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 AT LOS ANGELE
 
 7 23
 
 AN AWKWARD SITUATION 
 
 But when they xoere all ready to set out an accident a 
 little retarded them
 
 EDITION DE LUXE 
 
 THE WORKS OF 
 
 HENRY 
 FIELDING 
 
 VOLUME ONE 
 
 THE ADVENTURES of 
 Joseph Anare\v'3 
 
 Pkiladelpnia 
 
 JOHN D. MORRIS 
 AND COMPANY
 
 ST. EDMUNDS EDITION DE LUXE 
 
 Limited to One Thousand numbered sets of 
 which this is 
 
 No.JLLT 
 
 Copyright, 1902, by 
 The University Press
 
 V. \ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction xv 
 
 Preface xxix 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 Of writing lives in general, and particularly of 
 Pamela ; with a word by tlie bye of Colley 
 Cibber and others 1 
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 Of Mr. Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, ed- 
 ucation, and great endowments ; with a word 
 or two concerning ancestors 5 
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 Of Mr. Abraham Adams the curate, Mrs. Slipslop 
 
 the chambermaid, and others 9 
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 What happened after their journey to London . 15 
 
 [v] 

 
 •* • 1 ' , 
 
 . c e c . 1 
 
 COxNTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER FI\T: 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affec- 
 tionate and mournful behaviour of his widow, 
 and the great purity of Joseph Andrews . . 18 
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 How Joseph Andrews writ a letter to his sister 
 
 Pamela 23 
 
 CHAPTER SE^'EN 
 
 Sayings of wise men. A dialogue between the 
 lady and her maid ; and a panegyric, or rather 
 satire, on the passion of love, in the sublime 
 style 29 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 In which, after some very fine writing, the history 
 goes on, and relates the interview between the 
 lady and Joseph ; where the latter hath set an 
 example which we despair of seeing followed 
 by his sex in this vicious age 35 
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 What passed between the lady and Mrs. Slipslop ; 
 in which we prophesy there are some strokes 
 which every one will not truly comprehend at 
 the first reading 43 
 
 [vi]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 PAOK 
 
 Joseph \iTntes another letter : his transactions with 
 Mr. Peter Pounce, etc., with his departure from 
 Lady Booby 49 
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 Of several new matters not expected 52 
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 Containing many surprizing adventures which 
 Jose})h Andrews met with on tlie road, scarce 
 credible to those who have never travelled in 
 a stage-coach 57 
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 What happened to Joseph during his sickness at 
 the inn, with the curious discourse between 
 him and Mr. Barnabas, the parson of the parish 68 
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 Being very full of adventures which succeeded 
 
 each other at the inn 74 
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 Showing how Mrs. Tow-wouse was a little mollified ; 
 and how officious Mr. Barnabas and the sur- 
 geon were to prosecute the thief: with a dis- 
 
 [vii]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 FAOE 
 
 sertation accounting for their zeal, and that of 
 many other persons not mentioned in tliis 
 history 82 
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 The escape of the thief. Mr. Adams's disappoint- 
 ment. The arrival of two very extraordinary 
 personages, and the introduction of parson 
 Adams to parson Barnabas 89 
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and 
 the bookseller, which was broke off by an un- 
 lucky accident happening in the inn, which 
 produced a dialogue between Mrs. Tow-wouse 
 and her maid of no gentle kind 103 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an 
 account of what occasioned the violent scene 
 in the preceding chapter 112 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 Of divisions in authors 117 
 
 [ v"i ]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A surprizing instance of Mr Adams' short mem- 
 ory, with the unfortunate consequences which 
 it brought on Joseph 121 
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same 
 gentleman, with Mr. Adams's inquiry into the 
 religion of his host 129 
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt . 139 
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 A dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn 
 where the company dined, with its bloody 
 consequences to Mr. Adams l64 
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt 177 
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 A very short chapter, in which parson Adams 
 
 went a great way 184 
 
 [ix]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A notable dissertation by Mr. Abraham Adams ; 
 wherein that gentleman appears in a political 
 light 189 
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 In which the gentleman discants on bravery and 
 heroic virtue, till an unlucky accident puts an 
 end to the discourse 194 
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of 
 tiie j)receding adventure, which drew poor 
 Adams into fresh calamities ; and who the 
 woman was who owed the preservation of her 
 chastity to his victorious arm 202 
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 What happened to them while before the justice. 
 
 A chapter very full of learning 210 
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 A very delightful adventure, as well to the per- 
 sons concerned as to the good-natured reader 221
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A dissertation concerning high people and low 
 people, with Mrs. Slipslop's departure in no 
 very good temper of mind, and the evil plight 
 in which she left Adams and his company . . 227 
 
 [xi]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 " "^ "'■''AVE you any more of Pamela, Mr. 
 
 R. ? We are come to hear a little 
 
 more of Pamela." 
 
 So, according to Richardson's own 
 story, his "worthy-hearted wife" used to speak 
 every evening when, accompanied by a young woman 
 who was boarding with her, she visited the " little 
 closet" in which her husband was composing that 
 work by Avhich, quite undesignedly, he directed into 
 the path of fame one of the very greatest novelists 
 of the world, Henry Fielding. The story of how 
 Richardson did so has been told again and again ; it 
 is found in every history of English literature ; and 
 because knowledge of it helps to an understanding of 
 Fielding's literary development, it will probably con- 
 tinue to be told, and it is worth telling here. 
 
 Samuel Richardson, who even as a boy had been 
 distinguished for letter-writing, was a fat, prosy 
 printer about fifty years old, when certain publishers 
 urged him to give them a book of familiar letters, 
 which should be useful to people in common life. 
 Richardson decided to weave the letters together by 
 making them tell the story of a pretty servant-girl, 
 Pamela Andrews, who, after many adventures, mar- 
 
 [XV]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ried her master, a young gentleman Avho had tried 
 in vain to make her his mistress. The result was 
 Pamela^ published in 1740. It met with such favour 
 that the next year Richardson gratified the world 
 with a continuation, which showed the heroine 
 regarding with a jealous but forgiving eye the 
 attentions that her husband bestowed on a certain 
 countess, or relating dull moral tales to her children. 
 In spite of her favourable reception one hundred 
 and sixty years ago, Pamela cannot make us feel 
 to-day the charm which Richardson unquestionably 
 would have us feel. As a victim of persecution in 
 the earlier part of her story, she succeeds, thanks to 
 her innocence, in exciting our sympathy ; but such is 
 not the case when she has triumphed over her would- 
 be seducer. So far is she from showing maidenly 
 hesitation when marriage is offered to her, that after 
 some prudent fears of deceit through a mock- 
 marriage, she fairly jumps at the chance of bettering 
 her social position. One cannot but feel that Pamela 
 has preserved her virtue for the sake of the reward. 
 To all intents and purposes she sells herself; only 
 her shrewd, mercantile sense makes her name as her 
 price the right to become Mrs. B. The same sort 
 of calculating virtue is apparent in most of her 
 actions ; though always satisfied with her own con- 
 duct to an exasperating degree, she apparently has 
 no idea of doing right for right's sake. In the con- 
 tinuation of her history, her teaching to her chil- 
 dren (teaching which Richardson plainly approved) 
 is : " Be good, and you will get tangible earthly 
 rewards." 
 
 I ^vi ]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Now Fielding — like Thackeray and Cervantes, 
 and others who from Homer down have known 
 human nature best — was well aware that unfortu- 
 nately such is not always the case. The marketable 
 honour of the vulgar Pamela (who, in addition to 
 her other short-comings, lacked all sense of humour) 
 seemed to a man of the world like him meet subject 
 for ridicule. In the drama, which so far had been 
 almost the sole field of his literary work, his con- 
 spicuous successes had been in satirical burlesque — 
 Tom Thumb and Pasquin. It was natural, there- 
 fore, that he should take up his pen to ridicule the 
 book which had just offended him. According to 
 Fielding, Richardson's hero, Mr. B., became Mr. 
 Booby. To his already large circle of Booby rela- 
 tives was added an aunt by marriage, Lady Booby, 
 a female sinner, who had in her service as footman a 
 male saint, Joseph Andrews, brother to the paragon 
 of virtue herself. With Lady Booby tempting this 
 footman, whose virtue like his sisters should be as 
 adamant. Fielding thought that he had excellent 
 material for his parody. And so he began the com- 
 position of Joseph AndrexvSy which appeared in Febru- 
 ary, 1742, the first of his novels to be published. 
 
 All critics agree that Pamela thus gave the imme- 
 diate impulse to Joseph Andrexvs ; they are not 
 agreed, however, as to how strong its influence re- 
 mained throughout the book. It is certain that the 
 parody runs into the tenth chapter, for in that is a 
 letter from Joseph to his sister, in imitation of some 
 of her own correspondence. It is equally certain that 
 in the eleventh chapter. Fielding breaks away from the 
 
 [ xvii ]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 parody ; but, according to Professor Saintsbury, all 
 through the story signs of it are to be found in the 
 love that Joseph inspires in more than one feminine 
 breast. Finally, there is an undoubted return to the 
 parody in the fourth book, which introduces not only 
 Lady Booby, still amorously pursuing Joseph, but 
 also her nephew. Squire Booby, and his saintly spouse. 
 So far as they appear, they remain amusingly faith- 
 ful to the pictures which Richardson had given of 
 them himself. The passages are fair hits at the 
 earlier novelist*'s work which show the ex-maid- 
 servant declaring to her supposed brother that Fanny 
 is no longer her equal but her inferior, chiding 
 Fanny for her assurance in aiming at such a match 
 as Joseph, and finally, on learning that after all 
 Fanny is her sister, behaving " with great decency." 
 
 Though the influence of Pamela probably went 
 farther than those chapters in which the parody is 
 plain, I am not inclined to accept as truth the state- 
 ment frequently made : that without Richardson 
 we should never have had Fielding. To argue 
 otherwise at length would be futile, for we never 
 could reach certainty. The fact will always remain 
 that Richardson wrote a novel which led his greater 
 contemporary to write a greater novel. It is not 
 impossible, however, — perhaps not improbable — 
 that Fielding would have produced something of the 
 kind had Samuel Richardson never been bom. At 
 all events, the influence of many another book than 
 Pamela is apparent in Joseph Andrews. The author 
 on the title-page frankly announced it as " written 
 in^imitation of the manner of Cervantes " ; and even 
 
 [ xviii ]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 without this acknowledgment, readers might have 
 suspected as nmch from the succession of rough, 
 horse-play incidents, to say nothing of the Quixotic 
 character of Joseph's friend, Mr. Abraham Adams. 
 Less marked, but not less real, is the influence of 
 Scarron's Roman Comique. It is apparent in the 
 mock-heroi c passages , in the headings to the chap- 
 ters, and in the general ba ntering ton e of jhejvvjiole 
 book, a good part of which seems to be an experi- 
 ment, tried for the mere fun of the thing. And 
 yet, before you are done with Joseph Andrews, you 
 feel that here is something to be taken much more 
 seriously than you would ever take the Roman 
 Comique. 
 
 There are other authors who probably exerted an 
 influence on Fielding, though their influence is more 
 or less problematical. He himself speaks ^ of Mari- 
 vaux and LeSage in a way which shows acquaintance 
 with them and admiration for their works ; but no 
 such undoubted traces of them are to be found in 
 Joseph And rexes as of Cervantes and Scarron. True, 
 the hero of the Paysan Parvenu is exposed, in the 
 first part of his entertaining history, to temptations 
 not unlike those which Joseph triumphantly over- 
 comes, but the resemblance may be only fortuitous. 
 Of Fielding's acquaintance with yet other picaresque 
 writers it is impossible to speak certainly ; knowl- 
 edge of the works of some of them, however, it is 
 pretty safe to assume. And finally, and by no means 
 of least importance, we must remember that Field- 
 ing knew well the character-sketches of Addison 
 1 Joseph Andrews, Book III, Chapter I. 
 
 [ iix ]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 and_ Steele. In .short, even had he never heard of 
 Pamela, Fieldinj^'s reading among the later Spanish 
 and French and Enghsh writers had been of just the 
 nature to prepare him for that new kind of fiction in 
 Avhich he was to excel. 
 
 Knowledge of books, however, without knowledge 
 of life will not make a great novelist ; and fortu- 
 nately Fielding knew life even better than he knew 
 books. He knew it so well, when he_composed 
 Joseph Andrews at the age of thirty-four, that he 
 had by that time a training for the career of novelist 
 such as few men gifted with literary genius have 
 ever had. He knew^country life and he knew_town 
 lijg_;. and he knew all grades of society from the 
 highest to the lowest. On both sides of his house 
 he came of gentle blood — on his father's, indeed, of 
 the noble blood of the Earls of Denbigh* — a family 
 somewhat doubtfully reported to descend from the 
 royal house of Hapsburg, whence that oft-quoted 
 rhetorical encomium of Gibbon on Tom Jones : — 
 that it would "outlive the palace of the Escurial 
 and the Imperial Eagle of the house of Austria." The 
 brilliant Lady. jVlary^ Wgrtley Montagu, daughter to 
 the Duke of Richmond, was Henry Fielding"'s second 
 cousin. But Fielding's nature was not such as would 
 restrict his friendships to his own class. Born in 
 1707 at Sharpham Park in Somersetshire, the seat of 
 
 1 Fielding's father was General Edmund Fielding, his 
 grandfather was John Fielding, Canon of Salisbury, and his 
 great-grandfather was the Earl of Desmond, in the peerage of 
 Ireland. This nobleman was descended from the younger 
 branch of the Earls of Denbigh. 
 
 [xxj
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 his mother's father, and brought up in that county 
 and in Dorsetshire, he no doubt became acquainted 
 in his boyhood with the neighbouring peasantry, as 
 well as the country gentry. It is not unrgMonable 
 to imagine an intim acy between hiuxand some vag- 
 abond game-keeper, like that between Black George 
 and Tom Jones. Fielding's chances of observing 
 mankind, however, were not to be confined to this 
 western country. When about eleven or twelve, he 
 was sent to school at Eton where he probably 
 strengthened a taste already formed for outdoor 
 sports, and certainly made several life-long friends. 
 On leaving school he seems directly to have enlarged 
 and matured his still boyish experience by falling in 
 love with Miss Sarah Andrew, a young lady of 
 Lyme, thought to be a cousin of his on his mother's 
 side. Then came a year or two of foreign university 
 experience, when he was studying law at Ley den. 
 And then, it is said because his father's remittances 
 stopped, he returned to England and began to 
 gain in London the fuller experience of life which 
 generally comes to men when, ceasing to depend 
 on their parents, they begin really to support 
 themselves. 
 
 Fielding was not ftir from tuenty-one when he be- 
 gan his London career. According to all reports he 
 was then a .fine-looking fellow, over six feet in his 
 stockings, manlv, gtueious, and good-natured, with 
 a vast capacity for enjoyment. It is small wonder 
 that, considering his penniless condition, he thought 
 the path to legal success too long and hard ; the 
 path to dramatic fame seemed shorter and pleas- 
 
 [xxi]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 anter. Accordingly, he had soon entered on what 
 we may call liis first literary period — that in which 
 he was writing plays and probably, at some detri- 
 ment to his health, adding materially to his knowledge 
 of mankind. After making all allowance for the ex- 
 aggeration (and there has been a great deal of it) in 
 the pictures of Fielding as a brilliant rake, we must 
 believe that in the first years of his dramatic writ- 
 ings, he saw much of a society very different from 
 that to which he was born. He kissed the hands, 
 no doubt, of second-rate actresses, long since indiffer- 
 ent to those troublesome things called reputations, 
 as well as the hands of ladies of quality. Green- 
 rooms, shabby lodgings, and sponging-houses he 
 knew as well as the drawing-rooms and country- 
 houses of his friends and kinsmen. Careless Bohe- 
 mianism, however, which might have brutalised 
 Fielding far too much, and which did brutalise him 
 a little too much, was not the only influence that he 
 felt; there were other influences which steadied 
 him and kept his nature sweet. When not quite 
 twenty-eight, he married, and everything leads us to 
 suppose that he was a tender husband and father. At 
 thirty, on account of the "Licensing Act"" which 
 closed the theatre that he owned, he returned seri- 
 ously to studying the law. Three years later — the 
 year before he wrote Joseph Andrews — he was called 
 to the bar. We can see, therefore, that Fielding 
 had an uncommonly broad knowledge of human 
 nature when, by good chance, he entered the path 
 which led him to Joseph Andrews and thence to Tom 
 Jones and Amelia. We have already seen that few 
 
 [xxii J
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 men of his time were better read in the various 
 books which helped prepare the way for the English 
 novel. And so, as I have said, I am by no means 
 sure, that without Pamela to precede it, Joseph An- 
 drews would never have gladdened and instructed 
 the world. 
 
 Although I should have hesitation in asserting 
 positively that we do not owe Fielding as a novelist 
 to Richardson, I should say without hesitation that 
 until Joseph Andrews had been composed, the future 
 oFthe English novel was not assured. By a n^^l "^^Ss 
 we commonly understand to-day a story with a fairly 
 well-defined beginning, middle, and end, in which 
 characters, who are not minatural, go through ad- 
 ventures which may be ever so romantic, provided 
 that we can still accept them as real. Some novels 
 Ave read chiefly for the sake of the plot ; some, for 
 the clever delineation of the characters ; and the best, 
 for a happy combination of both, such as Tom 
 Jones, Pride and Prejudice, and Henry Esmond. 
 Furthermore, in these three, as in all the best novels, 
 the background seems real. When we read Esmond, 
 for instance, we feel that we are in the England of 
 Anne and the great Marlborough and the " Augus- 
 tan" wits almost as strongly as when we read The 
 Spectator or The Rape of the Lock. In other words, 
 the elements of a good novel are plot, characters, and 
 general verisimilitude. ) It is not necessary that each 
 of these should be present in an equal degree, but it 
 is essential that none of them should be wholly lack- 
 ing. Now nowhere in English prose had these three 
 elements been so well combined in the year 1742 as 
 
 [ xxiii ] 
 
 Il0t^€.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 in Joseph Andrexvs. Not to go back of the eighteenth 
 century, Addison and Steele had made excellent 
 character-sketches standing out against excellent 
 backgrounds, but more they did not do. If they had 
 given the Sir Roger de Coverley papers a good plot, 
 they would have produced a novel. Defoe had 
 written many stories whose verisimilitude could not 
 be surpassed, but they had no plot and very few liv- 
 ing characters. Atjength in Pamela^ Richardson hit 
 after a fashion upon the combination of elements 
 that the English novel should have. Pamela had 
 plot, it had fairly real characters, and, to a certain ex- 
 tent, it had verisimilitude. The characters, however, 
 like all of Richardson's, are too conventional and not 
 enough individual — especially his people of quality ; 
 you would never find a Squire Western or a Sir Pitt 
 Crawley among them. Nor are the scenes always 
 such as to make you for the time accept them as 
 real. No, there is not that in Pamela which makes 
 you believe that the English novel is going to become 
 a literary form unsurpassed for giving pictures of 
 actual life. After reading it you feel no certainty 
 that the kind of literature has been discovered which 
 shall introduce us to such bits of reality as the small 
 country balls honoured by Elizabeth Bennet and 
 Emma Woodhouse ; which shall hurry us breathless 
 across the streets and squares of Vanity Fair^ while 
 Mrs. Rawdon dines alone with Lord Steyne ; or (to 
 take a recent but not unworthy instance) which shall 
 carry us in the te-rahi from Lahore to Umballa with 
 Kim and the old lama and their strange eastern com- 
 panions. Of all this life, and of the nmch more 
 
 [ xxiv ]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 that is in the EngHsh novel, Pamela gives us only 
 slight hope; but Joseph Andrexcs gives us certain 
 promise. For this reason it is that I saw till J^-^^ph 
 Andrews was composed, the future of the English 
 novel was not assured. For this reaso n it is that 
 Joseph Andrexcs is on e of t he most important books 
 iii^our literature. 
 
 Yet one does not have to examine Joseph Andrews . 
 
 very critically to find a conspicuous weakness in its iiM ^ 
 structure — a weakness arisimr^not fr om inadeq uacy 
 of plot (for the plot is coherent and substantial 
 enough), but fron i th e way in-wliich iUk unfolded. 
 Instead of going straight to its end, the story_£Dn- 
 tinually wanders off the track to incidents which help 
 it forward little, if any. Fielding's French and Span- 
 ish models, of course, are responsible for this leisurely, 
 uncertain movement. They have no very definite 
 ends to reach, and they frequently digress into so- 
 called " novels" — that is, short stories distinct from 
 the main tale — or into long-winded life-histories of 
 characters in the main story. It is not so surprising, 
 therefore, that similar digressive episodes are found in 
 Joseph Andrews, as that here they break the thread of 
 the principal narrative much less than they do in most 
 works in which they appear. Mr. Wilson's history 
 is shown by subsequent disclosures to be scarcely 
 irrelevant at all ; and the less relevant stories of 
 Leonora, the unfortunate jilt, and of Leonard 
 and Paul are made acceptable (if not almost in- 
 tegrant) parts of the main tale by the very char- 
 acteristic interruptions of Parson Adams and the 
 other hearei*s, 
 
 [ XXV ]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 But if Joseph Andrews is weak in one of the ele- 
 ments of a good novel, in the other two it is strong. 
 Wer e its st ructure much J^gg^^^m that it is, the 
 reality of its characters and of its scenes would still 
 
 • kee^it alive. Nowhere in earlier English prose will 
 you find such a living character as Parson Adams 
 appearing in a series of credible scenes so closely con- 
 nected. And nowhere in English prose, later or 
 earlier, will you find a character more lovable in his 
 , simplicity. In the chapters which introduce him, as 
 elsewhere in Joseph Andrews, the influence of Cer- 
 vantes is strongly apparent ; there is more than one 
 resemblance between Adams and Don Quixote. 
 They are alike, as Scott has ob erved, in that both 
 X are beaten too much ; and notwithstanding some 
 
 I obvious differences, they are alike in their natures. 
 Naturally a Spanish gentleman of the sixteenth 
 century, with his head full of the romances of 
 chivalry, must be in many ways different from a poor 
 English clergyman of the eighteenth century, with 
 his head full of the Greek poets. And yet Parson 
 Adams, for all his pedantry, is the same sort of 
 simple, pure-minded gentleman as that dear, crazy 
 old Don — one of the truest gentlemen in the world. 
 There is another gentleman — his portrait is given 
 us by the novelist who of nineteenth century writers 
 is most like Fielding — who always seems to me to 
 take his place properly beside Don Quixote and 
 Parson Adams — I mean Colonel Newcome. It 
 would be hard to find three men with finer gentle- 
 manly feelings than these. 
 
 Adams is unquestionably the great character of 
 
 [ xxvi ]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Jos eph Andrew s. Joseph himself and Fanny, in 
 spite of their importance in the plot, interest us less. 
 Indeed, like many stage-lovers, they are less alive 
 than most of the other characters. They are not so 
 interesting as the young people whom Fielding was 
 to create later — as Tom Jones and Sophia AVestern, 
 or as Booth and Amelia. In Mrs. Slipslop, however, 
 is a character-sketch which Fielding could not have 
 bettered ; she is a mixture of servility, impertinence, 
 hypociisy, and sensuality that could not be sur- 
 passed. Nor is Mrs. Malaprop herself more amusing 
 in the " nice derangement of her epitaphs " than 
 Slipslop, when she talks about " flagrant crimes " 
 and the " infections,'''' meaning affections, " of her 
 sect." 
 
 As to the rest of the characters, it is enough to say 
 that, even if they are on the stage but a few minutes, 
 they act their parts to the life. Parson Trulliber, 
 for instance, appears in only one chapter, but he 
 is a figure in our literature forever. Xhg,£?ople of 
 Joseph Andre-iCS all live, and that is the great merit 
 of the book. It proves, as I have said, that the 
 English novel is a literary form unsurpassed for giv- 
 ing pictures of actual life. A reader feels that he 
 has really travelled along the road from London to 
 Somersetshire, stopped at the inns kept by Mr. and 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse and others, and ridden in the stage- 
 coach to which Joseph was admitted after so much 
 dispute. A rough life it is and a coarse life, but it 
 gives you the fresh breath of the fields and the woods, 
 and it makes you feel in the best physical condition. 
 Unless you are squeamish, you feel in good mental 
 ,_„.,._^ [ xxvii ]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 condition, too, for you have had the vices and foibles 
 and also the virtues of life pointed out and com- 
 mented on frankly, shrewdly, and sympathetically by 
 one of the sanest observers of human nature who 
 ever lived. 
 
 G. H. Maynadier. 
 
 xxviii ^*
 
 AUTHOR S PREFACE 
 
 jA S it is possible the mere English reader 
 /^k may have a different idea of romance 
 
 / — ^ from the author of these little^ volumes, 
 ^ ^ and may consequently expect a kind of 
 entertainment not to be found, nor which was even 
 intended, in the following pages, it may not be 
 improper to premise a few words concerning this 
 kind of writing, which I do not remember to have 
 seen hitherto attempted in our language. 
 
 The Epic, as well as the Drama, is divided into 
 traced V and comedy. Homer, who was the father 
 of this species of poetry, ga ve us _a pattern of both 
 these, though that of the latter kind is entirely lost ; 
 which Aristotle tells us, bore the same relation to 
 comedy which his Iliad bears to tragedy. And per- 
 haps, that we have no more instances of it among 
 the writers of antiquity, is owing to the loss of this 
 great pattern, which, had it survived, would have 
 found its imitators equally with the other poems of 
 this great original. 
 
 And farther, as this poetry may be tragic or 
 comic, I will not scruple to say it may be likewise 
 either in verse or prose : for though it wants one 
 particular, which the critic enumerates in the con- 
 
 1 Joseph Andrews Was originalJy published in 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 \ xxix ]
 
 AUTHOR S PREFACE 
 
 stituent parts of an epic poem, namely metre ; yet, 
 when any kind of writing contains all its other parts, 
 such as fable, action, characters, sentiments, and 
 diction, and is deficient in metre only, it seems, I 
 think, reasonable to refer it to the epic ; at least, as 
 no critic hath thought proper to range it under any 
 other head, or to assign it a particular name to 
 itself 
 
 Thus the Telemachus of the archbishop of Cam- 
 bray appears to me of the epic kind, as well as the 
 Odyssey of Homer ; indeed, it is much fairer and 
 more reasonable to give it a name common with that < 
 species from which it differs only in a single instance, 
 than to confound it with those which it resembles in 
 no other. Such are those voluminous works, com- 
 monly called Romances, namely, Clelia, Cleopatra, 
 Astraea, Cassandra, the Grand Cyrus, and innumer- 
 able others, which contain, as I apprehend, very 
 little instruction or entertainment. 
 
 Now, a comic romance is a comic epic poem in 
 prose ; differing from comedy, as the serious epic 
 from tragedy : its action being more extended and 
 comprehensive ; containing a much larger circle of 
 incidents, and introducing a greater variety of char- 
 acters. It differs from the serious romance in its 
 fable and action, in this ; that as in the one these 
 are grave and solemn, so in the other they are light 
 and ridiculous ; it differs in its characters by intro- 
 ducing persons of inferior rank, and consequently, 
 of inferior manners, whereas the grave romance sets 
 the highest before us: lastly, in its sentiments and 
 diction ; by preserving the ludicrous instead of the 
 
 [ XXX ]
 
 AUTHORS PREFACE 
 
 sublime. In the diction, I think, burlesque itself 
 may be sometimes admitted ; of which many instances 
 will occur in this work, as in the description of the 
 battles, and some other places, not necessary to be 
 pointed out to the classical reader, for whose enter- 
 tainment those parodies or burlesque imitations are 
 chiefly calculated. 
 
 But though we have sometimes admitted this in 
 our diction, we have carefully excluded it from our 
 sentiments and characters ; for there it is never prop- 
 erly introduced, unless in writings of the burlesque 
 kind, which this is not intended to be. Indeed, no 
 two species of writing can differ more widely than 
 the comic and the burlesque ; for as the latter is 
 ever the exhibition of what is monstrous and un- 
 natural, and where our delight, if we examine it, 
 arises from the surprizing absurdity, as in appro- 
 priating the manners of the highest to the lowest, or 
 e converso ; so in the former we should ever confine 
 ourselves strictly to nature, from the just imitation 
 of which will flow all the pleasure we can this way 
 convey to a sensible reader. And perhaps there is 
 one reason why a comic writer should of all others 
 be the least excused for deviating from nature, since 
 it may not be always so easy for a serious poet to 
 meet with the great and the admirable ; but life 
 everywhere furnishes an accurate observer with the 
 ridiculous. 
 
 I have hinted this little concerning burlesque, 
 because I have often heard that name given to per- 
 formances which have been truly of the comic kind, 
 from the author's having sometimes admitted it in 
 
 [ xxxi ]
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 his diction only ; which, as it is the dress of poetry, 
 doth, hke the dress of men, estabhsh characters ( the 
 one of the whole poem, and the other of the whole 
 man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater 
 excellences: but surely, a certain drollery in stile, 
 where characters and sentiments are perfectly natural, 
 no more constitutes the burlesque, than an empty 
 pomp and dignity of words, where everything else is 
 mean and low, can entitle any performance to the 
 appellation of the true sublime. 
 
 And I appreliend my Lord Shaftesbury's opinion 
 of mere burlesque agrees with mine, when he asserts, 
 There is no such thing to be found in the writings 
 of the ancients. But perhaps I have less abhorrence 
 than he professes for it ; and that, not because I have 
 had some little success on the stage this way, but 
 rather as it contributes more to exquisite mirth and 
 laughter than any other; and these are probably 
 more wholesome physic for the mind, and conduce 
 better to purge away spleen, melancholy, and ill 
 affections, than is generally imagined. Nay, I will 
 appeal to common observation, whether the same 
 companies are not found more fiill of good-humour 
 and benevolence, after they have been sweetened for 
 two or three hours with entertaiiunents of this kind, 
 than when soured by a tragedy or a grave lecture. 
 
 But to illustrate all this by another science, in 
 which, perhaps, we shall see the distinction more 
 clearly and plainly, let us examine the works of a 
 comic history painter, with those performances 
 which the Italians call Caricatura, where we shall 
 find the true excellence of the former to consist in 
 
 [ xxxii J
 
 AUTHORS PREFACE 
 
 the exactest copying of nature ; insomuch that a 
 judicious eye instantly rejects anything outre, any 
 Hberty which the painter hath taken with the features 
 of that alma inater ; whereas in the Caricatura we 
 allow all licence — its aim is to exhibit monsters, not 
 men ; and all distortions and exaggerations whatever 
 are within its proper province. 
 
 Now, what^aiica|urajsjn painting, Burlesque is 
 in writing ; and in the same manner the cornicjyriter 
 and~"painter correlate to each other. And here I 
 shall observe, that, as in the former the painter 
 seems to have the advantage ; so it is in the latter 
 infinitely on the side of the writer ; for the Mon- 
 strous is much easier to paint than describe, and the 
 Ridiculous to describe than paint. 
 
 And though perhaps this latter species doth not 
 in either science so strongly affect and agitate the 
 muscles as the other ; yet it m ill be owned, I believe, 
 that a more rational and useful pleasure arises to us 
 from it. He who should call the ingenious Hogarth 
 a burlesque painter, would, in my opinion, do him 
 very little honour ; for sure it is much easier, much 
 less the subject of admiration, to paint a man with 
 a nose, or any other feature, of a preposterous size, 
 or to expose him in some absurd or monstrous atti- 
 tude, than to express the affections of men on canvas. 
 It hath been thought a vast commendation of a 
 painter to say his figures seem to breathe ; but 
 surely it is a much greater and nobler applause, that 
 they appear to think. 
 
 But to return. The Ridiculous only, as I have 
 before said, falls within my province in the present 
 
 [ xxxiii ]
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 work. Nor will some explanation of this word be 
 thought impertinent by the reader, if he considers 
 how wonderfully it hath been mistaken, even by 
 writers who have professed it : for to what but such 
 a mistake can we attribute the many attempts to 
 ridicule the blackest villanies, and, what is yet worse, 
 the most dreadful calamities ? What could exceed 
 the absurdity of an author, who should write the 
 comedy of Nero, with the merry incident of ripping 
 up his mother's belly ? or what would give a greater 
 shock to humanity than an attempt to expose the 
 miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule ? And 
 yet the reader will not want much learning to suggest 
 such instances to himself. 
 
 Besides, it may seem remarkable, that Aristotle, 
 who is so fond and free of definitions, hath not 
 thought proper to define the Ridiculous. Indeed, 
 where he tells us it is proper to comedy, he hath 
 remarked that villany is not its object : but he hath 
 not, as I remember, positively asserted what is. 
 Nor doth the Abbe Bellegarde, who hath written a 
 treatise on this subject, though he shows us many 
 species of it, once trace it to its fountain. 
 
 The only source of the true Ridiculous (as it 
 appears to me) is affectation. But though it arises 
 from one spring only, when we consider the infinite 
 streams into which this one branches, we shall pres- 
 ently cease to admire at the copious field it affords 
 to an observer. Now, affectation proceeds from one 
 of these two causes, vanity or hypocrisy : for as vanity 
 puts us on affecting false characters, in order to pur- 
 chase applause ; so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavour 
 
 [ xxxiv ]
 
 AUTHORS PREFACE 
 
 to avoid censure, by concealing our vices under an 
 appearance of their opposite virtues. And though 
 these two causes are often confounded (for there is 
 some difficulty in distinguishing them), yet, as they 
 proceed from very different motives, so they are as 
 clearly distinct in their operations : for indeed, the 
 affectation which arises from vanity is nearer to truth 
 than the other, as it hath not that violent repug- 
 nancy of nature to struggle with, which that of the 
 hypocrite hath. It may be likewise noted, that 
 affectation doth not imply an absolute negation of 
 those qualities which are affected ; and, therefore, 
 though, when it proceeds from hypocrisy, it be 
 nearly allied to deceit ; yet when it comes from 
 vanity only, it partakes of the nature of ostentation : 
 for instance, the affectation of liberality in a vain 
 man differs visibly from the same affectation in the 
 avaricious ; for though the vain man is not what he 
 would appear, or hath not the virtue he affects, to 
 the degree he would be thought to have it ; yet it 
 sits less awkwardly on him than on the avaricious 
 man, who is the very reverse of what he would seem 
 to be. 
 
 From the discovery of this affectation arises the 
 Ridiculous, which always strikes the reader with sur- 
 prize and pleasure ; and that in a higher and stronger 
 degree when the affectation arises from hypocrisy, 
 than when from vanity ; for to discover any one to 
 be the exact reverse of what he affects, is more sur- 
 prizing, and consequently more ridiculous, than to 
 find him a little deficient in the quality he desires 
 the reputation of. I might observe that our Ben 
 
 [ XXXV j
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 Jonson, who of all men understood the Ridiculous the 
 best, hath chiefly used the hypocritical affectation. 
 
 Now, from affectation only, the misfortunes and 
 calamities of life, or the imperfections of nature, 
 may become the objects of ridicule. Surely he hath 
 a very ill-framed mind who can look on ugliness, 
 infirmity, or poverty, as ridiculous in themselves : 
 nor do I believe any man living, who meets a dirty 
 fellow riding through the streets in a cart, is struck 
 with an idea of the Ridiculous from it ; but if he 
 should see the same figure descend from his coach 
 and six, or bolt from his chair with his hat under 
 his arm, he would then begin to laugh, and with jus- 
 tice. In the same manner, were we to enter a poor 
 house and behold a wretched family shivering with 
 cold and languishing with hunger, it would not 
 incline us to laughter (at least we must have very 
 diabolical natures if it would) ; but should we dis- 
 cover there a grate, instead of coals, adorned with 
 flowers, empty plate or china dishes on the side- 
 board, or any other affectation of riches and finery, 
 either on their persons or in their furniture, we 
 might then indeed be excused for ridiculing so fan- 
 tastical an appearance. Much less are natural 
 imperfections the object of derision ; but when ugli- 
 ness aims at the applause of beauty, or lameness 
 endeavours to display agility, it is then that these 
 unfortunate circumstances, which at first moved our 
 compassion, tend only to raise our mirth. 
 
 The poet carries this very far : — 
 
 None are for being what they are in fault. 
 But for not being what they would be thought. 
 \ [ xxxvi j
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 Where if the metre would suffer the word Ridiculous 
 to close the first line, the thought would be rather 
 more proper. Great vices are the proper objects of 
 our detestation, smaller faults, of our pity ; but 
 affectation appears to me the only true source of the 
 Ridiculous. 
 
 But perhaps it may be objected to me, that I have 
 against my own rules introduced vices, and of a very 
 black kind, into this work. To which I shall answer : 
 first, that it is very difficult to pursue a series of 
 human actions, and keep clear from them. Secondly, 
 that the vices to be found here are rather the acci- 
 dental consequences of some human frailty or foible, 
 than causes habitually existing in the mind. Thirdly, 
 that they are never set forth as the objects of ridicule, 
 but detestation. Fourthly, that they are never the 
 principal figure at that time on the scene : and, 
 lastly, they never produce the intended evil. 
 
 Having thus distinguished Joseph Andrews from 
 the productions of romance writers on the one hand 
 and burlesque writers on the other, and given some 
 few very short hints (for I intended no more) of this 
 species of writing, which I have affirmed to be 
 hitherto unattempted in our language ; I shall leave 
 to my good-natured reader to apply my piece to my 
 observations, and will detain him no longer than with 
 a word concerning the characters in this work. 
 
 And here I solemnly protest I have no intention 
 to vilify or asperse any one ; for though everything is 
 copied from the book of nature, and scarce a char- 
 acter or action produced which I have not taken 
 from my own observations and experience; yet I 
 
 [ xxxvii ]
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 have used the utmost care to obscure the persons by 
 such different circumstances, degrees, and colours, 
 that it will be impossible to guess at them with any 
 degree of certainty ; and if it ever happens other- 
 wise, it is only where the failure characterized is so 
 minute, that it is a foible only which the party 
 himself may laugh at as well as any other. 
 
 As to the character of Adams, as it is the most 
 glaring in the whole, so I conceive it is not to be 
 found in any book now extant. It is designed a 
 character of perfect simplicity ; and as the goodness 
 of his heart will I'ecommend him to the good-natured, 
 so I hope it will excuse me to the gentlemen of his 
 cloth ; for whom, while they are worthy of their sacred 
 order, no man can possibly have a greater respect. 
 They will therefore excuse me, notwithstanding the 
 low adventures in which he is engaged, that I have 
 made him a clergyman ; since no other office could 
 have given him so many opportunities of displaying 
 his worthy inclinations. 
 
 ' \, 
 
 [ xxxviii ]
 
 THE HISTORY of the ADVENTURES 
 
 0/ JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 AND HIS FRIEND MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 OF WRITING LIVES IN GENERAL, AND PARTICULARLY OF 
 PAMELA ; WITH A WORD BY THE BYE OF COLLEY 
 GIBBER AND OTHERS. 
 
 IT is a trite but true observation, that examples 
 work more forcibly on the mind than pre- 
 cepts : and if this be just in what is odious 
 and blameable, it is more strongly so in what 
 is amiable and praiseworthy. Here emulation most 
 effectually operates upon us, and inspires our imita- 
 tion in an irresistible manner. A good man there- 
 fore is a standing lesson to all his acquaintance, and 
 of far greater use in that narrow circle than a good 
 book. 
 
 But as it often happens that the best men are but 
 little known, and consequently cannot extend the 
 usefulness of their examples a great way ; the writer 
 may be called in aid to spread their history farther, 
 
 VOL. I. — 1 [ 1 ]
 
 -J 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and to present the amiable pictures to those who 
 have not the happiness of knowing the originals ; 
 and so, by communicating such valuable patterns to 
 the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive ser- 
 vice to mankind than the person whose life originally 
 afforded the pattern. 
 
 In this light I have always regarded those biogra- 
 phers who have recorded the actions of great and 
 worthy persons of both sexes. Not to mention those 
 antient writers which of late days are little read, 
 being written in obsolete, and as they are generally 
 thought, unintelligible languages, such as Plutarch, 
 Nepos, and others which I heard of in my youth ; 
 our own language affords many of excellent use and 
 instruction, finely calculated to sow the seeds of 
 virtue in youth, and very easy to be comprehended 
 by persons of moderate capacity. Such as the 
 history of John the Great, who, by his brave and 
 heroic actions against men of large and athletic 
 bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the 
 Giant-killer ; that of an Earl of Warwick, whose 
 Christian name was Guy ; the lives of Argalus and 
 Parthenia ; and above all, the history of those seven 
 worthy personages, the Champions of Christendom. 
 In all these delight is mixed with instruction, and the 
 reader is almost as much improved as entertained. 
 
 But I pass by these and many others to men- 
 tion two books lately published, which represent 
 
 [2]
 
 THE PREVALENCE OF EXAMPLE 
 
 an admirable pattern of the amiable in either sex. 
 The former of these, which deals in male virtue, was 
 written by the great person himself, who lived the 
 life he hath recorded, and is by many thought to 
 have lived such a life only in order to write it. The 
 other is communicated to us by an historian who 
 borrows his lights, as the common method is, from 
 authentic papers and records. The reader, I believe, 
 already conjectures, I mean the lives of Mr. Colley 
 Cibber and of Mrs. Pamela Andrews. How artfully 
 doth the former, by insinuating that he escaped 
 being promoted to the highest stations in Church 
 and State, teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur ! 
 how strongly doth he inculcate an absolute sub- 
 mission to our superiors ! Lastly, how completely 
 doth he arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a 
 passion as the fear of shame ! how clearly doth he 
 expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom, 
 reputation ! 
 
 What the female readers are taught by the mem- 
 oirs of Mrs. Andrews is so well set forth in the 
 excellent essays or letters prefixed to the second and 
 subsequent editions of that work, that it would be 
 here a needless repetition. The authentic history with 
 which I now present the public is an instance of the 
 great good that book is likely to do, and of the 
 prevalence of example which I have just observed : 
 since it will appear that it was by keeping the excel- 
 
 [3]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 lent pattern of his sister's virtues before his eyes, 
 that Mr. Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to pre- 
 serve his purity in the midst of such great tempta- 
 tions. I shall only add that this character of male 
 chastity, though doubtless as desirable and becoming 
 in one part of the human species as in the other, is 
 almost the only virtue which the great apologist hath 
 not given himself for the sake of giving the example 
 to his readers. 
 
 [4]
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 OF MR. JOSEPH ANDREWS, HIS BIRTH, PARENTAGE, EDUCA- 
 TION, AND GREAT ENDOWMENTS ; WITH A WORD OR 
 TWO CONCERNING ANCESTORS. 
 
 MR. JOSEPH ANDREWS, the hero of 
 our ensuing history, w'as esteemed to 
 be the only son of Gaffar and Gam- 
 mer Andrews, and brother to the 
 illustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so 
 famous. As to his ancestors, we have searched with 
 great diligence, but little success ; being unable to 
 trace them farther than his great-grandfather, who, 
 as an elderly person in the parish remembers to have 
 heard his father say, was an excellent cudgel -player. 
 Whether he had any ancestors before this, we must 
 leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding 
 nothing of sufficient certainty to rely on. However, 
 we cannot omit inserting an epitaph which an ingen- 
 ious friend of ours hath communicated : — 
 
 Stay, traveller, for underneath this pew 
 Lies fast asleep that merry man Andrew : 
 When the last day's great sun shall gild the skies. 
 Then he shall from his tomb get up and rise. 
 Be merry while thou canst : for surely thou 
 Shalt shortly be as sad as he is now. 
 
 [5]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 The words are almost out of the stone with antiquitj. 
 But it is needless to observe that Andrew here is 
 writ without an s, and is, besides, a Christian name. 
 My friend, moreover, conjectures this to have been 
 the founder of that sect of laughing philosophers 
 since called Merry-andrews. 
 
 To waive, therefore, a circumstance which, though 
 mentioned in conformity to the exact rules of 
 biography, is not greatly material, I proceed to 
 things of more consequence. Indeed, it is sufficiently 
 certain that he had as many ancestors as the best 
 man living, and, perhaps, if we look five or six hun- 
 dred years backwards, might be related to some 
 persons of very great figure at present, whose ances- 
 tors within half the last century are buried in as 
 great obscurity. But suppose, for argument's sake, 
 we should admit that he had no ancestors at all, but 
 had sprung up, according to the modern phrase, out 
 of a dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they them- 
 selves did from the earth, would not this autokopros^ 
 have been justly entitled to all the praise arising 
 from his own virtues ? Would it not be hard that a 
 man who hath no ancestors should therefore be ren- 
 dered incapable of acquiring honour ; when we see 
 so many who have no virtues enjoying the honour of 
 their forefathers ? At ten years old ( by which time 
 his education was advanced to writing and reading ) 
 1 In English, sprung from a dunghill. 
 
 [6]
 
 A SPIRITED RIDER 
 
 he was bound an apprentice, according to the statute, 
 to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr. Booby's by 
 the father"'s side. Sir Tlionms having then an estate 
 in his own hands, the young Andrews was at first 
 employed in what in the country they call keeping 
 birds. His office was to perform the part the ancients 
 assigned to the god Priapus, which deity the moderns 
 call by the name of Jack o' Lent ; but his voice 
 being so extremely musical, that it rather allured 
 the birds than terrified them, he was soon trans- 
 planted from the fields into the dog-kennel, where 
 he was placed under the huntsman, and made what 
 the sportsmen term whip})er - in. For this place 
 likewise the sweetness of his voice disqualified him ; 
 the dogs preferring the melody of his chiding to all 
 the alluring notes of the huntsman, who soon became 
 so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to pro- 
 vide otherwise for him, and constantly laid every fault 
 the dogs were at to the account of the poor boy, 
 who was now transplanted to the stable. Here he 
 soon gave proofs of strength and agility beyond his 
 years, and constantly rode the most spirited and 
 vicious horses to water, with an intrepidity which sur- 
 prised every one. While he was in this station, he 
 rode several races for Sir Thomas, and this with such 
 expertness and success, that the neighbouring gentle- 
 men frequently solicited the knight to permit little 
 Joey ( for so he was called ) to ride their matches. 
 
 in
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 The best gamesters, before they laid their money, 
 always inquired which horse little Joey was to ride ; 
 and the bets were rather proportioned by the rider 
 than by the horse himself; especially after he had 
 scornfully refused a considerable bribe to play booty 
 on such an occasion. This extremely raised his char- 
 acter, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that she desired 
 to have him ( being now seventeen years of age ) for 
 her own footboy. 
 
 Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend 
 on his lady, to go on her errands, stand behind 
 her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry her prayer- 
 book to church ; at which place his voice gave him 
 an opportunity of distinguishing himself by singing 
 psalms : he behaved likewise in every other respect so 
 well at Divine service, that it recommended him to 
 the notice of Mr._Abraliam Adams, the curate, who 
 took an opportunity one day, as he was drinking a 
 cup of ale in Sir Thomas's kitchen, to ask the young 
 man several questions concerning religion ; with his 
 answers to which he was wonderfully pleased. 
 
 [8]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 OF MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS THE CURATE, MRS. SLIPSLOP THE 
 CHAMBERMAID, AND OTHERS. 
 
 MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS was an ex- 
 cellent scholar. He was a perfect 
 master of the Greek and Latin lan- 
 guages; to which he added a great share 
 of knowledge in the Oriental tongues ; and could read 
 and translate French, Italian, and Spanish. He had 
 applied many years to the most severe study, and 
 had treasured up a fund of learning rarely to be met 
 with in a university. He was, besides, a man of 
 good sense, good parts, and good nature ; but was at 
 the same time as entirely ignorant of the ways of 
 this world as an infant just entered into it could 
 possibly be. As he had never any intention to 
 deceive, so he never suspected such a design in others. 
 He was generous, friendly, and brave to an excess ; 
 but simplicity Mas his characteristick : he did, no 
 more than Mr. Colley Gibber, apprehend any such 
 passions as malice and envy to exist in mankind ; 
 which was indeed less remarkable in a country parson 
 than in a gentleman who hath passed his life behind 
 
 [9J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 the scenes, — a place which hath been seldom thought 
 the school of innocence, and where a very little 
 observation would have convinced the great apologist 
 that those passions have a real existence in the 
 human mind. 
 
 His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they 
 rendered him equal to his office, so they made him 
 an agreeable and valuable companion, and had so 
 much endeared and well recommended him to a 
 bishop, that at the age of fifty he was provided with 
 a handsome income of twenty-three pounds a year ; 
 which, however, he could not make any great figure 
 with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a 
 little encumbered with a wife and six children. 
 
 It was this gentleman, who having, as I have said, 
 observed the singular devotion of young Andrews, 
 had found means to question him concerning several 
 particulars ; as, how many books there were in the 
 New Testament? which were they? how many chap- 
 ters they contained ? and such like : to all which, Mr. 
 Adams privately said, he answered much better than 
 Sir Thomas, or two other neighbouring justices of 
 the peace could probably have done. 
 
 ]\Ir. Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at 
 what time, and by what opportunity, the youth 
 became acquainted with these matters : Joey told 
 him that he had very early learnt to read and write 
 by the goodness of his fatlier, who, though he had 
 
 [10]
 
 INSTANCES OF APPLICATION 
 
 not interest enough to get him into a charity school, 
 hecause a cousin of his father's landlord did not vote 
 on the right side for a churchwarden in a borough 
 town, yet had been himself at the expense of six- 
 pence a week for his learning. He told him likewise, 
 that ever since he was in Sir Thomas's family he had 
 employed all his hours of leisure in reading good 
 books ; that he had read the Bible, the Whole Duty 
 of Man, and Thomas a Kempis ; and that as often 
 as he could, without being perceived, he had studied 
 a great good book which lay open in the hall window, 
 where he had read, " as how the devil carried away 
 half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one 
 of the congregation ; and as how a field of corn ran 
 away down a hill with all the trees upon it, and 
 covered another man's meadow." This sufficiently 
 assured Mr. Adams that the good book meant could 
 be no other than Baker's Chronicle. 
 
 The curate, surprized to find such instances of 
 industry and application in a young man who had 
 never met with the least encouragement, asked him. 
 If he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal 
 education, and the not having been born of parents 
 who might have indulged his talents and desire of 
 knowledge ? To which he answered, " He hoped he 
 had profited somewhat better from the books he had 
 read than to lament his condition in this world. 
 That, for his part, he was perfectly content with the 
 
 [11]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 state to which he was called ; that he should endeav- 
 our to improve his talent, which was all required of 
 him ; but not repine at his own lot, nor envy those 
 of his betters/'' " Well said, my lad," replied the 
 curate ; " and I wish some who have read many 
 more good books, nay, and some who have written 
 good books themselves, had profited so much by 
 them.'" 
 
 Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my 
 lady than through the waiting-gentlewoman ; for Sir 
 Thomas was too apt to estimate men merely by their 
 dress or fortune ; and my lady was a woman of gaiety, 
 who had been blest with a town education, and never 
 spoke of any of her country neighbours by any other 
 appellation than that of the brutes. They both 
 regarded the curate as a kind of domestic onlv, 
 belonging to the parson of the parish, who was at 
 this time at variance with the knight ; for the parson 
 had for many years lived in a constant state of civil 
 war, or, which is perhaps as bad, of civil law, with 
 Sir Thomas himself and the tenants of his manor. 
 The foundation of this quarrel was a modus, by set- 
 ting which aside an advantage of several shillings 
 per annum would have accrued to the rector ; but he 
 had not yet been able to accom})lish his purpose, 
 and had reaped hitherto nothing better from the 
 suits than the pleasure (which he used indeed fre- 
 quently to say was no small one) of reflecting that 
 
 [12]
 
 FREQUENT DISPUTES 
 
 he had utterly undone many of the poor tenants, 
 though he had at the same time greatly impoverished 
 himself. 
 
 Mrs. Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, being 
 herself the daughter of a curate, preserved some 
 respect for Adams : she professed great regard for 
 his learning, and would frequently dispute with him 
 on points of theology ; but always insisted on a 
 deference to be paid to her understanding, as she 
 had been frequently at London, and knew more of 
 the world than a country parson could pretend to. 
 
 She had in these disputes a particular advantage 
 over Adams : for she was a mighty affecter of hard 
 words, which she used in such a manner that the 
 parson, who durst not offend her by calling her words 
 in question, was frequently at some loss to guess her 
 meaning, and would have been much less puzzled by 
 an Arabian manuscript. 
 
 Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, 
 after a pretty long discourse with her on the essence 
 (or, as she pleased to term it, the incence) of matter, 
 to mention the case of young Andrews ; desiring her 
 to recommend him to her lady as a youth very sus- 
 ceptible of learning, and one whose instruction in 
 Latin he would himself undertake ; by which means 
 he might be qualified for a higher station than that 
 of a footman ; and added, she knew it was in his 
 master's power easily to provide for him in a better 
 
 [ 13 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 manner. He therefore desired that the boy might 
 be left behind under his care. 
 
 " La ! Mr. Adams," said Mrs. Slipslop, " do you 
 think my lady will suffer any preambles about any 
 such matter ? She is going to London very concisely, 
 and I am confidous would not leave Joey behind her 
 on any account ; for he is one of the genteelest young 
 fellows you may see in a sunnner''s day ; and I am 
 confidous she would as soon think of parting with a 
 pair of her grey mares, for she values herself as much 
 on one as the other." Adams would have interrupted, 
 but she proceeded : " And why is Latin more neces- 
 sitous for a footman than a gentleman ? It is very 
 proper that you clergymen nuist learn it, because 
 you can't preach without it : but I have heard gentle- 
 men say in London, that it is fit for nobody else. I 
 am confidous my lady would be angry with me for 
 mentioning it ; and I shall draw myself into no such 
 delemy." At which words her lady''s bell rung, and 
 Mr. Adams was forced to retire ; nor could he gain a 
 second opportunity with her before their London 
 journey, which happened a few days afterwards. 
 However, Andrews behaved very thankfully and 
 gratefully to him for his intended kindness, which he 
 told him he never would forget, and at the same 
 time received from the good man many admonitions 
 concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and 
 his perseverance in innocence and industry. 
 
 [U]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THEIR JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 NO sooner was young Andrews arrived at 
 London than he began to scrape an 
 acquaintance with his party-coloured 
 brethren, who endeavoured to make 
 him despise his former course of hfe. His hair was 
 cut after the newest fashion, and became his chief 
 care; he went abroad with it all the morning in 
 papers, and drest it out in the afternoon. They 
 could not, however, teach him to game, swear, drink, 
 nor any other genteel vice the town abounded with. 
 He applied most of his leisure hours to music, in 
 which he greatly improved himself; and became so 
 perfect a connoisseur in that art, that he led the 
 opinion of all the other footmen at an opera, and 
 thev never condemned or applauded a single song 
 contrary to his approbation or dislike. He was a 
 little too forward in riots at the play-houses and 
 assemblies ; and when he attended his lady at church 
 (which was but seldom) he behaved with less seeming 
 devotion than formerly : however, if he was out- 
 wardly a pretty fellow, his morals remained entirely 
 
 [15]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 uncorrupted, though lie was at the same time smarter 
 and genteeler than any of the beaus in town, either 
 in or out of Hvery. 
 
 His lady, who had often said of him that Joey 
 was the handsomest and genteelest footman in the 
 kingdom, but that it was pity he wanted spirit, 
 began now to find that fault no longer ; on the con- 
 trary, she was frequently heard to cry out, " Ay, 
 there is some life in this fellow." She plainly saw 
 the effects which the town air hath on the soberest 
 constitutions. She would now walk out with him 
 into Hyde Park in a morning, and when tired, which 
 happened almost every minute, would lean on his 
 arm, and converse with him in great familiarity. 
 Whenever she stept out of her coach, she would take 
 him by the hand, and sometimes, for fear of stum- 
 bling, press it very hard ; she admitted him to deliver 
 messages at her bedside in a morning, leered at him 
 at table, and indulged him in all those innocent 
 freedoms which women of figure may permit without 
 the least sully of their virtue. 
 
 But though their virtue remains unsullied, yet 
 now and then some small arroAvs will glance on the 
 shadow of it, their reputation ; and so it fell out to 
 Lady Booby, who happened to be walking arm-in- 
 arm with Joey one morning in Hyde Park, when 
 Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentally by 
 in their coach. " Bless me," says Lady Tittle, " can 
 
 [16]
 
 A WHISPERED SCANDAL 
 
 I believe my eyes ? Is thcat Lady Booby ? " — 
 " Surely,"" says Tattle. " But what makes you sur- 
 prized ? " — " Why, is not that her footman ? " 
 replied Tittle. At which Tattle laughed, and cried, 
 " An old business, I assure you : is it possible you 
 should not have heard it.'' The whole town hath 
 known it this half-year."" The consequence of this 
 interview was a whisper through a hundred visits, 
 which were separately performed by the two ladies ^ 
 the same afternoon, and might have had a mischiev- 
 ous effect, had it not been stopt by two fresh repu- 
 tations which were published the day afterwards, 
 and engrossed the whole talk of the town. 
 
 But, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous 
 inclination of defamers might entertain of Lady 
 Booby's innocent freedoms, it is certain they made 
 no impression on young Andrews, who never offered 
 to encroach beyond the liberties which his lady 
 allowed him, — a behaviour which she imputed to 
 the violent respect he preserved for her, and which 
 served only to heighten a something she began to 
 conceive, and which the next chapter will open a 
 little farther. 
 
 1 It may seem an absurdity that Tattle should visit, as she 
 actually did, to spread a known scandal : but the reader may 
 reconcile this by supposing, with me, that, notwithstanding 
 what she says, this was her first acquaintance with it. 
 
 VOL. I. — 2 [!''']
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 THE DEATH OF SHI THOMAS BOOBY, WITH THE AF- 
 FECTIONATE AND MOURNFUL BEHAVIOUR OF HIS 
 WIDOW, AND THE GREAT PURITY OF JOSEPH 
 ANDREWS. 
 
 |A T this time an accident happened which put 
 /^k a stop to those agreeable walks, which 
 / ^^ probably would have soon puffed up the 
 "^ "^^ cheeks of Fame, and caused her to blow 
 her brazen trumpet through the town ; and this was 
 no other than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who, 
 departing this life, left his disconsolate lady confined 
 to her house, as closely as if she herself had been 
 attacked by some violent disease. During the first 
 six days the poor lady admitted none but Mrs. 
 Slipslop, and three female friends, who made a party 
 at cards : but on the seventh she ordered Joey, 
 whom, for a good reason, we shall hereafter call 
 Joseph, to bring up her tea-kettle. The lady being 
 in bed, called Joseph to her, bade him sit down, and, 
 having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked 
 him if he had ever been in love. Joseph answered, 
 
 [18]
 
 DESIGNS UPON JOSEPH 
 
 with some confusion, it was time enough for one so 
 young as himself to think on such things. " As 
 young as you are," repHed the lady, " I am convinced 
 you are no stranger to that passion. Come, Joey," 
 says she, " tell me truly, who is the happy girl whose 
 eyes have made a conquest of you ? " Joseph returned, 
 that all the women he had ever seen were equally 
 indifferent to him. " Oh then," said the lady, "you 
 are a general lover. Indeed, you handsome fellows, 
 like handsome women, are very long and difficult in 
 fixing ; but yet you shall never persuade me that 
 your heart is so insusceptible of affection ; I rather 
 impute what you say to your secrecy, a very com- 
 mendable quality, and what I am far from being 
 angry with you for. Nothing can be more unworthy 
 in a young man, than to betray any intimacies with 
 the ladies." " Ladies ! madam," said Joseph, " I am 
 sure I never had the impudence to think of any that 
 deserve that name." " Don't pretend to too much 
 modesty," said she, " for that sometimes may be 
 impertinent : but pray answer me this question. 
 Suppose a lady should happen to like you ; suppose 
 she should prefer you to all your sex, and admit you 
 to the same familiarities as you might have hoped 
 for if you had been born her equal, are you certain 
 that no vanity could tempt you to discover her ? 
 Answer me honestly, Joseph ; have you so much more 
 sense and so much more virtue than you handsome 
 
 [19]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 young fellows generally have, who make no scruple 
 of sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride, with- 
 out considering the great obligation we lay on you 
 by our condescension and confidence ? Can you 
 keep a secret, my Joey ? " " Madam," says he, " I 
 hope your ladyship can't tax me with ever betraying 
 the secrets of the family ; and I hope, if you was to 
 turn me away, I might have that character of you." 
 " I don't intend to turn you away, Joey," said she, and 
 sighed ; " I am afraid it is not in my power." She 
 then raised herself a little in her bed, and discovered 
 one of the whitest necks that ever w as seen ; at which 
 Joseph blushed. " La ! " says she, in an affected 
 surprize, "what am I doing? I have trusted myself 
 with a man alone, naked in bed ; suppose you should 
 have any wicked intentions upon my honour, how 
 should I defend myself?" Joseph protested that he 
 never had the least evil design against her. " No," 
 says she, " perhaps you may not call your designs 
 wicked ; and perhaps they are not so." — He swore 
 they were not. *' You misunderstand me," says she; 
 " I mean if they were against my honour, they may 
 not be wicked ; but the world calls them so. But 
 then, say you, the world will never know anything 
 of the matter ; yet would not that be trusting to 
 your secrecy ? Must not my reputation be then in 
 your power ? Would you not then be my master ? " 
 Joseph begged her ladyship to be comforted ; for 
 
 [20]
 
 JOSEPH^S PURITY 
 
 that he would never imagine the least wicked thing 
 against her, and that he had rather die a thousand 
 deaths than give her any reason to suspect him. 
 *' Yes/** said she, " I must have reason to suspect vou. 
 Are you not a man ? and, without vanity, I may 
 pretend to some charms. But perhaps you may fear I 
 should prosecute you ; indeed I hope you do ; and yet 
 Heaven knows I should never have the confidence 
 to appear before a court of justice ; and you know, 
 Joey, I am of a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, 
 don't you think I should forgive you ? "" — " Indeed, 
 madam," says Joseph, " I will never do anything to 
 disoblige your ladyship." — " How^" says she, " do 
 you think it would not disoblige me then ? Do you 
 think I would willingly suifer you?" — "I don't 
 understand you, madam," says Joseph. — " Don't 
 you ? " said she, " then you are either a fool, or 
 pretend to be so ; I find I was mistaken in you. So 
 get you downstairs, and never let me see your face 
 again ; your pretended innocence cannot impose on 
 me." — " Madam," said Joseph, " I would not have 
 your ladyship think any evil of me. I have always 
 endeavoured to be a dutiful servant both to you and 
 my master." — " O thou villain ! " answered my lady ; 
 " why didst thou mention the name of that dear 
 man, unless to torment me, to bring his precious 
 memory to my mind ? " (and then she burst into a 
 fit of tears.) " Get thee from my sight ! I shall 
 
 [21]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 never endure thee more." At which words she 
 turned away from liim ; and Joseph retreated from 
 the room in a most disconsolate condition, and writ 
 that letter which the reader will find in the next 
 chapter. 
 
 [22 ]
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 HOW JOSEPH ANDREWS WRIT A LE'lTER TO HIS SISTER 
 
 PAMELA. 
 
 " To Mrs. Pamela Andrews, living with Squire Booby. 
 
 DEAR SISTER, — Since I received your 
 letter of your good lady's death, we have 
 had a misfortune of the same kind in our 
 family. My worthy master Sir Thomas 
 died about four days ago ; and, what is worse, my poor 
 lady is certainly gone distracted. None of the servants 
 expected her to take it so to heart, because they quar- 
 relled almost every day of their lives : but no more of 
 that, because you know, Pamela, I never loved to tell 
 the secrets of my master's family ; but to be sure you 
 must have known they never loved one another ; and I 
 have heard her ladyship wish his honour dead above a 
 thousand times ; but nobody knows what it is to lose a 
 friend till they have lost him. 
 
 " Don't tell anybody what I write, because I should 
 not care to have folks say I discover what passes in our 
 family ; but if it had not been so great a lady, I should 
 have thought she had had a mind tome. Dear Pamela, 
 don't tell anybody ; but she ordered me to sit down by 
 her bedside, when she was in naked bed ; and she held 
 my hand, and talked exactly as a lady does to her sweet- 
 heart in a stage-play, which I have seen in Covent 
 
 [23]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Garden, while she Avanted him to be no better than he 
 should be. 
 
 " If madam be mad, I shall not care for staying long 
 in the family ; so I heartily wish you could get me a 
 place, either at the squire's, or some other neighbouring 
 gentleman's, unless it be true that you are going to be 
 married to parson Williams, as folks talk, and then I 
 should be very willing to be his clerk ; for which you 
 know I am qualified, being able to read and to set a 
 psalm. 
 
 " I fancy I shall be discharged very soon ; and the 
 
 moment I am, unless I hear from you, I shall return to 
 
 my old master's country-seat, if it be only to see parson 
 
 Adams, who is the best man in the world. London is 
 
 a bad place, and there is so little good fellowship, that 
 
 the next-door neighbours don't know one another. 
 
 Pray give my service to all friends that inquire for me. 
 
 So I rest 
 
 " Your loving brother, 
 
 " Joseph Andrews." 
 
 As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this 
 letter he walked downstairs, where he met Mrs. Slip- 
 slop, with wliom we shall take this opportunity to 
 bring the reader a little better acquainted. She was 
 a maiden gentlewoman of about forty-five years of 
 age, who, having made a small slip in her youth, had 
 continued a good maid ever since. She was not at 
 this time remarkably handsome ; being very short, 
 and rather too corpulent in body, and somewhat red, 
 with the addition of pimples in the face. Her nose 
 
 [24]
 
 MRS. SLIPSLOP 
 
 was likewise rather too large, and her eyes too little; 
 nor did she resemble a cow so much in her breath as 
 in two brown globes Avhich she carried before her; 
 one of her legs was also a little shorter than the 
 other, which occasioned her to limp as she walked. 
 This fair creature had long cast the eyes of affection 
 on Joseph, in which she had not met with quite so 
 good success as she probably wished, though, besides 
 the allurements of her native charms, she had given 
 him tea, sweetmeats, wine, and many other delicacies, 
 of which, by keeping the keys, she had the absolute 
 command. Joseph, however, had not returned the 
 least gratitude to all these favours, not even so much 
 as a kiss ; though I would not insinuate she was so 
 easily to be satisfied ; for surely then he would have 
 been highly blameable. The truth is, she was arrived 
 at an age when she thought she might indulge her- 
 self in any liberties with a man, without the danger 
 of bringing a third person into the world to betray 
 them. She imagined that by so long a self-denial 
 she had not only made amends for the small slip of 
 her youth above hinted at, but had likewise laid up 
 a quantity of merit to excuse any future failings. 
 In a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorous 
 inclinations, and to pay off the debt of pleasure 
 which she found she owed herself, as fast as possible. 
 With these charms of person, and in this disposi- 
 tion of mind, she encountered poor Joseph at the 
 
 [25]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 bottom of the stairs, and asked him if he would drink 
 a glass of something good this morning. Joseph, 
 whose spirits were not a little cast down, very 
 readily and thankfully accepted the offer ; and 
 together they went into a closet, where, having 
 delivered him a full glass of ratafia, and desired him 
 to sit down, Mrs. Slipslop thus began : — 
 
 " Sure nothing can be a more simple contract in 
 a woman than to place lier affections on a boy. If 
 I had ever thought it would have been my fate, I 
 should have wished to die a thousand deaths rather 
 than live to see that day. If we like a man, the 
 lightest hint sophisticates. Whereas a boy proposes 
 upon us to break through all the regulations of 
 modesty, before we can make any oppression upon 
 him."" Joseph, who did not understand a word she 
 said, answered, " Yes, madam." — " Yes, madam ! " 
 replied Mrs. Slipslop with some warmth, " Do you 
 intend to result my passion ? Is it not enough, 
 ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the 
 favours I have done you ; but you must treat me 
 with ironing ? Barbarous monster ! how have I 
 deserved that my passion should be resulted and 
 treated with ironing ? *" " Madam," answered Joseph, 
 " I don't understand your hard words ; but I am 
 certain you have no occasion to call me ungrateful, 
 for, so far from intending you any wrong, I have 
 always loved you as well as if you had been my own 
 
 [26]
 
 V 
 
 JOSEPH'S ESCAPE 
 
 mother." " How, sirrah ! " says Mrs. Shpslop in a 
 rage; "your own mother.'' Do you assinuate that 
 I am old enougli to be your mother ? I don't 
 know what a striphng may think, but I beheve a 
 man would refer me to any green-sickness silly girl 
 whatsomdever : but I ought to despise you rather 
 than be angry with you, for referring the conver- 
 sation of girls to that of a woman of sense." — 
 " Madam," says Joseph, " I am sure I have always 
 valued the honour you did me by your conversation, 
 for I know you are a woman of learning." — " Yes, 
 but, Joseph," said she, a little softened by the com- 
 pliment to her learning, "if you had a value for me, 
 you certainly would have found some method of 
 showing it me ; for I am convicted you must see the 
 value I have for you. Yes, Joseph, my eyes, whether 
 I would or no, nmst have declared a passion I cannot 
 conquer. — Oh ! Joseph ! " 
 
 As when a hungry tigress, who long has traversed 
 the woods in fruitless search, sees within the reach of 
 her claws a lamb, she prepares to leap on her prey ; 
 or as a voracious pike, of immense size, surveys 
 through the liquid element a roach or gudgeon, 
 which cannot escape her jaws, opens them wide to 
 swallow the little fish ; so did Mrs. Slipslop prepare 
 to lay her violent amorous hands on the poor Joseph, 
 when luckily her mistress's bell rung, and delivered 
 the intended martyr from her clutches. She was 
 
 [27 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREAVS 
 
 obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer the 
 execution of her purpose till some other time. We 
 shall therefore return to the Lady Booby, and give 
 our reader some account of her behaviour, after she 
 was left by Joseph in a temper of mind not greatly 
 different from that of the inflamed Slipslop. 
 
 [28]
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 SAYINGS OF WISE MEN. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE LADY 
 AND HER MAID ; AND A PANEGYRIC, OR RATHER 
 SATIRE, ON THE PASSION OF LOVE, IN THE SUBLIME 
 STYLE. 
 
 IT is the observation of some antient sage, 
 whose name I have forgot, that passions operate 
 differently on the human mind, as diseases on 
 the body, in proportion to the strength or 
 weakness, soundness or rottenness, of the one and 
 the other. 
 
 We hope, therefore, a judicious reader will give 
 himself some pains to observe, what we have so greatly 
 laboured to describe, the different operations of this 
 passion of love in the gentle and cultivated mind of 
 the Lady Booby, from those which it effected in the 
 less polished and coarser disposition of Mrs. Slipslop. 
 Another philosopher, whose name also at present 
 escapes my memory, hath somewhere said, that reso- 
 lutions taken in the absence of the beloved object 
 are very apt to vanish in its presence ; on both which 
 wise sayings the following chapter may serve as a 
 comment. 
 
 [29]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 No sooner had Joseph left tlie room in the man- 
 ner we have before related than the lady, enraged 
 at her disappointment, began to reflect with severity 
 on her conduct. Her love was now changed to dis- 
 dain, which pride assisted to torment her. She 
 despised herself for the meanness of her passion, and 
 Joseph for its ill success. However, she had now 
 got the better of it in her own opinion, and deter- 
 mined immediately to dismiss the object. After 
 much tossing and turning in her bed, and many 
 soliloquies, which if we had no better matter for our 
 reader we would give him, she at last rung the bell 
 as above mentioned, and was presently attended by 
 Mrs. Slipslop, who was not much better pleased with 
 Joseph than the lady herself. 
 
 " Slipslop," said Lady Booby, " when did you see 
 Joseph ? " The poor woman was so surprized at the 
 unexpected sound of his name at so critical a time, 
 that she had the greatest difficulty to conceal the 
 confusion she was under from her mistress ; whom 
 she answered, nevertheless, with pretty good confi- 
 dence, though not entirely void of fear of suspicion, 
 that she had not seen him that morning. " I am 
 afraid," said Lady Booby, "he is a wild young 
 fellow. "" — " That he is," said Slipslop, " and a wicked 
 one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, 
 and fights eternally ; besides, he is horribly indicted 
 to wenching." — " Ay ! " said the lady, " I never 
 
 [30]
 
 A DIALOGUE 
 
 heard that of him.'" — " O madam ! " answered the 
 other, " he is so lewd a rascal, that if your ladyship 
 keeps him much longer, you will not have one virgin 
 in your house except myself. And yet I can't con- 
 ceive what the wenches see in him, to be so foolishly 
 fond as they are ; in my eyes, he is as ugly a scare- 
 crow as I ever upheld."" — " Nay," said the lady, 
 " tlie boy is well enough." — " La ! ma'am," cries 
 Slipslop, " 1 think him the ragmaticallest fellow in 
 the family." — " Sure, SHpslop," says she, "you are 
 mistaken : but which of the women do you most 
 suspect ? " — " Madam," says Slipslop, " there is 
 Betty the chambermaid, I am almost convicted, is 
 with child by him." — " Ay ! " says the lady, " then 
 pray pay her her wages instantly. I will keep no 
 such sluts in my family. And as for Joseph, you 
 may discard him too." — " Would your ladyship 
 have him paid off immediately ?" cries Slipslop, "for 
 perhaps, when Betty is gone he may mend : and 
 really the boy is a good servant, and a strong healthy 
 luscious boy enough." — " This morning," answered 
 the lady with some vehemence. " I wish, madam," 
 cries Slipslop, "your ladyship would be so good as 
 to try him a little longer." — "I will not have my 
 commands disputed," said the lady ; " sure you are 
 not fond of him yourself?" — "I, madam!" cries 
 Slipslop, reddening, if not blushing, " I should be 
 sorry to think your ladyship had any reason to 
 
 [ 31 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 respect me of fondness for a fellow ; and if it be your 
 pleasure, I shall fulfil it with as much reluctance as 
 possible." — " As little, I suppose you mean,'" said 
 the lady ; " and so about it instantly." Mrs. Slip- 
 slop went out, and the lady had scarce taken two 
 turns before she fell to knocking and ringing with 
 great violence. Slipslop, who did not travel post 
 haste, soon returned, and was countermanded as to 
 Joseph, but ordered to send Betty about her business 
 without delay. She went out a second time with 
 much greater alacrity than before ; when the lady 
 began immediately to accuse herself of want of reso- 
 lution, and to apprehend the return of her affection, 
 with its pernicious consequences ; she therefore applied 
 herself again to the bell, and resunmioned Mrs. 
 Slipslop into her presence ; who again returned, and 
 was told by her mistress that she had considered 
 better of the matter, and was absolutely resolved to 
 turn away Joseph ; which she ordered her to do 
 immediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of 
 her lady's temper, and would not venture her place 
 for any Adonis or Hercules in the universe, left her 
 a third time ; which she had no sooner done, than 
 the little god Cupid, fearing he had not yet done the 
 lady's business, took a fresh arrow with the sharpest 
 point out of his quiver, and shot it directly into her 
 heart ; in other and plainer language, the lady's pas- 
 sion got the better of her reason. She called back 
 
 [32]
 
 A SATIRE ON LOVE 
 
 Slipslop once more, and told her she had resolved to 
 see the boy, and examine him herself; therefore bid 
 her send him up. This wavering in her mistress's 
 temper probably put something into the waiting- 
 gentlewoman's head not necessary to mention to the 
 sagacious reader. 
 
 Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but 
 could not prevail with herself. The next considera- 
 tion therefore was, how she should behave to Joseph 
 when he came in. She resolved to presene all the 
 dignity of the woman of fashion to her servant, and 
 to indulge herself in this last view of Joseph (for 
 that she was most certainly resolved it should be) at 
 his own expense, by first insulting and then discard- 
 ing him. 
 
 O Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play 
 with thy votaries of both sexes ! How dost thou 
 deceive them, and make them deceive themselves ! 
 Their follies are thy delight ! Their sighs make 
 thee laugh, and their pangs are thy men-iment! 
 
 Not the great Rich, who turns men into monkeys, 
 wheel-barrows, and whatever else best humours his 
 fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed the human 
 shape; nor the great Gibber, who confounds all 
 number, gender, and breaks through every rule of 
 grammar at his will, hath so distorted the English 
 language as thou doth metamorphose and distort the 
 human senses. 
 
 VOL. I. — 3 • [ 33 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Thou puttest out our eyes, stoppest up our ears, 
 and takest away the power of our nostrils ; so that 
 we can neither see the largest object, hear the loudest 
 noise, nor smell the most poignant perfume. Again, 
 when thou pleasest, thou canst make a molehill 
 appear as a mountain, a Jew's-harp sound like a 
 ti-umpet, and a daisy smell like a violet. Thou 
 canst make cowardice brave, avarice generous, pride 
 humble, and cruelty tender-hearted. In short, thou 
 turnest the heart of man inside out, as a juggler 
 doth a petticoat, and bringest whatsoever pleaseth 
 thee out from it. If there be any one who doubts 
 all this, let him read the next chapter. 
 
 [34]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 IN WHICH, AFTER SOME VERY FINE WRITING, THE 
 HISTORY GOES ON, AND RELATES THE INTERVIEW 
 BETWEEN THE LADY AND JOSEPH ; WHERE THE 
 LATIER HATH SET AN EXAMPLE WHICH WE DE- 
 SPAIR OF SEEING FOLLOWED BY HIS SEX IN THIS 
 VICIOUS AGE. 
 
