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 THE 
 WORKS OF 
 HENEY FIELDING 
 
 Edited by 
 GEORGE SAINTSBURY
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 VOL. I.
 
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 THE WORKS OF 
 
 Henry Fielding 
 
 Volume I 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
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 UMITED TO ONE THOUSAND SETS. 
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 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 INTBODUCTION xi 
 
 Pbeface gyxiy 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 Chaptee I. 
 
 Of writing lives in general, and particularly of Pamela; 
 
 with a word by the bye of Colley Cibber and others . . 1 
 
 Chapteb II. 
 
 Of Mr. Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, education, 
 and great endowments; with a word or two concerning 
 ancestors 4 
 
 Chapteb III. 
 
 Of Mr. Abraham Adams the curate, ]\Irs. Slipslop the cham- 
 bermaid, and others 8 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 What happened after their journey to London .... 14 
 
 Chapter V. 
 
 The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and 
 mournful behavior of his widow, and the great purity 
 of Joseph Andrews 17 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 How Joseph Andrews wrote a letter to his sister Pamela . 21 
 
 Chapter VII. 
 
 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 26 
 
 V
 
 yi CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter VIII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In which, after some very fine writing, the history goes on, 
 and rehites 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 ... 31 
 
 Chaptee IX. 
 
 What passed between the lady and Mrs. Slipslop; in which 
 we prophesy tliore are some strokes which every one will 
 not truly comprehend at the first reading 38 
 
 Chapter X. 
 
 Joseph writes another letter: his transactions with Mr. Peter 
 
 Pounce. &c., with his departure from Lady Booby . . 44 
 
 Chapter XI. 
 Of several new matters not expected 47 
 
 Chapter XII. 
 
 Containing many surprising adventures which .Joseph An- 
 drews met with on the road, scarce credible to those who 
 have never traveled in a stage-coach 52 
 
 Chapter XIII. 
 
 What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with 
 the curious discourse between him and Mr. Barnabas, the 
 parson of the parish 61 
 
 Chapter XIV. 
 
 Being very full of adventures which succeeded each other at 
 
 the inn 66 
 
 Chapter XV. 
 
 Showing how Mrs. Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and 
 how officious Mr. Barnabas and the surgeon were to 
 prosecute the thief: witli a dissertation accounting for 
 their zeal, and that of many other persons not mentioned 
 in this history 73 
 
 Chapter XVI. 
 
 The escape of the thief. Mr. Adams's disappointment. The 
 arrival of two very extraordinary personages, and the 
 introduction of parson Adams to parson Barnabas . 79
 
 CONTENTS vii 
 
 Chapter XVII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the book- 
 seller, which was broke otY by an unlucky accident hap- 
 pening in the inn, which produced a dialogue between 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse and her maid of no gentle kind ... 92 
 
 Chapter XVUI. 
 
 The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of 
 
 what occasioned the violent scene iu the preceding chapter 100 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 Chapter I. 
 Of divisions iu Authors 105 
 
 Chapter 11. 
 
 A surprising instance of Mr. Adams's short memory, with 
 
 the unfortimate consequences which it brought on Joseph 109 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, 
 
 with Mr. Adams's inquiry into the religion of his host . 116 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt .... 125 
 
 Chapter V. 
 
 A dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn where the 
 company dined, with its bloody consequences to Mr. 
 Adams 148 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt IGO 
 
 Chapter VII. 
 
 A very short chapter, in which parson Adams went a great 
 
 way 167 
 
 Chapter VIII. 
 
 A notable dissertation by Mr. Abraham Adams; wherein 
 
 that gentleman appears in a political light .... 171
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter IX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In wliich the gpntlpman discants on bravery and heroic virtue, 
 
 till an unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse . 176 
 
 Chapter X. 
 
 Givinp an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding 
 adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calami- 
 ties; and who the woman was who owed the preserva- 
 tion of her chastity to his victorious arm 183 
 
 Chapter XI. 
 
 What happened to them while before the justice. A chapter 
 
 very full of learning 190 
 
 Chapter XII. 
 
 A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned 
 
 as to the good-natured reader 200 
 
 Chapter XIII. 
 
 A dissertation concerning high people and low people, with 
 Mrs. Slipslop's departure in no very pood temper of mind, 
 and the evil plight in which she left Adams and his 
 company 208
 
 GENERAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 THERE are few amusements more danger- 
 ous for an author than the indulgence in 
 ironic descriptions of his own work. If 
 the irony is depreciatory, posterity is but too 
 likely to say, '^Many a true word is spoken in 
 jest;" if it is encomiastic, the same ruthless and 
 ungrateful critic is but too likely to take it as an 
 involuntary confession of folly and vanity. But 
 when Fielding, in one of his serio-comic introduc- 
 tions to Tom Jones, described it as "this pro- 
 digious work," he all unintentionally (for he was 
 the least pretentious of men) anticipated the ver- 
 dict which posterity almost at once, and with ever- 
 increasing suffrage of the best judges as time 
 went on, was about to pass not merely upon this 
 particular book, but upon his whole genius and his 
 whole production as a novelist. His work in 
 other kinds is of a very different order of excel- 
 lence. It is sufficiently interesting at times in it- 
 self; and always more than sufficiently interesting 
 as his; for which reasons, as well as for the 
 further one that it is comparatively little known, 
 a considerable selection from it is offered to the 
 reader in the last two volumes of this edition. Un- 
 til the present occasion (which made it necessary 
 that I should acquaint myself with it) I own that 
 my own knowledge of these miscellaneous writ- 
 
 xi
 
 xii INTEODUCTION 
 
 ings was by no means tliorougli. It is now pretty 
 complete; but the idea wliich I previously bad of 
 them at first and second hand, though a little im- 
 proved, has not very materially altered. Though 
 in all this hack-work Fielding displayed, partially 
 and at intervals, the same qualities which he dis- 
 played eminently and constantly in the four great 
 books here given, he was not, as the French idiom 
 expresses it, dans son assiette, in his own natural 
 and imj^regnable disposition and situation of 
 character and ability, when he was occupied on it. 
 The novel was for him that assiette; and all his 
 novels are here. 
 
 Although Henry Fielding lived in quite modern 
 times, although by family and connections he was 
 of a higher rank than most men of letters, and al- 
 though his genius was at once recognized by his 
 contemporaries so soon as it displayed itself in 
 its proper sphere, his biography until very re- 
 cently was by no means full ; and the most recent 
 researches, including those of Mr. Austin Dobson 
 — a critic unsurpassed for combination of literary 
 faculty and knowledge of the eighteenth century — 
 have not altogether sufficed to fill up the gaps. 
 His family, said to have descended from a mem- 
 ber of the great house of Hapsburg who came to 
 England in the reign of Henry II., distinguished 
 itself in the Wars of the Eoses, and in the seven- 
 teenth century was advanced to the peerages of 
 Denbigh in England and (later) of Desmond in 
 Ireland. The novelist was the grandson of John 
 Fielding, Canon of Salisbury, the fifth son of the 
 first Earl of Desmond of this creation. The
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 canon's third son, Edmond, entered the army, 
 served under Marlborougli, and married Sarah 
 Gold or Gould, daughter of a judge of the King's 
 Bench. Their eldest son was Henry, who was 
 born on April 22, 1707, and had an uncertain num- 
 ber of brothers and sisters of the whole blood. 
 After his first wife's death. General Fielding (for 
 he attained that rank) married again. The most 
 remarkable offspring of tlie first marriage, next 
 to Henry, was his sister Sarah, also a novelist, 
 who wrote David Simple; of the second, John, 
 afterwards Sir John Fielding, who, though blind, 
 succeeded his half-brother as a Bow Street mag- 
 istrate, and in that office combined an equally hon- 
 orable record with a longer tenure. 
 
 Fielding was born at Sharpham Park in Somer- 
 setshire, the seat of his maternal grandfather ; but 
 most of his early youth was spent at East Stour 
 in Dorsetshire, to which his father removed after 
 the judge's death. He is said to have received 
 his first education under a parson of the neigh- 
 borhood named Oliver, in whom a very uncompli- 
 mentary tradition sees the original of Parson 
 Trulliber. He was then certainly sent to Eton, 
 where he did not waste his time as regards learn- 
 ing, and made several valuable friends. But the 
 dates of his entering and leaving school are alike 
 unknown; and his subsequent sojourn at Leyden 
 for two years — though there is no reason to doubt 
 it — depends even less upon any positive docu- 
 mentary evidence. This famous University still 
 had a great repute as a training school in law, for 
 which profession he was intended; but the rea-
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 son why he did not receive the even then far more 
 usual completion of a public school education by a 
 sojourn at Oxford or Cambridge may be suspected 
 to be different. It may even have had something 
 to do with a curious escapade of his about which 
 not very much is known — an attempt to carry off 
 a pretty heiress of Lyme, named Sarah Andrew. 
 Even at Leyden, however, General Fielding 
 seems to have been unable or unwilling to pay his 
 son's expenses, which must have been far less 
 there than at an English University; and Henry's 
 return to London in 1728-29 is said to have been 
 due to sheer impecuniosity. When he returned to 
 England, his father was good enough to make 
 him an allowance of £200 nominal, which appears 
 to have been equivalent to £0 actual. And as 
 practically nothing is known of him for the next 
 six or seven years, except the fact of his having 
 worked industriously enough at a large number of 
 not very good plays of the lighter kind, with a few 
 poems and miscellanies, it is reasonably enough 
 supposed that he lived by his pen. The only prod- 
 uct of this period which has kept (or indeed which 
 ever received) competent applause is Tom Thumb, 
 or the Tragedy of Tragedies, a following of course 
 of the Rehearsal, but full of humor and spirit, 
 The most successful of his other dramatic works 
 were the Mock Doctor and the Miser, adaptations 
 of Moliere's famous pieces. His undoubted con- 
 nection with the stage, and the fact of the contem- 
 porary existence of a certain Timothy Fielding, 
 helped suggestions of less dignified occupations 
 as actor, booth-keeper, and so forth j but these
 
 INTRODUCTION xy 
 
 have long been discredited and indeed disproved. 
 In or about 1735, when Fielding was twenty- 
 eight, we find him in a new, a more brilliant and 
 agreeable, but even a more transient phase. He 
 had married (we do not know when or where) 
 Miss Charlotte Cradock, one of three sisters who 
 lived at Salisbury (it is to be observed that Field- 
 ing's entire connections, both in life and letters, are 
 with the Western Counties and London), who were 
 certainly of competent means, and for whose al- 
 leged illegitimacy there is no evidence but an un- 
 supported fling of that old maid of genius, Rich- 
 ardson. The descriptions both of Sophia and of 
 Amelia are said to have been taken from this 
 lady; her good looks and her amiability are as 
 well established as anything of the kind can be in 
 the absence of photographs and affidavits ; and it 
 is certain that her husband was passionately at- 
 tached to her, during their too short married life. 
 His method, however, of showing his affection 
 smacked in some ways too much of the foibles 
 which he has attributed to Captain Booth, and of 
 those which we must suspect Mr. Thomas Jones 
 would also have exhibited, if he had not been 
 adopted as Mr. Allworthy's heir, and had not had 
 Mr. Western's fortune to share and look forward 
 to. It is true that grave breaches have been made 
 by recent criticism in the very picturesque and cir- 
 cumstantial story told on the subject by Murphy, 
 the first of Fielding's biographers. This legend 
 was that Fielding, having succeeded by the death 
 of his mother to a small estate at East Stour, 
 worth about £200 a year, and having received
 
 xvi INTEODUCTION 
 
 £1500 in ready money as liis wife's fortune, got 
 through the whole in three years by keeping open 
 house, with a large retinue in ''costly yellow 
 liveries," and so forth. In details, this story has 
 been simph^ riddled. His mother had died long 
 before; he was certainly not away from London 
 three years, or anything like it ; and so forth. At 
 the same time, the best and soberest judges agree 
 that there is an intrinsic probability, a consensus 
 (if a vague one) of tradition, and a chain of al- 
 most unmistakably personal references in the 
 novels, which plead for a certain amount of truth, 
 at the bottom of a much embellished legend. At 
 any rate, if Fielding established himself in the 
 country, it was not long before he returned to 
 town; for early in 1736 we find him back again, 
 and not merely a playwright, but lessee of the 
 ''Little Theater" in the Haymarket. The plays 
 which he produced here — satirico-political pieces, 
 such as Pasquin and the Historical Register — • 
 were popular enough, but offended the Govern- 
 ment ; and in 1737 a new bill regulating theatrical 
 l^erformances, and instituting the Lord Chamber- 
 lain's control, was passed. This measure put an 
 end directly to the "Great Mogul's Company," as 
 Fielding had called his troop, and indirectly to its 
 manager's career as a playwright. He did in- 
 deed write a few pieces in future years, but they 
 were of the smallest importance. 
 
