possibly, without I
had stole it, acquire such a treasure?" "Why, truly," says Adams, "I
have been always of your opinion; I have wondered as well as yourself
with what confidence they could report such things of you, which have to
me appeared as mere impossibilities; for you know, sir, and I have often
heard you say it, that your wealth is of your own acquisition; and can
it be credible that in your short time you should have amassed such a
heap of treasure as these people will have you worth? Indeed, had you
inherited an estate like Sir Thomas Booby, which had descended in your
family for many generations, they might have had a colour for their
assertions." "Why, what do they say I am worth?" cries Peter, with a
malicious sneer. "Sir," answered Adams, "I have heard some aver you are
not worth less than twenty thousand pounds." At which Peter frowned.
"Nay, sir," said Adams, "you ask me only the opinion of others; for my
own part, I have always denied it, nor did I ever believe you could
possibly be worth half that sum." "However, Mr Adams," said he,
squeezing him by the hand, "I would not sell them all I am worth for
double that sum; and as to what you believe, or they believe, I care not
a fig, no not a fart. I am not poor because you think me so, nor because
you attempt to undervalue me in the country. I know the envy of mankind
very well; but I thank Heaven I am above them. It is true, my wealth is
of my own acquisition. I have not an estate, like Sir Thomas Booby, that
has descended in my family through many generations; but I know heirs of
such estates who are forced to travel about the country like some people
in torn cassocks, and might be glad to accept of a pitiful curacy for
what I know. Yes, sir, as shabby fellows as yourself, whom no man of my
figure, without that vice of good-nature about him, would suffer to ride
in a chariot with him." "Sir," said Adams, "I value not your chariot of
a rush; and if I had known you had intended to affront me, I would have
walked to the world's end on foot ere I would have accepted a place in
it. However, sir, I will soon rid you of that inconvenience;" and, so
saying, he opened the chariot door, without calling to the coachman, and
leapt out into the highway, forgetting to take his hat along with him;
which, however, Mr Pounce threw after him with great violence. Joseph
and Fanny stopt to bear him company the rest of the way, which was not
above a mile.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

_The arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at Booby-hall._

The coach and six, in which Lady Booby rode, overtook the other
travellers as they entered the parish. She no sooner saw Joseph than her
cheeks glowed with red, and immediately after became as totally pale.
She had in her surprize almost stopt her coach; but recollected herself
timely enough to prevent it. She entered the parish amidst the ringing
of bells and the acclamations of the poor, who were rejoiced to see
their patroness returned after so long an absence, during which time all
her rents had been drafted to London, without a shilling being spent
among them, which tended not a little to their utter impoverishing; for,

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