 N^'0\V the rake Hesperus had called for 
 his breeches, and, having well rubbed 
 his drowsy eyes, prepared to dress him- 
 self for all night ; by whose example his 
 brother rakes on earth likewise leave those beds in 
 which they had slept away the day. Now Thetis, 
 the good housewife, began to put on the pot, in 
 order to regale the good man Phoebus after his 
 daily labours were over. In vulgar language, it was 
 in the evening when Joseph attended his lady's 
 orders. 
 
 But as it becomes us to preserve the character of 
 this lady, who is the heroine of our tale ; and as we 
 have naturally a wonderful tenderness for that beau- 
 tiful part of the human species called the fair sex ; 
 before we discover too much of her frailty to our 
 
 [35]
 
 JOSKPII ANDREWS 
 
 reader, it will be proper to give him a lively idea of 
 the vast temptation, which overcame all the efforts 
 of a modest and virtuous mind ; and then we humbly 
 hope his good nature will rather pity than condenm 
 the imperfection of human virtue. 
 
 Nay, the ladies themselves will, we hope, be in- 
 duced, by considering the uncommon variety of 
 charms which united in this young man's person, to 
 bridle their rampant passion for chastity, and be at 
 least as mild as their violent modesty and virtue will 
 permit them, in censuring the conduct of a woman 
 who, perhaps, was in her own disposition as chaste 
 as those pure and sanctified virgins who, after a life 
 innocently spent in the gaieties of the town, begin 
 about fifty to attend twice per diem at the polite 
 churches and chapels, to return thanks for the grace 
 which preserved them formerly amongst beaus from 
 temptations perhaps less powerful than what now 
 attacked the Lady Booby. 
 
 Mr. Joseph Andrews was now in the one-and- 
 twentieth year of his age. He was of the highest 
 degree of middle stature ; his limbs were put together 
 with great elegance, and no less strength ; his legs 
 and thighs were formed in the exactest proportion ; 
 his shoulders were br,oad and brawny, but yet his 
 arm hung so easily, that he had all the symptoms 
 of strength without the least clumsiness. His hair 
 was of a nut-brown colour, and was displayed in 
 
 [36]
 
 A FALSE ACCUSATION 
 
 wanton ringlets down his back ; his forehead was 
 high, his eyes dark, and as full of sweetness as of fire ; 
 his nose a little inclined to the Roman ; his teeth 
 white and even ; his lips full, red, and soft ; his beard 
 was only rough on his chin and upper lip ; but his 
 cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread 
 with a thick down ; his countenance had a tenderness 
 joined with a sensibility inexpressible. Add to this 
 the most perfect neatness in his dress, and an air 
 which, to those who have not seen many noblemen, 
 would give an idea of nobility. 
 
 Such was the person who now appeared before the 
 lady. She viewed him some time in silence, and 
 twice or thrice before she spake changed her mind as 
 to the manner in which she should begin. At length 
 she said to him, " Joseph, I am sorry to hear such 
 complaints against you : I am told you behave so 
 rudely to the maids, that they cannot do their busi- 
 ness in quiet ; I mean those who are not wicked 
 enough to hearken to your solicitations. As to 
 others, they may, perhaps, not call you rude ; for 
 there are wicked sluts who make one ashamed of 
 one's own sex, and are as ready to admit any nau- 
 seous familiarity as fellows to offer it : nay, there 
 are such in my family, but they shall not stay in 
 it ; that impudent trollop who is with child by you 
 is discharged by this time." 
 
 As a person who is struck through the heart with 
 
 [37] 

 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 a thunderbolt looks extremely surprised, nay, and 
 
 perhaps is so too thus the poor Joseph received 
 
 the false accusation of his mistress ; he blushed and 
 looked confounded, which she misinterpreted to be 
 symptoms of his guilt, and thus went on : — 
 
 " Come hither, Joseph : another mistress might 
 discard you for these offences ; but I have a compas- 
 sion for your youth, and if I could be certain you 
 would be no moie guilty — Consider, child,"" laying 
 her hand carelessly upon his, "you are a handsome 
 young fellow, and might do better ; you might make 
 your fortune." " Madam,"" said Joseph, " I do assure 
 your ladyship I don"'t know whether any maid in 
 the house is man or woman."" " Oh fie ! Joseph,"" 
 answered the lady, " don't commit another crime in 
 denying the truth. I could pardon the first ; but 
 I hate a lyar."" " Madam," cries Joseph, " I hope 
 your ladyship will not be offended at my asserting 
 my innocence ; for, by all that is sacred, I have 
 never offered more than kissing."" " Kissing ! "'"' said 
 the lady, with great discomposure of countenance, 
 and more redness in her cheeks than anger in her 
 eyes ; " do you call that no crime ? Kissing, Joseph, 
 is as a prologue to a play. Can I believe a young 
 fellow of your age and complexion will be content 
 with kissing? No, Joseph, there is no woman who 
 grants that but will grant more ; and I am deceived 
 greatly in you if you would not put her closely to it. 
 
 [38]
 
 A TEMPTATION 
 
 What would you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to 
 kiss me ? " Joseph replied he would sooner die than 
 have any such thought. " And yet, Joseph," re- 
 turned she, " ladies have admitted their footmen to 
 such familiarities ; and footmen, I confess to you, 
 much less deserving them ; fellows without half your 
 charms — for such might almost excuse the crime. 
 Tell me therefore, Joseph, if I should admit you to 
 such freedom, what would you think of me 't — tell 
 me freely." " Madam," said Joseph, " I should think 
 your ladyship condescended a great deal below your- 
 self." " Pugh ! " said she ; " that I am to answer to 
 myself : but would not you insist on more ? Would 
 you be contented with a kiss ? Would not your in- 
 clinations be all on fire rather by such a favour ? " 
 " Madam," said Joseph, " if they were, I hope I 
 should be able to controul them, without suffering 
 them to get the better of my virtue." You have 
 heard, reader, poets talk of the statue of Surprize ; 
 you have heard likewise, or else you have heard very 
 little, how Surprize made one of the sons of Croesus 
 speak, though he was dumb. You have seen the faces, 
 in the eighteen -penny gallery, when, through the trap- 
 door, to soft or no music, Mr. Bridgewater, Mr. Wil- 
 liam Mills, or some other of ghostly appearance, hath 
 ascended, with a face all pale with powder, and a 
 shirt all bloody with ribbons ; — but from none of 
 these, nor from Phidias or Praxiteles, if they should 
 
 [39]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 return to life — no, not fiom the inimitable pencil of 
 my friend Hogarth, could you receive such an idea of 
 surprize as would have entered in at your eyes had 
 they beheld the Lady Booby when those last words 
 issued out from the lips of Joseph. " Your virtue ! " 
 said the lady, recovering after a silence of two 
 minutes ; " I shall never survive it. Your virtue ! — 
 intolerable confidence ! Have you the assurance to 
 pretend, that when a lady demeans herself to throw 
 aside the rules of decency, in order to honour you 
 with the highest favour in her power, your virtue 
 should resist her inclination ? that, when she had 
 conquered her own virtue, she should find an obstruc- 
 tion in yours?" "Madam," said Joseph, "I can't 
 see why her having no virtue should be a reason 
 against my having any ; or why, because I am a man, 
 or because I am poor, my virtue must be subservient 
 to her pleasures." " I am out of patience," cries the 
 lady : " did ever mortal hear of a man's virtue ? 
 Did ever the greatest or the gravest men pretend to 
 any of this kind? Will magistrates who punish 
 lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make any 
 scruple of committing it ? And can a boy, a strip- 
 ling, have the confidence to talk of his virtue ? " 
 " Madam," says Joseph, " that boy is the brother of 
 Pamela, and would be ashamed that the chastity of 
 his family, which is preserved in her, should be 
 stained in him. If there are such men as your lady- 
 
 [40]
 
 JOSEPH S DISMISSAL 
 
 ship mentions, I am sorry for it ; and I wish they 
 had an opportunity of reading over those letters 
 which my father hath sent me of my sister Pamela's ; 
 nor do I doubt but such an example would amend 
 them." " You impudent villain ! " cries the lady in 
 a rage ; *' do you insult me with the follies of my 
 relation, who hath exposed himself all over the 
 country upon your sister"'s account ? a little vixen, 
 whom I have always wondered my late Lady Booby 
 ever kept in her house. Sirrah ! get out of my sight, 
 and prepare to set out this night ; for I will order 
 you your wages immediately, and you shall l3e stripped 
 and turned aAvay." " Madam," says Joseph, " I am 
 sorry I have offended your ladyship, I am sure I never 
 intended it." " Yes, sirrah," cries she, " you have 
 had the vanity to misconstrue the little imiocent free- 
 dom I took, in order to try whether what I had heard 
 was true. O ' my conscience, you have had the 
 assurance to imagine I was fond of you myself." 
 Joseph answered, he had only spoke out of tender- 
 ness for his virtue ; at which w ords she flew into a 
 violent passion, and refusing to hear more, ordered 
 him instantly to leave the room. 
 
 He was no sooner gone than she burst forth into 
 the following exclamation : — " Whither doth this 
 violent passion hurry us ? What meannesses do we 
 submit to from its impulse ! Wisely we resist its 
 first and least approaches ; for it is then only we 
 
 [41]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 can assure ourselves the victory. No woman could 
 ever safely say, so far only will I go. Have I not 
 exposed myself to the refusal of my footman ? I 
 cannot bear the reflection." Upon which she ap- 
 plied herself to the bell, and rung it with infinite 
 more violence than was necessary — the faithful 
 Slipslop attending near at hand : to say the truth, 
 she had conceived a suspicion at her last interview 
 with her mistress, and had waited ever since in the 
 antechamber, having carefully applied her ears to 
 the keyhole during the whole time that the preced- 
 ing conversation passed between Joseph and the 
 lady. 
 
 [42]
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THE LADY AND MRS. SLIPSLOP ; 
 IN WHICH WE PROPHESY THERE ARE SOME STROKES 
 WHICH EVERY ONE WILL NOT TRULY COMPREHEND 
 AT THE FIRST READING. 
 
 SLIPSLOP," said the lady, « I find too much 
 reason to beHeve all thou hast told me of 
 this wicked Joseph ; I have determined to 
 part with him instantly ; so go you to the 
 steward, and bid him pay his wages." Slipslop, who 
 had preserved hitherto a distance to her lady — 
 rather out of necessity than inclination — and who 
 thought the knowledge of this secret had thrown 
 down all distinction between them, answered her 
 mistress very pertly — " She wished she knew her 
 own mind ; and that she was certain she would call her 
 back again before she was got half-way downstairs." 
 The lady replied, she had taken a resolution, and 
 was resolved t6 keep it. " I am sorry for it," cries 
 Slipslop, "and, if I had known you would have 
 punished the poor lad so severely, you should never 
 have heard a particle of the matter. Here 's a fuss 
 indeed about nothing ! " " Nothing ! " returned my 
 
 [43]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 lady ; " do you think I will countenance lewdness in 
 my house ? " " If you will turn away every footman," 
 said Slipslop, " that is a lover of the sport, you must 
 soon open the coach door yourself, or get a set of 
 mophrodites to wait upon you ; and I am sure I 
 hated the sight of them even singing in an opera." 
 " Do as I bid you," says my lady, " and don't shock 
 my ears with your beastly language." " Marry- 
 come-up," cries Slipslop, " people''s ears are some- 
 times the nicest part about them." 
 
 The lady, who began to admire the new style in 
 which her waiting-gentlewoman delivered herself, and 
 by the conclusion of her speech suspected somewhat of 
 the truth, called her back, and desired to know what 
 she meant by the extraordinary degree of freedom in 
 which she thought proper to indulge her tongue. 
 " Freedom ! " says Slipslop ; " I don't know what 
 you call freedom, madam ; servants have tongues as 
 well as their mistresses," " Yes, and saucy ones too," 
 answered the lady ; " but I assure you I shall bear 
 no such impertinence." " Impertinence ! I don't 
 know that I am impertinent," says Slipslop. " Yes, 
 indeed you are," cries my lady, " and, unless you 
 mend your manners, this house is no place for you." 
 " Manners ! " cries Slipslop ; " I never was thought 
 to want manners nor modesty neither ; and for places, 
 there are more places than one ; and I know what I 
 know." " What do you know, mistress ? " answered 
 
 [ 44 J
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID 
 
 the lady. " I am not obliged to tell that to every- 
 body," says Slipslop, " any more than I am obliged 
 to keep it a secret." " I desire you would provide 
 yourself," answered the lady. " With all my heart," 
 replied the waiting-gentlewoman ; and so departed 
 in a passion, and slapped the door after her. 
 
 The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting- 
 gentlewoman knew more than she would willingly 
 have had her acquainted with ; and this she imputed 
 to Joseph's having discovered to her what passed at 
 the first interview. This, therefore, blew up her 
 rage against him, and confirmed her in a resolution 
 of parting with him. 
 
 But the dismissing Mrs. Slipslop was a point not 
 so easily to be resolved upon. She had the utmost 
 tenderness for her reputation, as she knew on that 
 depended many of the most valuable blessings of 
 life ; particularly cards, making curtsies in public 
 places, and, above all, the pleasure of demolishing 
 the reputations of others, in which innocent amuse- 
 ment she had an extraordinary delight. She there- 
 fore determined to submit to any insult from a 
 servant, rather than run a risque of losing the title 
 to so many great privileges. 
 
 She therefore sent for her steward, Mr. Peter 
 Pounce, and ordered him to pay Joseph his wages, 
 to strip off his livery, and to turn him out of the 
 house that evening. 
 
 [45]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 She then called Slipslop up, and, after refreshing 
 her spirits with a small cordial, which she kept in 
 her closet, she began in the following manner : — 
 
 " Slipslop, why will you, who know my passionate 
 temper, attempt to provoke me by your answers ? I 
 am convinced you are an honest servant, and should be 
 very unwilling to part with you. I believe, likewise, 
 you have found me an indulgent mistress on many 
 occasions, and have as little reason on your side to 
 desire a change. I can't help being surprized, there- 
 fore, that you will take the surest method to offend 
 me — I mean, repeating my words, which you know 
 I have always detested." 
 
 The prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly 
 weighed the whole matter, and found, on mature 
 deliberation, that a good place in possession was 
 better than one in expectation. As she found her 
 mistress, therefore, inclined to relent, she thought 
 proper also to put on some small condescension, 
 which was as readily accepted ; and so the affair 
 was reconciled, all offences forgiven, and a present 
 of a gown and petticoat made her, as an instance 
 of her lady's future favour. 
 
 She offered once or twice to speak in favour of 
 Joseph ; but found her lady's heart so obdurate, that 
 she prudently dropt all such efforts. She considered 
 there were more footmen in the house, and some 
 as stout fellows, though • not quite so handsome, as 
 
 [46]
 
 LADY BOOBY'S PERPLEXITY 
 
 Joseph ; besides, the reader hath ah'eady seen her 
 tender advances had not met with the encourage- 
 ment she might have reasonably expected. She 
 thought she had thrown away a great deal of sack 
 and sweetmeats on an ungrateful rascal ; and, being 
 a little inclined to the opinion of that female sect, 
 who hold one lusty young fellow to be nearly as good 
 as another lusty young fellow, she at last gave up 
 Joseph and his cause, and, with a triumph over her 
 passion highly commendable, walked off with her 
 present, and with great tranquillity paid a visit to a 
 stone-bottle, which is of sovereign use to a philoso- 
 phical temper. 
 
 She left not her mistress so easy. The poor lady 
 could not reflect without agony that her dear repu- 
 tation was in the power of her servants. All her 
 comfort as to Joseph was, that she hoped he did not 
 understand her meaning ; at least she could say for 
 herself, she had not plainly expressed anything to 
 him ; and as to Mrs. Slipslop, she imagined she 
 could bribe her to secrecy. 
 
 But what hurt her most was, that in reality she 
 had not so entirely conquered her passion ; the little 
 god lay lurking in her heart, though anger and dis- 
 dain so hoodwinked her, that she could not see him. 
 She was a thousand times on the very brink of 
 revoking the sentence she had passed against the 
 poor youth. Love became his advocate, and whis- 
 
 [ 47 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 pered many things in his favour. Honour Hkewise 
 endeavoured to vindicate liis crime, and Pity to miti- 
 gate his punishment. On the other side, Pride and 
 Revenge spoke as loudly against him. And thus 
 the poor lady was tortured with perplexity, opposite 
 passions distracting and tearing her mind different 
 ways. 
 
 So have I seen, in the hall of Westminster, where 
 Serjeant Bramble hath been retained on the right 
 side, and Serjeant Puzzle on the left, the balance of 
 opinion (so equal were their fees) alternately incline 
 to either scale. Now Bramble throws in an argument, 
 and Puzzle's scale strikes the beam ; again Bramble 
 shares the like fate, overpowered by the weight of 
 Puzzle. Here Bramble hits, there Puzzle .strikes; 
 here one has you, there V other has you ; till at last 
 all becomes one scene of confusion in the tortured 
 minds of the hearers ; equal wages are laid on the 
 success, and neither judge nor jury can possibly make 
 anything of the matter ; all things are so enveloped 
 by the careful Serjeants in doubt and obscurity. 
 
 Or, as it happens in the conscience, where honour 
 and honesty pull one wayj and a bribe and necessity 
 
 another. If it was our present business only 
 
 to make similes, we could produce many more to 
 this purpose ; but a simile ( as well as a word ) to the 
 wise. — We shall therefore see a little after our hero, 
 for whom the reader is doul)tless in some pain. 
 
 [48 J
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 JOSEPH WRITES ANOTHER LETTER : HIS TRANSACTIONS 
 WITH MR. PETER POUNCE, &C., WITH HIS DEPARTURE 
 FROM LADY BOOBY. 
 
 THE disconsolate Joseph would not have 
 had an understanding sufficient for the 
 principal subject of such a book as this, 
 if he had any longer misunderstood the 
 drift of his mistress ; and indeed, that he did not 
 discern it sooner, the reader will be pleased to impute 
 to an unwillingness in him to discover what he must 
 condemn in her as a fault. Having therefore quitted 
 her presence, he retired into his own garret, and 
 entered himself into an ejaculation on the number- 
 less calamities which attended beauty, and the mis- 
 fortune it was to be handsomer than one's neighbours. 
 He then sat down, and addressed himself to his 
 sister Pamela in the following words : — 
 
 ■» 
 
 " Dear Sister Pamela, — Hoping you are Avell, 
 what news have I to tell you ! O Pamela ! my mistress 
 is fallen in love with me — that is, what great folks 
 call falling in love — she has a mind to ruin me ; but I 
 hope I shall have more resolution and more grace than 
 to part with my virtue to any lady upon earth. 
 VOL. I. — 4 [ "^9 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 " Mr. Aflams hath often told me, that chastity is as 
 great a virtue in a man as in a woman. He says he 
 never knew any more than his wife, and I shall endeav- 
 our to follow his example. Indeed, it is owing entirely 
 to liis excellent sermons and advice, together with your 
 letters, that I have been able to resist a temptation, 
 which, he says, no man complies with, but he repents 
 in this world, or is damned for it in the next ; and why 
 should I trust to repentance on my deathbed, since I 
 may die in my sleep.? What fine things are good 
 advice and good examples ! But I am glad she turned 
 me out of the chamber as she did : for I had once 
 almost forgotten every word parson Adams had ever 
 said to me. 
 
 « I don't doubt, dear sister, but you will have grace 
 to preserve your virtue against all trials ; and I beg you 
 earnestly to pray I may be enabled to preserve mine ; 
 for truly it is very severely attacked by more than one ; 
 but I hope I shall copy your example, and that of 
 Joseph my namesake, and maintain my virtue against 
 all temptations." 
 
 Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was 
 summoned downstairs by Mr. Peter Pounce, to 
 receive his wages; for, besides that out of eight 
 pounds a year he allowed his father and mother four, 
 he had been obliged, in order to furnish himself 
 with musical instruments, to apply to the generosity 
 of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent occasions, 
 used to advance the servants their wages : not before 
 they were due, but before they were payable ; that 
 
 [50]
 
 JOSEPH'S DEPARTURE 
 
 is, perhaps, half a year after they were due ; and this 
 at the moderate premium of fifty per cent, or a 
 httle more : by which charitable methods, together 
 with lending money to other people, and even to his 
 own master and mistress, the honest man had, from 
 nothing, in a few years amassed a small sum of 
 twenty thousand pounds or thereabouts. 
 
 Joseph having received his little remainder of 
 wages, and having stript off his livery, was forced to 
 borrow a frock and breeches of one of the servants 
 (for he was so beloved in the family, that they would 
 all have lent him anything ) : and, being told by 
 Peter that he must not stay a moment longer in the 
 house than was necessary to pack up his linen, which 
 he easily did in a very narrow compass, he took a 
 melancholy leave of his fellow-servants, and set out 
 at seven in the evening. 
 
 He had proceeded the length of two or three 
 streets, before he absolutely determined with him- 
 self whether he should leave the town that night, or, 
 procuring a lodging, wait till the morning. At last, 
 the moon shining very bright helped him to come to 
 a resolution of beginning his journey immediately, 
 to which likewise he had some other inducements ; 
 which the reader, without being a conjurer, cannot 
 possibly guess, till we have given him those hints 
 which it may be now proper to open. 
 
 [51]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 OF SEVERAL NEW MATTERS NOT EXPECTED. 
 
 IT is an observation sometimes made, that to 
 indicate our idea of a simple fellow, we say, 
 he is easily to be seen through : nor do I 
 believe it a more improper denotation of a 
 simple book. Instead of applying this to any par- 
 ticular performance, we chuse rather to remark the 
 contrary in this history, where the scene opens itself 
 by small degrees ; and he is a sagacious reader who 
 can see two chapters before him. 
 
 For this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a 
 matter which now seems necessary to be explained ; 
 since it may be wondered at, first, that Joseph made 
 such extraordinary haste out of town, which hath 
 been already shewn ; and secondly, which will be 
 now shewn, that, instead of proceeding to the habi- 
 tation of his father and mother, or to his beloved 
 sister Pamela, he chose rather to set out full speed 
 to the Lady Booby''s country-seat, which he had left 
 on his journey to London. 
 
 Be it known, then, that in the same parish where 
 this seat stood there lived a young girl whom Joseph 
 
 [52]
 
 JOSEPH AND FANNY 
 
 ( though the best of sons and brothers) longed more 
 impatiently to see than his parents or his sister. 
 She was a poor girl, who had formerly been bred up 
 in Sir John's family ; whence, a little before the 
 journey to London, she had been discarded by Mrs. 
 Slipslop, on account of her extraordinary beauty: 
 for I never could find any other reason. 
 
 This young creature (who now lived with a farmer 
 in the parish) had been always beloved b)^ Joseph, 
 and returned his affection. She was two years only 
 younger than our hero. They had been acquainted 
 from their infancy, and had conceived a very early 
 liking for each other ; which had grown to such a 
 degree of affection, that Mr. Adams had with much 
 ado prevented them from marrying, and persuaded 
 them to wait till a few years'' service and thrift had a 
 little improved their experience, and enabled them 
 to live comfortably together. 
 
 They followed this good man's advice, as indeed 
 his word was little less than a law in his parish ; for 
 as he had shown his parishioners, by an uniform 
 behaviour of thirty-five years' duration, that he had 
 their good entirely at heart, so they consulted him 
 on every occasion, and very seldom acted contrary 
 to his opinion. 
 
 Nothing can be imagined more tender than was 
 the parting between these two lovers. A thousand 
 sighs heaved the bosom of Joseph, a thousand tears 
 
 [53]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 distilled from the lovely eyes of Fanny (for that was 
 her name). Though her modesty would only suffer 
 her to admit his eager kisses, her violent love made 
 her more than passive in his embraces ; and she often 
 pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure, which 
 though perhaps it would not have squeezed an insect 
 to death, caused more emotion in the heart of Joseph 
 than the closest Cornish hug could have done. 
 
 The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a 
 pair should, during a twelvemonth's absence, never 
 converse with one another : indeed, there was but 
 one reason which did or could have prevented them ; 
 and this was, that poor Fanny could neither write 
 nor read : nor could she be prevailed upon to trans- 
 mit the delicacies of her tender and chaste passion 
 by the hands of an amanuensis. 
 
 They contented themselves therefore with frequent 
 inquiries after each other"'s health, with a mutual 
 confidence in each other's fidelity, and the prospect 
 of their future happiness. 
 
 Having explained these matters to our reader, and, 
 as far as possible, satisfied all his doubts, we return 
 to honest Joseph, whom we left just set out on his 
 travels by the light of the moon. 
 
 Those who have read any romance or poetry, 
 antient or modern, must have been informed that 
 love hath wings : by which they are not to under- 
 stand, as some young ladies by mistake have done, 
 
 [54] '
 
 A FAMOUS INN 
 
 that a lover can fly ; the writers, by this ingenious 
 allegory, intending to insinuate no more than that 
 lovers do not niarcli like horse-guards ; in short, that 
 they put the best leg foremost ; which our lusty 
 youth, who could walk with any man, did so heartily 
 on this occasion, that within four hours he reached 
 a famous house of hospitality well known to the 
 western traveller. It presents you a lion on the 
 sign-post : and the master, who was christened 
 Timotheus, is connnonly called plain Tim. Some 
 have conceived that he hath particularly chosen the 
 lion for his sign, as he doth in countenance greatly 
 resemble that magnanimous beast, though his dis- 
 position savours more of the sweetness of the lamb. 
 He is a person well received among all sorts of men, 
 being qualified to render himself agreeable to any ; 
 as he is well versed in history and politics, hath a 
 smattering in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, 
 and plays wonderfully well on the French horn. 
 
 A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take 
 shelter in this inn, where he remembered Sir Thomas 
 had dined in his way to town, Joseph had no 
 sooner seated himself by the kitchen fire than 
 Timotheus, observing his livery, began to condole 
 the loss of his late master ; who was, he said, his very 
 particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he 
 had cracked many a merry bottle, ay many a dozen, 
 in his time. He then remarked, that all these 
 
 [55]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 things were over now, all passed, and just as if they 
 had never been ; and concluded with an excellent 
 observation on the certainty of death, which his wife 
 said was indeed very true. A fellow now arrived at 
 the same inn with two horses, one of which he 
 was leading farther down into the country to meet 
 his master ; these he put into the stable, and came 
 and took his place by Joseph's side, who immediately 
 knew him to be the servant of a neighbouring gentle- 
 man, who used to visit at their house. 
 
 This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm ; 
 for he had orders to go twenty miles farther that 
 evening, and luckily on the same road which Joseph 
 himself intended to take. He, therefore, embraced 
 this opportunity of complimenting his friend with 
 his master"'s horse (notwithstanding he had received 
 express commands to the contrary), which was 
 readily accepted ; and so, after they had drank a 
 loving pot, and the storm was over, they set out 
 together. 
 
 [56]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 CONTAINING MANY SURPRIZING ADVENTURES WHICH 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS MET WITH ON THE ROAD, 
 
 SCARCE CREDIBLE TO THOSE WHO HAVE NEVER 
 TRAVELLED IN A STAGE-COACH. 
 
 NOTHING remarkable happened on the 
 road till their arrival at the inn to 
 which the horses were ordered ; whither 
 they came about two in the morning. 
 The moon then shone very bright ; and Joseph, mak- 
 ing his friend a present of a pint of wine, and 
 thanking him for the favour of his horse, notwith- 
 standing all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on 
 his journey on foot. 
 
 He had not gone above two miles, charmed with 
 the hope of shortly seeing his beloved Fanny, when 
 he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and 
 ordered to stand and deliver. He readily gave them 
 all the money he had, which was somewhat less than 
 two pounds ; and told them he hoped they would 
 be so generous as to return him a few shillings, to 
 defray his charges on his way home. 
 
 One of the ruffians answered with an oath, " Yes, 
 we '11 give you something presently : but first strip 
 
 [57]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and be d — n'd to you." — " Strip,"" cried the other, 
 '* or I '11 blow your brains to the devil."" Joseph, re- 
 uienibering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches 
 of a friend, and that he should be ashamed of mak- 
 ing any excuse for not returning them, replied, he 
 hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which 
 were not worth much, but consider the coldness of 
 the night. " You are cold, are you, you rascal ? '''' 
 said one of the robbers : " I '11 warm you with a 
 vengeance ; "" and, damning his eyes, snapped a pistol 
 at his head ; which he had no sooner done than the 
 other levelled a blow at him with his stick, which 
 Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught 
 with his, and returned the favour so successfully on his 
 adversary, that he laid him sprawling at his feet, and 
 at the same instant received a blow from behind, 
 with the butt end of a pistol, from the other villain, 
 which felled him to the ground, and totally deprived 
 him of his senses. 
 
 The thief who had been knocked down had now 
 recovered himself; and both together fell to bela- 
 bouring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they were 
 convinced they had put an end to his miserable 
 being : they then stripped him entirely naked, threw 
 him into a ditch, and departed with their booty. 
 
 The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, 
 just began to recover his senses as a stage-coach 
 came by. The postillion, hearing a man"'s groans, 
 
 [58]
 
 JOSEPH ASKS FOR AID 
 
 stopt his horses, and told the coachman he was cer- 
 tain there was a dead man lying in the ditch, for he 
 heard him groan. " Go on, sirrah," says the coach- 
 man ; " we are confounded late, and have no time to 
 look after dead men." A lady, who heard what the 
 postillion said, and likewise heard the groan, called 
 eagerly to the coachman to stop and see what was 
 the matter. Upon which he bid the postillion alight, 
 and look into the ditch. He did so, and returned, 
 " that there was a man sitting upriglit, as naked as 
 ever he was born." — " O J — sus ! " cried the lady ; 
 " a naked man ! Dear coachman, drive on and leave 
 him." Upon this the gentlemen got out of the 
 coach ; and Joseph begged them to have mercy upon 
 him : for that he had been robbed and almost beaten 
 to death. " Robbed ! " cries an old gentleman : 
 " let us make all the haste imaginable, or we shall 
 be robbed too." A young man who belonged to the 
 law answered, " He wished they had passed by 
 without taking any notice ; but that now they might 
 be proved to have been last in his company ; if he 
 should die they might be called to some account for 
 his murder. He therefore thought it advisable to 
 save the poor creature's life, for their own sakes, if 
 possible ; at least, if he died, to prevent the jury's 
 findino; that thev fled for it. He was therefore of 
 opinion to take the man into the coach, and cany 
 him to the next inn." The lady insisted, " That he 
 
 [59] '
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 slionkl not come into the coach. Tliat if they hfted 
 him in, she would herself alight : for she had rather 
 stay in that place to all eternity than ride with a 
 naked man." The coachman objected, "That he 
 could not suffer him to be taken in unless somebody 
 would pay a shilling for his carriage the four miles."" 
 Which the two gentlemen refused to do. But the 
 lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief happening 
 to himself, if the wretch was left behind in that 
 condition, saying no man could be too cautious in 
 these matters, and that he remembered very extraor- 
 dinary cases in the books, threatened the coachman, 
 and bid him deny taking him up at his peril ; for 
 that, if he died, he should be indicted for his murder ; 
 and if he lived, and brought an action against him, 
 he would willingly take a brief in it. These words 
 had a sensible effect on the coachman, who was well 
 acquainted with the person who spoke them ; and 
 the old gentleman above mentioned, thinking the 
 naked man would afford him frequent opportunities 
 of showing his wit to the lady, offered to join with 
 the company in giving a mug of beer for his fare ; 
 till, partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and 
 partly by the promises of the other, and being per- 
 haps a little moved with compassion at the poor 
 creature's condition, who stood bleeding and shiver- 
 ing with the cold, he at length agreed ; and Joseph 
 was now advancing to the coach, where, seeing the 
 
 [60]
 
 AN ACT OF KINDNESS 
 
 lady, who held the sticks of her fan before her eyes, 
 he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, 
 unless he was furnished with sufficient covering to 
 prevent giving the least offence to decency — so per- 
 fectly modest was this young man ; such mighty 
 effects had the spotless example of the amiable 
 Pamela, and the excellent sermons of Mr. Adams, 
 wrought upon him. 
 
 Though there were several greatcoats about the 
 coach, it was not easy to get over this difficulty 
 which Joseph had started. The two gentlemen 
 complained they were cold, and could not spare a 
 rag • the man of wit saying, with a laugh, that 
 charity began at home ; and the coachman, who had 
 two greatcoats spread under him, refused to lend 
 either, lest they should be made bloody : the lady's 
 footman desired to be excused for the same reason, 
 which the lady herself, notwithstanding her abhor- 
 rence of a naked man, approved : and it is more than 
 probable poor Joseph, who obstinately adhered to 
 his modest resolution, must have perished, unless 
 the postillion (a lad who hath been since transported 
 for robbing a hen-roost) had voluntarily stript off a 
 greatcoat, his only garment, at the same time swear- 
 ing a great oath (for which he was rebuked by the 
 passengers), " that he would rather ride in his shirt 
 all his life than suffer a fellow-creature to lie in so 
 miserable a condition." 
 
 [61]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Joseph, having put on the greatcoat, was lifted 
 into the coach, which now proceeded on its journey. 
 He declared himself almost dead with the cold, 
 which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the 
 lady if she could not accommodate him with a dram. 
 She answered, with some resentment, " She Mondered 
 at his asking her such a question ; but assured him 
 she never tasted any such thing." 
 
 The lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances 
 of the robbery, when the coach stopt, and one of the 
 ruffians, putting a pistol in, demanded their money 
 of the passengers, who readily gave it them ; and 
 the lady, in her fright, delivered up a little silver 
 bottle, of about a half-pint size, which the rogue, 
 clapping it to his mouth, and drinking her health, 
 declared, held some of the best Nantes he had ever 
 tasted : this the lady afterwards assured the company 
 was the mistake of her maid, for that she had ordered 
 her to fill the bottle with Hungary-water. 
 
 As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, 
 who had, it seems, a case of pistols in the seat of the 
 coach, informed the company, that if it had been 
 daylight, and he could have come at his pistols, he 
 would not have submitted to the robbery : he like- 
 wise set forth that he had often met highway- 
 men when he travelled on horseback, but none 
 ever durst attack him ; concluding that, if he had 
 not been more afraid for the lady than for him- 
 
 [62]
 
 THE LAWYER'S JESTS 
 
 self, he should not have now parted with his money 
 so easily. 
 
 As wit is generally observed to love to reside in 
 empty pockets, so the gentleman whose ingenuity 
 we have above remarked, as soon as he had parted 
 with his money, began to grow wonderfully facetious. 
 He made frequent allusions to Adam and Eve, and 
 said many excellent things on figs and fig-leaves; 
 which perhaps gave more offence to Joseph than to 
 any other in the company. 
 
 The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests 
 without departing from his profession. He said, 
 " If Joseph and the lady were alone, he would be 
 more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his 
 affairs were not fettered with any incumbrance ; he'd 
 warrant he soon suffered a recovery by a writ of 
 entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in 
 tail ; that, for his own part, he would engage to make 
 so firm a settlement in a coach, that there should be 
 no danger of an ejectment,"" with an inundation of 
 the like gibberish, which he continued to vent till 
 the coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid 
 only was up, in readiness to attend the coachman, 
 and furnish him with cold meat and a dram. Joseph 
 desired to alight, and that he might have a bed pre- 
 pared for him, which the maid readily promised to 
 perform ; and, being a good-natured wench, and not 
 so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapt a large 
 
 [63]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 fagot on the fire, and, furnishing Joseph with a great- 
 coat belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to 
 sit down and warm himself whilst she made his bed. 
 The coachman, in the meantime, took an opportunity 
 to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors ; 
 after which, he reminded his passengers how late 
 they were, and, after they had taken leave of Joseph, 
 hurried them off as fast as he could. 
 
 The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised 
 to use her interest to borrow him a shirt ; but imag- 
 ining, as she afterwards said, by his being so bloody, 
 that he must be a dead man, she ran with all speed 
 to hasten the surgeon, who was more than half drest, 
 apprehending that the coach had been overturned, 
 and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as the 
 wench had informed him at his window that it was a 
 poor foot-passenger who had been stripped of all he 
 had, and almost murdered, he chid her for disturbing 
 him so early, slipped off' his clothes again, and very 
 quietly returned to bed and to sleep. 
 
 Aurora now began to shew her blooming cheeks 
 over the hills, whilst ten millions of feathered song- 
 sters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes a thousand 
 times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sung 
 both the day and the song ; when the master of the 
 inn, Mr. Tow-wouse, arose, and learning from his 
 maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of 
 his poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, 
 
 [64]
 
 CHARITY DENIED 
 
 " good-lack-a-day ! "" and then ordered the girl to 
 carry him one of his own shirts. 
 
 Mrs. Tow-vvouse was just awake, and had stretched 
 out her arms in vain to fold her departed husband, 
 when the maid entered the room. " Who \s there ? 
 Betty ? " — " Yes, madam." — " Where 's your mas- 
 ter ? "" — " He 's without, madam ; he hath sent me 
 for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been 
 robbed and murdered." — " Touch one if you dare, 
 you slut," said Mrs. Tow-wouse : "your master is a 
 pretty sort of a man, to take in naked vagabonds, 
 and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have 
 no such doings. If you offer to touch anything, I '11 
 throw the chamber-pot at your head. Go, send your 
 master to me." — " Yes, madam," answered Betty. 
 As soon as he came in, she thus began : " What the 
 devil do you mean by this, Mr. Tow-vvouse ? Am I to 
 buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby rascals ? " — " My 
 dear," said Mr. Tow-wouse, " this is a poor wretch." 
 — " Yes," says she, " I know it is a poor wretch ; 
 but what the devil have we to do with poor 
 wretches ? The law makes us provide for too many 
 already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches 
 in red coats shortly." — " My dear," cries Tow^-wouse, 
 " this man hath been robbed of all he hath." — 
 " Well then," said she, " where 's his money to pay 
 his reckoning ? Why doth not such a fellow go to 
 an alehouse ? I shall send him packing as soon as I 
 VOL. I. — 6 [ 65 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 am up, I assure you." — " My dear," said he, " com- 
 mon charity won^t suffer you to do that." — " Com- 
 mon charity, a f — t!" says she, "common charity 
 teaches us to provide for ourselves and our famihes ; 
 and I and mine won't be ruined by your charity, I 
 assure you." — " Well," says he, " my dear, do as you 
 will, when you are up ; you know I never contradict 
 you." — " No," says she ; " if the devil was to con- 
 tradict me, I would make the house too hot to hold 
 him." 
 
 With such like discourses they consumed near half- 
 an-hour, whilst Betty provided a shirt from the 
 hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and put it 
 on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last 
 visited him, and washed and drest his wounds, and 
 was now come to acquaint Mr. Tow-wouse that his 
 guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he 
 scarce saw any hopes of his recovery. *' Here 's a 
 pretty kettle of fish," cries Mrs. Tow-wouse, " you 
 have brought upon us ! We are like to have a 
 funeral at our own expense." Tow-wouse (who, not- 
 withstanding his charity, would have given his vote 
 as freely as ever he did at an election, that any other 
 house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of 
 his guest) answered, " My dear, I am not to blame ; 
 he was brought hither by the stage-coach, and Betty 
 had put him to bed before I was stirring." — "I '11 
 Betty her," says she. — At which, with half her gar- 
 
 [66]
 
 THE SURGEON'S VISIT 
 
 ments on, the other half under her arm, she salHed 
 out in quest of the unfortunate Betty, whilst Tow- 
 wouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor 
 Joseph, and inquire into the circumstances of this 
 melancholy affair. 
 
 [67]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOSEPH DURING HIS SICKNESS AT THE 
 INN, WITH THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE BETWEEN HIM 
 AND MR. BARNABAS, THE PARSON OF THE PARISH. 
 
 ]A S soon as Joseph had communicated a par- 
 /^k ticular history of the robbery, together 
 
 / ^^ with a short account of himself, and his 
 "^ "^^ intended journey, he asked the surgeon 
 if he apprehended him to be in any danger : to 
 which the surgeon very honestly answered, " He 
 feared he was ; for that his pulse was very exalted 
 and feverish, and, if his fever should prove more than 
 symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him." 
 Joseph, fetching a deep sigh, cried, " Poor Fanny, I 
 would I could have lived to see thee ! but God's will 
 be done." 
 
 The surgeon then advised him, if he had any 
 worldly affairs to settle, that he would do it as soon 
 as possible ; for, though he hoped he might recover, 
 yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he 
 was in great danger ; and if the malign concoction 
 of his humours should cause a suscitation of his fever, 
 he might soon grow delirious and incapable to maice 
 
 [68]
 
 THE CLERGYMAN'S VISIT 
 
 his will. Joseph answered, " That it was impossible 
 for any creature in the universe to be in a poorer 
 condition than himself; for since the robbery he had 
 not one thing of any kind whatever which he could 
 call his own,'' " I had," said he, " a poor little piece 
 of gold, which they took away, that would have been 
 a comfort to me in all my afflictions ; but surely, 
 Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I 
 have thy dear image in my heart, and no villain 
 can ever tear it thence." 
 
 Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but 
 they were refused him ; and he was advised to use all 
 his endeavours to compose himself They then left 
 him ; and Mr. Tow-wouse sent to a clergyman to 
 come and administer his good offices to the soul of 
 poor Joseph, since the surgeon despaired of making 
 any successful applications to his body. 
 
 Mr. Barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) 
 came as soon as sent for ; and, having first drank a 
 dish of tea with the landlady, and afterwards a bowl 
 of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the 
 room where Joseph lay ; but, finding him asleep, 
 returned to take the otlier sneaker ; which when he 
 had finished, he again crept softly up to the chamber- 
 door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talk- 
 ing to himself in the following manner : — 
 
 " O most adorable Pamela ! most virtuous sister ! 
 whose example could alone enable me to withstand 
 
 [69]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to pre- 
 serve my virtue pure and chaste for the arms of 
 my dear Fanny, if it had pleased Heaven that I 
 should ever have come unto them. What riches, or 
 honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the 
 loss of innocence? Doth not that alone afford us 
 more consolation than all worldly acquisitions ? 
 What but innocence and virtue could give any com- 
 fort to such a miserable wretch as I am ? Yet these 
 can make me prefer this sick and painful bed to 
 all the pleasures I should have found in my lady's. 
 These can make me face death without fear ; and 
 though I love my Fanny more than ever man loved 
 a woman, these can teach me to resign myself to the 
 Divine will without repining. O thou delightful 
 charming creature ! if Heaven had indulged thee to 
 my arms, the poorest, humblest state would have 
 been a paradise; I could have lived with thee in 
 the lowest cottage without envying the palaces, the 
 dainties, or the riches of any man breathing. But I 
 must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest 
 angel ! I must think of another world ; and I 
 heartily pray thou may''st meet comfort in this." — 
 Barnabas thought he had heard enough, so down- 
 stairs he went, and told Tow-wouse he could do his 
 guest no service ; for that he was very light-headed, 
 and had uttered nothing but a rhapsody of nonsense 
 all the time he stayed in the room. 
 
 [70]
 
 PREPARATION FOR DEATH 
 
 The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found 
 his patient in a higher fever, as he said, than when 
 he left him, though not dehrious ; for, notwithstand- 
 ing Mr. Barnabas's opinion, he had not been once 
 out of his senses since his arrival at the inn. 
 
 Mr. Barnabas was again sent for, and with much 
 difficulty prevailed on to make another visit. As 
 soon as he entered the room he told Joseph " He 
 was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for an- 
 other world : in the first place, therefore, he hoped 
 he had repented of all his sins." Joseph answered, 
 " He hoped he had ; but there was one thing which 
 he knew not whether he should call a sin ; if it was, 
 he feared he should die in the commission of it ; and 
 that was, the regret of parting with a young woman 
 whom he loved as tenderly as he did his heart- 
 strings." Barnabas bad him be assured " that any 
 repining at the Divine will was one of the greatest 
 sins he could commit ; that he ought to forget all 
 carnal affections, and think of better things." Joseph 
 said, " Tliat neither in this world nor the next he 
 could forget his Fanny ; and that the thought, how- 
 ever grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not 
 half so tormenting as the fear of what she would 
 suffer when she knew his misfortune." Barnabas 
 said, " That such fears argued a diffidence and despon- 
 dence very criminal ; that he must divest himself of 
 all human passions, and fix his heart above." Joseph 
 
 [71]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 answered, " That was what he desired to do, and 
 should be obhged to him if he would enable him to 
 accomplish it.'"' Barnabas replied, " That must be 
 done by grace." Joseph besought him to discover 
 how he might attain it. Barnabas answered, "By 
 prayer and faith." He then questioned him concern- 
 ing his forgiveness of the thieves. Joseph answered, 
 " He feared that was more than he could do ; for 
 nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear 
 they were taken."" — " That,"'"' cries Barnabas, " is for 
 the sake of justice.""" — " Yes,"" said Joseph, " but if 
 I was to meet them again, I am afraid I should 
 attack them, and kill them too, if I could."'"' — 
 " Doubtless,"" answered Barnabas, " it is lawful to kill 
 a thief; but can you say you forgive them as a Chris- 
 tian ought ? "" Joseph desired to know what that 
 forgiveness was. "That is,"" answered Barnabas, " to 
 for<;ive them as — as — it is to forgive them as — i 
 
 '& 
 
 in 
 
 short, it is to forgive them as a Christian."'"' — Joseph 
 replied, " He forgave them as much as he could."'"' — 
 "Well, well," said Barnabas, "that will do." He 
 then demanded of him, " If he remembered any more 
 sins unrepented of; and if he did, he desired him to 
 make haste and repent of them as fast as he could, 
 that they might repeat over a few prayers together."" 
 Joseph answered, " He could not recollect any great 
 crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he had 
 committed he was sincerely sorry for."'"' Barnabas said 
 
 [72]
 
 BETTY'S KINDNESS 
 
 that was enough, and then proceeded to prayer with 
 all the expedition he was master of, some company 
 then waiting for him below in the parlour, where the 
 ingredients for punch were all in readiness ; but no 
 one would squeeze the oranges till he came. 
 
 Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little 
 tea; which Barnabas reported to Mrs. Tow-wouse, 
 who answered, " She had just done drinking it, and 
 could not be slopping all day ; " but ordered Betty to 
 carry him up some small beer. 
 
 Betty obeyed her mistress's commands ; but Joseph, 
 as soon as he had tasted it, said, he feared it would in- 
 crease his fever, and that he longed very much for 
 tea ; to which the good-natured Betty answered, he 
 should have tea, if there was any in the land ; she 
 accordingly went and bought him some herself, and 
 attended him with it ; where we will leave her and 
 Joseph together for some time, to entertain the 
 reader with other matters. 
 
 [73]
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 BEING VEKY FULL OF ADVENTURES WHICH SUCCEEDED 
 EACH OTHER AT THE INN. 
 
 IT was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave 
 person rode into the inn, and, committing his 
 horse to the hostler, went directly into the 
 kitchen, and, having called for a pipe of tobacco, 
 took his place by the fireside, where several other per- 
 sons were likewise assembled. 
 
 The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which 
 was connnitted the night before, and on the poor 
 wretch who lay above in the dreadful condition in 
 which we have already seen him. Mrs. Tow-wouse 
 said, " She wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell 
 meant by bringing such guests to her house, when 
 there were so many alehouses on the road proper for 
 their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the 
 parish should be at the expense of the funeral." She 
 added, " Nothing would serve the fellow's turn but 
 tea, she would assure him." Betty, who was just 
 returned from her charitable ofllce, answered, she 
 believed he was a gentleman, for she never saw a finer 
 
 [74]
 
 MRS. TOW-WOUSE 
 
 skin in her life, " Pox on his kin ! " repHed Mrs. 
 Tow-wouse, " I suppose that is all we are like to have 
 for the reckoning. I desire no such gentlemen should 
 ever call at the Dragon "" (which it seems was the 
 sign of the inn). 
 
 The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great 
 deal of emotion at the distress of this poor creature, 
 whom he observed to be fallen not into the most 
 compassionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs. Tow-wouse 
 had given no utterance to the sweetness of her temper, 
 nature had taken such pains in her countenance, that 
 Hogarth himself never gave more expression to a 
 picture. 
 
 Her person was shoii, thin, and crooked. Her 
 forehead projected in the middle, and thence de- 
 scended in a declivity to the top of her nose, which 
 was sharp and red, and would have hung over her 
 lips, had not nature turned up the end of it. Her 
 lips were two bits of skin, which, whenever she spoke, 
 she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked ; 
 and at the upper end of that skin which composed 
 her cheeks, stood two bones, that almost hid a pair 
 of small red eyes. Add to this a voice most wonder- 
 fully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, be- 
 ing both loud and hoarse. 
 
 It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had 
 conceived a greater dislike for his landlady or com- 
 passion for her unhappy guest. He inquired very 
 
 [75]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 earnestly of the surgeon, who was now come into the 
 kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery ? 
 He begged him to use all possible means towards it, 
 telling him, " it was the duty of men of all professions 
 to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor 
 and necessitous." The surgeon answered, " He should 
 take proper care ; but he defied all the surgeons 
 in London to do him any good.'*' — " Pray, sir," 
 said the gentleman, "what are his wounds?" — 
 " Why, do you know anything of wounds ? " says 
 the surgeon (winking upon Mrs. Tow-wouse). — 
 " Sir, I have a small smattering in surgery," answered 
 the gentleman. — "A smattering — ho, ho, ho ! " 
 said the surgeon ; " I believe it is a smattering 
 indeed." 
 
 The company were all attentive, expecting to hear 
 the doctor, who was what they call a dry fellow, 
 expose the gentleman. 
 
 He began therefore with an air of triumph : " I 
 suppose, sir, you have travelled ? " — " No, really, 
 sir," said the gentleman. — " Ho ! then you have 
 practised in the hospitals perhaps ? " — " No, sir." 
 — " Hum ! not that neither ? Whence, sir, then, 
 if I may be so bold to incpiire, have you got your 
 knowledge in surgery ? " — " Sir," answered the 
 gentleman, " I do not pretend to much ; but the 
 little I know I have from books." — " Books ! " cries 
 the doctor. " What, I suppose you have read Galen 
 
 [76]
 
 A DISPLAY OF LEARNING 
 
 and Hippocrates ! " — " No, sir,"" said the gentleman. 
 — " How ! you understand surgery," answers the 
 doctor, " and not read Galen and Hippocrates ? " — 
 " Sir," cries the other, " I believe there are many 
 surgeons who have never read these authors." — "I 
 believe so too," says the doctor, " more shame for 
 them ; but, thanks to my education, I have them by 
 heart, and very seldom go without them both in my 
 pocket." — " i'hey are pretty large books," said the 
 gentleman. — " Aye," said the doctor, " I believe I 
 know how large they are better than you." (At 
 which he fell a winking, and the whole company 
 burst into a laugh.) 
 
 The doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the 
 gentleman, " If he did not understand physic as well 
 as surgery." " Rather better," answered the gentle- 
 man. — " Aye, like enough," cries the doctor, with 
 a wink. " Why, I know a little of physic too." — 
 " I wish I knew half so much," said Tow-wouse, " I 'd 
 never Avear an apron again." — "Why, I believe, 
 landlord," cries the doctor, "there are few men, 
 though I say it, within twelve miles of the place, 
 that handle a fever better. Veniente accurrite morbo : 
 that is my method. I suppose, brother, you under- 
 stand Latin ?" — " A little," says the gentleman. — 
 " Aye and Greek now, I '11 warrant you : Ton da- 
 pomihominos polujlosboio Thalasses. But I have 
 almost forgot these things : I could have repeated 
 
 [77]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Homer by heart once." " Ifags ! the gentleman 
 
 has caught a trajtor," says Mrs. Tow-wouse ; at 
 which they all fell a laughing. 
 
 Ilie gentleman, who had not the least affection 
 for joking, very contentedly suffered the doctor to 
 enjoy his victory, which he did with no small satis- 
 faction ; and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, 
 told him, " He was thoroughly convinced of his 
 great learning and abilities ; and that he would be 
 obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion 
 of his patient's case above-stairs." — " Sir," says the 
 doctor, " his case is that of a dead man — the con- 
 tusion on his head has perforated the internal mem- 
 brane of the occiput, and divelicated that radical 
 small minute invisible nerve which coheres to the 
 pericranium ; and this was attended with a fever 
 at first symptomatic, then pneumatic ; and he is at 
 length grown deliriuus, or delirious, as the vulgar 
 express it." 
 
 He was proceeding in this learned manner, when 
 a mighty noise interrupted him. Some young 
 fellows in the neighbourhood had taken one of the 
 thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty 
 ran upstairs with this news to Joseph, who begged 
 they might search for a little piece of broken gold, 
 which had a ribband tied to it, and which he could 
 swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men 
 in the universe. 
 
 [78]
 
 MR. ADAMS ARRIVES 
 
 Notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his in- 
 nocence, the mob were very busy in searching him, 
 and presently, among other things, pulled out the 
 piece of gold just mentioned ; which Betty no sooner 
 saw than she laid violent hands on it, and conveyed 
 it up to Joseph, who received it with raptures of joy, 
 and, hucrsinff it in his bosom, declared he could now 
 die contented. 
 
 Within a few minutes afterwards came in some 
 other fellows, with a bundle which they had found 
 in a ditch, and which was indeed the cloaths which 
 had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other 
 things they had taken from him. 
 
 The irentleman no sooner saw the coat than he 
 declared he knew the livery ; and, if it had been 
 taken from the poor creature above-stairs, desired 
 he might see him ; for that he was very w ell acquainted 
 with the family to whom that livery belonged. 
 
 He was accordingly conducted up by Betty ; but 
 what, reader, was the surprize on both sides, when 
 he saw Joseph was the person in bed, and when 
 Joseph discovered the face of his good friend Mr. 
 Abraham Adams ! 
 
 It would be impertinent to insert a discourse 
 which chiefly turned on the relation of matters 
 already well known to the reader ; for, as soon as the 
 curate had satisfied Joseph concerning the perfect 
 health of his Fanny, he was on his side very inquisi- 
 
 [79]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 tive into all the particulars which had produced 
 this unfortunate accident. 
 
 To return therefore to the kitchen, where a great 
 variety of coni{)any were now assembled from all the 
 rooms of the house, as well as the neighbourhood : 
 so much deliglit do men take in contemplating the 
 countenance of a thief. 
 
 Mr. Tow-wouse began to rub his hands with 
 pleasure at seeing so large an assembly ; who would, 
 he hoped, shortly adjourn into several ajiartments, 
 in order to discourse over tlie robbery, and drink a 
 health to all honest men. But Mrs. Tow-wouse, 
 whose misfortune it was commonlv to see things a 
 little perversely, began to rail at those who brought 
 the fellow into her house; telling her husband, 
 "They were very likely to thrive who kept a house 
 of entertainment for beggars and thieves." 
 
 The mob had now finished their search, and could 
 find nothing about the captive likely to prove any 
 evidence ; for as to the cloaths, though the mob were 
 very well satisfied with that proof, yet, as the sur- 
 geon observed, they could not convict him, because 
 they were not found in his custody ; to which Barna- 
 bas agreed, and added that these were bona waviatn, 
 and belonged to the lord of the manor. 
 
 " How," says the surgeon, "do you say these 
 goods belong to the lord of the manor ? " — "I do," 
 cried Barnabas. — " Then I deny it," says the sur- 
 
 [80]
 
 EVIDENCE OF GUILT 
 
 geon : " what can the lord of the manor have to do 
 in the case ? Will any one attempt to persuade me 
 that what a man finds is not his own ? " — "I have 
 heard," says an old fellow in the corner, "justice 
 Wise-one say, that, if every man had his right, what- 
 ever is found belongs to the king of London/"* — 
 " That may be true," says Barnabas, '* in some sense ; 
 for the law makes a difference between things stolen 
 and things found ; for a thing may be stolen that 
 never is found, and a thing may be found that never 
 was stolen : Now, goods that are both stolen and 
 found are xvav'iata ; and they belong to the lord of the 
 manor." — " So the lord of the manor is the receiver 
 of stolen goods," says the doctor ; at which there was 
 an universal laugh, being first begun by himself. 
 
 While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, 
 had almost (as there was no evidence against him) 
 brought over Barnabas, the surgeon, Tow-wouse, and 
 several others to his side, Betty informed them that 
 they had overlooked a little piece of gold, which she 
 had carried up to the man in bed, and which he offered 
 to swear to amongst a million, aye, amongst ten 
 thousand. This immediately turned the scale against 
 the prisoner, and every one now concluded him 
 guilty. It was resolved, therefore, to keep him se- 
 cured that night, and early in the morning to carry 
 him before a justice. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 [81]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 SHOWING HOW MRS. TOW-WOUSE WAS A LITTLE MOLLI- 
 FIED ; AND HOW OFFICIOUS MR. BARNAHAS AND 
 THE SURGEON WERE TO PROSECUTE THE THIEF: 
 WITH A DISSERTATION ACCOUNTING FOR THEIR 
 ZEAL, AND THAT OF MANY OTHER PERSONS NOT 
 MENTIONED IN THIS HISTORY. 
 
 BETl'Y told her mistress she believed the 
 man in bed was a greater man than they 
 took him for ; for, besides the extreme 
 whiteness of his skin, and the softness of 
 his hands, she observed a very great famiharity be- 
 tween the gentleman and him ; and added, she was 
 certain they were intimate acquaintance, if not 
 relations. 
 
 This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs. Tow- 
 wouse's countenance. She said, " God forbid she 
 should not discharge the duty of a Christian, since the 
 poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had 
 a natural antipathy to vagabonds ; but could pity the 
 misfortunes of a Christian as soon as another." 
 Tow-wouse said, " If the traveller be a gentleman, 
 though he hath no money about him now, we shall 
 
 [82]
 
 THE PIECE OF GOLD 
 
 most likely be pai«l hereafter ; so you may begin to 
 score whenever you will." Mrs. Tow-wouse answered, 
 " Hold your simple tongue, and don't instruct me in 
 my business. I am sure I am sorry for the gentle- 
 man's misfortune with all my heart ; and I hope the 
 villain who hath used him so barbarously will be 
 hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. God forbid 
 he should want anything in my house." 
 
 Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to 
 satisfy themselves concerning the piece of gold ; 
 Joseph was with difficulty prevailed upon to show it 
 them, but would by no entreaties be brought to de- 
 liver it out of his own possession. He however 
 attested this to be the same which had been taken 
 from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the find- 
 ing it on the thief. 
 
 The only difficulty that remained was, how to pro- 
 duce this gold before the justice ; for as to carrying 
 Joseph himself, it seemed impossible ; nor was there 
 any great likelihood of obtaining it from him, for 
 he had fastened it with a ribband to his arm, and 
 solemnly vowed that nothing but irresistible force 
 should ever separate them ; in which resolution, Mr. 
 Adams, clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle 
 of an ox, declared he would support him. 
 
 A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evi- 
 dence not very necessary to be related here ; after 
 which the surgeon dressed Mr. Joseph's head, still 
 
 [83 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 persisting in the imminent danger in which his patient 
 lay, but conduding, with a very important look, 
 " That he began to have some hopes ; that he should 
 send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and would 
 see him in the morning." After which Barnabas 
 and he departed, and left Mr. Joseph and Mr. Adams 
 together. 
 
 Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this 
 journey which he was making to London, namely, to 
 publish three volumes of sermons ; being encouraged, 
 as he said, by an advertisement lately set forth by the 
 society of booksellers, who proposed to purchase any 
 copies offered to them, at a price to be settled by two 
 persons ; but though he imagined he should get a 
 considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his 
 family were in urgent need of, he protested he would 
 not leave Joseph in his present condition : finally, he 
 told him, " He had nine shillings and threepence 
 halfpenny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use 
 as he pleased."" 
 
 This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into 
 Joseph"'s eyes ; he declared, " He had now a second 
 reason to desire life, that he might show his gratitude 
 to such a friend." Adams bad him " be cheerful ; 
 for that he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his igno- 
 rance, desired to make a merit of curing him, though 
 the wounds in his head, he perceived, were by no 
 means dangerous ; that he was convinced he had no 
 
 [84 1
 
 CONVALESCENCE 
 
 fever, and doubted not but he would be able to travel 
 in a day or two." 
 
 These words infused a spirit into Joseph ; he said, 
 " He found himself very sore from the bruises, but 
 had no reason to think any of his bones injured, or 
 that he had received any harm in his inside, unless 
 that he felt something very odd in his stomach ; 
 but he knew not whether that might not arise from 
 not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four 
 hours.'"' Being then asked if he had any inclination 
 to eat, he answered in the affirmative. Then parson 
 Adams desired him to "name what he had the 
 greatest fancy for ; whether a poached egg, or 
 chicken-broth." He answered, " He could eat both 
 very well ; but that he seemed to have the greatest 
 appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage." 
 
 Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation 
 that he had not the least fever, but advised him to 
 a lighter diet for that evening. He accordingly ate 
 either a rabbit or a fowl, I never could with any 
 tolerable certainty discover which ; after this he was, 
 by Mrs. Tow-wouse"'s order, conveyed into a better 
 bed and equipped with one of her husband's shirts. 
 
 In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon 
 came to the inn, in order to see the thief conveyed 
 before the justice. They had consumed the whole 
 night in debating what measures they should take to 
 produce the piece of gold in evidence against him ; 
 
 [85 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 for they were both extremely zealous in the business, 
 though neither of them were in the least interested 
 in the prosecution ; neither of them had ever re- 
 ceived any private injury from the fellow, nor had 
 either of them ever been suspected of loving the 
 publick well enough to give them a sermon or a dose 
 of physic for nothing. 
 
 To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible 
 to account for this zeal, we must inform him that, as 
 this parish was so unfortunate as to have no lawyer 
 in it, there had been a constant contention between 
 the two doctors, spiritual and physical, concerning 
 their abilities in a science, in which, as neither of them 
 professed it, they had equal pretensions to dispute 
 each other's opinions. These disputes were carried 
 on with great contempt on both sides, and had al- 
 most divided the parish ; Mr. Tow-wouse and one 
 half of the neighbours inclining to the surgeon, and 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse with the other half to the parson. 
 The surgeon drew his knowledge from those inestim- 
 able fountains, called The Attorney's Pocket Com- 
 panion, and Mr. Jacob's Law-Tables ; Barnabas 
 trusted entirely to Wood's Institutes.- It happened 
 on this occasion, as was pretty frequently the case, 
 that these two learned men differed about the suffi- 
 ciency of evidence ; the doctor being of opinion that 
 the maid's oath would convict the prisoner without 
 producing the gold ; the parson, e contra^ totis viri- 
 
 [86]
 
 VANITY 
 
 bus. To display their parts, therefore, before the 
 justice and the parish, was the sole motive which we 
 can discover to this zeal which both of them pretended 
 to have for publick justice. 
 
 O Vanity ! how little is thy force acknowledged, or 
 thy operations discerned ! How wantonly dost thou 
 deceive mankind under different disguises ! Some- 
 times thou dost wear the face of pity, sometimes of 
 generosity : nay, thou hast the assurance even to put 
 on those glorious ornaments which belong only to 
 heroic virtue. Thou odious, deformed monster ! 
 whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, 
 and poets ridiculed ; is there a wretch so abandoned 
 as to own thee for an acquaintance in publick ? — yet, 
 how few will refuse to enjoy thee in private? nay, 
 thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. 
 The greatest villainies are daily practised to please 
 thee ; nor is the meanest thief below, or the greatest 
 hero above, thy notice. Thy embraces are often the 
 sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery and 
 the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, 
 thou harlot, that we attempt to withdraw from 
 others what we do not want, or to withhold from 
 them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves. 
 Avarice itself is often no more than thy handmaid, 
 and even Lust thy pimp. The bully Fear, like a 
 coward, flies before thee, and Joy and Grief hide 
 their heads in thy presence. 
 
 [87]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee 
 I court thee, and that thy love hath inspired me to 
 write this sarcastical panegyric on thee ; but thou 
 art deceived : I value thee not of a farthing ; nor 
 will it give me any pain if thou shouldst prevail on 
 the reader to censure this digression as arrant non- 
 sense ; for know, to thy confusion, that I have intro- 
 duced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen 
 out a short chapter, and so I return to my history. 
 
 [88]
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 THE ESCAPE OF THE THIEF, MR. ADAMs's DISAPPOINT- 
 MENT. THE ABRIVAI, OF TWO VERY EXTRAORDI- 
 NARY PERSONAGES, AND THE INTRODUCTION OF 
 PARSON ADAMS TO PARSON BARNABAS. 
 
 ARNABAS and the surgeon, being re- 
 turned, as we have said, to the inn, in 
 order to convey the thief before the jus- 
 tice, were greatly concerned to find a 
 small accident had happened, which somewhat dis- 
 concerted them ; and this was no other than the 
 thie£s_escape, who had modestly withdrawn him- 
 self by night, declining all ostentation, and not 
 chusing, in imitation of some great men, to dis- 
 tinguish himself at the expense of being pointed at. 
 
 When the company had retired the evening before, 
 the thief was detained in a room where the constable, 
 and one of the young fellows who took him, were 
 planted as his guard. About the second watch a 
 general complaint of drought was made, both by the 
 prisoner and his keepers. Among whom it w as at last 
 agreed that the constable should remain on duty, and 
 the young fellow call up the tapster ; in which dis- 
 
 [89]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 position the latter approliended not the least danger, 
 as the constable was well armed, and could besides 
 easily summon him back to his assistance, if the 
 prisoner made the least attempt to gain his liberty. 
 
 The young fellow had not long left the room before 
 it came into the constable's head that the prisoner 
 might leap on him by surprize, and, thereby prevent- 
 ing him of the use of his weapons, especially the long 
 staff in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the 
 success of a struggle to an equal chance. He wisely, 
 therefore, to prevent this inconvenience, slipt out of 
 the room himself, and locked the door, waiting with- 
 out with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the 
 unhappy prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt 
 to break out. 
 
 But human life, as hath been discovered by some 
 great man or other (for I would by no means be un- 
 derstood to affect the honour of making any such dis- 
 covery), very much resembles a game at chess ; for as 
 in the latter, while a gamester is too attentive to 
 secure himself very strongly on one side the board, 
 he is apt to leave an unguarded opening on the other ; 
 so doth it often happen in life, and so did it happen 
 on this occasion ; for whilst the cautious constable 
 with such wonderful sagacity had possessed himself 
 of the door, he most unhappily forgot the window. 
 
 The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner 
 perceived this opening than he began to move that 
 
 [90]
 
 THE THIEF'S ESCxVPE 
 
 way ; and, finding the passage easy, he took with him 
 the young fellow's hat, and without any ceremony 
 stepped into the street and made the best of his 
 way. 
 
 The young fellow, returning with a double mug of 
 strong beer, was a little surprized to find the con- 
 stable at the door ; but much more so when, the door 
 being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made 
 his escape, and which way. He threw down the beer, 
 and, without uttering anything to the constable 
 except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt out of 
 the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, 
 being very unwilling to lose the reward which he had 
 assured himself of. 
 
 The constable hath not been discharged of suspi- 
 cion on this account ; it hath been said that, not 
 being concerned in the taking the thief, he could 
 not have been entitled to any part of the reward if 
 he had been convicted ; that the thief had several 
 guineas in his pocket ; that it was very unlikely he 
 should have been guilty of such an oversight ; that 
 his pretence for leaving the room was absurd ; that 
 it was his constant maxim, that a wise man never 
 refused money on any conditions ; that at every elec- 
 tion he always had sold his vote to both parties, &c. 
 
 But, notwithstanding these and many other such 
 allegations, I am sufficiently convinced of his inno- 
 cence ; having been positively assured of it by those 
 
 [ 91 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 who received their informations from his own mouth ; 
 which, in the opinion of some moderns, is the best 
 and indeed only evidence. 
 
 All the family were now up, and with many others 
 assembled in the kitchen, where Mr. Tow-wouse was 
 in some tribulation ; the surgeon having declared 
 that by law he was liable to be indicted for the 
 thiefs escape, as it was out of his house ; he was a 
 little comforted, however, by Mr. Barnabas's opinion, 
 that as the escape was by night the indictment would 
 not lie. 
 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following 
 words : " Sure never was such a fool as my husband ; 
 would any other person living have left a man in the 
 custody of such a drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom 
 Suckbribe ? "" (which was the constable's name) ; " and 
 if he could be indicted without any harm to his wife 
 and children, I should be glad of it." (Then the 
 bell rung in Joseph's room.) " Why Betty, John, 
 Chamberlain, where the devil are you all ? Have you 
 no ears, or no conscience, not to tend the sick better ? 
 See what the gentleman wants. Why don't you go 
 yourself, Mr. Tow-wouse ? But any one may die for 
 you ; you have no more feeling than a deal board. 
 If a man lived a fortnight in your house without 
 spending a penny, you would never put him in mind 
 of it. See whether he drinks tea or coffee for break- 
 fast." " Yes, my dear," cried Tow-wouse. She then 
 
 [92]
 
 MR. ADAMS'S STRATAGEM 
 
 asked the doctor and Mr. Barnabas what morning's 
 draught they chose, who answered, they had a pot of 
 cyder-and at the fire ; which we will leave them merry 
 over, and return to Joseph. 
 
 He had rose pretty early this morning ; but, 
 though his wounds were far from threatening any 
 danger, he was so sore with the bruises, that it was 
 impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey 
 yet ; Mr. Adams, therefore, whose stock was visibly 
 decreased with the expenses of supper and breakfast, 
 and which could not survive that day's scoring, 
 began to consider how it was possible to recruit it. 
 At last he cried, " He had luckily hit on a sure 
 method, and, though it would oblige him to return 
 himself home together with Joseph, it mattered not 
 much." He then sent for Tow-wouse, and, taking 
 him into another room, told him "he wanted to 
 bori'ow three guineas, for which he would put ample 
 security into his hands." Tow-wouse, who expected 
 a watch, or ring, or something of double the value, 
 answered, "He believed he could furnish him." 
 Upon which Adams, pointing to his saddle-bag, told 
 him, with a face and voice full of solemnity, " that 
 there were in that bag no less than nine volumes of 
 manuscript sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds 
 as a shilling was worth twelve pence, and that he 
 would deposit one of the volumes in his hands by way 
 of pledge ; not doubting but that he would have the 
 
 [93]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 honesty to return it on his repayment of the money ; 
 for otherwise he must be a very great loser, seeing 
 that every volume would at least bring him ten 
 pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring 
 clergyman in the country ; for," said he, " as to my 
 own part, having never yet dealt in printing, I do 
 not pretend to ascertain the exact value of such 
 things," 
 
 Tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, 
 said ( and not without some truth ), " That he was 
 no judge of the price of such kind of goods ; and as 
 for money, he really was very short." Adams 
 answered, " Certainly he would not scruple to lend 
 him three guineas on what was undoubtedly worth 
 at least ten." The landlord replied, " He did not 
 believe he had so much money in the house, and 
 besides, he was to make up a sum. He was very 
 confident the books were of much higher value, and 
 heartily sorry it did not suit him." He then cried 
 out, " Coming sir ! " though nobody called ; and 
 ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his 
 neck. 
 
 Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this dis- 
 appointment, nor knew he what further stratagem 
 to try. He immediately applied to his pipe, his 
 constant friend and comfort in his afflictions ; and, 
 leaning over the rails, he devoted himself to medita- 
 tion, assisted by the inspiring fumes of tobacco. 
 
 [94]
 
 NEW ARRIVALS 
 
 He had on a niffhtcap drawn over his wig, and a 
 short greatcoat, which half covered his cassock — a 
 dress which, added to something comical enough in 
 his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract 
 the eyes of those who were not over given to obser- 
 vation. 
 
 Whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this posture, 
 a coach and six, with a numerous attendance, drove 
 into the inn. There alighted from the coach a 
 young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which 
 another young fellow leapt fi'om the box, and shook 
 the former by the hand ; and both, together with 
 the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr. Tow- 
 wouse into an apartment ; whither as they passed, 
 they entertained themselves with the following short 
 facetious dialogue : — 
 
 " You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack ! " 
 says he from the coach ; " you had almost overturned 
 us just now."" — " Pox take you ! " says the coachman ; 
 " if I had only broke your neck, it would have been 
 saving somebody else the trouble ; but I should have 
 been sorry for the pointers." — " Why, you son of a 
 b — ," answered the other, "if nobody could shoot 
 better than you, the pointers would be of no use." — 
 " D — n me," says the coachman, " I will shoot with 
 you five guineas a shot." — " You be hanged," says 
 the other; "for five guineas you shall shoot at my 
 a — ." — " Done," says the coachman ; " I '11 pepper 
 
 [95]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 you better than ever you was peppered by Jenny 
 Bouncer." — " Pepper your grandmother,"" says the 
 other : " Here ""s Tow-wouse will let you shoot at 
 him for a shilling a time." — "I know his honour 
 better," cries Tow-wouse ; " I never saw a surer 
 shot at a partridge. Every man misses now and 
 then ; but if I could shoot half as well as his 
 honour, I would desire no better livelihood than I 
 could get by my gun." — "Pox on you," said the 
 coachman, " you demolish more game now than your 
 head 's worth. There 's a bitch, Tow-wouse : by 
 G — she never blinked^ a bird in her life." — "I 
 have a puppy, not a year old, shall hunt with her 
 for a hundred," cries the other gentleman. — " Done," 
 says the coachman : "but you will be pox'd before 
 you make the bett." — " If you have a mind for a 
 bett," cries the coachman, " I will match my spotted 
 dog with your white bitch for a hundred, play or 
 pay." — " Done," says the other : " and I '11 run 
 Baldface against Slouch with you for another." — 
 " No," cries he from the box ; " but I '11 venture Miss 
 Jenny against Baldface, or Hannibal either." — " Go 
 to the devil," cries he from the coach : " I will make 
 every bett your own way, to be sure ! I will match 
 Hannibal with Slouch for a thousand, if you dare ; 
 and I say done first." 
 
 * To blink is a term used to signify the dog's passing by 
 a bird without pointing at it. 
 
 [96]
 
 THE TWO CLERGYMEN 
 
 They were now amved ; and the reader will be 
 very contented to leave them, and repair to the 
 kitchen ; where Barnabas, the surgeon, and an excise- 
 man were smoaking their pipes over some cyder- 
 and ; and where the servants, who attended the two 
 noble gentlemen we have just seen alight, were now 
 arrived. 
 
 " Tom," cries one of the footmen, " there's parson 
 Adams smoaking his pipe in the gallerv." — "Yes," 
 says Tom ; " I pulled off my hat to him, and the 
 parson spoke to me." 
 
 " Is the gentleman a clergyman, then ? " savs 
 Barnabas ( for his cassock had been tied up when he 
 arrived ). " Y'^es, sir," answered the footman ; " and 
 one there be but few like." — " Aye," said Barnabas ; 
 " if I had known it sooner, I should have desired liis 
 company ; I would always shew a proper respect for 
 the cloth : but what say you, doctor, shall we 
 adjourn into a room, and invite him to take part 
 of a bowl of punch } " 
 
 This proposal was immediately agreed to and exe- 
 cuted ; and parson Adams accepting the invitation, 
 much civility passed between the two clergymen, who 
 both declared the great honour they had for the 
 cloth. They had not been long together before they 
 entered into a discourse on small tithes, which con- 
 tinued a full hour, without the doctor or exciseman's 
 having one opportunity to offer a word. 
 TOL.I— 7 [97]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 It was then proposed to begin a general conversa- 
 tion, and the exciseman opened on foreign affairs ; 
 but a word unluckily dropping from one of them 
 introduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered 
 by the inferior clergy ; which, after a long duration, 
 concluded with bringing the nine volumes of sermons 
 on the carpet. 
 
 Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams ; he 
 said, "The age was so wicked, that nobody read 
 sermons : would you think it, Mr. Adams ? " said he, 
 " I once intended to print a volume of sermons my- 
 self, and they had the approbation of two or three 
 bishops ; but what do you think a bookseller offered 
 me?" — "Twelve guineas perhaps," cried Adams. 
 — " Not twelve pence, I assure you," answered 
 Barnabas : " nay, the dog refused me a Concordance 
 in exchange. At last I offered to give him the 
 printing them, for the sake of dedicating them to 
 that very gentleman who just now drove his own 
 coach into the inn ; and, I assure you, he had the 
 impudence to refuse my offer ; by which means I lost 
 a good living, that was afterwards given away in 
 exchange for a pointer, to one who — but I will not 
 say anything against the cloth. So you may guess, 
 Mr. Adams, what you are to expect ; for if sermons 
 would have gone down, I believe — I will not be 
 vain ; but to be concise with you, three bishops said 
 they were the best that ever were writ : but indeed 
 
 [98]
 
 VALUE OF SERMONS 
 
 there are a pretty moderate number printed already, 
 and not all sold yet."" — " Pray, sir," said Adams, 
 " to what do you think the numbers may amount ? " 
 — " Sir," answered Barnabas, " a bookseller told me, 
 he believed five thousand volumes at least." — " Five 
 thousand ? " quoth the surgeon : " What can they be 
 writ upon ? I remember when I was a boy, I used 
 to read one Tillotson's sermons ; and, I am sure, if 
 a man practised half so much as is in one of those 
 sermons, he will go to heaven." — " Doctor," cried 
 Barnabas, " you have a prophane way of talking, for 
 which I must reprove you. A man can never have 
 his duty too frequently inculcated into him. And 
 as for Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and 
 said things very well ; but comparisons are odious ; 
 
 another man may write as well as he I believe 
 
 there are some of my sermons," and then he 
 
 applied the candle to his pipe. — "And I believe 
 there are some of my discourses," cries Adams, " which 
 the bishops would not think totally unworthy of 
 being printed ; and I have been informed I might 
 procure a very large sum (indeed an immense one) 
 on them." — "I doubt that," answered Barnabas: 
 "however, if you desire to make some money of 
 them, perhaps you may sell them by advertising the 
 manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately deceased, 
 all warranted originals, and never printed. And 
 now I think of it, I should be obliged to you, if 
 
 [99]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 there be ever a funeral one among them, to lend it 
 me ; for I am this very day to preach a funeral 
 sermon, for which I have not penned a line, though 
 I am to have a double price." — Adams answered, 
 " He had but one, which he feared would not serve 
 his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magis- 
 trate, who had exerted himself very singularly in the 
 preservation of the morality of his neighbours, inso- 
 much that he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman 
 in the parish where he lived/' — " No," replied Barna- 
 bas, " that will not do quite so well ; for the deceased, 
 upon whose virtues I am to harangue, was a little 
 too much addicted to liquor, and publickly kept a 
 
 mistress. 1 believe I must take a common sermon, 
 
 and trust to my memory to introduce something 
 handsome on him." — " To your invention rather," 
 said the doctor : " your memory will be apter to put 
 you out; for no man living remembers anything good 
 of him." 
 
 With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied 
 the bowl of punch, paid their reckoning, and sepa- 
 rated : Adams and the doctor went up to Joseph, 
 parson Barnabas departed to celebrate the aforesaid 
 deceased, and the exciseman descended into the 
 cellar to gauge the vessels. 
 
 Joseph was now ready to sit down to a loin of 
 mutton, and waited for Mr. Adams, when he and the 
 doctor came in. The doctor, having felt his pulse 
 
 [100]
 
 JOSEPH'S RECOVERY 
 
 and examined his wounds, declared him much better, 
 which he imputed to that sanative soporiferous 
 draught, a medicine " whose virtues,'" he said, " were 
 never to be sufficiently extolled." And great indeed 
 they must be, if Joseph was so much indebted to 
 them as the doctor imagined ; since nothing more 
 than those effluvia which escaped the cork could 
 have contributed to his recovery ; for the medicine 
 had stood untouched in the window ever since its 
 aiTival. 
 
 Joseph passed that day, and the three following, 
 with his friend Adams, in which nothing so remark- 
 able happened as the swift progress of his recovery. 
 As he had an excellent habit of body, his wounds 
 were now almost healed ; and his bruises gave him so 
 little uneasiness, that he pressed Mr. Adams to let 
 him depart ; told him he should never be able to 
 return sufficient thanks for all his favours, but begged 
 that he might no longer delay his journey to 
 London. 
 
 Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he con- 
 ceived it, of Mr. Tow-wouse, and the envy (for such 
 he thought it) of Mr. Barnabas, had great expecta- 
 tions from his sermons : seeing therefore Joseph in so 
 good a way, he told him he would agree to his set- 
 ting out the next morning in the stage-coach, that he 
 believed he should have sufficient, after the reckoning 
 paid, to procure him one day's conveyance in it, and 
 
 [ion
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 afterwards he would be able to get on on foot, or might 
 be favoured with a lift in some neighbour\s waggon, 
 especially as there was then to be a fair in the town 
 whither the coach would carry him, to which num- 
 bers from his parish resorted — -And as to himself, 
 he agreed to proceed to the great city. 
 
 They were now walking in the inn-yard, when a 
 fat, fair, short person rode in, and, alighting from 
 his horse, went directly up to Barnabas, who was 
 smoaking his pipe on a bencli. The parson and 
 the stranger shook one another very lovingly by the 
 hand, and went into a room together. 
 
 The evening now coming on, Joseph retired to his 
 chamber, whither the good Adams accompanied him, 
 and took this opportunity to expatiate on the great 
 mercies God had lately shown him, of which he 
 ought not only to have the deepest inward sense, but 
 likewise to express outward thankfulness for them. 
 They therefore fell both on their knees, and spent a 
 considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving. 
 
 They had just finished when Betty came in and 
 told Mr. Adams Mr. Barnabas desired to speak to 
 him on some business of consequence below-stairs. 
 Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, 
 he would let him know it, that he might go to bed, 
 which Adams promised, and in that case they wished 
 one another good-night. 
 
 [ 102 ]
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 A PLEASANT DISCOURSE BETWEEN THE TWO PARSONS AND 
 THE BOOKSELLER, WHICH WAS BROKE OFF BY AN 
 UNLUCKY ACCIDENT HAPPENING IN THE INN, WHICH 
 PRODUCED A DIALOGUE BET\VEEN MRS. TOW-WOUSE 
 AND HER MAID OF NO GENTLE KIND. 
 
 jA S soon as Adams came into the room, IMr. 
 /^k Barnabas introduced him to the stranger, 
 / ^^ who was, he told him, a bookseller, and 
 "^ -^^ would be as likely to deal with him for 
 his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting 
 the stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was \ery 
 much obliged to him ; that nothing could be more 
 convenient, for he had no other business to the great 
 city, and was heartily desirous of returning with the 
 young man, who was just recovered of his misfor- 
 tune. He then snapt his fingers ( as was usual with 
 him), and took two or three turns about the room 
 in an extasy. And to induce the bookseller to be 
 as expeditious as possible, as likewise to offer him a 
 better price for his commodity, he assured them their 
 meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for that he 
 had the most pressing occasion for money at that 
 
 [103]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 time, his own being almost spent, and having a 
 friend then in the same inn, who was just recovered 
 from some wounds he had received from robbers, 
 and was in a most indigent condition. "So that 
 nothing," says he, "could be so opportune for the 
 supplying both our necessities as my making an 
 innnediate bargain with you." 
 
 As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger 
 began in these words : " Sir, I do not care absolutely 
 to deny engaging in what my friend Mr. Barnabas 
 recommends ; but sermons are mere drugs. The 
 trade is so vastly stocked with them, that really, 
 unless they come out with the name of Whitefield or 
 Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, 
 or those sort of people, I don't care to touch ; unless 
 now it was a sermon preached on the 30th of 
 January ; or we could say in the title-page, published 
 at the earnest request of the congregation, or the 
 inhabitants ; but, truly, for a dry piece of sermons, 
 I had rather be excused ; especially as my hands are 
 so full at present. However, sir, as Mr. Barnabas 
 mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take 
 the manuscript with me to town, and send you my 
 opinion of it in a very short time." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Adams, " if you desire it, I will read 
 two or three discourses as a specimen." This 
 Barnabas, who loved sermons no better than a gro- 
 cer doth figs, immediately objected to, and advised 
 
 [ 104]
 
 THE BOOKSELLER 
 
 Adams to let the bookseller have his sermons : telling 
 him, " If he gave him a direction, he might be cer- 
 tain of a speedy answer ;"" adding, he need not 
 scruple trusting them in his possession. '* No," said 
 the bookseller, " if it was a play that had been acted 
 twenty nights together, I believe it would be safe." 
 
 Adams did not at all relish the last expression ; 
 he said " he was sorry to hear sermons compared to 
 plays." — " Not by me, I assure you," cried the book- 
 seller, " though I don't know whether the licensing 
 act may not shortly bring them to the same footing ; 
 but I have formerly known a hundred guineas given 
 for a play." — " More shame for those who gave it," 
 cried Barnabas. — " Why so ? " said the bookseller, 
 " for they got hundreds by it." — " But is there no 
 difference between conveying good or ill instructions 
 to mankind.^ " said Adams: "Would not an honest 
 mind rather lose money by the one, than gain it by 
 the other ? " — " If you can find any such, I will not 
 be their hindrance," answered the bookseller ; " but 
 I think those persons who get by preaching sermons 
 are the properest to lose by printing them : for my 
 part, the copy that sells best will be always the best 
 copy in my opinion ; I am no enemy to sermons, but 
 because they don't sell : for I would as soon print 
 one of Whitefield's as any farce whatever." 
 
 " Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to 
 be hanged," says Barnabas. " Sir," said he, turning 
 
 [105]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 to Adams, " this fellow's writings (I know not whether 
 you have seen them) are levelled at the clergy. He 
 would reduce us to the example of the primitive 
 ages, forsooth ! and would insinuate to the people 
 that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and 
 praying. He pretends to understand the Scripture 
 literally ; and would make mankind believe that the 
 poverty and low estate which was recommended to 
 the Church in its infancy, and was only temporary 
 doctrine adapted to her under persecution, was to be 
 preserved in her flourishing and established state. 
 Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all the 
 freethinkers, are not calculated to do half the mis- 
 chief, as those professed by this fellow and his 
 followers." 
 
 "Sir," answered Adams, "if Mr. Whitefield had 
 carried his doctrine no farther than you mention, I 
 should have remained, as I once was, his well-wisher. 
 I am, myself, as great an enemy to the luxury and 
 splendour of the clergy as he can be, I do not, 
 more than he, by the flourishing estate of the Church, 
 understand the palaces, equipages, dress, furniture, 
 rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. 
 Surely those things, which savour so strongly of this 
 world, become not the servants of one who professed 
 His kingdom was not of it. But when he began to 
 call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up 
 the detestable doctrine of faith against good works, 
 
 [106]
 
 FAITH AND WORKS 
 
 I was his friend no longer ; for surely that doctrine 
 was coined in hell ; and one would think none but 
 the devil himself could have the confidence to preach 
 it. For can anything be more derogatory to the 
 honour of God than for men to imagine that the 
 all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good and 
 virtuous, ' Notwithstanding the purity of thy life, 
 notwithstanding that constant rule of virtue and 
 goodness in which you walked upon earth, still, as 
 thou didst not believe everything in the true ortho- 
 dox manner, thy want of foith shall condenm thee ' ? 
 Or, on the other side, can any doctrine have a more 
 pernicious influence on society, than a persuasion 
 that it will be a good plea for the villain at the last 
 day — ' Lord, it is true I never obeyed one of thy 
 commandments, yet punish me not, for I believe 
 them all ' ? "^ — "I suppose, sir," said the bookseller, 
 "your sermons are of a different kind."^ — -"Aye, 
 sir," said Adams; "the contrary, I thank Heaven, 
 is inculcated in almost every page, or I should belye 
 my own opinion, which hath always been, that a 
 virtuous and good Turk, or lieathen, are more ac- 
 ceptable in the sight of their Creator than a vicious 
 and wicked Christian, though his faith was as per- 
 fectly orthodox as St. Paul's himself'"' — "I wish 
 you success," says the bookseller, " but must beg to 
 be excused, as my hands are so very full at present ; 
 and, indeed, I am afraid you will find a backwardness 
 
 [107 j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 in tlie trade to engage in a book which the clergy 
 would be certain to cry down,"" — " God forbid," 
 says Adams, " any books should be propagated 
 which the clergy would cry down ; but if you mean 
 by the clergy, some few designing factious men, who 
 have it at heart to establish some favourite schemes 
 at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very 
 essence of religion, it is not in the power of such 
 persons to decry any book they please ; witness that 
 excellent book called, ' A Plain Account of the 
 Nature and End of the Sacrament ; "* a book written 
 (if I may venture on the expression) with the pen of 
 an angel, and calculated to restore the true use of 
 Christianity, and of that sacred institution ; for what 
 could tend more to the noble purposes of religion 
 than fro(|uent chearful meetings among the members 
 of a society, in which they should, in the presence 
 of one another, and in the service of the Supreme 
 Being, make promises of being good, friendly, and 
 benevolent to each other F Now, this excellent 
 book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully." 
 At these words Barnabas fell a-ringing with all the 
 violence imaginable ; upon which a servant attend- 
 ing, he bid him " bring a bill immediately ; for that 
 he was in company, for aught he knew, with the 
 devil himself; and he expected to hear the Alcoran, 
 the Leviathan, or Woolston commended, if he staid 
 a few minutes longer." Adams desired, " as he was 
 
 [108]
 
 A VIOLENT SCENE 
 
 so much moved at his mentioning a book which he 
 did without apprehending any possibihty of offence, 
 that he would be so kind to propose any objections 
 he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer/' 
 
 — "I propose objections ! " said Barnabas, " I never 
 read a syllable in any such wicked book; I never 
 saw it in my life, I assure you." — Adams was going 
 to answer, when a most hideous uproar began in the 
 inn. Mrs. Tow-wouse, Mr. Tow-wouse, and Betty, 
 all lifting up their voices together ; but Mrs. Tow- 
 wouse's voice, like a bass viol in a concert, was 
 clearly and distinctly distinguished among the rest, 
 and was heard to articulate the following sounds : 
 
 — " O you damn'd villain ! is this the return to all 
 the care I have taken of your family.? This the 
 reward of my virtue .? Is this the manner in which 
 you behave to one who brought you a fortune, and 
 preferred you to so many matches, all your betters ? 
 To abuse my bed, my own bed, with my own servant ! 
 but I '11 maul the slut, I '11 tear her nasty eyes out ! 
 Was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such 
 a mean trollop ? If she had been a gentlewoman, 
 like myself, it had been some excuse ; but a beggarly, 
 saucy, dirty servant-maid. Get you out of my 
 house, you whore." To which she added another 
 name, which we do not care to stain our paper with. 
 It was a monosyllable beginning with a b — , and 
 indeed was the same as if she had pronounced the 
 
 [109]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 words, she-dog. Which term we shall, to avoid 
 offence, use on this occasion, though indeed both 
 the mistress and maid uttered the above-mentioned 
 b — , a word extremely disgustful to females of the 
 lower sort. Betty had borne all hitherto with 
 patience, and had uttered only lamentations ; but 
 the last appellation stung her to the quick. " I am 
 a woman as well as youi'self,"" she roared out, " and 
 no she-dog ; and if I have been a little naughty, 
 I am not the first ; if I have been no better 
 than I should be," cries she, sobbing, •' that 's no 
 reason you should call me out of my name ; my 
 b-betters are wo-rse than me." — " Huzzy, huzzy," 
 says Mrs. Tow-wouse, " have you the impudence to 
 answer me ? Did I not catch you, you saucy " — and 
 then again repeated the terrible word so odious to 
 female ears. " I can't bear that name," answered 
 Betty : " if I have been wicked, I am to answer 
 for it myself in the other world ; but I have done 
 nothing thafs unnatural ; and I will go out of your 
 house this moment, for I will never be called she- 
 dog by any mistress in England." Mrs. Tow-wouse 
 then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented 
 from executing any dreadful purpose by Mr. Adams, 
 who confined her arms with the strength of a wrist 
 which Hercules would not have been ashamed of. 
 Mr. Tow-wouse, being caught, as our lawyers express 
 it, with the manner, and having no defence to make, 
 
 [110]
 
 COMPOSURE RESTORED 
 
 very priidertly withdrew himself; and Betty com- 
 mitted herself to the protection of the hostler, who, 
 though she could not conceive him pleased with 
 what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather a 
 gentler beast than her mistress. 
 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr. Adams, 
 and finding the enemy vanished, began to compose 
 herself, and at length recovered the usual serenity of 
 her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to 
 the reader the steps which led to a catastrophe, 
 common enough, and comical enough too perhaps, 
 in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and 
 well-being of families, and the subject of many 
 ti'agedies, both in life and on the stage. 
 
 [Ill]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 THE HISTORY OF BETTY THE CHAMBERMAID, AND AN 
 ACCOUNT OF WHAT OCCASIONED THE VIOLENT 
 SCENE IN THE PRECEDING CHAPTER. 
 
 BETTY, who was the occasion of all this 
 hurry, had some good qualities. She 
 had good-nature, generosity, and com- 
 passion, but unfortunately, her constitu- 
 tion was composed of those warm ingredients which, 
 though the purity of courts or nunneries might have 
 happily controuled them, were by no means able to 
 endure the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at an 
 inn ; who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers 
 of all complexions ; to the dangerous addresses of fine 
 gentlemen of the army, who sometimes are obliged 
 to reside with them a whole year together ; and, 
 above all, are exposed to the caresses of footmen, 
 stage-coachmen, and drawers ; all of whom employ 
 the whole artillery of kissing, flattering, bribing, 
 and every other weapon which is to be found in the 
 whole armoury of love, against them. 
 
 Betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now lived 
 three years in this dangerous situation, during which 
 
 [112]
 
 BETTY'S HISTORY 
 
 she had escaped pretty well. An ensij^n of foot was 
 the first person who made an impression on her 
 heart ; he did indeed raise a flame in her which re- 
 quired the care of a surgeon to cool. 
 
 While she burnt for him, several others burnt for 
 her. Officers of the army, young gentlemen travel- 
 ling the western circuit, inoffensive squires, and some 
 of graver character, were set a-fire by her charms ! 
 
 At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of 
 her first unhappy passion, she seemed to have vowed 
 a state of perpetual chastity. She was long deaf to 
 all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a 
 neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hostler, 
 with a new straw hat and a pint of wine, made a 
 second conquest over her. 
 
 She did not, however, feel any of those flames on 
 this occasion which had been the consequence of her 
 former amour ; nor, indeed, those other ill effects 
 which prudent young women very justly apprehend 
 from too absolute an indulgence to the pressing endear- 
 ments of their lovers. This latter, perhaps, was a 
 little owing to her not being entirely constant to 
 John, with whom she permitted Tom Whipwell the 
 stage-coachman, and now and then a handsome young 
 traveller, to share her favours. 
 
 Mr. Tow-wouse had for some time cast the lan- 
 guishing eyes of affection on this young maiden. He 
 had laid hold on every opportunity of saying tender 
 VOL. I.-8 . [113]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 things to her, s(jiieezing her by the hand, and some- 
 times kissing her lips ; for, as the violence of liis 
 passion had considerably abated to Mrs. Tow-wouse, 
 so, like water, which is stopt from its usual current 
 in one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse is thought to have perceived this 
 abatement, and, probably, it added very little to the 
 natural sweetness of her temper ; for though she was 
 as true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was 
 rather more desirous of being shone on, as being more 
 capable of feeling his warmth. 
 
 Ever since Joseph's arrival, Betty had conceived an 
 extraordinary liking to him, which discovered itself 
 more and more as he grew better and better; till 
 that fatal evening, when, as she was warming his bed, 
 her passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly 
 mastered both her modesty and her reason, that, after 
 many fruitless hints and sly insinuations, she at last 
 threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him 
 with great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest 
 creature she had ever seen. 
 
 Joseph, in great confusion, leapt from her, and told 
 her he was sorry to see a young woman cast off all re- 
 gard to modesty ; but she had gone too far to recede, 
 and grew so very indecent, that Joseph was obliged, 
 contrary to his inclination, to use some violence to 
 her ; and, taking her in his arms, he shut her out of 
 the room, and locked the door. 
 
 [114]
 
 A CATASTROPHE 
 
 How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is al- 
 ways in his own power ; that, if he hath sufficient 
 strength of mind, he hath always a competent 
 strength of body to defend himself, and cannot, like 
 a poor weak woman, be ravished against his will ! 
 
 Betty was in the most violent agitation at this dis- 
 appointment. Rage and lust pulled her heart, as with 
 two strings, two different ways ; one moment she 
 thought of stabbing Joseph ; the next, of taking him 
 in her arms, and devouring him with kisses ; but the 
 latter passion was far more prevalent. Then she 
 thought of revenging his refusal on herself; but, 
 whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily 
 death presented himself to her in so many shapes, of 
 drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c., that her distracted 
 mind could resolve on none. In this perturbation of 
 spirit, it accidentally occurred to her memory that her 
 master's bed was not made ; she therefore went 
 directly to his room, where he happened at that time 
 to be engaijed at his bureau. As soon as she saw 
 him, she attempted to retire ; but he called her back, 
 and, taking her by the hand, squeezed her so tenderly, 
 at the same time whispering so many soft things in- 
 to her ears, and then pressed her so closely with his 
 kisses, that the vanquished fair one, whose passions 
 were already raised, and which were not so whimsi- 
 cally capricious that one man only could lay them, 
 though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that 
 
 [ 115 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 one — the vanquished fair one quietly .submitted, I 
 say, to her master's will, who had just attained the 
 accomplishment of his bliss when Mrs. Tow-wouse 
 unexpectedly entered the room, and caused all 
 that confusion which we have before seen, and 
 which it is not necessary, at present, to take any 
 farther notice of ; since, without the assistance of a 
 single hint from us, every reader of any speculation or 
 experience, though not married himself, may easily 
 conjecture that it concluded with the discharge of 
 Betty, the submission of Mr. Tow-wouse, with some 
 things to be performed on his side by way of grati- 
 tude for his wife''s goodness in being reconciled 
 to him, with many hearty promises never to offend 
 any more in the like manner ; and, lastly, his quietly 
 and contentedly bearing to be reminded of his trans- 
 gressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a day 
 during the residue of his life. 
 
 [116]
 
 BOOK II 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 OF DIVISIONS IN AUTHORS. 
 
 THERE are certain mysteries or secrets in 
 all trades, from the highest to the lowest, 
 from that of prime-ministering to this 
 of authoring, which are seldom discovered 
 unless to members of the same calling. Among those 
 used by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take 
 this of dividing our works into books and chapters to 
 be none of the least considerable. Now, for want of 
 being truly acquainted with this secret, common 
 readers imagine, that by this art of dividing we mean 
 only to swell our works to a much larger bulk than 
 they would otherwise be extended to. These several 
 places therefore in our paper, which are filled with 
 our books and chapters, are understood as so much 
 buckram, stays, and stay-tape in a taylor s bill, serv- 
 ing only to make up the sum total, commonly found 
 at the bottom of our first page and of his last. 
 
 But in reality the case is otherwise, and in this as 
 well as all other instances we consult the advantage 
 of our reader, not our own ; and indeed, many 
 
 [ 117 1
 
 'b 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREAVS 
 
 notable uses arise to him from this method ; for, first, 
 those little spaces between our chapters may be looked 
 upon as an inn or resting-place where he may stop and 
 take a glass or any other refreshment as it pleases 
 him. Nav, our fine readers will, perhaps, be scarce 
 able to travel farther than through one of them in 
 a day. As to those vacant pages which are placed 
 between our books, they are to be regarded as those 
 stages where in long journies the traveller stays some 
 time to repose himself, and consider of what he hath 
 seen in the parts he hath already passed through ; a 
 consideration which I take the liberty to recommend 
 a little to the reader ; for, however swift his capacity 
 may be, I would not advise him to travel through 
 these pages too fast ; for if he doth, he may probably 
 miss the seeing some curious productions of nature, 
 which %vill be observed by the slower and more ac- 
 curate reader. A volume without any such places of 
 rest resembles the opening of wilds or seas, which tires 
 the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon. 
 
 Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every 
 chapter but so many inscriptions over the gates of 
 inns (to continue the same metaphor), informing the 
 reader what entertainment he is to expect, which if 
 he likes not, he may travel on to the next ; for, in 
 biography, as we are not tied down to an exact 
 concatenation ecjually with other historians, so a 
 chapter or two (for instance, this I am now writing) 
 
 [118]
 
 DIVISIONS IN AUTHORS 
 
 may be often passed over without any injury to the 
 whole. And in these inscriptions I have been as 
 faitliful as possible, not imitating the celebrated 
 Montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives 
 you another; nor some title-page authors, who 
 promise a great deal and produce nothing at all. 
 
 There are, besides these more obvious benefits, 
 several others which our readers enjoy from this art 
 of dividing ; though perhaps most of them too 
 mysterious to be presently understood by any who 
 are not initiated into the science of authoring. To 
 mention, therefore, but one which is most obvious, 
 it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning 
 down its leaves, a method otherwise necessary to 
 those readers who (though they read with great 
 improvement and advantage) are apt, wlien they 
 return to their study after half-an -hour's absence, 
 to forget where they left off. 
 
 These divisions have the sanction of great anti- 
 quity. Homer not only divided his great work into 
 twenty-four books (in compliment perhaps to the 
 /, twenty-four letters to which he had very particular 
 """ obligations), but, according to the opinion of some 
 very sagacious criticks, hawked them all separately, 
 delivering only one book at a time (probably by 
 subscription). He was the first inventor of the art 
 which hath so long lain dormant, of publishing by 
 numbers ; an art now brought to such perfection, 
 
 [119]
 
 i 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited 
 piecemeal to the pubhc ; nay, one bookseller hath (to 
 encourage learning and ease the public) contrived to 
 give them a dictionary in this divided manner for only 
 fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire. 
 Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an 
 argument of his modesty ; for by that, doubtless, he 
 l/^ would insinuate that he pretends to no more than 
 half the merit of the Greek ; for the same reason, 
 our Milton went originally no farther than ten; till, 
 being puifed up by the praise of his friends, he put 
 himself on the same footing with the Roman poet. 
 
 I shall not, however, enter so deep into this matter 
 as some very learned criticks have done ; who have 
 with infinite labour and acute discernment discovered 
 what books are proper for embellishment, and what 
 require simplicity only, particularly with regard to 
 similes, which I think are now generally agreed to 
 become any book but the first. 
 
 I will dismiss this chapter with the following 
 observation : that it becomes an author generally to 
 divide a book, as it does a butcher to joint his meat, 
 for such assistance is of great help to both the reader 
 and the carver. And now, having indulged myself 
 a little, I will endeavour to indulge the curiosity of 
 my reader, who is no doubt impatient to know what 
 he will find in the subsequent chapters of this book. 
 
 [120]
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 A SURPRIZING INSTANCE OF MR. ADAMs's SHORT MEMORY, 
 WITH THE UNFORTUNATE CONSEQUENCES WHICH IT 
 BROUGHT ON JOSEPH. 
 
 MK. ADAMS and Joseph were now 
 ready to depart different ways, when 
 an accident determined the former to 
 return with his friend, which Tow- 
 wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been 
 able to do. This accident was, that those sermons, 
 which the parson was travelling to London to publish, 
 were, O my good reader ! left behind ; what he had 
 mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other 
 than three shirts, a pair of shoes, and some other 
 necessaries, which Mrs. Adams, who thought her 
 husband would want shirts more than sermons on his 
 journey, had carefully provided him. 
 
 This discovery was now luckily owing to the pres- 
 ence of Joseph at the opening the saddlebags ; who, 
 having heard his friend say he carried with him 
 nine volumes of sermons, and not being of that sect 
 of philosophers who can reduce all the matter of the 
 world into a nutshell, seeing there was no room for 
 
 [121]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 them in the bags, wliere the parson had said they 
 were deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, " Bless 
 me, sir, where are your sermons?"''' The parson 
 answered, " There, there, child ; there they are, under 
 my shirts," Now it happened that he had taken 
 forth his last shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly 
 empty. " Sure, sir," says Joseph, " there is nothing 
 in the bags." Upon which Adams, starting, and 
 testifying some surprize, cried, " Hey ! fie, fie upon 
 it ! they are not here sure enough. Ay, they are 
 certainly left behind." 
 
 Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness 
 which he apprehended his friend must feel from this 
 disappointment ; he begged him to pursue his journey, 
 and promised he would himself return w ith the books 
 to him with the utmost expedition. " No, thank 
 you, child," answered Adams ; " it shall not be so. 
 What would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, 
 unless I had my discourses with me, which are ut ita 
 dicam, the sole cause, the a'd'ia monotate of my pere- 
 grination .? No, child, as this accident hath happened, 
 I am resolved to return back to my cure, together 
 with you ; which indeed my inclination sufficiently 
 leads me to. This disappointment may perhaps be 
 intended for my good." He concluded with a verse 
 out of Theocritus, which signifies no more than that 
 sometimes it rains, and sometimes the sun shines. 
 
 Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for 
 
 [ 122]
 
 THE HOMEWARD JOURNEY 
 
 the inclination which the parson expressed of return- 
 ing with him ; and now the bill was called for, which, 
 on examination, amounted within a shilling to the 
 sum Mr. Adams had in his pocket. Perhaps the 
 reader may wonder how he was able to produce a 
 sufficient sum for so many days : that he may not 
 be surprized, therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to 
 acquaint him that he had borrowed a guinea of a 
 servant belonging to the coach and six, who had been 
 formerly one of his parishioners, and whose master, 
 the owner of the coach, then lived within three miles 
 of him ; for so good was the credit of Mr. Adams, 
 that even Mr. Peter, the Lady Booby's steward, 
 would have lent him a guinea with very little 
 security. 
 
 Mr. Adams discharged the bill, and they were both 
 setting out, having agreed to ride and tie ; a method 
 of travelling much used by persons who have but one 
 horse between them, and is thus performed. The 
 two travellers set out together, one on horseback, 
 the other on foot : now, as it generally happens that 
 he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the custom 
 is, that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, 
 he is to dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, 
 post, or other thing, and then proceed on foot ; when 
 the other comes up to the horse he unties him, 
 mounts, and gallops on, till, having passed by his 
 fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place of 
 
 [ 123 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 tying. And this is that method of travelhng so 
 much in use among our prudent ancestors, who knew 
 that horses had mouths as well as legs, and that they 
 could not use the latter without being at the expense 
 of sufferinc: the beasts themselves to use the former. 
 This was the method in use in those days when, 
 instead of a coach and six, a member of parliament's 
 lady used to mount a pillion behind her husband ; 
 and a grave serjeant at law condescended to amble 
 to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk kick- 
 ing his heels behind him. 
 
 Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted 
 on Joseph's beginning the journey on horseback, and 
 Joseph had his foot in the stirrup, when the hostler 
 presented him a bill for the horse's board during his 
 residence at the inn. Joseph said Mr. Adams had 
 paid all ; but this matter, being referred to Mr. Tow- 
 wouse, was by him decided in favour of the hostler, 
 and indeed with truth and justice ; for this was a 
 fresh instance of that shortness of memory which 
 did not arise from want of parts, but that continual 
 hurry in which parson Adams was always involved. 
 
 Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which ex- 
 tremely puzzled him. The sum due for horse-meat 
 was twelve shillings (for Adams, who had borrowed 
 the beast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as 
 well as they could feed him), and the cash in his 
 pocket amounted to sixpence (for Adams had divided 
 
 [ 124]
 
 THE KEEPSAKE 
 
 the last shilling with him). Now, though there have 
 been some ingenious persons who have contrived to 
 pay twelve shillings with sixpence, Joseph was not 
 one of them. He had never contracted a debt in his 
 life, and was consequently the less ready at an expe- 
 dient to extricate himself. Tow-wouse was willing 
 to give him credit till next time, to which Mrs. Tow- 
 wouse would probably have consented (for such was 
 Joseph's beauty, that it had made some impression 
 even on that piece of flint which that good woman 
 wore in her bosom by way of heart). Joseph would 
 have found, therefore, very likely the passage free, had 
 he not, when he honestly discovered the nakedness 
 of his pockets, pulled out that little piece of gold 
 which we have mentioned before. This caused Mrs. 
 Tow-wouse's eyes to water ; she told Joseph she did 
 not conceive a man could want money whilst he had 
 gold in his pocket. Joseph answered he had such a 
 value for that little piece of gold, that he would not 
 part with it for a hundred times the riches which the 
 greatest esquire in the county was worth. " A pretty 
 way, indeed," said Mrs. Tow-wouse, " to run in debt, 
 and then refuse to part with your money, because you 
 have a value for it ! I never knew any piece of gold 
 of more value than as many shillings as it would 
 change for." — " Not to preserve my life from starv- 
 ing, nor to redeem it from a robber, would I part 
 with this dear piece ! " answered Joseph. " What," 
 
 [ 125 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 says Mrs. Tow-wouse, " I suppose it was given you 
 by some vile trollop, some miss or other ; if it had 
 been the present of a virtuous woman, you would not 
 have had such a value for it. My husband is a fool 
 if he parts with the horse without being paid for 
 him." — " No, no, I can''t part with the horse, indeed, 
 till 1 have the money," cried Tow-w ouse. A resolu- 
 tion highly commended by a lawyer then in the yard, 
 who declared Mr. Tow-wouse might justify the 
 detainer. 
 
 As we cannot therefore at present get Mr. Joseph 
 out of the inn, we shall leave him in it, and carry our 
 reader on after parson Adams, who, his mind being 
 perfectly at ease, fell into a contemplation on a pas- 
 sage in ^schylus, which entertained him for three 
 miles together, without suffering him once to reflect 
 on his fellow-traveller. 
 
 At length, having spun out his thread, and being 
 now at the summit of a hill, he cast his eyes back- 
 wards, and wondered that he could not see any sign 
 of Joseph. As he left him ready to mount the horse, 
 he could not apprehend any mischief had happened, 
 neither could he suspect that he missed his way, it 
 being so broad and plain ; the only reason which 
 presented itself to him was, that he had met with an 
 acquaintance who had prevailed with him to delay 
 some time in discourse. 
 
 He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, 
 
 [126]
 
 THE PARSON'S DILEMMA 
 
 not doubting but that he should be shortly over- 
 taken ; and soon came to a lai-ge water, which, filling 
 the whole road, he saw no method of passing unless 
 by wading through, which he accordingly did up to 
 his middle ; but was no sooner got to the other side 
 than he perceived, if he had looked over the hedge, 
 he would liave found a footpath capable of conduct- 
 ing him without wetting his shoes. 
 
 His surprize at Joseph's not coming up grew now 
 very troublesome : he began to fear he knew not 
 what ; and as he determined to move no farther, 
 and, if he did not shortly overtake him, to return 
 back, he wished to find a house of public entertain- 
 ment where he might dry his clothes and refresh 
 himself with a pint ; but, seeing no such (for no other 
 reason than because he did not cast his eyes a hun- 
 dred yards forwards), he sat himself do^^^l on a stile, 
 and pulled out his ^schylus. 
 
 A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him if 
 he could direct him to an alehouse. The fellow, who 
 had just left it, and perceived the house and sign to 
 be within sight, thinking he had jeered him, and 
 being of a morose temper, bade him follow his nose 
 and be d — n'd. Adams told him he was a saucy 
 jackanapes ; upon which the fellow turned about 
 angrily ; but, perceiving Adams clench his fist, he 
 thought proper to go on without taking any farther 
 notice. 
 
 [127]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 A horseman, following immediately after, and being 
 asked the same (juestion, answered, " Friend, there is 
 one within a stone*'s throw ; I believe you may see it 
 before you." Adams, lifting up his eyes, cried, " I 
 protest, and so there is ; " and, thanking his informer, 
 proceeded directly to it. 
 
 [128]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 THE OPINION OF TWO LAWYERS CONCERNING THE SAME 
 GENTLEMAN, WITH MR. ADAMs's INQUIRY INTO THE 
 RELIGION OF HIS HOST. 
 
 HE had just entered the house, and called 
 for his pint, and seated himself, when 
 two horsemen came to the door, and, 
 fastening their horses to the rails, 
 alighted. They said there was a violent shower of 
 rain coming on, which they intended to weather 
 there, and went into a little room by themselves, 
 not perceiving Mr. Adams. 
 
 One of these immediately asked the other, " If he 
 had seen a more comical adventure a gi-eat while ? " 
 Upon which the other said, " He doubted whether, 
 by law, the landlord could justify detaining the horse 
 for his corn and hay."" But the former answered, 
 " Undoubtedly he can ; it is an adj udged case, and I 
 have known it tried." 
 
 Adams, who, though he was, as the reader may sus- 
 pect, a little inclined to forgetfulness, never wanted 
 more than a hint to remind him, overhearing their 
 discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this 
 vol,. I. -9 [129]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 was his own horse, and that he had forgot to pay for 
 him, which, upon inquiry, he was certified of by the 
 gentlemen ; who added, that the horse was hkely to 
 have more rest than food, unless he was paid for. 
 
 The poor parson resolved to return presently to 
 the inn, though he knew no more than Joseph how 
 to procure his horse his liberty ; he was, however, 
 prevailed on to stay under covert, till the shower, 
 which was now very violent, was over. 
 
 The three travellers then sat down together over 
 a mug of good beer ; when Adams, who had observed 
 a gentleman's house as he passed along the road, 
 inquired to whom it belonged ; one of the horsemen 
 had no sooner mentioned the owner's name, than the 
 other began to revile him in the most opprobrious 
 terms. The English language scarce affords a single 
 reproachful word, which he did not vent on this 
 occasion. He charged him likewise with many par- 
 ticular facts. He said, " He no more regarded a 
 field of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the 
 highway ; that he had injured several poor farmers 
 by trampling their corn under his horse's heels ; and 
 if any of them begged him with the utmost sub- 
 mission to refrain, his horsewhip was always ready to 
 do them justice." He said, " That he was the great- 
 est tyrant to the neighbours in every other instance, 
 and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though 
 he might justify it by law ; and in his own family so 
 
 ^ [ 130 ]
 
 OPPOSITE OPINIONS 
 
 cruel a master, that he never kept a servant a twelve- 
 month. In his capacity as a justice," continued he, 
 " he behaves so partially, that he commits or acquits 
 just as he is in the humour, without any regard to 
 truth or evidence ; the devil may carry any one 
 before him for me ; I would rather be tried before 
 some judges, than be a prosecutor before him : if I 
 had an estate in the neighbourhood, I would sell it 
 for half the value rather than live near him." 
 
 Adams shook his head, and said, " He was sorry 
 such men were suffered to proceed with impunity, 
 and that riches could set any man above the law." 
 The reviler, a little after, retiring into the yard, the 
 gentleman who had first mentioned his name to 
 Adams began to assure him " that his companion 
 was a prejudiced person. It is true," says he, " per- 
 haps, that he may have sometimes pursued his game 
 over a field of corn, but he hath always made the 
 party ample satisfaction : that so far from tyrannising 
 over his neighbours, or taking away their guns, he 
 himself knew several farmers not qualified, who not 
 only kept guns, but killed game with them ; that he 
 was the best of masters to his servants, and several 
 of them had grown old in his service ; that he was 
 the best justice of peace in the kingdom, and, to his 
 certain knowledge, had decided many difficult points, 
 which were referred to him, with the greatest equity 
 and the highest wisdom ; and he verily believed, 
 
 [131]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 several persons would give a year's purchase more for 
 an estate near him, than under the wings of any 
 other great man." He had just finished his encomium 
 when his companion returned and acquainted him 
 the storm was over. Upon which thev presentlv 
 mounted their horses and departed. 
 
 Adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those 
 different characters of the same person, asked his 
 host if he knew the gentleman : for he began to 
 imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two 
 several gentlemen. " No, no, master," answered the 
 host (a shrewd, cunning fellow) ; " I know the gentle- 
 man very well of whom they have been speaking, as 
 I do the gentlemen who spoke of him. As for riding 
 over other men's corn, to my knowledge he hath not 
 been on horseback these two years. I never heard 
 he did any injury of that kind; and as to making 
 reparation, he is not so free of his money as that 
 comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear of his taking 
 away any man's gun ; nay, I know several who have 
 guns in their houses ; but as for killing game with 
 them, no man is stricter; and I believe he would 
 ruin any who did. You heard one of the gentlemen 
 say he was the worst master in the world, and the 
 other that he is the best ; but for my own part, I 
 know all his servants, and never heard from any of 
 them that he was either one or the other." — " Aye ! 
 aye ! " says Adams ; " and how doth he behave as a 
 
 [132 J
 
 UNTRUTHFUL TESTIMONY 
 
 justice, pray ? "" — " Faith, friend,"" answered the host, 
 " I question whether he is in the commission ; the 
 only cause I have heard he hath decided a great 
 while, was one between those very two persons who 
 just went out of this house ; and I am sure he deter- 
 mined that justly, for I heard the whole matter." — 
 " Which did he decide it in favour of ? " quoth 
 Adams. — "I think I need not answer that question," 
 cried the host, "after the different characters you 
 have heard of him. It is not my business to con- 
 tradict gentlemen while they are drinking in my 
 house ; but I knew neither of them spoke a syllable 
 of truth." — " God forbid ! " said Adams, " that men 
 should arrive at such a pitch of wickedness to belye 
 the character of their neighbour from a little private 
 affection, or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. 
 I rather believe we have mistaken them, and they 
 mean two other persons ; for there are many houses 
 on the road." — " Why, prithee, friend," cries the 
 host, " dost thou pretend never to have told a lye in 
 thy life ? " — " Never a malicious one, I am certain," 
 answered Adams, " nor with a design to injure the 
 reputation of any man living." — " Pugh ! malicious ; 
 no, no," replied the host ; " not malicious with a 
 design to hang a man, or bring him into trouble ; 
 but surely, out of love to oneself, one must speak 
 better of a friend than an enemy." — " Out of love 
 to yourself, you should confine yourself to truth," 
 
 [133]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 says Adams, " for by doing otherwise you injure the 
 noblest part of yourself, your immortal soul. I can 
 hardly believe any man such an idiot to risque the 
 loss of that by any trifling gain, and the greatest 
 gain in this world is but dirt in comparison of what 
 shall be revealed hereafter." Upon which the host, 
 taking up the cup, with a smile, drank a health to 
 hereafter ; adding, " He was for something present."" 
 — " Why," says Adams very gravely, " do not you 
 believe another world?" To which the host an- 
 swered, " Yes ; he was no atheist." — " And you be- 
 lieve you have an immortal soul ? " cries Adams. 
 He answered, " God forbid he should not." — " And 
 heaven and hell ? " said the parson. The host then 
 bid him " not to profane ; for those were things not 
 to be mentioned nor thought of but in church." 
 Adams asked him, " Why he went to church, if what 
 he learned there had no influence on his conduct in 
 life ? " "I go to church," answered the host, *' to 
 say my prayers and behave godly." — " And dost 
 not thou," cried Adams, " believe what thou hearest 
 at church ? " — " Most part of it, master," returned 
 the host. " And dost not thou then tremble," cries 
 Adams, "at the thought of eternal punishment?" 
 — " As for that, master," said he, " I never once 
 thought about it ; but what signifies talking about 
 matters so far off? The mug is out, shall I draw 
 another ? " 
 
 [131]
 
 MRS. SLIPSLOP AGAIN 
 
 Whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage- 
 coach drove up to the door. The coachman coming 
 into the house was asked by the mistress what pas- 
 sengers he had in his coach ? " A parcel of squinny- 
 gut b — s," says he ; "I have a good mind to overturn 
 them ; you won't prevail upon them to drink any- 
 thing, I assure you." Adams asked him, " If he had 
 not seen a young man on horseback on the road" 
 (describing Joseph). " Aye," said the coachman, "a 
 gentlewoman in my coach that is his acquaintance 
 redeemed him and his horse ; he would have been 
 here before this time, had not the storm driven 
 him to shelter." " God bless her ! " said Adams, in 
 a rapture ; nor could he delay walking out to satisfy 
 himself who this charitable woman was; but what 
 was his surprize when he saw his old acquaintance. 
 Madam Slipslop ? Hers indeed was not so great, 
 because she had been informed by Joseph that he 
 was on the road. Very civil were the salutations on 
 both sides ; and Mrs. Slipslop rebuked the hostess 
 for denying the gentleman to be there when she 
 asked for him ; but indeed the poor woman had not 
 erred designedly ; for Mrs. Slipslop asked for a clergy- 
 man, and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a 
 person travelling to a neighbouring fair with the 
 thimble and button, or some other such operation ; 
 for he marched in a swinging great but short white 
 coat with black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, 
 
 [135]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 so far from having a black hatband, had nothing 
 black about it. 
 
 Joseph was now come up, and Mrs. Slipslop would 
 have had him quit his horse to the parson, and come 
 himself into the coach ; but he absolutely refused, 
 saying, he thanked Heaven he was well enough 
 recovered to be very able to ride ; and added, he 
 hoped he knew his duty better than to ride in a 
 coach while Mr. Adams was on horseback. 
 
 Mrs. Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not 
 a lady in the coach put a short end to the dispute, 
 by refusing to suffer a fellow in a livery to ride in 
 the same coach with herself; so it was at length 
 agreed that Adams should fill the vacant place in the 
 coach, and Joseph should proceed on horseback. 
 
 They had not proceeded far before Mrs. Slipslop, 
 addressing herself to the parson, spoke thus : — 
 "There hath been a strange alteration in our family, 
 Mr. Adams, since Sir Thomas's death." " A strange 
 alteration indeed," says Adams, "as I gather from 
 some hints which have dropped fi-om Joseph." — 
 " Aye," says she, " I could never have believed it ; 
 but the longer one lives in the world, the more one 
 sees. So Joseph hath given you hints." " But of 
 what nature will always remain a perfect secret with 
 me," cries the parson : " he forced me to promise 
 before he would communicate an>i:hing. I am indeed 
 concerned to find her ladyship behave in so unbecoming 
 
 [ 136 ]
 
 LADY BOOBY CRITICISED 
 
 a manner. I always thought her in the main a good 
 lady, and should never have suspected her of thoughts 
 so unworthy a Christian, and with a young lad her 
 own servant." " These things are no secrets to me, 
 I assure you," cries Slipslop, "and I believe they 
 will be none anywhere shortly; for ever since the 
 boy's departure, she hath behaved more like a mad 
 woman than anything else," " Truly, I am heartily 
 concerned," says Adams, " for she was a good sort 
 of a lady. Indeed, I have often wished she had 
 attended a little more constantly at the service, but 
 she hath done a great deal of good in the parish." 
 " O Mr. Adams," says Slipslop, " people that don't 
 see all, often know nothing. Many things have been 
 given away in our family, I do assure you, without 
 her knowledge. I have heard you say in the pulpit 
 we ouffht not to brao; : but indeed I can't avoid say- 
 ing, if she had kept the keys herself, the poor would 
 have wanted many a cordial which I have let them 
 have. As for my late master, he was as worthy a 
 man as ever lived, and would have done infinite good 
 if he had not been controuled ; but he loved a quiet 
 life. Heaven rest his soul ! I am confident he is there, 
 and enjoys a quiet life, which some folks would not 
 allow him here." — Adams answered, " He had never 
 heard this before, and w as mistaken if she herself ( for 
 he remembered she used to commend her mistress and 
 blame her master) had not formerly been of another 
 
 [137]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 opinion." " I don't know,"" replied she, " what I might 
 once think ; but now I am confidous matters are as I 
 tell you ; the world will shortly see who hath been 
 deceived ; for my part, I say nothing, but that it is 
 wondersome how some people can carry all things 
 with a grave face." 
 
 Thus Mr. Adams and she discoursed, till they came 
 opposite to a great house which stood at some dis- 
 tance from the road : a lady in the coach, spying it, 
 cried, "Yonder lives the anfortunate Leonora, if one 
 can justly call a woman unfortunate whom we must 
 own at the same time guilty and the author of her 
 own calamity." This was abundantly sufficient to 
 awaken the curiosity of Mr. Adams, as indeed it did 
 that of the whole company, who jointly solicited the 
 lady to acquaint them with Leonora's history, since 
 it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something 
 remarkable. 
 
 The ladv, who was perfectly well-bred, did not 
 require many entreaties, and having only wished their 
 entertainment might make amends for the company's 
 attention, she began in the following manner. 
 
 [138]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 THE HISTORY OF LEONORA, OR THE UNFORTUNATE JILT. 
 
 1E0N0RA was the daughter of a gentleman of 
 fortune ; she was tall and well-shaped, 
 t with a sprightliness in her countenance 
 which often attracts beyond more regu- 
 lar features joined with an insipid air: nor is this 
 kind of beauty less apt to deceive than allure; the 
 good humour which it indicates being often mistaken 
 for good nature, and the vivacity for true under- 
 standing. 
 
 Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived 
 with an aunt of hers in a town in the north of Eng- 
 land. She was an extreme lover of gaiety, and very 
 rarely missed a ball or any other public assembly ; 
 where she had frequent opportunities of satisfying a 
 greedy appetite of vanity, with the preference which 
 was given her by the men to almost every other 
 woman present. 
 
 Among many young fellows who were particular 
 in their gallanti'ies towards her, Horatio soon distin- 
 guished himself in her eves beyond all his competi- 
 
 [139]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 tors ; she danced with more than ordinary gaiety 
 when he happened to be her partner ; neither the 
 fairness of the evening, nor the musick of the nightin- 
 gale, could lengthen her walk like his company. She 
 affected no longer to understand the civilities of 
 others ; whilst she inclined so attentive an ear to 
 every compliment of Horatio, that she often smiled 
 even when it was too delicate for her comprehension. 
 
 " Pray, madam," says Adams, " who was this 
 squire Horatio ? " 
 
 Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of 
 a good family, bred to the law, and had been some 
 few years called to the degree of a barrister. His 
 face and person were such as the generality allowed 
 handsome ; but he had a dignity in his air very rarely 
 to be seen. His temper was of the saturnine com- 
 plexion, and without the least taint of moroseness. 
 He had wit and humour, with an inclination to 
 satire, which he indulged rather too much. 
 
 This gentleman, who had contracted the most 
 violent passion for Leonora, was the last person who 
 perceived the probability of its success. The whole 
 town had made the match for him before he himself 
 had drawn a confidence from her actions sufficient to 
 mention his passion to her; for it was his opinion 
 ( and perhaps he was there in the right ) that it is 
 highly impolitick to talk seriously of love to a 
 woman before you have made such a progress in her 
 
 [140]
 
 HISTORY OF LEONORA 
 
 affections, that she herself expects and desires to 
 hear it. 
 
 But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may 
 create, which are apt to magnify every favour con- 
 ferred on a rival, and to see the little advances 
 towards themselves through the other end of the 
 perspective, it was impossible that Horatio"'s passion 
 should so blind his discernment as to prevent his 
 conceiving hopes from the behaviour of Leonora, 
 whose fondness for him was now as visible to an 
 indifferent person in their company as his for her. 
 
 " I never knew any of these forward sluts come to 
 good " (says the lady who refused Joseph's entrance 
 into the coach), " nor shall I wonder at anything 
 she doth in the sequel." 
 
 The lady proceeded in her story thus : It was in 
 the midst of a gay conversation in the walks one 
 evening, when Horatio whispered Leonora, that he 
 was desirous to take a turn or two with her in 
 private, for that he had something to communicate 
 to her of great consequence. " Are you sure it is 
 of consequence ? " said she, smiling. " I hope," an- 
 swered he, " you Avill think so too, since the whole 
 future happiness of my life must depend on the 
 event." 
 
 Leonora, who very much suspected what was com- 
 ing, would have deferred it till another time ; but 
 Horatio, who had more than half conquered the 
 
 [141]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 difficulty of speaking by the first motion, was so very 
 importunate, that she at last yielded, and, leaving 
 the rest of the company, they turned aside into an 
 unfrequented walk. 
 
 They had retired far out of the sight of the com- 
 pany, both maintaining a strict silence. At last 
 Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leonora, who 
 stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he 
 fetched a deep sigh, and then, looking on her eyes 
 with all the tenderness imaginable, he cried out in a 
 faltering accent, " O Leonora ! is it necessary for 
 me to declare to you on what the future happiness 
 of my life must be founded ? Must I say there is 
 something belonging to you which is a bar to my 
 happiness, and which unless you will part with, I 
 must be miserable ! " — " What can that be ? " replied 
 Leonora. " No wonder," said he, " you are surprized 
 that I should make an objection to anything which 
 is yours : yet sure you may guess, since it is the only 
 one which the riches of the world, if they were mine, 
 should purchase for me. Oh, it is that which you 
 must part with to bestow all the rest ! Can Leonora, 
 or rather will she, doubt longer ? Let me then 
 whisper it in her ears — It is your name, madam. 
 It is by parting with that, by your condescension to 
 be for ever mine, which must at once prevent me 
 from being the most miserable, and will render me 
 the happiest of mankind." 
 
 [ 142 ]
 
 WEDDING PREPARATIONS 
 
 Leonora, covered with blushes, and with as angry 
 a look as she could possibly put on, told him, " That 
 had she suspected what his declaration would have 
 been, he should not have decoyed her from her 
 company, that he had so surprized and frighted 
 her, that she begged him to convey her back as quick 
 as possible ; " which he, trembling very near as much 
 as herself, did. 
 
 " More fool he," cried Slipslop ; " it is a sign he 
 knew very little of our sect." — "Truly, madam," 
 said Adams, " I think you are in the right : I should 
 have insisted to know a piece of her mind, when I 
 had carried matters so far." But Mrs. Grave-airs 
 desired the lady to omit all such fulsome stuff in her 
 story, for that it made her sick. 
 
 Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, 
 said the lady, many weeks had not passed after this 
 interview before Horatio and Leonora were what 
 they call on a good footing together. All ceremonies 
 except the last were now over ; the writings were now 
 drawn, and everything was in the utmost forward- 
 ness preparative to the putting Horatio in possession 
 of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a 
 letter from each of them, which I have got by heart, 
 and which will give you no small idea of their 
 passion on both sides. 
 
 Mrs, Grave-airs objected to hearing these letters ; 
 but being put to the vote, it was carried against her 
 
 [ 143 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 by all the rest in the coach ; parson Adams contend- 
 ing for it with the utmost vehemence. 
 
 Horatio to Leonora. 
 
 " How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit 
 of pleasure in the absence of an object to which the 
 mind is entirely devoted, unless it have some relation 
 to that object ! I was last night condemned to the 
 society of men of wit and learning, which, however 
 agreeable it might have formerly been to me, now only 
 gave me a suspicion that they imputed my absence in 
 conversation to the true cause. For which reason, 
 when your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happi- 
 ness of seeing you, I am always desirous to be alone ; 
 since my sentiments for Leonora are so delicate, that I 
 cannot bear the apprehension of another's prying into 
 those delightful endearments with which the warm 
 imagination of a lover will sometimes indulge him, and 
 which I suspect my eyes then betray. To fear this 
 discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too ridi- 
 culous a nicety to minds not susceptible of all the 
 tendernesses of this delicate passion. And surely we 
 shall suspect there are few such, when we consider that 
 it requires every human vii-tue to exert itself in its full 
 extent ; since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately 
 respects, may give us charming opportunities of being 
 brave in her defence, generous to her wants, com- 
 passionate to her afflictions, grateful to her kindness ; 
 and in the same manner, of exercising every other 
 virtue, which he who would not do to any degree, 
 and that with the utmost rapture, can never deserve 
 the name of a lover. It is, therefore, with a view to 
 
 [ 144]
 
 LEONORA'S LETTER 
 
 the delicate modesty of your mind that I cultivate it so 
 purely in my own ; and it is that which will sufficiently 
 suggest to you the uneasiness I bear from those liberties^ 
 which men to whom the world allow politeness will 
 sometimes give themselves on these occasions. 
 
 " Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the 
 arrival of that blest day, when I shall experience the 
 falsehood of a common assertion, that the greatest 
 human happiness consists in hope ? A doctrine which 
 no person had ever stronger reason to believe than my- 
 self at present, since none ever tasted such bliss as fires 
 my bosom with the thoughts of spending my future 
 days with such a companion, and that every action of 
 my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conduc- 
 ing to your happiness." 
 
 Leonora to Horatio.^ 
 
 " The refinement of your mind has been so e\idently 
 proved by every word and action ever since I had the 
 first pleasure of knowing you, that I thought it im- 
 possible my good opinion of Horatio could have been 
 heightened to any additional proof of merit. This very 
 thought was my amusement when I received your last 
 letter, which, when I opened, I confess I was surprized 
 to find the deUcate sentiments expressed there so far 
 exceeding what I thought could come even from you 
 (although I know all the generous principles human 
 nature is capable of are centred in your breast), that 
 words cannot paint what I feel on the reflection that 
 
 1 This letter was written by a young lady on reading the 
 former. 
 
 ▼ot. I. — 10 [ 145 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 my happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your 
 actions. 
 
 " Oh, Horatio ! what a life must that be, where the 
 meanest domestic cares are sweetened by the pleasing 
 consideration that the man on earth who best deserves, 
 and to whom you are most inchned to give your affec- 
 tions, is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do ! 
 In such a case toils must be turned into diversions, and 
 nothing but the unavoidable inconveniences of life can 
 make us remember that we are mortal. 
 
 " If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire 
 of keeping them undiscovered, makes even the conver- 
 sation of men of wit and learning tedious to you, what 
 anxious hours must I spend, who am condemned by 
 custom to the conversation of women, whose natural 
 curiosity leads them to pry into all my thoughts, and 
 whose envy can never suffer Hoi'atio's heart to be pos- 
 sessed by any one, without forcing them into malicious' 
 designs against the person who is so happy as to possess 
 it ! But, indeed, if ever envy can possibly have any 
 excuse, or even alleviation, it is in this case, where the 
 good is so great, and it must be equally natural to all to 
 wish it for themselves ; nor am I ashamed to own it : 
 and to your merit, Horatio, I am obliged, that prevents 
 my being in that most uneasy of all the situations I can 
 figure in my imagination, of being led by inclination 
 to love the person whom my own judgment forces me 
 to condemn." 
 
 Matters were in so great forwardness between 
 this fond couple, that the day was fixed for their 
 marriage, and was now within a fortnight, when the 
 
 [146]
 
 HORATIO AT THE SESSIONS 
 
 sessions chanced to be held for that county in a town 
 about twenty miles' distance from that which is the 
 scene of our story. It seems, it is usual for the 
 young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these ses- 
 sions, not so much for the sake of profit as to show 
 their parts and learn the law of the justices of peace ; 
 for which purpose one of the wisest and gravest of 
 all the justices is appointed speaker, or chairman, 
 as they modestly call it, and he reads them a lecture, 
 and instructs them in the true knowledge of the 
 law. 
 
 "You are here guilty of a little mistake," says 
 Adams, " which, if you please, I will correct : I have 
 attended at one of these quarter-sessions, where I 
 observed the counsel taught the justices, instead of 
 learning anything of them." 
 
 It is not very material, said the lady. Hither re- 
 paired Horatio, who, as he hoped by his profession 
 to advance his fortune, which was not at present very 
 large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, he resolved 
 to spare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of im- 
 proving or advancing himself in it. 
 
 The same afternoon in which he left the town, as 
 Leonora stood at her window, a coach and six passed 
 by, which she declared to be the completest, genteel- 
 est, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding these 
 remarkable words, "Oh, I am in love with that 
 equipage ! " which, though her friend Florella at 
 
 [147 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 that time did not greatly regard, she hath since 
 remembered. 
 
 In the evening an assembly was held, which Leonora 
 honoured with her company ; but intended to pay 
 her dear Horatio the compliment of refusing to dance 
 in his absence. 
 
 Oh, why have not women as good resolution to 
 maintain their vows as they have often good inclina- 
 tions in making them ! 
 
 The gentleman who owned the coach and six came 
 to the assembly. His clothes were as remarkably 
 fine as his equipage could be. He soon attracted 
 the eyes of the company ; all the smarts, all the silk 
 waistcoats with silver and gold edgings, were eclipsed 
 in an instant. 
 
 " Madam," said Adams, " if it be not impertinent, 
 I should be glad to know how this gentleman was 
 drest." 
 
 Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had on 
 a cut velvet coat of a cinnamon colour, lined with a 
 pink satten, embroidered all over with gold ; his 
 waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was embroidered 
 with gold likewise. I cannot be particular as to the 
 rest of his dress ; but it was all in the French fashion, 
 for Bellarmine (that was his name) was just arrived 
 from Paris. 
 
 This fine figure did not more entirely engage the 
 eyes of every lady in the assembly than Leonora did 
 
 [ 148 J
 
 LEONORA AT THE ASSEMBLY 
 
 his. He had scarce beheld her, but he stood motion- 
 less and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done 
 so if good breeding had permitted him. However, 
 he carried it so far before he had power to correct 
 himself, that every person in the room easily dis- 
 covered where his admiration was settled. The other 
 ladies began to single out their former partners, all 
 perceiving who would be Bellarmine's choice ; which 
 they however endeavoured, by all possible means, to 
 prevent : many of them saying to Leonora, " O 
 madam ! I suppose we shan't have the pleasure of 
 seeing you dance to-night ; '" and then crying out, in 
 Bellarmine"'s hearing, " Oh ! Leonora will not dance, 
 I assure you : her partner is not here." One mali- 
 ciously attempted to prevent her, by sending a dis- 
 agreeable fellow to ask her, that so she might be 
 obliged either to dance with him, or sit down ; but 
 this scheme proved abortive. 
 
 Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, 
 and envied by every woman present. Her little heart 
 began to flutter within her, and her head was agi- 
 tated with a convulsive motion : she seemed as if she 
 would speak to several of her acquaintance, but had 
 nothing to say ; for, as she would not mention her 
 present triumph, so she could not disengage her 
 thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. 
 She had never tasted anything like this happiness. 
 She had before known what it was to torment a single 
 
 [149]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 woman ; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a 
 whole assembly was a joy reserved for this blessed 
 moment. As this vast profusion of extasy had con- 
 founded her understanding, so there was nothing so 
 foolish as her behaviour : she played a thousand 
 childish tricks, distorted her person into several 
 shapes, and her face into several laughs, without any 
 reason. In a word, her carriage was as absurd as her 
 desires, which were to affect an insensibility of the 
 stranger's admiration, and at the same time a triumph, 
 from that admiration, over every woman in the room. 
 
 In this temper of mine, Bellarmine, having inquii'ed 
 who she was, advanced to her, and with a low bow 
 begged the honour of dancing with her, which she, 
 with as low a curtesy, immediately granted. She 
 danced with him all night, and enjoyed, perhaps, the 
 highest pleasure that she was capable of feeling. 
 
 At these words, Adams fetched a deep groan, 
 which frighted the ladies, who told him, "They 
 hoped he was not ill." He answered, " He groaned 
 only for the folly of Leonora." 
 
 Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in 
 the morning, but not to rest. She tumbled and 
 tossed in her bed, with very short intervals of sleep, 
 and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage 
 and fine clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, 
 and ridottos, which had been the subject of their 
 conversation. 
 
 [ 160 ]
 
 BELLARMINE'S SUCCESS 
 
 In the afternoon, Bellarniine, in the dear coach 
 and six, came to wait on her. He was indeed 
 charmed with her person, and was, on inquiry, so 
 well pleased with the circumstances of her father 
 (for he himself, notwithstanding all his finery, was 
 not quite so rich as a Croesus or an Attains). — 
 " Attains," says Mr. Adams : " but pray how came 
 you acquainted with these names ? " The lady 
 smiled at the question, and proceeded. He was so 
 pleased, I say, that he resolved to make his addresses 
 to her directly. He did so accordingly, and that 
 with so much warmth and briskness, that he quickly 
 baffled her weak repulses, and obliged the lady to 
 refer him to her father, who, she knew, would quickly 
 declare in favour of a coach and six. 
 
 Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love 
 and tenderness, been so long obtaining, the French- 
 English Bellarmine with gaiety and gallantry pos- 
 sessed himself of in an instant. In other words, 
 what modesty had employed a full year in raising, 
 impudence demolished in twenty-four hours. 
 
 Here Adams groaned a second time ; but the 
 ladies, who began to smoke him, took no notice. 
 
 From the opening of the assembly till the end of 
 Bellarmine's visit, Leonora had scarce once thought 
 of Horatio ; but he now began, though an unwel- 
 come guest, to enter into her mind. She wished she 
 had seen the charming Bellarmine and his charming 
 
 [151]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 equipage before matters had gone so far. " Yet 
 why," says she, " should I wish to have seen him 
 before ; or what signifies it that I have seen him now ? 
 Is not Horatio my lover, almost my husband ? Is 
 he not as handsome, nay handsomer than Bellarmine ? 
 Aye, but Bellarmine is the genteeler, and the finer 
 man ; yes, that he must be allowed. Yes, yes, he is 
 that certainly. But did not I, no longer ago than 
 yesterday, love Horatio more than all the world ? 
 Aye, but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. But 
 doth not Horatio doat on me, and may he not in 
 despair break his heart if I abandon him ? Well, 
 and hath not Bellarmine a heart to break too ? Yes, 
 but I promised Horatio first ; but that was poor 
 Bellarmine's misfortune; if I had seen him first, I 
 should certainly have preferred him. Did not the 
 dear creature prefer me to every woman in the 
 assembly, when every she was laying out for him ? 
 When was it in Horatio's power to give me such an 
 instance of affection ? Can he give me an equipage, 
 or any of those things which Bellarmine will make 
 me mistress of? How vast is the difference between 
 being the wife of a poor counsellor and the wife of one 
 of Bellarmine''s fortune ! If I marry Horatio, I shall 
 triumph over no more than one rival ; but by marry- 
 ing Bellarmine, I shall be the envy of all my acquaint- 
 ance. AVhat happiness ! But can I suffer Horatio 
 to die ? for he hath sworn he cannot survive my loss : 
 
 [ 152 ]
 
 THE AUNT'S ADVICE 
 
 but perhaps he may not die : if he should, can I 
 prevent it ? Must I sacrifice myself to him ? besides, 
 Bellarmine may be as miserable for me too." She 
 was thus arguing with herself, when some young 
 ladies called her to the walks, and a little relieved 
 her anxiety for the present. 
 
 The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her 
 in presence of her aunt, whom he sufficiently informed 
 of his passion for Leonora. He was no sooner with- 
 drawn than the old lady began to advise her niece 
 on this occasion. " You see, child," says she, " what 
 fortune hath thrown in your way ; and I hope you 
 will not withstand your own preferment." Leonora, 
 sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing, 
 when she knew her engagements to Horatio. 
 " Engagements to a fig ! " cried the aunt ; " you 
 should thank Heaven on your knees that you have 
 it yet in your power to break them. Will any 
 woman hesitate a moment whether she shall ride in 
 a coach or walk on foot all the days of her life ? 
 But Bellarmine drives six, and Horatio not even a 
 pair." — " Yes, but, madam, what will the world 
 say ? " answered Leonora : " will not they condemn 
 me ? " — " The world is always on the side of pru- 
 dence," cries the aunt, " and would surely condemn 
 you if you sacrificed your interest to any motive 
 whatever. Oh ! I know the world very well ; and 
 you shew your ignorance, my dear, by your objection. 
 
 [153]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 O"* my conscience ! the world is wiser. I have lived 
 longer in it than you ; and I assure you there is not 
 anything worth our regard besides money ; nor did 
 I ever know one person who married from other 
 considerations, who did not afterwards heartily re- 
 pent it. Besides, if we examine the two men, can 
 you prefer a sneaking fellow, who hath been bred at 
 the university, to a fine gentleman just come from 
 his travels. All the world must allow Bellarmine to 
 be a fine gentleman, positively a fine gentleman, and 
 a handsome man." — " Perhaps, madam, I should not 
 doubt, if I knew how to be handsomely off with the 
 other."" — " Oh ! leave that to me," says the aunt. 
 " You know your father hath not been acquainted with 
 the affair. Indeed, for my part I thought it might do 
 well enough, not dreaming of such an offer ; but I '11 
 disengage you : leave me to give the fellow an answer. 
 I warrant you shall have no farther trouble." 
 
 Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunfs 
 reasoning; and Bellarmine supping with her that 
 evening, it was agreed he should the next morning 
 go to her father and propose the match, which she 
 consented should be consummated at his return. 
 
 The aunt retired soon after supper ; and, the lovers 
 being left together, Bellarmine began in the follow- 
 ing manner : " Yes, madam ; this coat, I assure you, 
 was made at Paris, and I defy the best English 
 taylor even to imitate it. There is not one of them 
 
 [ 154]
 
 HORATIO'S RETURN 
 
 can cut, madam ; they can't cut. If you observe how 
 this skirt is turned, and this sleeve : a clumsy English 
 rascal can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you like 
 my liveries .'* "" Leonora answered, " She thought 
 them very pretty." — " All French," says he, " I 
 assure you, except the greatcoats ; I never trust any- 
 thing more than a greatcoat to an Englishman. 
 You know one must encourage our own people what 
 one can, especially as, before I had a place, I was in 
 the country interest, he, he, he ! But for myself, I 
 would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, 
 rather than wear a single rag of English work about 
 me : and I am sure, after you have made one tour to 
 Paris, you will be of the same opinion with regard 
 to your own clothes. You can't conceive what an 
 addition a French dress would be to your beauty ; I 
 positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since 
 I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chamber- 
 maids, he, he, he ! " 
 
 With such sort of polite discourse did the gay 
 Bellarmine entertain his beloved Leonora, when the 
 door opened on a sudden, and Horatio entered the 
 room. Here 't is impossible to express the surprize 
 of Leonora. 
 
 " Poor woman ! " says Mrs. Slipslop, " what a 
 terrible quandary she must be in ! " — " Not at all," 
 says Mrs. Grave-airs ; " such sluts can never be con- 
 founded." — " She must have then more than Corin- 
 
 [155]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 thian assurance," said Adams ; " aye, more than Lais 
 herself." 
 
 A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in 
 the whole company. If the familiar entrance of 
 Horatio struck the greatest astonishment into Bel- 
 larmine, the unexpected presence of Bellarmine no 
 less surprized Horatio. At length Leonora, collect- 
 ing all the spirit she was mistress of, addressed her- 
 self to the latter, and pretended to wonder at the 
 reason of so late a visit. " I should indeed," an- 
 swered he, " have made some apology for disturbing 
 you at this hour, had not my finding you in company 
 assured me I do not break in upon your repose." 
 Bellarmine rose from his chair, traversed the 
 room in a minuet step, and hummed an opera tune, 
 while Horatio, advancing to Leonora, asked her in 
 a whisper if that gentleman was not a relation of 
 hers ; to which she answered with a smile, or rather 
 sneer, " No, he is no relation of mine yet ; " adding, 
 " she could not guess the meaning of his question." 
 Horatio told her softly, " It did not arise from jeal- 
 ousy." — " Jealousy ! I assure you, it would be 
 very strange in a common acquaintance to give him- 
 self any of those airs." These words a little surprized 
 Horatio ; but, before he had time to answer, Bellar- 
 mine danced up to the lady and told her, " He feared 
 he interrupted some business between her and the 
 gentleman." — "I can have no business," said she, 
 
 [156]
 
 A COLD RECEPTION 
 
 " with the gentleman, nor any other, which need be 
 any secret to you." 
 
 " You '11 pardon me," said Horatio, " if I desire to 
 know who this gentleman is who is to be entrusted 
 with all our secrets." — " You '11 know soon enough," 
 cries Leonora ; " but I can't guess what secrets can 
 ever pass between us of such mighty consequence." 
 — " No, madam ! " cries Horatio ; " I am sure you 
 would not have me understand you in earnest." — 
 "'Tis indifferent to me," says she, "how you under- 
 stand me ; but I think so unseasonable a visit is diffi- 
 cult to be understood at all, at least when people 
 find one engaged : though one's servants do not deny 
 one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon 
 take the hint." " Madam," said Horatio, " I did not 
 imagine any engagement with a stranger, as it seems 
 this gentleman is, would have made my visit imperti- 
 nent, or that any such ceremonies were to be pre- 
 served between persons in our situation." " Sure you 
 are in a dream," says she, "or would persuade me 
 that I am in one. I know no pretensions a common 
 acquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies of 
 good breeding." " Sure," said he, " I am in a dream ; 
 for it is impossible I should be really esteemed a 
 common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has 
 passed between us ? " " Passed between us ! Do you 
 intend to affront me before this gentleman ? " " D — n 
 me, affront the lady," says Bellarmine, cocking his 
 
 [157]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 hat, and strutting up to Horatio : " does any man 
 dare affront this ladv before me, d — n me ? " 
 " Hark 'ee, sir," says Horatio, " I would advise you to 
 lay aside that fierce air ; for I am mightily deceived 
 if this lady has not a violent desire to get your wor- 
 ship a good drubbing." " Sir," said Bellarmine, *' I 
 have the honour to be her protector ; and, d — n me, 
 if I understand your meaning." " Sir," answered 
 Horatio, " she is rather your protectress ; but give 
 yourself no more airs, for you see I am prepared for 
 you " (shaking his whip at him). " Oh ! serviteur tres 
 humble^'' says Bellarmine : " Je vous entend parfait- 
 ment bien.'''' At which time the aunt, who had heard 
 of Horatio's visit, entered the room, and soon, satisfied 
 all his doubts. She convinced him that he was never 
 more awake in his life, and that nothing more extra- 
 ordinary had happened in his three days"* absence 
 than a small alteration in the affections of Leonora ; 
 who now burst into tears, and wondered what rea- 
 son she had given him to use her in so barbarous a 
 manner. Horatio desired Bellarmine to withdraw 
 with him ; but the ladies prevented it by laying 
 violent hands on the latter ; upon which the former 
 took his leave without any great ceremony, and de- 
 parted, leaving the lady with his rival to consult for 
 his safety, which Leonora feared her indiscretion 
 might have endangered ; but the aunt comforted her 
 with assurances that Horatio would not venture his 
 
 [158]
 
 BAD NEWS 
 
 person against so accomplished a cavalier as Bellar- 
 niine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge 
 in his own way, and the most they had to apprehend 
 from him was an action. 
 
 They at length therefore agreed to permit Bellar- 
 mine to retire to his lodgings, having first settled all 
 matters relating to the journey which he was to 
 undertake in the morning, and their preparations 
 for the nuptials at his return. 
 
 But, alas ! as wise men have observed, the seat of 
 valour is not the countenance ; and many a grave and 
 plain man will, on a just provocation, betake himself 
 to that mischievous metal, cold iron ; while men of a 
 fiercer brow, and sometimes with that emblem of 
 courage, a cockade, will more prudently decline it. 
 
 Leonora was waked in the morning, from a vision- 
 ary coach and six, with the dismal account that Bel- 
 larmine was run through the body by Horatio ; that 
 he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had 
 declared the wound mortal. She immediately leaped 
 out of the bed, danced about the room in a frantic 
 manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all the 
 agonies of despair ; in which sad condition her aunt, 
 who likewise arose at the news, found her. The good 
 old lady applied her utmost art to comfort her niece. 
 She told her, " While there was life there was hope ; 
 but that if he should die her affliction would be of no 
 service to Bellarmine, and would only expose herself 
 
 [159]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 which might, probably, keep lier some time without 
 any future offer ; that, as matters had happened, her 
 wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, 
 but to endeavour to regain the affections of Horatio.'" 
 " Speak not to me," cried the disconsolate Leonora ; 
 " is it not owing to me that poor Bellarmine has lost 
 his life ? Have not these cursed charms (at which 
 words she looked steadfastly in the glass) been the 
 ruin of the most charming man of this age ? Can I 
 ever bear to contemplate my own face again (with her 
 eyes still fixed on the glass) ? Am I not the mur- 
 deress of the finest gentleman ? No other woman in 
 the town could have made any impression on him,""' 
 " Never think of things past," cries the aunt : " think 
 of regaining the affections of Horatio." " What 
 reason," said the niece, " have I to hope he would for- 
 give me ? No, I have lost him as well as the other, 
 and it was your wicked advice which was the occasion 
 of all ; you seduced me, contrary to my inclinations, 
 to abandon poor Horatio (at which words she burst 
 into tears) ; you prevailed upon me, whether I would 
 or no, to give up my affections for him ; had it not 
 been for you, Bellarmine never would have entered 
 into my thoughts ; had not his addresses been backed 
 by your persuasions, they never would have made 
 any impression on me ; I should have defied all the 
 fortune and equipage in the world ; but it was you, 
 it was you, who got the better of my youth and 
 
 [ 160 ]
 
 BELLARMINE^S LETTER 
 
 simplicity, and forced me to lose my dear Horatio 
 for ever." 
 
 The aunt was almost borne down with this torrent 
 of words ; she, however, rallied all the strength she 
 could, and, drawing her mouth up in a purse, began : 
 " I am not surprized, niece, at this ingratitude. 
 Those who advise young women for their interest, 
 must always expect such a return : I am convinced 
 my brother will thank me for breaking off your match 
 with Horatio, at any rate." — " That may not be in 
 your power yet,"" answered Leonora, " though it is 
 very ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it, after 
 the presents you have received from him." (For 
 indeed true it is, that many presents, and some pretty 
 valuable ones, had passed from Horatio to the old 
 lady ; but as true it is, that Bellarmine, when he 
 breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented 
 her with a brilliant from his finger, of much greater 
 value than all she had touched of the other.) 
 
 The aunt's gall was on float to reply, when a servant 
 brought a letter into the room, which Leonora, hear- 
 ing it came from Bellarmine, with great eagerness 
 opened, and read as follows : — 
 
 " Most divine Creature, — The wound which I fear 
 you have heard I received from my rival is not like to 
 be so fatal as those shot into my heart which have been 
 fired from your eyes, tout brilliant. Those are the only 
 cannons by which I am to fall ; for my surgeon gives ' 
 VOL. I. -11 [161]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 me hopes of being soon able to attend your ruelle ; till 
 when, unless you would do me an honour which I have 
 scarce the hardiesse to think of, your absence will be 
 the greatest anguish which can be felt by, 
 
 Madam, 
 Avec toute le respecte in the world. 
 
 Your most obedient, most absolute 
 Devote, 
 
 " Bellarmine." 
 
 As soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of 
 Bellarmine"'s recovery, and that the gossip Fame had, 
 according to custom, so enlarged his danger, she 
 presently abandoned all further thoughts of Horatio, 
 and was soon reconciled to her aunt, who received her 
 again into favour, with a more Christian forgiveness 
 than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is possible 
 she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her 
 niece had given her concerning the presents. She 
 might apprehend such rumours, should they get 
 abroad, might injure a reputation which, by fre- 
 quenting church twice a day, and preserving the 
 utmost rigour and strictness in her countenance and 
 behaviour for many years, she had established. 
 
 Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine with 
 greater force, after its small relaxation, than ever. 
 She proposed to her aunt to make him a visit in 
 his confinement, which the old lady, with great 
 and commendable prudence, advised her to decline : 
 
 [162]
 
 THE TALE INTERRUPTED 
 
 " For," says she, " should any accident intervene to 
 prevent your intended match, too forward a be- 
 haviour with this lover may injure you in the eyes 
 of others. Every woman, till she is married, ought 
 to consider of, and provide against, the possibility of 
 the affair's breaking off." Leonora said, '" She should 
 be indifferent to whatever might happen in such a 
 case ; for she had now so absolutely placed her affec- 
 tions on this dear man (so she called him), that, if it 
 was her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever 
 abandon all thoughts of mankind." She, therefore, 
 resolved to visit him, notwithstanding all the prudent 
 advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very 
 afternoon executed her resolution. 
 
 The lady was proceeding in her story, when the 
 coach drove into the inn where the company were 
 to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of Mr. Adams, 
 whose ears were the most hungry part about him ; he 
 being, as the reader may perhaps guess, of an insa- 
 tiable curiosity, and heartily desirous of hearing the 
 end of this amour, though he professed he could 
 scarce wish success to a lady of so inconstant a 
 disposition. 
 
 [163
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 A DREADFUL QUARREL WHICH HAPPENED AT THE INN 
 WHERE THE COMPANY DINED, WITH ITS BLOODY 
 CONSEQUENCES TO MR. ADAMS. 
 
 ^ S soon as the passengers had ahghted from 
 / ^^ the coach, Mr. Adams, as was his cus- 
 / ^k tom, made directly to the kitchen, where 
 he found Joseph sitting by the fire, and 
 the hostess anointing his leg ; for the horse which 
 Mr, Adams had borrowed of his clerk had so violent 
 a propensity to kneeling, that one would have 
 thought it had been his trade, as well as his master's ; 
 nor would he always give any notice of such his 
 intention ; he was often found on his knees when the 
 rider least expected it. This foible, however, was of 
 no great inconvenience to the parson, who was accus- 
 tomed to it ; and, as his legs almost touched the 
 ground when he bestrode the beast, had but a little 
 way to fall, and threw himself forward on such occa- 
 sions with so much dexterity that he never received 
 any mischief; the horse and he frequently rolling 
 many paces' distance, and afterwards both getting up 
 and meeting as good friends as ever. 
 
 [164]
 
 JOSEPH'S FALL 
 
 Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind 
 of cattle, though an excellent horseman, did not so 
 happily disengage himself ; but, falling with his leg 
 under the beast, received a violent contusion, to 
 which the good woman was, as we have said, apply- 
 ing a warm hand, with some camphorated spirits, 
 just at the time when the parson entered the kitchen. 
 
 He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph's 
 misfortune before the host likewise entered. He was 
 by no means of Mr. Tow-wouse's gentle disposition ; 
 and was, indeed, perfect master of his house, and 
 everything in it but his guests. 
 
 This surly fellow, who always proportioned his 
 respect to the appearance of a traveller, from " God 
 bless your honour," downi to plain " Coming pres- 
 ently ,*''' observing his wife on her knees to a footman, 
 cried out, without considering his circumstances, 
 " Wliat a pox is the woman about ? why don't you 
 mind the company in the coach ? Go and ask them 
 what they will have for dinner."" " My dear," says 
 she, " you know they can have nothing but what is 
 at the fire, which will be ready presently ; and really 
 the poor young man's leg is very much bruised." At 
 which words she fell to chafing more violently than 
 before : the bell then happening to ring, he damn'd 
 his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and not 
 stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe 
 the young fellow's leg was so bad as he pretended ; 
 
 [ 165 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and if it was, within twenty miles he would find a 
 surgeon to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams 
 fetched two strides across the room ; and snapping 
 his fingers over his head, muttered aloud. He would 
 excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for he 
 believed the devil had more humanity. These words 
 occasioned a dialogue between Adams and the host, 
 in which there were two or three sharp replies, till 
 Joseph bade the latter know how to behave himself 
 to his betters. At which the host (having first 
 strictly surveyed Adams) scornfully repeating the 
 word " betters,"" flew into a rage, and, telling Joseph 
 he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been 
 to walk into it, offered to lay violent hands on him ; 
 which perceiving, Adams dealt him so sound a com- 
 pliment over his face with his fist, that the blood 
 immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. 
 The host, being unwilling to be outdone in courtesy, 
 especially by a person of Adams's figure, returned 
 the favour with so much gratitude, that the par- 
 son''s nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. 
 Upon which he again assailed his antagonist, and 
 with another stroke laid him sprawling on the floor. 
 The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a 
 husband deserved, seeing her husband all bloody and 
 stretched along, hastened presently to his assistance, 
 or rather to revenge the blow, which, to all appear- 
 ance, was the last he would ever receive ; when, lo ! 
 
 [166]
 
 A QUARREL AT THE INN 
 
 a pan full of hog's blood, which unluckily stood on 
 the dresser, presented itself first to her hands. She 
 seized it in her fury, and without any reflection, dis- 
 charged it into the parson's face ; and with so good 
 an aim, that much the greater part first saluted his 
 countenance, and trickled thence in so large a cur- 
 rent down to his beard, and over his garments, that 
 a more horrible spectacle was hardly to be seen, or 
 even imagined. All which was perceived by Mrs. 
 Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant. 
 This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so 
 extremely cool and patient as perhaps was required 
 to ask many questions on this occasion, flew with 
 great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, to- 
 gether with some of her hair, she plucked from her 
 head in a moment, giving her, at the same time, 
 several hearty cuffs in the face ; which by frequent 
 practice on the inferior servants, she had learned 
 an excellent knack of delivering with a good grace. 
 Poor Joseph could hardly rise from his chair; the 
 parson was employed in wiping the blood from his 
 eyes, which had entirely blinded him ; and the land- 
 lord was but just beginning to stir; whilst Mrs. Slip- 
 slop, holding down the landlady's face with her left 
 hand, made so dexterous an use of her right, that the 
 poor woman began to roar, in a key which alarmed 
 all the company in the inn. 
 
 There happened to be in the inn, at this time, 
 
 [167]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 besides the ladies who arrived in the stage-coach, the 
 two gentlemen who were present at Mr. Tow-wouse's 
 when Joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and 
 whom we have before mentioned to have stopt at 
 the ale-house with Adams. There was likewise a 
 gentleman just returned from his travels to Italy ; 
 all whom the horrid outcry of murder presently 
 brought into the kitchen, where the several com- 
 batants were found in the postures already described. 
 It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, 
 the conquerors being satisfied with the vengeance 
 they had taken, and the conquered having no appe- 
 tite to renew the fight. The principal figure, and 
 which engaged the eyes of all, was Adams, who was 
 all over covered with blood, which the whole com- 
 pany concluded to be his own, and consequently 
 imagined him no longer for this world. But the 
 host, who had now recovered from his blow, and was 
 risen from the ground, soon delivered them from 
 this apprehension, by damning his wife for wasting 
 the hog's puddings, and telling her all would have 
 been very well if she had not intermeddled, like 
 a b — as she was ; adding, he was very glad the 
 gentlewoman had paid her, though not half what 
 she deserved. The poor woman had indeed fared 
 much the worst ; having, besides the unmerciful cuffs 
 received, lost a quantity of hair, which Mrs. Slipslop 
 in triumph held in her left hand. 
 
 [168]
 
 THE TRAVELLER'S ADVICE 
 
 The traveller, addressing himself to Mrs. Grave- 
 airs, desired her not to be frightened ; for here had 
 been only a little boxing, which he said, to their 
 dlsgracia^ the English were accicstomata to : adding, 
 it must be, however, a sight somewhat strange to 
 him, who was just come from Italy ; the Italians not 
 being addicted to the ciiffardo^ but bastonza, says he. 
 He then went up to Adams, and telling him he 
 looked like the ghost of Othello, bid him not shake 
 his gory locks at him, for he could not say he did it. 
 Adams very innocently answered, " Sir, I am far from 
 accusing you." He then returned to the lady, and 
 cried, " I find the bloody gentleman is u7io insipido 
 del nulla senso. Dammato di me, if I have seen such 
 a spectacxilo in my way from Viterbo." 
 
 One of the gentlemen having learnt from the host 
 the occasion of this bustle, and being assured by him 
 that Adams had struck the first blow, whispered in 
 his ear, " He 'd warrant he would recover." — " Re- 
 cover ! master," said the host, smiling : " yes, yes, I 
 am not afraid of dying with a blow or two neither ; 
 I am not such a chicken as that." — " Pugh ! " said 
 the gentleman, " I mean you w ill recover damages 
 in that action which, undoubtedly, you intend to 
 bring, as soon as a writ can be returned from Lon- 
 don ; for you look like a man of too much spirit and 
 courage to suffer any one to beat you without bring- 
 ing your action against him : he must be a scandalous 
 
 [169]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 fellow indeed who would put up with a drubbing 
 whilst the law is open to revenge it ; besides, he hath 
 drawn blood from you, and spoiled your coat ; and 
 the jury will give damages for that too. An excel- 
 lent new coat upon my word ; and now not worth a 
 shilling ! I don't care,"" continued he, " to inter- 
 meddle in these cases ; but you have a right to my 
 evidence ; and if I am sworn, I must speak the truth. 
 I saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing 
 from your nostrils. You may take your own opinion ; 
 but was I in your circumstances, every drop of my 
 blood should convey an ounce of gold into my pocket : 
 remember I don't advise you to go to law ; but if 
 your jury were Christians, they must give swinging 
 damages. That 's all." — " Master," cried the host, 
 scratching his head, " I have no stomach to law, I 
 thank you. I have seen enough of that in the parish, 
 where two of my neighbours have been at law about 
 a house, till they have both lawed themselves into a 
 gaol." At which words he turned about, and began 
 to inquire again after his hog's puddings ; nor would 
 it probably have been a sufficient excuse for his wife, 
 that she spilt them in his defence, had not some awe 
 of the company, especially of the Italian traveller, 
 who was a person of great dignity, withheld his 
 rage. 
 
 Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was 
 employed, as we have seen him, on the behalf of the 
 
 [170]
 
 PEACE RESTORED 
 
 landlord, the other was no less hearty on the side 
 of Mr. Adams, whom he advised to bring his action 
 immediately. He said the assault of the wife was in 
 law the assault of the husband, for they were but 
 one person ; and he was liable to pay damages, which 
 he said must be considerable, where so bloody a dis- 
 position appeared. Adams answered, If it was true 
 that they were but one person, he had assaulted the 
 wife ; for he was sorry to own he had struck the 
 husband the first blow. " I am sorry you own it 
 too," cries the gentleman ; " for it could not possibly 
 appear to the court ; for here was no evidence present 
 but the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to 
 be your friend, and would consequently say nothing 
 but what made for you." — " How, sir," says Adams, 
 " do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute 
 revenge in cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to 
 obtain it ? If you knew me, and my order, I should 
 think you affronted both." At the word order, the 
 gentleman stared (for he was too bloody to be of 
 any modern order of knights) ; and, turning hastily 
 about, said, " Every man knew his own business." 
 
 Matters being now composed, the company retired 
 to their several apartments ; the two gentlemen con- 
 gratulating each other on the success of their good 
 offices in procuring a perfect reconciliation between 
 the contending parties ; and the traveller went to 
 his repast, crying, " As the Italian poet says — 
 
 [171]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 • J6 VOX very well que tutta e face. 
 So send up dinner, good Boniface.'" 
 
 The coachman began now to grow importunate with 
 his passengers, whose entrance into the coach was 
 retarded by Miss Grave-airs insisting, against the 
 i-emonstrance of all the rest, that she would not 
 admit a footman into the coach ; for poor Joseph 
 was too lame to mount a horse. A young lady, who 
 was, as it seems, an earPs grand-daughter, begged it 
 with almost tears in her eyes. Mr. Adams prayed, 
 and Mrs. Slipslop scolded ; but all to no purpose. 
 She said, "She would not demean herself to ride 
 with a footman : that there were waggons on the 
 road : that if the master of the coach desired it, 
 she would pay for two places ; but would suffer 
 no such fellow to come in." — " Madam," says Slip- 
 slop, " I am sure no one can refuse another coming 
 into a stage-coach." — "I don't know, madam," says 
 the lady ; " I am not much used to stage-coaches ; I 
 seldom travel in them." — " That may be, madam," 
 replied Slipslop ; " very good people do ; and some 
 people's betters, for aught I know." Miss Grave- 
 airs said, "Some folks might sometimes give their 
 tongues a liberty, to some people that were their 
 betters, which did not become them ; for her part, 
 she was not used to converse with servants." Slip- 
 slop returned, " Some people kept no servants to 
 converse with ; for her part, she thanked Heaven she 
 
 [ 172 ]
 
 A SMART DIALOGUE 
 
 lived in a family where there were a great many, and 
 had more under her own command than any paultrv 
 little gentlewoman in the kingdom." Miss Grave- 
 airs cried, " She believed her mistress would not 
 encourage such sauciness to her betters.'" — " My 
 betters," says Slipslop, " who is my betters, pray ? " 
 — "I am your betters," answered Miss Grave-airs, 
 " and I '11 acquaint your mistress." — At which Mrs. 
 Slipslop laughed aloud, and told her, " Her lady was 
 one of the great gentry ; and such little paultry 
 gentlewomen as some folks, who travelled in stage- 
 coaches, would not easily come at her." 
 
 This smart dialogue between some people and 
 some folks was going on at the coach door when a 
 solemn person, riding into the inn, and seeing Miss 
 Grave-airs, immediately accosted her with "Dear 
 child, how do you ? " She presently answered, " O 
 papa, I am glad you have overtaken me," — " So am 
 I," answered he ; " for one of our coaches is just at 
 hand ; and, there being room for you in it, you shall 
 go no farther in the stage unless you desire it." — 
 "How can you imagine I should desire it?" says 
 she ; so, bidding Slipslop ride with her fellow, if she 
 pleased, she took her father by the hand, who was 
 just alighted, and walked with him into a room. 
 
 Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, 
 " If he knew who the gentleman was ? " The coach- 
 man answered, " He was now a gentleman, and kept 
 
 [ 1'73]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 his horse and man ; but times are altered, master,"" 
 said he ; " I remember when he was no better born 
 than myself." — "Aye! aye!" says Adams. "My 
 father drove the squire^s coach," answered he, " when 
 that very man rode postillion ; but he is now his 
 steward ; and a great gentleman." Adams then 
 snapped his fingers, and cried, " He thought she 
 was some such trollop." 
 
 Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs. Slipslop with 
 this good news, as he imagined it ; but it found a 
 reception different from what he expected. The 
 prudent gentlewoman, who despised the anger of 
 Miss Grave-airs whilst she conceived her the daughter 
 of a gentleman of small fortune, now she heard her 
 alliance with the upper servants of a great family in 
 her neighbourhood, began to fear her interest with 
 the mistress. She wished she had not carried the 
 dispute so far, and began to think of endeavouring 
 to reconcile herself to the young lady before she left 
 the inn ; when, luckily, the scene at London, which 
 the reader can scarce have forgotten, presented itself 
 to her mind, and comforted her with such assurance, 
 that she no longer apprehended any enemy with her 
 mistress. 
 
 Everything being now adjusted, the company 
 entered the coach, which was just on its departure, 
 when one lady recollected she had left her fan, a 
 second her gloves, a third a snuff'-box, and a fourth a 
 
 [ 174 ]
 
 SCANDAL 
 
 smelling-bottle behind her ; to find all which occa- 
 sioned some delay and much swearing to the 
 coachman. 
 
 As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women 
 all together fell to the character of Miss Grave-airs ; 
 whom one of them declared she had suspected to 
 be some low creature, from the beginning of their 
 journey, and another affirmed she had not even the 
 looks of a gentlewoman : a third waiTanted she was 
 no better than she should be ; and, turning to the 
 lady who had related the story in the coach, said, 
 " Did you ever hear, madam, anything so prudish as 
 her remarks ? Well, deliver me from the censori- 
 ousness of such a prude." The fourth added, " O 
 madam ! all these creatures are censorious ; but for 
 my part, I wonder where the wretch was bred ; indeed, 
 I must own I have seldom conversed with these mean 
 kind of people, so that it may appear stranger to 
 me; but to refuse the general desire of a whole 
 company had something in it so astonishing, that, 
 for my part, I own I should hardly believe it if 
 my o^vn ears had not been witnesses to it." — " Yes, 
 and so handsome a young fellow," cries Slipslop ; 
 " the woman must have no compulsion in her : I 
 believe she is more of a Turk than a Christian ; I am 
 ceiiain, if she had any Christian woman''s blood 
 in her veins, the sight of such a young fellow must 
 have warmed it. Indeed, there are some wretched, 
 
 [175]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 miserable old objects, tlmt turn one's stomach ; I 
 should not wonder if she had refused such a one ; 
 I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no 
 more than herself for the company of stinking old 
 fellows ; but, hold up thy head, Joseph, thou art 
 none of those ; and she who hath not compulsion for 
 thee is a Myhummetman, and I will maintain it," 
 This conversation made Joseph uneasy as well as the 
 ladies ; who, perceiving the spirits which Mrs. Slip- 
 slop was in (for indeed she was not a cup too low), 
 began to fear the consequence ; one of them therefore 
 desired the lady to conclude the story. " Aye, 
 madam,'' said Slipslop, " I beg your ladyship to give 
 us that story you commensated in the morning ; " 
 which request that well-bred woman immediately 
 complied with. 
 
 [176]
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 CONCLUSION OF THE UNFORTUNATE JILT. 
 
 tEONORA, having once broke through the 
 bounds which custom and modesty impose 
 J on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indul- 
 ""^ gence to her passion. Her visits to Bel- 
 larmine were more constant, as well as longer, than 
 his surgeon's : in a word, she became absolutely his 
 nurse ; made his water-gruel, administered him his 
 medicines ; and, notwithstanding the prudent advice 
 of her aunt to the contrary, almost intirely resided 
 in her wounded lover"'s apartment. 
 
 The ladies of the town began to take her conduct 
 under consideration : it was the chief topic of dis- 
 course at their tea-tables, and was very severely 
 censured by the most part ; especially by Lindamira, 
 a ladv whose discreet and starch carriage, together 
 with a constant attendance at church three times a 
 day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks on 
 her own reputation ; for such was the envy that 
 Lindamira's virtue had attracted, that, notwith- 
 standing her own strict behaviour and strict enquiry 
 vot. I. — 12 [177]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 into the lives of others, she had not been able to 
 escape being the mark of some arrows herself, which, 
 however, did her no injury ; a blessing, perhaps, owed 
 by her to the clergy, who were her chief male com- 
 panions, and with two or three of whom she had been 
 barbarously and unjustly calumniated. 
 
 " Not so unjustly neither, perhaps," says Slipslop ; 
 " for the clergy are men, as well as other folks."" 
 
 The extreme delicacy of Lindamira's virtue was 
 cruelly hurt by those freedoms which Leonora allowed 
 herself : she said, " It was an affront to her sex ; that 
 she did not imagine it consistent with any woman's 
 honour to speak to the creature, or to be seen in her 
 company ; and that, for her part, she should always 
 refuse to dance at an assembly with her, for fear of 
 contamination by taking her by the hand." 
 
 But to return to my story : as soon as Bellarmine 
 was recovered, which was somewhat within a month 
 from his receiving the wound, he set out, according 
 to agreement, for Leonora's fathers, in order to 
 propose the match, and settle all matters with him 
 touching settlements, and the like. 
 
 A little before his arrival the old gentleman had 
 received an intimation of the affair by the following 
 letter, which I can repeat verbatim, and which, they 
 say, was written neither by I^eonora nor her aunt, 
 though it was in a woman's hand. The letter was in 
 these words : — 
 
 [178]
 
 LEOxNORA^S FATHER 
 
 *' SiRj — I am sorry to acquaint you that your 
 daughter, Leonora, hath acted one of the basest as well 
 as most simple parts with a young gentleman to whom 
 she had engaged herself, and whom she hath (pardon 
 the word) jilted for another of inferior fortune, notwith- 
 standing his superior figure. You may take what meas- 
 ures you please on this occasion ; I have performed 
 what I thought my duty ; as I have, though unknown 
 to you, a very great respect for your family." 
 
 The old gentleman did not give himself the 
 trouble to answer this kind epistle ; nor did he take 
 any notice of it, after he had read it, till he saw 
 Bellarniine. He was, to say the truth, one of those 
 fathers who look on children as an unhappy con- 
 sequence of their youthful pleasures ; which, as he 
 would have been delighted not to have had attended 
 them, so was he no less pleased with any opportunity 
 to rid himself of the incumbrance. He passed, in 
 the world's language, as an exceeding good father ; 
 being not only so rapacious as to rob and plunder 
 all mankind to the utmost of his power, but even 
 to deny himself the conveniences, and almost neces- 
 saries, of life ; which his neighbours attributed to a 
 desire of raising immense fortunes for his children : 
 but in fact it was not so ; he heaped up money 
 for its own sake only, and looked on his children 
 as his rivals, who were to enjoy his beloved mis- 
 tress when he was incapable of possessing her, and 
 
 [179]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 which he would have been much more charmed 
 with the power of carrying along with him ; nor 
 had his children any other security of being his heirs 
 than that the law would constitute them such with- 
 out a will, and that he had not affection enough for 
 any one living to take the trouble of writing one. 
 
 To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the errand 
 I have mentioned. His person, his equipage, his 
 family, and his estate, seemed to the father to make 
 him an advanta^jeous match for his daughter : he 
 therefore very readily accepted his proposals : but 
 when Bellarmine imagined the principal affair con- 
 cluded, and began to open the incidental matters 
 of fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his 
 countenance, saying, " He resolved never to marry 
 his daughter on a Smithfield match ; that whoever 
 had love for her to take her would, when he died, 
 find her share of his fortune in his coffers ; but he 
 had seen such examples of undutifulness happen 
 from the too early generosity of parents, that he had 
 made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he 
 lived."" He commended the saying of Solomon, " He 
 that spareth the rod spoileth the child ; "" but added, 
 "he might have likewise asserted. That he that 
 spareth the purse saveth the child." He then ran 
 into a discourse on the extravagance of the youth of 
 the age ; whence he launched into a dissertation on 
 horses ; and came at length to commend those Bellar- 
 
 [ 180 ]
 
 CONSIDERATIONS OF FORTUNE 
 
 mine drove. That fine gentleman, who at another 
 season would have been well enough pleased to dwell 
 a little on that subject, was now very eager to resume 
 the circumstance of fortune. He said, " He had 
 a very high value for the young lady, and would 
 receive her with less than he would any other what- 
 ever ; but that even his love to her made some regard 
 to worldly matters necessary ; for it would be a most 
 distracting sight for him to see her, when he had 
 the honour to be her husband, in l^s than a coach 
 and six." The old gentleman answered, " Four will 
 do, four will do ; "" and then took a turn from horses 
 to extravagance and from extravagance to horses, till 
 he came round to the equipage again ; whither he 
 was no sooner arrived than Bellarmine brought him 
 back to the point ; but all to no purpose ; he made 
 his escape from that subject in a minute ; till at last 
 the lover declared, " That in the present situation of 
 his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved 
 Leonora more than tout le monde^ to marry her with- 
 out any fortune." To which the father answered, 
 " He was sorry that his daughter must lose so valu- 
 able a match ; that, if he had an inclination, at 
 present it was not in his power to advance a shilling : 
 that he had had great losses, and been at great 
 expenses on projects; which, though he had great 
 expectation from them, had yet produced him noth- 
 ing : that he did not know what might happen 
 
 [181]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such acci- 
 dent ; but he would make no promise, or enter into 
 any article, for he would not break his vow for all 
 the daughters in the world." 
 
 In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, 
 Bellarmine, having tried every argument and per- 
 suasion which he could invent, and finding them all 
 ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order 
 to return to Leonora ; he proceeded directly to his 
 own seat, whence, after a few days'* stay, he returned 
 to Paris, to the great delight of the French and the 
 honour of the English nation. 
 
 But as soon as he arrived at his home he presently 
 despatched a messenger with the following epistle to 
 Leonora : — 
 
 " Adorable and Charmante, — I am sorry to have 
 the honour to tell you I am not the heureux person 
 destined for your divine arms. Your papa hath told 
 me so with a politesse not often seen on this side Paris. 
 You may perhaps guess his manner of refusing me. Ah, 
 mon Dieu ! You will certainly believe me, madam, in- 
 capable myself of delivering this triste message, which I 
 intend to try the French air to cure the consequences 
 of. A jamais ! Cceur ! Ange ! Au diahle ! If your papa 
 obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall see you at 
 Paris ; till when, the wind that flows from thence will 
 be the warmest dans le 7nonde, for it will consist almost 
 entirely of my sighs. Adieu, mapiincesse ! Ah, l amour ! 
 
 "Bellarmine." 
 [ 182]
 
 LEONORA DISCONSOLATE 
 
 I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's 
 condition when she received this letter. It is a 
 picture of horror, which I should have as little plea- 
 sure in drawing as you in beholding. She immedi- 
 ately left the place where she was the subject of 
 conversation and ridicule, and retired to that house 
 I showed you when I began the story ; where she 
 hath ever since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, 
 perhaps, pity for her misfortunes, more than our 
 censure for a behaviour to which the artifices of her 
 aunt very probably contributed, and to which very 
 young women are often rendered too liable by that 
 blameable levity in the education of our sex. 
 
 " If I was inclined to pity her," said a young lady 
 in the coach, " it would be for the loss of Horatio ; 
 for I cannot discern any misfortune in her missing 
 such a husband as Bellarmine.'" 
 
 " Why, I must own," says Slipslop, " the gentleman 
 w^as a little false-hearted ; but howsumever, it was 
 hard to have two lovers, and get never a husband at 
 all. But pray, madam, what became of Our-asho ? " 
 
 He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and 
 hath applied himself so strictly to his business, that 
 he hath raised, I hear, a very considerable fortune. 
 And what is remarkable, they say he never hears 
 the name of Leonora without a sigh, nor hath ever 
 uttered one syllable to charge her with her ill-con- 
 duct towards him. 
 
 [183]
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 A VERY SHORT CHAPTER, IN WHICH PARSON ADAMS WENl 
 A GREAT WAY. 
 
 THE lady, having finished her story, 
 received the thanks of the company ; 
 and now Joseph, putting his head out 
 of the coach, cried out, " Never beHeve 
 me if yonder be not our parson Adams walking along 
 without his horse ! "" — " On my word, and so he is," 
 says Slipslop : " and as sure as twopence he hath 
 left him behind at the inn."" Indeed, true it is, the 
 parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence 
 of mind ; for he was so pleased with having got 
 Joseph into the coach, that he never once thought 
 of the beast in the stable ; and, finding his legs as 
 nimble as he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a 
 crabstick, and had kept on before the coach, mend- 
 ing and slackening his pace occasionally, so that he 
 had never been much more or less than a quarter of 
 a mile distant from it. 
 
 Mrs. Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake 
 him, which he attempted, but in vain ; for the faster 
 
 [ 184]
 
 THE PARSON'S ADVENTURE 
 
 he drove the faster ran the parson, often crying out, 
 " Aye, aye, catch me if you can ; " till at length the 
 coachman swore he would as soon attempt to drive 
 after a greyhound, and, giving the parson two or 
 three hearty curses, he cry' d, " Softly, softly, boys," 
 to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately 
 obeyed. 
 
 But we will be more courteous to our reader than 
 he was to Mrs. Slipslop ; and, leaving the coach and 
 its company to pursue their journey, we will carry 
 our reader on after parson Adams, who stretched 
 forwards without once looking behind him, till, hav- 
 ing left the coach full three miles in his rear, he 
 came to a place where, by keeping the extremest 
 track to the right, it was just barely possible for a 
 human creature to miss his way. This track, however, 
 did he keep, as indeed he had a wonderful capacity 
 at these kinds of bare possibilities, and, travelling 
 in it about three miles over the plain, he arrived 
 at the summit of a hill, whence looking a great 
 way backwards, and perceiving no coach in sight, 
 he sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling 
 out his iEschylus, determined to wait here for its 
 arrival. 
 
 He had not sat long here before a gun going off 
 very near, a little startled him ; he looked up and 
 saw a gentleman within a hundred paces taking 
 up a partridge which he had just shot. 
 
 [ 185]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Adams stood up and presented a figure to the 
 gentleman which would have moved laughter in 
 many ; for his cassock had just again fallen down 
 below his greatcoat, that is to say, it reached his 
 knees, whereas the skirts of his greatcoat descended 
 no lower than half-way down his thighs ; but the 
 gentleman's mirth gave way to his surprize at behold- 
 ing such a personage in such a place. 
 
 Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he 
 hoped he had good sport, to which the other 
 answered, " Very little." — "I see, sir," says Adams, 
 " you have smote one partridge ; " to which the sports- 
 man made no reply, but proceeded to charge his 
 piece. 
 
 Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in 
 silence, which he at last broke by observing that it 
 was a delightful evening. The gentleman, who had 
 at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of 
 the parson, began, on perceiving a book in his hand 
 and smoaking likewise the information of the cassock, 
 to change his thoughts, and made a small advance to 
 conversation on his side by saying, " Sir, I suppose 
 you are not one of these parts ? " 
 
 Adams immediately told him, " No ; that he was 
 a traveller, and invited by the beauty of the evening 
 and the place to repose a little and amuse himself 
 with reading." — "I may as well repose myself too," 
 said the sportsman, " for I have been out this whole 
 
 [186]
 
 A TALK WITH A SPORTSMAN 
 
 afternoon, and the devil a bird have I seen till I 
 came hither." 
 
 " Perhaps then the game is not very plenty here- 
 abouts ? '" cries Adams. " No, sir," said the gentle- 
 man : " the soldiers, who are quartered in the 
 neighbourhood, have killed it all." — " It is very 
 probable," cries Adams, " for shooting is their pro- 
 fession." — " Aye, shooting the game," answered the 
 other ; " but I don't see they are so forward to shoot 
 our enemies. I don't like that affair of Carthagena ; 
 if I had been there, I believe I should have done 
 other-guess things, d — n me : what 's a man's life when 
 his country demands it ? a man who won't sacrifice 
 his life for his country deserves to be hanged, d — n 
 me." Which words he spoke with so violent a 
 gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so 
 fierce a countenance, that he might have frightened 
 a captain of trained bands at the head of his com- 
 pany ; but Mr. Adams was not greatly subject to 
 fear ; he told him intrepidly that he very much 
 approved his virtue, but disliked his swearing, and 
 begged him not to addict himself to so bad a custom, 
 without which he said he might fight as bravely as 
 Achilles did. Indeed he was charmed with this 
 discourse ; he told the gentleman he would willingly 
 have gone many miles to have met a man of his 
 generous way of thinking ; that, if he pleased to sit 
 down, he should be greatly delighted to commune 
 
 [187]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 with him ; for, though he was a clergyman, he would 
 himself be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his 
 life for his country. 
 
 The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him ; 
 and then the latter began, as in the following chap- 
 ter, a discourse which we have placed by itself, as it 
 is not only the most curious in this but perhaps in 
 any other book. 
 
 [188]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 A NOTABLE DISSERTATION BY MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS ; 
 WHEREIN THAT GENTLEMAN APPEARS IN A POLIT- 
 ICAL LIGHT. 
 
 I DO assure you, sir" (says he, taking the 
 gentleman by the hand), " I am heartily 
 glad to meet with a man of your kidney ; 
 for, though I am a poor parson, I will be 
 bold to say I am an honest man, and would not do 
 an ill thing to be made a bishop ; nay, though it 
 hath not fallen in my way to offer so noble a sacrifice, 
 I have not been without opportunities of suffering 
 for the sake of my conscience, I thank Heaven for 
 them ; for I have had relations, though I say it, 
 who made some figure in the world ; particularly a 
 nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a 
 corporation. He was a good lad, and was under my 
 care when a boy ; and I believe would do what I bade 
 him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like extreme 
 vanity in me to affect being a man of such consequence 
 as to have so great an interest in an alderman ; but 
 others have thought so too, as manifestly appeared by 
 the rector, whose curate I formerly was, sending for 
 
 [189]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if 
 I expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring 
 my nephew to vote for one Colonel Courtly, a gentle- 
 man whom I had never heard tidings of till that 
 instant. I told the rector I had no power over my 
 nephew"'s vote (God forgive me for such prevarica- 
 tion !) ; that I supposed he would give it according 
 to his conscience ; that I would by no means endeavour 
 to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it 
 was in vain to equivocate ; that he knew I had already 
 spoke to him in favour of esquire Fickle, my neigh- 
 bour ; and, indeed, it was true I had ; for it was at a 
 season when the church was in danger, and when all 
 good men expected they knew not what would happen 
 to us all. I then answered boldly, if he thought I 
 had given my promise, he affronted me in proposing 
 any breach of it. Not to be too prolix ; I persevered, 
 and so did my nephew, in the esquire's interest, who 
 was chose chiefly through his means ; and so I lost 
 my curacy. Well, sir, but do you think the esquire 
 ever mentioned a word of the church ? Ne verburn 
 quidem^ id Ha d'lcam : within two years he got a place, 
 and hath ever since lived in London ; where I have 
 been informed (but God forbid I should believe that,) 
 that he never so much as goeth to church. I re- 
 mained, sir, a considerable time without any cure, 
 and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which 
 I preached on the indisposition of a clergyman ; but 
 
 [190]
 
 POLITICAL INFLUENCE 
 
 this by the bye. At last, when Mr. Fickle got his 
 place, Colonel Courtly stood again ; and who should 
 make interest for him but Mr. Fickle himself! that 
 very identical Mr. Fickle, who had formerly told me 
 the colonel was an enemy to both the church and state, 
 had the confidence to sollicit my nephew for him ; 
 and the colonel himself offered me to make me chap- 
 lain to his regiment, which I refused in favour of 
 Sir Oliver Heai-ty, who told us he would sacrifice 
 everything to his country ; and I believe he would, 
 except his hunting, which he stuck so close to, that 
 in five years together he went but twice up to parlia- 
 ment ; and one of those times, I have been told, never 
 was within sight of the House. However, he was a 
 worthy man, and the best friend I ever had ; for, by 
 his interest with a bishop, he got me replaced into 
 -my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own 
 pocket to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish 
 my house. He had our interest while he lived, which 
 was not many years. On his death I had fresh ap- 
 plications made to me ; for all the world knew the 
 interest I had with my good nephew, who now was 
 a leading nv^n in the corporation ; and Sir Thomas 
 Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver's, 
 proposed himself a candidate. He was then a young 
 gentleman just come from his travels ; and it did me 
 good to hear him discourse on affairs which, for my 
 part, I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a 
 
 [191]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 thousand votes he should have had them all. I 
 engaged my nephew in his interest, and he was 
 elected; and a very fine parliament-man he was. 
 They tell me he made speeches of an hour long, and, 
 I have been told, very fine ones ; but he could never 
 persuade the parliament to be of his opinion. Non 
 omnia poss^imus omnes. He promised me a living, 
 poor man ! and I believe I should have had it, but 
 an accident happened, which was, that my lady had 
 promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I 
 never heard till afterwards ; for my nephew, who died 
 about a month before the incumbent, always told me I 
 might be assured of it. Since that time. Sir Thomas, 
 poor man, had always so much business, that he never 
 could find leisure to see me. I believe it was partly 
 my lady's fault too, who did not think my di'ess good 
 enough for the gentry at her table. However, I must 
 do him the justice to say he never was ungrateful ; 
 and I have always found his kitchen, and his cellar 
 too, open to me : many a time, after service on a 
 Sunday — for I preach at four churches — have I 
 recruited my spirits with a glass of his ale. Since 
 my nephew's death, the corporation is in other 
 hands ; and I am not a man of that consequence I 
 was formerly. I have now no longer any talents to 
 lay out in the service of my country ; and to Avhom 
 nothing is given, of him can nothing be required. 
 However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach 
 
 [ 192]
 
 THE PARSON'S SON 
 
 of an election, I throw a suitable dash or two into 
 my sermons ; which I have the pleasure to hear is 
 not disagreeable to Sir Thomas and the other honest 
 gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me 
 these five years to procure an ordination for a son of 
 mine, who is now near thirty, hath an infinite stock 
 of learning, and is, I thank Heaven, of an unexcep- 
 tionable life ; though, as he was never at an univer- 
 sity, the bishop refuses to ordain him. Too much 
 care cannot indeed be taken in admitting any to the 
 sacred office ; though I hope he will never act so as 
 to be a disgrace to any order, but will serve his God 
 and his country to the utmost of his power, as I have 
 endeavoured to do before him ; nay, and will lay 
 down his life whenever called to that purpose, I am 
 sure I have educated him in those principles ; so that 
 I have acquitted my duty, and shall have nothing to 
 answer for on that account. But I do not distrust 
 him, for he is a good boy ; and if Providence should 
 throw it in his way to be of as much consequence in 
 a public light as his father once was, I can answer 
 for him he will use his talents as honestly as I have 
 done." 
 
 VOL. I. — 18 [193]
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 IN WHICH THE GENTLEMAN DISCANTS ON BRAVEEY AND 
 HEROIC VIRTUE, TILL AN UNLUCKY ACCIDENT PUTS 
 AN END TO THE DISCOURSE. 
 
 iHE gentleman highly commended Mr. 
 Adams for his good resolutions, and 
 told him, " He hoped his son would 
 tread in his steps ;" adding, " that if he 
 would not die for his country, he would not be worthy 
 to live in it. I 'd make no more of shooting a man 
 that would not die for his country, than — 
 
 " Sir," said he, " I have disinherited a nephew, who 
 is in the army, because he would not exchange his 
 commission and go to the West Indies. I believe 
 the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in 
 love forsooth. I would have all such fellows hanged, 
 sir ; I would have them hanged." Adams answered, 
 " That would be too severe ; that men did not make 
 themselves ; and if fear had too much ascendance in 
 the mind, the man was rather to be pitied than 
 abhorred ; that reason and time might teach him to 
 subdue it." He said, " A man might be a coward at 
 one time, and brave at another. Homer," says he, 
 
 [194]
 
 BRAVERY DISCUSSED 
 
 " who so well understood and copied Nature, hath 
 taught us this lesson ; for Paris fights and Hector 
 runs away. Nay, we have a mighty instance of this 
 in the history of later ages, no longer ago than the 
 705th year of Rome, when the great Pompey, who 
 had won so many battles and been honoured with so 
 many triumphs, and of whose valour several authors, 
 especially Cicero and Paterculus, have formed such 
 elogiums ; this very Pompey left the battle of 
 Phai-salia before he had lost it, and retreated to his 
 tent, where he sat like the most pusillanimous rascal 
 in a fit of despair, and yielded a victory, which was^ 
 to determine the empire of the world, to Caesar, I 
 am not much travelled in the history of modern times, 
 that is to say, these last thousand years ; but those 
 who are can, I make no question, furnish you with 
 parallel instances." He concluded, therefore, that, 
 had he taken any such hasty resolutions against his 
 nephew, he hoped he would consider better, and re- 
 tract them. The gentleman answered with great 
 warmth, and talked much of courage and his coun- 
 try, till, perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams, 
 *' What place he intended for that night ? " He 
 told him, " He waited there for the stage-coach." 
 — " The stage-coach, sir ! " said the gentleman ; 
 " they are all passed by long ago. You may see the 
 last yourself almost three miles before us." — "I pro- 
 test and so they are," cries Adams ; " then I must make 
 
 [195]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 haste and follow theni.^' The gentleman told him, 
 he would hardly be able to overtake them ; and that, 
 if he did not know his way, he would be in danger of 
 losing himself on the downs, for it would be presently 
 dark ; and he might ramble about all night, and per- 
 haps find himself farther from his journey's end in 
 the morning than he was now. He advised him, 
 therefore, " to accompany him to his house, which 
 was very little out of his way," assuring him " that 
 he would find some country fellow in his parish who 
 would conduct him for sixpence to the city where he 
 was going." Adams accepted this proposal, and on 
 they travelled, the gentleman renewing his discourse 
 on courage, and the infamy of not being ready, at all 
 times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night 
 overtook them much about the same time as they 
 arrived near some bushes; whence, on a sudden, they 
 heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a female 
 voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his 
 companion''s hand. " What are you doing ? " said 
 he. " Doing ! " said Adams ; " I am hastening to 
 the assistance of the poor creature whom some 
 villains are murdering." — " You are not mad enough, 
 I hope " says the gentleman, trembling ; " do you con- 
 sider this gun is only charged with shot, and that the 
 robbers are most probably furnished with pistols 
 loaded with bullets ? This is no business of ours ; 
 let us make as much haste as possible out of the way, 
 
 [196]
 
 THE RESCUE 
 
 or we may fall into their hands ourselves." The 
 shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but 
 snapt his fingers, and, brandishing his crabstick, made 
 directly to the place whence the voice issued ; and 
 the man of courage made as much expedition towards 
 his own home, whither he escaped in a very short 
 time without once looking behind him ; where we j \ 
 
 will leave him, to contemplate his own bravery, and 
 to censure the want of it in others, and return to the 
 good Adams, who, on coming up to the place whence 
 the noise proceeded, found a woman struggling with 
 a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had 
 almost overpowered her. The great abilities of Mr. 
 Adams were not necessary to have formed a right 
 judgment of this affair on the first sight. He did not, 
 therefore, want the entreaties of the poor wretch to 
 assist her ; but, lifting up his crabstick, he immedi- 
 ately levelled a blow at that part of the ravisher''s head 
 where, according to the opinion of the ancients, the 
 brains of some persons are deposited, and which he 
 had undoubtedly let forth, had not Nature (who, as 
 wise men have observed, equips all creatures with 
 what is most expedient for them) taken a provident 
 care (as she always doth with those she intends for 
 encounters) to make this part of the head three times 
 as thick as those of ordinary men who are designed 
 to exercise talents which are vulgarly called rational, 
 and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged 
 
 [ 197 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 to leave some room for them in the cavity of the 
 skull ; whereas, those ingredients being entirely use- 
 less to persons of the heroic calling, she hath an 
 opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it 
 less subject to any impression, or liable to be cracked 
 or broken : and indeed, in some who are predes- 
 tined to the command of armies and empires, she 
 is supposed sometimes to make that part per- 
 fectly solid. 
 
 As a game cock, when engaged in amorous toying 
 with a hen, if perchance he espies another cock at 
 hand, immediately quits his female, and opposes 
 himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on the in- 
 formation of the crabstick, immediately leap from 
 the woman and hasten to assail the man. He had 
 no weapons but what Nature had furnished him with. 
 However, he clenched his fist, and presently darted 
 it at that part of Adams's breast where the heart 
 is lodged. Adams staggered at the violence of the 
 blow, when, throwing away his staff, he likewise 
 clenched that fist which we have before commemo- 
 rated, and would have discharged it full in the breast 
 of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it 
 with his left hand, at the same time darting his head 
 (which some modern heroes of the lower class use, 
 like the battering-ram of the ancients, for a weapon 
 of offence ; another reason to admire the cunningness 
 of Nature, in composing it of those impenetrable 
 
 [198]
 
 MR. ADAMS VICTORIOUS 
 
 materials) ; dashing his head, I say, into the stomach 
 of Adams, he tumbled him on his back ; and, not 
 having any regard to the laws of heroism, which 
 would have restrained him from any farther attack 
 on his enemy till he was again on his legs, he threw 
 himself upon him, and, laying hold on the ground 
 with his left hand, he with his right belaboured the 
 body of Adams till he was weary, and indeed till he 
 concluded (to use the language of fighting) " that 
 he had done his business ; " or, in the language of 
 poetry, " that he had sent him to the shades below ;" 
 in plain English, " that he was dead." 
 
 But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear 
 a drubbing as well as any boxing champion in the 
 universe, lay still only to watch his opportunity ; 
 and now, perceiving his antagonist to pant with his 
 labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and 
 with such success that he overturned him, and became 
 his superior ; when, fixing one of his knees in his 
 breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, " It is my 
 turn now ;" and, after a few minutes' constant appli- 
 cation, he gave him so dexterous a blow just under 
 his chin that the fellow no longer retained any 
 motion, and Adams began to fear he had struck him 
 once too often ; for he often asserted " he should be 
 concerned to have the blood of even the wicked upon 
 him.'' 
 
 Adams got up and called aloud to the young 
 
 [199]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 woman. " Be of good cheer, damsel," said he, "you 
 are no longer in danger of jour ravisher, who, I am 
 terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet ; but God forgive 
 me what I have done in defence of innocence ! " 
 The poor wretch, who had been some time in 
 recovering strength enough to rise, and had after- 
 wards, during the engagement, stood trembling, 
 being disabled by fear even from running away, 
 hearing her champion was victorious, came up to 
 him, but not without apprehensions even of her 
 deliverer ; which, however, she was soon relieved from 
 by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. They 
 were both standing by the body, which lay motion- 
 less on the ground, and which Adams wished to see 
 stir much more than the woman did, when he 
 earnestly begged her to tell him " by what misfor- 
 tune she came, at such a time of night, into so lonely 
 a place." She acquainted him, " She was travelling 
 towards London, and had accidentally met with the 
 person from whom he had delivered her, who told 
 her he was likewise on his journey to the same place, 
 and would keep her company ; an offer which, sus- 
 pecting no harm, she had accepted ; that he told her 
 they were at a small distance from an inn where 
 she might take up her lodging that evening, and he 
 would show her a nearer way to it than by following 
 the road ; that if she had suspected him (which she 
 did not, he spoke so kindly to her), being alone on 
 
 [200]
 
 TRUST IN PROVIDENCE 
 
 these downs in the dark, she had no human means 
 to avoid him ; that, therefore, she put her whole 
 trust in Providence, and walked on, expecting every 
 moment to arrive at the inn ; when on a sudden, 
 being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop, 
 and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and 
 some entreaties, which she rejected, he laid violent 
 hands on her, and was attempting to execute 
 his wicked will, when, she thanked G — , he timely 
 came up and prevented him."" Adams encouraged 
 her for saying she had put her whole trust in Provi- 
 dence, and told her, " He doubted not but Providence 
 had sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that 
 trust. He wished indeed he had not deprived the 
 wicked wretch of life, but G — 's will be done ; "" 
 said, " He hoped the goodness of his intention would 
 excuse him in the next world, and he trusted in her 
 evidence to acquit him in this." He was then silent, 
 and began to consider with himself whether it would 
 be properer to make his escape, or to deliver him- 
 self into the hands of justice ; which meditation 
 ended as the reader will see in the next chapter. 
 
 [201]
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 GIVrNG AN ACCOUNT OF THE STRANGE CATASTROPHE OF 
 THE PRECEDING ADVENTURE, WHICH DREW POOR 
 ADAMS INTO FRESH CALAMITIES ; AND WHO THE 
 WOMAN WAS WHO OWED THE PRESERVATION OF 
 HER CHASTITY TO HIS VICTORIOUS ARM. 
 
 THE silence of Adams, added to the dark- 
 ness of the night and lonehness of the 
 place, struck dreadful apprehension into 
 the poor woman"'s mind ; she began to 
 fear as great an enemy in her deliverer as he had 
 delivered her from ; and as she had not light enough 
 to discover the age of Adams, and the benevolence 
 visible in his countenance, she suspected he had used 
 her as some vei'y honest men have used their country ; 
 and had rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in 
 order to rifle her himself. Such were the suspicions 
 she drew from his silence ; but indeed they were ill- 
 grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, 
 wisely weighing in his mind the objections which 
 might be made to either of the two methods of pro- 
 ceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgment 
 sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the 
 
 [202]
 
 ARRIVAL OF THE SPORTSMEN 
 
 other ; for both seemed to him so equally advisable 
 and so equally dangerous, that probably he would 
 have ended his days, at least two or three of them, 
 on that very spot, before he had taken any resolu- 
 tion ; at length he lifted up his eyes, and spied a 
 light at a distance, to which he instantly addressed 
 himself with Hens tu^ traveller, hei^s tu ! He pres- 
 ently heard several voices, and perceived the light 
 approaching toward him. The persons who attended 
 the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and 
 others to hollow, at which the woman testified some 
 fear (for she had concealed her suspicions of the 
 parson himself) ; but Adams said, " Be of good cheer, 
 damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Provi- 
 dence which hath hitherto protected thee, and never 
 will forsake the innocent." These people, who now 
 approached, were no other, reader, than a set of 
 young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit 
 of a diversion which they call bird-batting. This, if 
 you are ignorant of it (as perhaps if thou hast never 
 travelled beyond Kensington, Islington, Hackney, or 
 the Borough, thou mayst be), I will inform thee, 
 is performed by holding a large clap-net before a 
 lanthorn, and at the same time beating the bushes ; 
 for the birds, when they are disturbed from their 
 places of rest, or roost, immediately make to the 
 light, and so are inticed within the net. Adams 
 immediately told them what happened, and desired 
 
 [203]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 them to hold the lanthorn to the face of the man on 
 the ground, for he feared he had smote him fatally. 
 But indeed his fears were frivolous ; for the fellow, 
 though he had been stunned by the last blow he 
 received, had long since recovered his senses, and, 
 finding himself quit of Adams, had listened atten- 
 tively to the discourse between him and the young 
 woman ; for whose departure he had patiently waited, 
 that he might likewise withdraw himself, having no 
 longer hopes of succeeding in his desires, which were 
 moreover almost as well cooled by Mr. Adams as 
 they could have been by the young woman herself 
 had he obtained his utmost wish. This fellow, who 
 had a readiness at improving any accident, thought 
 he might now play a better part than that of a dead 
 man ; and, accordingly, the moment the candle was 
 held to his face he leapt up, and, laying hold on 
 Adams, cried out, " No, villain, I am not dead, 
 though you and your wicked whore might well think 
 me so, after the barbarous cruelties you have ex- 
 ercised on me. Gentlemen," said he, " you are luckily 
 come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who would 
 otherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile 
 man and woman, who led me hither out of my way 
 from the high-road, and both falling on me have used 
 me as you see."" Adams was going to answer, when 
 one of the young fellows cried, " D — n them, let 's 
 carry them both before the j ustice." The poor woman 
 
 [204]
 
 FRESH CALAMITIES 
 
 began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his voice, but 
 in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him ; 
 and one holding the lanthorn to his face, they all 
 agreed he had the most villainous countenance they 
 ever beheld ; and an attorney's clerk, who was of the 
 company, declared he was sure he had remembered 
 him at the bar. As to the Avoman, her hair was 
 dishevelled in the struggle, and her nose had bled ; 
 so that they could not perceive whether she was hand- 
 some or ugly, but they said her fright plainly dis- 
 covered her guilt. And searching her pockets, as 
 they did those of Adams, for money, which the 
 fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a 
 purse with some gold in it, which abundantly con- 
 vinced them, especially as the fellow offered to swear 
 to it. Mr. Adams was found to have no more than 
 one halfpenny about him. This the clerk said, 
 " was a great presumption that he was an old offender, 
 by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman." 
 To which all the rest readily assented. 
 
 This accident promising them better sport than 
 what they had proposed, they quitted their intention 
 of catching birds, and unanimously resolved to pro- 
 ceed to the justice with the offenders. Being in- 
 formed what a desperate fellow Adams was, they 
 tied his hands behind him ; and, having hid their 
 nets among the bushes, and the lanthorn being 
 canied before them, they placed the two prisoners 
 
 [205]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 in their front, and then began their march ; Adams 
 not only submitting patiently to his own fate, but 
 comforting and encouraging his companion under 
 her sufferings. 
 
 Whilst they were on their way the clerk in- 
 formed the rest that this adventure would prove a 
 very beneficial one ; for that they would all be entitled 
 to their proportions of ,£'80 for apprehending the 
 robbers. This occasioned a contention concerning 
 the parts which they had severally borne in taking 
 them ; one insisting he ought to have the greatest 
 share, for he had first laid his hands on Adams ; 
 another claiming a superior part for having first held 
 the lanthorn to the man's face on the ground, by 
 which, he said, " the whole was discovered." The 
 clerk claimed four-fifths of the reward for having 
 proposed to search the prisoners, and likewise the 
 carrying them before the justice : he said, " Indeed, 
 in strict justice, he ought to have the whole." These 
 claims, however, they at last consented to refer to a 
 future decision, but seemed all to agree that the 
 clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated 
 what money should be allotted to the young fellow 
 who had been employed only in holding the nets. 
 He very modestly said, " That he did not apprehend 
 any large proportion would fall to his share, but 
 hoped they would allow him something ; he desired 
 them to consider that they had assigned their nets 
 
 [ 206 j
 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 to his care, which prevented him from being as 
 forward as any in laying hold of the robbers" (for 
 so those innocent people were called) ; " that if he 
 had not occupied the nets, some other must;" con- 
 cluding, however, " that he should l)e contented with 
 the smallest share imaginable, and should think that 
 rather their bounty than his merit." But they were 
 all unanimous in excluding him from any part what- 
 ever, the clerk particularly swearing, " If they gave 
 him a shilling they might do what they pleased with 
 the rest ; for he would not concern himself with the 
 affair." This contention was so hot, and so totally en- 
 gaged the attention of all the parties, that a dexterous 
 nimble thief, had he been in Mr. Adams"'s situation, 
 would have taken care to have given the justice no 
 trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the 
 art of a Sheppard to escape, especially as the dark- 
 ness of the night would have so much befriended 
 him ; but Adams trusted rather to his innocence 
 than his heels, and, without thinking of flight, which 
 was easy, or resistance (which was impossible, as there 
 were six lusty young fellows, besides the villain him- 
 self, present), he walked with perfect resignation the 
 way they thought proper to conduct him. 
 
 Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations 
 during their journey ; at last, poor Joseph Andrews 
 occurring to his mind, he could not refrain sighing 
 forth his name, which being heard by his companion 
 
 [207]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 in affliction, she cried with some vehemence, " Sure I 
 should know that voice ; you cannot certainly, sir, be 
 Mr. Abraham Adams?" — "Indeed, damsel," says 
 he, " that is my name ; there is something also in 
 your voice which persuades me I have heard it be- 
 fore." — " La ! sir," says she, " don't you remember 
 poor Fanny ? " — " How, Fanny ! " answered Adams : 
 " indeed I very well remember you ; what can have 
 brought you hither ? " — "I have told you, sir," 
 replied she, " I was travelling towards London ; but 
 I thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews ; pray 
 what is become of him ? " — "I left him, child, this 
 afternoon," said Adams, " in the stage-coach, in his 
 way towards our parish, whither he is going to see 
 you." — " To see me ! La, sir," answered Fanny, 
 " sure you jeer me ; what should he be going to see 
 me for ? " — " Can you ask that ? " replied Adams. 
 " I hope, Fanny, you are not inconstant ; I assure 
 you he deserves much better of you." — " La ! Mr. 
 Adams," said she, " what is Mr. Joseph to me ? I 
 am sure I never had anything to say to him, but as 
 one fellow-servant might to another." — "I am sony 
 to hear this," said Adams ; " a virtuous passion for a 
 young man is what no woman need be ashamed of. 
 You either do not tell me truth, or you are false to 
 a very worthy man." Adams then told her what 
 had happened at the inn, to which she listened very 
 attentively ; and a sigh often escaped from her, not- 
 
 [208 J
 
 FANNYS SUDDEN DEPARTURE 
 
 withstanding her utmost endeavours to the contrary ; 
 nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousand 
 questions, which would have assured any one but 
 Adams, who never saw farther into people than they 
 desired to let him, of the truth of a passion she 
 endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that 
 this poor girl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune, 
 by some of the servants belonging to the coach which 
 we have formerly mentioned to have stopt at the inn 
 while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that 
 instant abandoned the cow she was milking, and, 
 taking with her a little bundle of clothes under her 
 arm, and all the money she was worth in her own 
 purse, without consulting any one, immediately set 
 forward in pursuit of one whom, notwithstanding her 
 shyness to the parson, she loved with inexpressible 
 violence, though with the purest and most delicate 
 passion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will 
 recommend her character to all our female readei*s, 
 and not greatly surprize such of our males as are 
 well acquainted with the younger part of the other 
 sex, we shall not give ourselves any trouble to 
 vindicate. 
 
 VOL. I. - U [ 209 ]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO THEM WHILE BEFORE THE JUSTICE. 
 A CHAPTER VERY FULL OF LEARNING. 
 
 THEIR fellow-travellers were so engaged 
 in the hot dispute concerning the di- 
 vision of the reward for apprehending 
 these innocent people, that they attended 
 very little to their discourse. They were now arrived 
 at the justice's house, and had sent one of his servants 
 in to acquaint his worship that they had taken two 
 robbers and brought them before him. The justice, 
 who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not 
 yet finished his dinner, ordered them to carry the 
 prisoners into the stable, whither they were attended 
 by all the servants in the house, and all the people 
 in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see 
 them with as much curiosity as if there was some- 
 thing uncommon to be seen, or that a rogue did not 
 look like other people. 
 
 The justice, now being in the height of his mirth 
 and his cups, bethought himself of the prisoners ; 
 and, telling his company he believed they should have 
 
 [210 J
 
 THE JUSTICE'S EXAMINATION 
 
 good sport in their examination, he ordered them 
 into his presence. They had no sooner entered the 
 room than he began to revile them, saying, "That 
 robberies on the highway were now grown so fre- 
 quent, that people could not sleep safely in their 
 beds, and assured them they both should be made 
 examples of at the ensuing assizes." After he had 
 gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded 
 by his clerk, " That it would be proper to take the 
 depositions of the witnesses against them." Which 
 he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the 
 meantime. Whilst the clerk was employed in writ- 
 ing down the deposition of the fellow who had pre- 
 tended to be robbed, the justice employed himself 
 in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was 
 seconded by all the company at table. One asked, 
 " Whether she was to be indicted for a highway- 
 man ? " Another whispered in her ear, " If she had 
 not provided herself a great belly, he was at her ser- 
 vice." A third said, " He warranted she was a rela- 
 tion of Turpin." To which one of the company, 
 a great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, 
 answered, " He believed she was nearer related to 
 Turpis;" at which there was an universal laugh. 
 They were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when 
 somebody, smoaking the cassock peeping forth from 
 under the greatcoat of Adams, cried out, " What 
 have we here, a parson ? " " How, sirrah," says the 
 
 [ 211 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 justice, "do you go robbing in the dress of a clergy- 
 man ? let me tell you your habit will not entitle 
 you to the benefit of the clergy/"' " Yes," said the 
 witty fellow, " he will have one benefit of clergy, he 
 will be exalted above the heads of the people;*" at 
 which there was a second laugh. And now the witty 
 spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in spirits ; 
 and, turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verses, 
 and, provoking him by giving the first blow, he 
 repeated — 
 
 " Molle meum levibus cord est vilebile telis. " 
 
 Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable 
 contempt, told him, " He deserved scourging for his 
 pronunciation." The witty fellow answered, "What 
 do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer 
 the first time ? Why, I '11 give one, you blockhead, 
 with an S. 
 
 " * Si licet, ut/ulvum spectalur in ignibus haurum.' 
 
 " What, canst not with an M neither ? Thou art 
 a pretty fellow for a parson ! Why didst not steal 
 some of the parson"'s Latin as well as his gown ? "" 
 Another at the table then answered, " If he had, you 
 would have been too hard for him ; I remember you at 
 the college a very devil at this sport ; I have seen you 
 catch a freshman, for nobody that knew you would 
 engage with you."" " I have forgot those things now," 
 cried the wit. " I believe I could have done pretty 
 
 [212]
 
 CAPPING VERSES 
 
 well formerly. Let 's see, what did I end with ? — 
 an M again — aye 
 
 " ' Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.' 
 I could have done it once." " Ah ! evil betide you, 
 and so you can now," said the other : " nobody in 
 this country will undertake you." Adams could hold 
 no longer : " Friend," said he, " I have a boy not 
 above eight years old \\ho would instruct thee that 
 the last verse runs thus : — 
 
 " '■Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, viroi'um.'' " 
 
 " I '11 hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, 
 throwing the money on the table. " And 1 11 go 
 your halves," cries the other. " Done," answered 
 Adams ; but upon applying to his pocket he was 
 forced to retract, and own he had no money about 
 him ; which set them all a-laughing, and confirmed the 
 triumph of his adversarv, which was not moderate, 
 any more than the approbation he met with from the 
 whole company, who told Adams he must go a little 
 longer to school before he attempted to attack that 
 gentleman in Latin. 
 
 The clerk, having finished the depositions, as 
 well of the fellow himself, as of those who appre- 
 hended the prisoners, delivered them to the jus- 
 tice ; who, having sworn the several witnesses 
 without reading a syllable, ordered his clerk to 
 make the mittimus. 
 
 [213]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Adams then said, " He hoped he should not be 
 condemned unheard." "No, no," cries the justice, 
 " you will be asked what you have to say for your- 
 self when you come on your trial : we are not trying 
 you now ; I shall only commit you to gaol : if you 
 can prove your innocence at 'size, you will be found 
 ignoramus, and so no harm done." " Is it no 
 punishment, sir, for an innocent man to lie several 
 months in gaol?" cries Adams: "I beg you would 
 at least hear me before you sign the mittimus." 
 " \Vliat signifies all you can say ? " says the justice : 
 " is it not here in black and white against you ? I 
 must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow to 
 take up so much of my time. So make haste with 
 his mittimus." 
 
 The clerk now acquainted the justice that among 
 other suspicious things, as a penknife, &c., found in 
 Adams's pocket, they had discovered a book written, 
 as he apprehended, in cyphers; for no one could 
 read a word in it. "Aye," says the justice, "the 
 fellow may be more than a common robber, he may 
 be in a plot against the Government. Produce the 
 book." Upon which the poor manuscript of iEschylus, 
 which Adams had transcribed with his own hand, 
 was brought forth ; and the justice, looking at it, 
 shook his head, and, turning to the prisoner, asked 
 the meaning of those cyphers. " Cyphers.? " answered 
 Adams, " it is a manuscript of vEschylus." " Who ? 
 
 [214 J
 
 THE MANUSCRIPT OF AESCHYLUS 
 
 who ?■" said the justice. Adams repeated, " iEschylus.'' 
 " That is an outlandish name," cried the clerk. " A 
 fictitious name rather, I believe," said the justice. 
 One of the company declared it looked very much 
 like Greek. " Greek ?" said the justice ; " why, 't is 
 all writing." " No," says the other, " I don't posi- 
 tively say it is so; for it is a very long time since 
 I have seen any Greek." "There's one," says he, 
 turning to the parson of the parish, who was present, 
 " will tell us innnediately." The parson, taking up 
 the book, and putting on his spectacles and gravity 
 tos-ether, muttered some words to himself, and then 
 pronounced aloud — " Aye, indeed, it is a Greek 
 manuscript; a very fine piece of antiquity. I make 
 no doubt but it was stolen from the same clergyman 
 from whom the rogue took the cassock." " What 
 did the rascal mean by his yEschylus ? " says the 
 justice. " Pooh ! " answered the doctor, with a con- 
 temptuous grin, "do you think that fellow knows 
 anything of this book ? .Eschylus ! ho ! ho ! I see 
 now what it is — a manuscript of one of the fathers. 
 I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of 
 money for such a piece of antiquity. Aye, aye, ques- 
 tion and answer. The beginning is the catechism in 
 Greek. Aye, aye, Pollaki toi : \Vhafs your name .? " 
 
 " Aye, what 's your name .? " says the justice to 
 
 Adams ; who answered, " It is ^schylus, and I will 
 maintain it." — " Oh ! it is," says the justice : 
 
 [215]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 " make Mr. ^Eschylus his mittimus. I will teach 
 jou to banter me with a false name."" 
 
 One of the company, having looked steadfastly at 
 Adams, asked him, " If he did not know Lady 
 Booby ? "" Upon which Adams, presently calling 
 him to mind, answered in a rapture, " O squire ! are 
 you there ? I believe you will inform his worship I 
 am innocent." — " I can indeed say,'" replied the squire, 
 " that I am very much surprized to see you in this 
 situation:" and then, addressing himself to the 
 justice, he said, " Sir, I assure you Mr. Adams is a 
 clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very 
 good character. I wish you would enquire a little 
 forther into this affair ; for I am convinced of his 
 innocence." — "Nay," says the justice, "if he is a 
 gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don't 
 desire to commit him, not I : I will commit the 
 woman by herself, and take your bail for the gentle- 
 man : look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to 
 take bail — come — and make the mittimus for the 
 woman as fast as you can." — " Sir," cries Adams, 
 " I assure you she is as innocent as myself." — 
 " Perhaps," said the squire, " there may be some 
 mistake ! pray let us hear Mr. Adams's relation." — 
 "With all my heart," answered the justice; "and 
 give the gentleman a glass to wet his whistle before 
 he begins. I know how to behave myself to gen- 
 tlemen as well as another. Nobody can say I have 
 
 [216]
 
 THE DISMISSAL 
 
 committed a gentleman since I have been in the com- 
 mission."" Adams then began the narrative, in which, 
 though he was very prolix, he was uninterrupted 
 unless by several hums and hahs of the justice, and 
 his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to him 
 most material. When he had finished, the justice, 
 who, on what the squire had said, believed every 
 syllable of his story on his bare affirmation, notwith- 
 standing the depositions on oath to the contrary, 
 began to let loose several rogues and rascals against 
 the witness, whom he ordered to stand forth, but in 
 vain; the said witness, long since finding what turn 
 matters were likely to take, had privily withdrawn 
 without attending the issue. The justice now flew 
 into a violent passion, and was hardly prevailed with 
 not to commit the innocent fellows who had been im- 
 posed on as well as himself. He swore, " They had 
 best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, 
 and bring him before him within two days, or he 
 would bind them all over to their good behavioui-."" 
 They all promised to use their best endeavours to 
 that purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice 
 insisted that Mr. Adams should sit down and take 
 a glass with him ; and the parson of the parish 
 delivered him back the manuscript without saying a 
 word ; nor would Adams, who plainly discerned his 
 ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she was, at her 
 own request, recommended to the care of a maid- 
 
 [217]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 servant of the house, who helped her to new dress 
 and clean herself. 
 
 The company in the parlour had not been long 
 seated before they were alarmed with a horrible 
 uproar from without, where the persons who had 
 apprehended Adams and Fanny had been regaling, 
 according to the custom of the house, with the 
 justice"'s strong beer. These w^ere all fallen together 
 by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any 
 mercy. The justice himself sallied out, and with the 
 dignity of his presence soon put an end to the frsiy. 
 On his return into the parlour, he reported, " That 
 the occasion of the quarrel was no other than a dis- 
 pute to whom, if Adams had been convicted, the 
 greater share of the reward for apprehending hira 
 had belonged." All the company laughed at this, 
 except Adams, who, taking his pipe from his 
 mouth, fetched a deep groan, and said, " He was 
 concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. That 
 he remembered a story something like it in one of 
 the parishes where his cure lay : — There was," con- 
 tinued he, " a competition between three young fel- 
 lows for the place of the clerk, which I disposed of, 
 to the best of my abilities, according to merit ; that 
 is, I gave it to him who had the happiest knack at 
 setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner established 
 in his place than a contention began between the two 
 disappointed candidates concerning their excellence ; 
 
 [218]
 
 A DISPUTE 
 
 each contendinjx on whom, had thev two been the 
 only competitors, my election would have fallen. 
 This dispute frequently disturbed the congregation, 
 and introduced a discord into the psalmody, till I was 
 forced to silence them both. But, alas ! the litigious 
 spirit could not be stifled ; and, being no longer able 
 to vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fight- 
 ing. It produced many battles (for they were very 
 near a match), and I believe would have ended fatally, 
 had not the death of the clerk given me an oppor- 
 tunity to promote one of them to his place ; which 
 presently put an end to the dispute, and entirely 
 reconciled the contending parties." Adams then pro- 
 ceeded to make some philosophical observations on the 
 folly of growing warm in disputes in which neither 
 party is interested. He then applied himself vigor- 
 ously to smoaking ; and a long silence ensued, which 
 was at length broke by the justice, who began to 
 sing forth his own praises, and to value himself 
 exceedinslv on his nice discernment in the cause 
 which had lately been before him. He was quickly 
 interrupted by Mr. Adams, between whom and his 
 worship a dispute now arose, whether he ought not, 
 in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said 
 Adams ; in which the latter maintained he ought to 
 have been committed, and the justice as vehemently 
 held he ought not. This had most probably pro- 
 duced a quarrel (for both were very violent and 
 
 [219]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 positive in their opinions), had not Fanny accident- 
 ally heard that a young fellow was going from the 
 justice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach 
 in which Joseph was, put up. Upon this news, she 
 immediately sent for the parson out of the parlour. 
 Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though 
 she would not own the reason, but pretended she 
 could not bear to see the faces of those who had 
 suspected her of such a crime), was as fully deter- 
 mined to go with her ; he accordingly took leave of 
 the justice and company : and so ended a dispute in 
 which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a 
 magistrate and a divine together by the ears. 
 
 [220]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 A VERY DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE, AS WELL TO THE 
 PERSONS CONCERNED AS TO THE GOOD-NATURED 
 READER. 
 
 ]A DAMS, Fanny, and the guide, set out to- 
 /^k gether about one in the morning, the 
 
 / ^^ moon being then just risen. They had 
 ^^ ^^ not gone above a mile before a most 
 violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in 
 an inn, or rather alehouse, where Adams immediately 
 procured himself a good fire, a toast and ale, and a 
 pipe, and began to smoak with great content, utterly 
 forgetting everything that had happened. 
 
 Fanny sat likewise down by the fire ; but was much 
 more impatient at the storm. She presently engaged 
 the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of the house, 
 and the young fellow who was their guide ; they all 
 conceived they had never seen anything half so hand- 
 some ; and indeed, reader, if thou art of an amorous 
 hue, I advise thee to skip over the next paragraph ; 
 which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged 
 to set down, humbly hoping that we may escape the 
 fate of Pygmalion ; for if it should happen to us, or 
 
 [ 221 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 to thee, to be struck with this picture, we should be 
 perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and 
 might say to ourselves. Quod petis est nusqiuim. Or, 
 
 if the finest features in it should set Lady 's 
 
 image before our eyes, we should be still in as bad a 
 situation, and might say to our desires, Caelum ipsum 
 petirmis stultitia. 
 
 Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age ; 
 she was tall and delicately shaped ; but not one of 
 those slender young women who seem rather intended 
 to hang up in the hall of an anatomist than for any 
 other purpose. On the contrary, she Avas so plump 
 that she seemed bursting through her tight stays, 
 especially in the part which confined her swelling 
 breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a 
 hoop to extend them. The exact shape of her arms 
 denoted the form of those limbs which she concealed ; 
 and though they were a little reddened by her labour, 
 yet, if her sleeve slipped above her elbow, or her 
 handkerchief discovered any part of her neck, a white- 
 ness appeared which the finest Italian paint Mould be 
 unable to reach. Her hair was of a chesnut brown, 
 and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, 
 which she had cut, and on Sundays used to curl down 
 her neck, in the modern fashion. Her forehead was 
 high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than other- 
 wise. Her eyes black and sparkling ; her nose just 
 inclining to the Roman ; her lips red and moist, and 
 
 [222 ]
 
 THE SONG 
 
 her under-lip, according to the opinion of the ladies, 
 too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly 
 even. The small-pox had left one only mark on her 
 chin, which was so large, it might have been mistaken 
 for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced one so 
 near a neighbour to it, that the former served only 
 for a foil to the latter. Her complexion was fair, a 
 little injured by the sun, but overspread with such 
 a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged 
 all their white for it: add to these a countenance in 
 w^hich, though she was extremely bashful, a sensibility 
 appeared almost incredible; and a sweetness, when- 
 ever she smiled, beyond either imitation or descrip- 
 tion. To conclu all, she had a natural gentility, 
 superior to the acquisition of art, and which surprized 
 all who beheld her. 
 
 This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with 
 Adams, when her attention was suddenly engaged by 
 a voice from an inner room, which sung the following 
 
 song : — 
 
 THE SONG. 
 
 Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray 
 
 Who is by thy beauties undone ? 
 To wash their remembrance away. 
 
 To what distant Lethe must run ? 
 The wretch who is sentenced to die 
 
 May escape, and leave justice behind ; 
 From his country perhaps he may fly, 
 
 But oh ! can he fly from his mind ? 
 
 O rapture ! unthought of before. 
 To be thus of Chloe possess'd ; 
 
 [223]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power. 
 Her image can tear from my breast. 
 
 But felt not Narcissus more joy. 
 
 With his eyes he beheld his loved charms? 
 
 Yet what he beheld the fond boy 
 More eagerly wish'd in his arms. 
 
 How can it thy dear image be 
 
 Which fills thus my bosom with woe ? 
 Can aught bear resemblance to thee 
 
 Which grief and not joy can bestow ? 
 This counterfeit snatch from my heart, 
 
 Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave, 
 Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart : 
 
 I then shall find rest in my grave. 
 
 Ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain 
 
 Come smiling and tripping along ! 
 A thousand Loves dance in her train. 
 
 The Graces around her all throng. 
 To meet her soft Zephyrus flies. 
 
 And wafts all the sweets from the flowerSi 
 Ah, rogue ! whilst he kisses her eyes. 
 
 More sweets from her breath he devours. 
 
 My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire : 
 
 But her looks were so tender and kind. 
 My hope almost reach'd my desire. 
 
 And left lame despair far behind. 
 Transported with madness, I flew. 
 
 And eagerly seized on my bliss ; 
 Her bosom but half she withdrew. 
 
 But half she refused ray fond kiss. 
 
 Advances like these made me bold ; 
 
 I whisper 'd her — Love, we 're alone. — 
 The rest let immortals unfold ; 
 
 No language can tell but their own. 
 Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried. 
 
 How long I thy cruelty bore ! 
 Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied. 
 
 You ne'er was so pressing before. 
 
 [224]
 
 A JOYFUL MEETING 
 
 Adams had been ruminating all this time on a 
 passage in iEschylus, without attending in the least 
 to the voice, though one of the most melodious that 
 ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on Fanny, he 
 cried out, " Bless us, you look extremely pale ! " — 
 " Pale ! Mr. Adams," says she ; " O Jesus ! " and fell 
 backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung 
 his JEschylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the 
 people of the house for help. He soon summoned 
 every one into the room, and the songster among the 
 rest ; but, O reader ! when this nightingale, who was 
 no other than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his be- 
 loved Fanny in the situation we have described her, 
 canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind ? If 
 thou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his 
 happiness, when, clasping her in his arms, he found 
 life and blood returning into her cheeks : when he saw 
 her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the 
 softest accent whisper, " Are you Joseph Andrews ? " 
 — " Art thou my Fanny ? " he answered eagerly : 
 and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted number- 
 less kisses on her lips, without considering who were 
 present. 
 
 If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this 
 picture, they may take their eyes off from it, and 
 survey parson Adams dancing about the room in a 
 rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps 
 doubt whether he was not the happiest of the three : 
 VOL. I. - 15 [ 225 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 for the goodness of his heart enjoyed the blessings 
 which were exulting in the breasts of both the other 
 two, together with his own. But we shall leave such 
 disquisitions, as too deep for us, to those who are 
 building some favourite hypothesis, which they will 
 refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support : 
 for our part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, 
 whose happiness was not only greater than the par- 
 son's, but of longer duration : for as soon as the first 
 tumults of Adams's rapture were over he cast his 
 eyes towards the fire, where ^schylus lay expiring ; 
 and immediately rescued the poor remains, to wit, 
 the sheepskin covering, of his dear friend, which was 
 the work of his own hands, and had been his insepa- 
 rable companion for upwards of thirty years. 
 
 Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself 
 than she began to restrain the impetuosity of her 
 transports ; and, reflecting on what she had done and 
 suffered in the presence of so many, she was imme- 
 diately covered with confusion ; and, pushing Joseph 
 gently from her, she begged him to be quiet, nor 
 would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer. 
 Then, seeing Mrs. Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered 
 to advance to her ; but that high woman would not 
 return her curtsies ; but, casting her eyes another way, 
 immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, 
 as she went, she wondered who the creature was. 
 
 [ 226 ]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 A DISSERTATION CONCERNING HIGH PEOPLE AND LOW 
 PEOPLE, WITH MRS. SLIPSLOP's DEPARTURE IN NO 
 VERY GOOD TEMPER OF MIND, AND THE EVIL 
 PLIGHT IN WHICH SHE LEFT ADAMS AND HIS 
 COMPANY. 
 
 IT will doubtless seem extremely odd to many 
 readers, that Mrs. Slipslop, who had lived 
 several years in the same house with Fanny, 
 should, in a short separation, utterly forget 
 her. And indeed the truth is, that she remembered 
 her very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, 
 that anything should appear unnatural in this our 
 history, we will endeavour to explain the reasons of 
 her conduct ; nor do we doubt being able to satisfy 
 the most curious reader that Mrs. Slipslop did not in 
 the least deviate from the common road in this be- 
 haviour; and, indeed, had she done otherwise, she 
 must have descended below herself, and would have 
 very justly been liable to censure. 
 