 After this check he turned at last to a serious 
 profession, entered himself of the Middle Temple 
 in November of the same year, and was called 
 three years later ; but during these years, and in-
 
 INTRODUCTION xvii 
 
 deed for some time afterwards, our information 
 about him is still of the vaguest character. No- 
 body doubts that he had a large share in the 
 Champion, an essay-periodical on the usual eight- 
 eenth-century model, which began to appear in 
 1739, and which is still occasionally consulted for 
 the work that is certainly or probably his. He 
 went the Western Circuit, and attended the Wilt- 
 shire Sessions, after he was called, giving up his 
 contributions to periodicals soon after that event. 
 But he soon returned to literature proper, or 
 rather made his debut in it, with the immortal 
 book now republished. The History of the Ad- 
 ventures of Joseph Andreics, and his Friend Mr. 
 Ahraliam Adams, appeared in February 1742, and 
 its author received from Andrew Millar, the pub- 
 lisher, the sum of £183, lis. Even greater works 
 have fetched much smaller sums ; but it will be ad- 
 mitted that Joseph Andrews was not dear. 
 
 The advantage, however, of presenting a survey 
 of an author's life uninterrupted by criticism is 
 so clear, that what has to be said about Joseph 
 may be conveniently postponed for the moment. 
 Immediately after its publication the author fell 
 back upon miscellaneous writing, and in the next 
 year (1743) collected and issued three volumes of 
 Miscellanies. In the two first volumes the only 
 thing of much interest is the unfinished and un- 
 equal, but in part powerful. Journey from this 
 World to the Next, an attempt of a kind which 
 Fontenelle and others, following Lucian, had 
 made very popular with the time. But the third 
 volume of the Miscellanies deserved a less modest
 
 xviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 and gregarious appearance, for it contained, and 
 is wholly occupied by, the wonderful and terrible 
 satire of Jonathan Wild, the greatest piece of 
 pure irony in English out of Swift. Soon after 
 the publication of the book, a great calamity came 
 on Fielding. His wife had been very ill when he 
 wrote the preface ; soon afterwards she was dead. 
 They had taken the chance, had made the choice, 
 that the more prudent and less wise student-hero 
 and heroine of Mr. Browning's Youth and Art 
 had shunned; they had no doubt *' sighed deep, 
 laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired," and 
 we need not question, that they had also ''been 
 happy." 
 
 Except this sad event and its rather incongru- 
 ous sequel, Fielding's marriage to his wife's 
 maid Mary Daniel — a marriage, however, which 
 did not take place till full four years later, and 
 which by all accounts supplied him with a faithful 
 and excellent companion and nurse, and his chil- 
 dren with a kind stepmother — little or nothing is 
 again known of this elusive man of genius between 
 the publication of the Miscellanies in 1743, and 
 that of Tom Jones in 1749. The second marriage 
 itself in November 1747; an interview which 
 Joseph Warton had with him rather more than a 
 year earlier (one of the very few direct interviews 
 we have) ; the publication of two anti-Jacobite 
 newspajoers (Fielding was always a strong Whig 
 and Hanoverian), called the True Patriot and the 
 Jacobite's Journal, in 1745 and the following 
 years; some indistinct traditions about residences 
 at Twickenham and elsewhere, and some, more
 
 INTRODUCTION xix 
 
 precise but not much more authenticated, respect- 
 ing patronage by the Duke of Bedford, Mr. Lyttel- 
 ton, Mr. Allen, and others, pretty well sum up the 
 whole. 
 
 Tom Jones was published in February (a favor- 
 ite month with Fielding or his publisher Millar)] 
 1749; and as it brought him the, for those days, 
 very considerable sum of £600, to which Millar 
 added another hundred later, the novelist must 
 have been, for a time at any rate, relieved from his 
 chronic penury. But he had already, by Lyttel- 
 ton's interest, secured his first and last piece of 
 preferment, being made Justice of the Peace for 
 Westminster, an office on which he entered with 
 characteristic vigor. He was qualified for it not 
 merely by a solid knowledge of the law, and by 
 great natural abilities, but by his thorough kind- 
 ness of heart ; and, perhaps, it may also be added, 
 by his long years of queer experience on (as Mr. 
 Carlyle would have said) the ''burning marl" of 
 the London Bohemia. Very shortly afterwards 
 he was chosen Chairman of Quarter Sessions, and 
 established himself in Bow Street. The Bow 
 Street magistrate of that time occupied a most 
 singular position, and was more like a French 
 Prefect of Police or even a Minister of Public 
 Safety than a mere justice. Yet he was ill paid. 
 Fielding says that the emoluments, which before 
 his accession had but been £500 a year of ''dirty" 
 money, were by his own action but £300 of clean ; 
 and the work, if properly performed, was very 
 severe. 
 
 That he performed it properly all competent
 
 XX 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 evidence shows, a foolish, inconclusive, and I fear 
 it must be said emphatically snobbish story of 
 Walpole's notwithstanding. In particular, he 
 broke up a gang of cut-throat thieves, which had 
 been the terror of London. But his tenure of the 
 post was short enough, and scarcely extended to 
 five years. His health had long been broken, and 
 he was now constantly attacked by gout, so that he 
 had frequently to retreat on Bath from Bow 
 Street, or his suburban cottage of Fordhook, Eal- 
 ing. But he did not relax his literary work. 
 His pen was active with pamphlets concerning his 
 office; Amelia, his last novel, aj^peared towards the 
 close of 1751 ; and next year saw the beginning of 
 a new paper, the Covent Garden Journal, which 
 appeared twice a week, ran for the greater part 
 of the year, and died in November. Its great 
 author did not see that month twice again. In the 
 spring of 1753 he grew worse; and after a year's 
 struggle with ill health, hard work, and hard 
 weather, lesser measures being pronounced use- 
 less, was persuaded to try the ''Portugal Voyage," 
 of which he has left so charming a record in the 
 Journey to Lisbon. He left Fordhook on June 
 26, 1754, reached Lisbon in August, and, dying 
 there on the 8th of October, was buried in the 
 cemetery of the Estrella. 
 
 Of not many writers perhaps does a clearer 
 notion, as far as their personality goes, exist in 
 the general mind that interests itself at all in lit- 
 erature than of Fielding. Yet more than once a 
 warning has been sounded, especially by his best 
 and most recent biographer, to the effect that this
 
 INTRODUCTION xxl 
 
 idea is founded upon very little warranty of scrip- 
 ture. The truth is, that as the foregoing record 
 — which, brief as it is, is a sufficiently faithful 
 summary — will have shown, we know very little 
 about Fielding. We have hardly any letters of 
 his, and so lack the best by far and the most re- 
 vealing of all character-portraits ; we have but one 
 important autobiographic fragment, and though 
 that is of the highest interest and value, it was 
 written far in the valley of the shadow of death, it 
 is not in the least retrospective, and it affords but 
 dim and inferential light on his younger, healthier, 
 and happier days and ways. He came, more- 
 over, just short of one set of men of letters, of 
 whom we have a great deal of personal knowledge, 
 and just beyond another. He was neither of those 
 about Addison, nor of those about Johnson. No 
 intimate friend of his has left us anything elabo- 
 rate about him. On the other hand, we have a far 
 from inconsiderable' body of documentary evi- 
 dence, of a kind often by no means trustworthy. 
 The best part of it is contained in the letters of 
 his cousin. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and 
 the reminiscences or family traditions of her 
 grand-daughter. Lady Louisa Stuart. But Lady 
 Mary, vivacious and agreeable as she is, had with 
 all her talent a very considerable knack of writing 
 for effect, of drawing strong contrasts and the 
 like; and it is not quite certain that she saw very 
 much of Fielding in the last and most interesting 
 third of his life. Another witness, Horace Wal- 
 pole, to less knowledge and equally dubious ac- 
 curacy, added decided ill-will, which may have been
 
 xxii INTRODUCTION 
 
 due partly to the shrinking of a dilettante and a 
 fop from a burly Bohemian ; but I fear is also con- 
 sequent upon the fact that Horace could not af- 
 ford to despise Fielding's birth, and knew him 
 to be vastly his own superior in genius. We hear 
 something of him again from Richardson; and 
 Richardson hated him with the hatred of dis- 
 similar genius, of inferior social position, and, 
 lastly, of the cat for the dog who tousles and 
 worries her. Johnson partly inherited or shared 
 Richardson's aversion, partly was blinded to 
 Fielding's genius by his aggressive AVhiggery. I 
 fear, too, that he was incapable of appreciating it 
 for reasons other than political. It is certain that 
 Johnson, sane and robust as he was, was never 
 quite at ease before genius of the gigantic kind, 
 either in dead or living. Whether he did not like 
 to have to look up too much, or was actually un- 
 able to do so, it is certain that Shakespeare, Mil- 
 ton, Swift, and Fielding, those four Atlantes of 
 English verse and prose, all affected him with luke- 
 warm admiration, or with positive dislike, for 
 which it is vain to attempt to assign any uniform 
 secondary cause, political or other. It may be 
 permitted to hint another reason. All Johnson's 
 most sharp-sighted critics have noticed, though 
 most have discreetly refrained from insisting on, 
 his ''thorn-in-the-flesh," the combination in him 
 of very strong physical passions with the deepest 
 sense of the moral and religious duty of abstinence. 
 It is perhaps impossible to imagine anything more 
 distasteful to a man so buffeted, than the extreme 
 indulgence with which Fielding regards, and the
 
 INTRODUCTION xxiii 
 
 easy freedom^ not to say gusto, with which he de- 
 picts, those who succumb to similar temptation. 
 Only by supposing the workings of some subtle 
 influence of this kind is it possible to explain, even 
 in so capricious a humor as Johnson's, the fa- 
 mous and absurd application of the term "barren 
 rascal" to a writer who, dying almost young, after 
 having for many years lived a life of pleasure, 
 and then for four or five one of laborious official 
 duty, has left work anything but small in actual 
 bulk, and fertile with the most luxuriant growth 
 of intellectual originality. 
 
 Partly on the obiter dicta of persons like these, 
 partly on the still more tempting and still more 
 treacherous ground of indications drawn from his 
 works, a Fielding of fantasy has been constructed, 
 which in Thackeray's admirable sketch attains real 
 life and immortality as a creature of art, but 
 which possesses rather dubious claims as a histori- 
 cal character. It is astonishing how this Fielding 
 of fantasy sinks and shrivels when we begin to 
 apply the horrid tests of criticism to his component 
 parts. The eidolon, with inked rufHes and a towel 
 round his head, sits in the Temple and dashes oif 
 articles for the Covent Garden Journal; then 
 comes Criticism, hellish maid, and reminds us that 
 when the Covent Garden Journal appeared, Field- 
 ing's wild oats, if ever sown at all, had been sown 
 long ago ; that he was a busy magistrate and house- 
 holder in Bow Street; and that, if he had towels 
 round his head, it was probably less because he 
 had exceeded in liquor than because his Grace of 
 Newcastle had given him a headache by wanting
 
 xxiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 elaborate plans and schemes prepared at an hour's 
 notice. Lady Mary, apparently with some envy, 
 tells us that he could "feel rapture with his cook- 
 maid." ''Which many has," as Mr, Ridley re- 
 marks, from Xanthias Phoceus downwards ; but 
 when we remember the historic fact that he mar- 
 ried this maid (not a ''cx)ok-maid" at all), and 
 that though he always speaks of her with warm af- 
 fection and hearty respect, such ''raptures" as we 
 have of his clearly refer to a very different woman, 
 who was both a lady and a beautiful one, we be- 
 gin a little to shake our heads. Horace Walpole 
 at second-hand draws us a Fielding, pigging with 
 low companions in a house kept like a hedge 
 tavern; Fielding himself, within a year or two, 
 shows us more than half-undesignedly in the Voy- 
 age to Lisbon that he was very careful about the 
 appointments and decency of his table, that he 
 stood rather upon ceremony in regard to his own 
 treatment of his family, and the treatment of 
 them and himself by others, and that he was alto- 
 gether a person orderly, correct, and even a little 
 finikin. Nor is there the slightest reasonable rea- 
 son to regard this as a piece of hypocrisy, a vice 
 as alien from the Fielding of fancy as from the 
 Fielding of fact, and one the particular manifesta- 
 tion of which, in this particular place, would have 
 been equally unlikely and unintelligible. 
 