 Be it known then, that the human speciesare divided 
 into two sorts of people, to wit, high people and low 
 people. As by high people I would not be under- 
 
 [227]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 stood to mean persons literally born higher in their 
 dimensions than the rest of the species, nor meta- 
 pliorically those of exalted characters or abilities ; 
 so by low people I cannot be construed to intend the 
 reverse. High people signify no other than people 
 of fashion, and low people those of no fashion. Now, 
 this word fashion hath by long use lost its original 
 meaning, from which at present it gives us a very 
 different idea ; for I am deceived if by persons of 
 fashion we do not generally include a conception of 
 birth and accomplishments superior to the herd 
 of mankind ; whereas, in reality, nothing more was 
 originally meant by a person of fashion than a person 
 who drest himself in the fashion of the times ; and 
 the word really and truly signifies no more at this 
 day. Now, the world being thus divided into people 
 of fashion and people of no fashion, a fierce conten- 
 tion arose between them ; nor would those of one 
 party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publickly to speak 
 to those of the other, though they often held a very 
 good correspondence in private. In this contention 
 it is difficult to say which party succeeded ; for, whilst 
 the people of fashion seized several places to their 
 own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas, balls, 
 &c., the people of no fashion, besides one royal place, 
 called his Majesty's Bear-garden, have been in con- 
 stant possession of all hops, fairs, revels, &c. Two 
 places have been agreed to be divided between them, 
 
 [ 228]
 
 HIGH AND LOW PEOPLE 
 
 namely, the church and the playhouse, where they 
 segregate themselves from each other in a remarkable 
 manner; for, as the people of fashion exalt them- 
 selves at church over the heads of the people of no 
 fashion, so in the playhouse they abase themselves in 
 the same degree under their feet. This distinction 
 I have never met with any one able to account for : 
 it is sufficient that, so far from looking on each other 
 as brethren in the Christian language, they seem 
 scarce to regard each other as of the same species. 
 This, the terms " strange persons, people one does 
 not know, the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes," 
 and many other appellations evidently demonstrate ; 
 which Mrs. Slipslop, having often heard her mistress 
 use, thought she had also a right to use in her turn ; 
 and perhaps she was not mistaken ; for these two 
 parties, especially those bordering nearly on each 
 other, to wit, the lowest of the high, and the highest 
 of the low, often change their parties according to 
 place and time ; for those who are people of fashion 
 in one place are often people of no fashion in another. 
 And with regard to time, it may not be unpleasant 
 to survey the picture of dependance like a kind of 
 ladder ; as, for instance ; early in the morning arises 
 the postillion, or some other boy, which great 
 families, no more than great ships, are without, and 
 falls to brushing the clothes and cleaning the shoes 
 of John the footman ; who, being drest himself, 
 
 [ 229 ]-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 applies his hands to the same labours for Mr. Second- 
 hand, the squire's gentleman ; the gentleman in the 
 like manner, a little later in the day, attends the 
 squire ; the squire is no sooner equipped than he 
 attends the levee of my lord ; which is no sooner over 
 than mv lord himself is seen at the levee of the 
 favourite, who, after the hour of homage is at an 
 end, appears himself to pay homage to the levee of 
 his sovereign. Nor is there, perhaps, in this whole 
 ladder of dependance, any one step at a greater 
 distance from the other than the first from the 
 second ; so that to a philosopher the question might 
 only seem, whether you would chuse to be a great 
 man at six in the morning, or at two in the after- 
 noon. And yet there are scarce two of these who 
 do not think the least familiarity with the persons 
 below them a condescension, and, if they were to go 
 one step farther, a degradation. 
 
 And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this 
 long digression, which seemed to me necessary to 
 vindicate the great character of Mrs. Slipslop from 
 what low people, who have never seen high people, 
 might think an absurdity ; but we who know them 
 must have daily found very high persons know us in 
 one place and not in another, to-day and not to- 
 morrow ; all which it is difficult to account for other- 
 wise than I have here endeavoured ; and perhaps, if 
 the gods, according to the opinion of some, made 
 
 [230]
 
 MRS. SLIPSLOP'S STORY 
 
 men only to laugh at them, there is no part of our 
 behaviour which answers the end of our creation 
 better than this. 
 
 But to return to our history : Adams, who knew no 
 more of this than the cat which sat on the table, imag- 
 ining Mrs. Slipslop''s memory had been much worse 
 than it really was, followed her into the next room, 
 crying out, " ^ladam Slipslop, here is one of your 
 old acquaintance ; do but see what a fine woman she 
 is grown since she left Lady Booby's service." — "I 
 think I reflect something of her,"" answered she, with 
 great dignity, " but I can't remember all the inferior 
 servants in our ftimily." She then proceeded to 
 satisfy Adams's curiosity, by telling him, " When she 
 arrived at the inn, she found a chaise ready for her; 
 that, her lady being expected very shortly in the 
 country, she was obliged to make the utmost haste ; 
 and, in commensuration of Joseph's lameness, she 
 had taken him with her;" and lastlv, "that the 
 excessive virulence of the storm had driven them into 
 the house where he found them." After which, she 
 acquainted Adams with his having left his horse, and 
 exprest some wonder at his having strayed so far 
 out of his way, and at meeting him, as she said, " in 
 the company of that wench, who she feared was no 
 better than she should be." 
 
 The horse was no sooner put into Adams's head but 
 he was immediately driven out by this reflection on 
 
 [231 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 the character of Fanny. He protested, " He be- 
 lieved there was not a chaster damsel in the universe. 
 I heartily wish, I heartily wish," cried he (snapping 
 his fingers), "that all her betters were as good." 
 He then proceeded to inform her of the accident of 
 their meeting; but when he came to mention the 
 circumstance of delivering her from the rape, she 
 said, " She thought him properer for the army than 
 the clergy ; that it did not become a clergyman 
 to lay violent hands on any one ; that he should 
 have rather prayed that she might be strength- 
 ened." Adams said, " He was very far from being 
 ashamed of what he had done : " she replied, " Want 
 of shame was not the currycuristic of a clergyman." 
 This dialogue might have probably grown warmer, 
 had not Joseph opportunely entered the room, to 
 ask leave of Madam Slipslop to introduce Fanny : 
 but she positively refused to adnut any such trol- 
 lops, and told him, "She would have been burnt 
 before she would have suffered him to get into a 
 chaise with her, if she had once respected him of 
 having his sluts waylaid on the road for him ;" add- 
 ing, " that Mr. Adams acted a very pretty part, and 
 she did not doubt but to see him a bishop." He 
 made the best bow he could, and cried out, " I thank 
 you, madam, for that right-reverend appellation, 
 which I shall take all honest means to deserve." — 
 " Very honest means," returned she, with a sneer, 
 
 [ 232 ]
 
 MRS. SLIPSLOP ENRAGED 
 
 " to bring people together.'"' At these words Adams 
 took two or three strides across the room, when the 
 coachman came to inform Mrs. Slipslop, "That the 
 storm was over, and the moon shone very bright."" 
 She then sent for Joseph, who was sitting without 
 with his Fanny, and would have had him gone with 
 her ; but he peremptorily refused to leave Fanny 
 behind, which threw the good woman into a violent 
 rage. She said, " She would inform her lady what 
 doings were carrying on, and did not doubt but she 
 would rid the parish of all such people ; " and con- 
 cluded a long speech, full of bitterness and very hard 
 words, with some reflections on the clergy not decent 
 to repeat; at last, finding Joseph unmoveable, she flung 
 herself into the chaise, casting a look at Fanny as she 
 went, not unlike that which Cleopatra gives Octavia 
 in the play. To say the truth, she was most disagree- 
 ably disappointed by the presence of Fanny : she 
 had, from her first seeing Joseph at the inn, con- 
 ceived hopes of something which might have been 
 accomplished at an alehouse as well as a palace. 
 Indeed, it is probable Mr. Adams had rescued 
 more than Fanny from the danger of a rape that 
 evening. 
 
 When the chaise had carried off" the enraged Slip- 
 slop, Adams, Joseph, and Fanny assembled over the 
 fire, where they had a great deal of innocent chat, 
 pretty enough ; but, as possibly it would not be 
 
 [233]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 very entertaining to the reader, we shall hasten to 
 the morning ; only observing that none of them went 
 to bed that night. Adams, when he had smoaked 
 three pipes, took a comfortable nap in a great chair, 
 and left the lovers, whose eyes were too well em- 
 ployed to permit any desire of shutting them, to 
 enjoy by themselves, during some hours, an happiness 
 which none of my readers who have never been in 
 love are capable of the least conception of, though 
 we had as many tongues as Homer desired, to describe 
 it with, and which all true lovers will represent 
 to their own minds without the least assistance 
 from us. 
 
 Let it suffice then to say, that Fanny, after a 
 thousand entreaties, at last gave up her whole soul 
 to Joseph ; and, almost fainting in his arms, with 
 a sigh infinitely softer and sweeter too than any 
 Arabian breeze, she whispered to his lips, which were 
 then close to hers, " O Joseph, you have won me : 
 I will be yours for ever." Joseph, having thanked 
 her on his knees, and embraced her with an eagerness 
 which she now almost returned, leapt up in a rapture, 
 and awakened the parson, earnestly begging him 
 "that he would that instant join their hands to- 
 gether." Adams rebuked him for his request, and 
 told him " He would by no means consent to anything 
 contrary to the forms of the Church ; that he had no 
 licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one ; 
 
 [234]
 
 AN EVIL PLIGHT 
 
 that the Church had prescribed a form — namely, the 
 publication of bainis — with which all good Christians 
 ought to comply, and to the omission of which he 
 attributed the many miseries which befell great folks 
 in marriage;" concluding, "As many as are joined 
 toijether otherwise than G — ^s word doth allow are 
 not joined together by G — , neither is their matri- 
 mony lawful." Fanny agreed with the parson, saying 
 to Joseph, with a blush, " She assured him she would 
 not consent to any such thing, and that she wondered 
 at his offering it."' In which resolution she was 
 comforted and commended by Adams ; and Joseph 
 was obliged to wait patiently till after the third 
 publication of the banns, which, however, he obtained 
 the consent of Fanny, in the presence of Adams, to 
 put in at their arrival. 
 
 The sun had been now risen some hours, when 
 Joseph, finding his leg surprizingly recovered, pro- 
 posed to walk forwards ; but when they were all 
 ready to set out, an accident a little retarded them. 
 This was no other than the reckoning, which 
 amounted to seven shillings ; no great sum if we 
 consider the immense quantity of ale which Mr. 
 Adams poured in. Indeed, they had no objection to 
 the reasonableness of the bill, but many to the prob- 
 ability of paying it ; for the fellow who had taken 
 poor Fanny's purse had unluckily forgot to return it. 
 So that the account stood thus : — 
 
 [235]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Mr. Adams and company. Dr. 
 
 In Mr. Adams's pocket 
 In Mr. Joseph's . 
 In Mrs. Fanny's . 
 
 Balance . 
 
 £ *. d. 
 7 
 
 t)^ 
 
 
 
 6 5i 
 
 They stood silent some few minutes, staring at each 
 other, when Adams whipt out on his toes, and asked 
 the hostess, " If there was no clergyman in that 
 parish.?" She answered, "There was/' — "Is he 
 wealthy .''" replied he ; to which she liicewise answered 
 in the affirmative. Adams then snapping his fingers 
 returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out, 
 " Heureka, Heureka ; " which not being understood, 
 he told them in plain English, " They need give 
 themselves no trouble, for he had a brother in the 
 parish who would defray the reckoning, and that he 
 would just step to his house and fetch the money, 
 and return to them instantly." 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 [236]
 
 rOPYRIOHT 1'505 BY rflE. irNlVEriSlT Y FHliMS
 
 JOSEPH HEARD A VIOLENT KNOCKING AT 
 THE DOOR 
 
 He presently jximped out of bed and opening the 
 Tcindotv, ieas asked if there were no travelers in the 
 hon.se
 
 VOL. II.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK II {Continued) 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 PAGE 
 
 An interview between Parson Adams and Parson 
 
 Trulliber 1 
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 An adventure, the consequence of a new instance 
 
 which I'arson Adams gave of his forgetfulness 11 
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 A very curious adventure, in which Mr. Adams 
 gave a much greater instance of the honest 
 simplicity of his heart, than of his experience 
 in the ways of this world 15 
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 A dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and liis 
 host, which, by the disagreement in their 
 opinions, seemed to threaten an unlucky catas- 
 trophe, had it not been timely prevented by 
 the return of the lovers 26 
 
 [v]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK III 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 PAOE 
 
 Matter prefatory in praise of biography .... 34 
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 A night scene, wherein several wonderful adven- 
 tures befel Adams and his fellow-travellers . 41 
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 In which the gentleman relates the history of 
 
 his life 55 
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 A description of Mr. Wilson's way of living. The 
 tragical adventure of the dog, and other grave 
 matters 88 
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 A disputation on schools held on the road between 
 Mr. Abraham Adams and Joseph ; and a dis- 
 covery not unwelcome to them both .... QB 
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the 
 hunting adventure, and Parson Adams's mirac- 
 ulous escape 101 
 
 [vi]
 
 CONTENTS 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the 
 
 present taste and times 115 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 Which some readers will think too short and 
 
 others too long 127 
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 Gjntaining as surprising and bloody adventures 
 as can be found in this or perhaps any other 
 authentic history 133 
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 A discourse between the poet and the player ; of 
 no other use in this history but to divert the 
 reader 139 
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 Containing the exhortations of Parson Adams to 
 his friend in affliction ; calculated for the in- 
 struction and improvement of the reader . 145 
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 More adventures, which we hope will as much 
 
 please as surprise the reader 150 
 
 [vii]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A curious dialogue which passed between Mr. 
 Abraham Adams and Mr. Peter Pounce, better 
 worth reading than all the works of Colley 
 Gibber and many others l60 
 
 BOOK IV 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 The arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at Booby- 
 Hall 164 
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 A dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and the 
 
 Lady Booby 171 
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 What passed between the lady and Lawyer Scout 1 75 
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 A short chapter, but very full of matter ; particu- 
 larly the arrival of Mr. Booby and his lady . 179 
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 Containing justice business; curious precedents of 
 depositions, and other matters necessary to be 
 
 [viii]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 perused by all justices of the peace and their 
 clerks 182 
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 Of which you are desired to read no more than 
 
 you like 191 
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 Philosophical reflections, the like not to be found 
 in any light French romance. Mr. Booby's 
 grave advice to Joseph, and Fanny's encounter 
 vnth a beau 199 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 A discourse which happened between Mr. Adams, 
 Mrs. Adams, Joseph, and Fanny ; with some 
 behaviour of Mr. Adams which will be called 
 by some few readers very low, absurd, and 
 unnatural 210 
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 A visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite 
 
 friend paid to the parson 219 
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 The history of two friends, which may afford an 
 useful lesson to all those persons who happen 
 to take up their residence in married families 224 
 
 [ix]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In which the history is continued 233 
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 Where the good-natured reader will see some- 
 thing which will give him no great pleasure 238 
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 The history, returning to the Lady Booby, gives 
 some account of the terrible conflict in her 
 breast between love and pride ; with what 
 happened on the present discovery .... 242 
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 Containing several curious night-adventures, in 
 which Mr. Adams fell into many hair-breadth 
 'scapes, partly owing to his goodness, and 
 partly to his inadvertency 249 
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 The arrival of GafFar and Gammar Andrews, with 
 another person not much expected ; and a 
 perfect solution of the difliculties raised by 
 the pedlar 257 
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 Being the last, in which this true history is 
 
 brought to a happy conclusion 263
 
 THE HISTORY of the ADVENTURES 
 
 o/^ JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 AND HIS FRIEND MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS 
 
 BOOK II. — continued 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN PARSON ADAMS AND PARSON 
 
 TRULLIBER. 
 
 PARSON Adams came to the house of par- 
 son Trulliber, whom he found stript into 
 his waistcoat, with an apron on, and a pail 
 in his hand, just come from serving his 
 hogs ; for Mr. TrulHber was a parson on Sundays, 
 but all the other six might more properly be called 
 a farmer. He occupied a small piece of land of his 
 own, besides which he rented a considerable deal 
 more. His wife milked his cows, managed his dairy, 
 and followed the markets with butter and eggs. 
 The hogs fell chiefly to his care, which he carefully 
 waited on at home, and attended to fairs ; on which 
 occasion he was liable to many jokes, his own size 
 being, with much ale, rendered little inferior to that 
 of the beasts he sold. He was indeed one of the 
 
 vol.. II. — 1 [ 1 1
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 largest men you should see, and could have acted the 
 part of Sir John Falstaff without stuffing. Add to 
 this that the rotundity of his belly was considerably 
 increased by the shortness of his stature, his shadow 
 ascending very near as far in height, when he lay on 
 his back, as when he stood on his legs. His voice 
 was loud and hoarse, and his accents extremely 
 broad. To complete the whole, he had a stateliness 
 in his gait, when he wallced, not unlike that of a 
 goose, only he stalked slower. 
 
 Mr, Trulliber, being informed that somebody 
 wanted to speak with him, innnediately slipt off his 
 apron and clothed himself in an old night-gown, 
 being the dress in which he always saw his company 
 at home. His wife, who informed him of Mr. 
 Adams's arrival, had made a small mistake ; for she 
 had told her husband, " She believed there was a 
 man come for some of his hogs." This supposition 
 made Mr. Trulliber hasten with the utmost expedi- 
 tion to attend his guest. He no sooner saw Adams 
 than, not in the least doubting the cause of his errand 
 to be what his wife had imagined, he told him, " He 
 was come in very good time ; that he expected a 
 dealer that very afternoon ; " and added, " they were 
 all pure and fat, and upwards of twenty score a-piece." 
 Adams answered, " He believed he did not know 
 him." " Yes, yes," cried Trulliber, " I have seen 
 you often at fair ; why, we have dealt before now, 
 mun, I warrant you. Yes, yes," cries he, " I remem- 
 ber thy face very well, but won't mention a word 
 more till you have seen them, though I have never 
 sold thee a flitch of such bacon as is now in the 
 
 [2]
 
 AN UNLUCKY BLUNDER 
 
 stye." Upon which he laid violent hands on Adams, 
 and dragged him into the hog-stye, which was 
 indeed but two steps from his parlour window. They 
 were no sooner arrived there than he cry'd out, 
 " Do but handle them ! step in, friend ! art wel- 
 come to handle them, whether dost buy or no." 
 At which words, opening the gate, he pushed 
 Adams into the pig-stye, insisting on it that he 
 should handle them before he would talk one word 
 with him. 
 
 Adams, whose natural complacence was beyond 
 any artificial, was obliged to comply before he was 
 suffered to explain himself; and, laying hold on one 
 of their tails, the unruly beast gave such a sudden 
 spring, that he threw poor Adams all along in the 
 mire. Trulliber, instead of assisting him to get up, 
 burst into a laughter, and, entering the stye, said to 
 Adams, with some contempt, " Why, dost not know 
 how to handle a hog ? " and was going to lay hold 
 of one himself, but Adams, who thought he had 
 carried his complacence far enough, was no sooner 
 on his legs than he escaped out of the reach of the 
 animals, and cried out, " Nihil habeo cum porcis : I 
 am a clergyman, sir, and am not come to buy hogs." 
 Trulliber answered, " He was sorry for the mistake, 
 but that he must blame his wife," adding, " she was 
 a fool, and always committed blunders." He then 
 desired him to walk in and clean himself, that he 
 would only fasten up the stye and follow him. Adams 
 desired leave to dry his greatcoat, wig, and hat by 
 the fire, which Trulliber gi-anted. Mrs. Trulliber 
 would have brought him a basin of water to wash his 
 
 [3].
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 face, but her husband bid her be quiet Hke a fool as 
 she was, or she would connnit more blunders, and 
 then directed Adams to the pump. While Adams 
 was thus employed, Trulliber, conceiving no great 
 respect for the appearance of his guest, fastened the 
 parlour door, and now conducted him into the 
 kitchen, telling him he believed a cup of drink would 
 do him no harm, and whispered his wife to draw a 
 little of the worst ale. After a short silence Adams 
 said, " I fancy, sir, you already perceive me to be 
 a clergyman." — " Ay, ay," cries Trulliber, grinning, 
 " I perceive you have some cassock ; I will not ven- 
 ture to caale it a whole one." Adams answered, " It 
 was indeed none of the best, but he had the mis- 
 fortune to tear it about ten years ago in passing 
 over a stile." Mrs. Trulliber, returning with the 
 drink, told her husband, " She fancied the gentleman 
 Avas a traveller, and that he would be glad to eat a 
 bit." Trulliber bid her hold her impertinent 
 tongue, and asked her, " If parsons used to travel 
 without horses ? " adding, " he supposed the gentle- 
 man had none by his having no boots on." — " Yes, 
 sir, yes," says Adams ; " I have a horse, but I have left 
 him behind me." — "I am glad to hear you have 
 one," says Trulliber ; " for I assure you I don't love 
 to see clergymen on foot ; it is not seemly nor 
 suiting the dignity of the cloth." Here Trulliber 
 made a long oration on the dignity of the cloth (or 
 rather gown) not much worth relating, till his wife 
 had spread the table and set a mess of porridge on 
 it for his breakfest. He then said to Adams, " I 
 don't know, friend, how you came to caale on me ; 
 
 [4]
 
 THE TWO PARSONS 
 
 however, as you are here, if you think proper to eat 
 a morsel, you njay." Adams accepted the invit^ition, 
 and the two parsons sat down together ; Mrs. Trulh- 
 ber waiting behind her husband's chair, as was, it 
 seems, her custom. Trulhber eat heartily, but scarce 
 put anything in his mouth without finding fault 
 with his wife's cookery. All which the poor woman 
 bore patiently. Indeed, she was so absolute an 
 admirer of her husband's greatness and importance, 
 of which she had frequent hints from his own mouth, 
 that she almost carried her adoration to an opinion 
 of his inffillibility. To say the truth, the parson 
 had exercised her more ways than one ; and the pious 
 woman had so well edified by her husband's sermons, 
 that she had resolved to receive the bad things of this 
 world together with the good. She had indeed been 
 at first a little contentious ; but he had long since 
 got the better ; partly by her love for this, partly by 
 her fear of that, partly by her religion, partly by 
 the respect he paid himself, and partly by that 
 which he received from the parish. She had, in 
 short, absolutely submitted, and now worshipped her 
 husband, as Sarah did Abraham, calling him (not 
 lord, but) master. Whilst they were at table her 
 husband gave her a fresh example of his greatness ; 
 for, as she had just delivered a cup of ale to Adams, 
 he snatched it out of his hand, and, crying out, " I 
 caid'd vurst," swallowed down the ale. Adams 
 denied it ; it was referred to the wife, who, though 
 her conscience was on the side of Adams, durst not 
 give it against her husband ; upon which he said, 
 " No, sir, no ; I should not have been so rude to have 
 
 [5]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 taken it from you if you had caal'd vurst, but I 'd 
 have you know I ""ni a better man than to suffer the 
 best he in the kingdom to drink before me in my 
 own house when I caale vurst." 
 
 As soon as their breakfast was ended, Adams 
 began in the following manner : " I think, sir, it is 
 high time to inform you of the business of my em- 
 bassy. I am a traveller, and am passing this way in 
 company with two young people, a lad and a damsel, 
 my parishioners, towards my own cure ; we stopt 
 at a house of hospitality in the parish, where they 
 directed me to you as having the cure." — " Though 
 I am but a curate," says Trulliber, " I believe I 
 am as warm as the vicar himself, or perhaps the 
 rector of the next parish too ; I believe I could 
 buy them both." — "Sir," cries Adams, "I rejoice 
 thereat. Now, sir, my business is, that we are by 
 various accidents stript of our money, and are not 
 able to pay our reckoning, being seven shillings. I 
 therefore request you to assist me with tlie loan of 
 those seven shillings, and also seven shillings more, 
 which, peradventure, I shall return to you ; but if 
 not, I am convinced you will joyfully embrace such 
 an opportunity of laying up a treasure in a better 
 place than any this world affords." 
 
 Suppose a stranger, who entered the chambers of 
 a lawyer, being imagined a client, when the lawyer 
 was preparing his palm for the fee, should pull out 
 a writ against him. Suppose an apothecary, at the 
 door of a chariot containing some great doctor of 
 eminent skill, should, instead of directions to a 
 patient, present him with a potion for himself. Sup- 
 
 [6]
 
 PARSON TRULLIBER ASTONISHED 
 
 pose a minister should, instead of a good round sum, 
 
 treat my lord , or sir , or escj. 
 
 with a good broomstick. Suppose a civil compan- 
 ion, or a led captain, should, instead of virtue, and 
 honour, and beauty, and parts, and admiration, 
 thunder vice, and infamy, and ugliness, and folly, 
 and contempt, in his patron's ears. Suppose, when 
 a tradesman first carries in his bill, the man of 
 fashion should pay it ; or suppose, if he did so, the 
 tradesman should abate what he had overcharged, 
 on the supposition of waiting. In short — suppose 
 what you will, you never can nor will suppose any- 
 thing equal to the astonishment which seized on 
 Trulliber, as soon as Adams had ended his speech. 
 A while he rolled his eyes in silence ; sometimes sur- 
 veying Adams, then his wife ; then casting them on 
 the ground, then lifting them up to heaven. At 
 last he burst forth in the following accents : " Sir, I 
 believe I know where to lay up my little treasure as 
 well as another. I thank G — , if I am not so warm 
 as some, I am content; that is a blessing greater 
 than riches ; and he to whom that is given need ask 
 no more. To be content with a little is greater than 
 to possess the world ; which a man may possess 
 without being so. Lay up my treasure ! what 
 matters where a man's treasure is whose heart is in 
 the Scriptures ? there is the treasure of a Christian." 
 At these words the water ran from Adams's eyes ; 
 and, catching Trulliber by the hand in a rapture, 
 " Brother," says he, " heavens bless the accident by 
 which I came to see you ! I would have walked 
 many a mile to have conniiuned with you ; and, be- 
 
 [7]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 lieve me, I will shortly pay you a second visit ; but 
 my friends, I fancy, by this time, wonder at my stay ; 
 so let me have the money in) mediately." Trulliber 
 then put on a stern look, and cried out, " Thou dost 
 not intend to rob me ?" At which the wife, burst- 
 ing into tears, fell on her knees and roared out, " O 
 dear sir ! for lleavcn"'s sake don"'t rob my master ; we 
 are but poor people."" " Get up, for a fool as thou 
 art, and go about thy business," said Trulliber; 
 " dost think the man will venture his life ? he is 
 a beggar, and no robber." " Very true, indeed," 
 answered Adams. " I wish, with all my heart, the 
 tithing-man was here," cries Trulliber ; " I would 
 have thee punished as a vagabond for thy impudence. 
 Fourteen shillings indeed ! I won't give thee a 
 farthing. I believe thou art no more a clergyman 
 than the woman there" (pointing to his wife) ; " but 
 if thou art, dost deserve to have thy gown stript 
 over thy shoulders for running about the country in 
 such a manner." " I forgive your suspicions," says 
 Adams ; " but suppose I am not a clergyman, I am 
 nevertheless thy brother ; and thou, as a Christian, 
 much more as a clergyman, art obliged to relieve my 
 distress." " Dost preach to me ? " replied Trulliber ; 
 " dost pretend to instruct me in my duty ? " *' Ifacks, 
 a good story," cries Mrs. Trulliber, " to preach to 
 my master." " Silence, woman," cries Trulliber. " I 
 would have thee know, friend " (addressing himself 
 to Adams), " I shall not learn my duty from such as 
 thee. I know what charity is, better than to give to 
 vagabonds." " Besides, if we were inclined, the poor's 
 rate obliges us to give so much charity," cries the 
 
 [8]
 
 PARSON TRULLIBER S CHARITY 
 
 wife. " Pugh ! thou art a fool. Poors reate ! Hold 
 thy nonsense," answered Trulliber ; and then, turn- 
 ing to Adams, he told him, " he would give him 
 nothing." "I am sorry," answered Adams, "that 
 you do know what charity is, since you practise it 
 no better : I must tell you, if you trust to your 
 knowledge for your justification, you will find your- 
 self deceived, though you should add faith to it, 
 without good works," " Fellow," cries Trulliber, 
 " dost thou speak against ftiith in my house ? Get 
 out of my doors : I will no longer remain under the 
 same roof with a wretch who speaks wantonly of 
 faith and the Scriptures." " Name not the Scrip- 
 tures," says Adams. " How ! not name the Scrip- 
 tures ! Do you disbelieve the Scriptures ? " cries 
 Trulliber. " No ; but you do," answered Adams, 
 " if I may reason from your practice ; for their com- 
 mands are so explicit, and their rewards and punish- 
 ments so immense, that it is impossible a man should 
 stedfastly believe without obeying. Now, there is no 
 command more express, no duty more frequently en- 
 joined, than charity. Whoever, therefoz-e, is void of 
 charity, I make no scruple of pronouncing that he 
 is no Christian." " I would not advise thee," says 
 Trulliber, " to say that I am no Christian : I won't 
 take it of you ; for I believe I am as good a man as 
 thyself" (and indeed, though he was now rather too 
 corpulent for athletic exercises, he had, in his youth, 
 been one of the best boxers and cudgel-players in the 
 county). His wife, seeing him clench his fist, inter- 
 posed, and begged him not to fight, but show him- 
 self a true Christian, and take the law of him. As 
 
 [9]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 nothing could provoke Adams to strike, but an 
 absolute assault on himself or his friend, he smiled 
 at the angry look and gestures of Trulliber ; and, 
 telling him he was sorry to see such men in orders, 
 departed without further ceremony. 
 
 [10]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 AN ADVENTURE, THE CONSEQUENCE OF A NEW INSTANCE 
 WHICH PAfiSON ADAMS GAVE OF HIS FORGETFULNESS. 
 
 WHEN he came back to the inn he found 
 Joseph and Fanny sitting together. 
 They were so far from thinking his 
 absence long, as he had feared they 
 would, that they never once missed or thought of 
 him. Indeed, I have been often assured by both, 
 that they spent these hours in a most delightful con- 
 versation ; but, as I never could prevail on either to 
 relate it, so I cannot communicate it to the reader. 
 
 Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success 
 of his enterprize. They were all greatly confounded, 
 none being able to propose any method of departing, 
 till Joseph at last advised calling in the hostess, and 
 desiring her to trust them ; which Fanny said she 
 despaired of her doing, as she was one of the sourest- 
 faced women she had ever beheld. 
 
 But she was agreeably disappointed ; for the hos- 
 tess was no sooner asked the question than she readily 
 agreed ; and, with a curtsy and smile, wished them 
 a good journey However, lest Fanny's skill in 
 physiognomy should be called in question, we will 
 venture to assign one reason which might probably 
 incline her to this confidence and good-humour. 
 
 [11]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 When Adams said he was going to visit his brother, 
 he had unwittingly imposed on Joseph and Fanny, 
 who both believed he had meant his natural brother, 
 and not his brother in divinity, and had so informed 
 the hostess, on her enquiry after him. Now Mr. 
 Trulliber had, by his professions of piety, by his 
 gravity, austerity, reserve, and the opinion of his 
 great wealth, so great an authority in his parish, 
 that they all lived in the utmost fear and apprehen- 
 sion of him. It was therefore no wonder that the 
 hostess, who knew it was in his option whether she 
 should ever sell another mug of drink, did not dare 
 to affront his supposed brother by denying him 
 credit. 
 
 They were now just on their departure when 
 Adams recollected he had left his greatcoat and hat 
 at Mr. Trulliber''s. As he was not desirous of re- 
 newing his visit, the hostess herself, having no servant 
 at home, offered to fetch it. 
 
 This was an unfortunate expedient ; for the hostess 
 was soon undeceived in the opinion she had enter- 
 tained of Adams, whom Trulliber abused in the 
 grossest terms, especially when he heard he had had 
 the assurance to pretend to be his near relation. 
 
 At her return, therefore, she entirely changed her 
 note. She said, " Folks might be ashamed of travel- 
 ling about, and pretending to be what they were not. 
 That taxes were high, and for her part she was 
 obliged to pay for what she had ; she could not there- 
 fore possibly, nor would she, trust anybody ; no, not 
 her o\vn father. That money was never scarcer, and 
 she wanted to make up a sum. That she expected, 
 
 [12 1
 
 PARSON ADAMS'S PERPLEXITY 
 
 therefore, they should pay their reckoning before they 
 left the house."''' 
 
 Adams was now greatly perplexed ; but, as he 
 knew that he could easily have borrowed such a sum 
 in his own parish, and as he knew he would have lent 
 it himself to any mortal in distress, so he took fi-esh 
 courage, and sallied out all round the parish, but to 
 no purpose; he returned as pennyless as he went, 
 groaning and lamenting that it was possible, in a 
 country professing Christianity, for a wretch to starve 
 in the midst of his fellow-creatures who abounded. 
 
 Whilst he was gone, the hostess, who stayed as 
 a sort of guard with Joseph and Fanny, entertained 
 them with the goodness of parson Trulliber. And, 
 indeed, he had not only a very good character as to 
 other qualities in the neighbourhood, but was reputed 
 a man of great charity ; for, though he never gave a 
 farthing, he had always that word in his mouth. 
 
 Adams was no sooner returned the second time 
 than the storm grew exceedingly high, the hostess 
 declaring, among other things, that, if they offered 
 to stir without paying her, she would soon overtake 
 them with a Avarrant. 
 
 Plato and Aristotle, or somebody else, hath said, 
 that when the most exquisite cunning fails, chance often 
 hits the marl:, and that by means the least expected. 
 Virgil expresses this very boldly : — 
 
 Turne, quod optanti divum promittere nemo 
 Auderet, volvenda dies, en! attulit ultro. 
 
 I would quote more great men if I could ; but my 
 memory not permitting me, I will proceed to exem- 
 plify these observations bv the following instance : — 
 
 [13]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 There chanced (for Adams had not cunning enough 
 to contrive it) to be at that time in the alehouse a 
 fellow who had been formei'ly a drummer in an Irish 
 regiment, and now travelled the country as a pedlar. 
 This man, having attentively listened to the discourse 
 of the hostess, at last took Adams aside, and asked 
 him what the sum was for which they were detained. 
 As soon as he was informed, he sighed, and said, 
 " He was sorry it was so much ; for that he had no 
 more than six shillings and sixpence in his pocket, 
 which he would lend them with all his heart."" 
 Adams gave a caper, and cry'd out, " It would do ; 
 for that he had sixpence himself."' And thus these 
 poor people, who could not engage the compassion 
 of riches and piety, were at length delivered oat of 
 their distress by the charity of a |X)or pedlar, 
 
 I shall refer it to my reader to make what observa- 
 tions he pleases on this incident : it is sufficient for 
 me to inform him that, after Adams and his com- 
 panions had returned him a thousand thanks, and told 
 him where he might call to be repaid, they all sallied 
 out of the house without any compliments fi'om their 
 hostess, or indeed without paying her any ; Adams 
 declaring he would take particular care never to call 
 there again ; and she on her side assuring them she 
 wanted no such guests. 
 
 [14]
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 A VERY CURIOUS ADVENTURE, IN WHICH MR. ADAMS GAVE 
 A MUCH GREATER INSTANCE OF THE HONEST SIMPLI- 
 CITY OF HIS HEART, THAN OF HIS EXPERIENCE IN 
 THE WAYS OF THIS WORLD. 
 
 OUll travellers had walked about two miles 
 from that inn, which they had more 
 reason to have mistaken for a castle than 
 Don Quixote ever had any of those in 
 which he sojourned, seeing they had met with such 
 difficulty in escaping out of its walls, when they came 
 to a parish, and beheld a sign of invitation hanging 
 out. A gentleman sat smoaking a pipe at the door, 
 of whom Adams inquired the road, and received so 
 courteous and obliging an answer, accompanied with 
 so smiling a countenance, that the good parson, 
 whose heart was naturally disposed to love and affec- 
 tion, began to ask several other questions ; parti- 
 cularly the name of the parish, and who was the 
 owner of a large house whose front they then had in 
 prospect. The gentleman answei-ed as obligingly as 
 before ; and as to the house, acquainted him it was 
 his own. He then proceeded in the following man- 
 ner : " Sir, I presume by your habit you are a clergy- 
 man ; and as you are travelling on foot I suppose a 
 glass of good beer will not be disagreeable to you ; 
 
 [15]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and I can recommend my landlord's within as some 
 of the best in all this country. What say you, will 
 you halt a little and let us take a pipe together ? 
 there is no better tobacco in the kingdom," This 
 proposal was not displeasing to Adams, who had 
 allayed his thirst that day with no better liquor than 
 what Mrs. Trulliber's cellar had produced ; and which 
 was indeed little superior, either in richness or flavour, 
 to that which distilled from those grains her generous 
 husband bestowed on his hogs. Having, therefore, 
 abundantly thanked the gentleman for his kind in- 
 vitation, and bid Joseph and Fanny follow him, he 
 entered the alehouse, where a large loaf and cheese 
 and a pitcher of beer, which truly answered the 
 character given of it, being set before them, the three 
 travellers fell to eating, with appetites infinitely more 
 voracious than are to be found at the most exquisite 
 eating-houses in the parish of St. James's. 
 
 The gentleman expressed great delight in the 
 hearty and cheerful behaviour of Adams ; and par- 
 ticularly in the familiarity with which he conversed 
 with Joseph and Fanny, whom he often called his 
 children ; a term he explained to mean no more than 
 his parishioners ; saying, " He looked on all those 
 whom God had intrusted to his cure to stand to him 
 in that relation." The gentleman, shaking him by 
 the hand, highly applauded those sentiments. " They 
 are, indeed," says he, " the true principles of a 
 Christian divine ; and I heartily wish they were 
 universal ; but, on the contrary, I am sorry to say 
 the parson of our parish, instead of esteeming his 
 poor parishioners as a part of his family, seems 
 
 [16]
 
 SPIRITUAL PRIDE 
 
 rather to consider them as not of the same species 
 with himself. He seldom speaks to any, unless some 
 few of the richest of us ; nay, indeed, he will not 
 move his hat to the others. I often laugh when I 
 behold him on Sundays strutting along the church- 
 yard like a turkey-cock through rows of his parish- 
 ioners, who bow to him with as much submission, 
 and are as unregarded, as a set of servile courtiers by 
 the proudest prince in Christendom. But if such 
 temporal pride is ridiculous, surely the spiritual is 
 odious and detestable ; if such a pufFed-up empty 
 human bladder, strutting in princely robes, justly 
 moves one's derision, surely in the habit of a priest 
 it must raise our scorn." 
 
 " Doubtless,"" answered Adams, " your opinion is 
 right ; but I hope such examples are rare. The 
 clergy whom I have the honour to know maintain a 
 different behaviour ; and you will allow me, sir, that 
 the readiness which too many of the laity show to 
 contemn the order may be one reason of their avoid- 
 ing too much humility."" " Very true, indeed," says 
 the gentleman ; " I find, sir, you are a man of ex- 
 cellent sense, and am happy in this opportunity of 
 knowing you ; perhaps our accidental meeting may 
 not be disadvantageous to you neither. At present 
 I shall only say to you that the incumbent of this 
 living is old and infirm, and that it is in my gift. 
 Doctor, give me your hand ; and assure yourself of 
 it at his decease." Adams told him, " He was never 
 more confounded in his life than at his utter inca- 
 pacity to make any return to such noble and un- 
 merited generosity." " A mere trifle, sir," cries the 
 
 VOL. II.— 2 [ 17 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 gentleman, " scarce worth your acceptance; a little 
 more than three hundred a year. I wish it was 
 double the value for your sake." Adams bowed, 
 and cried from the emotions of his gratitude ; when 
 the other asked him, " If he was married, or had any 
 children, besides those in the spiritual sense he had 
 mentioned."" " Sir," replied the parson, " I have a 
 wife and six at your service." " That is vmlucky," 
 says the gentleman ; " for I would otherwise have 
 taken you into my own house as my chaplain ; how- 
 ever, I have another in the parish (for the parsonage- 
 house is not good enough), which I will furnish for 
 you. Pray, does your wife understand a dairy ? " 
 " I can't profess she does," says Adams. *' I am 
 sorry for it," quoth the gentleman ; *' I would have 
 given you half-a-dozen cows, and very good grounds 
 to have maintained them." *' Sir," said Adams, in 
 an extasy, "•' you are too liberal ; indeed you are." 
 " Not at all," cries the gentleman : " I esteem riches 
 only as they give me an opportunity of doing good ; 
 and I never saw one whom I had a greater inclina- 
 tion to serve." At which words he shook him 
 heartily by the hand, and told him he had sufficient 
 room in his house to entertain him and his friends. 
 Adams begged he might give him no such trouble ; 
 that they could be very well accommodated in the 
 house where they were ; forgetting they had not a 
 sixpenny piece among them. The gentleman would 
 not be denied ; and, informing himself how far they 
 were travelling, he said it was too long a journey to 
 take on foot, and begged that they would favour 
 him by suffering him to lend them a servant and 
 
 [18]
 
 OFFERS OF HOsriTALrrv 
 
 horses ; adding, withal, that, if they would do him 
 the pleasure of their company only two days, he 
 would furnish them with his coach and six. Adams, 
 turning to Joseph, said, " How lucky is this gentle- 
 man's goodness to you, who I am afraid would be 
 scarce able to hold out on your lame leg ! " and then, 
 addressing the person who made him these liberal 
 promises, after much bowing, he cried out, " Blessed 
 be the hour which first introduced me to a man of 
 vour charity ! you are indeed a Christian of the true 
 primitive kind, and an honour to the country 
 wherein you live. I would willingly have taken a 
 pilgrimage to the Holy Land to have beheld you ; 
 for the advantages which we draw from your good- 
 ness give me little pleasure, in comparison of what I 
 enjoy for your own sake when I consider the trea- 
 sures you are by these means laying up for yourself 
 in a country that passeth not away. We will there- 
 fore, most generous sir, accept your goodness, as well 
 the entertainment you have so kindly offered us at 
 vour house this evening, as the accommodation of 
 vour horses to-morrow morning." He then began 
 to search for his hat, as did Joseph for his ; and 
 both they and Fanny were in order of departure, 
 when the gentleman, stopping short, and seeming to 
 meditate by himself for the space of about a minute, 
 exclaimed thus : " Sure never anything was so un- 
 lucky ; I had forgot that my housekeeper was gone 
 abroad, and hath locked up all my rooms ; indeed, I 
 would break them open for you, but shall not be able 
 to furnish you with a bed ; for she has likewise put 
 a^^■ay all my linen. I am glad it entered into my 
 
 [ 19 1
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 head before I had given you the trouble of walking 
 there ; besides, I believe you will find better accom- 
 modations here than you expected. — Landlord, you 
 can provide good beds for these people, can't you ? " 
 " Yes, and please your worship," cries the host, 
 " and such as no lord or justice of the peace in the 
 kingdom need be ashamed to lie in." " I am heartily 
 sorry," says the gentleman, " for this disappointment. 
 I am resolved I will never suffer her to carry away 
 the keys again." "Pray, sir, let it not make you 
 uneasy," cries Adams ; " we shall do very well here ; 
 and the loan of your horses is a favour we shall be 
 incapable of making any return to." " Ay ! " said 
 the squire, " the horses shall attend you here at what 
 hour in the morning you please ; " and now, after 
 many civilities too tedious to enumerate, many 
 squeezes by the hand, with most affectionate looks 
 and smiles at each other, and after appointing the 
 horses at seven the next morning, the gentleman 
 took his leave of them, and departed to his own 
 house. Adams and his companions returned to the 
 table, where the parson smoaked another pipe, and 
 then they all retired to rest. 
 
 Mr. Adams rose very early, and called Joseph out 
 of his bed, between whom a very fierce dispute 
 ensued, whether Fanny should ride behind Joseph, 
 or behind the gentleman's servant ; Joseph insisting 
 on it that he was perfectly recovered, and was as 
 capable of taking care of Fanny as any other person 
 could be. But Adams would not agree to it, and 
 declared he would not trust her behind him ; for that 
 he was weaker than he imagined himself to be. 
 
 [20]
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 This dispute continued along time, and had begun' 
 to be very hot, when a servant arrived from their 
 good friend, to acquaint them that he was unfortu- 
 nately prevented from lending them any horses ; for 
 that his groom had, unicnown to him, put his whole 
 stable under a course of phvsic. 
 
 This advice presently struck the two disputants 
 dumb : Adams cried out, " Was ever anything so 
 unlucky as this poor gentleman? I protest I am 
 more sorry on his account than my own. You see, 
 Joseph, how this good-natured man is treated by his 
 servants ; one locks up his linen, another physics his 
 horses, and I suppose, by his being at this house last 
 night, the butler had locked up his cellar. Bless us ! 
 how good-nature is used in this world ! I protest I 
 am more concerned on his account than my own." 
 " So am not I," cries Joseph ; " not that I am much 
 troubled about \\alking on foot ; all my concern is, 
 how we shall get out of the house, unless God sends 
 another pedlar to redeem us. But certainly this 
 gentleman has such an affection for you, that he would 
 lend you a larger sum than we owe here, which is 
 not above four or five shillings." " \ ery true, 
 child," answered Adams ; " I will write a letter to 
 him, and will even venture to solicit him for three 
 half-crowns ; there will be no harm in having two 
 or three shillings in our pockets ; as we have full 
 forty miles to travel, we may possibly have occasion 
 for them." 
 
 Fanny being now risen, Joseph paid her a visit, 
 and left Adams to write his letter, which having 
 finished, he despatched a bov with it to the gentle- 
 
 [21]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 man, and then seated himself by the door, hghted 
 his pipe, and betook himself to meditation. 
 
 The boy staying longer than seemed to be neces- 
 sary, Jose})h, who with Eanny was now returned to 
 the parson, expressed some apprehensions that the 
 gentleman"'s steward had locked up his purse too. 
 To which Adams answered, " It might very possibly 
 be, and he should wonder at no liberties which the 
 devil might put into the head of a wicked servant 
 to take with so worthy a master;''"' but added, " that, 
 as the sum was so small, so noble a gentleman would 
 be easily able to procure it in the parish, though he 
 had it not in his own pocket. Indeed,"' says he, " if 
 it was four or five guineas, or any such large quantity 
 of money, it might be a different matter." 
 
 They were now sat down to breakfast over some 
 toast and ale, when the boy returned and informed 
 them that the gentleman was not at home. " Very 
 well ! " cries Adams ; " but why, child, did you not 
 stay till his return ? Go back again, my good boy, 
 and wait for his coming home ; he cannot be gone 
 far, as his horses are all sick ; and besides, he had no 
 intention to go abroad, for he invited us to spend 
 this day and to-morrow at his house. Therefore go 
 back, child, and tarry till his return home." The 
 messenger departed, and was back again with great 
 expedition, bringing an account that the gentleman 
 was gone a long journey, and would not be at home 
 again this month. At these words Adams seemed 
 greatly confounded, saying, " This must be a sudden 
 accident, as the sickness or death of a relation or 
 some such unforeseen misfortune ; " and then, turning 
 
 [ 22 ]
 
 INSINCERITY 
 
 to Joseph, cried, "I wish you had reminded me to have 
 borrowed this money last night." Joseph, smiHng, 
 answered, " He was very much deceived if the gen- 
 tleman would not have found some excuse to avoid 
 lending it. — I ow n," says he, " I was never much 
 pleased with his professing so much kindness for 
 you at first siglit ; for I have heard the gentlemen of 
 our cloth in London tell many such stories of their 
 masters. But when the bov brought the message 
 back of his not being at home, I presently knew 
 what would follow ; for, whenever a man of fashion 
 doth not care to fulfil his promises, the custom is to 
 order his servants that he will never be at home 
 to the person so promised. In London they call 
 it denvinc him. I have mvself denied Sir Thomas 
 Booby above a hundred times, and when the man 
 hath danced attendance for about a month or some- 
 times longer, he is acquainted in the end that the 
 gentleman is gone out of town and could do nothing 
 in the business." — " Good Lord ! " says Adams, 
 " what wickedness is there in the Christian world ! 
 I profess almost equal to what I have read of the 
 heathens. But surely, Joseph, your suspicions of 
 this gentleman must be unjust, for what a silly fellow 
 must he be who would do the devil's work for noth- 
 ing ! and canst thou tell me any interest he could 
 possibly propose to himself by deceiving us in his 
 professions ? " — " It is not for me," answered Joseph, 
 " to give reasons for what men do, to a gentleman of 
 your learning." — "You say right," quoth Adams; 
 " knowledge of men is only to be learned from books ; 
 Plato and Seneca for that ; and those are authors, 
 
 [23 1
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 I am afraid, child, you never read." — " Not I, sir, 
 truly," answered Joseph ; " all I know is, it is a 
 maxim among the gentlemen of our cloth, that those 
 masters who promise the most perform the least ; 
 and I have often heard them say they have found 
 the largest vails in those families where they were 
 not promised any. But, sir, instead of considering 
 any farther these matters, it would be our wisest 
 way to contrive some method of getting out of this 
 house ; for the generous gentleman, instead of doing 
 us any service, hath left us the whole reckoning to 
 pay." Adams was going to answer, when their host 
 came in, and, with a kind of jeering smile, said, 
 " Well, masters ! the squire hath not sent his horses 
 for you yet. Laud help me ! how easily some folks 
 make promises ! " — " How ! " says Adams ; " have 
 you ever known him do anything of this kind before ?" 
 — " Aye ! marry have I," answered the host : " it is no 
 business of mine, you know, sir, to say anything to a 
 gentleman to his face ; but now he is not here, I will 
 assure you, he hath not his fellow within the three 
 next market-towns. I own I could not help laughing 
 when I heard him offer you the living, for thereby 
 hangs a good jest. I thought he would have offered 
 you my house next, for one is no more his to dispose 
 of than the other." At these words Adams, blessing 
 himself^- -declared, " He had never read of such a 
 monster. But what vexes me most," says he, "is, 
 that he hath decoyed us into running up a long debt 
 with you, which we are not able to pay, for we have 
 no money about us, and, what is worse, live at such 
 a distance, that if vou should trust us, I am afraid 
 
 [24]
 
 GENUINE HOSPITALITY 
 
 you would lose your money for want of our finding 
 any conveniencv of sending it." — "Trust vou, 
 master ! " says the host, " that I will with all my 
 heart. I honour the clergy too much to deny trust- 
 ing one of them for such a trifle ; besides, I like your 
 fear of never paying me. I have lost many a debt 
 in my lifetime, but was promised to be paid them all 
 in a very short time. I will score this reckoning for 
 the novelty of it. It is the first, I do assure you, 
 of its kind. But what say vou, master, .shall we 
 have f other pot before we part.'' It will waste but 
 a little chalk more, and if you never pay me a shilling 
 the loss will not ruin me." Adams liked the invita- 
 tion very well, especially as it was delivered with so 
 hearty an accent. He shook his host by the hand, 
 and thanking him, said, " He would tarry another 
 pot rather for the pleasure of such worthy company 
 than for the liquor;" adding, "he was glad to find 
 some Christians left in the kingdom, for that he 
 almost began to suspect that he was sojourning in a 
 country inhabited only by Jews and Turks." 
 
 The kind host produced the liquor, and Joseph 
 with Fanny retired into the garden, where, while they 
 solaced themselves with amorous discourse, Adams 
 sat down with his host ; and, both filling their 
 glasses, and lighting their pipes, they began that 
 dialogue which the reader will find in :e next 
 chapter. 
 
 [25]
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS AND HIS 
 HOST, WHICH, BY THE DISAGREEMENT IN THEIR 
 OPINIONS, SEEMED TO THREATEN AN UNLUCKY 
 CATASTROPHE, HAD IT NOT BEEN TIMELY PRE- 
 VENTED BY THE RETURN OF THE LOVERS. 
 
 IR," said the host, " I assure you you are 
 not the first to whom our scjuire hath 
 promised more than he hath performed. 
 He is so famous for this practice, that his 
 word will not be taken for much by those who know 
 him. I remember a young fellow whom he promised 
 his parents to make an exciseman. The poor people, 
 who could ill afford it, bred their son to writing and 
 accounts, and other learning to qualify him for the 
 place ; and the boy held up liis head above his con- 
 dition with these hopes ; nor would he go to plough, 
 nor to any other kind of work, and went constantly 
 drest as fine as could bo, with two clean Holland 
 shirts a week, and this for several years ; till at last 
 he followed the squire up to London, thinking there 
 to mind him of his promises ; but he could never get 
 sight of him. So that, being out of money and busi- 
 ness, he fell into evil company and wicked courses ; 
 and in the end came to a sentence of transportation, 
 the news of which broke the mother's heart. — I will 
 
 [26 1
 
 THE HOST^S STORY 
 
 tell you another true story of him. There was a 
 
 neighbour of mine, a farmer, who had tAvo sons whom 
 
 he bred up to the business. Pretty lads they were. 
 
 Nothing would serve the squire but that the youngest 
 
 must be made a parson. Upon which he persuaded 
 
 the father to send him to school, promising that he 
 
 would afterwards maintain him at the university, and, 
 
 when he was of a proper age, give him a living. But 
 
 after the lad had been seven years at school, and his 
 
 fether brought him to the squire, with a letter from 
 
 his master that he was fit for the university, the 
 
 squire, instead of minding his promise, or sending 
 
 him thither at his expense, only told his father that 
 
 the young man was a fine scholar, and it was pity he 
 
 could not afford to keep him at Oxford for four or 
 
 five years more, by which time, if he could get him 
 
 a curacy, he might have him ordained. The farmer 
 
 said, ' He was not a man sufficient to do any such 
 
 thing.'' — ' Why, then," answered the squire, ' I am 
 
 very sorry you have given him so much learning ; for, 
 
 if he cannot get his living by that, it will rather spoil 
 
 him for anything else ; and your other son, who can 
 
 hardly write his name, will do more at ploughing and 
 
 sowing, and is in a better condition, than he." And 
 
 indeed so it proved ; for the poor lad, not finding 
 
 friends to maintain him in his learning, as he had 
 
 expected, and being unwilling to work, fell to di'ink- 
 
 ina;, thoug-h he was a very sober lad before ; and in a 
 
 short time, partly with grief, and partly with good 
 
 liquor, fell into a consumption, and died. — Nay, I 
 
 can tell you more still : there was another, a young 
 
 woman, and the handsomest in all this neighbour- 
 
 [27]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 hood, whom he enticed up to London, promising to 
 make her a gentlewoman to one of your women of 
 quahty ; but, instead of keeping his word, we have 
 since heard, after having a child by her himself, she 
 became a common whore ; then kept a coffee-house 
 in Covent Garden ; and a little after died of the 
 French distemper in a gaol. — I could tell you many 
 more stories ; but how do you imagine he served me 
 myself? You must know, sir, I was bred a seafarine; 
 man, and have been many voyages ; till at last I came 
 to be master of a ship myself, and was in a fair way 
 of making a fortune, when I was attacked by one of 
 those cursed guarda-costas who took our ships before 
 the beginning of the war ; and after a fight, wherein 
 I lost the greater part of my crew, my rigging being 
 all demolished, and two shots received between wind 
 and water, I was forced to strike. The villains 
 carried off my ship, a brigantine of 150 tons — a 
 pretty creature she was — and put me, a man, and a 
 boy, into a little bad pink, in which, with much ado, 
 we at last made Falmouth ; though I believe the 
 Spaniards did not imagine she could possibly live a 
 day at sea. Upon my return hither, where my wife, 
 who was of this country, then lived, the squire told 
 me he was so pleased with the defence I had made 
 against the enemy, that he did not fear getting me 
 promoted to a lieutenancy of a man-of-war, if I would 
 accept of it ; which I thankfully assured him I would. 
 Well, sir, two or three years passed, during which I 
 had many repeated promises, not only from the squire, 
 but (as he told me) from the lords of the admiralty. 
 He never returned from London but I was assured I 
 
 [28]
 
 THE FAITHLESS SQUIRE 
 
 might be satisfied now, for I was certain of the first 
 vacancy ; and, what surprizes me still, when I reflect 
 on it, these assurances were given me with no less con- 
 fidence, after so many disappointments, than at first. 
 At last, sir, growing weary, and somewhat suspicious, 
 after so much delay, I wrote to a friend in London, 
 who I knew had some acquaintance at the best house 
 in the admiralty, and desired him to back the squire''s 
 interest ; for indeed I feared he had solicited the 
 affair with more coldness than he pretended. And 
 what answer do you think my friend sent me ? Truly, 
 sir, he acquainted me that the squire had never 
 mentioned my name at the admiralty in his life ; and, 
 unless I had much faithfuller interest, advised me to 
 give over my pretensions ; which I immediately did, 
 and, with the concurrence of mv wife, resolved to set 
 up an alehouse, where you are heartily welcome ; and 
 so my service to you ; and may the squire, and all 
 such sneaking rascals, go to the devil together.*' — " O 
 fie! "says Adams, "O fie! He is indeed a wicked 
 man ; but G — will, I hope, turn his heart to repent- 
 ance. Nay, if he could but once see the meanness 
 of this detestable vice ; would he but once reflect that 
 he is one of the most scandalous as well as pernicious 
 lyars ; sure he must despise himself to so intolerable 
 a degree, that it would be impossible for him to con- 
 tinue a moment in such a course. And to confess the 
 truth, notwithstanding the baseness of this character, 
 which he hath too well deserved, he hath in his 
 countenance sufficient symptoms of that hona hidoles^ 
 that sweetness of disposition, which furnishes out a 
 good Christian." — " Ah, master ! master ! " says the 
 
 [29]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 host, " if you had travelled as far as I have, and con- 
 versed with the many nations where I have traded, 
 you would not give any credit to a man's countenance. 
 Symptoms in his countenance, quotha ! I would look 
 there, perhaps, to see whether a man had the small- 
 pox, but for nothing else." He spoke this with so 
 little regard to the parson''s observation, that it a 
 good deal nettled him ; and, taking the pipe hastily 
 from his mouth, he thus answered : " ^Master of mine, 
 perhaps I have travelled a great deal farther than you 
 without the assistance of a ship. Do you imagine 
 sailing by different cities or countries is travelling ? 
 No. 
 
 " Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. 
 
 I can go farther in an afternoon than you in a twelve- 
 month. What, I suppose you have seen the Pillars 
 of Hercules, and perhaps the walls of Carthage. 
 Nay, you may have heard Scylla, and seen Charybdis ; 
 you may have entered the closet where Archimedes 
 was found at the taking of Syracuse. I suppose you 
 have sailed among the Cyclades, and passed the 
 famous straits which take their name from the un- 
 fortunate Helle, whose fate is sweetly described by 
 Apollonius Rhodius ; you have passed the very spot, 
 I conceive, where Daedalus fell into that sea, his 
 waxen wings being melted by the sun ; you have 
 traversed the Euxine sea, I make no doubt ; nay, 
 you may have been on the banks of the Caspian, and 
 called at Colchis, to see if there is ever another 
 golden fleece."" " Not I, truly, master,"" answered the 
 host: "I never touched at any of these places."" — 
 
 [30] '
 
 CHARACTER OF SOCRATES 
 
 " But I have been at all these," replied Adams. 
 "Then, I suppose," cries the host, "'you have been 
 at the East Indies ; for there are no such, I will be 
 sworn, either in the West or the Levant." — "Pray 
 where ''s the Levant "^ " quoth Adams ; " that should 
 be in the East Indies by right." " Oho ! you are a 
 pretty traveller," cries the host, " and not know the 
 Levant I My service to you, master ; you must not 
 talk of these things with me ! you must not tip us 
 the traveller ; it won't go here." " Since thou art 
 so dull to misunderstand me still," quoth Adams, 
 " I will inform thee ; the travellino; I mean is in 
 books, the only way of travelling by which any know- 
 ledge is to be acquired. From them I learn what I 
 asserted just now, that nature generally imprints 
 such a portraiture of the mind in the countenance, 
 that a skilful physiognomist will rarely be deceived. 
 I presume you have never read the story of Socrates 
 to this purpose, and therefore I will tell it you. A 
 certain physiognomist asserted of Socrates, that he 
 plainly discovered by his features that he was a rogue 
 in his nature. A character so contrary to the tenour 
 of all this great man's actions, and the generally 
 received opinion concerning him, incensed the boys 
 of Athens so that they threw stones at the physi- 
 ognomist, and would have demolished him for his 
 ignorance, had not Socrates himself prevented them 
 by confessing the ti-uth of his observations, and 
 acknowledging that, though he corrected his dis- 
 position by philosophy, he was indeed naturally as 
 inclined to vice as had been predicated of him. Now, 
 pray resolve me — How should a man know this 
 
 [31]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 story if he had not read it ? "" " Well, master," said 
 the host, " and what signifies it whether a man knows 
 it or no ? He who goes abroad, as I have done, will- 
 always have opportunities enough of knowing the 
 world without troubling his head with Socrates, or 
 any such fellows."' " Friend," cries Adams, " if a 
 man should sail round the world, and anchor in every 
 harbour of it, without learning, he would return 
 home as ignorant as he went out." " Lord help you ! " 
 answered the host ; " there was my boatswain, poor 
 fellow ! he could scarce either write or read, and vet 
 he would navigate a ship with any master of a man- 
 of-war ; and a very pretty knowledge of trade he had 
 too." " Trade," answered Adams, " as Aristotle 
 proves in his first chapter of Politics, is below a 
 philospher, and unnatural as it is managed now." 
 The host looked stedfastly at Adams, and after a 
 minute's silence asked him, " If he was one of the 
 writers of the Gazetteers .? for I have heard," says 
 he, " they are writ by parsons." " Gazetteers ! " 
 answered Adams, " what is that ? " " It is a dirty 
 newspaper," replied the host, " which hath been 
 given away all over the nation for these many years, 
 to abuse trade and honest men, which I would not 
 suffer to lye on my table, though it hath been offered 
 me for nothing." " Not I truly," said Adams ; " I 
 never write anything but sermons ; and I assure you 
 I am no enemy to trade, whilst it is consistent with 
 honesty ; nay, I have always looked on the tradesman 
 as a very valuable member of society, and, perhaps, 
 inferior to none but the man of learning." " No, I 
 believe he is not, nor to him neither," answered the 
 
 [32 ]
 
 THE JOURNEY RENEWED 
 
 host. " Of what use would learning be in a country 
 without trade ? What would all you parsons do 
 to clothe your backs and feed your bellies? ^Vho 
 fetches you your silks, and your linens, and your 
 wines, and all the other necessaries of life ? I speak 
 chiefly with regard to the sailors." " You should 
 say the extravagancies of life," replied the parson ; 
 " but admit they were the necessaries, there is some- 
 thing more necessary than life itself, which is pro- 
 vided by learning ; I mean the learning of the clergy. 
 Who clothes you with piety, meekness, humility, 
 charity, patience, and all the other Christian virtues ? 
 Who feeds your souls with the milk of brotherly 
 love, and diets them with all the dainty food of 
 holiness, which at once cleanses them of all impure 
 carnal affections, and fattens them with the truly rich 
 spirit of grace ? Who doth this ? " " Aye, who, 
 indeed ? " cries the host ; " for I do not remember 
 ever to have seen any such clothing or such feeding. 
 And so, in the mean time, master, my service to 
 you." Adams was going to answer with some sever- 
 ity, when Joseph and Fanny returned and pressed his 
 departure so eagerly that he would not refuse them ; 
 and so, grasping his crabstick, he took leave of his 
 host ( neither of them being so well pleased with 
 each other as they had been at their first sitting 
 down together), and with Joseph and Fanny, who 
 both expressed much impatience, departed, and now 
 all together renewed their journey. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 [33]
 
 BOOK III 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 MATTER PREFATORY IN PRAISE OF BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 N NOTWITHSTANDING the preference 
 which may be vulgarly given to the 
 authority of those romance writers who 
 entitle their books "the History of 
 England, the History of France, of Spain, ^c.,"" it is 
 most certain that truth is to be found only in the 
 works of those who celebrate the lives of great men, 
 and are commonly called biographers, as the others 
 should indeed be termed topographers, or choro- 
 graphers ; words which might well mark the distinc- 
 tion between them ; it being the business of the 
 latter chiefly to descrilx? countries and cities, which, 
 with the assistance of maps, they do pretty justly, 
 and may be depended upon ; but as to the actions 
 and characters of men, their writings are not quite so 
 authentic, of which there needs no other proof than 
 thoie eternal contradictions occurring between two 
 topographers who undertake the history of the same 
 country : for instance, between my Lord Clarendon 
 and Mr. Whitelocke, between Mr. Echard and Rapin, 
 and many others ; where, facts being set forth in a 
 different light, every reader believes as he pleases ; 
 
 [34] ^
 
 PRxVISE OF BIOGRAPHY 
 
 and, indeed, the more judicious and suspicious very 
 justly esteem the whole as no other than a roinance, 
 in which the writer hath indulged a happy and fer- 
 tile invention. But though these widely differ in the 
 narrative of facts ; some ascribing victory to the one, 
 and others to the other party ; some representing the 
 same man as a rogue, while others give him a great 
 and honest character ; yet all agree in the scene where 
 the fact is supposed to have happened, and where the 
 person, who is both a rogue and an honest man, lived. 
 Now with us biographers the case is different ; the 
 facts we deliver may be relied on, though we often 
 mistake the age and country wherein they happened : 
 for, though it may be worth the examination of 
 critics, whether the shepherd Chrysostom, who, as 
 Cervantes informs us, died for love of the fair Mar- 
 cella, who hated him, was ever in Spain, will any one 
 doubt but that such a silly fellow hath really existed .'' 
 Is there in the world such a sceptic as to disbelieve 
 the madness of Cardenio, the perfidy of Ferdinand, 
 the impertinent curiosity of Anselmo, the weakness 
 of Camilla, the irresolute friendship of Lothario ? 
 though perhaps, as to the time and place where those 
 several persons lived, that good historian may be 
 deplorably deficient. But the most known instance of 
 this kind is in the true history of Gil Bias, where the 
 inimitable biographer hath made a notorious blunder 
 in the country of Dr. Sangrado, who used his patients 
 as a vintner doth his wine-vessels, by letting out 
 their blood, and filling them up with water. Dotli 
 not every one, who is the least versed in physical 
 historv, know that Spain was not the country in 
 
 [ 35 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 which this doctor hved ? The same writer hath 
 hkewise erred in the country of his arclibishop, as 
 well as that of those great personages whose under- 
 standings were too sublime to taste anything but 
 tragedy, and in many others. The same mistakes 
 may likewise be observed in Scarron, the Arabian 
 Nights, the History of Marianne and le Paisan Par- 
 venu, and pcrliaps some few other writers of this 
 class, whom I have not read, or do not at present 
 recollect ; for I would by no means be thought to 
 comprehend those persons of surprizing genius, the 
 authors of immense romances, or the modern novel 
 and Atalantis writers ; who, without any assistance 
 from nature or history, record persons who never 
 were, or will be, and facts which never did, nor pos- 
 sibly can, happen ; whose heroes are of their own 
 creation, and their brains the chaos whence all their 
 materials are selected. Not that such writers deserve 
 no honour ; so far otherwise, that perhaps they merit 
 the hiirhest ; for what can be nobler than to be as an 
 example of the wonderful extent of human genius ? 
 One may apply to them what Balzac says of Aris- 
 totle, that they are a second nature (for they have 
 no communication with the first ; by which, authors 
 of an inferior class, who cannot stand alone, are 
 obliged to support themselves as with crutches) ; but 
 these of whom I am now speaking seem to be pos- 
 sessed of those stilts, which the excellent Voltaire 
 tells us, in his letters, " carry the genius far off, but 
 with an regular pace." Indeed, far out of the sight 
 of the reader. 
 
 Beyond the realm of Chaos and old Night. 
 
 [36]
 
 TYPES OF CHARACTER 
 
 But to return to the former class, who are con- 
 tented to copy nature, instead of forming originals 
 from the confused heap of matter in their own brains, 
 is not such a book as that which records the achieve- 
 ments of the renowned Don Quixote more worthy 
 the name of a history than even Mariana's : for, 
 whereas the latter is confined to a particular period 
 of time, and to a particular nation, the former 
 is the history of the world in general, at least that 
 part which is polished by laws, arts, and sciences; 
 and of that from the time it was first polished to 
 this day ; nay, and forwards as long as it shall 
 so remain ? 
 
 I shall now- proceed to apply these observations to 
 the w ork before us ; for indeed I have set them down 
 principally to obviate some constructions which the 
 good nature of mankind, who are always forward to 
 see their friends*' virtues recorded, may put to par- 
 ticular parts, I question not but several of my 
 readers will know the lawyer in the stage-coach the 
 moment they hear his voice. It is likewise odds but 
 the wit and the prude meet with some of their 
 acquaintance, as well as all the rest of my characters. 
 To prevent, therefore, any such malicious applica- 
 tions, I declare here, once for all, I describe not men, 
 but manners ; not an individual, but a species. Per- 
 haps it will be answered. Are not the characters then 
 taken from life ? To which I answer in the afliirma- 
 tive ; nay, I believe I might aver that I have writ 
 little more than I have seen. The lawyer is not 
 only alive, but hath been so these four thousand 
 years ; and I hope G — w ill indulge his life as many 
 
 rsT]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 jet to come. He hath not indeed confined himself 
 to one profession, one rehgion, or one country ; but 
 when the first mean selfish creature appeared on the 
 human stage, who made self the centre of the whole 
 creation, would give himself no pain, incur no danger, 
 advance no money, to assist or preserve his fellow- 
 creatures; then was our lawyer born ; and, whilst 
 such a pei'son as I have described exists on earth, so 
 long shall he remain upon it. It is, therefore, do- 
 ing liim little honour to imagine he endeavours to 
 mimick some little obscure fellow, because he hap- 
 pens to resemble him in one particular feature, or 
 perhaps in his profession ; whereas his appearance in 
 the world is calculated for much more general and 
 noble purposes ; not to expose one pitiful wretch to 
 the small and contemptible circle of his acquaintance ; 
 but to hold the glass to thousands in their closets, 
 that they may contemplate their deformity, and en- 
 deavour to reduce it, and thus by suffering private 
 mortification may avoid public shame. This places 
 the boundary between, and distinguishes the satirist 
 from the libeller: for the former privately corrects 
 the fault for the benefit of the person, like a parent ; 
 the latter publickly exposes the person himself, as an 
 example to othei's, like an executioner. 
 
 There are besides little circumstances to be con- 
 sidered ; as the drapery of a picture, which though 
 fashion varies at different times, the resemblance of 
 the countenance is not by those means diminished. 
 Thus I believe we may venture to say Mrs, Tow- 
 wouse is coeval with our lawyer : and, though perhaps, 
 during the changes which so long an existence must 
 
 [38]
 
 NATURAL SUPERIORITY 
 
 have passed tlirough, she may in her turn have stood 
 behind the bar at an inn, I will not scruple to affirm 
 she hath likewise in the revolution of ages sat oi^) 
 a throne. In short, where extreme turbulency of 
 temper, avarice, and an insensibility of human misery, 
 with a degree of hypocrisy, have united in a female 
 composition, Mrs. Tow-wouse was that woman ; and 
 where a good inclination, eclipsed by a poverty of 
 spirit and understanding, hath glimmered forth in 
 a man, that man hath been no other than her sneak- 
 ing husband. 
 
 I shall detain mv reader no longer than to give 
 him one caution more of an opposite kind: for, as in 
 most of our pai'ticular characters we mean not to 
 lash individuals, but all of the like sort, so, in our 
 general descriptions, we mean not universals, but 
 w ould be understood with many exceptions : for 
 instance, in our description of high people, we can- 
 not be intended to include such as, whilst thev are 
 an honour to their high rank, by a well-guided 
 condescension make their superiority as easy as 
 possible to those whom fortune chiefly hath placed 
 below them. Of this number I could name a peer 
 no less elevated by nature than by fortune; who, 
 whilst he wears the noblest ensigns of honour on his 
 person, bears the truest stamp of dignitv on his mind, 
 adorned with greatness, enriched with knowledge, 
 and embellished with genius. I have seen this man 
 relieve with generosity, whil-? he hath conversed with 
 freedom, and be to the same person a patron and a 
 companion. I could name a commoner, raised higher 
 above the multitude bv superior talents thar/ is in 
 
 [39]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 the power of his prince to exalt him, whose behaviour 
 to those he hath obliged is more amiable than the 
 obligation itself; and who is so great a master of 
 affability, that, if he could divest himself of an 
 inherent greatness in his manner, would often make 
 the lowest of his acquaintance forget who was the 
 master of that palace in which they are so courteously 
 entertained. These are pictures which must be, I 
 believe, known : I declare they are taken from the 
 life, and not intended to exceed it. By those high 
 people, therefore, whom I have described, I mean a 
 set of wretches, who, while they are a disgrace to 
 their ancestors, whose honours and fortunes they 
 inherit (or perhaps a greater to their mother, for 
 such degeneracy is scarce credible), have the insolence 
 to treat those with disregard who are at least equal 
 to the founders of their own splendour. It is, I fancy, 
 impossible to conceive a spectacle more worthy of 
 our indignation, than that of a fellow, who is not 
 only a blot in the escutcheon of a great family, but 
 a scandal to the human species, maintaining a super- 
 cilious behaviour to men who are an honour to their 
 nature and a disgrace to their fortune. 
 
 And now, reader, taking these hints along with 
 you, you may, if you please, proceed to the sequel 
 of this our true history. 
 
 [40
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 A NIGHT SCENE, WHEREIN SEVERAL WONDERFUL AD- 
 VENTURES BEFEL ADAMS AND HIS FELLOW- 
 TRAVELLERS. 
 
 IT was SO late when our travellers left the inn 
 or alehouse (for it might be called either), that 
 they had not travelled many miles before 
 night overtook them, or met them, which you 
 please. The reader must excuse lue if I am not 
 particular as to the way they took ; for, as we are 
 now drawing near the seat of the Boobies, and as 
 that is a ticklish name, which malicious persons may 
 apply, according to their evil inclinations, to several 
 worthy country squires, a race of men whom we look 
 upon as entirely inoffensive, and for whom we have 
 an adequate regard, we shall lend no assistance to 
 any such malicious purposes. 
 
 Darkness had now overspread the hemisphere, 
 when Fanny whispered Joseph " that she begged to 
 rest herself a little ; for that she was so tired she 
 could walk no farther." Joseph immediately pre- 
 vailed with parson Adams, who was as brisk as a 
 bee, to stop. He had no sooner seated himself than 
 he lamented the loss of his dear ^schylus ; but was 
 a little comforted when reminded that, if he had it 
 in his possession, he could not see to read. 
 
 [41]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 The sky was so clouded, that not a star appeared. 
 It was indeed, according to Milton, darkness visible. 
 This was a circumstance, however, very favourable to 
 Joseph ; for Fanny, not suspicious of being overseen 
 by Adams, gave a loose to her passion which she 
 had never done before, and, reclining her head on 
 his bosom, threw her arm carelessly round him, and 
 suffered him to lay his cheek close to hers. All this 
 infused such happiness into Joseph, that he would 
 not have changed his turf for the finest down in 
 the finest palace in the universe. 
 
 Adams sat at some distance from the lovers, and, 
 being unwilling to disturb them, applied himself to 
 meditation ; in which he had not spent much time 
 before he discovered a light at some distance that 
 seemed approaching towards him. He immediately 
 hailed it ; but, to his sorrow and surprize, it stopped 
 for a moment, and then disappeared. He then called 
 to Joseph, asking him, "if he had not seen the 
 light ? " Joseph answered, " he had.'' — " And did 
 you not mark how it vanished ? " returned he : 
 " though I am not afraid of ghosts, I do not abso- 
 lutely disbelieve them." 
 
 He then entered into a meditation on those un- 
 substantial beings; which was soon interrupted by 
 several voices, which he thought almost at his elbow, 
 though in fact they were not so extremely near. 
 However, he could distinctly hear them agree on the 
 murder of any one they met ; and a little after heard 
 one of them say, " he had killed a dozen since that 
 day fortnight."" 
 
 Adams now fell on his knees, and committed him- 
 
 [42]
 
 A NIGHT SCENE 
 
 self to the care of Providence ; and poor Fanny, who 
 hkewise heard those terrible words, embraced Joseph 
 so closely, that had not he, whose ears were also open, 
 been apprehensive on her account, he would have 
 thought no danger which threatened only himself 
 too dear a price for such embraces. 
 
 Joseph now drew forth his penknife, and Adams, 
 having finished his ejaculations, grasped his crab- 
 stick, his only weapon, and, coming up to Joseph, 
 would have had him quit Fanny, and place her in the 
 rear ; but his advice was fruitless ; she clung closer to 
 him, not at all regarding the presence of Adams, 
 and in a soothing voice declared, " she would die in 
 his arms." Joseph, clasping her with inexpressible 
 eagerness, whispered her, "that he preferred death 
 in hers to life out of them.^' Adams, brandishing 
 his crabstick, said, "he despised death as much as 
 any man," and then repeated aloud — 
 
 " Est hie, est animus lueis eontemptor et ilium. 
 Qui vita bene credat enii quo tendis, honorem." 
 
 Upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and 
 then one of them called out, " D — n you, who is 
 there ? " To which Adams was prudent enough to 
 make no reply ; and of a sudden he observed half-a- 
 dozen lights, which seemed to rise all at once from 
 the ground and advance briskly towards him. This 
 he innnediately concluded to be an apparition ; and 
 now, beginning to conceive that the voices were of 
 the same kind, he called out, *' In the name of the 
 L — d, what wouldst thou have ? " He had no sooner 
 spoke than he heard one of the voices cry out,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 « D — n them, here they come ; " and soon after heard 
 several hearty blows, as if a number of men had been 
 engaged at quarterstaff. He was just advancing to- 
 wards the place of combat, when Joseph, catching 
 him by the skirts, begged him that they might take 
 the opportunity of the dark to convey away Fanny 
 from the danger which threatened her. He presently 
 complied, and, Joseph lifting up Fanny, they all 
 three made the best of their way ; and without 
 looking behind them, or being overtaken, they had 
 travelled full two miles, poor Fanny not once com- 
 plaining of being tired, when they saw afar off several 
 lights scattered at a small distance from each other, 
 and at the same time found themselves on the descent 
 of a very steep hill. Adams's foot slipping, he in- 
 stantly disappeared, which greatly frightened both 
 Joseph and Fanny : indeed, if the light had per- 
 mitted them to see it, they would scarce have re- 
 frained laughing to see the parson rolling down the 
 hill ; which he did from top to bottom, without 
 receiving any harm. He then hollowed as loud as 
 he could, to inform them of his safety, and relieve 
 them from the fears which they had conceived for 
 him. Joseph and Fanny halted some time, consider- 
 ing what to do ; at last they advanced a few paces, 
 where the declivity seemed least steep ; and then 
 Joseph, taking his Fanny in his arms, walked firmly 
 down the hill, without making a false step, and at 
 length landed her at the bottom, where Adams soon 
 came to them. 
 
 Learn hence, my fair countrywomen, to consider 
 your own weakness, and the many occasions on which 
 
 [ 44 ]
 
 SEEKING SHELTER 
 
 the strength of a man may be useful to vou ; and, 
 duly wei£^hin<r this, take care that vou match not 
 yourselves with the spindle-shanked beaus and yet'it- 
 maitres of the age, who, instead of being able, like 
 Joseph Andrews, to carry you in lusty arms through 
 the rugged ways and downhill steeps of life, will 
 rather want to support their feeble limbs with your 
 strength and assistance. 
 
 Our travellers now moved forwards where the near- 
 est light presented itself; and, having crossed a 
 common field, they came to a meadow, where they 
 seemed to be at a very little distance from the light, 
 when, to their grief, they arrived at the banks of a 
 river. Adams here made a full stop, and declared 
 he could swim, but doubted how it was possible 
 to get Fanny over : to which Joseph answered, " If 
 they walked along its banks, they might be certain 
 of soon finding a bridge, especially as by the number 
 of lights they might be assured a parish was near.*" 
 " Odso, that 's true indeed," said Adams ; " I did not 
 think of that." 
 
 Accordingly, Joseph's advice being taken, they 
 passed over two meadows, and can^.e to a little 
 orchard, which led them to a house. Fanny begged 
 of Joseph to knock at the door, assuring him " she was 
 so weary that she could hardly stand on her feet." 
 Adams, who was foremost, performed this ceremony ; 
 and, the door being immediately opened, a plain 
 kind of man appeared at it : Adams acquainted 
 him *' that they had a young woman with them 
 who was so tired with her journey that he should 
 be much obliged to him if he would suffer her to 
 
 [45]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 come in and rest herself.""' The man, who saw Fanny 
 by the light of the candle which he held in his hand, 
 perceiving her innocent and modest look, and having 
 no apprehensions from the civil behaviour of Adams, 
 presently answered, " That the young woman was 
 very welcome to rest herself in his house, and so were 
 her company." He then ushered them into a very 
 decent room, where his wife was sitting at a table : 
 she innnediately rose up, and assisted them in setting 
 forth chairs, and desired them to sit down ; which 
 they had no sooner done than the man of the house 
 asked them if they would have anything to refresh 
 themselves with ? Adams thanked him, and answered 
 he should be obliged to him for a cup of his ale, 
 which was likewise chosen by Joseph and Fanny. 
 Whilst he was gone to fill a very large jug with this 
 liquor, his wife told Fanny she seemed greatly 
 fatigued, and desired her to take something stronger 
 than ale ; but she refused with many thanks, saying 
 it was true she was very much tired, but a little rest 
 she hoped would restore her. As soon as the com- 
 pany were all seated, Mr. Adams, who had filled him- 
 self with ale, and by public permission had lighted 
 his pipe, turned to the master of the house, asking 
 him, " If evil spirits did not use to walk in that 
 neighbourhood?" To which receiving no answer, 
 he began to inform him of the adventure which they 
 met with on the downs ; nor had he proceeded fiar 
 in the story when somebody knocked very hard at 
 the door. The company expressed some amazement, 
 and Fanny and the good woman turned pale : her 
 husband went forth, and whilst he was absent, which 
 
 [46]
 
 THE SHEEP-STEALERS 
 
 was some time, they all remained silent, looking at 
 one another, and heard several voices discoursing 
 prettv loudlv, Adams was fully persuaded that 
 spirits were abroad, and began to meditate some 
 exorcisms ; Joseph a little inclined to the same opin- 
 ion ; Fanny was more afraid of men ; and the good 
 woman herself began to suspect her guests, and 
 imagined those without were rogues belonging to 
 their ffans:. At len«;th the master of the house re- 
 turned, and, laughing, told Adams he had discovered 
 his apparition ; that the murderers were sheep- 
 stealers, and the twelve persons murdered were no 
 other than twelve sheep ; adding, that the shepherds 
 had got the better of them, had secured two, and 
 were proceeding with them to a justice of peace. 
 This account sreatlv relieved the fears of the whole 
 company ; but Adams muttered to himself, " He 
 was convinced of the truth of apparitions for all 
 that." 
 
 They now sat chearfully round the fire, till the 
 master of the house, having surveyed his guests, and 
 conceiving that the cassock, which, having fallen 
 down, appeared under Adams''s greatcoat, and the 
 shabby livery on Joseph Andrews, did not well suit 
 with the familiarity between them, began to enter- 
 tain some suspicions not much to their advantage : 
 addressing himself therefore to Adams, he said, 
 " He perceived he was a clergyman by his dress, and 
 supposed that honest man was his footman." " Sir," 
 answered Adams, " I am a clergyman at your 
 service ; but as to that young man, whom you have 
 rightly termed honest, he is at present in nobody's 
 
 [47]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 service ; he never lived in any other family than that 
 of Lady Booby, from whence he was discharged, I 
 assure you, for no crime." Joseph said, "He did 
 not wonder the gentleman was surprized to see one 
 of Mr. Adams's character condescend to so much 
 goodness with a poor man." — " Child," said Adams, 
 " I should be asliamed of my cloth if I thought a 
 poor man, who is honest, below my notice or my 
 familiarity. I know not how those who think other- 
 wise can profess themselves followers and servants of 
 Him who made no distinction, unless, peradventure, 
 by preferring the poor to the rich. — Sir," said he, 
 addressing himself to the gentleman, " these two 
 poor young people are my parishioners, and I look on 
 them and love them as my children. There is some- 
 thing singular enough in their history, but I have 
 not now time to recount it." The master of the 
 house, notwithstanding the simplicity which dis- 
 covered itself in Adams, knew too much of the 
 world to give a hasty belief to professions. He was 
 not yet quite certain that Adams had any more of 
 the clergyman in him than his cassock. To try him 
 therefore further, he asked him, " If Mr. Pope had 
 lately published anything new ? " Adams answered, 
 " He had heard great commendations of that poet, 
 but that he had never read nor knew any of his 
 works." — " Ho ! ho ! " says the gentleman to him- 
 self, " have I caught you ? What ! " said he, " have 
 you never seen his Homer ?" Adams answered, " he 
 had never read any translation of the classicks." 
 " Why, truly," reply 'd the gentleman, " there is a 
 dignity in the Greek language which I think no 
 
 [48]
 
 THE CLASSICS 
 
 modern tongue can reach."" — " Do you understand 
 Greek, sir?" said Adams hastily. "A Httle, sir," 
 answered the gentleman. " Do you know, sir," cry'd 
 Adams, '* where I can buy an yEschylus ? an unlucky 
 misfortune lately happened to mine." ^schylus 
 was beyond tlie gentleman, though he knew him 
 very well by name ; he therefore, returning back to 
 Homer, asked Adams, " What part of the Iliad he 
 thought most excellent ? " Adams returned, " His 
 question would be properer, AVliat kind of beauty 
 was the chief in poetry ? for that Homer was equally 
 excellent in them all. And, indeed," continued he, 
 " what Cicero says of a complete orator may w ell be 
 applied to a great poet : ' He ought to comprehend 
 all perfections.' Homer did this in the most ex- 
 cellent degree ; it is not without reason, therefore, 
 that the philosopher, in the twenty-second chapter 
 of his Poeticks, mentions him by no other appellation 
 than that of the Poet. He was the father of the 
 drama as well as the epic ; not of tragedy only, but 
 of comedy also ; for his Margites, which is deplorably 
 lost, bore, says Aristotle, the same analogy to a /t^ 
 
 comedy as his Odyssey and Iliad to tragedy. To "' y 
 
 him, therefore, we owe Aristophanes as well as 
 Euripides, Sophocles, and my poor .Eschylus. But 
 if you please we will confine ourselves (at least for 
 the present) to the Iliad, his noblest work ; though 
 neither Aristotle nor Horace give it the preference, 
 as I remember, to the Odyssey. First, then, as to 
 his subject, can anything be more simple, and at the 
 same time more noble.? He is rightly praised by 
 the first of those judicious critics for not chusing the 
 VOL. II. — 4. [ 4'9 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 whole war, which, tliough he says it hath a complete 
 beginning and end, would have been too great for 
 the understanding to comprehend at one view. I 
 have, therefore, often wondered why so correct a 
 writer as Horace should, in his epistle to Lollius, 
 call him the Trojani Belli Scriptorem. Secondly, 
 his action, termed by Aristotle, Pragmaton Systasis ; 
 is it possible for the mind of man to conceive an idea 
 of such perfect unitv, and at the same time so replete 
 with greatness ? And here I must observe, what I 
 do hot remember to have seen noted by any, the 
 Harmotton, that agreement of his action to his 
 subject : for, as the subject is anger, how agreeable 
 is his action, which is war ; from which every inci- 
 dent arises and to which every episode immediately 
 relates. Thirdly, his manners, which Aristotle 
 places second in his description of the several parts 
 of tragedy, and which he says are included in the 
 action ; I am at a loss whether I should rather 
 admire the exactness of his judgment in the nice 
 distinction or the immensity of his imagination in 
 their variety. For, as to the former of these, how 
 accurately is the sedate, injured resentment of 
 Achilles, distinguished from the hot, insulting pas- 
 sion of Agamennion ! How widely doth the brutal 
 courage of Ajax differ from the amiable bravery of 
 Diomedes ; and the wisdom of Nestoi-, which is the 
 result of long reflection and experience, from the 
 cumiing of Ulysses, the effect of art and subtlety 
 only ! If we consider their variety, we may cry out, 
 with Aristotle in his 24th chapter, that no part of 
 this divine poem is destitute of manners. Indeed, I 
 
 [50]
 
 SOPHOCLES 
 
 niiffht affirm that there is scarce a character in 
 human nature untouched in some part or other. 
 And, as there is no passion which he is not able to 
 describe, so is thei-e none in his reader which he can- 
 not raise. If he hath any superior excellence to 
 the rest, I have been inclined to fancy it is in the 
 pathetic. I am sure I never read with dry eyes the 
 two episodes where Andromache is introduced in 
 the former lamenting the danger, and in the latter 
 the death, of Hec-tor. The images are so extremely 
 tender in these, that I am convinced the poet had 
 the worthiest and best heart imaginable. Nor 
 can I help observing how Sophocles falls short of 
 the beauties of the original, in that imitation of the 
 dissuasive speech of Andromache which he hath put 
 into the mouth of Tecmessa. And yet Sophocles 
 was the greatest genius who ever wrote tragedy ; nor 
 have any of his successors in that art, that is to say, 
 neither Euripides nor Seneca the tragedian, been 
 able to come near him. As to his sentiments and 
 diction, I need say nothing ; the former are par- 
 ticularly remarkable for the utmost perfection on 
 that head, namely, propriety ; and as to the latter, 
 Aristotle, whom doubtless you have read over and 
 over, is very diffuse. I shall mention but one thing 
 more, which that great critic in his division of 
 tragedy calls Opsis, or the scenery ; and which is as 
 proper to the epic as to the drama, with this differ- 
 ence, that in the former it falls to the share of the 
 poet, and in the latter to that of the painter. But 
 did ever painter imagine a scene like that in the 
 13th and 14th Iliads? where the reader sees at one 
 
 [51]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 view the prospect of Troy, with the army drawn up 
 before it; the Grecian army, camp, and fleet; 
 Jupiter sitting on Mount Ida, with his head wrapt 
 in a cloud, and a thunderbolt in his hand, looking 
 towards Thrace ; Neptune driving through the sea, 
 which divides on each side to permit his passage, 
 and then seating himself on Mount Samos ; the 
 heavens opened, and the deities all seated on their 
 thrones. This is sublime ! This is poetry ! ''' Adams 
 then rapt out a hundred Greek verses, and with such 
 a voice, emphasis, and action, that he almost fright- 
 ened the women ; and as for the gentleman, he was 
 so far from entertaining any further suspicion of 
 Adams, that he now doubted whether he had not a 
 bishop in his house. He ran into the most extrava- 
 gant encomiums on his learning ; and the goodness 
 of his heart began to dilate to all the strangers. He 
 said he had great compassion for the poor young 
 woman, who looked pale and faint with her journey ; 
 and in truth he conceived a much higher opinion of 
 her quality than it deserved. He said he was sorry 
 he could not accommodate them all ; but if they 
 were contented with his fireside, he would sit up 
 with the men ; and the young woman might, if she 
 pleased, partake his wife's bed, which he advised her 
 to ; for that they must walk upwards of a mile to 
 any house of entertainment, and that not very good 
 neither. Adams, who liked his seat, his ale, his 
 tobacco, and his company, persuaded Fanny to 
 accept this kind proposal, in which sollicitation he 
 was seconded by Joseph. Nor was she very diffi- 
 cultly prevailed on ; for she had slept little the last 
 
 [52]
 
 CONFIDENCES 
 
 night and not at all the preceding ; so that love 
 itself was scarce able to keep her eyes open any 
 longer. The ofFer, therefore, being kindly accepted, 
 the good woman produced everything eatable in her 
 house on the table, and the guests, being heartily in- 
 vited, as heartily regaled themselves, especially parson 
 Adams. As to the other two, they were examples 
 of the truth of that physical observation, that love, 
 like other sweet things, is no whetter of the stomach. 
 
 Supper was no sooner ended, than Fanny at her own 
 request retired, and the good woman bore hercompany. 
 The man of the house, Adams, and Joseph, who would 
 modestly have withdrawn, had not the gentleman 
 insisted on the contrary, drew round the fireside, 
 where Adams (to use his own words) replenished 
 his pipe, and the gentleman produced a bottle of 
 excellent beer, being the best liquor in his house. 
 
 The modest behaviour of Joseph, with the grace- 
 fulness of his person, the character which Adams 
 gave of him, and the friendship he seemed to enter- 
 tain for him, began to work on the gentleman''s 
 affections, and raised in him a curiosity to know the 
 singularitv which Adams had mentioned in his 
 history. This curiosity Adams was no sooner in- 
 formed of than, with Joseph's consent, he agreed to 
 gratify it ; and accordingly related all he knew, 
 with as much tenderness as was possible for the 
 character of Lady Booby ; and concluded with the 
 long, faithful, and mutual passion between him and 
 Fanny, not concealing the meanness of her birth and 
 education. These latter circumstances entirely cured 
 a jealousy which had lately risen in the gentleman's 
 
 [53]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 mind, that Fanny was the daughter of .some person 
 of fashion, and that Joseph had run away with her, 
 and Adams was concerned in the plot. He was now 
 enamoured of his guests, drank their healths with 
 great chearfulness, and returned many thanks to 
 Adams, who had spent nmch breath, for he was a 
 circumstantial teller of a story. 
 
 Adams told him it was now in his power to return 
 that fovour ; for his extraordinary goodness, as well 
 as that fund of literature he was master of,^ which 
 he did not expect to find under such a roof, had 
 raised in him more curiosity than he had ever 
 known. '' Therefore," said he, " if it be not too 
 troublesome, sir, your history, if you please." 
 
 The gentleman answered, he could not refuse him 
 what he had so much right to insist on ; and after 
 some of the connnon' apologies, which are the usual 
 preface to a story, he thus began. 
 
 1 The author hath by some been represented to have made a 
 blunder here : for Adams had indeed shown some learning 
 ( say they ) , perhaps all the author had ; but the gentleman 
 hath shown none, unless his approbation of Mr. Adams be 
 such : but surely it would be preposterous in hira to call it so. 
 I have, however, notwithstanding this criticism, which I am 
 told came from the mouth of a great orator in a public coffee- 
 house, left this blunder as it stood in the first edition. I will 
 not have the vanity to apply to anything in this work the 
 observation which M. Dacier makes in her preface to her 
 Aristophanes : Je tiens pour une maxime constante, qu'une 
 heauli ■m6cllocre plait plus ffe?ie7-alejnent qu'une beautd sans d^/aut. 
 Mr. Congreve hath made such another blunder in his Love for 
 Love, where Tattle tells Miss Prue, " She should admire him as 
 much for the beauty he commends in her as if he himself was 
 possessed of it. " 
 
 [54]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 IN WHICH THE GENTLEMAN RELATES THE HISTORY OF 
 
 HIS LIFE. 
 
 SIR, I am descended of a good family, and 
 was born a gentleman. My education was 
 liberal, and at a public school, in which I 
 proceeded so far as to become master of the 
 Latin, and to be tolerably versed in the Greek lan- 
 guage. My father died when I was sixteen, and left 
 me master of myself. He bequeathed me a mode- 
 rate fortune, which he intended I should not receive 
 till I attained the age of twenty-five : for he con- 
 stantly asserted that was full early enough to give 
 up any man entirely to the guidance of his 
 own discretion. However, as this intention was so 
 obscurely worded in his will that the lawyers advised 
 me to contest the point with my trustees, I own I 
 paid so little regard to the inclinations of my dead 
 father, which were sufficiently certain to me, that 
 I followed their advice, and soon succeeded, for the 
 trustees did not contest the matter very obstinately 
 on their side. " Sir," said Adams, " may I crave 
 the favour of your name ? " The gentleman answered 
 his name was Wilson, and then proceeded. 
 
 I stayed a very little while at school after his 
 death ; for, being a forward youth, I was extremely 
 impatient to be in the world, for which I thought 
 
 [55]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 my parts, knowledge, and manhood thoroughly quali- 
 fied me. And to this cai-ly introduction into life, 
 without a guide, I impute all my future misfortunes; 
 for, besides the obvious mischiefs which attend this, 
 there is one which hath not been so generally ob- 
 served : the first impression which mankind receives 
 of you will be very difficult to eradicate. How 
 unhappy, therefore, nmst it be to fix your character 
 in life, before you can possibly know its value, or 
 weigh the consequences of those actions which are 
 to establish your future reputation ! 
 
 A little under seventeen I left my school, and 
 went to London with no more than six pounds in 
 my pocket ; a great sum, as I then conceived ; and 
 which I was afterwards surprized to find so soon 
 consumed. 
 
 The character I was ambitious of attaining was 
 that of a fine gentleman ; the first requisites to 
 which I apprehended were to be supplied by a taylor, 
 a periwig-maker, and some few more tradesmen, who 
 deal in furnishing out the human body. Notwith- 
 standing the lowness of my purse, I found credit 
 with them more easily than I expected, and was soon 
 equipped to my wish. This I own then agreeably 
 surprized me ; but I have since learned that it is a 
 maxim among many tradesmen at the polite end of 
 the town to deal as largely as they can, reckon as 
 high as they can, and arrest as soon as they can. 
 
 The next qualifications, namely, dancing, fencing, 
 riding the great horse, and music, came into my 
 head : but, as they required expense and time, I 
 comforted myself, with regard to dancing, that I had 
 
 [56]
 
 KNOWLEDGE OF THE TOWN 
 
 learned a little in my youth, and could walk a 
 minuet genteelly enough ; as to fencing, I thought 
 my good-humour would preserve me from the danger 
 of a quarrel ; as to the horse, I hoped it would not 
 be thought of; and for music, I imagined I could 
 easily acquire the reputation of it ; for I had heard 
 some of my schoolfellows pretend to knowledge in 
 operas, without being able to sing or play on the 
 fiddle. 
 
 Knowledge of the town seemed another ingredient ; 
 this I thought I should arrive at by frequenting 
 public places. Accordingly I paid constant attend- 
 ance to them all ; by which means I was soon master 
 of the fashionable phrases, learned to cry up the 
 fashionable diversions, and knew the names and faces 
 of the most fashionable men and women. 
 
 Nothing now seemed to remain but an intrigue, 
 n hich I was resolved to have immediately ; I mean 
 the reputation of it ; and indeed I was so successful, 
 that in a very short time I had half-a-dozen with 
 the finest women in town. 
 
 At these words Adams fetched a deep groan, and 
 then, blessing himself, cried out, " Good Lord ! what 
 wicked times these are ! '' 
 
 Not so wicked as you imagine, continued the 
 gentleman ; for I assure you they were all vestal 
 virgins for anything which I knew to the contrary. 
 The reputation of intriguing with them was all 
 I sought, and was what I arrived at : and perhaps I 
 only flattered myself even in that ; for very probably 
 the persons to whom I showed their billets knew a-s 
 well as I that they were counterfeits, and that I had 
 
 [57]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 written them to myself. '' Write letters to your- 
 self!'' said Adams, staring. O sir, answered the 
 gentleman, it is the very error of the times. Half 
 our modern plays have one of these characters in 
 them. It is incredible the pains I have taken, and 
 the absurd methods I employed, to traduce the 
 character of women of distinction. When another 
 had spoken in raptures of any one, I have answered, 
 
 " D — n her, she ! We shall have her at H d's 
 
 very soon."" When he hath replied, " He thought 
 her virtuous,'" I have answered, " Ay, thou wilt 
 always think a woman virtuous, till she is in the 
 streets ; but you and I, Jack or Tom ( turning to 
 another in company ) , know better." At which I 
 have drawn a paper out of my pocket, perhaps a 
 taylor's bill, and kissed it, crying at the same time, 
 " By Gad I was once fond of her." 
 
 " Proceed, if you please, but do not swear any 
 more," said Adams. 
 
 " Sir," said the gentleman, " I ask your pardon. 
 Well, sir, in this course of life I continued full three 
 years." — "What course of life.'^" answered Adams; 
 " I do not remember you have mentioned any." — 
 Your remark is just, said the gentleman, smiling; I 
 should rather have said, in this course of doing 
 nothino;. I remember some time afterwards I wrote 
 the journal of one day, which would serve, I believe, 
 as well for any other during the whole time. I will 
 endeavour to repeat it to you. 
 
 In the morning I arose, took my great stick, and 
 walked out in my green frock, with my hair in papers 
 (a groan from Adams), and sauntered about till ten. 
 
 [58]
 
 CHANGE OF SCENE 
 
 Went to the auction ; told lady she had a dirty 
 
 face ; laughed heartily at something captain 
 
 said, I can't remember what, for I did not very well 
 
 hear it ; whispered lord ; bowed to the duke of 
 
 ; and was going to bid for a snuff-box, but did 
 
 not, for fear I should have had it. 
 
 From 2 to 4, drest myself. A groan. 
 
 4 to 6, dined. A groan. 
 
 6 to 8, coffee-house. 
 
 8 to 9, Drury-lane playhouse. 
 
 9 to 10, Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 
 10 to 12, Drawing-room. A great groan. 
 
 At all which places nothing happened worth remark. 
 At which Adams said, with some vehemence, " Sir, 
 this is below the life of an animal, hardly above 
 vegetation : and I am surprized what could lead a 
 man of your sense into it." What leads us into 
 more follies than you imagine, doctor, answered the 
 gentleman — vanity ; for as contemptible a creature 
 as I was, and I assure you, yourself cannot have 
 more contempt for such a wretch than I now have, 
 I then admired myself, and should have despised a 
 person of your present appearance (you will pardon 
 me), with all your learning and those excellent 
 qualities which I have remarked in you, Adams 
 bowed, and begged him to proceed. After I had 
 continued two years in this course of life, said the 
 gentleman, an accident happened which obliged me 
 to change the scene. As I was one day at St. 
 James's coffee-house, making very free with the 
 character of a young lady of quality, an officer of 
 the guards, who was present, thought proper to give 
 
 [59 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 me the Ije. I answered I might possibly be mis- 
 taken, but I intended to tell no more than the 
 truth. To which he made no reply but by a scorn- 
 ful sneer. After this I observed a strange coldness 
 in all my acquaintance ; none of them spoke to me 
 first, and very few returned me even the civility of 
 a bow. The company I used to dine with left me 
 out, and within a week I found myself in as much 
 solitude at St. James's as if I had been in a desert. 
 An honest elderly man, with a great hat and long 
 sword, at last told me he had a compassion for my 
 youth, and therefore advised me to show the world 
 I was not such a rascal as they thought me to be. 
 I did not at first understand him ; but he explained 
 himself, and ended with telling me, if I would write 
 a challenge to the captain, he would, out of pure 
 charity, go to him with it. "A very charitable 
 person, truly ! '" cried Adams. I desired till the next 
 day, continued the gentleman, to consider on it, 
 and, retiring to my lodgings, I weighed the conse- 
 quences on both sides as fairly as I could. On the 
 one, I saw the risk of this alternative, either losing 
 my own life, or having on my hands the blood of 
 a man with whom I was not in the least angry. I 
 soon determined that the good which appeared on 
 the other was not worth this hazard. I therefore 
 resolved to quit the scene, and presently retired to 
 the Temple, where I took chambers. Here I soon 
 got a fresh set of acquaintance, who knew nothing 
 of what had happened to me. Indeed, they were 
 not greatly to my approbation ; for the beaus of the 
 Temple are only the shadows of the others. They 
 
 [60]
 
 PROFLIGACY 
 
 are the affectation of affectation. The vanity of 
 these is still more ridiculous, if possible, than of the 
 others. Here I met with smart fellows who drank 
 with lords they did not know, and intrigued with 
 women they never saw. Covent Garden was now 
 the f>irthest stretch of my ambition ; where I shone 
 forth in the balconies at the playhouses, visited 
 whores, made love to orange-wenches, and damned 
 plays. This career was soon put a stop to by my 
 surgeon, who convinced me of the necessity of con- 
 fining myself to mv room for a month. At the end 
 of which, havinrc had leisure to reflect, I resolved to 
 quit all farther conversation with beaus and smarts 
 of every kind, and to avoid, if possible, any occasion 
 of returning to this place of confinement. " I 
 think,'" said Adams "the advice of a month''s retire- 
 ment and reflection was very proper ; but I should 
 rather have expected it from a divine than a surgeon." 
 The gentleman smiled at Adams's simplicity, and, 
 without explaining himself farther on such an odious 
 subject, went on thus : I was no sooner perfectly 
 restored to health than I found my passion for 
 women, w'hich I was afraid to satisfy as I had done, 
 made me very uneasy ; I determined, therefore, to 
 keep a mistress. Nor was I long before I fixed my 
 choice on a young woman, who had before been kept 
 by two gentlemen, and to whom I was recommended 
 by a celebrated bawd. I took her home to my 
 chambers, and made her a settlement during cohabi- 
 tation. This would, perhaps, have been very ill 
 paid : however, she did not suffer me to be perplexed 
 on that account ; for, before quarter-day, I found her 
 
 [61]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 at my chambers in too familiar conversation with a 
 young feUow who was drest hke an officer, but was 
 indeed a city apprentice. Instead of excusing her 
 inconstancy, she rapped out half-a-dozen oaths, and, 
 snapping her fingers at me, swore she scorned to 
 confine herself to the best man in England. Upon 
 this we parted, and the same bawd presently pro- 
 vided her another keeper. I was not so much 
 concerned at our separation as I found, within a day 
 or two, I had reason to be for our meeting ; for I 
 was obliged to pay a second visit to my surgeon. I 
 was now forced to do penance for some weeks, during 
 which time I contracted an acquaintance with a 
 beautiful young girl, the daughter of a gentleman 
 who, after having been forty years in the army, and 
 in all the campaigns under the Duke of Marlborough, 
 died a lieutenant on half-pay, and had left a widow, 
 with this only child, in very distrest circumstances : 
 they had only a small pension from the government, 
 with what little the daughter could add to it by 
 her work, for she had great excellence at her needle. 
 This girl was, at my first acquaintance with her, 
 solicited in marriage by a young fellow in good cir- 
 cumstances. He was apprentice to a linendraper, 
 and had a little fortune, sufficient to set up his trade. 
 The mother was greatly pleased with this match, as 
 indeed she had sufficient reason. However, I soon 
 prevented it. I represented him in so low a light to 
 his mistress, and made so good an use of flattery, 
 promises, and presents, that, not to dwell longer on 
 this subject than is necessary, I prevailed with the 
 poor girl, and conveyed her away from her mother ! 
 
 [62]
 
 A RUINED LIFE 
 
 In a word, I debauched her. — (At which words 
 Adams started up, fetched three strides across the 
 room, and then replaced himself in his chair.) You 
 are not more affected with this part of my story 
 than myself; I assure you it will never be sufficiently 
 repented of in my own opinion : but, if you already 
 detest it, how much more will your indignation be 
 raised when you hear the fatal consequences of this 
 barbarous, this villanous action ! If you please, 
 therefore, I will here desist. — " By no means," cries 
 Adams ; " go on, I beseech you ; and Heaven grant 
 you may sincerely repent of this and many other 
 things you have related ! " — I was now, continued 
 the gentleman, as happy as the possession of a fine 
 young creature, who had a good education, and was 
 endued with many agreeable qualities, could make 
 me. We lived some months with vast fondness 
 together, without any company or conversation, more 
 than we found in one another but this could not 
 continue always ; and, though I still preserved great 
 affection for her, I began more and more to want the 
 relief of other company, and consequently to leave 
 her by degrees — at last whole days to herself. She 
 failed not to testify some uneasiness on these occa- 
 sions, and complained of the melancholy life she led ; 
 to remedy which, I introduced her into the acquaint- 
 ance of some other kept mistresses, with whom she 
 used to play at cards, and frequent plays and other 
 diversions. She had not lived long in this intimacy 
 before I perceived a visible alteration in her behaviour; 
 all her modesty and innocence vanished by degrees, 
 till her mind became thoroughly tainted. She 
 
 [63]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 affected the company of rakes, gave herself all man- 
 ner of airs, was never easy but abroad, or when she 
 had a party at my chambers. She was rapacious of 
 money, extravagant to excess, loose in her conversa- 
 tion ; and, if ever I demurred to any of her demands, 
 oaths, tears, and fits were the immediate consequences. 
 As the first raptures of fondness were long since 
 over, this behaviour soon estranged my affections 
 from her ; I began to reflect with pleasure that she 
 was not my wife, and to conceive an intention of 
 parting with her ; of which, having given her a hint, 
 she took care to prevent me the pains of turning her 
 out of doors, and accordingly departed herself, having 
 first broken open my escrutore, and taken with her all 
 she could find, to the amount of about cf*200. In 
 the first heat of my resentment I resolved to pursue 
 her with all the vengeance of the law : but, as she 
 had the good luck to escape me during that ferment, 
 my passion afterwards cooled ; and, having reflected 
 that I had been the first aggressor, and had done 
 her an injury for which I could make her no repara- 
 tion, by robbing her of the innocence of her mind ; 
 and hearing at the same time that the poor old 
 woman her mother had broke her heart on her 
 daughter's elopement from her, I, concluding myself 
 her murderer (" As you very well might,*'*' cries 
 Adams, with a groan), was pleased that God Almighty 
 had taken this method of punishing me, and resolved 
 quietly to submit to the loss. Indeed, I couM wish 
 I had never heard more of the poor creature, who 
 became in the end an abandoned profligate ; and, 
 after being some years a common prostitute, at last 
 
 [64]
 
 SAPPHIRA 
 
 ended her miserable life in Newgate. — Here the 
 gentleman fetched a deep sigh, which IVIr. Adams 
 echoed very loudly ; and both continued silent, look- 
 ino; on each other for some minutes. At last the 
 gentleman proceeded thus : I had been perfectly 
 constant to this girl during the whole time I kept 
 her : but she had scarce departed before I discovered 
 more marks of her infidelity to me than the loss of 
 my money. In short, I was forced to make a third 
 visit to my surgeon, out of whose hands I did not 
 get a hasty discharge. 
 
 I now forswore all future dealings with the sex, 
 complained loudly that the pleasure did not compen- 
 sate the pain, and railed at the beautiful creatures in 
 as gross language as Juvenal himself formerly reviled 
 them in. I looked on all the town harlots with a 
 detestation not easy to be conceived, their persons 
 appeared to me as painted palaces, inhabited by 
 Disease and Death : nor could their beauty make 
 them more desirable objects in my eyes than gilding 
 could make me covet a pill, or golden plates a 
 coffin. But though I was no longer the absolute 
 slave, I found some reasons to own myself still the 
 subject, of love. My hatred for women decreased 
 daily ; and I am not positive but time might 
 have betrayed me again to some common harlot, had 
 I not been secured by a passion for the charming 
 Sapphira, which, having once entered upon, made a 
 violent progress in my heart. Sapphira was wife to 
 a man of fashion and gallantry, and one who seemed, 
 I own, every way worthy of her affections ; which, 
 however, he had not the reputation of having. She 
 
 VOL. II. — 5 [ 65 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 was indeed a co(juette achevee. " Pray, sir,'"' says 
 Adams, " what is a ccxjuette ? I have met with the 
 word in French authors, but never could assign any 
 idea to it. I beHeve it is the same with une sotte^ 
 Anghce, a fool." Sir, answered the gentleman, per- 
 haps you are not much mistaken ; but, as it is a par- 
 ticular kind of folly, I will endeavour to describe it. 
 Were all creatures to be ranked in the order of crea- 
 tion according to their usefulness, I know few 
 animals that would not take place of a coquette ; nor 
 indeed hath this creature much pretence to anything 
 beyond instinct; for, though sometimes we might 
 imagine it was animated by the passion of vanity, 
 yet far the greater part of its actions fall beneath 
 even that low motive ; for instance, several absurd 
 gestures and tricks, infinitely more foolish than what 
 can be observed in the most ridiculous birds and 
 beasts, and which would persuade the beholder that 
 the silly wretch was aiming at our contempt. Indeed 
 its characteristic is affectation, and this led and gov- 
 erned by whim only : for as beauty, wisdom, wit, 
 good-nature, politeness, and health are sometimes 
 affected by this creature, so are ugliness, folly, non- 
 sense, ill-nature, ill-breeding, and sickness likewise 
 put on by it in their turn. Its life is one constant 
 lie ; and the only rule by which you can form any 
 judgment of them is, that they are never what 
 they seem. If it was possible for a coquette to love 
 (as it is not, for if ever it attains this passion the 
 coquette ceases instantly), it would wear the face of 
 indifference, if not of hatred, to the beloved object ; 
 you may therefore be assured, when they endeavour
 
 A FINISHED COQUETTE 
 
 to persuade you of their likinu;, that they are indif- 
 ferent to you at least. And indeed this was the case 
 of my Sapphira, who no sooner saw me in the number 
 of her admirers than slie gave me what is commonly 
 called encouragement : she would often look at me, 
 and, when she perceived me meet her eyes, would 
 instantly take them off, discovering at the same 
 time as much surprize and emotion as possible. These 
 arts failed not of the success she intended ; and, as I 
 grew more particular to her than the rest of her 
 admirers, she advanced, in proportion, more directly 
 to me than to the others. She affected the low voice, 
 whisper, lisp, sigh, start, laugh, and many other 
 indications of passion which daily deceive thousands. 
 When I played at whist with her, she would look 
 earnestly at me, and at the same time lose deal or 
 revoke ; then burst into a ridiculous laugh and cry, 
 " La ! I can't imagine what I was thinking of."" To 
 detain you no longer, after I had gone through a 
 sufficient course of gallantry, as I thought, and was 
 thoroughly convinced I had raised a violent passion 
 in my mistress, I sought an opportunity of coming to 
 an eclaircissement with her. She avoided this as 
 much as possible ; however, great assiduity at length 
 presented me one. I will not describe all the par- 
 ticulars of this interview ; let it suffice that, when 
 she could no longer pretend not to see my drift, she 
 first affected a violent surprize, and innnediately after 
 as violent a passion : she wondered what I had seen 
 in her conduct which could induce me to affront her 
 in this manner ; and, breaking from me the fii'st 
 moment she could, told me I had no other wav to 
 
 [67]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 escape the consequence of her resentment than by 
 never seeing, or at least speaking to her more. I was 
 not contented with this answer ; I still pursued her, 
 but to no purpose ; and was at length convinced 
 that her husband had the sole possession of her per- 
 son, and that neither he nor any other had made any 
 impression on her heart. I w^as taken off from fol- 
 lowing this ignis /atuns by some advances which were 
 made me by the wife of a citizen, who, though neither 
 very young nor handsome, was yet too agreeable to 
 be rejected by my amorous constitution. I accord- 
 ingly soon satisfied her that she had not cast away 
 her hints on a barren or cold soil : on the contrary, 
 they instantly produced her an eager and desiring 
 lover. Nor did she give me any reason to complain ; 
 she met the warmth she had raised with e(jual 
 ardour. I had no longer a coquette to deal with, but 
 one who was wiser than to prostitute the noble pas- 
 sion of love to the ridiculous lust of vanity. We 
 presently understood one another; and, as the pleasures 
 we sought lay in a mutual gratification, we soon found 
 and enjoyed them. I thought myself at first greatly 
 happy in the possession of this new mistress, whose 
 fondness would have quickly surfeited a more sickly 
 appetite ; but it had a different effect on mine : she 
 carried my passion higher by it than youth or beauty 
 had been able. But my happiness could not long 
 continue uninterrupted. The apprehensions we lay 
 under from the jealousy of her husband gave us great 
 uneasiness. " Poor wretch ! I pity him,'' cried 
 Adams. He did indeed deserve it, said the gentle- 
 man ; for he loved his wife with great tenderness ; 
 
 [68]
 
 CLUB LIFE 
 
 and, I assure you, it is a great satisfaction to me 
 that I was not tlie man who first seduced her affec- 
 tions from him. These apprehensions appeared also 
 too well groimded, for in the end he discovered us, 
 and procured witnesses of our caresses. He then 
 prosecuted me at law, and recovered i^3000 damages, 
 which much distressed my fortune to pay ; and, what 
 was worse, his wife, being divorced, came upon my 
 hands. I led a very uneasy life with her ; for, besides 
 that my passion was now much abated, her excessive 
 i ealousy was very troublesome. At length death rid me 
 of an inconvenience which the consideration of my hav- 
 ina; been the author of her misfortunes would never 
 suffer me to take any other method of discarding. 
 
 I now bad adieu to love, and resolved to pursue 
 other less dangerous and expensive pleasures. I fell 
 into the acquaintance of a set of jolly companions, 
 who slept all day and drank all night ; fellows who 
 might rather be said to consume time than to live. 
 Their best conversation was nothing but noise : 
 singing, hollowing, wrangling, drinking, toasting, 
 sp — wing, smoaking were the chief ingredients of 
 our entertainment. And yet, bad as these were, they 
 were more tolerable than our graver scenes, which 
 were either excessive tedious naiTatives of dull com- 
 mon matters of fact, or hot disputes about trifling 
 matters, which commonly ended in a wager. This 
 way of life the first serious reflection put a period to ; 
 and I became member of a club frequented by young 
 men of great abilities. The bottle was now only 
 called in to the assistance of our conversation, which 
 rolled on the deepest points of philosophy. These 
 
 [69]
 
 THE PLAYHOUSE 
 
 rule, made me begin to suspect its infallibility ; but 
 when I connnunicated my thoughts to one of the 
 club, he said, " There was nothing absolutely good or 
 evil in itself; that actions were denominated good 
 or bad by the circumstances of the agent. That 
 possibly the man who ran away w'ith his neighbours 
 wife might be one of very good inclinations, but 
 over-prevailed on by the violence of an unruly pas- 
 sion ; and, in other particulars, might be a very 
 worthy member of society ; that if the beauty of any 
 woman created in him an uneasiness, he had a right 
 from nature to relieve himself; " — with many other 
 things, which I then detested so much, that I took 
 leave of the society that very evening and never 
 returned to it again. Being now reduced to a state 
 of solitude which I did not like, I became a great fre- 
 quenter of the playhouses, which indeed was always 
 my favourite diversion ; and most evenings passed 
 away two or three hours behind the scenes, where I 
 met with several poets, with whom I made engage- 
 ments at the taverns. Some of the players were 
 likewise of our parties. At these meetings we were 
 generally entertained by the poets with reading their 
 performances, and by the players with repeating their 
 parts : upon which occasions, I observed the gentle- 
 man who furnished our entertainment was commonly 
 the best pleased of the company ; who, though they 
 were pretty civil to him to his face, seldom failed to 
 take the first opportunity of his absence to ridicule 
 him. Now I made some remarks which probably 
 are too obvious to be worth relating. " Sir," says 
 Adams, " your remarks if you please." First then, 
 
 [71]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 gentlemen were engaged in a search after truth, in 
 the pursuit of which they threw aside all the prejudices 
 of education, and governed themselves only by the 
 infallible guide of human reason. This great guide, 
 after having shown them the falsehood of that very 
 ancient but simple tenet, that there is such a being 
 as a Deity in the universe, helped them to establish 
 in his stead a certain rule of right, by adhering to 
 which they all arrived at the utmost purity of morals. 
 Reflection made me as much delighted with this 
 society as it had taught me to despise and detest the 
 former. I began now to esteem myself a being of a 
 higher order than I had ever before conceived ; and 
 was the more charmed with this rule of right, as I 
 really found in my own nature nothing repugnant 
 to it. I held in utter contempt all persons who 
 wanted any other inducement to virtue besides her 
 intrinsic beauty and excellence ; and had so high an 
 opinion of my present companions, with regard to 
 their morality, that I would have trusted them with 
 whatever was nearest and dearest to me. Whilst I 
 was engaged in this delightful dream, two or three 
 accidents happened successively, which at first much 
 surprized me ; — for one of our greatest philosophers, 
 or rule-of-right men, withdrew himself from us, tak- 
 ing with him the wife of one of his most intimate 
 friends. Secondly, another of the same society left 
 the club without remembering to take leave of his 
 bail. A third, having borrowed a sum of money of 
 me, for which I received no security, when I asked 
 him to repay it, absolutely denied the loan. These 
 several practices, so inconsistent with our golden 
 
 [70]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 says he, I concluded that the general observation, 
 that wits are most inclined to vanity, is not true. 
 Men are equally vain of riches, strength, beauty, 
 honours, Sec. But these appear of themselves to the 
 eyes of the beholders, whereas the poor wit is obliged 
 to produce his performance to show you his perfec- 
 tion ; and on his readiness to do this that vulgar 
 opinion I have before mentioned is grounded ; but 
 doth not the person who expends vast sums in the 
 furniture of his house or the ornaments of his per- 
 son, who consumes much time and employs great 
 pains in dressing himself, or who thinks himself paid 
 for self-denial, labour, or even villany, by a title 
 or a ribbon, sacrifice as much to vanity as the poor 
 wit who is desirous to read you his poem or his 
 play? My second remark was, that vanity is the 
 worst of passions, and more apt to contaminate the 
 mind than any other : for, as selfishness is much more 
 general than we please to allow it, so it is natural to 
 hate and envy those who stand between us and the 
 good we desire. Now, in lust and ambition these are 
 few ; and even in avarice we find many who are no 
 obstacles to our pursuits ; but the vain man seeks 
 pre-eminence ; and everything which is excellent or 
 praiseworthy in another renders him the mark of his 
 antipathy. Adams now began to fumble in his 
 pockets, and soon cried out, " O la ! I have it not 
 about me."" Upon this, the gentleman asking him 
 what he was searching for, he said he searched after 
 a sermon, which he thought his masterpiece, against 
 vanity. "Fie upon it, fie upon it ! "" cries he, " why 
 do I ever leave that sermon out of my pocket '' I 
 
 [72]
 
 PLAY-WRITING 
 
 wish it was within five miles ; I would willingly fetch 
 it, to read it you." The gentleman answered that 
 there was no need, for he was cured of the passion. 
 " And for that very reason," quoth Adams, " I would 
 read it, for I am conh'dent you would admire it : 
 indeed, I have never been a greater enemy to any 
 passion than that silly one of vanity." The gentle- 
 man smiled, and proceeded — From this society I 
 easily passed to that of the gamesters, where nothing 
 remarkable happened but the finishing my for- 
 tune, which those gentlemen soon helped me to the 
 end of. This opened scenes of life hitherto un- 
 known ; poverty and distress, with their horrid train 
 of duns, attorneys, bailiffs, haunted me day and 
 night. My clothes grew shabby, my credit bad, my 
 friends and acquaintance of all kinds cold. In this 
 situation the strangest thought imaginable came 
 into my head ; and what was this but to write a 
 play ? for I had sufficient leisure : fear of bailiffs 
 confined me every day to my room : and, having 
 always had a little inclination and something of a 
 genius that way, I set myself to work, and within a 
 few months produced a piece of five acts, which was 
 accepted of at the theatre. I remembered to have 
 formerly taken tickets of other poets for their bene- 
 fits, long before the appearance of their performances ; 
 and, resolving to follow a precedent which was so 
 well suited to my present circumstances, I immedi- 
 ately provided myself with a large number of little 
 papers. Happy indeed would be the state of 
 poetry, would these tickets pass current at the bake- 
 house, the ale-house, and the chandler's shop : but 
 
 [73]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 alas ! far otherwise ; no taylor will take them in 
 payment for buckram, canvas, stay-tape ; nor no 
 bailiff for civility money. They are, indeed, no 
 more than a passport to beg with ; a certificate 
 that the owner wants five shillings, which induces 
 well-disposed Christians to charity. I now ex- 
 perienced what is worse than poverty, or rather 
 what is the worst consequence of poverty — I mean 
 attendance and dependance on the great. Many a 
 morning have I waited hours in the cold parlours of 
 men of quality ; where, after seeing the lowest rascals 
 in lace and embroidery, the pimps and buffoons in 
 fashion, admitted, I have been sometimes told, on 
 sending in my name, that my lord could not possibly 
 see me this morning ; a sufficient assurance that I 
 should never more get entrance into that house. 
 Sometimes I have been at last admitted ; and the 
 great man hath thought proper to excuse himself, 
 by telling me he was tied up. "Tied up," says 
 Adams, " pray what \s that ? "" Sir, says the gentle- 
 man, the profit which booksellers allowed authors 
 for the best works was so very small, that certain 
 men of birth and fortune some years ago, who were 
 the patrons of wit and learning, thought fit to en- 
 courage them farthei- by entering into voluntary sub- 
 scriptions for their encouragement. Thus Prior, 
 Rowe, Pope, and some other men of genius, received 
 large sums for their labours from the public. This 
 seemed so easy a method of getting money, that 
 many of the lowest scribblers of the times ventured 
 to publish their works in the same way ; and many 
 had the assurance to take in subscriptions for what 
 
 [74]
 
 SUBSCRIPTIONS 
 
 was not writ, nor ever intended. Subsci-iptions in 
 this manner growing infinite, and a kind of tax on 
 the publick, some persons, finding it not so easy a 
 task to discern good from bad authors, or to know 
 what genius was worthy encouragement and what 
 was not, to prevent the expense of subscribing to so 
 many, invented a method to excuse themselves from 
 all subscriptions whatever ; and this was to receive a 
 small sum of money in consideration of giving a large 
 one if ever they subscribed ; which many have done, 
 and many more have pretended to have done, in 
 order to silence all solicitation. The same method 
 was likewise taken with playhouse tickets, which 
 were no less a public gi'ievance ; and this is what 
 they call being tied up from subscribing. " I can't 
 say but the term is apt enough, and somewhat 
 typical," said Adams ; " for a man of large fortune, 
 who ties himself up, as you call it, from the en- 
 couragement of men of merit, ought to be tied up in 
 reality." Well, sir, says the gentleman, to return to 
 my story. Sometimes I have received a guinea from 
 a man of quality, given with as ill a grace as alms 
 are generally to the meanest beggar ; and purchased 
 too with as much time spent in attendance as, if it 
 had been spent in honest industry, might have 
 brought me more profit with infinitely more satisfac- 
 tion. After about two months spent in this dis- 
 agreeable way, with the utmost modification, when 
 I was pluming my hopes on the prospect of a plenti- 
 ful harvest from my play, upon applying to the 
 prompter to know when it came into rehearsal, he 
 informed me he had received orders from the niana- 
 
 [ 75 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 gers to return me the play again, for that they could 
 not possibly act it that season ; but, if I would take 
 it and revise it against the next, they would be glad 
 to see it again. I snatched it from him with great 
 indignation, and retired to my room, where I threw 
 myself on the bed in a fit of despair. " You should 
 rather have thrown yourself on your knees,"" says 
 Adams, " for despair is sinful.'"' As soon, continued 
 the gentleman, as I had indulged the first tumult of 
 my passion, I began to consider coolly what course I 
 should take, in a situation without friends, money, 
 credit, or reputation of any kind. After revolving 
 many things in my mind, I could see no other possi- 
 bility of furnishing myself with the miserable neces- 
 saries of life than to retire to a garret near the 
 Temple, and commence hackney-writer to the 
 lawyers, for which I was well qualified, being an 
 excellent penman. This purpose I resolved on, and 
 immediately put it in execution. I had an acquaint- 
 ance with an attorney who had formerly transacted 
 affairs for me, and to him I applied ; but, instead of 
 furnishing me with any business, he laughed at my 
 undertaking, and told me, " He was afraid I should 
 turn his deeds into ploys, and he should expect to see 
 them on the stage."'"' Not to tire you with instances 
 of this kind from others, I found that Plato him- 
 self did not hold poets in greater abhorrence than 
 these men of business do. Whenever I durst venture 
 to a coffee-house, which was on Sundays only, a 
 whisper ran round the room, which was constantly 
 attended with a sneer — That \s poet Wilson ; for I 
 know not whether you have observed it, but there is 
 
 [76]
 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 a malignity in the nature of man, which, when not 
 weeded out, or at least covered by a good education 
 and politeness, delights in making another uneasy 
 or dissatisfied with himself. This abundantly appears 
 in all assemblies, except those which are filled by 
 people of fashion, and especially among the younger 
 people of both sexes whose birth and fortunes place 
 them just without the polite circles; I mean the 
 lower class of the gentry, and the higher of the 
 mercantile world, who are, in reality, the worst-bred 
 part of mankind. Well, sir, whilst I continued in 
 this miserable state, with scarce sufficient business to 
 keep me from starving, the reputation of a poet 
 being my bane, I accidentally became acquainted 
 with a bookseller, who told me, " It was a pity a man 
 of my learning and genius should be obliged to such 
 a method of getting his livelihood ; that he had a 
 compassion for me, and, if I would engage with him, 
 he would undertake to provide handsomely for me," 
 A man in my circumstances, as he very well knew, 
 had no choice. I accordingly accepted his proposal 
 with his conditions, which were none of the most 
 favourable, and fell to translating with all my might. 
 I had no longer reason to lament the want of busi- 
 ness ; 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, 
 
 [77]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and aspersed nic 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. Tiiis purchase, being made, left me 
 almost pennyless ; when, as if I had not been suffi- 
 ciently 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 
 fi'om 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 pay- 
 ing 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 suffi- 
 
 [78]
 
 AN UNFORTUNATE SALE 
 
 cient 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 })ut 
 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 [)ay 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 deplor- 
 able situation, a former ac(juaintance, 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 ^^JiOOO. 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 
 
 [ T^J ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 exclianged 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 dread- 
 ful 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 ex- 
 cuse, 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 
 tlie 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 mucli touched with 
 
 [80]
 
 A KINDLY ACT 
 
 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 accept- 
 ance 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." Si r, i t was a ban k-note for £'200. — " ^'SOO ? " 
 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 — 13ut not to detain you with these rap- 
 tures, 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 )ut 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 in- 
 
 VOL. II.— 6 [ 81 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 finitely 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 kind- 
 ness, 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 
 lather to curb and conceal, than to nourish or ac« 
 quaint 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 incon- 
 ceivable 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 
 
 [82]
 
 A DECLxVRATION OF LOVE 
 
 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 re- 
 spect, and, softly letting go her hand, I offered madly 
 to clasp her in my arms ; when, a little recovering her- 
 self, she started from me, asking me, with some show 
 of anger, " If she had any reason to expect this treat- 
 ment 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 happi- 
 ness to mine. Believe me, I sincerely repent my in- 
 gratitude ; yet, believe me too, it was my passion, my 
 \nibounded 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, merce- 
 nary 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 For- 
 tune ! — "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 
 
 [83]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 have obliged me too iniuh already ; if I have any 
 wish, it is for some blest accident, by whicli I may 
 contribute with my life to the least auu;nientation 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, notwith- 
 standing 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 sweet- 
 ness 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 motion- 
 less, 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 other- 
 wise," 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 
 
 [84]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 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 incon- 
 siderately, 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 mv wines, which 
 I never adulterated after their importation, and were 
 sold as neat as they came ovep, 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 actjuaintance in my prosperity, but had 
 denied and shunned me in my adversity, and now 
 very forwardly renewed their acqviaintance 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 ; 
 
 [85]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and my prospects were no other than to provide fur 
 our growing family ; for she wjis now big of her sec- 
 ond 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, w hither 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 conversa- 
 tion than our own, most of the neighborhood taking 
 us for very strange peo})le ; 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 di'ink w ith the other. " Sir," says Adams, " For- 
 tune 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 connnon 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 w^as stolen away from my door by 
 some wicked travelling people whom they call 
 gipsies ; nor could I ever, with the most diligent 
 
 [86]
 
 THE LOST CHILD 
 
 search, recover him. Poor child ! he had the 
 sweetest look — the exact picture of his mother ; at 
 which some tears unwittiii<^ly 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 mv 
 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. 
 
 [87]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 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 probablv he 
 may be some great man, or duke, and may, one day 
 or other, revisit you in that capacity." The gentle- 
 man 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 long- 
 inir 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 — ,i with soft 
 dews hanging on her pouting lips, began to take 
 her early walk over the eastern hills ; and presently 
 
 ^ Whoever the reader pleases. 
 [88]
 
 MR. WILSON'S GARDEN 
 
 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 fortli 
 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 w'eather will not permit them to 
 accompany me here, I am usually within with them ; 
 for I am neither ashamed of conversing with my wife 
 
 [89]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 nor of playing with my children : to say the truth, 
 I do not perceive that inferiority of understanding 
 which the levity of rakes, the dulnessof 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 obser- 
 vations 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 sweet- 
 ened with more delicacy and tenderness, so is it con- 
 firmed by dearer pledges than can attend the 
 closest male alliance ; for what union can be so fast 
 as our connnon 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 gentle- 
 men's housekeepers understand cookery or confec- 
 tionery better; but these are arts which she hath 
 no great occasion for now : however, the wine you 
 
 [90]
 
 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS 
 
 oommonded so much last night at supper was of her 
 own making, as is indeed all the licjuor 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 hap- 
 piness, 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 surpi-ized 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 ten- 
 derness which appeared in the behaviour of the hus- 
 band 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 i-eadiness 
 which they exprest to oblige their guests, and their 
 
 [ 91 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 innnediately 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 neigh- 
 bours came in and informed them that the young 
 squire, the son of the loi'd 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 
 
 [92]
 
 A TYRANNICAL DEED 
 
 had the .scourging him. The niotlier 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 gar- 
 den," said Adams, "though I would rather forgive 
 him riding through my house than such an ilK 
 natured act as this." 
 
 The cheerfulness of their conversation being in- 
 terrupted 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 happi- 
 ness 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 eager- 
 
 [93]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 ness to depart ho summoned his wife ; and accord- 
 ino'ly, liaviiit!; performed all tlie 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 entertain- 
 ment. They then departed, Adams declaring that 
 this was the manner in which the people had lived 
 in the golden age. 
 
 [91]
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 A DISPUl'ATION ON SCHOOLS HELD ON THE ROAD BETWEEN 
 MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS AND JOSEPH ; AND A DIS- 
 COVERY NOT UNWELCOME TO THEM BOTH. 
 
 OUR travellers,having well refi-eshed them- 
 selves at the geiitlemaii''s house, Joseph 
 and Fanny with sleep, and Mr. xVbrahain 
 Adams with ale and tobacco, renewed 
 their journey with great alacrity ; and pursuing the 
 road into which they \\ere directed, travelled many 
 miles before they met with any adventure worth relat- 
 ing. In this interval we shall present our readers 
 with a very curious discourse, as we apprehend it, 
 concerning public schools, which passed between Mr. 
 Josepli Andrews and Mr. Abraham Adams. 
 
 They had not gone far before Adams, calling to 
 Joseph, asked him, " If he had attended to the gentle- 
 man'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 imrseries of a,ll vice 
 and innnorality. All the wicked fellows whom I re- 
 
 [95]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 member at the university were bred at them. — Ah, 
 Lord ! I can remember as well as if it was but yes- 
 tei'day, 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 block- 
 head 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 them- 
 selves 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 gentle- 
 man ""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 pre- 
 tend to — nay, I believe I may go to the next county 
 too — but gloriari non est meum.'''' — " How ever, 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 gentle- 
 man in all the neighbourhood. And I have often 
 heard him say, if he had a hundred boys he would 
 
 [96]
 
 DISPUTATION ON SCHOOLS 
 
 breed them all at the same place. It was liis 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 
 httle societies, where a boy of any observation may 
 see in epitome what he will afterwards find in the 
 world at large." — " H'mc illw lachnpncc: 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 pub- 
 lic education." — " And, with submission," answered 
 Joseph, " he may get as much vice : witness several 
 country gentlemen, who were educated within fi\e 
 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 
 VOL. II. — 7 [ Q'^ ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 ""ood : 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 morn- 
 ing than another, is he therefore a better discipli- 
 narian ? 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 nobod}^ 
 — it might have been better for him : — but his 
 father must institute him in the knowledge of 
 the world. Nemo mortalkim omn'ihus horis sap'it.'''' 
 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, 
 
 [98]
 
 A WELCOME DISCOVERY 
 
 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 school- 
 masters : neither of which points he w ould have 
 given up to Alexander the Great at the head of his 
 army. 
 
 Adams continued his subject till they came to 
 one of the beauti fullest 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 eacli other by the natural ascent of the ground 
 they stood on ; which ascent as they hid with their 
 boughs, thev 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 amved about noon, and Joseph proposed 
 to Adams that they should rest awhile in this delight- 
 ful place, and refresh themselves with some provisions 
 which the good-nature of Mrs. Wilson had provided 
 them with. Adams made no objection to the pro- 
 posal ; 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 })iece 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 
 
 [99]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Joseph that Mr. AVilson 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, w hose 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 Ijefore ; but which those who 
 have as great an affection for that gentleman as our- 
 selves 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. 
 
 [100]
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 MORAL REFLECTIONS BY JOSEPH ANDREWS ; WITH THE 
 HUNTING ADVENTURE, AND PARSON ADAMSES MIRAC- 
 ULOUS ESCAPE. 
 
 HAVE often wondered, sir," said Joseph, 
 " to observe so few instances of charity among 
 mankind ; for though the goodness of a 
 
 man's lieart did not incline him to reheve 
 
 the distresses of his fellow-creatures, methinks the 
 desire of honour should move him to it. What in- 
 spires 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 unfor- 
 tunate 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 
 such-like 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 in- 
 finitely more than the possessor of all those other 
 
 [101]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 things ; wliich when we so admire, we rather praise 
 the builder, the woiknian, 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 tlie 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 re- 
 member 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 connnended ; 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 commend- 
 ing goodness, and no man endeavour to deserve that 
 
 [ 102]
 
 MORAL REFLECTIONS 
 
 commendation ; wliilst, 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 excejitions," 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 an- 
 other 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, whei'e 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 curi- 
 osity 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 con- 
 siders that so many hours had passed since he had 
 closed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repose, 
 
 [ 103 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 wonder- 
 fully pleased with the little wi-etch, 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 be- 
 held her, fled from the friend who would have pro- 
 tected it, and, traversing the meadows again, passed 
 the little rivulet on the opposite side ? It was, how- 
 ever, so spent and weak, that it fell down tw^ce or 
 thrice in its way. This affected the tender heart of 
 
 [ 104- ]
 
 THE HARE HUNT 
 
 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 com- 
 panions, 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 
 
 [105]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 it with any aid more powerful than pity ; nor could 
 she prevail on Joseph, who had been himself a sports- 
 man in his youtli, 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 ; 
 othei*s 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 cer- 
 tainly have tasted his flesh, which delicious flavom- 
 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 admir- 
 able 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 eonivice 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 caimot admit of flight in any circumstance 
 whatever, I say (but I whisper that softly, and I 
 
 [106]
 
 THE PARSON PURSUED 
 
 solemnly declare without any intention of giving 
 offence to any brave man in the nation), I say, or 
 rather I wlnsper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and 
 hath never read Homer nor Virgil, nor knows he 
 anything of Hector or Turnus ; nay, he is unac- 
 quainted 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 innnediately 
 relate of Joseph Anch'ews. The master of the pack 
 was just arrived, or, as the sportsmen call it, come 
 in, when Adams set out, as we have before men- 
 tioned. This gentleman was generally said to be a 
 great lover of humour ; but, not to mince the mat- 
 ter, especially as we are upon this subject, he was a 
 great hunter of men ; indeed, he had hitherto fol- 
 lowed 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 horse- 
 back which we have mentioned before. 
 
 [107]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Now, thou, whoever thou art, whether a muse, or 
 by wliat other name soever thou choosest to be 
 called, who presidest over biography, and hast in- 
 spired 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 
 nez'vous manly style of thy Mallet : thou who hadst 
 no hand in that dedication and preface, or the trans- 
 lations, 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 Gibber 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 dis- 
 tress 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 grand- 
 father, 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 
 
 [108]
 
 JOSEPH AIDS THE PARSON 
 
 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 })lay, 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 Rock wood 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 inten'uption : 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, 
 
 [109]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 beauty, strength, and swiftness ? all wliich blazed in 
 the person of Joseph Andrews. Let those, there- 
 fore, 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 Rock wood 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 ! Ring- 
 wood 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 over-runner ; 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 
 
 [110]
 
 A VIOLENT STRUGGLE 
 
 reader may believe it or not if he pleases ) in that 
 instant interposed, and, in the shape of the hunts- 
 man, snatched her favourite up in her arms. 
 
 The parson now faced about, and with his crab- 
 stick felled many to the earth, and scattered others, 
 till he was attacked by Ca>sar 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 ordi- 
 nary 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 
 
 [111]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 to the combatants, and, sununoning 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 an- 
 swered, 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 weap- 
 ons, and put themselves into such a posture, that 
 the squire and his company thought proper to pre- 
 ponderate before they oftered 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 sur- 
 prized 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 v as 
 busy in cutting the ears of the dogs, and endeavour- 
 ing 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, " 'T was well it was no worse ; 
 for his part he could not blame the gentleman, and 
 
 [112]
 
 THE SQUIRE'S APOLOGY 
 
 wondered his master would encourage the dogs to 
 liunt Christians ; that it was the surest way to spoil 
 them, to make them follow vermin instead of stick- 
 ing to a hare." 
 
 The squire, being informed of the little mischief 
 that had been done, and perhaps having more mis- 
 chief 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 earnest- 
 ness 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 other- 
 wise 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 endea\ oured 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 declai-ing 
 that parson-hunting was the best sport in the world ; 
 VOL. II. —8 [ 113 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 com- 
 panions. 
 
 [114 1
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 A SCENE OF ROASTING, VERY NICELY ADAPTED TO THE 
 PRESENT TASTE AND TIMES. 
 
 THEY arrived at the squire's house just as 
 liis dinner was ready. A Httle dispute 
 arose on the account of Fanny, whom 
 the s{|uire, 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 in- 
 tended 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 
 
 [115]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 addicted himself entirely to huntini; and other rural 
 amusements, for which liis 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 com- 
 panion, 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 travel- 
 ling; 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 Parlia- 
 ment, 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 com- 
 panion without one or more of these ingredients, and 
 those who were marked by nature in the most emi- 
 nent degree with them were most his favourites. 
 
 [116]
 
 AN ILL-MANNERED COMPANY 
 
 If he ever found a man who either had not, or en- 
 deavoured 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 every- 
 thing; that had anv savour of the above-mentioned 
 qualities, and especially in the gravest and best char- 
 acters ; 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 per- 
 formed 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- 
 
 [117]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 men, who had been ordered to convey a quantity of 
 gin into Mr. Adams's ale, whidi he declaring to be 
 the best liquor he ever drank, but rather too rich of 
 the malt, contributed again to their laughter. ]\Ir. 
 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, nmst 
 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 Ijeen able to come at the knowledge of 
 them. When dinner was removed, the poet began 
 to repeat some verges, which, he said, were made 
 extempore. The following is a copy of them, pro- 
 cured 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 ;* 
 
 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. 
 
 At which words the bard whipt off" the player"'s 
 wig, and received the approbation of the company, 
 
 ^ All hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will hunt a 
 piece of rusty bacon trailed on the ground. 
 
 [118]
 
 THE DANCING-MASTER 
 
 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 w ould 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 clench- 
 ing 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, wliich he had once attempted. In the 
 meanwhile, the captain, perceiving an opportunity.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 torment- 
 ing 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 hospi- 
 tality 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 gentle- 
 man, 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, 
 
 [ 120 J
 
 THE PARSON'S SPEECH 
 
 and cursed will be the nation where they are repre- 
 sented. 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 vvith 
 two of my parishioners (I omit your hounds falling 
 on me ; for I have quite forgiven it, whether it pro- 
 ceeded 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 w^ere, as himself had well 
 observed, so bad, that he might easily answer them ; 
 
 [121]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and for the serpent, it w.os undoubtedly a very great 
 affront done him hy 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 jjunish liim 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 him- 
 self in his gown ; " and, clenching his fist, declared 
 " he had thrashed many a stouter man." The 
 gentleman did all he could to encourage this war- 
 like disposition in Adams, and was in hopes to have 
 produced a battle, but he was disappointed ; for the 
 caj)tain made no other answer than, " It is very well 
 you are a {)arson ; " and so, drinking ofl' a bumper to 
 old mother Church, oidcd the dis])ute. 
 
 [ 122 ]
 
 CHOICE OF AMUSEMENTS 
 
 Then the doctor, who h.ad 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 disconnnended 
 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 for- 
 given ; " 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 
 nothiniT more than in the choice of their amuse- 
 ments ; 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 
 
 [ 123]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 plav." Adams higlily commended the doctor's 
 opinion, and said, " He had often wondered at some 
 passages in ancient authors, where Scipio, Lsehus, 
 and other great men were represented to liave passed 
 many hours in amusements of the most trifling 
 kind." The doctor rephed, " 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 per- 
 form himself; and when he was led up to the foot- 
 steps 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 roy- 
 ally entertained. This I think was the chief part. 
 Perhaps I may have forgot some particulai's ; 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 nmch of their lives." He 
 added, " The Christian religion was a nobler subject 
 for these speeches than any Socrates could have 
 
 [ 124]
 
 THE DOCTOR'S JOKE 
 
 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 imme- 
 diate 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 ambassa- 
 dor was introduced between the poet and the doctor ; 
 who, having read his sermon, to the great entertain- 
 ment 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 
 
 [125]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 travel- 
 lers, 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. 
 
 [126]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 WHICH SOME EEADERS WILL THINK TOO SHORT AND 
 OTHERS TOO LONG. 
 
 ^ DAMS, and Joseph, who was no less enraged 
 /^L than his friend at the treatment he met 
 / ^ k with, went out with their sticks in their 
 ^ ^ hands, and carried off Fanny, notwith- 
 standing 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 pur- 
 sued 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 ex- 
 pedition, 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. 
 
 [127]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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, return- 
 ing thanks to the Almighty for his food, declared he 
 had eat his homely connnons with much greater 
 satisfaction than his splendid dinner ; and expressed 
 great contempt for the folly of mankind, who sacri- 
 ficed 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 pur- 
 chase 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 
 
 [128]
 
 DISCUSSION ON RICHES 
 
 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 
 miseiy 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 compas- 
 sion ? " *' 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 under- 
 stand 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 pur- 
 chased with riches ; a doctrine, in my opinion, not 
 
 V0L.II.-9 [129]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 only metaphysically, but, if I may so say, mathe- 
 matically demonstrable ; and which I have been 
 always so ])erfectly convinced of that I have a con- 
 tempt for nothing so much as for gold." Adams now 
 began a lonjj discourse : but as most which he said 
 occurs among many authors who have treated this 
 subject, I shall omit inserting it. During its con- 
 tinuance Joseph and P'anny retired to rest, and the 
 host likewise left the room. When the English 
 parson had concluded, the Romish resumed the dis- 
 course, 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 Chris- 
 tian, 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 
 
 [130]
 
 THE PENNILESS PRIEST 
 
 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 cro\vTi 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 penny- 
 less. 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 estima- 
 tion 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 innnediately, notwithstanding the dark- 
 ness ; 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 nmst 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 
 
 [ 131 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 be- 
 coming 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. 
 
 [ 132 ]
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 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 infor- 
 mation 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 win- 
 dow, 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 wake- 
 ful 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 
 
 [133]
 
 JOSEPH AxNDREWS 
 
 Joseph''s room, who then was ahnost 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 consid- 
 ering the pi'esence 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 hui'ry, he forgot ; however, 
 they were pretty well supplied by the length of 
 his other garments ; and now, the house-door be- 
 ing 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 
 
 [134 J
 
 STRANGE ADVENTURES 
 
 purpose ; the bird was flown, as the impatient reader, 
 who might otherwise have been in pain for her, was 
 before advertised. They then entjuired where the 
 men lay, and were approaching the chamber, when 
 Joseph roared out, in a loud voice, that he would 
 shoot the Hi-st 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, wlien 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 Fainiy 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, notwith- 
 standing her disguise, her air, which she could not 
 conceal, sufficiently discovered her birth to be infi- 
 
 [135]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 nitely superior to theirs. Fanny, bursting into tears, 
 solennily assured Inni he was mistaken ; that she was 
 a j)oc)r 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 con- 
 firmed 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 foil 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 
 
 [136]
 
 JOSEPH OVERCOME 
 
 contained, and the white hquor which the pot con- 
 tained, 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 fur- 
 rows 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 cham- 
 ber 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 
 
 [137]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 looked so black with the impressions he liad received 
 froin the mop, tliat 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 Jose})h on the floor, and Adams 
 secured, he instantly laid hold on P'anny, 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 down-stairs by violence, and 
 fastened her on the players 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 tlioughts 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, 
 innnediately, 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 desir- 
 ing 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 dif- 
 ferent road from that which the captain had fallen 
 into. 
 
 [138]
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 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 
 trat^edy we shall leave Mr. Joseph and 
 Mr. Adams to themselves, and imitate 
 the wise conductors of the stai^e, 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 dis- 
 course 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. Gentle- 
 men 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, 
 
 [139 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 like vines, may be pruned, but not with a hatchet. 
 The town, hke 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 depravit}' 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 j udges, 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 snow- 
 ball. You have deceived me in my estimation of 
 perfection, and have outdone what I thought inimi- 
 table." — " Vou are as little interested," answered 
 
 [ 140 1
 
 A DISCOURSE 
 
 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 tlie 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 hap- 
 pen," returned the poet ; " the woiks of most modern 
 authors, like dead-born children, cannot be mur- 
 dered. 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, 
 
 [Ul]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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, Ot- 
 ways, 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 : fai'be the noise 
 Of kings and crowns from iis, whose gentle Bouls 
 Our kinder fates have steer'd another way. 
 Free as the forest birds we *Jl pair together. 
 Without rememb'ring who our fathers were : 
 Fly to the arbors, grots, and tlow'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 
 
 [ 142 J
 
 THE POET AND THE PLAYER 
 
 speaking it was hissed," said the poet. — " My speak- 
 ing it ! " said the player. — "I mean your not 
 speaking it," said the poet. " You was out, and 
 then they hissed." — " They hissed, and tlien 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 danniation," 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." — " ^Vhy 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 
 
 [143]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 (lid 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 dis- 
 tress 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 coun- 
 terpart 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. 
 
 [144]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 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 bv 
 some people, and are made of a certain composition 
 not unlike flint in its hardness and other properties ; 
 for vou may strike fire from them, which will dart 
 through the eyes, but they can never distil one drop 
 of water the same wa}'. 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, liis 
 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 
 vol,. II.— 10 [ 145 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 piomised yourself many little dar- 
 lings, who would liave 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 oft' ! " — 
 " 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), 
 
 [ 146 j
 
 JOSEPH IN AFFLICTION 
 
 for, as we kjiow not to what purpose any event is 
 ultimately directed, so neither can we affirm from 
 what cause it originally sprung. Vou are a man, 
 and consequently a siinier ; and this may be a 
 punishment to you for your sins : indeed in this 
 sense it niav be esteemed as a good, yea, as the 
 greatest good, which satisfies the anger of Heaven, 
 and averts that wrath which cannot continue with- 
 out our destruction. Thirdly, our ini potency of 
 relieving ourselves demonstrates the folly and ab- 
 surdity 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 sub- 
 mission." " O sir ! "" cried Joseph, " all this is very 
 true, and verv fine, and I could hear you all day 
 if I was not so grieved at heart as now I am."'^ — 
 " Would vou 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 resig- 
 nation, wait the event : if she be restored to you 
 again, it is your duty to be thankful, and so it is if 
 
 [ 147 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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, wliich happen to the righteous, happen 
 to them for their own good. Nay, it is not your 
 interest only, but your duty, to abstain from im- 
 moderate 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 angiy, 
 saying, he mistook him if he tliought 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 
 
 [148]
 
 JOSEPH^S SOLILOQUY 
 
 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 re- 
 peated violence, nor could Adams in the least asswage 
 it ; thouo-h 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. 
 
 [149]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 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 dis- 
 course of Mi% 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 bcwailings 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 attem})tcd 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 
 
 [150]
 
 FANiNY AND HER CAPTORS 
 
 whatever licr 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 i<^norance only 
 could make her fond of. She answered, she knew 
 not whom he meant ; she never was fond of any piti- 
 ful fellow. "•' Are you aifronted, madam," says he, 
 "at my calling him so? But what better can be 
 said of one in a livery, notwithstanding your fond- 
 ness for hin)?" 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 ; l)ut 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, 
 aliandoned 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 
 
 [151]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 assist- 
 ance, 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 caj)tain saw both force and stratagem were vain, 
 and endeavoured to make his escape, in which how- 
 ever he could not succeed. The gentleman who rode 
 in the chariot ordered it to stop, and with an air of 
 
 [ 152 1
 
 THE RESCUE 
 
 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 pre- 
 ceded 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 meet- 
 ing; 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 
 
 [ 153 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 be paid to his riches ; hence Mr. Adams was so 
 much his favourite, tliat he once lent him four 
 pounds thirteen shiUings 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 ap- 
 peared on his face, where a long piss-burnt beard 
 served to retain the licjuor 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 dis- 
 ordered the composed gravity of his muscles ; how- 
 ever, 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 
 
 [ 154]
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S PUNISHMENT 
 
 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 drub- 
 bing 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. 
 
 [155]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 The mistress of the house made her voluntary ap- 
 pearance 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, contin- 
 ually 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 con- 
 tinue 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 
 
 [ 156 ]
 
 A FRIENDLY CONTEST 
 
 at the inn, and which these honest fellows, who knew 
 him, had redeemed. Indeed, whatever hoise 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 an- 
 swered — 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 e(j[uestrian travellers ; but, as I intend to take 
 the company of a pipe, perad venture 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 accept- 
 ing 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 
 
 [157]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 decision : for here both parties were heartily in earn- 
 est, 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 houje 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 pil- 
 lion 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 ono 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 imme- 
 diately to her assistance, she had, in plain English, 
 tumbled backwards on the ground. This incon- 
 venience was presently remedied by an exchange of 
 horses ; and then Fanny being again placed on her 
 
 [158]
 
 A PEACEFUL JOURNEY 
 
 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 re- 
 markable happening on the road, unless it was a 
 curious (halogue 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/"' 
 
 [159]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 A CURIOUS DIALOGUE WHICH PASSED BETWEEN MR. 
 ABRAHAM ADAMS AND MR. PETER POUNCE, BETIER 
 WORTH READING THAN ALL THE WORKS OF COLLEY 
 CIBBER AND MANY OTHERS. 
 
 THE chcariot 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 
 
 [ 160] 
 
 •» 
 I
 
 A CURIOUS DIALOGUE 
 
 infer many parsons have it neither." — " Sir,*" said 
 Adams, " my definition of charity is, a generous dis- 
 position to reHeve the distressed." — " There is some- 
 thing in that definition," answered Peter, " which I 
 hke well enough ; it is, as you say, a disposition, and 
 does not so much consist in the act as in the dispo- 
 sition 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 follv than goodness to relieve them," — " Sure, 
 sir," replied xVdams, " 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 liunger," 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 po- 
 tations ? 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 Jehosa- 
 phats ! " cried Peter ; " the greatest fault in our con- 
 stitution 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 as- 
 sure you I expect to come myself to the parish in the 
 end." To which Adams giving a dissenting smile, 
 VOL. II. — 11 [ 161 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Peter thus proceeded : " I fancy, Mr. Adams, you are 
 one of those wlio imagine I am a hnnj) of money ; 
 for there are many wlio, I fancy, believe that not 
 only my pockets, ])ut my whole clothes, are lined 
 with bank-bills; but I assure you, you are all mis- 
 taken ; 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 ac(|uisition ; 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 ? In- 
 deed, had you inherited an estate like Sir Thomas 
 Booby, which had descended in your family for many 
 generations, they miglit have had a coloiu- 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 
 
 "[ 162 ]
 
 THE PARSON INDIGNANT 
 
 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 under- 
 value me in the country. I know the envy of man- 
 kind very well; but I thank Heaven 1 am above 
 them. It is true, my wealth is of my own acquisi- 
 tion. 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 wliat 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, witiiout calHng 
 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 Faimy stopt to bear him com- 
 pany the rest of the way, which was not above a mile. 
 
 [163]
 
 BOOK IV 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE ARRIVAL OF LADY BOOBY AND THE REST AT BOOBY- 
 HALL. 
 
 THE coach and six, in which Lady Booby 
 rode, overtook the other travellers as 
 they entered the parish. She no sooner 
 saw Joseph than her cheeks glowed with 
 red, and immediately after became as totally pale. 
 She had in her surprize almost stopt her coach ; but 
 recollected herself timely enough to prevent it. She 
 entered the parish amidst the ringing of bells and 
 the acclamations of the poor, who were rejoiced to 
 see their patroness returned after so long an absence, 
 during which time all her rents had been drafted to 
 London, without a shilling being spent among them, 
 which tended not a little to their utter impoverishing ; 
 for, if the court would l)e severely missed in such a 
 city as London, how much more must the absence of 
 a person of great fortune be felt in a little country 
 village, for whose inhabitants such a family finds a 
 constant employment and supply ; and with the 
 offals of whose table the infirm, aged, and infant 
 poor are abundantly fed, with a generosity which 
 hath scarce a visible effect on their benefactors' 
 pockets ! 
 
 [164]
 
 A HEARTY WELCOME 
 
 But, if their interest inspired so public a joy into 
 every countenance, how much more forcibly did the 
 affection which they bore parson Adams operate up- 
 on all who beheld his return ! They flocked about 
 him like dutiful children round an induli^ent parent, 
 and vyed with each other in demonstrations of duty 
 and love. The parson on his side shook every one 
 by the hand, enquired heartily after the healths of 
 all that were absent, of their children, and relations ; 
 and exprest a satisfaction in his face which nothing 
 but benevolence made happy by its objects could 
 infuse. 
 
 Nor did Joseph and Fanny want a hearty welcome 
 from all who saw them. In short, no three persons 
 could be more kindly received, as, indeed, none ever 
 more deserved to be universally beloved. 
 
 Adams cai'ried his fellow-travellers home to his 
 house, where he insisted on their partaking whatever 
 his wife, whom, with his children, he found in health 
 and joy, could provide : — where we shall leave them 
 enjoying perfect happiness over a homely meal, to 
 view scenes of greater splendour, but infinitely less 
 bliss. 
 
 Our more intelligent readers will doubtless sus- 
 pect, by this second appearance of Lady Booby on 
 the stage, that all was not ended by the dismission 
 of Joseph ; and, to be honest with them, they are 
 in the right : the arrow had pierced deeper than she 
 imagined ; nor was the wound so easily to be cured. 
 The removal of the object soon cooled her rage, but 
 it had a different effect on her love ; that departed 
 with his person, but this remained lurking in her 
 
 [ 165 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 mind with his imat;e. Restless, interrupted slum- 
 bers, and confused lu)ri"ible dreams were her portion 
 the first nii!;ht. In the morning, fancy painted her a 
 more delicious scene ; but to delude, not delight her; 
 for, before she could reach the promised happiness, 
 it vanished, and left her to curse, not bless, the 
 vision. 
 
 She started from her sleep, her imagination being 
 all on fire with the phantom, when, her eyes acci- 
 dentally glancing towards the spot where yesterday 
 the real Joseph had stood, that little circumstance 
 raised his idea in the liveliest colours in her memory. 
 Each look, each word, each gesture rushed back on 
 her mind with charms which all his coldness could 
 not abate. Nay, she imputed tliat to his youth, his 
 folly, his awe, his religion, to everything but what 
 would instantly have produced contempt, want of 
 passion for the sex, or that which would have roused 
 her hatred, want of liking to her. 
 
 Reflection tlien hurried her farther, and told her 
 she must see this beautiful youth no more ; nay, sug- 
 gested to her that she herself had dismissed him for 
 no other fault than probably that of too violent an 
 awe and respect for herself; and which she ouglit 
 rather to have esteemed a merit, the effects of which 
 were besides so easily and surely to have been 
 removed ; she then blamed, she cursed the hasty 
 rashness of her temper ; her fury was vented all on 
 herself, and Joseph appeared innocent in her eyes. 
 Her passion at length grew so violent, that it forced 
 her on seeking relief, and now she thought of recall- 
 ing him : I)ut pride forbad that ; pride, which soon 
 
 [166]
 
 LADY BOOBY'S SENTIMENTS 
 
 drove all softer passions from her soul, and represented 
 to her the meanness of him she was fond of. That 
 thought soon began to ol)scui-e his beauties ; con- 
 tempt succeeded next, and then disdain, which pres- 
 ently introduced her hatred of the creature who had 
 triven her so much uneasiness. These enemies of 
 Joseph had no sooner taken possession of her mind 
 than they insinuated to her a thousand things in his 
 disfavour ; everything but dislike of her person ; a 
 thouo-ht whicli, as it would have been intolerable to 
 bear, she checked the moment it endeavoured to arise. 
 Revenire came now to her assistance ; and she con- 
 sidered her dismission of him, stript, and without a 
 character, with the utmost pleasure. She rioted in 
 the several kinds of misery which her imagination 
 sussested to her might be his fate ; and, with a smile 
 composed of anger, mirth, and scorn, viewed him in 
 the rags in which her fancy had drest him. 
 
 Mrs. Slipslop, being sunuuoned, attended her 
 mistress, who had now in her own opinion totally 
 subdued this passion. Whilst she was dressing she 
 asked if that fellow had been turned away according 
 to her orders. Slipslop answered, she had told her 
 ladyship so (as indeed she had). — " And how did he 
 behave .?■" rephed the lady. "Truly, madam," cries 
 Slipslop, " in such a manner that infected everybody 
 who saw him. The poor lad had but little wages to 
 receive; for he constantly allowed his father and 
 mother half his income ; so that, when your lady- 
 ship's livery was stript off, he had not wherewithal to 
 buy a coat, and must have gone naked if one of the 
 footmen had not inconnnodated him with one ; and 
 
 [ 167 j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 whilst he was standing in his shirt (and, to say truth, 
 he was an amorous figure), being told your ladyship 
 would not give him a character, he sighed, and said 
 he had done nothing willingly to offend ; that for 
 his part, he should always give your ladyship a good 
 character wherever he went ; and he prayed God to 
 bless you ; for you was the best of ladies, though his 
 enemies had set you against him. I wish you had not 
 turned him away ; for I believe you have not a faith- 
 fuller servant in the house," — "How came you then,'"' 
 replied the lady, "to advise me to turn him away ?" 
 — " I, madam ! " said Slipslop ; " I am sure you will 
 do me the justice to say, I did all in my power to 
 prevent it ; but I saw your ladyship was angry ; and 
 it is not the business of us upper servants to hinterfear 
 on these occasions."" " And Avas it not you, audacious 
 wretch ! '^ cried the lady, " who made me angry ? 
 Was it not your tittle-tattle, in which I believe you 
 belyed the poor fellow, which incensed me against 
 him ? He may thank you for all that hath happened ; 
 and so may I for the loss of a good servant, and one 
 who probably had more merit than all of you. Poor 
 fellow ! I am charmed with his goodness to his 
 parents. Why did not you tell me of that, but suffer 
 me to dismiss so good a creature without a character ? 
 I see the reason of your whole beha\iour now as well 
 as your complaint ; you was jealous of the wenches." 
 "I jealous ! "" said Slipslop ; " I assure you, I look upon 
 myself as his betters ; I am not meat for a footman, I 
 hope." These words threw the lady into a violent pas- 
 sion, and she sent Slipslop from her presence, who de- 
 parted, tossing her nose, and crving, "Marry, come up ! 
 
 [ 168 ]
 
 THE BANNS PUBLISHED 
 
 there are some people more jealous than I, I believe."'"' 
 Her lady affected not to hear the words, though in 
 reality she did, and understood them too. Now 
 ensued a second conflict, so like the former, that it 
 might savour of repetition to relate it minutely. It 
 may suffice to say that Lady Booby found good reason 
 to doubt whether she had so absolutely conquered her 
 passion as she had flattered herself ; and, in order to 
 accomplish it quite, took a resolution, more common 
 than wise, to retire immediately into the country. 
 The reader hath long ago seen the arrival of Mrs. 
 Slipslop, whom no pertness could make her mistress 
 resolve to part with ; lately, that of Mr. Pounce, her 
 forerunnci-s ; and, lastly, that of the lady herself. 
 
 The morning after her arrival being Sunday, she 
 went to church, to the great surprize of everybody, 
 wlu) wondered to see her ladyship, being no very 
 constant church-woman, there so suddenly upon her 
 journey. Joseph was likewise there; and I have 
 heard it was remarked that she fixed her eyes on 
 him much more than on the parson ; but this I 
 believe to be only a malicious rumour. When the 
 prayers were ended Mr. Adams stood up, and with 
 a loud voice pronounced, "I publish the banns of 
 marriage between Joseph Andrews and Erances Good- 
 will, both of this parish," &c. Whether this had 
 any effect on Lady Booby or no, who was then in her 
 pew, which the congregation could not see into, I 
 could never discover : but certain it is that in about 
 a quarter of an hour she stood up, and directed her 
 eyes to that part of the church where the women sat, 
 and persisted in looking that way during the re- 
 
 [169]
 
 JOSEPH AxNDREWS 
 
 mainder of the sermon in so scrutinizing a manner 
 and with so angry a countenance, that most of the 
 women were afraid she was offended at tliem. The 
 moment she returned liome she sent for Shpslop into 
 her chamber, and told her she wondered wliat tliat 
 impudent fellow Joseph did in that parish ? Upon 
 which Slipslop gave her an account of her meeting 
 Adams with him on the road, and likewise the adven- 
 ture with Farmy. At the relation of which the lady 
 often changed her countenance; and when she had 
 heard all, she ordered Mr. Adams into her presence, 
 to whom she behaved as the reader will see in the 
 next chapter. 
 
 [170]
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS AND THE 
 
 LADY BOOBY. 
 
 MR. ADAMS was not far off, for he was 
 drinking her ladysliip's health lielow in 
 a cup of her ale. He no sooner came 
 before her than she betjan in the 
 following manner : " I wonder, sir, after the many 
 great obligations you have had to this family "" (with 
 all which the reader hath in the course of this history 
 been minutely acquainted), " that you will ungrate- 
 fully show any respect to a fellow who hath been 
 turned out of it for his misdeeds. Nor doth it, I can 
 tell you, sir, become a man of your character, to run 
 about the country with an idle fellow and wench. 
 Indeed, as for the girl, I know no harm of her. 
 Slipslop tells me she was formerly bred up in my 
 house, and behaved as she ought, till she hankered after 
 this fellow, and he spoiled her. Nay, she may still, 
 perhaps, do very well, if he will let her alone. You 
 are, therefore, doing a monstrous thing in endeavour- 
 ing to procure a match between these two people, 
 which will be to the ruin of them both." — " Madam," 
 said Adams, " if your ladyship will but hear me 
 speak, I protest I never heard any harm of Mr. 
 Joseph Andrews ; if I had, I should have corrected him 
 
 [ITlj
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 for it ; for I never have, nor will, encourage the faults 
 of those under my cure. As for the young woman, 
 I assure your ladysliip I have as good an opinion of her 
 as your ladyship yourself or any other can have. She 
 is the sweetest-tem})ered, honestest, worthiest young 
 creature ; indeed, as to her beauty, I do not com- 
 mend her on that account, though all men allow she 
 is the handsomest woman, gentle or simple, that ever 
 appeared in the parish." — "You are very imperti- 
 nent," says she, " to talk such fulsome stuff to me. 
 It is mighty becoming truly in a dcrgvman to 
 trouble himself about handsome women, and you 
 are. a delicate judge of beauty, no doubt. A man 
 who hath lived all his life in such a parish as this is 
 a rare judge of beauty ! Ridiculous ! beauty indeed ! 
 a country wench a beauty ! I shall be sick whenever 
 I hear beauty n)entioned again. And so this wench 
 is to stock the parish with ])eauties, I hope. But, 
 sir, our poor is numerous enough already ; I will have 
 no more vagabonds settled here." — "Madam," says 
 Adams, "your ladyship is offended with me, I 
 protest, without any reason. This couple were de- 
 sirous to consummate long ago, and I dissuaded 
 them from it ; nay, I may venture to say, I believe I 
 was the sole cause of their delaying it." — " Well," 
 says she, " and you did very wisely and honestly too, 
 notwithstanding she is the greatest beauty in the 
 parish." — "And now, madam," continued he, "I 
 only perform my office to Mr. Joseph." — " Pray, 
 don't mister such fellows to me," cries the lady. 
 " He," said the parson, " with the consent of Fanny, 
 before my face, put in the banns." " Yes," answered 
 
 [ 172]
 
 LADY BOOBY AND MR. ADAMS 
 
 the lady, " I suppose the skit is forward enough ; 
 Shpslop tells nie how her head runs upon fellows ; 
 that is one of her beauties, I suppose. But if they 
 have put in the banns, I desire you will publisli 
 them no more without my orders." — " Madam,'' 
 cries Adams, " if any one puts in a sufficient caution, 
 and assigns a proper reason against them, I am will- 
 ing to surcease." — "I tell you a reason," says she: 
 " he is a vagabond, and he shall not settle here, and 
 bring a nest of beggars into the parish ; it will make 
 us but little amends that they will be beauties." — 
 " Madam," answered Adams, " with the utmost sub- 
 mission to your ladyship, I have been informed by 
 lawyer Scout tliat any person who serves a year 
 gains a settlement in the parish where he serves." — 
 " Lawyer Scout," replied the lady, " is an impudent 
 coxcomb ; I will have no lawyer Scout interfere with 
 me. I repeat to you again, I will have no more 
 incumbrances brought on us : so I desire you will 
 proceed no farther." — " Madam," returned Adams, 
 " I would obey your ladyship in everything that is 
 lawful ; but surely the parties being poor is no 
 reason against their marrying. God forbid there 
 should be any such law ! The poor have little share 
 enough of this world already ; it would be barbar- 
 ous indeed to deny them the common privileges and 
 innocent enjoyments which nature indulges to the 
 animal creation." — " Since you understand yourself 
 no better," cries the lady, " nor the respect due from 
 such as you to a woman of my distinction, than to 
 affront my ears by such loose discourse, I shall men- 
 tion but one short word ; it is my orders to you 
 
 [173]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 that you publisli tliose banns no more; and if you 
 dare, I will reconunend it to your master, the doctor, 
 to discard you from his service. I will, sir, notwith- 
 standing your poor family ; and then you and the 
 greatest beauty in the parish may go and beg 
 together.*" — " Madam,"" answered Adams, " I know 
 not what your ladyship means by the terms master 
 and service. I am in the service of a Master who 
 will never discard me for doing my duty ; and if the 
 doctor (for indeed I have never been able to pay for 
 a licence) thinks proper to turn me fiom my cure, 
 God will provide me, I hope, another. At least, 
 my family, as well as myself, have hands ; and he 
 will prosper, I doubt not, our endeavours to get our 
 bread honestly with them. Whilst my conscience is 
 pure, I shall never fear what man can do unto me."" 
 — "I condemn my humility,"''' said the lady, "for 
 demeaning myself to converse with you so long. I 
 shall take other measures ; for I see you are a con- 
 federate with them. But the sooner you leave me 
 the better; and I shall give orders that my doors 
 may no longer be open to you. I will suffer no 
 parsons who run about the country with beauties to 
 be entertained here."*"" — " Madam,"" said Adams, " I 
 shall enter into no persons"* doors against their will ; 
 but I am assured, when you have enquired farther 
 into this matter, you will applaud, not blame, my 
 proceeding ; and so I humbly take my leave : "" which 
 he did with many bows, or at least many attempts 
 at a bow. 
 
 [174]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THE LADY AND LA^VYER SCOUT. 
 
 IN the afternoon the lady sent for Mr. Scout, 
 whom she attacked most violently for inter- 
 meddling with her servants, which he denied, 
 and indeed with truth, for he had only asserted 
 accidentally, and perhaps rightly, that a years ser- 
 vice gained a settlement ; and so far he owned he 
 might have formerly informed the parson and be- 
 lieved it was law. " I am resolved," said the lady, 
 " to have no discarded servants of mine settled here ; 
 and so, if this be your law, I shall send to another 
 lawyer." Scout said, " If she sent to a hundred 
 lawyers, not one or all of them could alter the law. 
 The utmost that was in the power of a lawyer was to 
 prevent the lawn's taking effect ; and that he himself 
 could do for her ladyship as well as anv other ; and 
 I believe," says he, " madam, your ladyship, not 
 being conversant in these matters, hath mistaken a 
 difference ; for I asserted only that a man who served 
 a year was settled. Now there is a material difference 
 between being settled in law and settled in fact ; and 
 as I affirmed generally he was settled, and law is pre- 
 ferable to fact, my settlement must be understood in 
 law and not in fact. And suppose, madam, we admit 
 he was settled in law, what use will they make of it .'' 
 how doth that relate to fact .'' He is not settled in 
 
 [175]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 fact ; and if he be not settled in fact, he is not an 
 inhabitant ; and if he is not an inhabitant, he is not 
 of this parish ; and then undoubtedly he ought not 
 to be published here ; for Mr. Adams hath told me 
 your ladyship's pleasure, and the reason, which is a 
 very good one, to prevent burdening us with the 
 poor; we have too many already, and I think we 
 ought to have an act to hang or transport half 
 of them. If we can prove in evidence that he is 
 not settled in fact, it is another matter. What 
 I said to Mr. Adams was on a supposition that he 
 was settled in fact ; and indeed, if that was the case, 
 I should doubt." — " Don't tell me your facts and 
 your ifs," said the lady ; " I don't understand your 
 gibberish ; you take too much upon you, and are 
 very impertinent, in pretending to direct in this par- 
 ish ; and you shall be taught better, I assure you, 
 vou shall. But as to the wench, I am resolved she 
 shall not settle here ; I will not suffer such beauties 
 as these to produce children for us to keep."" — 
 " Beauties, indeed ! your ladyship is pleased to be 
 merry," answered Scout. — "Mr. Adams described 
 her so to me,*" said the lady. " Pray, what sort of 
 dowdy is it, Mr. Scout ? " — " The ugliest creature 
 almost I ever beheld ; a poor dirty drab, your lady- 
 ship never saw such a wretch." — " Well, but, dear 
 Mr. Scout, let her be what she will, these ugly 
 women will bring children, you know ; so that we 
 must prevent the marriage." — " True, madam," re- 
 plied Scout, " for the subsequent marriage co-oper- 
 ating with the law will carry law into fact. When 
 a man is married he is settled in fact, and then he 
 
 [ 176 J
 
 LAWYER SCOUT 
 
 is not removable. I will see Mr. Adams, and I 
 make no doubt of prevailing with him. His only 
 objection is, doubtless, that he shall lose his fee ; 
 but that being once made easy, as it shall be, I am 
 confident no farther objection will remain. No, no, 
 it is impossible ; but your ladyship can't discommend 
 his unwillingness to depart from his fee. Every 
 man ought to have a proper value for his fee. As 
 to the matter in question, if your ladyship pleases to 
 employ me in it, I will venture to promise you suc- 
 cess. The laws of this land are not so vulgar to 
 permit a mean fellow to contend with one of your 
 ladyship's fortune. ^Ve have one sure card, which 
 is, to carry him before Justice Frolick, who, upon 
 hearing your ladyship's name, will commit him with- 
 out any farther questions. As for the dirty slut, we 
 shall have nothing to do with her; for, if we get rid 
 of the fellow, the ugly jade will — " — "Take what 
 measures you ])lease, good Mr. Scout,"" answered the 
 lady : " but I wish you could rid the parish of both ; 
 for Slipslop tells me such stories of this wench, that 
 I abhor the thoughts of her ; and, though you say 
 she is such an ugly slut, yet you know, dear Mr. 
 Scout, these forward creatures, who run after men, 
 will always find some as forward as themselves ; so 
 that, to prevent the increase of beggars, we must get 
 rid of her."" — "Your ladyship is very much in the 
 right,'"' answered Scout; "but I am afraid the law 
 is a little deficient in giving us any such power of 
 prevention ; however, the justice will stretch it as 
 far as he is able, to oblige your ladyship. To say 
 truth, it is a great blessing to the country that he is 
 
 VOL. 11—12 [ 177 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 in the commission, for he hath taken several poor 
 off our hands that the law would never lay hold on. 
 I know some justices who think as much of commit- 
 ting a man to Bridewell as his lordship at 'size would 
 of hanging him ; but it would do a man good to see 
 his worship, our justice, commit a fellow to Bride- 
 well, he takes so much pleasure in it ; and when 
 once we ha'um there, we seldom hear any more o' um. 
 He 's either starved or eat up by vermin in a month's 
 time."" — Here the arrival of a visitor put an end to 
 the conversation, and Mr. Scout, having undertaken 
 the cause and promised it success, departed. 
 
 This Scout was one of those fellows who, without 
 any knowledge of the law, or being bred to it, take 
 upon them, in defiance of an act of Parliament, to 
 act as lawyers in the country, and are called so. 
 They are the pests of society, and a scandal to a 
 profession, to which indeed they do not belong, and 
 which owes to such kind of rascallions the ill-will 
 which weak persons bear towards it. With this 
 fellow, to whom a little before she would not have 
 condescended to have spoken, did a certain passion 
 for Joseph, and the jealousy and the disdain of poor 
 innocent Fanny, betray the Lady Booby into a fa- 
 miliar discourse, in which she inadvertently confirmed 
 many hints with which Slipslop, whose gallant he 
 was, had pre-acquainted him ; and whence he had 
 taken an opportunity to assert those severe false- 
 hoods of little Fanny which possibly the reader 
 might not have been well able to account for if we had 
 not thought proper to give him this information. 
 
 [178]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 A SHORT CHAPTER, BUT VERY FULL OF MATTER ; PARTICU- 
 LARLY THE ARRIVAL OF MR. BOOBY AND HIS LADY. 
 
 j^ LL that night, and the next day, the Lady 
 /^ Booby past with the utmost anxiety ; 
 Z— J^ her mind was distracted and her soul 
 ^ m tossed up and down by many turbulent 
 
 and opposite passions. She loved, hated, pitied, 
 scorned, aflmired, despised the same person by fits, 
 which chanj^ed in a verv short interval. On Tuesday 
 morning, which happened to be a holiday, she went 
 to church, where, to her surprize, Mr. Adams pub- 
 lished the banns again with as audible a voice as 
 before. It was lucky for her that, as there was no 
 sermon, she had an immediate opportunity of return- 
 ing home to vent her rage, which she could not have 
 concealed from the congregation five minutes ; in- 
 deed, it was not then very numerous, the assembly 
 consisting of no more than Adams, his clerk, his wife, 
 the lady, and one of her servants. At her return 
 she met Slipslop, who accosted her in these words : 
 — " O meam, what doth your ladyship think ? To 
 be sure, lawyer Scout hath carried Joseph and Fanny 
 both before the justice. All the parish are in tears, 
 and sav they will certainly be hanged ; for nobody 
 knows what it is for."" — "I suppose they deserve 
 
 [ no ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 it," says the lady. " What ! dost thou mention such 
 wretches to nie ? " — " O dear madam,'''' answered 
 Slipslop, "is it not a pity such a graceless young 
 man should die a virulent death ? I hope the judge 
 will take commensuration on his youth. As for 
 Fanny, I don''t think it signifies much what becomes 
 of her ; and if poor Joseph hath done anything, I 
 could venture to swear she traduced him to it : few 
 men ever come to a fragrant punishment, but by 
 those nasty creatures, who are a scandal to our sect.'' 
 The lady was no more pleased at this news, after 
 a momenfs reflection, than Slipslop herself ; for, 
 though she wished Fanny fiir enough, she did not 
 desire the removal of Joseph, especially with her. 
 She was puzzled how to act or what to say on this 
 occasion, when a coach and six drove into the court, 
 and a servant acquainted her with the arrival of her 
 nephew Booby and his lady. She ordered them to 
 be conducted into a drawing-room, whither she pres- 
 ently repaired, having composed her countenance as 
 well as she could, and being a little satisfied that the 
 wedding would by these means be at least interrupted, 
 and that she should have an opportunity to execute 
 any resolution she might take, for which she saw 
 herself provided with an excellent instrument in 
 Scout. 
 
 The Lady Booby apprehended her servant had 
 made a mistake when he mentioned Mr. Booby's 
 lady ; for she had never heard of his marriage : but 
 how great was her surprize when, at her entering the 
 room, her nephew presented his wife to her ; saying, 
 " Madam, this is that charming Pamela, of whom I 
 
 [180]
 
 MR. BOOBY 
 
 am convinced you have heard so much.'"' The lady 
 received her with more civihty than he expected ; 
 indeed witli the utmost ; for she was perfectly polite, 
 nor had any vice inconsistent with good-breeding. 
 They ptist some little time in ordinary discourse, 
 when a servant came and whispered Mr. Booby, who 
 presently told the ladies he must desert them a little 
 on some business of consequence ; and, as their dis- 
 course during his absence would afford little improve- 
 ment or entertainment to the reader, we will leave 
 them for a while to attend Mr. Booby. 
 
 [1811
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 CONTAINING JUSTICE BUSINESS ; CURIOUS PRECEDENTS OP 
 DEPOSITIONS, AND OTHER MATTERS NECESSARY TO 
 BE PERUSED BY ALL JUSTICES OF THE PEACE AND 
 THEIR CLERKS. 
 
 THE young squire and his lady were no 
 sooner alighted from their coach than 
 the servants began to in(|uire after Mr. 
 Joseph, from whom they said their lady 
 had not heard a word, to her great surprize, since 
 he had left Lady Booby's. Upon this they were 
 instantly informed of what had lately happened, 
 with which they hastily ac(]uainted their master, 
 who took an immediate resolution to go himself, and 
 endeavour to restore his Pamela her brother, before 
 she even knew she had lost him. 
 
 The justice before whom the criminals were carried, 
 and who lived within a short mile of the lady's house, 
 was luckily Mr. Booby's acquaintance, by his having 
 an estate in his neighbourhood. Ordering therefore 
 his horses to his coach, he set out for the judgment- 
 seat, and an'ived when the justice had almost finished 
 his business. He was conducted into a hall, where 
 he was acquainted that his worship would wait on 
 him in a moment; for he had only a man and a 
 woman to commit to Bridewell first. As he was now 
 
 [182]
 
 A CURIOUS DEPOSITION 
 
 convinced he had not a minute to lose, he insisted 
 on the servant's introducing him directly into the 
 room where the justice was then executing his office, 
 as he called it. Being brought thither, and the first 
 compliments being passed between the squire and 
 his worship, the former asked the latter what crime 
 those two young people had been guilty of? " No 
 great crime," answered the justice ; " I have only 
 ordered them to Bridewell for a month.'" " But what 
 is their crime.?" repeated the squire. "Larceny, 
 an't please your honour," said Scout. " Ay," says 
 the justice, "a kind of felonious larcenous thing, 
 I believe I must order them a little correction too, a 
 little stripping and whipping." (Poor Fanny, who 
 had hitherto supported all with the thoughts of 
 Joseph's company, trembled at that sound ; but, 
 indeed, without reason, for none but the devil him- 
 self would have executed such a sentence on her.) 
 " Still," said the squire, " I am ignorant of the 
 crime — the fact I mean." " Why, there it is in 
 peaper," answered the justice, showing him a deposi- 
 tion which, in the absence of his clerk, he had writ 
 himself, of which we have with great difficulty pro- 
 cured an authentic copy ; and here it follows verbatim 
 et literatim : — 
 
 The dcpusition of James Scout, Im/er, and Tliomas Trotter, 
 yeoman, taken fjefore mce, one of his magesti/s Just- 
 asses of the piece for Zumersetshire. 
 
 " These deponants saith, and first Thomas Trotter for 
 himself saith, that on the of tliis instant October, 
 
 being Sabbath-day, betwin the ours of 2 and 4 in the 
 
 [183 1
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 afternoon, he zeed Joseph Andrews and Francis Good- 
 will walk akross a certane felde belun<iring to layer 
 Scout, and out of the path which ledes thru the said 
 felde, and there he zede Joseph Andrews with a nife 
 cut one hassel twig, of the value, as he believes, of 
 three half-pence, or thereabouts ; and he saith that the 
 said Francis Goodwill was likewise walking on the 
 grass out of the said path in the said felde, and did 
 receive and karry in her hand the said twig, and so was 
 cumfarting, eading, and abatting to the said Joseph 
 therein. And the said James Scout for himself says 
 that he verily believes the said twig to be his own 
 proper twig," &e. 
 
 " Jesu !" said the squire, "would you commit two 
 persons to Bridewell for a twig ? "" " Yes,"" said the 
 lawyer, " and with great lenity too ; for if we had 
 called it a young tree, they would have been both 
 hanged.'" " Harkee,"" says the justice, taking aside 
 the squire ; " I should not have been so severe on 
 this occasion, but Lady Booby desires to get them 
 out of the parish ; so lawyer Scout will give the con- 
 stable orders to let them run away, if they please, 
 but it seems they intend to mai-ry together, and the 
 lady hath no other means, as they are legally settled 
 there, to prevent their bringing an incumbrance on 
 her own parish." " Well," said the squire, " I will 
 take care my aunt shall be satisfied in this point ; 
 and likewise I promise you, Joseph here shall never 
 be any incumbrance on her. I shall be obliged to 
 you, therefore, if, instead of Biidewell, you will com- 
 mit them to my custody." "O! to be sure, sir, if 
 you desire it," answered the justice; and without 
 
 [184]
 
 THE RELEASE 
 
 more ado Joseph and Fanny were delivered over to 
 Squire Booby, whom Joseph very well knew, but 
 httle guessed how nearly he was related to him. 
 The justice burnt his mittimus, the constable was 
 sent about his business, the lawyer made no complaint 
 for want of justice ; and the prisoners, with exulting 
 hearts, srave a thousand thanks to his honour Mr. 
 Booby ; who did not intend their obligations to him 
 should cease here ; for, ordering his man to produce 
 a cloak-bag, which he had caused to be brought from 
 Lady Booby's on purpose, he desired the justice that 
 he might have Joseph with him into a room ; where, 
 orderin<r his servant to take out a suit of his own 
 clothes, with linnen and other necessaries, he left 
 Joseph to dress himself, who, not yet knowing the 
 cause of all this civility, excused his accepting such a 
 favour as long as decently he could. Whilst Joseph 
 was dressing, the scpiire repaired to the justice, whom 
 he found talking with Fanny ; for, during the exam- 
 ination, she had flopped her hat over her eyes, which 
 were also bathed in tears, and had by that means 
 concealed from his worship what might perhaps have 
 rendered the arrival of Mr, Booby unnecessary, at 
 least for herself. The justice no sooner saw her 
 countenance cleared up, and her bright eyes shining 
 through her tears, than he secretly cursed himself 
 for havinjx once thouy;ht of Bridewell for her. He 
 would willingly have sent his own wife thither, to 
 have had Fanny in her place. And, conceiving 
 almost at the same instant desires and schemes to 
 accomplish them, he employed the minutes whilst 
 the squire was absent with Joseph in assuring her 
 
 [185]
 
 JOSErH ANDREWS 
 
 how sorry he was for having treated her so rouglily 
 before he knew her merit ; and told her, that since 
 Lady Booby was unwilHng that she should settle in 
 her parish, she was heartily welcome to his, where he 
 promised her his protection, adding that he would 
 take Joseph and her into his own family, if she liked 
 it ; which assurance he confirmed with a squeeze by 
 the hand. She thanked him very kindly, and said, 
 " She would acquaint Joseph with the offer, which 
 he would certainly be glad to accept ; for that Lady 
 Booby was angry with them both ; though she did 
 not know either had done anything to offend her, 
 but imputed it to Madam Slipslop, who had always 
 been her enemy.'' 
 
 The squire now returned, and prevented any farther 
 continuance of this conversation ; and the justice, 
 out of a pretended respect to his guest, but in 
 reality from an apprehension of a rival (for he 
 knew nothing of his marriage), ordered Fanny into 
 the kitchen, whither she gladly retired ; nor did the 
 squire, who declined the trouble of explaining the 
 whole matter, oppose it. 
 
 It would be unnecessary, if I was able, which indeed 
 I am not, to relate the conversation between these 
 two gentlemen, which rolled, as I have been informed, 
 entirely on the subject of horse-racing. Joseph was 
 soon drest in the plainest dress he could find, which 
 was a blue coat and breeches, with a gold edging, and 
 a red waistcoat with the same : and as this suit, which 
 was rather too large for the scjuire, exactly fitted 
 him, so he became it so well, and looked so genteel, 
 that no person would have doubted its being as well 
 
 [186]
 
 THE DRIVE HOME 
 
 adapted to his quality as his shape ; nor have sus- 
 pected, as one niiglit, when my Lord , or Sir 
 
 , or Mr. , appear in lace or embroidery, 
 
 that the taylors man wore those clothes home on 
 his back which he should have carried under his 
 arm. 
 
 The squire now took leave of the justice; and, 
 calling for Fanny, made her and Joseph, against their 
 wills, get into the coach with him, which he then 
 ordered to drive to Lady Booby's. It had moved a 
 few yards only, when the squire asked Joseph if he 
 knew who that man was crossing the field ; for, added 
 he, I never saw one take such strides before. Joseph 
 answered eagerly, " O, sir, it is parson Adams ! " 
 " O la, indeed, and so it is," said Fanny ; " poor man, 
 he is coming to do what he could for us. Well, 
 he is the worthiest, best-natured creature." — " Ay," 
 said Joseph ; " God bless him ! for there is not such 
 another in the universe." " The best creature living 
 sure," cries Fanny. " Is he ?" says the squire ; "then 
 I am resolved to have the best creature living in my 
 coach ; " and so saying, he ordered it to stop, whilst 
 Joseph, at his request, hallowed to the parson, who, 
 well knowing his voice, made all the haste imaginable, 
 and soon came up with them. He was desired by 
 the master, who could scarce refrain from laughter 
 at his figure, to mount into the coach, which he with 
 many thanks refused, saying he could walk by its 
 side, and he \\ warrant he kept up with it ; but he 
 was at length over-prevailed on. The squire now 
 actjuainted Joseph with his marriage ; but he might 
 have spared himself that labour ; for his servant, 
 
 [187]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 whilst Joseph was dressing, had performed that office 
 before. lie continued to express the vast happiness 
 he enjoyed in his sister, and the vahie he liad for 
 all who belonged to her, Joseph made many bows, 
 and exprest as many acknowledgments : and parson 
 Adams, who now first perceived Joseph's new apparel, 
 burst ijito tears with joy, and fell to rubbing his 
 hands and snapping his fingers as if he had been 
 mad. 
 
 They were now arrived at the Lady Booby's, and 
 the squire, desiring them to wait a moment in the 
 court, walked in to his aunt, and calling her out from 
 his wife, acquainted her with Jose})h\s arrival ; saying, 
 " Madam, as I have married a virtuous and worthy 
 woman, I am resolved to own her relations, and show 
 them all a proper respect ; I shall think myself 
 therefore infinitely obliged to all mine who will do 
 the same. It is true, her brother hath been your 
 servant, but he is now become my brother ; and I 
 have one happiness, that neither his character, his 
 behaviour, or appearance, give me any reason to 
 be ashamed of calling him so. In short, he is now 
 below, dressed like a gentleman, in which light I 
 intend he shall hereafter be seen ; and you will oblige 
 me beyond expression if you will admit him to be 
 of our party ; for I know it will give great pleasure 
 to my wife, though she will not mention it," 
 
 This was a stroke of fortune beyond the Lady 
 Booby's hopes or expectation ; she answered him 
 eagerly, " Nephew, you know how easily I am pre- 
 vailed on to do anything which Joseph Andrews 
 desires — Phoo, I mean which vou desire me ; and, 
 
 [188j '
 
 THE SQUIRE S INTERCESSION 
 
 as he is now your relation, I cannot refuse to enter- 
 tain him as sucli.''"' The scjuire told her he knew his 
 obligation to her for her compliance ; and going 
 three steps, returned and told her — he had one more 
 favour, which he believed she would easily grant, as 
 she had accorded him the former. " There is a young 
 \v oman — " — " Nephew,'*' says she, " don't let my 
 good-nature make you desire, as is too commonly 
 the case, to impose on me. Nor think, because I 
 have with so much condescension agreed to suffer 
 your brother-in-law to come to my table, that I will 
 submit to the company of all my own servants, and 
 all the dirtv trollops in the country."" " Madam," 
 answered the stjuire, " I believe you never saw this 
 young creatiu'e. I never beheld such sweetness and 
 innocence joined with such beauty, and withal so 
 genteel." "Upon my soul I won't admit her,'" 
 replied the lady in a passion ; " the w hole world 
 shan''t prevail on me ; I resent even the desire as an 
 afl'ront, and '''' The squire, who knew her in- 
 flexibility, interrupted her, by asking pardon, and 
 promising not to mention it more. He then returned 
 to Joseph, and she to Pamela. He took Joseph 
 aside, and told him he would carry him to his sister, 
 but could not prevail as yet for Fanny. Joseph 
 begged that he might see his sister alone, and then 
 be with his Fanny ; but the squire, knowing the 
 pleasure liis wife would have in her brother''s con)pany, 
 would not admit it, telling Joseph there would he 
 nothing in so short an absence from Fanny, whilst 
 he was assured of her safety ; adding, he hoped he 
 could not so easily quit a sister whom he had not 
 
 [189]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 seen so long, and who so tenderly loved him. Joseph 
 immediately complied ; for indeed no brother could 
 love a sister more ; and, recommending Fanny, who 
 rejoiced that she was not to go before Lady ISooby, 
 to the care of Mr. Adams, he attended the squire 
 upstairs, whilst Fanny repaired with the parson to 
 his house, where she thought herself secure of a kind 
 reception. 
 
 [190]
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 OF WHICH YOU ARE DESIRED TO READ NO MORE THAN 
 
 YOU LIKE. 
 
 THE meeting 1 i^vcen Joseph and Pamela 
 was not without tears of joy on both 
 sides; and thei   embraces were full of 
 tenderness and affection. They were, 
 however, regarded with much jiioie pleasure by the 
 nephew than by the aunt, to whose flame they were 
 fuel only ; and this was increased by the addition of 
 dress, which was indeed not wanted to set off the 
 lively colours in which Nature had drawn health, 
 strength, comeliness, and youth. In the afternoon 
 Joseph, at their request, entertained them with an 
 account of his adventures : nor could Lady Booby 
 conceal her dissatisfaction at those parts in which 
 Fanny was concerned, especially when Mr. Booby 
 launched forth into such rapturous praises of her 
 beauty. She said, applying to her niece, that she 
 wondered her nephew, who had pretended to marry 
 for love, should think such a subject proper to amuse 
 his wife with ; adding, that, for her part, she should 
 be jealous of a husband who spoke so warmly in 
 praise of another woman. Pamela answered, indeed, 
 she thought she had cause ; but it was an instance 
 of Mr, Booby ""s aptness to see more beauty in women 
 
 [ 191 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 than they were mistresses of. At which words both 
 the women fixed their eyes on two looking-glasses ; 
 and Lady Booby replied, that men were, in the 
 general, very ill judges of beauty ; and then, whilst 
 both contemplated only their own faces, they paid a 
 cross compliment to each other's charms. When the 
 hour of rest approached, which the lady of the house 
 deferred as long as decently she could, she informed 
 Joseph (whom for the future we shall call Mr. 
 Joseph, he having as good a title to that appellation 
 as many others — I mean that incontested one of 
 good clothes) that she had ordered a bed to be pro- 
 vided for him. He declined this ffxvour to his ut- 
 most ; for his heart had long been with his Fanny ; 
 but she insisted on his accepting it, alledging that 
 the parish had no proper acconnnodation for such a 
 person as he was now to esteem himself. The squire 
 and his lady both joining with her, Mr. Joseph was 
 at last forced to give over his design of visiting 
 Fanny that evening ; who, on her side, as impatiently 
 expected him till midnight, when, in complacence to 
 Mr. Adams's fjunily, who had sat up two hours out 
 of respect to her, she retired to bed, but not to sleep ; 
 the thoughts of her love kept her waking, and his 
 not returning according to his promise filled her with 
 uneasiness ; of which, however, she could not assign 
 any other cause than merely that of being absent 
 from him. 
 
 Mr. Joseph rose early in the morning, and visited 
 her in whom his soul delighted. She no sooner heard 
 his voice in the parson's parlour than she leapt from 
 her bed, and, dressing herself in a few minutes, went 
 
 I 192 J
 
 SLANDER 
 
 down to him. They passed two hours with inexpres- 
 sible happiness together ; and then, having appointed 
 Monday, by Mr. Adams's permission, for their mar- 
 riage, Mr. Joseph returned, accorthng to his promise, 
 to breakfast at the Lady Booby's, with whose be- 
 haviour, since the evening, we shall now acquaint the 
 reader. 
 
 She was no sooner retired to her chamljer than she 
 asked Slipslop " What she thought of this wonderful 
 creature her nephew had married ? " — " Madam ? *" 
 said Slipslop, not yet sufficiently understanding what 
 answer she was to make. " I ask you," answered the 
 ladv, " what you think of the dowdy, my niece, I 
 think I am to call her?" Slipslop, wanting no 
 further hint, began to pull her to pieces, and so 
 miserably defaced her, that it would have been im- 
 possible for any one to have known the person. The 
 lady gave her all the assistance she could, and ended 
 with saying, " I think. Slipslop, you have done her 
 justice; but yet, bad as she is, she is an angel com- 
 pared to this Fanny." Slipslop then fell on Fanny, 
 whom she hacked and hewed in the like barbarous 
 manner, concluding with an observation that there 
 was always something in those low-life creatures 
 wliich must eternally extinguish them from their 
 betters. " Really," said the lady, " I think there is 
 one exception to your rule ; I am certain you may 
 guess who I mean." — " Not I, upon my word, 
 madam," said Slipslop. " I mean a young fellow ; 
 sure you are the dullest wretch," said tlie lady. " O 
 la! I am indeed. Yes, truly, madam, he is an 
 accession," answered Slipslop. " Ay, is he not, Slip- 
 vox,. II. - 13 [ 193 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 slop ? " returned the lady. " Is he not so genteel that 
 a prince might, without a blush, acknowledge him for 
 his son ? His behaviour is such that would not 
 shame the best education. He borrows from his 
 station a condescension in everything to his superiors, 
 yet unattended by that mean servility which is 
 called good behaviour in such pei'sons. Everything 
 he doth hath no mark of the base motive of fear, but 
 visibly .shows some respect and gratitude, and carries 
 with it the persuasion of love. And then for his 
 virtues : such piety to his parents, such tender affec- 
 tion to his sister, such integrity in his friendship, 
 such bravery, such goodness, that, if he had been 
 born a gentleman, his wife would have possessed 
 the most invaluable blessing." — "To be sure, 
 ma'am," says Slipslop. " But as he is," answered the 
 lady, " if he had a thousand more good (jualities, it 
 must render a woman of fashion contemptible even 
 to be suspected of thinking of him ; yes, I should 
 despise myself for such a thought." — " To be sure, 
 ma'am," said Slipslop. "And why to be sure.?" 
 replied the lady ; " thou art always one's echo. Is 
 he not more worthy of affection than a dirty country 
 clown, though boi-n of a family as old as the flood ? 
 or an idle worthless rake, or little puisny beau of 
 quality ? And yet these we must condemn ourselves 
 to, in order to avoid the censure of the world ; to 
 shun the contempt of others, we must ally ourselves 
 to those we despise ; we must prefer birth, title, and 
 fortune, to real merit. It is a tyranny of custom, a 
 tyranny we nnist comply with; for we people of 
 fashion are the slaves of custom." — "Marry come 
 
 [ 194]
 
 DISCUSSION OF MARRIAGE 
 
 up ! " said Slipslop, who now knew well which party 
 to take. " If I was a woman of your ladyship's 
 fortune and quality, I would be a slave to nobody." 
 — " Me," said the lady ; " I am speaking if a young 
 woman of fashion, who had seen nothing of the world, 
 should happen to like such a fellow. — Me, indeed ! 
 I hope thou dost not imagine — " — " No, ma'am, to 
 be sure," cries Slipslop. " No ! what no 't " cried the 
 lady. '*• Thou art always ready to answer before thou 
 hast heard one. So far I must allow he is a charm- 
 ing fellow. Me, indeed ! No, Slipslop, all thoughts 
 of men are over with me. I have lost a husband 
 who — but if I should reflect I should run mad. My 
 future ease must depend upon forgetfulness. Slipslop, 
 let me hear some of thy nonsense, to turn my 
 thoughts another way. What dost thou think of Mr. 
 Andrews .? " — " Why, I think," says Slipslop, " he is 
 the handsomest, most properest man I ever saw ; and 
 if I was a lady of the greatest degree it would be well 
 for some folks. Your ladyship may talk of custom, 
 if you please : but I am confidous there is -no more 
 comparison between young Mr. Andrews and most 
 of the young gentlemen who come to your ladyship's 
 house in London ; a parcel of whipper-snapper sparks : 
 I would sooner marry our old [)arson Adams. Never 
 tell me what people say, whilst I am happy in the 
 arms of him I love. Some folks rail against other 
 folks because other folks have what some folks would 
 be glad of." — " And so," answered the lady, " if you 
 was a woman of condition, you would really marry 
 Mr. Andrews .? " — " Yes, I assure your ladyship," 
 replied Slipslop, "if he would have me." — "Fool, 
 
 [195]
 
 JOSEPH AxNDREWS 
 
 idiot ! '' cries the lady ; " if he would have a woman of 
 fashion ! is that a question ? "" — " No, truly, madam,''' 
 said Slipslop, " I believe it would be none if Fanny 
 was out of the way ; and I am confidous, if I was in 
 your ladyship's place, and liked Mr. Joseph Andrews, 
 she should not stay in the parish a moment. I am 
 sure lawyer Scout would send her packing if your 
 ladyship would but say the Avord."" This last speech 
 of Slij)slop raised a tempest in the mind of her 
 mistress. She feared Scout had betrayed her, or 
 rather that she had betrayed herself. After some 
 silence, and a double change of her complexion, Mrst 
 to pale and then to red, she thus spoke : " I am as- 
 tonished at the liberty you give your tojiguc. Would 
 you insinuate that I employed Scout against this 
 wench on account of the fellow ? "" — " La, ma'am,"''' 
 said Slipslo}), frighted out of her wits, " I assassinate 
 such a thing ! '''' — "I think you dare not,'"' answered the 
 lady ; " I believe my conduct may defy malice itself to 
 assert so cursed a slander. If I had ever discovered any 
 wantonness, any lightness in my behaviour ; if I had 
 followed theexample of some whom thou hast,I believe, 
 seen, in allowing myself indecent liberties, even with a 
 husband ; but the dear man who is gone "" (here she 
 began to sob}, " was he alive again "" (then she pro- 
 duced tears), " could not upbraid me with any one 
 act of tenderness or passion. No, Slipslop, all the 
 time I cohabited with him he never obtained even a 
 kiss from me without my expressing reluctance in the 
 granting it. I am sure he hin)self never suspected 
 how much I loved him. Since his death, thou knovv- 
 est, though it is almost six weeks (it wants but a 
 
 [196]
 
 PRAISES OF JOSEPH 
 
 day) ago, I have not admitted one visitor till this fool 
 my nephew arrived. I have confined myself quite to 
 one party of friends. And can such a conduct as 
 this fear to be arraigned ? To be accused, not only 
 of a passion which I have always despised, but of 
 fixing it on such an object, a creature so much be- 
 neath my notice ! " — " Upon my word, ma'am,'" says 
 Slipslop, " I do not understand your ladyshi[) ; nor 
 know I anything of the matter." — "I believe indeed 
 thou dost not understand me. Those are delicacies 
 which exist only in superior minds ; thy coarse ideas 
 cannot comprehend them. Thou art alow creature, 
 of the Andrews breed, a reptile of a lower order, 
 a weed that grows in the common garden of the 
 creation." — " I assure your ladyship," says Slipslop, 
 whose passions were almost of as high an order as her 
 lady's, " I have no more to do with Conmion Garden 
 than other folks. Really, your ladyship talks of 
 servants as if they were not born of the Christian 
 specious. Servants liave flesh and blood as well as 
 quality ; and Mr. Andrews himself is a proof that 
 they have as good, if not better. And for my own 
 part, I can't perceive my dears ^ are coarser than 
 other people's ; and I am sure, if Mr. Andrews was 
 a dear of mine, I should not be ashamed of him 
 in company with gentlemen ; for whoever hath 
 seen him in his new clothes must confess he looks as 
 much like a gentleman as anybody. Coarse, quotha ! 
 I can't bear to hear the poor young fellow run down 
 neither ; for I will say this, I never heard him say an ill 
 word of anybody in his life. I am sure his coarseness 
 1 Meaning perhaps ideas. 
 
 [197]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 doth not lie in his heart, for he is the best-natured 
 man in the world ; and as for his skin, it is no coarser 
 than other |)eo[)le\s, I am sure. His bosom, when a 
 boy, was as white as driven snow; and, where it is 
 not covered with hairs, is so still. Ifakins ! if I was 
 Mrs. Andrews, with a hundred a year, I should not 
 envy the best she who wears a head. A woman that 
 could not be happy with such a man ought never to 
 be so ; for if he can't make a woman happy, I never 
 yet beheld the man who could. I say again, I wish 
 I was a great lady for his sake. I believe, when I 
 had made a gentleman of him, he VI behave so that 
 nobody should deprecate what I had done; and I 
 fancy few would venture to tell him he was no gentle- 
 man to his face, nor to mine neither." At which 
 words, taking up the candles, she asked her mistress, 
 who had been some time in her bed, if she had any 
 farther commands.^ who mildly answered, she had 
 none ; and, telling her she was a comical creature, 
 bid her good-night. 
 
 [198 J
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 PHILOSOPHICAL REFLECTIONS, THE LIKE NOT TO BE FOUND 
 IN ANY LIGHT FRENCH ROMANCE. MR. BOOBY''s 
 GRAVE ADVICE TO JOSEPH, AND FANNY's EN- 
 COUNTER WITH A BEAU. 
 
 ABIT, my good reader, hath so vast a 
 prevalence over the human mind, that 
 there is scarce anything too strange or 
 too strong to be asserted of it. The 
 story of the miser, who, from long accustoming to 
 cheat others, came at last to cheat himself, and with 
 great delight and triumph picked his own pocket of 
 a truinea to convey to his hoard, is not impossible or 
 improbable. In like manner it fares with the prac- 
 tisers of deceit, who, from having long deceived their 
 acquaintance, gain at last a power of deceiving them- 
 selves, and acquire that vei-y opinion (however false) 
 of their own abilities, excellencies, and virtues, into 
 which they have for years perhaps endeavoured to 
 betray their neighbours. Now, reader, to apply this 
 observation to my present purpose, thou must know, 
 that as the passion generally called love exercises most 
 of the talents of the female or fair world, so in this they 
 now and then discover a small inclination to deceit ; 
 for which thou wilt not be angry with the beautiful 
 creatures when thou hast considered that at the 
 
 [199]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 age of seven, or something earlier, miss is instructed 
 by her mother that master is a very monstrous kind 
 of animal, who will, if she suffers him to come too 
 near her, infallibly eat her up and grind her to pieces : 
 that, so far from kissing or toying with him of her 
 own accord, she must not admit him to kiss or 
 toy with her : and, lastly, that she must never have 
 any affection towards him ; for if she should, all her 
 fi-iends in petticoats would esteem her a traitress, 
 point at her, and hunt her out of their society. 
 These impressions, being first received, are farther 
 and deeper inculcated by their school-mistresses and 
 companions ; so that by the age of ten they have 
 contracted such a dread and abhorrence of the above- 
 named monster, that whenever they see him they fly 
 from him as the innocent hai'e doth from the grey- 
 hound. Hence, to the age of fourteen or fifteen, they 
 entertain a mighty antipathy to master ; they resolve, 
 and fre(|uently profess, that they will never have any 
 commerce with him, and entertain fond hopes of 
 passing their lives out of his reach, of the possibility 
 of which they have so visible an example in their 
 good maiden aunt. But when they arrive at this 
 period, and have now passed their second climacteric, 
 when their wisdom, grown riper, begins to see a little 
 forther, and, from almost daily falling in master's 
 way, to apprehend the great difficulty of keeping out 
 of it ; and when they observe him look often at them, 
 and sometimes very eagerly and earnestly top (for 
 the monster seldom takes any notice of them till at 
 this age), they then begin to think of their danger; 
 and, as they perceive they cainiot easily avoid him, 
 
 [ 200 1
 
 SELF-DECEPTION 
 
 the wiser part bethink themselves of provichng })y 
 other means for their security. They endeavour, by 
 all methods they can invent, to render themselves so 
 amiable in his eyes, that he may have no inclination 
 to hurt them ; in which they generally succeed so well, 
 that his eyes, by frequent languishing, soon lessen 
 their idea of his fierceness, and so far abate their 
 fears, that they venture to parley with him ; and 
 when they perceive him so different from what he 
 hath been described, all gentleness, softness, kind- 
 ness, tenderness, fondness, their dreadful apprehen- 
 sions vanish in a moment ; and now (it being usual 
 with the human mind to skip from one extreme to its 
 opposite, as easily, and almost as suddenly, as a bird 
 from one bough to another) love instantly succeeds to 
 fear: but, as it happens to persons who have in their 
 infancy been thoroughly frightened with certain no- 
 persons called ghosts, that they retain their dread of 
 those beings after they are convinced that there are 
 no such things, so these young ladies, though they no 
 longer appi-ehend devouring, cannot so entirely shake 
 off all that hath been instilled into them; they still 
 entertain the idea of that censure which was so 
 strongly imprinted on their tender minds, to which 
 the declarations of abhorrence they every day hear 
 from their companions greatly contribute. To avoid 
 this censure, therefore, is now their only care; for 
 which purpose they still pretend the same aversion to 
 the monster: and the more they love him, the more 
 aidently they counterfeit the antipathy. By the 
 continual and constant practice of which deceit on 
 others, they at length impose on themselves, and 
 
 [201j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 really believe they hate what they love. Thus, 
 indeed, it happened to Lady Booby, who loved 
 Joseph lon<5 before she knew it ; and now loved him 
 much more than she suspected. She had indeed, 
 from the time of his sisters arrival in the quality of 
 her niece, and from the instant she viewed him in the 
 dress and character of a gentleman, began to conceive 
 secretly a design which love had concealed from her- 
 self till a dream betrayed it to her. 
 
 She had no sooner risen than she sent for her 
 nephew. When he came to her, after many compli- 
 ments on his choice, she told him, " He might per- 
 ceive, in her condescension to admit her own servant 
 to her table, that she looked on the family of Andrews 
 as his relations, and indeed hers ; that, as he had 
 married into such a family, it became him to en- 
 deavour by all methods to raise it as much as 
 possible. At length she advised him to use all his 
 heart to dissuade Joseph from his intended match, 
 which would still enlarge their relation to meanness 
 and poverty ; concluding that, by a commission in 
 the army, or some other genteel employment, he 
 might soon put young Mr. Andrews on the foot of a 
 gentleman ; and, that being once done, his accom- 
 plishments might quickly gain him an alliance which 
 would not be to their discredit." 
 
 Her nephew heartily embraced this proposal ; and, 
 finding Mr. Joseph with his wife, at his return to 
 her chamber, he innnediately began thus: "My love 
 to my dear Pamela, brother, will extend to all her 
 relations ; nor shall I show them less respect than if 
 I had married into the family of a duke. I hope I 
 
 [ 202 ]
 
 THE SQUIRE'S ADVICE 
 
 have given you some early testimonies of this, and 
 shall continue to give you daily more. You will 
 excuse me therefore, brother, if my concern for your 
 interest makes me mention what may be, perhaps, 
 disagreeable to you to hear : but I must insist upon 
 it, that, if you have any value for my alliance or my 
 fi'iendship, you will decline any thoughts of engag- 
 ing farther with a girl who is, as you are a relation 
 of mine, so much beneath you. I know there may be 
 at first some difficulty in your compliance, but that 
 will daily diminish ; and you will in the end sincerely 
 thank me for my advice. I own, indeed, the girl is 
 handsome; but beauty alone is a poor ingredient, 
 and will make but an uncomfortable maiTiafre.'"' — 
 " Sir," said Joseph, " I assure you her beauty is her 
 least perfection ; nor do I know a virtue which that 
 young creature is not possesst of." — " As to her 
 virtues," answered Mr. Booby, " you can be yet but 
 a slender judge of them ; but, if she had never so 
 many, you will find her equal in these among her 
 superiors in birth and fortune, which now you are to 
 esteem on a footing with yourself; at least I will 
 take care they shall shortly be so, unless you prevent 
 me by degrading yourself with such a match, a 
 match I have hardly patience to think of, and which 
 would break the hearts of your parents, who now 
 rejoice in the expectation of seeing you make a 
 figure in the world." — "I know not," replied Joseph, 
 "that my parents have any power over my inclina- 
 tions ; nor am I obliged to sacrifice my happiness to 
 their whim or ambition : besides, I shall be very 
 sorry to see that the unexpected advancement of my 
 
 [ 203 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 sister should so suddenly inspire them with this 
 wicked pride, and make them despise their e(juals. 
 I am resolved on no account to (juit my dear Fanny ; 
 no, though I could raise her as high above her 
 present station as you have raised my sister."" — 
 " Your sister, as well as myself," said 13ooby, " are 
 greatly obliged to you for the comparison : but, sir, 
 she is not worthy to be compared in beauty to my 
 Pamela ; nor hath she half her merit. And besides, 
 sir, as you civilly throw my marriage with your 
 sister in my teeth, I must teach you the wide difl'er- 
 ence between us : my fortune enabled me to please 
 myself; and it would have been as overgrown a folly 
 in me to have omitted it as in you to do it." — 
 "My fortune enables me to please myself likewise," 
 said Joseph; "for all my pleasure is centered in 
 Fanny ; and whilst I have health I shall be able to 
 support her with my labour in that station to v\hich 
 she was born, and with which she is content." — 
 " Brother," said i*amela, " Mr. Booby advises you as 
 a friend ; and no doubt my papa and mannna will 
 be of his opinion, and will have great reason to be 
 angry with you for destroying what his goodness 
 hath done, and throwing down our family again, 
 after he hath raised it. It would become you better, 
 brother, to pray for the assistance of grace against 
 such a passion than to indulge it." — " Sure, sister, 
 you are not in earnest ; I am sure she is your e(jual, 
 at least." — " She was my equal," answered Pamela ; 
 " but I am no longer Pamela Andrews ; I am now 
 this gentleman*'s lady, and, as such, am above her. 
 — I hope I shall never behave with an unbecoming 
 
 [204]
 
 FANxNY ATTACKED 
 
 pride : but, at the same time, I shall always en- 
 deavour to know myself, and question not the assist- 
 ance of grace to that purpose/' They were now 
 summoned to breakfast, and thus ended their dis- 
 course for the present, very little to the satisfaction 
 of any of the parties. 
 
 Fannv was now walking in an avenue at some 
 distance from the house, where Joseph had pi'omised 
 to take the first opportunity of coming to her. She 
 had not a shilling in the world, and had subsisted 
 ever since her return entirely on the charity of 
 parson Adams. A young gentleman, attended by 
 many servants, came up to her, and asked her if that 
 was not the Lady Booby's house before him ? This, 
 indeed, he well knew ; but had framed the question 
 for no other reason than to make her look up, and 
 discover if her face was equal to the delicacy of her 
 shape. He no sooner saw it than he was struck 
 with amazement. He stopt his horse, and swore 
 she was the most beautiful creature he ever beheld. 
 Then, instantly alighting and delivering his horse to 
 his servant, he rapt out half-a-dozen oaths that he 
 would kiss her; to which she at first submitted, 
 begging he would not be rude ; but he was not 
 satisfied with the civility of a salute, nor even with 
 the rudest attack he could make on her lips, but 
 caught her in his arms, and endeavoured to kiss 
 her breasts, which with all her strength she resisted, 
 and, as our spark was not of the Herculean race, 
 with some difficulty prevented. The young gentle- 
 man, being soon out of breath in the struggle, 
 quitted her, and, remounting his horse, called one of 
 
 [ 205 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 his servants to him, whom he ordered to stay behind 
 with her, and make her any offers whatever to prevail 
 on her to return home with him in the evening ; and 
 to assure her he would take her into keeping. He 
 then rode on with his other servants, and arrived at 
 the lady's house, to whom he was a distant relation, 
 and was come to pay a visit. 
 
 The trusty fellow, who was employed in an office 
 he had been long accustomed to, discharged his part 
 with all the fidelity and dexterity imaginable, but to 
 no purpose. She was entirely deaf to his offers, and 
 rejected them with the utmost disdain. At last the 
 pimp, who had perhaps more warm blood about him 
 than his master, began to sollicit for himself; he told 
 her, though he was a servant, he was a man of some 
 fortune, which he would make her mistress of; and 
 this without any insult to her virtue, for that he would 
 marry her. She answered, if his master himself, or the 
 greatest lord in the land, would marry her, she would 
 refuse him. At last, being weary with persuasions, and 
 on fire with charms which would have almost kindled 
 a flame in the bosom of an ancient philosopher or 
 modern divine, he fastened his horse to the ground, 
 and attacked her with much more force than the 
 gentleman had exerted. Poor Fanny would not 
 have been able to resist his rudeness a short time, 
 but the deity who presides over chaste love sent her 
 Joseph to her assistance. He no sooner came within 
 sight, and perceived her struggling with a man, than, 
 like a cannon-ball, or like lightning, or anything 
 that is swifter, if anything be, he ran towards her, 
 and, coming up just as the ravisher had torn her 
 
 [206]
 
 JOSEPH DEFENDS FANNY 
 
 handkerchief from her brccast, before his hps had 
 touched that seat of innocence and bhss, he dealt 
 him so lusty a blow in that part of his neck which 
 a rope would have become with the utmost propriety, 
 that the fellow staggered backwards, and, perceiving 
 he had to do with something rougher than the little, 
 tender, trembling hand of Fanny, he quitted her, and, 
 turning about, saw his rival, with fire flashing from 
 his eyes, again ready to assail him ; and, indeed, 
 before he could well defend himself, or return the 
 first blow, he received a second, which, had it fallen 
 on that part of the stomach to which it was directed, 
 would have been probably the last he would have 
 had any occasion for ; but the ravisher, lifting up 
 his hand, drove the blow upwards to his mouth, 
 whence it dislodged three of his teeth ; and now, 
 not conceiving any extraordinary affection for the 
 beauty of Joseph's person, nor being extremely 
 pleased with this method of salutation, he collected 
 all his force, and aimed a blow at Joseph's breast, 
 which he artfully parried with one fist, so that it lost 
 its force entirely in air ; and, stepping one foot back- 
 ward, he darted his fist so fiercely at his enemy, that, 
 had he not caught it in his hand (for he was a boxer 
 of no inferior fame), it must have tumbled him on 
 the sround. And now the ravisher meditated an- 
 other blow, which he aimed at that part of the breast 
 where the heart is lodged ; Joseph did not catch it 
 as before, yet so prevented its aim that it fell directly 
 on his nose, but with abated force. Joseph then, 
 moving both fist and foot forwards at the same 
 time, threw his head so dexterously into the stom- 
 
 [207]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 ach of the ravisher that he fell a lifeless lump on 
 the field, where he lay many minutes breathless and 
 motionless. 
 
 When Fanny saw her Joseph receive a blow in his 
 face, and blood running in a stream from him, she 
 began to tear her hair and invoke all human and 
 divine power to his assistance. She was not, how- 
 ever, long under this affliction before Joseph, having 
 conquered his enemy, ran to her, and assured her he 
 was not hurt ; she then instantly fell on her knees, 
 and thanked God that he had made Joseph the 
 means of her rescue, and at the same time preserved 
 him from being injured in attempting it. She 
 offered, with her handkerchief, to wipe his blood 
 from his face ; but he, seeing his rival attempting 
 to recover his legs, turned to him, and asked him if 
 he had enough ? To which the other answered he 
 had ; for he believed he had fought with the devil 
 instead of a man ; and, loosening his horse, said he 
 should not have attempted the wench if he had 
 known she had been so well provided for. 
 
 Fanny now begged Joseph to return with her to 
 parson Adams, and to promise that he would leave 
 her no more. These were propositions so agreeable 
 to Joseph, that, had he heard them, he would have 
 given an immediate assent ; but indeed his eyes were 
 now his only sense ; for you may remember, reader, 
 that the ravisher had tore her handkerchief from 
 Fanny\s neck, by which he had discovered such a 
 sight, that Joseph hath declared all the statues he 
 ever beheld were so much inferior to it in beauty, 
 that it was more capable of converting a man into 
 
 [208]
 
 FANNY'S CONFUSION 
 
 a statue than of being imitated by the greatest 
 master of that art. This modest creature, whom 
 no warmth in summer could ever induce to expose 
 her charms to the wanton sun, a modesty to which, 
 perhaps, they owed their inconceivable whiteness, 
 had stood many minutes bare-necked in the presence 
 of Joseph before her apprehension of his danger and 
 the horror of seeing his blood would suffer her once 
 to reflect on what concerned herself; till at last, 
 when the cause of her concern had vanished, an 
 admiration at his silence, together with observing 
 the fixed position of his eyes, produced an idea in 
 the lovely maid which brought more blood into her 
 face than had flowed from Joseph's nostrils. The 
 snowy hue of her bosom was likewise changed to 
 vermilion at the instant when she clapped her hand- 
 kerchief round her neck. Joseph saw the uneasiness 
 she suffered, and immediately removed his eyes from 
 an object, in surveying which he had felt the great- 
 est delight which the organs of sight were capable 
 of conveying to his soul ; — so great was his fear of 
 offiending her, and so truly did his passion for her 
 deserve the noble name of love. 
 
 Fanny, being recovered from her confusion, which 
 was almost equalled by what Joseph had felt from 
 observing it, again mentioned her request ; this was 
 instantly and gladly complied with ; and together 
 they crossed two or three fields, which brought them 
 to the habitation of Mr. Adams. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 14 [ 209 J
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 A DISCOURSE WHICH HAPPENED BETWEEN MR. ADAMS, 
 MRS, ADAMS, JOSEPH, AND FANNY ; WITH SOME 
 BEHAVIOUR OF MR. ADAMS WHICH WILL BE CALLED 
 BY SOME FEW READERS VERY LOW, ABSURD, AND 
 UNNATURAL, 
 
 THE parson and his wife had just ended 
 a long dispute when tlie lovers came to 
 the door. Indeed, this young couple 
 had been the subject of the dispute ; 
 for Mrs. Adams was one of those prudent people 
 who never do anything to injure their families, or, 
 perhaps, one of those good mothers who would even 
 stretch their conscience to serve their children. She 
 had long entertained hopes of seeing her eldest 
 daughter succeed Mrs. Slipslop, and of making her 
 second son an exciseman by Lady Booby's interest. 
 These were expectations she could not endure the 
 thoughts of quitting, and was, therefore, very uneasy 
 to see her husband so resolute to oppose the lady^s 
 intention in Fanny's affair. She told him, " It be- 
 hoved every man to take the first care of his family ; 
 that he had a wife and six children, the maintaining 
 and providing for whom would be business enough for 
 him without intermeddling in other folks' affairs; that 
 
 [ 210 ]
 
 MRS. ADAMSES ARGUMENTS 
 
 he had always preached up submission to superiors, 
 and would do ill to give an example of the contrary 
 behaviour in his own conduct; that if Lady Booby 
 did wrong she must answer for it herself, and the sin 
 would ^not lie at their door ; that Fanny had been 
 a servant, and bred up in the lady's own family, and 
 consecjuently she must have known more of her than 
 they did, and it was very improbable, if she had be- 
 haved herself well, that the lady would have been so 
 bitterly her enemy ; that perhaps he was too much 
 inclined to think well of her because she was handsome, 
 but handsome women were often no better than they 
 should be ; that G — made ugly women as well as 
 handsome ones ; and that if a woman had virtue it 
 signified nothing whether she had beauty or no."" 
 For all which reasons she concluded he should oblige 
 the lady, and stop the future publication of the 
 banns. But all these excellent arguments had no 
 effect on the parson, who persisted in doing his duty 
 without regarding the consequence it might have on 
 his worldly interest. He endeavoured to answer her 
 as well as he could ; to which she had just finished 
 her reply ( for she had always the last w ord every- 
 where but at church ) when Joseph and Fanny 
 entered their kitchen, where the parson and his wife 
 then sat at breakfast over some bacon and cabbage. 
 There was a coldness in the civility of Mrs. Adams 
 which persons of accurate speculation might have 
 observed, but escaped her present guests ; indeed, it 
 was a good deal covered by the heartiness of Adams, 
 who no sooner heard that Fanny had neither eat nor 
 drank that morning than he presented her a bone of 
 
 [211]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 bacon he had just been gnawing, being the only 
 remains of his provision, and then ran nimbly to the 
 tap, and produced a nuig of small beer, which he 
 called ale ; however, it was the best in his house. 
 Joseph, addressing himself to the parson, told him 
 the discourse which had past between Squire 
 Booby, his sister, and himself concerning Fanny ; he 
 then acquainted him with the dangers whence he 
 had rescued her, and communicated some apprehen- 
 sions on her account. He concluded that he should 
 never have an easy moment till Fanny was absolutely 
 his, and begged that he might be suffered to fetch 
 a licence, saying he could easily borrow the money. 
 The parson answered. That he had already given his 
 sentiments concerning a licence, and that a very few 
 days would make it unnecessary. " Joseph," says he, 
 " I wish this haste doth not arise rather from your 
 impatience than your fear ; but, as it certainly 
 springs from one of these causes, I will examine 
 both. Of each of these therefore in their turn ; 
 and first for the first of these, namely, impatience. 
 Now, child, I must inform you that, if in your pur- 
 posed marriage with this young woman you have 
 no intention but the indulgence of carnal appetites, 
 you are guilty of a very heinous sin. Marriage was 
 ordained for nobler purposes, as you will learn when 
 you hear the service provided on that occasion read 
 to you. Nay, perhaps, if you are a good lad, I, 
 child, shall give you a sermon gratis, wherein I shall 
 demonstrate how little regard ought to be had to the 
 flesh on such occasions. The text will be Matthew 
 the 5th, and part of the S8th verse — Whosoever 
 
 [212]
 
 THE PARSON ADVISES JOSEPH 
 
 looketh on a zooman, so as to lust after her. The 
 latter part I shall omit, as foreign to my purpose. 
 Indeed, all such brutal lusts and affections are to be 
 greatly subdued, if not totally eradicated, before the 
 vessel can be said to be consecrated to honour. To 
 marry with a view of gratifying those inclinations 
 is a prostitution of that holy ceremony, and must 
 entail a curse on all who so lightly undertake it. 
 If, therefore, this haste arises from impatience, you 
 are to correct, and not give way to it. Now, as to 
 the second head which I proposed to speak to, 
 namely, fear: it argues a diffidence, highly criminal, 
 of that Power in which alone we should put our 
 trust, seeing we may be well assured that he is able, 
 not only to defeat the designs of our enemies, but 
 even to turn their hearts. Instead of taking, there- 
 fore, any unjustifiable or desperate means to rid 
 ourselves of fear, we should resort to prayer only on 
 these occasions ; and we may be then certain of 
 obtaining what is best for us. \\^ien any accident 
 threatens us we are not to despair, nor, when it over- 
 takes us, to grieve ; we must submit in all things to 
 the will of Providence, and set our affections so much 
 on nothing here that we cannot quit it without 
 reluctance. You are a young man, and can know 
 but little of this world ; I am older, and have seen a 
 great deal. All passions are criminal in their 
 excess ; and even love itself, if it is not subservi- 
 ent to our duty, may render us blind to it. Had 
 Abraham so loved his son Isaac as to refuse the 
 sacrifice required, is there any of us who would not 
 condemn him ? Joseph, I know your many good 
 
 [213]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 qualities, and value you for them ; but, as I am to 
 render an account of your soul, which is committed 
 to my cure, I cannot see any fault without remind- 
 ing you of it. You are too much inclined to pas- 
 sion, child, and have set your affections so absolutely 
 on this young woman, that, if G — required her at 
 your hands, I fear you would reluctantly part with 
 her. Now, believe me, no Christian ought so to set 
 his heart on any person or thing in this world, but 
 that, whenever it shall be required or taken from him 
 in any manner by Divine Providence, he may be 
 able, peaceably, quietly, and contentedly to resign it." 
 At which words one came hastily in, and acquainted 
 Mr. Adams that his youngest son was drowned. 
 He stood silent a moment, and soon began to stamp 
 about the room and deplore his loss with the 
 bitterest agony. Joseph, who was overwhelmed with 
 concern likewise, recovered himself sufficiently to 
 endeavour to comfort the parson ; in which attempt 
 he used many arguments that he had at several 
 times remembered out of his own discourses, both in 
 private and public ( for he was a great enemy to the 
 passions, and preached nothing more than the con- 
 quest of them by reason and grace ), but he was not 
 at leisure now to hearken to his advice. " Child, 
 child," said he, " do not go about impossibilities. 
 Had it been any other of my children I could have 
 borne it with patience ; but my little prattler, the 
 darling and comfort of ray old age — the little 
 wretch, to be snatched out of life just at his entrance 
 into it ; the sweetest, best-tempered boy, who never 
 did a thing to offend me. It was but this morning 
 
 [214]
 
 THE PARSON TESTED 
 
 I gave him his first lesson in Qiuc Gemis. This was 
 the very book he learnt ; poor child ! it is of no 
 further use to thee now. He would have made the 
 best scholar, and have been an ornament to the 
 Church ; — such parts and such goodness never met 
 in one so young.'" " And the handsomest lad too," 
 says Mrs. Adams, recovering from a swoon in Fanny's 
 arms. " My poor Jacky, shall I never see thee 
 more ? ''' cries the parson. " Yes, surely," says Joseph, 
 " and in a better place ; you will meet again, never to 
 part more." I believe the parson did not hear these 
 words, for he paid little regard to them, but went on 
 lamenting, whilst the tears trickled down into his 
 bosom. At last he cried out, "Where is my little 
 darling?" and was sallying out, when to his great 
 surprize and joy, in which I hope the reader will 
 sympathize, he met his son in a wet condition 
 indeed, but alive and running towards him. The 
 person who brought the news of his misfortune had 
 been a little too eager, as people sometimes are, from, 
 I believe, no very good principle, to relate ill news ; 
 and, seeing him fall into the river, instead of running 
 to his assistance, directly ran to acquaint his father 
 of a fate which he had concluded to be inevitable, 
 but whence the child was relieved by the same poor 
 pedlar who had relieved his father before from a less 
 distress. The parson's joy was now as extra \agant 
 as his grief had been before ; he kissed and embraced 
 his son a thousand times, and danced about the room 
 like one frantic ; but as soon as he discovered the 
 face of his old friend the pedlar, and heard the fresh 
 obligation he had to him, what were his sensations ^ 
 
 [215]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 not those which two courtiers feel in one another's 
 embraces ; not those with which a great man receives 
 the vile treacherous engines of his wicked purposes, 
 not those with which a worthless younger brother 
 wishes his elder joy of a son, or a man congratu- 
 lates his rival on his obtaining a mistress, a place, 
 or an honour. — No, reader ; he felt the ebulli- 
 tion, the overflowings of a full, honest, open heart, 
 towards the person who had conferred a real obli- 
 gation, and of which, if thou canst not conceive an 
 idea within, I will not vainly endeavour to assist 
 thee. 
 