 It may be asked whether I propose to substitute 
 for the traditional Fielding a quite ditferent per- 
 son, of regular habits and methodical economy. 
 Certainly not. The traditional estimate of great 
 men is rarely wrong altogether, but it constantly
 
 INTRODUCTION xxv 
 
 has a habit of exaggerating and dramatizing their 
 characteristics. For some things in Fielding's 
 career we have positive evidence of document, and 
 evidence hardly less certain of probability. Al- 
 though I believe the best judges are now of opinion 
 that his impecuniosity has been overcharged, he 
 certainly had experiences which did not often fall 
 to the lot of even a cadet of good family in the 
 eighteenth century. There can be no reasonable 
 doubt that he was a man who had a leaning to- 
 wards pretty girls and bottles of good wine ; and 
 I should suppose that if the girl were kind and 
 fairly winsome, he would not have insisted that 
 she should possess Helen's beauty, that if the bot- 
 tle of good wine were not forthcoming, he would 
 have been very tolerant of a mug of good ale. He 
 may very possibly have drunk more than he 
 should, and lost more than he could conveniently 
 pay. It may be put down as morally ascertained 
 that towards all these weaknesses of humanity, 
 and others like unto them, he held an attitude 
 which was less that of the unassailable philosopher 
 than that of the sympathizer, indulgent and excus- 
 ing. In regard more especially to what are com- 
 monly called moral delinquencies, this attitude 
 was so decided as to shock some people even in 
 those days, and many in these. Just when the 
 first sheets of this edition were passing through 
 the press, a violent attack was made in a news- 
 paper correspondence on the morality of Tom 
 Jones by certain notorious advocates of Purity, 
 as some say, of Pruriency and Prudery combined, 
 according to less complimentary estimates. Even
 
 xxvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 midway between the two periods we find the ad- 
 mirable Miss Ferrier, a sister of Fielding's own 
 craft, who sometimes had touches of nature and 
 satire not far inferior to his own, expressing by 
 the mouth of one of her characters with whom 
 she seemed partly to agree, the sentiment that his 
 works are "vanishing like noxious exhalations." 
 Towards any misdoing by persons of the one sex 
 towards persons of the other, when it involved 
 brutality or treachery, Fielding was pitiless ; but 
 when treachery and brutality were not concerned, 
 he was, to say the least, facile. So, too, he prob- 
 ably knew by experience — he certainly knew by 
 native shrewdness and acquired observation — 
 that to look too much on the wine when it is red, 
 or on the cards wiien they are parti-colored, is 
 ruinous to health and fortune ; but he thought not 
 over badly of any man who did these things. Still 
 it is possible to admit this in him, and to stop short 
 of that idea of a careless and reckless viveur which 
 has so often been put forward. In particular, 
 Lady Mary's view of his childlike enjoyment of 
 the moment has been, I think, much exaggerated 
 by posterity, and was probably not a little mistaken 
 by the lady herself. There are two moods in 
 which the motto is Carpe diem; one a mood of 
 simply childish hurry, the other one where behind 
 the enjoj'ment of the moment lurks, and in which 
 the enjoyment of the moment is not a little 
 heightened by, that vast ironic consciousness of 
 the before and after, which I at least see every- 
 where in the background of Fielding's work. 
 , The man, however, of whom we know so little,
 
 INTRODUCTION xxvii 
 
 concerns us much less than the author of the 
 works, of which it only rests with ourselves to 
 know everything. I have above classed Field- 
 ing as one of the four Atlantes of English verse 
 and prose, and I doubt not that both the phrase 
 and the application of it to him will meet with 
 question and demur. I have only to interject, as 
 the critic so often has to interject, a request to 
 the court to take what I say in the sense in which 
 I say it. I do not mean that Shakespeare, Milton, 
 Swift, and Fielding are in all or even in most re- 
 spects on a level. I do not mean that the three 
 last are in all respects of the greatest names in 
 English literature. I only mean that, in a cer- 
 tain quality, which for want of a better word I 
 have chosen to call Atlantean, they stand alone. 
 Each of them, for the metaphor is applicable 
 either way, carries a whole world on his shoulders, 
 or looks down on a whole world from his natural 
 altitude. The worlds are different, but they are 
 worlds; and though the attitude of the giants is 
 different also, it agrees in all of them on the 
 points of competence and strength. Take whom- 
 soever else we may among our men of letters, and 
 we shall find this characteristic to be in compari- 
 son wanting. These four carry their world, and 
 are not carried by it ; and if it, in the language so 
 dear to Fielding himself, were to crash and shatter, 
 the inquiry, ^'Que vous reste-t-il?" could be an- 
 swered by each, ^'Moi!" 
 
 The appearance which Fielding makes is no 
 doubt the most modest of the four. He has not 
 Shakespeare's absolute universality, and in fact
 
 xxviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 not merely the poet's tongue, but the poet's 
 thought seems to have been denied him. His 
 sphere is not the ideal like Milton's. His irony, 
 splendid as it is, falls a little short of that diaboli- 
 cal magnijScence which exalts Swift to the point 
 whence, in his own way, he surveys all the king- 
 doms of the world, and the glory or vainglory of 
 them. All Fielding's critics have noted the man- 
 ner, in a certain sense modest, in another ostenta- 
 tious, in which he seems to confine himself to the 
 presentation of things English. They might have 
 added to the presentation of things English — as 
 they appear in London, and on the Western Cir- 
 cuit, and on the Bath Road. 
 
 But this apparent parochialism has never de- 
 ceived good judges. It did not deceive Lady 
 Mary, who had seen the men and manners of very 
 many climes; it did not deceive Gibbon, who was 
 not especially prone to overvalue things English, 
 and who could look down from twenty centuries 
 on things ephemeral. It deceives, indeed, I am 
 told, some excellent persons at the present day, 
 who think Fielding's microcosm a ''toylike 
 world," and imagine that Russian Nihilists and 
 French Naturalists have gone beyond it. It will 
 deceive no one who has lived for some competent 
 space of time a life during which he has tried to 
 regard his fellow-creatures and himself, as nearly 
 as a mortal may, stih specie (rtemitatis. 
 
 As tliis is in the main an introduction to a com- 
 plete reprint of Fielding's four great novels, the 
 justification in detail of the estimate just made 
 or hinted of the novelist's genius will be best and
 
 INTRODUCTION xxix 
 
 most fitly made by a brief successive discussion of 
 the four as they are here presented, with some 
 subsequent remarks on the Miscellanies here se- 
 lected. And, indeed, it is not fanciful to perceive 
 in each book a somewhat different presentment of 
 the author's genius; though in no one of the four 
 is any one of his masterly qualities absent. There 
 is tenderness even in Jonathmi Wild; there are 
 touches in Joseph Andreivs of that irony of the 
 Preacher, the last echo of which is heard amid the 
 kindly resignation of the Journey to Lisbon, in 
 the sentence, "Whereas envy of all things most 
 exposes us to danger from others, so contempt of 
 all things best secures us from them." But on 
 the whole it is safe to say that Joseph Andreivs 
 best presents Fielding's mischievous and playful 
 wit; Jonathan Wild his half-Lucianic half-Swift- 
 ian irony; Tom Jones his unerring knowledge of 
 human nature, and his constructive faculty; 
 Amelia his tenderness, his mitis sapientia, his ob- 
 servation of the details of life. And first of the 
 first. 
 
 The History of the Adventures of Joseph An- 
 dreivs and his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams was, 
 as has been said above, published in February 
 1742. A facsimile of the agreement between au- 
 thor and publisher will be given in the second vol- 
 ume of this series; and it is not uninteresting to 
 observe that the witness, William Young, is none 
 other than the asserted original of the immortal 
 Mr. Adams himself. He might, on Balzac's plea 
 in a tolerably well-known anecdote, have demanded 
 half of the £183,lls. Of the other origins of the
 
 XXX INTRODUCTION 
 
 book we have a pretty full account, partly docu- 
 mentary. That it is "writ in the manner of Cer- 
 vantes," and is intended as a kind of comic epic, 
 is the author's own statement — no doubt as near 
 the actual truth as is consistent with comic-epic 
 theory. That there are resemblances to Scarron, 
 to Le Sage, and to other practitioners of the 
 Picaresque novel is certain; and it was inevitable 
 that there should be. Of directer and more im- 
 mediate models or starting-points one is un- 
 doubted; the other, though less generally ad- 
 mitted, not much less indubitable to my mind. 
 The parody of Richardson's Pamela, which was 
 little more than a year earlier (Nov. 1740), is 
 avowed, open, flagrant; nor do I think that the 
 author was so soon carried away by the greater 
 and larger tide of his own invention as some critics 
 seem to hold. He is always more or less return- 
 ing to the ironic charge; and the multiplicity of 
 the assailants of Joseph's virtue only disguises 
 the resemblance to the long-drawn dangers of 
 Pamela from a single ravisher. But Fielding 
 was also well acquainted with Marivaux's Paysan 
 Parvenu, and the resemblances between that book 
 and Joseph Andrews are much stronger than 
 Fielding's admirers have always been willing to 
 admit. This recalcitrance has, I think, been 
 mainly due to the erroneous conception of Mari- 
 vaux as, if not a mere fribble, yet a Dresden- 
 Shepherdess kind of writer, good at ''precious- 
 ness" and patch-and-powder manners, but nothing 
 more. There was, in fact, a very strong satiric 
 and ironic touch in the author of Marianne, and I
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxi 
 
 do not think that I was too rash when some years 
 ago I ventured to speak of him as ''playing Field- 
 ing to his own Richardson" in the Paysan Par- 
 venu. 
 
 Origins, however, and indebtedness and the like, 
 are, when great work is concerned, questions for 
 the study and the lecture-room, for the literary 
 historian and the professional critic, rather than 
 for the reader, however intelligent and alert, who 
 wishes to enjoy a masterpiece, and is content sim- 
 ply to enjoy it. It does not really matter how 
 close to anything else something which possesses 
 independent goodness is ; the very utmost technical 
 originality, the most spotless purity from the 
 faintest taint of suggestion, will not suffice to con- 
 fer merit on what does not otherwise possess it. 
 Whether, as I rather think. Fielding pursued the 
 plan he had formed ah incepto, or whether he 
 cavalierly neglected it, or whether the current of 
 his own genius carried him off his legs and landed 
 him, half against his will, on the shore of original- 
 ity, are questions for the Schools, and, as I venture 
 to think, not for the higher forms in them. We 
 have Joseph Andrews as it is; and we may be 
 abundantly thankful for it. The contents of it, 
 as of all Fielding's work in this kind, include cer- 
 tain things for which the moderns are scantly 
 grateful. Of late years, and not of late years only, 
 there has grown up a singular and perhaps an ig- 
 norant impatience of digressions, of episodes, of 
 tales within a tale. The example of this which 
 has been most maltreated is the "Man of the Hill" 
 episode in Tom Jones; but the stories of the "Un-
 
 xxxu 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 fortunate Jilt" and of Mr. \yilson in our present 
 subject, do not appear to me to be much less ob- 
 noxious to the censure; and Amelia contains more 
 than one or two things of the same kind. Me they 
 do not greatly disturb; and I see many defenses 
 for them besides the obvious, and at a pinch suf- 
 ficient one, that divagations of this kind existed 
 in all Fielding's Spanish and French models, that 
 the public of the day expected them, and so forth. 
 This defense is enough, but it is easy to amplify 
 and reintrench it. It is not by any means the fact 
 that the Picaresque novel of adventure is the only 
 or the chief form of fiction which prescribes or 
 admits these episodic excursions. All the classical 
 epics have them; many eastern and other stories 
 present them ; they are common, if not invariable, 
 in the abundant mediaeval literature of prose and 
 verse romance; they are not unknown by any 
 means in the modern novel; and you will very 
 rarely hear a story told orally at the dinner-table 
 or in the smoking-room without something of the 
 kind. There must, therefore, be something in 
 them corresponding to an inseparable accident of 
 that most unchanging of all things, human nature. 
 And I do not think the special form with which 
 we are here concerned by any means the worst 
 that they have taken. It has the grand and promi- 
 nent virtue of being at once and easily skippable. 
 There is about Cervantes and Le Sage, about 
 Fielding and Smollett, none of the treachery of the 
 modern novelist, who induces the conscientious 
 reader to drag through pages, chapters, and some- 
 times volumes which have nothing to do with the
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxiii 
 
 action, for fear he should miss something that has 
 to do with it. These great men have a fearless 
 frankness, and almost tell you in so many words 
 when and what you may skip. Therefore, if the 
 "Curious Impertinent," and the "Baneful Mar- 
 riage," and the "Man of the Hill," and the "Lady 
 of Quality," get in the way, when you desire to 
 "read for the story," you have nothing to do but 
 turn the page till finis comes. The defense has 
 already been made by an illustrious hand for 
 Fielding's inter-chapters and exordiums. It ap- 
 pears to me to be almost more applicable to his 
 insertions. 
 
 And so we need not trouble ourselves any more 
 either about the insertions or about the exordiums. 
 They both please me; the second class has pleased 
 persons much better worth pleasing than I can 
 pretend to be ; but the making or marring of the 
 book lies elsewhere. I do not think that it lies in 
 the construction, though Fielding's following of 
 the ancients, both sincere and satiric, has imposed 
 a false air of regularity upon that. The Odyssey 
 of Joseph, of Fanny, and of their ghostly mentor 
 and bodily guard is, in truth, a little haphazard, 
 and might have been longer or shorter without 
 any discreet man approving it the more or the 
 less therefor. The real merits lie partly in the 
 abounding humor and satire of the artist's criti- 
 cism, but even more in the marvelous vivacity 
 and fertility of his creation. For the very first 
 time in English prose fiction every character is 
 alive, every incident is capable of having hap- 
 pened. There are lively touches in the Eliza-
 
 xxxlv INTRODUCTION 
 
 bethan romances ; but they are buried in verbiage, 
 swathed in stage costume, choked and fettered by 
 their author's want of art. The quality of Bun- 
 yan's knowledge of men was not much inferior to 
 Shakespeare's, or at least to Fielding's; but the 
 range and the results of it were cramped by his 
 single thaological purpose, and his unvaried alle- 
 goric or typical form. Why Defoe did not dis- 
 cover the New World of Fiction, I at least have 
 never been able to put into any brief critical for- 
 mula that satisfies me, and I have never seen it 
 put by any one else. He had not only seen it afar 
 off, he had made landings and descents on it; he 
 had carried off and exhibited in triumph natives 
 such as Robinson Crusoe, as Man Friday, as Moll 
 Flanders, as William the Quaker ; but he had con- 
 quered, subdued, and settled no province therein. 
 I like Pamela; I like it better than some persons 
 who admire Richardson on the whole more than I 
 do, seem to like it. But, as in all its author's 
 work, the handling seems to me academic — the 
 working out on paper of an ingeniously conceived 
 problem rather than the observation or evolution 
 of actual or possible life. I should not greatly 
 fear to push the comparison even into foreign 
 countries; but it is well to observe limits. Let 
 us be content with holding that in England at 
 least, without prejudice to anything further. 
 Fielding was the first to display the qualities of 
 the perfect novelist as distinguished from the ro- 
 mancer. 
 