 When these tumults were over, the parson, taking 
 Joseph aside, proceeded thus — " No, Joseph, do not 
 give too much way to thy passions, if thou dost 
 expect happiness." The patience of Joseph, nor per- 
 haps of Job, could bear no longer ; he interrupted 
 the parson, saying, " It was easier to give advice 
 than take it ; nor did he perceive he could so entirely 
 conquer himself, when he apprehended he had lost 
 his son, or when he found him recovered." — "Boy,"" 
 replied Adams, raising his voice, " it doth not be- 
 come green heads to advise grey hairs. — Thou art 
 ignorant of the tenderness of fatherly affection ; 
 when thou art a father thou wilt be capable then 
 only of knowing what a father can feel. No mkn is 
 obliged to impossibilities ; and the loss of a child 
 is one of those great trials where our grief may 
 be allowed to become immoderate." — "Well, sir," 
 cries Joseph, " and if I love a mistress as well as you 
 your child, surely her loss would grieve me equally." 
 — " Yes, but such love is foolishness and wrong in 
 
 [216]
 
 CONJUGAL AFFECTION 
 
 itself, and ought to be conquered,'*' answered Adams ; 
 " it savours too much of the flesh.'*' — " Sure, sir,'*' 
 says Joseph, " it is not sinful to love my wife, no, 
 not even to doat on her to distraction ! " — " Indeed 
 but it is,*" says Adams. " Every man ought to love 
 his wife, no doubt ; we are commanded so to do ; but 
 we ought to love her with moderation and discre- 
 tion/*' — "I am afraid I shall be guilty of some sin 
 in spite of all my endeavours,*" says Joseph ; " for I 
 shall love without any moderation, I am sure." — 
 " You talk foolishly and childishly," cries Adams. — 
 " Indeed,*" says Mrs. Adams, who had listened to the 
 latter part of their conversation, "you talk more 
 foolishly yourself. I hope, my dear, you will never 
 preach any such doctrine as that husbands can love 
 their wives too well. If I knew you had such a ser- 
 mon in the house I am sure I would burn it, and I 
 declare, if I had not been convinced you had loved 
 me as well as you could, I can answer for myself, I 
 should have hated and despised you. Marry come up ! 
 Fine doctrine, indeed ! A wife hath a right to insist 
 on her husband's loving her as much as ever he can ; ana 
 he is a sinful villain who doth not. Doth he not prom- 
 ise to love her, and to comfort her, and to cherish her, 
 and all that ? I am sure I remember it all as well as 
 if I had repeated it over but yesterday, and shall never 
 forget it. Besides, I am certain you do not preach 
 as you practise ; for you have been a loving and a 
 cherishing husband to me ; that 's the truth on 't ; 
 and why you should endeavour to put such wicked 
 nonsense into this young man's head I cannot devise. 
 Don't hearken to him, Mr. Joseph; be as good a 
 
 [217]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 husband as you are able, and love your wife with 
 all your body and soul too.'" Here a violent rap 
 at the door put an end to their discourse, and pro- 
 duced a scene which the reader will find in the next 
 chapter. 
 
 [218]
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 A VISIT WHICH THE POLITE LADY BOOBY AND HER POLITE 
 FRIEND PAID TO THE PARSON. 
 
 THE Lady Booby had no sooner had an 
 account from the gentleman of his meet- 
 ing a wonderful beauty near her house, 
 and perceived the raptui'es with which 
 he spoke of her, than, immediately concluding it 
 must be Fanny, she began to meditate a design of 
 bringing them better acquainted ; and to entertain 
 hopes that the fine clothes, presents, and promises of 
 this youth, would prevail on her to abandon Joseph : 
 she therefore proposed to her company a walk in the 
 fields before dinner, when she led them towards j\Ir. 
 Adams's house; and, as she approached it, told them 
 if they pleased she would divert them with one of 
 the most ridiculous sights they had ever seen, which 
 was an old foolish parson, who, she said, laughing, 
 kept a wife and six brats on a salary of about twenty 
 pounds a year ; adding, that there was not such an- 
 other ragged family in the parish. They all readily 
 agreed to this visit, and arrived whilst Mrs. Adams 
 was declaiming as in the last chapter. Beau Didapper, 
 which was the name of the young gentleman we have 
 seen riding towards Lady Booby's, with his cane 
 mimicked the rap of a London footman at the door. 
 The people within, namelv, Adams, his wife and 
 
 [219]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 three children, Joseph, Fanny, and the pedlar, were 
 all thrown into confusion by this knock, but Adams 
 went directly to the door, which being opened, the 
 Lady Booby and her company walked in, and were 
 received by the parson with about two hundred bows, 
 and by his wife with as many curtsies ; the latter 
 telling the lady "She was ashamed to be seen in 
 such a pickle, and that her house was in such a 
 litter ; but that if she had expected such an honour 
 from her ladyship she should have found her in a 
 better manner."" The parson made no apologies, 
 though he was in his half-cassock and a flannel night- 
 cap. He said " They were heartily welcome to his 
 poor cottage," and turning to Mr. Didapper, cried 
 out, " No)i mea retiidet in domo lacunar.'''' The beau 
 answered, " He did not understand Welsh ; " at 
 which the parson stared and made no reply. 
 
 Mr. Didapper, or beau Didapper, was a young 
 
 gentleman of about four foot five inches in height. 
 
 He wore his own hair, though the scarcity of it might 
 
 have given him sufficient excuse for a periwig. His 
 
 face was thin and pale ; the shape of his body and 
 
 legs none of the best, for he had very narrow 
 
 shoulders and no calf; and his gait might more 
 
 properly be called hopping than walking. The 
 
 qualifications of his mind were well adapted to his 
 
 person. We shall handle them first negatively. He 
 
 was not entirely ignorant ; for he could talk a little 
 
 French and sing two or three Italian songs ; he had 
 
 lived too much in the world to be bashful, and too 
 
 nmch at court to be proud : he seemed not much 
 
 inclined to avarice, for he was profuse in his expenses ; 
 
 [ 220 ]
 
 BEAU DIDAPPER 
 
 nor had he all the features of prodigality, for he 
 never gave a shilling : no hater of women, for he 
 always dangled after them ; yet so little subject to 
 lust, that he had, among those who knew him best, 
 the character of great moderation in his pleasures ; 
 no drinker of wine ; nor so addicted to passion but 
 that a hot word or two from an adversary made him 
 immediatelv cool. 
 
 Now, to give him only a dash or two on the 
 affirmative side : though he was born to an immense 
 fortune, he chose, for the pitiful and dirty considera- 
 tion of a place of little consequence, to depend 
 entirely on the will of a fellow whom they call a 
 great man ; who treated him with the utmost dis- 
 respect, and exacted of him a plenary obedience to 
 his commands, which he implicitly submitted to, at 
 the expense of his conscience, his honour, and of 
 his country, in which he had himself so very large 
 a share. And to finish his character; as he was 
 entirely well satisfied with his own person and parts, 
 so he was very apt to ridicule and laugh at any im- 
 perfection in another. Such was the little person, or 
 rather thing, that hopped after Lady Booby into JMr. 
 Adams's kitchen. 
 
 The parson and his company retreated from the 
 chimney-side, where they had been seated, to give 
 room to the lady and hers. Instead of returning 
 any of the curtsies or extraordinary civility of IVlrs. 
 Adams, the lady, turning to Mr. Booby, cried out, 
 '''■ Quelle Bete! Quel Animal!'''' And presently after 
 discovering Fanny (for she did not need the circum- 
 stance of her standing by Joseph to assure the 
 
 [ 22i ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 identity of hei' person), she asked the beau " Whether 
 he did not think lier a pretty girl ? " — " Begad, 
 madam,*" answered he, "'tis the very same I met."" 
 " I did not imagine,"" repHed the lady, " you had so 
 good a taste."*"* — " Because I never liked you, I war- 
 rant,'"* cries the beau. " Ridiculous ! "" said she : " you 
 know you was always my aversion."" " I would never 
 mention aversion," answered the beau, " with that 
 face ; ^ dear Lady Booby, wash your face before you 
 mention aversion, I beseech you." He then laughed, 
 and turned about to coquet it with Fanny. 
 
 Mrs. Adams had been all this time begging and 
 praying the ladies to sit down, a favour which she at 
 last obtained. The little boy to whom the accident 
 had happened, still keeping his place by the fire, was 
 chid by his mother for not being more mannerly : 
 but Lady Booby took his part, and, commending his 
 beauty, told the parson he was his very picture. 
 She then, seeing a book in his hand, asked, " If he 
 could read ? " — " Yes," cried Adams, " a little Latin, 
 madam: he is just got into Quae Genus." — "A fig 
 for quere genius ! " answered she ; " let me hear him 
 read a little English." — " Lege, Dick, lege," said 
 Adams : but the boy made no answer, till he saw the 
 parson knit his brows, and then cried, " I don"'t 
 understand you, father." — " How, boy ! " says 
 Adams ; " what doth lego make in the imperative 
 mood? Legito, doth it not.?" — "Yes," answered 
 Dick. — " And what besides ? " says the father. 
 
 ^ Lest this should appear unnatural to some readers, we 
 think proper to acquaint them, that it is taken verbatim from 
 very polite conversation. 
 
 [ 222 J
 
 A YOUTHFUL SCHOLAR 
 
 " Lege," quoth the son, after some hesitation. " A 
 good boy," says the father : " and now, child, what 
 is the EngHsh of lego ? " — To which the boy, after 
 long puzzling, answered, he could not tell. " How ! " 
 cries Adams, in a passion ; — " what, hath the water 
 washed away your learning ? Why, what is Latin 
 for the English verb read ? Consider before you 
 speak." The child considered some time, and then 
 the parson cried twice or thrice, "Le — , Le — ." 
 Dick answered, " Lego."" — " Very well ; — and then 
 what is the English," says the parson, " of the verb 
 lego.?" — "To read," cried Dick. — " Very well," 
 said the parson ; " a good boy : you can do well if 
 you will take pains. — I assure your ladyship he is 
 not much above eight years old, and is out of his 
 Propria qua? Maribus already. — Come, Dick, read 
 to her ladyship;" — which she again desiring, in 
 order to give the beau time and opportunity with 
 Fanny, Dick began as in the following chapter. 
 
 [223]
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 THE HISTORY OF TWO FRIENDS, WHICH MAY AFFORD AN 
 USEFUL LESSON TO ALL THOSE PERSONS WHO HAP- 
 PEN TO TAKE UP THEIR RESIDENCE IN MARRIED 
 FAMILIES. 
 
 EONARD and Paul were two friends." — 
 " Pronounce it Lennard, child," cried 
 the parson. — " Pray, Mr. Adams," says 
 Lady Booby, " let your son read with- 
 out interruption." Dick then proceeded. " Lennard 
 and Paul were two friends, who, having been educated 
 together at the same school, commenced a friendship 
 which they preserved a long time for each other. 
 It was so deeply fixed in both their minds, that a 
 long absence, during which they had maintained no 
 correspondence, did not eradicate nor lessen it : but 
 it revived in all its force at their first meeting, which 
 was not till after fifteen years' absence, most of 
 which time Lennard had spent in the East Indi-es." 
 
 — " Pronounce it short, Indies," says Adams. 
 
 "Pray, sir, be quiet," says the lady. —The boy 
 repeated — " in the East Indies, whilst Paul had 
 served his king and country in the army. In which 
 different services they had found such different suc- 
 cess, that Lennard was now married, and retired with 
 a fortune of thirty thousand pounds ; and Paul was 
 
 [ 224 ]
 
 HISTORY OF TWO FRIENDS 
 
 arrived to the degree of a lieutenant of foot ; and 
 was not worth a single shilling. 
 
 " The regiment in which Paul was stationed hap- 
 pened to be ordered into quarters within a small 
 distance from the estate which Lennard had pur- 
 chased, and where he was settled. This latter, who 
 was now become a country gentleman, and a justice 
 of peace, came to attend the quarter sessions in the 
 town where his old friend was quartered, soon after 
 his arrival. Some affair in which a soldier was 
 concerned occasioned Paul to attend the justices. 
 JManhood, and time, and the change of climate, 
 had so much altered Lennard, that Paul did not 
 immediately recollect the features of his old ac- 
 quaintance : but it was otherwise with Lennard. He 
 knew Paul the moment he saw him ; nor could he 
 contain himself from quitting the bench, and run- 
 ning hastily to embrace him. Paul stood at first a 
 little surprized ; but had soon sufficient information 
 from his friend, whom he no sooner remembered 
 than he returned his embrace with a passion which 
 made many of the spectators laugh, and gave to 
 some few a much higher and more agreeable 
 sensation. 
 
 "Not to detain the reader with minute circum- 
 stances, Lennard insisted on his friend's returning 
 with him to his house that evening ; which request 
 was complied with, and leave for a month's absence 
 for Paul obtained of the commanding officer. 
 
 " If it was possible for any circumstance to give 
 any addition to the happiness which Paul proposed 
 in this visit, he received that additional pleasure by 
 vol,. XI. — 15 [ 225 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 finding, on his arrival at his friend's house, that his 
 lady was an old acquaintance which he had formerly 
 contracted at his quarters, and who had always 
 appeared to be of a most agreeable temper ; a char- 
 acter she had ever maintained among her intimates, 
 being of that number, every individual of which is 
 called quite the best sort of woman in the world. 
 
 " But, good as this lady was, she was still a 
 woman ; that is to say, an angel, and not an angel." 
 — " You must mistake, child," cries the parson, " for 
 you read nonsense." — " It is so in the book," an- 
 swered the son. Mr. Adams was then silenced by 
 authority, and Dick proceeded — " For though her 
 person was of that kind to which men attribute the 
 name of angel, yet in her mind she was perfectly 
 woman. Of which a great degree of obstinacy gave 
 the most remarkable and perhaps most pernicious 
 instance. 
 
 " A day or two passed after Paul's arrival before 
 any instances of this appeared ; but it was impossible 
 to conceal it long. Both she and her husband soon 
 lost all apprehension from their friend's presence, 
 and fell to their disputes with as much vigour as ever. 
 These were still pursued with the utmost ardour and 
 eagerness, however trifling the causes were whence 
 they first arose. Nay, however incredible it may 
 seem, the little consequence of the matter in debate 
 was frequently given as a reason for the fierceness of 
 the contention, as thus : ' If you loved me, sure you 
 would never dispute with me such a trifle as this.' 
 The answer to which is very obvious ; for the argu- 
 ment would hold equally on both sides, and was 
 
 [226]
 
 OBSTINACY 
 
 constantly retorted with some addition, as — 'I am 
 sure I have much more reason to say so, who am in 
 the right.' During all these disputes, Paul always 
 kept strict silence, and preserved an even countenance, 
 without showing the least visible inclination to either 
 party. One day, however, when madam had left the 
 room in a violent fury, Lennard could not refrain 
 from referring his cause to his friend. Was ever 
 anything so unreasonable, says he, as this woman ? 
 What shall I do with her ? I doat on her to dis- 
 traction ; nor have I any cause to complain of, more 
 than this obstinacy in her temper ; whatever she 
 asserts, she will maintain against all the reason and 
 conviction in the world. Pray give me your advice. 
 — First, says Paul, I will give my opinion, which is, 
 flatly, that you are in the ^vrong ; for, supposing she 
 is in the wrong, was the subject of your contention 
 any ways material ? What signified it whether you 
 was married in a red or a yellow waistcoat ? for that 
 was your dispute. Now, suppose she was mistaken ; 
 as vou love her you say so tenderly, and I believe 
 she deserves it, Avould it not have been wiser to have 
 yielded, though you certainly knew yourself in the 
 right, than to give either her or yourself any uneasi- 
 ness. For my own part, if ever I marry, I am resolved 
 to enter into an agreement with my wife, that in all 
 disputes (especially about trifles) that party who is 
 most convinced they are right shall always surrender 
 the victory ; by which means we shall both be forward 
 to give up the cause. I own, said Lennard, my dear 
 friend, shaking him by the hand, there is great truth 
 and reason in what you say ; and I will for the future 
 
 [ 227 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 endeavour to follow your advice. They soon after 
 broke up the conversation, and Lennard, going to 
 his wife, asked her pardon, and told her his friend 
 had convinced him he had been in the wrong. She 
 immediately began a vast encomium on Paul, in 
 which he seconded her, and both agreed he was the 
 worthiest and wisest man upon earth. When next 
 they met, which was at supper, though she had 
 promised not to mention what her husband told her, 
 she could not forbear casting the kindest and most 
 affectionate looks on Paul, and asked him, with the 
 sweetest voice, whether she should help him to some 
 potted woodcock ? Potted partridge, my dear, you 
 mean, says the husband. My dear, says she, I ask 
 your friend if he will eat any potted woodcock ; and 
 I am sure I must know, who potted it. I think I 
 should know too, who shot them, replied the husband, 
 and I am convinced that I have not seen a woodcock 
 this year ; liowever, though I know I am in the right, 
 I submit, and the potted partridge is potted wood- 
 cock if you desire to have it so. It is equal to me, 
 says she, whether it is one or the other ; but you would 
 persuade one out of one*'s senses ; to be sure, you are 
 always in the right in your own opinion ; but your 
 friend, I believe, knows which he is eating. Paul an- 
 swered nothing, and the dispute continued, as usual, 
 the greatest part of the evening. The next morning 
 the lady, accidentally meeting Paul, and being con- 
 vinced he was her friend, and of her side, accosted him 
 thus : — I am certain, sir, you have long since won- 
 dered at the unreasonableness of my husband. He is 
 indeed, in other respects, a good sort of man, but 
 
 [ 228]
 
 ADVICE OF A FRIEND 
 
 so positive, that no woman but one of my comply- 
 ing temper could possibly live with him. Why, last 
 night, now, was ever any creature so unreasonable ? 
 I am certain you must condemn him. Pray, answer 
 me, was he not in the wrong ? Paul, after a short 
 silence, spoke as follows : I am sorry, madam, that, 
 as good manners obliges me to answer against my 
 will, so an adherence to truth forces me to declare 
 mvself of a different opinion. To be plain and 
 honest, you was entirely in the wrong ; the cause I 
 own not worth disputing, but the bird was un- 
 doubtedly u partridge. O sir! replyed the lady, I 
 cannot possibly help your taste. Madam, returned 
 Paul, that is very little material ; for, had it been 
 otherwise, a husband might have expected sub- 
 mission. — Indeed ! sir, says she, I assure you ! — 
 Yes, madam, cryed he, he might, from a person of 
 your excellent understanding; and pardon me for 
 saying, such a condescension would have shown a 
 superiority of sense even to your husband himself. — 
 But, dear sir, said she, why should I submit when I 
 am in the right? — For that very reason, answered 
 he ; it would be the gi-eatest instance of affection 
 imaginable ; for can anything be a greater object 
 of our compassion than a person we love in the 
 wrong ? Ay, but I should endeavour, said she, to 
 set him right. Pardon me, madam, answered Paul : 
 I will apply to your own experience if you ever found 
 your arguments had that effect. The more our 
 judgments err, the less we are willing to own it : 
 for my own part, I have always observed the persons 
 who maintain the worst side in any contest are the 
 
 [ 229 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 warmest. Why, says she, I must confess there is 
 truth in what you say, and I will endeavour to 
 practise it. The husband then coming in, Paul 
 departed. And Lennard, approaching his wife with 
 an air of good humour, told her he was sorry for 
 their foolish dispute the last night ; but he was now 
 convinced of his error. She answered, smiling, she 
 believed she owed his condescension to his compla- 
 cence ; that she was ashamed to think a word had 
 passed on so silly an occasion, especially as she was 
 satisfyed she had been mistaken. A little contention 
 followed, but with the utmost good- will to each other, 
 and was concluded by her asserting that Paul had 
 thoroughly convinced her she had been in the wrong. 
 Upon which they both united in the praises of their 
 common friend. 
 
 " Paul now passed his time with great satisfaction, 
 these disputes being much less frequent, as well as 
 shorter than usual ; but the devil, or some unlucky 
 accident in which perhaps the devil had no hand, 
 shortly put an end to his happiness. He was now 
 eternally the private referee of every difference ; in 
 which, after having perfectly, as he thought, estab- 
 lished the doctrine of submission, he never scrupled 
 to assure both privately that they were in the right 
 in every argument, as before he had followed the con- 
 trary method. One day a violent litigation happened 
 in his absence, and both parties agreed to refer it to 
 his decision. The husband professing himself sure 
 the decision would be in his favour; the wife an- 
 swered, he might be mistaken ; for she believed his 
 friend was convinced how seldom she was to blame ; 
 
 [ 230 ]
 
 LACK OF GENEROSITY 
 
 and that if he knew all — The husband replied, My 
 dear, I have no desire of any retrospect ; but I believe, 
 if you knew all too, you would not imagine my friend 
 so entirely on your side. Nay, says she, since you 
 provoke me, I will mention one instance. You may 
 remember our dispute about sending Jackey to school 
 in cold weather, which point I gave up to you from 
 mere compassion, knowing myself to be in the right; 
 and Paul himself told me afterwards he thought me 
 so. My dear, replied the husband, I will not scruple 
 your veracity ; but I assure you solemnly, on my 
 applying to him, he gave it absolutely on my side, 
 and said he would have acted in the same manner. 
 They then proceeded to produce numberless other 
 instances, in all which Paul had, on vows of secresy, 
 given his opinion on both sides. In the conclusion, 
 both believing each other, they fell severely on the 
 treachery of Paul, and agreed that he had been the 
 occasion of almost every dispute which had fallen out 
 between them. They then became extremely loving, 
 and so full of condescension on both sides, that they 
 vyed with each other in censuring their own conduct, 
 and jointly vented their indignation on Paul, whom 
 the wife, fearing a bloody consequence, earnestly en- 
 treated her husband to suffer c|uietly to depart the 
 next day, which was the time fixed for his return to 
 quarters, and then drop his acquaintance. 
 
 " However ungenerous this behaviour in Lennard 
 may be esteemed, his wife obtained a promise from 
 him (though with difficulty) to follow her advice ; 
 but they both expressed such unusual coldness that 
 day to Paul, that he, who was quick of apprehension, 
 
 [ 5231 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 taking Lennard aside, pressed him so home, that he 
 at last discovered the secret. Paul ackiiowledg-ed the 
 truth, but told him the design with which he had done 
 it. — To which the other answered, he would have 
 acted more friendly to have let him into the whole 
 design ; for that he might have assured himself of 
 his secresy. Paul replyed, with some indignation, 
 he had given him a sufficient proof how capable he 
 was of concealing a secret from his wife. Lennard 
 retui'ned with some warmth — he had more reason to 
 upbraid him, for that he had caused most of the 
 quarrels between them by his strange conduct, and 
 might (if they had not discovered the affair to each 
 other) have been the occasion of their separation. 
 Paul then said *" — But something now happened 
 which put a stop to Dick's reading, and of which we 
 shall treat in the next chapter. 
 
 [232]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 IN WHICH THE HISTORY IS CONTINUED. 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS had borne with great un- 
 easiness the impertinence of beau Didapper to 
 Fanny, who had been talking pretty freely to 
 her, and offering her settlements ; but the 
 respect to the company had restrained him from 
 interferins whilst the beau confined himself to the 
 use of his tongue only ; but the said beau, watching 
 an opportunity whilst the ladies' eyes were disposed 
 another ^^ay, oifered a rudeness to her with his 
 hands ; whicli Joseph no sooner perceived than he 
 presented him with so sound a box on the ear, that 
 it conveyed him several paces from where he stood. 
 The ladies immediately screamed out, rose from their 
 chairs ; and the beau, as soon as he recovered himself, 
 drew his hanger : which Adams observing, snatched 
 up the lid of a pot in his left hand, and, covering 
 himself with it as with a shield, without any weapon 
 of offence in his other hand, stept in before Joseph, 
 and exposed himself to the enraged beau, who 
 threatened such perdition and destruction, that it 
 frighted the women, who were all got in a huddle 
 together, out of their wits, even to hear his denun- 
 ciations of vengeance. Joseph was of a different 
 complexion, and begged Adams to let his rival come 
 
 [ 233 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 on ; for he had a good cudgel in his hand, and did 
 not fear him. Fanny now fainted into Mrs. Adanis\s 
 arms, and the whole room was in confusion, when INir. 
 Booby, passing by ^Vdams, who lay snug under the 
 pot-lid, came up to Didapper, and insisted on his 
 sheathing the hanger, promising he should have satis- 
 faction ; which Joseph declared he would give him, 
 and fight him at any weapon whatever. The beau 
 now sheathed his hanger, and taking out a pocket- 
 glass, and vowing vengeance all the time, re-adjusted 
 his hair ; the pai'son deposited his shield ; and Joseph, 
 rmming to Fanny, soon brought her back to life. 
 Lady Booby chid Joseph for his insult on Didapper ; 
 but he answered, he would have attacked an army 
 in the same cause. " What cause .'' " said the 
 lady. " Madam," answered Joseph, " he was rude to 
 that young woman.'" — " What," says the lady, " I 
 suppose he would have kissed the wench ; and is a 
 gentleman to be struck for such an offer ? I must 
 tell you, Joseph, these airs do not become you." — 
 " Madam," said Mr. Booby, " I saw the whole affair, 
 and I do not commend my brother ; for I cannot 
 perceive why he should take upon him to be this girl's 
 champion." — "I can commend him," says Adams: 
 " he is a brave lad ; and it becomes any man to be the 
 champion of the innocent ; and he must be the basest 
 coward who would not vindicate a w oman with whom 
 he is on the brink of marriage." — " Sir," says Mr. 
 Booby, " my brother is not a proper match for such 
 a young woman as this." — " No," says Lady Booby ; 
 " nor do you, Mr. Adams, act in your proper 
 (character by encouraging any such doings ; and I 
 
 [ 234 ] '
 
 FANNY'S GRIEF 
 
 # 
 
 am very much surprized you should concern yourself 
 in it. I think your wife and family your properer 
 care." — " Indeed, madam, your ladyship says very 
 true," answered Mrs. Adams : " he talks a pack of 
 nonsense, that the whole parish are his children. I 
 am sure I don"'t understand what he means by it ; it 
 would make some women suspect he had gone astrav» 
 but I acquit him of that ; I can read Scriptm-e as 
 well as he, and I never found that the parson was 
 obliged to provide for other folks' children ; and 
 besides, he is but a poor curate, and hath little 
 enough, as your ladjship knows, for me and mine." 
 — " You say very well, Mrs. Adams," quoth the 
 Lady Booby, who had not spoke a word to her be- 
 fore ; " you seem to be a very sensible woman ; and 
 I assure you, your husband is acting a very fool- 
 ish part, and opposing his own interest, seeing my 
 nephew is violently set against this match : and 
 indeed I can't blame him ; it is by no means one 
 suitable to our family." In this manner the lady 
 proceeded with Mrs. Adams, whilst the beau hopped 
 about the room, shaking his head, partly from pain 
 and partly from anger ; and Pamela was chiding 
 Fanny for her assurance in aiming at such a match as 
 her brother. Poor Fanny answered only with her 
 tears, which had long since begun to wet her hand- 
 kerchief ; which Joseph perceiving, took her by the 
 arm, and wrapping it in his carried her off, swearing 
 he would o\\n no relation to any one who was an 
 enemy to her he loved more than all the world. He 
 went out with Fannv under his left arm, brandishino; 
 a cudgel in his right, and neither Mr. Booby nor the 
 
 [235]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 beau thought proper to oppose him. Lady Booby 
 and her company made a very short stay behind 
 him : for the lady's bell now summoned them to 
 dress ; for which they had just time before dinner. 
 
 Adams seemed now very much dejected, which his 
 wife perceiving, began to apply some matrimonial 
 balsam. She told him he had reason to be concerned, 
 for that he had probably ruined his family with his 
 tricks almost ; but perhaps he was grieved for the 
 loss of his two children, Joseph and Fanny. His 
 eldest daughter went on : " Indeed, father, it is very 
 hard to bring strangers here to eat your children's 
 bread out of their mouths. You have kept them 
 ever since they came home ; and, for anything I see 
 to the contrary, may keep them a month longer ; 
 are you obliged to give her meat, thoY she was never 
 so handsome ? But I don''t see she is so much hand- 
 somer than other people. If people were to be kept 
 for their beauty, she would scarce fare better than 
 her neighbours, I believe. As for Mr. Joseph, I 
 have nothing to say ; he is a young man of honest 
 principles, and will pay some time or other for what 
 he hath ; but for the girl — whv doth she not return 
 to her place she ran away from ? I would not give 
 such a vagabond slut a halfpenny though I had a 
 million of money ; no, though she was starving."" 
 " Indeed but I would,"" cries little Dick ; " and, 
 father, rather than poor Fanny shall be starved, I 
 will give her all this bread and cheese" — (offering 
 what he held in his hand). Adams smiled on the 
 bov, and told him he rejoiced to see he was a Chris- 
 tian ; and that if he had a halfpenny in his pocket, 
 
 [ 236 ]
 
 INVITATION TO DINNER 
 
 he would have given it him ; telling him it was his 
 dutv to look upon all his neighbours as his brothers 
 and sisters, and love them accordingly. " Yes, papa," 
 savs he, " I love her better than mv sisters, for she is 
 handsomer than any of them." " Is she so, sauce- 
 box ? " says the sister, giving him a box on the ear ; 
 which the father would probably have resented, had 
 not Joseph, Fanny, and the pedlar at that instant 
 returned together. Adams bid his wife prepare some 
 food for their dinner ; she said, " Truly she could 
 not, she had something else to do." Adams rebuked 
 her for disputing his commands, and quoted many 
 texts of Scripture to prove "That the husband is 
 the head of the wife, and she is to submit and 
 obey." The wife answered, " It was blasphemy to 
 talk Scripture out of church ; that such things were 
 verv proper to be said in the pulpit, but that it was 
 profane to talk them in common discourse." Joseph 
 told Mr. Adams " He was not come with any desigii 
 to give him or Mrs. Adams any trouble ; but to 
 desire the fixvour of all their company to the George 
 (an ale-house in the parish), where he had bespoke 
 a piece of bacon and greens for their dinner." Mrs. 
 Adams, who was a very good sort of woman, only 
 rather too strict in ceconomies, readily accepted this 
 invitation, as did the parson himself by her example ; 
 and away they all walked together, not omitting 
 little Dick, to whom Joseph gave a shilling when 
 he heard of his intended liberality to Fanny. 
 
 ^237]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 WHERE THE GOOD-NATURED READER WILL SEE SOMETHING 
 WHICH WILL GIVE HIM NO GREAT PLEASURE. 
 
 THE pedlar had been very inquisitive from 
 the time he had first heard that the great 
 house in this parish belonged to the Lady 
 Booby, and had learnt that she was the 
 widow of Sir Thomas, and that Sir Thomas had 
 bought Fanny, at about the age of three or four 
 years, of a travelling woman ; and, now their homely 
 but hearty meal was ended, he told Fanny he believed 
 he could acquaint her with her parents. The whole 
 company, especially she herself, started at this offer 
 of the pedlar s. He then proceeded thus, while they 
 all lent their strictest attention: — "Though I am 
 now contented with this humble way of getting my 
 livelihood, I was formerly a gentleman ; for so all 
 those of my profession are called. In a word, I was 
 a drummer in an Irish regiment of foot. Whilst I 
 was in this honourable station I attended an officer 
 of our regiment into England a-i'ccruitino;. In our 
 march from Bristol to Froome (for since the decay 
 of the w^oollen ti'ade the clothing towns have fur- 
 nished the army with a great number of recruits) we 
 
 [ 238]
 
 THE PEDLAR'S TALE 
 
 overlook on the road a woman, who seemed to be 
 about thirty yeai's old or thereabouts, not very hand- 
 some, but well enough for a soldier. As we came up 
 to her, she mended her pace, and falling into discourse 
 with our ladies (for every man of the party, namely, 
 a Serjeant, two private men, and a drum, were pro- 
 vided with their woman except myself), she continued 
 to travel on with us. I, perceiving she must fall to 
 my lot, advanced presently to her, made love to her 
 in our military way, and quickly succeeded to my 
 Avishes. We struck a bargain within a mile, and 
 lived together as man and wife to her dying day." 
 "I suppose," says Adams, inteiTupting him, "you 
 were married with a licence ; for I don't see how you 
 could contrive to have the banns published while 
 you were marching from place to place,"" " No, sir," 
 said the pedlar, " we took a licence to go to bed 
 together without any banns." " Ay ! ay ! " said the 
 parson ; " ex necessitate, a licence may be allowable 
 enough ; but surely, surely, the other is the more 
 regular and eligible way." The pedlar proceeded 
 thus : " She returned with me to our regiment, and 
 removed with us from quarters to quartei's, till at 
 last, whilst we lay at Galloway, she fell ill of a 
 fever and died, \\1ien she was on her death-bed 
 she called me to her, and, crying bitterly, declared 
 she could not depart this world without discovering 
 a secret to me, which, she said, was the only sin 
 which sat heavy on her heart. She said she had 
 formerly travelled in a company of gypsies, who had 
 made a practice of stealing away children ; that for 
 her own part, she had been only once guilty of the 
 
 [ 239 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 crime; which, she said, she lamented more than all 
 the rest of her sins, since probably it might have 
 occasioned the death of the parents ; for, added she, 
 it is almost impossible to describe the beauty of the 
 young creature, which was about a year and a half 
 old when I kidnapped it. We kept her (for she was 
 a girl) above two years in our company, when I sold 
 her myself, for three guineas, to Sir Thomas Booby, 
 in Somersetshire. Now, you know whether there are 
 any more of that name in this county." " Yes," says 
 Adams, " there are several Boobys who are squires, 
 but I believe no baronet now alive ; besides, it 
 answers so exactly in every point, there is no room 
 for doubt ; but you have forgot to tell us the parents 
 from whom the child was stolen." "Their name," 
 answered the pedlar, " was Andrews. They lived 
 about thirty miles from the squire ; and she told 
 me that I might be sure to find them out by one cir- 
 cumstance ; for that they had a daughter of a very 
 strange name, Pamela, or Pamela ; some pronounced 
 it one way, and some the other." Fanny, who had 
 changed colour at the first mention of the name, now 
 fainted away ; Joseph turned pale, and poor Dicky 
 began to roar ; the parson fell on his knees, and 
 ejaculated many thanksgivings that this discovery 
 had been made before the dreadful sin of incest was 
 committed ; and the pedlar was struck with amaze- 
 ment, not being able to account for all this con- 
 fusion ; the cause of which was presently opened by 
 the parson's daughter, who was the only unconcerned 
 person (for the mother was chafing Fanny's temples, 
 and taking the utmost care of her) : and, indeed, 
 
 [ 240]
 
 FANNY'S PITIABLE SITUATION 
 
 Fanny was the only creature whom the daughter 
 would not have pitied in her situation ; wherein, 
 though we compassionate her ourselves, we shall 
 leave her for a little while, and pay a short visit 
 to Lady Booby. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 16 [241]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 THE HISTORY, RETURNING TO THE LADY BOOBY, GIVES 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE TERRIBLE CONFLICT IN HER 
 BREAST BETWEEN LOVE AND PRIDE ; WITH WHAT 
 HAPPENED ON THE PRESENT DISCOVERY. 
 
 THE lady sat down with her company to 
 dinner, but eat nothing. As soon as 
 her cloth was removed she whispered 
 Pamela that she was taken a little ill, 
 and desired her to entertain her husband and beau 
 Didapper. She then went up into her chamber, sent 
 for Slipslop, threw herself on the bed in the agonies 
 of love, rage, and despair; nor could she conceal 
 these boiling passions longer without bursting. 
 Slipslop now approached her bed, and asked how her 
 ladyship did ; but, instead of revealing her disorder, 
 as she intended, she entered into a long encomium 
 on the beauty and virtues of Joseph Andrews ; end- 
 ing, at last, with expressing her concern that so much 
 tenderness should be thrown away on so despicable 
 an object as Fanny. Slipslop, well knowing how to 
 humour her mistresses frenzy, proceeded to repeat, 
 with exaggeration, if possible, all her mistress had 
 said, and concluded with a wish that Joseph had 
 been a gentleman, and that she could see her lady in 
 the arms of such a husband. The lady then started 
 
 [242]
 
 LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 from the bed, and, taking a turn or two across the 
 room, crjed out, with a deep sigh, " Sure he would 
 make any woman happy ! "" — " Your ladyship," says 
 she, " would be the happiest woman in the world 
 with him. A fig for custom and nonsense ! What 
 ""vails what people say? Shall I be afraid of eating 
 sweetmeats because people may say I have a sweet 
 tooth ? If I had a mind to marry a man, all the 
 world should not hinder me. Your ladyship hath no 
 parents to tutelar your infections ; besides, lie is of 
 your ladyship"'s family now, and as good a gentleman 
 as any in the country ; and why should not a woman 
 follow her mind as well as man.'* Why should 
 not your ladyship marry the brother as well as your 
 nephew the sister ? I am sure, if it was a fragrant 
 crime, I would not persuade your ladyship to it." — 
 " But, dear Slipslop," answered the lady, " if I could 
 prevail on myself to commit such a weakness, there 
 is that cursed Fanny in the way, whom the idiot — 
 O how I hate and despise him ! " — " She ! a little 
 ugly mynx," cries Slipslop ; " leave her to me. I 
 suppose your ladyship hath heard of Joseph's fitting 
 with one of Mr. Didapper"'s servants about her ; and 
 his master hath ordered them to carry her away 
 by force this evening. I'll take care they shall not 
 want assistance. I was talking with this gentleman, 
 who was below, just when your ladyship sent for 
 me." — " Go back," says the Lady Booby, " this 
 instant, for I expect Mr. Didapper will soon be 
 going. Do all you can ; for I am resolved this 
 wench shall not be in our family : I will endeavour 
 to return to the company ; but let me know as soon 
 
 [ 243 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 as she is carried off." Slipslop went away ; and her 
 mistress began to arraign her own conduct in the 
 following manner: — 
 
 " What am I doing ? How do I suffer this passion 
 to creep imperceptibly upon me ? How many days 
 are past since I could have submitted to ask myself 
 the question ? — MaiTy a footman ! Distraction ! 
 Can I afterwards bear the eyes of my acquaintance ? 
 But I can retire from them ; retire with one in 
 whom I propose more happiness than the world with- 
 out him can give me ! Retire — to feed continually 
 on beauties which my inflamed imagination sickens 
 with eagerly gazing on ; to satisfy every appetite, 
 every desire, with their utmost wish. Ha ! and do I 
 doat thus on a footman ? I despise, I detest my 
 passion. — Yet why.'' Is he not generous, gentle, 
 kind ? — Kind ! to whom ? to the meanest wretch, a 
 creature below my consideration. Doth he not — yes, 
 he doth prefer her. Curse his beauties, and the little 
 low heart that possesses them ; which can basely 
 descend to this despicable wench, and be ungratefully 
 deaf to all the honours I do him. And can I then love 
 this monster.'' No, I will tear his image from my bosom, 
 tread on him, spurn him. I will have those pitiful 
 charms, which now I despise, mangled in my sight ; 
 for I will not suffer the little jade I hate to riot in 
 the beauties I contemn. No ; though I despise him 
 myself, though I would spurn him from my feet, was 
 he to languish at them, no other should taste the 
 happiness I scorn. Why do I say happiness .? To 
 me it would be misery. To sacrifice my reputation, 
 my character, my rank in life, to the indulgence of 
 
 [ 24i ]
 
 STRANGE NEWS 
 
 a mean and a vile appetite ! How I detest the 
 thought ! How much more exquisite is the pleasure 
 resulting from the reflection of virtue and prudence 
 than the faint relish of what flows from vice and 
 folly ! Whither did I suffer this improper, this mad 
 passion to hurry me, only by neglecting to summon 
 the aids of reason to my assistance ? Reason, which 
 hath now set before me my desires in their proper 
 colours, and immediately helped me to expel them. 
 Yes, I thank Heaven and my pride, I have now per- 
 fectly conquered this unworthy passion ; and if there 
 was no obstacle in its way, my pride would disdain 
 anv pleasures which could be the consequence of so 
 base, so mean, so vulgar — ■" Slipslop returned at 
 this instant in a violent hurry, and with the utmost 
 eagerness cryed out, " O madam ! I have strange news. 
 Tom the footman is just come from the George; where, 
 it seems, Joseph and the rest of them are a jinketting ; 
 and he says there is a strange man who hath dis- 
 covered that Fanny and Joseph are brother and 
 sister."" — "How, Slipslop ?" cries the lady, in a sur- 
 prize. — "I had not time, madam," cries Slipslop, 
 " to enquire about particles, but Tom says it is most 
 certainly true." 
 
 This unexpected account entirely obliterated all 
 those admirable reflections which the supreme power 
 of reason had so wisely made just before. In short, 
 when despair, which had more share in producing 
 the resolutions of hatred we have seen taken, began 
 to retreat, the lady hesitated a moment, and then, 
 foi'getting all the purport of her soliloquy, dismissed 
 her woman again, with orders to bid Tom attend her 
 
 [ 245 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 in the parlour, whither she now hastened to acquaint 
 Pamela with the news. Pamela said she could not 
 believe it ; for she had never heard that her mother 
 had lost any child, or that she had ever had any 
 more than Joseph and herself. The lady flew into a 
 violent rage with her, and talked of upstarts and dis- 
 owning relations who had so lately been on a level 
 with her. Pamela made no answer ; but her hus- 
 band, taking up her cause, severely reprimanded his 
 aunt for her behaviour to his wife : he told her, if it 
 had been earlier in the evening she should not have 
 staid a moment longer in her house ; that he was 
 convinced, if this young woman could be proved her 
 sister, she would readily embrace her as such, and he 
 himself would do the same. He then desired the 
 fellow might be sent for, and the young woman with 
 him, which Lady Booby immediately ordered ; and, 
 thinking proper to make some apology to Pamela 
 for what she had said, it was readily accepted, and 
 all thinn;s reconciled. 
 
 The pedlar now attended, as did Fanny and Joseph, 
 who w'ould not quit her ; the parson likewise was 
 induced, not only by curiosity, of which he had no 
 small portion, but his duty, as he apprehended it, to 
 follow them ; for he continued all the way to exhort 
 them, who were now breaking their hearts, to offer 
 up thanksgivings, and be joyful for so miraculous an 
 escape. 
 
 When they arrived at Booby-Hall they were 
 presently called into the parlour, where the pedlar 
 repeated the same story he had told before, and 
 insisted on the truth of every circumstance ; so 
 
 [246]
 
 A SOCIAL COMPANY 
 
 that all who heard him were extremely well satisfied 
 of the truth, except Pamela, who imagined, as she 
 had never heard either of her parents mention such 
 an accident, that it must be certainly false; and 
 except the Lady Booby, who suspected the false- 
 hood of the story from her ardent desire that it 
 should be true ; and Joseph, who feared its truth, 
 ffom his earnest wishes that it might prove false, 
 
 ]\Ir. Booby now desired them all to suspend their 
 curiosity and absolute belief or disbelief till the next 
 morning, when he expected old Mr. Andrews and 
 his wife to fetch himself and Pamela home in his 
 coach, and then they might be certain of certainly 
 knowing the truth or falsehood of this relation ; in 
 which, he said, as there were many strong circum- 
 stances to induce their credit, so he could not perceive 
 any interest the pedlar could have in inventing it, 
 or in endeavouring to impose such a falsehood on 
 them. 
 
 The Ladv Boobv, who was very little used to such 
 company, entertained them all — viz. her nephew, 
 his wife, her brother and sister, the beau, and the 
 parson, with great good humour at her own table. 
 As to the pedlar, she ordered him to be made as 
 welcome as possible by her servants. All the com- 
 pany in the parlour, except the disappointed lovers, 
 who sat sullen and silent, were full of mirth ; for 
 Mr. Booby had prevailed on Joseph to ask Mr. 
 Didapper's pardon, with which he was perfectly 
 satisfied. Many jokes passed between the beau and 
 the parson, chiefly on each other''s dress ; these 
 afforded much diversion to the company. Pamela 
 
 [247]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 chid her brother Joseph for the concern which he 
 exprest at discovering a new sister. She said, if he 
 loved Fanny as he ought, with a pure affection, 
 he had no reason to lament being related to her. — 
 Upon which Adams began to discourse on Platonic 
 love ; whence he made a quick transition to the joys 
 in the next world, and concluded with strongly 
 asserting that there was no such thing as pleasure in 
 this. At which Pamela and her husband smiled on 
 one another. 
 
 This happy pair proposing to retire (for no other 
 person gave the least symptom of desiring rest), they 
 all repaired to several beds provided for them in the 
 same house ; nor was Adams himself suffered to go 
 home, it being a stormy night. Fanny indeed often 
 begged she might go home with the parson ; but her 
 stay was so strongly insisted on, that she at last, by 
 Joseph''s advice, consented. 
 
 [ 248 ]
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 CONTAINING SEVERAL CURIOUS NIGHT-ADVENTURES, IN 
 WHICH MR. ADAMS FELL INTO MANY HAIR-BREADTH 
 'scapes, PARTLY OWING TO HIS GOODNESS, AND 
 PARTLY TO HIS INADVERTENCY. 
 
 ^ BOUT an hour after they had all separated 
 /^L (it being now past three in the morning), 
 / ^ k beau Didapper, whose passion for Fanny 
 j[ m permitted him not to close his eyes, but 
 had employed his imagination in contrivances how 
 to satisfy his desires, at last hit on a method by 
 which he hoped to effect it. He had ordered his 
 servant to bring him word where Fanny lay, and 
 had received his information ; he therefore arose, put 
 on his breeches and nightgown, and stole softly along 
 the gallery which led to her apartment ; and, being 
 come to the door, as he imagined it, he opened it 
 with the least noise possible and entered the chamber. 
 A savour now invaded his nostrils which he did not 
 expect in the room of so sweet a young creature, and 
 which might have probably had no good effect on a 
 cooler lover. However, he groped out the bed with 
 difficulty, for there was not a glimpse of light, and, 
 opening the curtains, he whispered in Joseph's voice 
 (for he was an excellent mimic), "Fanny, my angel ! 
 I am come to inform thee that I have discovered the 
 falsehood of the story we last night heard. I am no 
 
 [249]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 longer thy brother, but the lover ; nor will I be 
 delayed the enjoyment of thee one moment longer. 
 You have sufficient assurances of my constancy not 
 to doubt my marrying you, and it would be want ol 
 love to deny me the possession of thy charms."" — So 
 saying, he disencumbered himself from the little 
 clothes he had on, and, leaping into bed, embraced 
 his angel, as he conceived her, with great rapture. 
 If he was surprised at receiving no answer, he was no 
 less pleased to find his hug returned with equal 
 ardour. He remained not long in this sweet con- 
 fusion ; for both he and his paramour presently 
 discovered their error. Indeed it was no other than 
 the accomplished Slipslop whom he had engaged; 
 but, though she immediately knew the person whom 
 she had mistaken for Joseph, he was at a loss to 
 guess at the representative of Fanny. He had so 
 little seen or taken notice of this gentlewoman, that 
 light itself would have afforded him no assistance in 
 his conjecture. Beau Didapper no sooner had per- 
 ceived his mistake than he attempted to escape from 
 the bed with much greater haste than he had made 
 to it ; but the watchful Slipslop prevented him. For 
 that prudent woman, being disappointed of those 
 delicious offerings which her fancy had promised her 
 pleasure, resolved to make an immediate sacrifice to 
 her virtue. Indeed she wanted an opportunity to 
 heal some wounds, which her late conduct had, she 
 feared, given her reputation ; and, as she had a 
 wonderful presence of mind, she conceived the pei'son 
 of the unfortunate beau to be luckily thrown in her 
 way to restore her lady's opinion of her impregnable 
 
 [ 250 J
 
 MR. ADAMS'S BLUNDER 
 
 chastity. At that instant, therefore, when he offered 
 to leap from the bed, she caught fast hold of his 
 shirt, at the same time roaring out, " Othou villain ! 
 who hast attacked my chastity, and, I believe, ruined 
 me in my sleep ; I will swear a rape against thee, I 
 will prosecute thee with the utmost vengeance." 
 The beau attempted to get loose, but she held him 
 fast, and when he struggled she cried out, " Murder ! 
 murder ! rape ! robbery ! ruin ! ■" At which A\ords, 
 parson Adams, who lay in the next chamber, wake- 
 ful, and meditating on the pedlar's discoverv, jumped 
 out of bed, and, without staying to put a rag of 
 clothes on, hastened into the apartment whence 
 the ci'ies proceeded. He made directly to the bed in 
 the dark, where, laying hold of the beau's skin (for 
 Slipslop had torn his shirt almost off), and finding 
 his skin extremely soft, and hearing him in a low 
 voice begging Slipslop to let him go, he no longer 
 doubted but this was the young woman in danger of 
 ravishing, and immediately falling on the bed, and 
 laying hold on Slipslop's chin, where he found a 
 rough beard, his belief was confirmed ; he therefore 
 rescued the beau, who presently made his escape, 
 and then, turning towards Slipslop, received such a 
 cuff on his chops, that, his wrath kindling instantly, 
 he offered to return the favour so stoutly, that had 
 poor Slipslop received the fist, which in the dark passed 
 by her and fell on the pillow,she would most probably 
 have given up the ghost. Adams, missing his blow, 
 fell directly on Slipslop, who cuffed and scratched as 
 well as she could; nor was he behindhand with her in 
 his endeavours, but happily the darkness of the night 
 
 [251 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 befriended her. She then cried she was a woman ; but 
 Adams answered, she was rather the devil, and if she 
 was he would grapple with him ; and, being again 
 irritated by another stroke on his chops, he gave her 
 such a remembrance in the guts, that she began to 
 roar loud enough to be heard all over the house. 
 Adams then, seizing her by the hair (for her double- 
 clout had fallen off in the scuffle), pinned her head 
 down to the bolster, and then both called for lights 
 together. The Lady Booby, who was as wakeful as 
 any of her guests, had been alarmed from the begin- 
 ning ; and, being a woman of a bold spirit, she slipt 
 on a nightgown, petticoat, and slippers, and taking a 
 candle, which always burnt in her chamber, in her 
 hand, she walked undauntedly to Slipslop's room ; 
 where she entered just at the instant as Adams had 
 discovered, by the two mountains which Slipslop 
 carried before her, that he was concerned with a 
 female. He then concluded her to be a witch, and 
 said he fancied those breasts gave suck to a legion of 
 devils. Slipslop, seeing Lady Booby enter the room, 
 cried help ! or I am ravished, with a most audible 
 voice : and Adams, perceiving the light, turned 
 hastily, and saw the lady (as she did him) just as she 
 came to the feet of the bed ; nor did her modesty, 
 when she found the naked condition of Adams, suffer 
 her to approach farther. She then began to revile 
 the parson as the wickedest of all men, and partic- 
 ularly railed at his impudence in chusing her house 
 for the scene of his debaucheries, and her own woman 
 for the object of his bestiality. Poor Adams had 
 before discovered the countenance of his bedfellow, 
 
 [ 252]
 
 LADY BOOBY APPEARS 
 
 and, now first recollecting he was naked, he was no 
 less confounded than Lady Booby herself, and im- 
 mediately whipt under the bedclothes, whence the 
 chaste Slipslop endeavoured in vain to shut him 
 out. Then putting forth his head, on which, by 
 way of ornament, he wore a flannel nightcap, he 
 protested his innocence, and asked ten thousand 
 pardons of Mrs. Slipslop for the blows he had struck 
 her, vowing he had mistaken her for a witch. Lady 
 Booby, then casting her eyes on the ground, observed 
 something sparkle with great lustre, which, when she 
 had taken it up, appeared to be a very fine pair of 
 diamond buttons for the sleeves. A little farther 
 she saw lie the sleeve itself of a shirt with laced 
 ruffles. " Heyday ! " says she, " what is the meaning 
 of this .? " " O^ madam," says Slipslop, " I don't know 
 what hath happened, I have been so terrified. Here 
 may have been a dozen men in the room." " To 
 whom belongs this laced shirt and jewels ? " says the 
 lady. "Undoubtedly," cries the parson, "to the 
 young gentleman whom I mistook for a woman on 
 coming into the room, whence proceeded all the 
 subsequent mistakes ; for if I had suspected him for 
 a man, I would have seized him, had he been another 
 Hercules, though, indeed, he seems rather to resemble 
 Hylas." He then gave an account of the reason of 
 his rising from bed, and the rest, till the lady came 
 into the room ; at which, and the figures of Slipslop 
 and her gallant, whose heads only were visible at the 
 opposite corners of the bed, she could not refrain 
 from laughter ; nor did Slipslop persist in accusing 
 the parson of any motions towards a rape. The lady 
 
 [ 253 1
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 therefore desired him to return to his bed as soon as 
 she was departed, and then ordering SHpslop to rise 
 and attend her in her own room, she returned herself 
 thither. When she was gone, Adams renewed his 
 petitions for pardon to Mrs. Shpslop, who, with a 
 most Christian temper, not only forgave, but began 
 to move with much courtesy towards him, which he 
 taking as a hint to begin, immediately quitted the 
 bed, and made the best of his way towards his own ; 
 but unluckily, instead of turning to the right, he 
 turned to the left, and went to the apartment where 
 Fanny lay, who (as the reader may remember) had 
 not slept a wink the preceding night, and who was 
 so hagged out with what had happened to her in 
 the day, that, notwithstanding all thoughts of her 
 Joseph, she was fallen into so profound a sleep, that 
 all the noise in the adjoining room had not been 
 able to disturb her. Adams groped out the bed, 
 and, turning the clothes down softly, a custom Mrs. 
 Adams had long accustomed him to, crept in, and 
 deposited his carcase on the bed-post, a place which 
 that good woman had always assigned him. 
 
 As the cat or lap-dog of some lovely nymph, for 
 whom ten thousand lovers languish, lies quietly by 
 the side of the charming maid, and, ignorant of the 
 scene of delight on which they repose, meditates the 
 future capture of a mouse, or surprizal of a plate 
 of bread and butter : so Adams lay by the side of 
 Fanny, ignorant of the paradise to which he was so 
 near ; nor could the emanation of sweets which 
 flowed from her breath overpower the fumes of 
 tobacco which played in the parson's nostrils. And 
 
 [ 254 J
 
 A SECOND BLUNDER 
 
 now sleep had not overtaken the good man, when 
 Joseph, who had secretly appointed Fanny to come 
 to her at the break of day, rapped softly at the 
 chamber-door, which when he had repeated twice, 
 Adams cryed, " Come in, whoever you are." Joseph 
 thought he had mistaken the door, though she had 
 given him the most exact directions ; however, know- 
 ing his friend's voice, he opened it, and saw some 
 female vestments lying on a chair. Fanny, waking 
 at the same instant, and stretching out her hand on 
 Adams's beard, she cried out, — " O heavens ! where 
 am I ? " " Bless me ! whei-e am I ? " said the parson. 
 Then Fanny screamed, Adams leapt out of bed, 
 and Joseph stood, as the tragedians call it, like the 
 statue of Surprize. " How came she into my room ? "" 
 cryed Adams. " How came you into hers ? " cryed 
 Joseph, in an astonishment. " I know nothing of the 
 matter,"" answered Adams, " but that she is a vestal 
 for me. As I am a Christian, I know not whether 
 she is a man or woman. He is an infidel who doth 
 not believe in witchcraft. They as surely exist now 
 as in the davs of Saul. My clothes are bewitched 
 away too, and Fanny's brought into their place."" 
 For he still insisted he was in his own apartment ; 
 but Fanny denied it vehemently, and said his attempt- 
 ing to persuade Joseph of such a falsehood convinced 
 her of his wicked designs. " How ! "''' said Joseph in 
 a rage. " hath he offered any rudeness to you .'' "*"* She 
 answered — She could not accuse him of any more 
 than villanouslv stealino; to bed to her, which she 
 thought rudeness sufficient, and what no man would 
 do without a wicked intention. 
 
 [255]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Joseph's great opinion of Adams was not easily to 
 be staggered, and when he heard from Fanny that 
 no harm had happened he grew a httle cooler ; yet 
 still he was confounded, and, as he knew the house, 
 and that the women's apartments were on this side 
 Mrs. Slipslop's room, and the men's on the other, 
 he was convinced that he was in Fanny's chamber. 
 Assuring Adams therefore of this truth, he begged 
 him to give some account how he came there. 
 Adams then, standing in his shirt, which did not 
 offend Fanny, as the curtains of the bed were drawn, 
 related all that had happened ; and when he had ended 
 Joseph told him, — It was plain he had mistaken 
 by turning to the right instead of the left. " Odso ! " 
 cries Adams, " that 's true : as sure as sixpence, you 
 have hit on the very thing." He then traversed the 
 room, rubbing his hands, and begged Fanny's pardon, 
 assuring her he did not know whether she was man 
 or woman. That iiinocent creature firmly believing 
 all he said, told him she was no longer angry, and 
 begged Joseph to conduct him into his own apart- 
 ment, where he should stay himself till she had put 
 her clothes on. Joseph and Adams accordingly 
 departed, and the latter soon was convinced of the 
 mistake he had committed ; however, whilst he was 
 dressing himself, he often asserted he believed in the 
 power of witchcraft notwithstanding, and did not 
 see how a Christian could deny it. 
 
 [256]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 THE ARRIVAL OF GAFFAR AND GAMMAR ANDREWS, WITH 
 ANOTHER PERSON NOT MUCH EXPECTED; AND A 
 PERFECT SOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES RAISED 
 BY THE PEDLAR. 
 
 ^S soon as Fanny was drest Joseph returned 
 /^ to her, and they had a long conver- 
 
 / — ^^ sation together, the conclusion of which 
 ^ »■ was, that, if they found themselves to 
 be really brother and sister, they vowed a perpet- 
 ual celibacy, and to live together all their days, 
 and indulge a Platonic friendship for each other. 
 
 The company were all very merry at breakfast, 
 and Joseph and Fanny rather more chearful than the 
 preceding night. The Lady Booby produced the dia- 
 mond button, which the beau most readily owned, and 
 alledged that he was very subject to walk in his sleep. 
 Indeed, he was far from being ashamed of his amour, 
 and rather endeavoured to insinuate that more than 
 was really true had passed between him and the fair 
 Slipslop. 
 
 Their tea was scarce over when news came of the 
 arrival of old IVIr. Andrews and his wife. They were 
 immediately introduced, and kindly received by the 
 Lady Booby, whose heart went now pit-a-pat, as did 
 those of Joseph and Fanny. They felt, perhaps, 
 little less anxiety in this interval than CEdipus him- 
 self, whilst his fate was revealing. 
 
 T0L.II.-17 [257]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Mr. Booby first opened the cause by informing the 
 old gentleman that he had a child in the company 
 more than he knew of, and, taking Fanny by the 
 hand, told him, this was that daughter of his who 
 had been stolen away by gypsies in her infancy. 
 Mr. Andrews, after expressing some astonishment, 
 assured his honour that he had never lost a dauffh- 
 ter by gypsies, nor ever had any other children than 
 Joseph and Pamela. These words were a cordial to 
 the two lovers ; but had a different effect on Lady 
 Booby. She ordered the pedlar to be called, who 
 recounted his story as he had done before. — At the 
 end of whicli, old Mrs. Andrews, running to Fanny, 
 embraced her, crying out, " She is, she is my child ! " 
 The company were all amazed at this disagreement 
 between the man and his wife ; and the blood had 
 now forsaken the cheeks of the lovers, when the old 
 woman, turning to her husband, who was more sur- 
 prized than all the rest, and having a little recovered 
 her own spirits, delivered herself as follows : " You 
 may remember, my dear, when you went a serjeant to 
 Gibraltar, you left me big with child ; you stayed 
 abroad, you know, upwards of three years. In your 
 absence I was brought to bed, I verily believe, of this 
 daughter, whom I am sure I have reason to remember, 
 for I suckled her at this very breast till the day she 
 was stolen from me. One afternoon, when the child 
 was about a year, or a year and a half old, or there- 
 abouts, two gypsy-women came to the door and 
 offered to tell my fortune. One of them had a child 
 in her lap. I showed them my hand, and desired to 
 know if you was ever to come home again, which I 
 
 [258]
 
 GAMMAIl ANDREWS'S STORY 
 
 remember as well as if it was but yesterday : they 
 feithfully promised me you should. — I left the girl 
 in the cradle and went to draw them a cup of liquor, 
 the best I had : when I returned with the pot (I am 
 sure I was not absent longer than whilst I am telling 
 it to you) the women were gone. I was afraid they 
 had stolen something, and looked and looked, but to 
 no purpose, and. Heaven knows, I had very little for 
 them to steal. At last, hearing the child cry in the 
 cradle, I went to take it up — but, O the living! 
 how was I surprized to find, instead of my own girl 
 that I had put into the cradle, who was as fine a fat 
 thriving child as you shall see in a summer's day, a poor 
 sickly bov, that did not seem to have an hour to live. 
 I ran out, pulling my hair off and crying like any mad 
 after the women, but never could hear a word of 
 them from that day to this. When I came back the 
 poor infant (which is our Joseph there, as stout as he 
 now stands) lifted up its eyes upon me so piteously, 
 that, to be sure, notwithstanding my passion, I 
 could not find in my heart to do it any mischief. A 
 neighbour of mine, happening to come in at the 
 same time, and hearing the case, advised me to take 
 care of this poor child, and God would perhaps one 
 day restore me my own. Upon which I took the 
 child up, and suckled it to be sure, all the world as if 
 it had been born of my own natural body ; and as 
 true as I am alive, in a little time I loved the bov all 
 to nothing as if it had been my own girl. — AVell, as 
 I was saying, times growing very hard, I having 
 two children and nothing but my own work, which 
 was little enough, God knows, to maintain them, was 
 
 [259 j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 obliged to ask relief of the parish ; but, instead of 
 giving it me, they removed me, by justices' warrants, 
 fifteen miles, to the place where I now live, where I 
 had not been long settled before you came home. 
 Joseph (for that was the name I gave him myself — 
 the Lord knows whether he was baptized or no, or by 
 what name), Joseph, I say, seemed to me about five 
 years old when you returned ; for I believe he is two 
 or three years older than our daughter here (for I am 
 thoroughly convinced she is the same) ; and when 
 you saw him you said he was a chopping boy, without 
 ever minding his age ; and so I, seeing you did not 
 suspect anything of the matter, thought I might e'en 
 as well keep it to myself, for fear you should not love 
 him as well as I did. And all this is veritably true, 
 and I will take my oath of it before any justice in the 
 kingdom." 
 
 The pedlar, who had been summoned by the order 
 of Lady Booby, listened with the utmost attention to 
 Gamniar Andrews's story ; and, when she had finished, 
 asked her if the supposititious child had no mark on 
 its breast ? To which she answered, " Yes, he had 
 as fine a strawberry as ever grew in a garden." This 
 Joseph acknowledged, and, unbuttoning his coat, at 
 the intercession of the company, showed to them. 
 " Well," says GafFar Andrews, who was a comical sly 
 old fellow, and very likely desii-ed to have no more 
 children than he could keep, "you have proved, I 
 think, very plainly, that this boy doth not belong to 
 us; but how are you certain that the girl is ours?" 
 The parson then brought the pedlar forward, and 
 desired him to repeat the story which he had com- 
 
 [260]
 
 THE EXCHANGE 
 
 municated to him the preceding day at the ale-house; 
 which he comphed with, and related what the reader, 
 as well as Mr. Adams, hath seen before. He then 
 confirmed, from his wife's report, all the circumstances 
 of the exchange, and of the strawberry on Joseph\s 
 breast. At the repetition of the word strawberry, 
 Adams, who had seen it without any emotion, started 
 and cried, "Bless me! something comes into my 
 head.''' But before he had time to bring anything 
 out a servant called him forth. When he was gone 
 the pedlar assured Joseph that his parents were 
 persons of much greater circumstances than those he 
 had hitherto mistaken for such ; for that he had been 
 stolen fi'om a gentleman's house by those whom they 
 call gypsies, and had been kept by them during 
 a whole year, when, looking on him as in a dying 
 condition, they had exchanged him for the other 
 healthier child, in the manner before related. He 
 said. As to the name of his father, his wife had either 
 never known or forgot it ; but that she had ac- 
 quainted him he lived about forty miles from the 
 place where the exchange had been made, and which 
 way, promising to spare no pains in endeavouring 
 with him to discover the place. 
 
 But Fortune, which seldom doth good or ill, or 
 makes men happy or miserable, by halves, resolved 
 to spare him this labour. The reader may please to 
 recollect that Mr. Wilson had intended a journey 
 to the west, in which he was to pass through Mn 
 Adams's parish, and had promised to call on him. 
 He was nov/ arrived at the Lady Booby's gates for 
 that purpose, being directed thither from the par- 
 
 [261]
 
 JOSEIMI ANDREWS 
 
 son''s house, and had sent in the servant whom we 
 have above seen call Mr. Adams forth. This had 
 no sooner mentioned the discovery of a stolen child, 
 and had uttered the word strawberry, than Mr. 
 Wilson, with wildncss in his looks, and the utmost 
 eagerness in his words, begged to be shewed into the 
 room, where he entered without the least regard to 
 any of the company but Joseph, and, embracing him 
 with a complexion all pale and trembling, desired to 
 see the mark on his breast ; the parson followed him 
 capering, rubbing his hands, and crying out, H'lc est 
 rjuem qucvris ; inventus est, c^r. Joseph complied 
 with the request of Mr. Wilson, who no sooner saw 
 the mark than, abandoning himself to the most 
 extravagant rapture of passion, he embraced Joseph 
 with inexpressible ecstasy, and cried out in tears of 
 joy, "I have discovered my son, I have him again in 
 my arms ! "" Joseph was not sufficiently apprized 
 yet to taste the same delight with his father (for so 
 in reality he was) ; however, he returned some 
 warmth to his embraces : but he no sooner perceived, 
 from his father's account, the agreement of every 
 circumstance, of person, time, and place, than he 
 threw himself at his feet, and, embracing his knees, 
 with tears begged his blessing, which was given with 
 much affection, and received with such respect, mixed 
 with such tenderness on both sides, that it affected 
 all present ; but none so much as Lady Booby, who 
 left the room in an agony, which was but too nmch 
 perceived, and not very charitably accounted for by 
 some of the company. 
 
 [ 262]
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 BEING THE LAST, IN WHICH THIS TRUE HISTORY IS 
 BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION. 
 
 FANNY was very little behind her Joseph 
 in the duty she exprest towards her 
 parents, and the joy she evidenced in dis- 
 covering them. Ganimar Andrews icissed 
 her, and said. She was heartily glad to see her ; but 
 for her part, she could never love any one better 
 than Joseph. GafFar Andrews testified no remarkable 
 emotion : he blessed and kissed her, but complained 
 bitterly that he wanted his pipe, not having had a 
 \vhiff that morning. 
 
 Mr. Booby, who knew nothing of his aunt's fond- 
 ness, imputed her abrupt departure to her pride, and 
 disdain of the family into which he was man-ied ; he 
 was therefore desirous to be gone with the utmost 
 celerity ; and now, having congi-atulated Mr. Wilson 
 and Joseph on the discovery, he saluted Fanny, 
 called her sister, and introduced her as such to 
 Pamela, who behaved with great decency on the 
 occasion. 
 
 He now sent a message to his aunt, who returned 
 that she wished him a good journey, but was too 
 disordered to see any company : he therefore prepared 
 to set out, having invited Mr. Wilson to his house ; 
 and Pamela and Joseph both so insisted on his com- 
 
 [263]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 plying, that he at last consented, having first obtained 
 a messenger from Mr. Booby to acquaint his wife 
 with the news ; which, as he knew it would render 
 her completely happy, he could not prevail on him- 
 self to delay a moment in acquainting her with. 
 
 The company were ranged m this manner : the 
 two old people, with their two daughters, rode in 
 the coach ; the squire, Mr. Wilson, Joseph, parson 
 Adams, and the pedlar, proceeded on horseback. 
 
 In their way, Joseph informed his father of his 
 intended match with Fanny ; to which, though he 
 expressed some reluctance at first, on the eagerness 
 of his son's instances he consented ; saying, if she was 
 so good a creature as she appeared, and he described 
 her, he thought the disadvantages of birth and for- 
 tune might be compensated. He however insisted 
 on the match being deferred till he had seen his 
 mother; in which, Joseph perceiving him positive, 
 with great duty obeyed him, to the great delight of 
 parson Adams, who by these means saw an oppor- 
 tunity of fulfilling the Church forms, and maiTying 
 his parishioners without a licence. 
 
 Mr. Adams, greatly exulting on this occasion (for 
 such ceremonies were matters of no small moment 
 with him), accidentally gave spurs to his horse, which 
 the generous beast disdaining — for he was of high 
 mettle, and had been used to more expert riders 
 than the gentleman who at present bestrode him, for 
 whose horsemanship he had perhaps some contempt 
 — immediately ran away full speed, and played so 
 many antic tricks that he tumbled the parson from 
 his back ; which Joseph perceiving, came to his relief. 
 
 [ 264 ]
 
 THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE 
 
 This accident afforded infinite merriment to the 
 servants, and no less frighted poor Fanny, who be- 
 held him as he passed by the coach ; but the mirth 
 of the one and terror of the other were soon deter- 
 mined, when the parson declared he had received no 
 damage. 
 
 The horse having freed himself from his unworthy 
 rider, as he probably thought him, proceeded to 
 make the best of his way ; but was stopped by a 
 gentleman and his servants, who were travelling the 
 opposite way, and were now at a little distance from 
 the coach. They soon met ; and as one of the ser- 
 vants delivered Adams his horse, his master hailed 
 him, and Adams, looking up, presently recollected 
 he was the justice of peace before whom he and 
 Fanny had made their appearance. The parson 
 presently saluted him very kindly ; and the justice 
 informed him that he had found the fellow who 
 attempted to swear against him and the young 
 woman the very next day, and had committed him 
 to Salisbury gaol, where he was charged with many 
 robberies. 
 
 Many compliments having passed between the 
 parson and the justice, the latter proceeded on his 
 journey ; and the former, having with some disdain 
 refused Joseph's offer of changing horses, and declared 
 he was as able a horseman as any in the kingdom, 
 remounted his beast ; and now the company again 
 proceeded, and happily arrived at their journey's end, 
 Mr. Adams, by good luck, rather than by good 
 riding, escaping a second fall. 
 
 The company, arriving at Mr. Booby's house, were 
 
 [ 265 ]
 
 JOSEFH ANDREWS 
 
 all received by him in the most courteous and enter- 
 tained in the most splendid manner, after the custom 
 of the old English hospitality, which is still preserved 
 in some very few families in the remote parts of 
 England. They all passed that day with the utmost 
 satisfaction ; it being perhaps impossible to find any 
 set of people more solidly and sincerely happy. 
 Joseph and Fanny found means to be alone upwards 
 of two hours, which were the shortest but the 
 sweetest imaginable. 
 
 In the morning Mr. Wilson proposed to his son 
 to make a visit with him to his mother ; which, not- 
 withstanding his dutiful inclinations, and a longing 
 desire he had to see her, a little concerned him, as he 
 must be obliged to leav^e his Fanny ; but the good- 
 ness of Mr. Booby relieved him ; for he proposed 
 to send his own coach and six for Mrs. Wilson, whom 
 Pamela so very earnestly invited, that Mr. Wilson 
 at length agreed with the entreaties of Mr. Booby 
 and Joseph, and suffered the coach to go empty for 
 his wife. 
 
 On Saturday night the coach returned with Mrs. 
 Wilson, who added one more to this happy assembly. 
 The reader may imagine much better and quicker too 
 than I can describe the many embraces and tears of 
 joy which succeeded her arrival. It is sufficient to 
 say she was easily prevailed with to follow her hus- 
 band''s example in consenting to the match. 
 
 On Sunday Mr. Adams performed the service at 
 the squire's parish church, the curate of which very 
 kindly exchanged duty, and rode twenty miles to the 
 Lady Booby's parish so to do ; being particularly 
 
 [^66]
 
 THE WEDDING CEREMONY 
 
 charged not to omit publishing the banns, being the 
 third and last time. 
 
 At length the happy day arrived which was to put 
 Joseph in the possession of all his wishes. He arose, 
 and drest himself in a neat but plain suit of Mr. 
 Booby's, which exactly fitted him ; for he refused all 
 finerv ; as did Fanny likewise, who could be prevailed 
 on by Pamela to attire herself in nothing richer than 
 a white dimity nightgown. Her shift indeed, which 
 Pamela presented her, was of the finest kind, and had 
 an edgincr of lace round the bosom. She likewise 
 equipped her with a pair of fine white thread stock- 
 ings, which were all she would accept ; for she wore 
 one of her own short round-eared caps, and over it a 
 little straw hat, lined with cherry-coloui^ed silk, and 
 tied with a cheiTy-coloured ribbon. In this dress she 
 came forth from her chamber, blushing and breathing 
 sweets ; and was by Joseph, whose eyes sparkled fire, 
 led to church, the whole family attending, where Mr, 
 Adams performed the ceremony ; at which nothing 
 was so remarkable as the extraordinary and unaffected 
 modesty of Fanny, unless the true Christian piety 
 of Adams, who publickly rebuked Mr. Booby and 
 Pamela for laughing in so sacred a place, and on so 
 solemn an occasion. Our parson would have done 
 no less to the highest prince on earth ; for, though 
 he paid all submission and deference to his superiors 
 in other matters, where the least spice of religion 
 intervened he immediately lost all respect of persons. 
 It was his maxim, that he was a servant of the 
 Highest, and could not, without departing from his 
 dutv, give up the least article of his honour or of his 
 
 [ 267 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 cause to the greatest earthly potentate. Indeed, he 
 always asserted that Mr. Adams at church with his 
 surplice on, and Mr. Adams without that ornament 
 in any other place, were two very different persons. 
 
 When the church rites were over Joseph led his 
 blooming bride back to Mr. Booby's (for the distance 
 was so very little they did not think proper to use a 
 coach) ; the whole company attended them likewise 
 on foot ; and now a most magnificent entertainment 
 was provided, at which parson Adams demonstrated 
 an appetite surprizing as well as surpassing every one 
 present. Indeed the only persons who betrayed any 
 deficiency on this occasion were those on whose 
 account the feast was provided. They pampered 
 their imaginations with the much more exquisite 
 repast which the approach of night promised them ; 
 the thoughts of which filled both their minds, though 
 with different sensations ; the one all desire, while 
 the other had her wishes tempered with fears. 
 
 At length, after a day passed with the utmost 
 merriment, corrected by the strictest decency, in 
 which, however, parson Adams, being well filled with 
 ale and pudding, had given a loose to more facetious- 
 ness than was usual to him, the happy, the blest 
 moment arrived when Fanny retired with her mother, 
 her mother-in-law, and her sister. 
 
 She was soon undrest ; for she had no jewels to 
 deposit in their caskets, nor fine laces to fold with the 
 nicest exactness. Undressing to her was properly 
 discovering, not putting off, ornaments ; for, as all her 
 charms were the gifts of nature, she could divest her- 
 self of none. How, reader, shall I give thee an ade- 
 
 [268]
 
 A HAPPY CONCLUSION 
 
 quate idea of this lovely young creature ? the bloom of 
 roses and lilies might a little illustrate her complex- 
 ion, or their smell her sweetness ; but to comprehend 
 her entirely, conceive youth, health, bloom, neatness, 
 and innocence, in her bridal bed ; conceive all these 
 in their utmost perfection, and you may place the 
 charming Fanny"'s picture before your eyes. 
 
 Joseph no sooner heard she was in bed than he fled 
 with the utmost eagerness to her. A minute carried 
 him into her arms, where we shall leave this happy 
 couple to enjoy the private rewards of their con- 
 stancy ; rewards so great and sweet, that I apprehend 
 Joseph neither envied the noblest duke, nor Fanny 
 the finest duchess, that night. 
 
 The third day Mr. Wilson and his wife, with their 
 son and daughter, returned home ; where they now 
 live together in a state of bliss scarce ever equalled. 
 Mr. Booby hath, with unprecedented generosity, given 
 Fanny a fortune of two thousand pounds, which 
 Joseph hath laid out in a little estate in the same 
 parish with his father, which he now occupies (his 
 father having stocked it for him) ; and Fanny presides 
 w ith most excellent management in his dairy ; where, 
 however, she is not at present very able to bustle 
 much, being, as Mr. Wilson informs me in his last 
 letter, extremely big with her first child. 
 
 Mr. Booby hath presented Mr. Adams with a liv- 
 ing of one hundred and thirty pounds a year. He 
 at first refused it, resolving not to quit his parishioners, 
 with whom he had lived so long ; but, on recollecting 
 he might keep a curate at this living, he hatli been 
 latelv inducted into it. 
 
 [ 269 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 The pedlar, besides several handsome presents, both 
 from Mr. Wilson and Mr. Booby, is, by the latter's 
 interest, made an exciseman ; a trust which he dis- 
 charges with such justice, that he is greatly beloved 
 in his neighbourhood. 
 
 As for the Lady Booby, she returned to London 
 in a few days, where a young captain of dragoons, 
 together with eternal parties at cards, soon obliter- 
 ated the memory of Joseph. 
 
 Joseph remains blest with his Fanny, whom he 
 doats on with the utmost tenderness, which is all 
 returned on her side. The happiness of this couple 
 is a perpetual fountain of pleasure to their fond 
 parents; and, what is particularly remarkable, he 
 declares he will imitate them in their retirement, nor 
 will be prevailed on by any booksellers, or their 
 authors, to make his appearance in high life. 
 
 THE END 
 
 [270]
 
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