 What are those qualities, as shown in Joseph 
 Andrews? The faculty of arranging a probable
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxy 
 
 and interesting course of action is one, of course, 
 and Fielding showed it here. But I do not think 
 that it is at any time the greatest one ; and nobody 
 denies that he made great advances in this direc- 
 tion later. The faculty of lively dialogue is an- 
 other ; and that he has not often been refused ; but 
 much the same may be said of it. The interspers- 
 ing of appropriate description is another ; but here 
 also we shall not find him exactly a paragon. It is 
 in character — the chief differentia of the novel as 
 distinguished not merely from its elder sister the 
 romance, and its cousin the drama, but still more 
 from every other kind of literature — that Fielding 
 stands even here pre-eminent. No one that I can 
 think of, except his greatest successor in the pres- 
 ent century, has the same unfailing gift of breath- 
 ing life into every character he creates or borrows ; 
 and even Thackeray draws, if I may use the 
 phrase, his characters more in the flat and less in 
 the round than Fielding. Whether in Blifil he 
 once failed, we must discuss hereafter; he has 
 failed nowhere in Joseph Andrews. Some of his 
 sketches may require the caution that they are 
 eighteenth-century men and women; some the 
 warning that they are obviously caricatured, or 
 set in designed profile, or merely sketched. But 
 they are all alive. The finical estimate of Gray 
 (it is a horrid joy to think how perfectly capable 
 Fielding waa of having joined in that practical 
 joke of the youn^ gentlemen of Cambridge, which 
 made Gray change his college), while dismissing 
 these light things with patronage, had to admit 
 that "parson Adams is perfectly well, so is Mrs.
 
 xxxvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 Slipslop." ''They ivere, Mr. Gray," said some 
 one once, ''they were more perfectly well, and in 
 a higher kind, than anything you ever did ; though 
 you were a pretty workman too." 
 
 Yes, parson Adams is perfectly well, and so is 
 Mrs. Slipslop. But so are they all. Even the 
 hero and heroine, tied and bound as they are by 
 the necessity under which their maker lay of pre- 
 serving JosejDh's Joseph-hood, and of making 
 Fanny the example of a franker and less interested 
 virtue than her sister-in-law that might have been, 
 are surprisingly human where most writers would 
 have made them sticks. And the rest require no 
 allowance. Lady Booby, few as are the strokes 
 given to her, is not much less alive than Lady Bel- 
 laston. Mr. Trulliber, monster and not at all 
 delicate monster as he is, is also a man, and when 
 he lays it down that no one even in his own house 
 shall drink when he "caaled vurst," one can but 
 pay his maker the tribute of that silent shudder 
 of admiration which hails the addition of one more 
 everlasting entity to the world of thought and 
 fancy. And Mr. Tow-wouse is real, and Mrs. Tow- 
 wouse is more real still, and Betty is real ; and the 
 coachman, and Miss Grave-airs, and all the won- 
 derful crew from first to last. The dresses they 
 wear, the manners they exhibit, the laws they live 
 under, the very foods and drinks they live upon, 
 are "past like the shadows on glasses" — to the 
 comfort and rejoicing of some, to the greater or 
 less sorrow of others. But they are there — alive, 
 full of blood, full of breath as we are, and, in truth, 
 I fear a little more so. For some purposes a cen-
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxvii 
 
 tury is a gap harder to cross and raore estranging 
 than a couple of millenniums. But in their case 
 the gap is nothing; and it is not too much to say 
 that as they have stood the harder test, they will 
 stand the easier. There are very striking differ- 
 ences between Nausicaa and Mrs. Slipslop; there 
 are differences not less striking between Mrs. Slip- 
 slop and Beatrice. But their likeness is a 
 stranger and more wonderful thing than any of 
 their unlikenesses. It is that they are all women, 
 that thery are all live citizenesses of the Land of 
 Matters Unf orgot, the fashion whereof passeth not 
 away, and the franchise whereof, once acquired, 
 assures immortality.
 
 NOTE TO GENERAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 The text of this issue in the main follows that 
 of the standard or first collected edition of 1762. 
 The variants tvhich the author introduced in suc- 
 cessive editions during his lifetime are not incon- 
 siderable; but for the purposes of the present is- 
 sue it did not seem necessary or indeed desirable 
 to take account of them. In the case of prose 
 fiction, more than in any other department of 
 literature, it is desirable that icork should he read 
 in the form ivhich represents the completest in- 
 tention and execution of the author. Nor have 
 any notes been attempted; for again such things, 
 in the case of prose fiction, are of very doubtful 
 use, and supply pretty certain stumbling-blocks to 
 enjoyment; while in the particular case of Field- 
 ing, the annotation, unless extremely capricious, 
 would have to he disgustingly full. For he it at 
 any rate from the present editor to bury these de- 
 lightful creations under an ugly crust of paral- 
 lel passages and miscellaneous erudition. The 
 sheets, however, have been carefully read in order 
 to prevent the casual errors ivhich are ivont to 
 creep into frequently reprinted texts; and the 
 editor hopes that if any such have escaped him, 
 the escape ivill not he attributed to ivillful negli- 
 gence. A few obvious errors, in spelling of proper 
 names, &c., which occur in the 1762 version have 
 been corrected: but wherever the readings of that 
 version are possible they have been preferred. 
 The embellishments of the edition are partly fanci- 
 ful and partly '^ documentary;" so that it is hoped 
 both classes of taste may have something to feed 
 upon.
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 AS it is possible the mere English reader 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 evem 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 at- 
 tempted in our language. 
 
 The Epic, as well as the Drama, is divided into 
 tragedy and comedy. Homee, who was the father 
 of this species of poetry, gave us a pattern of both 
 these, though that of the latter kind is entirely 
 lost; which Aristotle tells us, bore the same rela- 
 tion to comedy which his Iliad bears to tragedy. 
 And perhaps, 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- 
 stituent parts of an epic poem, namely meter ; yet, 
 when any kind of writing contains all its other 
 
 1 Joseph Andrews was originally published in 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 xxxix
 
 xl AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 parts, such as fable, action, characters, sentiments, 
 and diction, and is deficient in meter 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 particu- 
 lar 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, commonly called Romances, namely, Clelia, 
 Cleopatra, A strata, Cassandra, the Grand Cyrus, 
 and innumerable others, which contain, as I ap- 
 prehend, 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 
 characters. 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 introducing 'persons of inferior rank, and con- 
 sequently, of inferior /manners, whereas the grave 
 romance sets the highest before us: lastly, in its 
 sentiments and diction; by preserving the ludi- 
 crous instead of the sublime. In the diction, I 
 think, burlesque itself may be sometimes admitted ; 
 of which many instances will occur in this work, as
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE xli 
 
 in the description of the battles, and some other 
 places, not necessary to be pointed out to the 
 classical reader, for whose entertainment those 
 parodies or burlesque imitations are chiefly cal- 
 culated. 
 
 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 
 properly introduced, unless in writings of the bur- 
 lesque kind, which this is not intended to be. In- 
 deed, 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 mon- 
 strous and unnatural, and where our delight, if we 
 examine it, arises from the surprising absurdity, 
 as in api^ropriating 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 ex- 
 cused for deviating from nature, since it may not 
 be always so easy for a serious poet to meet witji 
 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 
 performances which have been truly of the comic 
 kind, from the author's having sometimes admitted 
 it in his diction only; which, as it is the dress of 
 poetry, doth, like the dress of men, establish char- 
 acters (the one of the whole poem, and the other
 
 xlii AUTHOE'S PREFACE 
 
 of the whole man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any 
 of their greater excellences: but surely, a certain 
 drollery in style, 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 apprehend my Lord Shaftesbury's opin- 
 ion 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 observa- 
 tion, whether the same companies are not found 
 more full of good-humor and benevolence, after 
 they have been sweetened for two or three hours 
 with entertainments 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 
 the exactest copying of nature; insomuch that a 
 judicious eye instantly rejects anything outre, any
 
 AUTHOR'S PEEFACE xliii 
 
 liberty which the painter hath taken with the fea- 
 tures of that alma mater; whereas in the Carica- 
 tura we allow all license — its aim is to exhibit 
 monsters, not men; and all distortions and exag- 
 gerations whatever are within its proper province. 
 
 Now, what Caricatura is in painting, Burlesque 
 is in writing; and in the same manner the comic 
 writer 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 Monstrous is much easier to paint than de- 
 scribe, and the Ridiculous to describe than paint. 
 
 And though perhaps this latter species doth 
 not in either science so stronglj^ affect and agitate 
 the muscles as the other; yet it will be owned, I 
 believe, that a more rational and useful pleasure 
 arises to us from it. He who should call the in- 
 genious Hogarth a burlesque painter, would, in 
 my opinion, do him very little honor; for sure it 
 is much easier, much less the subject of admira- 
 tion, to paint a man with a nose, or any other 
 feature, of a preposterous size, or to expose him 
 in some absurd or monstrous attitude, 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 
 work. Nor will some explanation of this word be 
 thought impertinent by the reader, if he considers
 
 xliv AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 bow 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 villainies, and, what is yet 
 worse, the most dreadful calamities ? What could 
 exceed the absurdity of an author, who should 
 write the comedy of Neri'o, 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 villainy is not its object: but he 
 hath not, as I remember, positively asserted what 
 is. Nor doth the Abbe Bellegarde, who hath writ- 
 ten 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 presently cease to admire at the copious field 
 it affords to an observer. Now, affectation pro- 
 ceeds from one of these two causes, vanity or 
 hypocrisy : for as vanity puts us on affecting false 
 characters, in order to purchase applause; so hy- 
 pocrisy sets us on an endeavor to avoid censure, 
 by concealing our vices under an appearance of 
 their opposite virtues. And though these two
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE xlv 
 
 causes are often confounded (for there is some 
 difficulty in distinguishing them), yet, as they pro- 
 ceed 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 re- 
 pugnancy of nature to struggle with, which that of 
 the hypocrite hath. It may be likewise noted, that 
 affectation doth not imjDly an obsolute 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 ostenta- 
 tion : 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 surprise and pleasure; and that in a higher 
 and stronger degree when the affectation arises 
 from hypocrisy, than when from vanity ; for to dis- 
 cover any one to be the exact reverse of what he 
 affects, is more surprising, and consequently more 
 ridiculous, than to find him a little deficient in the 
 quality he desires the reputation of. I might ob- 
 serve that our Ben Jonson, who of all men under- 
 stood the Ridiculous the best, hath chiefly used the 
 hypocritical affectation.
 
 xlvi AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 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 ugli- 
 ness, infirmity, or poverty, as ridiculous in them- 
 selves : 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 justice. In the same manner, were we 
 to enter a poor house and behold a wretched fam- 
 ily shivering with cold and languishing with hun- 
 ger, it would not incline us to laughter (at least 
 we must have very diabolical natures if it would) ; 
 but should we discover there a grate, instead of 
 coals, adorned with flowers, empty plate or china 
 dishes on the sideboard, 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 fantastical an appearance. Much 
 less are natural imperfections the object of de- 
 rision ; but when ugliness aims at the applause of 
 beauty, or lameness endeavors 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.
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE xlvii 
 
 Where if the meter would suffer the word Ridic- 
 ulous 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 pur- 
 sue a series of human actions, and keep clear from 
 them. Secondly, that the vices to be found here 
 are rather the accidental 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 lan- 
 guage; 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 every- 
 thing is copied from the book of nature, and scarce 
 a character or action produced which I have not
 
 xlviii AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 taken from my own observations and experience ; 
 yet I have used the utmost care to obscure the per- 
 sons by such different circumstances, degrees, and 
 colors, that it will be impossible to guess at them 
 with any degree of certainty; and if it ever hap- 
 pens otherwise, it is only where the failure char- 
 acterized 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 good- 
 ness of his heart will recommend him to the good- 
 natured, so I hope it will excuse me to the gentle- 
 men 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 op- 
 portunities of displaying his worthy inclinations.
 
 THE HISTORY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 ADVENTURES OF 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS FRIEND ME. ABRAHAM ADAMS 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Of writing lives in general, and particularly of Pamela ; with 
 a word by the bye of CoUey 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 blamable, it is more strongly so in what is 
 amiable and praiseworthy. Here emulation most 
 effectually operates upon us, and inspires our im- 
 itation in an irresistible manner. A good man 
 therefore is a standing lesson to all his acquaint- 
 ance, 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, and to present the amiable pictures to 
 l-i 1
 
 2 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 those who have not the hai3piness of knowing the 
 originals ; and so, hy communicating such valuable 
 patterns to the world, he may perhaps do a more 
 extensive service to mankind than the person 
 whose life originally afforded the pattern. 
 
 In this light I have always regarded those biog- 
 raphers who have recorded the actions of great 
 and worthy persons of both sexes. Not to men- 
 tion those ancient 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 capac- 
 ity. 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 ap- 
 pellation 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 mention 
 two books lately published, which represent 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.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 3 
 
 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 Gibber 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 
 wordly grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcate 
 an absolute submission 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 
 memoirs of Mrs. Andrews is so well set forth in 
 the excellent essays or letters prefixed to the sec- 
 ond and subsequent editions of that work, that 
 it would be here a needless repetition. The au- 
 thentic 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 excellent pattern of his sister's 
 virtues before his eyes, that Mr. Joseph Andrews 
 was chiefly enabled to preserve his purity in the 
 midst of such great temptations. I shall only add 
 that this character of male chastity, though doubt- 
 less 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.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Of Mr. Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, education, and 
 great endowments j with a word or two concerning an- 
 cestors. 
 
 MB. JOSEPH ANDREWS, the hero of our 
 ensuing history, was esteemed to be the 
 only son of Gaffar and Gammer An- 
 drews, 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 ingenious friend of ours hath 
 communicated : — 
 
 Stay, traveler, 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. 
 
 The words are almost out of the stone with an- 
 tiquity. But it is needless to observe that An- 
 
 4
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 5 
 
 drew here is written without an 5, and is, besides, 
 a Christian name. My friend, moreover, conjec- 
 tures this to have been the founder of that sect of 
 laughing philosophers since called Merry-an- 
 drews. 
 
 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 suffi- 
 ciently certain that he had as many ancestors as 
 the best man living, and, perhaps, if we look five 
 or six hundred years backwards, might be related 
 to some persons of very great figure at present, 
 whose ancestors 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 themselves 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 honor; when we see 
 so many who have no virtues enjoying the honor 
 of their forefathers? At ten years old (by which 
 time his education was advanced to writing and 
 reading) 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 Thomas 
 having then an estate in his own hands, the young 
 Andrews was at first employed in what in the 
 
 1 In English, sprung from a dunghill.
 
 6 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 ter- 
 rified them, he was soon transplanted from the 
 fields into the dog-kennel, where he was placed un- 
 der the huntsman, and made what the sportsmen 
 term whipper-in. For this place likewise the 
 sweetness of his voice disqualified him; the dogs 
 preferring the melody of his chiding to all the al- 
 luring 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 in- 
 trepidity which surprised every one. While he 
 was in this station, he rode several races for Sir 
 Thomas, and this with such expertness and suc- 
 cess, that the neighboring gentlemen frequently 
 solicited the knight to permit little Joey (for so he 
 was called) to ride their matches. The best game- 
 sters, before they laid their money, always in- 
 quired 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 scorn- 
 fully refused a considerable bribe to play booty 
 on such an occasion. This extremely raised his 
 character, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 7 
 
 slie desired to have him (being now seventeen 
 years of age) for her own footboy. 
 
 Joey was now preferred from the stable to at- 
 tend on his lady, to go on her errands, stand be- 
 hind 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 him- 
 self by singing psalms: he behaved likewise in 
 every other respect so well at Divine service, that 
 it recommended him to the notice of Mr. Abraham 
 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.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Of Mr. Abraham Adams the curate, Mrs. Slipslop the cham- 
 bermaid, and others. 
 
 MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS was an excellent 
 scholar. He was a perfect master of the 
 Greek and Latin languages ; 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 uni- 
 versity. 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 was his characteristic : 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 par- 
 son than in a gentleman who hath passed his life 
 behind the scenes, — a place which hath been sel- 
 dom thought the school of innocence, and where a 
 very little observation would have convinced the 
 great apologist that those passions have a real ex- 
 istence in the human mind. 
 
 8
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 9 
 
 His virtue, and Lis 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 sing-ular devotion of young 
 Andrews, had found means to question him con- 
 cerning several particulars; as, how many books 
 there were in the New Testament'? which were 
 they? how many chapters they contained? and 
 such like: to all which, Mr. Adams privately said, 
 he answered much better than Sir Thomas, or two 
 other neighboring justices of the peace could prob- 
 ably have done. 
 
 Mr. 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 learned to read and 
 write by the goodness of his father, who, though he 
 had not interest enough to get him into a charity 
 school, because 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 ex- 
 pense of sixpence 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
 
 10 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Bible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas a 
 Kempis ; and that as often as he could, without be- 
 ing 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 congre- 
 gation ; 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, surprised 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 state to which he was called ; that 
 he should endeavor 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 11 
 
 a woman of gavety, who had been blessed with a 
 town education, and never spoke of any of her 
 country neighbors by any other appellation than 
 that of the brutes. They both regarded the 
 curate as a kind of domestic only, 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 
 setting which aside an advantage of several shil- 
 lings per annum would have accrued to the rector; 
 but he had not yet been able to accomplish his pur- 
 pose, and had reaped hitherto nothing better from 
 the suits than the pleasure (which he used indeed 
 frequently to say was no small one) of reflecting 
 that he had utterly undone many of the poor ten- 
 ants, though he had at the same time greatly im- 
 poverished 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 in- 
 sisted on a deference to be paid to her understand- 
 ing, as she had beem frequently at London, and 
 knew more of the world than a country parson 
 could pretend to. 
 
 She had in these disputes a particular advan- 
 tage over Adams : for she was a mighty atfecter of 
 hard words, which she used in such a manner that 
 the parson, who durst not offend her by calling
 
 12 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 es- 
 sence (or, as she pleased to term it, the incense) 
 of matter, to mention the case of young Andrews ; 
 desiring her to reconmiend him to her lady as a 
 youth very susceptible 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 pro- 
 vide for him in a better manner. He therefore de- 
 sired that the boy might be left behind under his 
 care. 
 
 "hal Mr. Adams," said Mrs. Slipslop, ''do you 
 think my lady will suffer any preambles about any 
 such matter? She is going to London very con- 
 cisely, 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 sum- 
 mer's day; and I am confidous she would as soon 
 think of parting with a pair of her gray mares, for 
 she values herself as much on one as the other." 
 Adams would have interrupted, but she pro- 
 ceeded: "And why is Latin more necessitous for 
 a footman than a gentleman? It is very proper 
 that you clergymen must learn it, because you 
 can't preach w^ithout 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 13 
 
 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 be- 
 fore their London journey, which happened a few 
 days afterwards. However, Andrews behaved 
 very thankfully and gratefully to him for his in- 
 tended kindness, which he told him he never would 
 forget, and at the same time received from the 
 good man many admonitions concerning the regu- 
 lation of his future conduct, and his perseverance 
 in innocence and industry.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 What happened after their journey to London. 
 
 NO sooner was young Andrews arrived at 
 London than he began to scrape an ac- 
 quaintance with his party-colored breth- 
 ren, who endeavored to make him despise his 
 former course of life. His hair was cut after the 
 newest fashion, and became his chief care; he went 
 abroad with it all the morning in papers, and 
 dressed 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 
 they 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 outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals re- 
 mained entirely uncorrupted, though he was at 
 the same time smarter and genteeler than any of 
 the beaux in town, either in or out of livery. 
 
 His lady, who had often said of him that Joey 
 was the handsomest and genteelest footman in the 
 
 14
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 15 
 
 kingdom, but that it was pity he wanted spirit, be- 
 gan 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 stepped out of her 
 coach, she would take him by the hand, and some- 
 times, for fear of stumbling, press it very hard; 
 she admitted him to deliver messages at her bed- 
 side in a morning, leered at him at table, and in- 
 dulged 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 arrows 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 I believe my eyes! Is that Lady Booby?" 
 — "Surely," says Tattle. "But what makes you 
 surprised?" — "Why, is not that her footman?" 
 replied Tittle. At which Tattle laughed, and 
 cried, "An old business, I assure you: is it possi- 
 ble you should not have heard it? The whole 
 town hath. known it this half-year." The conse- 
 quence of this interview was a whisper through a 
 hundred visits, which were separately performed
 
 16 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 by the two ladies ^ the same afternoon, and might 
 have had a mischievous effect, had it not been 
 stopped by two fresh reputations which were pub- 
 lished the day afterwards, and engrossed the whole 
 talk of the town. 
 
 But, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandal- 
 ous 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 behavior which she imputed 
 to the violent respect he preserved for her, and 
 which served only to heighten a something she be- 
 gan 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.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and 
 mournful behavior of his widow, and the great purity of 
 Joseph Andrews. 
 
 AT this time an accident happened which 
 put 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. Dur- 
 ing 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, with some confusion, it 
 was time enough for one so young as himself to 
 think on such things. ''As young as you are," 
 replied 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, 
 1-2 17
 
 18 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 insuscei3tible of affection; 
 I rather impute what you say to your secrecy, a 
 very commendable quality, and what I am far 
 from being angry with jou 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 impu- 
 dence to think of any that deserve that name." 
 "Don't pretend to too much modesty," said she, 
 "for that some times 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 
 DO vanity could tempt you to discover her? An- 
 swer me honestly, Joseph ; have you so much more 
 sense and so much more virtue than you handsome 
 young fellows generally have, who make no scruple 
 of sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride, 
 without 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 19 
 
 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 was seen; at which 
 Joseph blushed. "La!" says she, in an affected 
 surprise, ''what am I doing? I have trusted my- 
 self with a man alone, naked in bed; suppose you 
 should have any wicked intentions upon my honor, 
 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 
 honor, 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 repu- 
 tation be then in your power? Would you not then 
 be my master?" Joseph begged her ladyship to 
 be comforted ; for 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 you. 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,
 
 20 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 ''do you tliink it would not disoblige me then? 
 Do YOU tliiuk I would willingly suffer 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." — "jMadam," said Joseph, "I 
 would not have your ladyship think any evil of 
 me. I have always endeavored to be a dutiful 
 servant both to you and my master." — "0 thou 
 villain!" answered my lady; "why didst thou 
 mention the name of that dear man, unless to tor- 
 ment me, to bring his precious memory to my 
 mind?" (and tben she burst into a fit of tears.) 
 "Get thee from my sight! I shall never endure 
 thee more." At which words she turned away 
 from him; and Joseph retreated from the room in 
 a most disconsolate condition, and writ that letter 
 which the reader will find in the next chapter.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 How Joseph Andrews writ a letter to his sister Pamela. 
 
 * ' To Mrs. Pamela Andrews, living with 
 Squire Booby. 
 
 DEAR SISTER,— Since I received your let- 
 ter 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, be- 
 cause they quarreled almost eveiy 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 ladyshij^ wish his honor 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 to me. 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 
 
 21
 
 22 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Garden, while she wanted 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 neighboring gentleman's, unless it be true 
 that you are going to be married to parson Wil- 
 liams, as folks talk, and then I should be very will- 
 ing 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 neigh- 
 bors don't know one another. Pray give my serv- 
 ice 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. 
 Slipslop, with whom 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 was likewise rather too large, and 
 her eyes too little; nor did she resemble a cow
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 23 
 
 so mucli in her breath as in two brown globes 
 which she carried before her ; one of her legs was 
 also a little shorter than the other, which occa- 
 sioned her to limp as she walked. This fair crea- 
 ture had long cast the eyes of affection on Joseph, 
 in which she had not met with quite so good suc- 
 cess as she probably wished, though, besides the al- 
 lurements 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 favors, 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 blamable. The truth 
 is, she was arrived at an age when she thought she 
 might indulge herself 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 in- 
 clinations, and to pay off the debt of pleasure 
 which she found she owed herself, as fast as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 With these charms of person, and in this dis- 
 position of mind, she encountered poor Joseph at 
 the 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;
 
 24 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 and together they went into a closet, where, hav- 
 ing delivered him a full glass of ratafia, and de- 
 sired him to sit down, Mrs. Slipslop thus began : — 
 ''Sure nothing can be a more simple contract in 
 a woman than to place her 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 regula- 
 tions of modesty, before we can make any oppres- 
 sion 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 favors 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 under- 
 stand 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 mother." 
 "How, sirrah!" says Mrs. Slipslop in a rage; 
 "your own mother? Do you assinuate that I am 
 old enough to be your mother? I don't know what 
 a stripling may think, but I believe a man would 
 refer me to any green-sickness silly girl what- 
 somdever : but I ought to despise you rather than 
 be angiy with you, for referring the conversation 
 of girls to that of a woman of sense." —
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 25 
 
 *' Madam," says Joseph, ''I am sure I have al- 
 ways valued the honor you did me by your couver- 
 sation, for I know you are a woman of learning." 
 — ''Yes, but, Joseph," said she, a little softened 
 by the compliment 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, must have de- 
 clared a passion 1 cannot conquer. — Oh ! Joseph !" 
 As when a hungry tigress, who long has trav- 
 ersed 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 delivei-ed the intended martyr from 
 her clutches. She was obliged to leave him ab- 
 ruptly, 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 behavior, after she was left by Joseph in a 
 temper of mind not greatly different from that 
 of the inflamed Slipslop.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 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 ancient 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 labored to describe, the different opera- 
 tions of this passion of love in the gentle and cul- 
 tivated mind of the Lady Booby, from those which 
 it effected in the less polished and coarser dis- 
 position of Mrs. Slipslop. 
 
 Another philosopher, whose name also at pres- 
 ent escapes my memory, hath somewhere said, that 
 resolutions taken in the absence of the beloved 
 object are verj^ apt to vanish in its presence; on 
 both which wise sayings the following chapter 
 may serve as a comment. 
 
 No sooner had Joseph left the room in the man- 
 ner we have before related than the lady, enraged 
 at her disappointment, began to reflect with se- 
 verity on her conduct. Her love was now changed 
 to disdain, which pride assisted to torment her. 
 
 26
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS ^7 
 
 ft 
 
 She despised herself for the meanness of her pas- 
 sion, and Joseph for its ill success. However, she 
 had now got the better of it in her own opinion, 
 and determined immediately to dismiss the object. 
 After much tossing and turning in her bed, and 
 many soliloquies, which if we had no better mat- 
 ter for our reader we would give him, she at last 
 rung the bell as above mentioned, and was pres- 
 ently 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 surprised 
 at the unexpected sound of his name at so critical 
 a time, that she had the greatest difficulty to con- 
 ceal the confusion she was under from her mis- 
 tress; whom she answered, nevertheless, with 
 pretty good confidence, 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 Slip- 
 slop, "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 heard that of 
 him." — "0 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 conceive 
 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, 
 "the boy is well enough." — "La! ma'am," cries
 
 2S THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 Slipslop, * ' I think him the ragmaticallest fellow in 
 the family." — ''Sure, Slipslop," 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 
 wisb, 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 your- 
 self?" — "I, madam!" cries Slipslop, reddening, 
 if not blushing, "I should be sorry to think your 
 ladyship had any reason to respect me of fondness 
 for a fellow; and if it be your pleasure, I shall 
 fullfil it with as much reluctance as possible." — 
 "As little, I suppose you mean," said the lady; 
 "and so about it instantly." Mrs. Slipslop went 
 out, and the lady had scarce taken two turns be- 
 fore she fell to knocking and ringing with gTeat 
 violence. Slipslop, who did not travel post haste, 
 soon returned and was countermanded as to Jo- 
 seph, but ordered to send Betty about her busi- 
 ness without delay. She went out a second time 
 with much greater alacrity than before ; when the 
 lady began immediately to accuse herself of want
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 29 
 
 of resolution, and to apprehend the return of her 
 affection, with its pernicious consequences ; she 
 therefore applied herself again to the bell, and re- 
 summoned 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 passion got 
 the better of her reason. She called back Slip- 
 slop 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 mis- 
 tress's temper probably put something into the 
 waiting-gentlewoman's head not necessary to men- 
 tion to the sagacious reader. 
 
 Lady Booby was going to call her back again, 
 but could not prevail with herself. The next con- 
 sideration therefore was, how she should behave 
 to Joseph when he came in. She resolved to pre- 
 serve 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 discarding him. 
 
 Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play
 
 30 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 with thy votaries of both sexes! How dost thou 
 deceive them, and make them deceive themselves I 
 Their follies are thy delight! Their sighs make 
 thee laugh, and their pangs are thy merriment ! 
 
 Not the great Rich, who turns men into monkeys, 
 wheel-barrows, and whatever else best humors his 
 fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed the hu- 
 man shape; nor the great Cibber, 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. 
 
 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 per- 
 fume. Again, when thou pleasest, thou canst 
 make a molehill appear as a mountain, a Jew's- 
 harp sound like a trumpet, and a daisy smell like 
 a violet. Thou canst make cowardice brave, 
 avarice generous, pride humble, and cruelty ten- 
 der-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.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 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. 
 
 NOW tlie rake Hesperus bad called for his 
 breeches, and, having well rubbed his 
 drowsy eyes, prepared to dress himself 
 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 re- 
 gale the good man Phoebus after his daily labors 
 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 beautiful part of the human species called 
 the fair sex; before we discover too much of her 
 frailty to our reader, it will be proper to give him 
 a lively idea of the vast temptation, which over- 
 came all the efforts of a modest and virtuous 
 mind; and then we humbly hope his good nature 
 will rather pity than condemn the imperfection of 
 human virtue. 
 
 Nay, the ladies themselves will, we hope, be in- 
 duced, by considering the uncommon variety of 
 
 31
 
 32 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 charms which united iu 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, j)erhaps, was in her own disposi- 
 tion as chaste as those pure and sanctified virgins 
 who, after a life innocently spent in the gayeties 
 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 form- 
 erly amongst beaux from temptations perhaps less 
 l^owerful 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 to- 
 gether with great elegance, and no less strength; 
 his legs and thighs were formed in the exactest 
 proportion ; his shoulders were broad and brawny, 
 but yet his arm hung so easily, that he had all the 
 symptoms of strength without the least clumsi- 
 ness. His hair was of a nut-brown color, and was 
 displayed in 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 noblernen, would 
 give an idea of nobility.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 33 
 
 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 business in quiet; I mean those who are 
 not wicked enough to hearken to your solicita- 
 tions. 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 nauseous 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 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 misin- 
 terpreted to be symptoms of his guilt, and thus 
 went on : — 
 
 "Come hither, Joseph: another mistress might 
 discard you for these offenses; but I have a com^ 
 passion for your youth, and if I could be certain 
 you would be no more guilty — Consider, child," 
 laying her hand carelessly upon his, "you are a 
 handsome young fellow, and might do l)etter ; you 
 might make your fortune." "Madam," said Jo- 
 seph, "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 
 
 1—3
 
 34 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 commit another crime in denying the truth. I 
 could pardon the first; but I hate a liar." 
 ''Madam," cries Joseph, "I hope your ladyship 
 will not be offended at m}' 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 de- 
 ceived greatly in you if you would not put her 
 closely to it. 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," returned 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 there- 
 fore, Joseph, if I should admit jou to such 
 freedom, what would you think of me? — tell me 
 freely." "Madam," said Joseph, "I should 
 think your ladyship condescended a great deal be- 
 low yourself." "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 inclinations be all on fire rather 
 by such a favor?" "Madam," said Joseph, "if 
 they were, I hope I should be able to control them, 
 without suffering them to get the better of myj
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 35 
 
 virtue." You have heard, reader, poets talk of 
 the statue of Surprise; you have heard likewise, 
 or else you have heard very little, how Surprise 
 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. 
 William Mills, or some other of ghostly appear- 
 ance, hath ascended, with a face all pale with pow- 
 der, and a shirt all bloody with ribbons; — but 
 from none of these, nor from Phidias or Praxiteles, 
 if they should return to life — ^no, not from the 
 inimitable pencil of my friend Hogarth, could you 
 receive such an idea of surprise as would have 
 entered in at your eyes had they beheld 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 con- 
 fidence ! Have you the assurance to pretend, that 
 when a lady demeans herself to throw aside th^ 
 rules of decency, in order to honor you with the 
 highest favor in her power, your virtue should re- 
 sist her inclination? that, when she had conquered 
 her own virtue, she should find an obstruction 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
 
 36 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 magistrates who punish lewdness, or parsons who 
 preach against it, make any scruple of committing 
 it? And can a boy, a stripling, have the confi- 
 dence 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 ladyship 
 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 be stripped and turned away." 
 "Madam," says Joseph, "I am sorry I have of- 
 fended your ladyship, I am sure I never intended 
 it." "Yes, sirrah," cries she, "you have had the 
 vanity to misconstrue the little innocent freedom 
 I took, in order to try whether what I had heard 
 was true. 0' 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 words she flew into a 
 violent passion, and refusing to hear more, or- 
 dered him instantly to leave the room. 
 
 He was no sooner ^one than she burst forth
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 37 
 
 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 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 applied herself to the bell, and 
 rung it with infinite more violence than was neces- 
 sary — the faithful Slipslop attending near at 
 hand: to say the truth, she had conceived a sus- 
 picion 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 preceding conversation 
 passed between Joseph and the lady.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 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. 
 
 S' 
 
 ^ ^ i^ LIPSLOP, ' ' said the lady, ' ' I find too much 
 reason to believe 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 down- 
 stairs." The lady replied, she had taken a reso- 
 lution, and was resolved to 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 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 mophro- 
 dites to wait upon you ; and I am sure I hated the 
 sight of them even singing in an opera." "Do as 
 
 38
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 39 
 
 I bid you," says my lady, ''and don't shock my 
 ears with 3'our beastly language. " " Marry-come- 
 up," cries Slipslop, "people's ears are sometimes 
 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 de- 
 sired to know what she meant by the extraordi- 
 nary 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," an- 
 swered 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, un- 
 less 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 the lady. ' ' I am not obliged 
 to tell that to everybody," 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 pas- 
 sion, 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 im-
 
 40 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 puted to Joseph's having discovered to her what 
 passed at the first interview. This, therefore, 
 l)lew 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 
 dejDended many of the most valuable blessings of 
 life ; particularly cards, making courtesies in public 
 places, and, above all, the pleasure of demolishing 
 the reputations of others, in which innocent 
 amusement she had an extraordinary delight. She 
 therefore determined to submit to any insult from 
 a servant, rather than run a risk 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 otf his livery, and to turn him out of the 
 house that evening. 
 
 She then called Slipslop up, and, after refresh- 
 ing 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 passion- 
 ate temper, attempt to provoke me by your an- 
 swers? I am convinced you are an honest serv- 
 ant, 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 rea- 
 son on your side to desire a change. I can't help 
 being surprised, therefore, that you will take the 
 surest method to offend me — I mean, repeating 
 my words, which you know I have always de- 
 tested."
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 41 
 
 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 offenses forgiven, and a pres- 
 ent of a gown and petticoat made her, as an in- 
 stance of her lady's future favor. 
 
 She offered once or twice to speak in favor of 
 Joseph; but found her lady's heart so obdurate, 
 that she prudently dropped all such efforts. She 
 considered there were more footmen in the house, 
 and some as stout fellows, though not quite so 
 handsome, as Joseph; besides, the reader hath al- 
 ready seen her tender advances had not met with 
 the encouragement she might have reasonably ex- 
 pected. 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 fel- 
 low 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 com- 
 mendable, walked off with her present, and with 
 great tranquillity paid a visit to a stone-bottle, 
 which is of sovereign use to a philosophical tem- 
 per. 
 
 She left not her mistress so easy. The poor 
 lady could not reflect without agony that her dear 
 reputation was in the power of her servants. All 
 her comfort as to Joseph was, that she hoped he
 
 42 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 did not understand lier meaning; at least she 
 could say for herself, she had not plainly ex- 
 pressed 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 lit- 
 tle god lay lurking in her heart, though anger 
 and disdain 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 advo- 
 cate, and whispered many things in his favor. 
 Honor likewise endeavored to vindicate his crime, 
 and Pity to mitigate his punishment. On the 
 other side, Pride and Revenge spoke as loudly 
 against him. And thus the poor lady was tor- 
 tured with perplexity, opposite passions distract- 
 ing and tearing her mind different ways. 
 
 So have I seen, in the hall of Westminster, 
 where Sergeant Bramble hath been retained on 
 the right side, and Sergeant 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 t'other has you; till at last all becomes 
 one scene of confusion in the tortured minds of 
 the hearers ; equal wagers are laid on the success, 
 and neither judge nor jury can possibly make any- 
 thing of the matter ; all things are so enveloped by 
 the careful sergeants in doubt and obscurity.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 43 
 
 Or, as it happens in the conscience, where honor 
 and honesty pull one way, and a bribe and neces- 
 sity 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 doubtless in 
 some pain.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Joseph vsa*ites 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 gar- 
 ret, and entered himself into an ejaculation on the 
 numberless calamities which attended beauty, and 
 the misfortune it was to be handsomer than one's 
 neighbors. 
 
 He then sat down, and addressed himself to his 
 sister Pamela in the following words : — 
 
 ''Dear Sister Pamela, — Hoping you are well, 
 what news have I to tell you ! Pamela ! my mis- 
 tress is fallen in love with me — that is, what great 
 folks call falling in love — she has a mind to ruin 
 me; but T hoi)e T shall have more resolution and 
 more grace than to part with my virtue to any 
 lady upon earth. 
 
 "Mr Adams hath often told me, that chastity 
 is as great a virtue in a man as in a woman. He 
 
 44
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 45 
 
 says he never knew any more than his wife, and I 
 shall endeavor to follow his example. Indeed, it 
 is owing entirely to his excellent sermons and ad- 
 vice, 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 jDray I may be enabled 
 to preserve mine ; for truly it is very severely at- 
 tacked 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 re- 
 ceive 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 him- 
 self with musical instruments, to apply to the gen- 
 erosity of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent oc- 
 casions, used to advance the servants their wages : 
 not before they were due, but before they were 
 payable; that is, perhaps, half a year after they 
 were due; and this at the moderate premium of 
 fifty per cent, or a little more : by which charitable
 
 46 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 stripped 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 mo- 
 ment 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 im- 
 mediately, to which likewise he had some other in- 
 ducements ; which the reader, without being a con- 
 jurer, cannot possibly guess, till we have given 
 him those hints which it may be now proper to 
 open.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 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 be- 
 lieve it a more improper denotation of a simple 
 book. Instead of applying this to any particular 
 performance, we choose rather to remark the con- 
 trary 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 shown ; and secondly, which will 
 be now shown, that, instead of proceeding to the 
 habitation of his father and mother, or to his be- 
 loved 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 Jo- 
 seph (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 form- 
 erly been bred up in Sir John's family; whence, 
 a little before the journey to London, she had been 
 
 47
 
 48 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 discarded by Mrs. Slipslop, on account of her ex- 
 traordinary 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 
 by Josei:)h, and returned his affection. She was 
 two years only younger than our hero. They had 
 been acquainted from therir infancy, and had con- 
 ceived 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 com- 
 fortably 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 uni- 
 form behavior of thirty-five years' duration, that 
 he had their good entirely at heart, so they con- 
 sulted 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 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 vio- 
 lent love made her more than passive in his em- 
 braces; 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 49 
 
 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 pre- 
 vented them ; and this was, that poor Fanny could 
 neither write nor read : nor could she be prevailed 
 upon to transmit the delicacies of her tender and 
 chaste passion by the hands of an amanuensis. 
 
 They contented themselves therefore with fre- 
 quent 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, 
 ancient 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, that a lover can fly; the writers, by this in- 
 genious allegory, intending to insinuate no more 
 than that lovers do not march 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 traveler. It presents 
 you a lion on the sign-post: and the master, who 
 was christened Timotheus, is commonly called 
 
 1—4
 
 50 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 plain Tim. Some bath conceived that he hath 
 particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he 
 doth in countenance greatly resemble that mag- 
 nanimous beast, though his disposition savors 
 more of the sweetness of the lamb. He is a per- 
 son 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 smat- 
 tering 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 acquaint- 
 ance, with whom he had cracked many a merry 
 bottle, ay many a dozen^ in his time. He then re- 
 marked, that all these 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 neighboring gentleman, 
 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 Jo-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 61 
 
 seph himself intended to take. He, therefore, em- 
 braced this opportunity of complimenting his 
 friend with his master's horse (notwithstanding 
 he had received express commands to the con- 
 trary), which was readily accepted; and so, after 
 they had drank a loving pot, and the storm was 
 over, they set out together.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Containing many surprising adventures which Joseph Andrews 
 met with on the road, scarce credible to those who have 
 never traveled 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, making his friend 
 a present of a pint of wine, and thanking him for 
 the favor of his horse, notwithstanding all en- 
 treaties 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 some- 
 what 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'll give you something presently: but first strip 
 and be d — n 'd to you. ' ' — * ' Strip, ' ' cried the other, 
 "or I'll blow your brains to the devil." Joseph, 
 remembering that he had borrowed his coat and 
 breeches of a friend, and that he should be 
 
 52
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 53 
 
 ashamed of making any excuse for not returning 
 them, replied, he hoped they would not insist on 
 his clothes, which were not worth much, but con- 
 sider the coldness of the night. ''You are cold, 
 are you, you rascal?" said one of the robbers: 
 ''I'll warm you with a vengeance;" and, damning 
 his eyes, snapped a pistol at his head; which he 
 had no sooner done than the other le\^eled a blow 
 at him with his stick, which Joseph, who was ex- 
 pert at cudgel-playing, caught with his, and re- 
 turned the favor 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 de- 
 prived him of his senses. 
 
 The thief who had been knocked down had now 
 recovered himself; and both together fell to be- 
 laboring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they 
 were convinced they had put an end to his miser- 
 able being: they then stripped him entirely naked, 
 threw him into a ditch, and departed with their 
 bootj^ 
 
 The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long 
 time, just began to recover his senses as a stage- 
 coach came by. The postilion, hearing a man's 
 groans, stopped his horses, and told the coachman 
 he was certain there was a dead man lying in the 
 ditch, for he heard him groan. "Go on, 
 sirrah," says the coachman; "we are confounded 
 late, and have no time to look after dead men." 
 A lady, who heard what the postilion said, and 
 likewise heard the groan, called eagerly to the
 
 54 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 coacliman to stop and see what was the matter. 
 Upon which he bid the postilion alight, and look 
 into the ditch. He did so, and returned, ''that 
 there was a man sitting upright, as naked as ever 
 he was born." — "0 J — sus!" cried the lady; "a 
 naked man! Dear coachman, drive on and leave 
 him." Upon this the gentleman 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 gentle- 
 man: ''let us make all the haste imaginable, or 
 we shall be robbed too." A young man who be- 
 longed 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 com- 
 pany; if he should die they might be called to 
 some account for his murder. He therefore 
 thought it advisable to save the jooor creature's 
 life, for their own sakes, if possible; at least, if he 
 died, to pre\^ent the jury's finding that they fled 
 for it. He was therefore of opinion to take the 
 man into the coach, and carry him to the next 
 inn." The lady insisted, "That he should not 
 come into the coach. That if they lifted 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 be- 
 hind in that condition, saying no man could be too
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 55 
 
 cautious in these matters, and that he remembered 
 very extraordinary 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 perhaps a 
 little moved with compassion at the poor crea- 
 ture's condition, who stood bleeding and shivering 
 with the cold, he at length agreed ; and Joseph was 
 now advancing to the coach, where, seeing the 
 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 offense to de- 
 cency — so perfectly 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
 
 56 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 had two greatcoats spread iiDder him, refused to 
 lend either, lest the\^ should be made bloody: the 
 lady's footman desired to be excused for the same 
 reason, which the lady herself, notwithstanding 
 her abhorrence of a naked man, approved: and it 
 is more than probable poor Joseph, who obsti- 
 nately adhered to his modest resolution, must 
 have perished unless the postilion (a lad who 
 hath been since transported for robbing a hen- 
 roost) had voluntarily stripped off a greatcoat, 
 his only garment, at the same time swearing a 
 great oath (for which he was rebuked by the pas- 
 sengers), ''that he would rather ride in his shirt 
 all his life than suffer a fellow-creature to lie in 
 so miserable a condition." 
 
 Joseph, having put on the greatcoat, was lifted 
 into the coach, which now proceeded on its jour- 
 ney. 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 wondered 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 stopped, 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 
 lier health, declared, held some of the best Nantes 
 he had ever tasted: this the lady afterwards as- 
 sured the company was the mistake of her maid,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREAYS 57 
 
 for that she had ordered her to fill the bottle with 
 Himgary-water. 
 
 As soon as the fellows were departed, the law- 
 yer, 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 likewise set forth that he had often 
 met highwaymen when he traveled on horseback, 
 but none erver durst attack him; concluding that, 
 if he had not been more afraid for the lady than 
 for himself, he should not have now parted with 
 his money so easil3\ 
 
 xVs 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 offense 
 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 incum- 
 brance ; 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,
 
 58 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 prepared 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 clapped a large fagot on the 
 fire, and, furnishing Joseph with a greatcoat be- 
 longing 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 oppor- 
 tunity 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 prom- 
 ised to use her interest to borrow him a shirt ; but 
 imagining, 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 dressed, 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-passen- 
 ger who had been stripped of all he had, and al- 
 most 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 show her blooming cheeks 
 over the hills, whilst ten millions of feathered 
 songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes a thou- 
 sand times sweeter than those of our laureat, and 
 sung both the day and the song ; when the master
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 59 
 
 of the inn, Mr. Tow-wouse, arose, and learning 
 from bis maid an account of the robbery, and the 
 situation of his poor naked guest, he shook his 
 head, and cried, ''good-lack-a-day !" and then or- 
 dered the girl to carry him one of his own shirts. 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse 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 master?" — "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 cham- 
 ber-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-wouse? 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 dervil 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 am up, I assure you." — 
 "My dear," said he, "common charity won't suf-
 
 60 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 fer you to do that." — "Common charity, a f — t!" 
 says she, ''common charity teaches us to provide 
 for ourselves and our families ; 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 dressed 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 re- 
 covery. "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, notwithstanding his charity, 
 would have given his vote as freely as ever he did 
 at an election, that any other house in the king- 
 dom 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'll 
 Betty hei*," says she. — At which, with half her 
 garments on, the other half under her arm, she 
 sallied 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 circum- 
 stances of this melancholv affair.
 
 CHAPTEE Xm 
 
 What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with 
 the curious discourse between him and Mr. Barnabas, the 
 parson of the parish. 
 
 AS soon as Joseph had communicated a par- 
 ticular history of the robbery, together 
 with a short account of himself, and his 
 intended journey, he asked the surgeon if he ap- 
 prehended 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 fever- 
 ish, and, if his fever should prove more than symp- 
 tomatic, 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 humors should cause a suscita- 
 tion of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and 
 incapable to make 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 
 
 61
 
 '6^ THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 let- 
 ter, but they were refused him; and he was ad- 
 vised to use all his endeavors 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 de- 
 spaired 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 after- 
 wards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked 
 up to the room where Joseph lay ; but, finding him 
 asleep, returned to take the other sneaker; which' 
 when he had finished, he again crept softly up to 
 the chamber-door, and, having opened it, heard 
 the sick man talking to himself in the following 
 manner: — 
 
 ''0 most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sis- 
 ter ! whose example could alone enable me to with- 
 stand all the temptations of riches and beauty, 
 and to preserve 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 honors, 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 63 
 
 could give any comfort 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 with- 
 out repining. thou delightful charming crea- 
 ture ! if Heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the 
 poorest, humblest state would have been a para- 
 dise ; I could have lived with thee in the lowest cot- 
 tage 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 downstairs 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. 
 
 The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and 
 found his patient in a higher fever, as he said, 
 than when he left him, though not delirious; for, 
 notwithstanding 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 
 another world: in the first place, therefore, he 
 hoped he had repented of all his sins." Joseph-
 
 64 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 answered, "He hoped be 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 com- 
 mission 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 bade 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, ' ' That neither in 
 this world nor the next he could forget his Fanny ; 
 and that the thought, however grievous, of part- 
 ing 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 despondence 
 very criminal; that he must divest himself of all 
 human passions, and fix his heart above. ' ' Joseph 
 answered, "That was what he desired to do, and 
 should be obliged to him if he would enable him to 
 accomplish it." Barnabas replied, "That must 
 be done by grace." Joseph besought him to dis- 
 cover how he might attain it. Barnabas an- 
 swered, "By prayer and faith." He then ques- 
 tioned him concerning 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," an- 
 swered Barnabas, "it is lawful to kill a thief; but
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 65 
 
 can you say you forgive them as a Christian 
 ought?" Joseph desired to know what that for- 
 giveness was. ''That is," answered Barnabas, 
 ''to forgive them as — as — it is to forgive them as 
 — 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 remem- 
 bered 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 that was 
 enough, and then jDroceeded to prayer with all the 
 expedition he was master of, some company then 
 waiting for him below in the parlor, where the in- 
 gredients for punch were all in readiness; but no 
 one would squeeze the oranges till he came. 
 
 Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a lit- 
 tle tea; which Barnabas reported to Mrs. Tow- 
 wouse, who answered, "She had just done drink- 
 ing it, and could not be slopping all day;" but or- 
 dered 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 increase 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. 
 
 1—5
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Being very 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, commit- 
 ting his horse to the hostler, went directly into 
 the kitchen, and, having called for a pipe of to- 
 bacco, took his place by the fireside, where several 
 other persons were likewise assembled. 
 
 The discourse ran altogether on the robbery 
 which was committed the night before, and on the 
 poor wretch who lay above in the dreadful con- 
 dition 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 as- 
 sured 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 office, answered, she believed he was 
 a gentleman, for she never saw a finer skin in her 
 life. '*Pox on his skin !" replied 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). 
 
 66
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 67 
 
 The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great 
 deal of emotion at the distress of this poor crea- 
 ture, whom he observed to be fallen not into the 
 most compassionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs. 
 Tow-wouse had given no utterance to the sweet- 
 ness of her temper, nature had taken such pains 
 in her countenance, that Hogarth himself never 
 gave more expression to a picture. 
 
 Her person was short, 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 wonderfully adapted to the sentiments 
 it was to convey, being both loud and hoarse. 
 
 It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had 
 conceived a greater dislike for his landlady or 
 compassion for her unhappy guest. He inquired 
 very 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
 
 68 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 fel- 
 low, expose the gentleman. 
 
 He began therefore with an air of triumph: "I 
 suppose, sir, you have traveled?" — ''No, really, 
 sir," said the gentleman. — "Ho! then you have 
 practiced in the hospitals perhaps?" — *'No, sir.'* 
 — ''Hum! not that neither? Whence, sir, then, if 
 I may be so bold to inquire, 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 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 be- 
 lieve 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. ' ' — ' ' They 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 wink- 
 ing, and the whole company burst into a laugh.) 
 
 The doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the gen- 
 tleman, "If he did not understand physic as well
 
 JOSEPPI ANDREWS 69 
 
 as surgery." ''Rather better," answered the 
 gentleman. — ''Aye, like enough," cries the doc- 
 tor, with a wink. "Why, I know a little of physic 
 too." — "I wish I knew half so much," said Tow- 
 wouse, " I 'd never wear 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 morho: that is my method. I suppose, 
 brother, you understand Latin f" — "A little," 
 says the gentleman. — "Aye, and Greek now, I'll 
 warrant you: Ton dapomibominos poluflosboio 
 Thalasses. But I have almost forgot these 
 things: I could have repeated Homer by heart 
 
 once. ' ' ' ' If ags ! the gentleman has caught a 
 
 traitor," says Mrs. Tow-wouse; at which they all 
 fell a laughing. 
 
 The gemtleman, who had not the least affection 
 for joking, very contentedly suffered the doctor 
 to enjoy his victory, which he did with no small 
 satisfaction; 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 contusion on his head has perforated 
 the internal membrane of the occiput, and diveii- 
 cated 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."
 
 70 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 He was proceeding in this learned manner, 
 when a mighty noise interrupted him. Some 
 young fellows in the neighborhood 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 ribbon tied to it, and 
 which he could swear to amongst all the hoards of 
 the richest men in the universe. 
 
 Notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his 
 innocence, 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 Jose^oh, who received it with 
 raptures of joy, and, hugging it in his bosom, de- 
 clared 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 clothes which 
 had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other 
 things they had taken from him. 
 
 The gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he 
 declared he knew the livery; and, if it had been 
 taken from the poor creature above-stairs, de- 
 sired he might see him ; for that he was very well 
 acquainted with the family to whom that livery be- 
 longed. 
 
 He was accordingly conducted up by Betty; 
 but what, reader, was the surprise 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!
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 71 
 
 It would be impertinent to insert a discourse 
 which chiefly turned on the relation of matters al- 
 ready 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 inquisitive into all the particulars which had 
 produced this unfortunate accident. 
 
 To return therefore to the kitchen, where a 
 great variety of company were now assembled 
 from all the rooms of the house, as well as the 
 neighborhood: so much delight 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 
 apartments, in order to discourse over the rob- 
 bery, and drink a health to all honest men. But 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse, whose misfortune it was com- 
 monly 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 clothes, though the 
 mob were very well satisfied with that proof, yet, 
 as the surgeon observed, they could not convict 
 him, because they were not found in his custody; 
 to which Barnabas agreed, and added that these 
 were bona waviata, and belonged to the lord of the 
 
 manor. 
 
 How," says the surgeon, "do you say these
 
 72 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 goods belong to the lord of the manor?" — ''I do," 
 cried Barnabas. — ''Then I deny it," says the sur- 
 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, whatever is found belongs to the king of 
 London." — "That may be true," says Barnabas, 
 "in some sense; for the law makes a difference 
 bertween 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 ivaviata; 
 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 inno- 
 cence, had almost (as there was no ervidence 
 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 im- 
 mediately turned the scale against the prisoner, 
 and every one now concluded him guilty. It was 
 resolved, therefore, to keep him secured that night, 
 and early in the morning to carry him before a 
 justice.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Showing how Mrs. Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how 
 officious Mr. Barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute 
 the thief: with a dissertation accounting for their zeal, 
 and that of many other pei-sons not mentioned in this 
 history. 
 
 BETTY 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 familiarity be- 
 tween the gentleman and him ; and added, she was 
 certain thej^ were intimate acquaintance, if not re- 
 lations. 
 
 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 traveler 
 be a gentleman, though he hath no money about 
 him now, we shall most likely be paid 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 gentleman's misfor- 
 tune with all my heart ; and I hope the villain who 
 hath used him so barbarously will be hanged. 
 
 73
 
 74 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 
 deliver 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 
 finding it on the thief. 
 
 The only difficulty that remained was, how to 
 produce 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 ribbon to 
 his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing but ir- 
 resistible 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 persisting in the imminent danger in which his 
 patient lay, but concluding, 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 en-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 75 
 
 couraged, as he said, by an advertisement lately 
 set forth by the society of booksellers, who pro- 
 posed to purchase any copies otfered 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 half- 
 penny 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 bade him 
 "be cheerful; for that he plainly saw the surgeon, 
 besides his ignorance, 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 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; 
 livhether a poached egg, or chicken-broth." He
 
 76 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 answered. ' * He conld 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 confirma- 
 tion that he had not the least fever, but advised 
 him to a lighter diet for that evening. He accord- 
 ingly 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 sur- 
 geon came to the inn, in order to see the thief con- 
 veyed 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 ; for they were both extremely zeal- 
 ous in the business, though neither of them were in 
 the least interested in the prosecution ; neither of 
 them had ever received any private injury from 
 the fellow, nor had either of them ever been sus- 
 pected of loving the public well enough to give 
 them a sermon or a dose of physic for nothing. 
 
 To help our reader, therefore, as much as pos- 
 sible 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 conten- 
 tion between the two doctors, spiritual and physi- 
 cal, concerning their abilities in a scienjce, 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 con- 
 tempt on both sides, and had almost divided the
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 77 
 
 parish ; Mr. Tow-wouse and one half of the neigh- 
 bors inclining to the surgeon, and Mrs. Tow- 
 wouse with the other half to the parson. The 
 surgeon drew his knowledge from those inestima- 
 ble fountains, called The Attorney's Pocket Com- 
 panion, and Mr. Jacob's Law-Tables; Barnabas 
 trusted entirely to "Wood's Institutes. It hap- 
 pened on this occasion, as was pretty frequently 
 the case, that these two learned men differed about 
 the sufficiency 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 viribus. 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 public 
 justice. 
 
 Vanity ! how little is thy force acknowledged, 
 or thy operations discerned ! How wantonly 
 dost thou deceive mankind under different dis- 
 guises! Sometimes 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 public? — ^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 practiced to please 
 thee ; nor is the meanest thief below, or the great- 
 est hero above, thy notice. Thy embraces are
 
 78 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 pas- 
 sions are th}^ 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 pres- 
 ence. 
 
 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 pre- 
 vail on the reader to censure this digression as 
 arrant nonsense; for know, to thy confusion, that 
 I have introduced thee for no other purpose than 
 to lengthen out a short chapter, and so I return 
 to my history.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The escape of the thief. Mr. Adams' disappointment. The 
 arrival of two very extraordinary personages, and the 
 introduction of parson Adams to parson Barnabas. 
 
 BARNABAS and the surgeon, being re- 
 turned, as we have said, to the inn, in 
 order to convey the thief before the 
 justice, were greatly concerned to find a small ac- 
 cident had happened, which somewhat discon- 
 certed them; and this was no other than the thief's 
 escape, who had modestly withdrawn himself by 
 night, declining all ostentation, and not choosing, 
 in imitation of some great men, to distinguish him- 
 self at the expense of being pointed at. 
 
 When the company had retired the evening be- 
 fore, 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 sec- 
 ond watch a general complaint of drought was 
 made, both by the prisoner and his keepers. 
 Among whom it was at last agreed that the con- 
 stable should remain on duty, and the young fel- 
 low call up the tapster; in which disposition the 
 latter apprehended 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 be- 
 79
 
 80 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 fore it oeme into the constable's head that the 
 prisoner might leap on him by surprise, and, 
 thereby preventing him of the use of his weapons, 
 especially the long staif in which he chiefly con- 
 fided, might reduce the success of a struggle to a 
 equal chance. He wisely, therefore, to prevent 
 this inconvenience, slipped out of the room him- 
 self, and locked the door, waiting without 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 
 understood to atfect the honor of making any such 
 discovery), very much resembles a game at chess; 
 for as in the latter, while a gamester is too atten- 
 tive 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 unhap- 
 pily forgot the window. 
 
 The thief, who played on the other side, no 
 sooner perceived this opening than he began to 
 move that 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 surprised to find the 
 constable at the door; but much more so when, 
 the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 81 
 
 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 leaped 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 sus- 
 picion 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 sev- 
 eral guineas in his pocket; that it was very un- 
 likely he should have been guilty of such an over- 
 sight; that his pretense 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 election he always had sold his vote 
 to both jDarties, &c. 
 
 But, notwithstanding these and many other such 
 allegations, T am sufficiently convinced of his in- 
 nocence; having been positively assured of it by 
 those who received their informations from his 
 own mouth; which, in the opinion of some mod- 
 erns, 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 thief's escape, as it was out of his house; 
 he was a little comforted, however, by Mr. Bar- 
 nabas 's opinion, that as the escape was by night 
 the indictment would not lie. 
 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse delivered herself in the follow- 
 
 J-6
 
 82 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 ing words: ''Sure never was sucli a fool as my 
 husband ; would any otlier jjerson 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, Chamber- 
 Iain, 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 breakfast." "Yes, my dear," cried 
 Tow-wouse. She then asked the doctor and Mr. 
 Barnabas what morning's draught they chose, 
 who answered, they had a pot of cider-and at the 
 fire ; which we will leave them merry over, and re- 
 turn 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 possi- 
 ble to recruit it. At last he cried, "He had luck- 
 ily hit on a sure method, and, though it would 
 oblige him to return himself home together with
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 83 
 
 Joseph, it mattered not mucla. ' ' He them sent for 
 Tow-wouse, and, taking him into another room, 
 told him "he wanted to borrow 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 be- 
 lieved 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 forth 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 
 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 neighboring 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 surprised 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 undoubt- 
 edly 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 
 yalue, and heartily sorry it did not suit him."
 
 84 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 strata- 
 gem 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 
 meditation, assisted by the inspiring fumes of 
 tobacco. 
 
 He had on a nightcap 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 observation. 
 
 Whilst he was smoking 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 leaped from 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 fol- 
 lowing 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 T should have been sorry for the pointers." — 
 "Why, you son of a b — ," answered the other, "if
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 85 
 
 uobody 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'll pepper 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 honor 
 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 
 honor, 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 bet. ' ' — * * If you have a 
 mind for a bet, ' ' cries the coachman, ' ' I will match 
 my spotted dog with your white bitch for a hun- 
 dred, play or pay." — "Done," says the other: 
 "and I'll run Baldface against Slouch with you for 
 another. ' ' — ' ' No, ' ' cries he from the box ; ' ' but I '11 
 venture Miss Jenny against Baldface, or Hanni- 
 bal either." — "Go to the devil," cries he from the 
 coach: "I will make every bet your own way, to 
 be sure ! I will match Hannibal with Slouch for a 
 
 1 To blink is a terra used to signify the dog's passing by a 
 bird without pointing at it.
 
 86 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 thousand, if you dare; and I say done first." 
 
 They were now arrived ; and the reader will be 
 very contented to leave them, and rejoair to the 
 kitchen; where Barnabas, the surgeon, and an ex- 
 ciseman were smoking their pipes over some cider- 
 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 par- 
 son Adams smoking his pipe in the gallery." — 
 *'Yes," says Tom; ''I pulled off my hat to him, 
 and the parson spoke to me." 
 
 *'Is the gentleman a clergyman, then?" says 
 Barnabas (for his cassock had been tied up when 
 he arrived). "Yes, sir," answered the footman; 
 "and one there be but few like." — "Aye," said 
 Barnabas; "if I had known it sooner, I should 
 have desired his company ; I would always show 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 
 executed; and parson Adams accepting the invi- 
 tation, much civility passed between the two 
 clergymen, who both declared the great honor 
 they had for the cloth. They had not been long 
 together before they entered into a discourse on 
 small tithes, which continued a full hour, without 
 the doctor or exciseman's having one opportunity 
 to offer a word. 
 
 It was then proposed to begin a general conver- 
 sation, and the exciseman opened on foreign af- 
 fairs ; but a word unluckily dropping from one of
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 87 
 
 them introduced a dissertation on the hardship's 
 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 
 myself, 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," an- 
 swered Barnabas: "nay, the dog refused me a 
 Concordance in exchange. At last I offered to 
 give him the printing them, for the sake of dedi- 
 cating 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 after- 
 wards given away in exchange for a pointer, to 
 one who — but I will not say anything ag'ainst 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 con- 
 cise with you, three bishops said they were the 
 best that ever were written : but indeed 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 written upon? I remember when I was a
 
 88 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 boy, I used to read one Tillotson's sermons; and, 
 I am sure, if a man practiced half so much as is in 
 one of those sermons, he will go to heaven." — 
 "Doctor," cried Barnabas, "you have a profane 
 way of talking, for which I must reprove you. A 
 man can never have his duty too frequently incul- 
 cated 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 1 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, per- 
 haps you may sell them by advertising the manu- 
 script 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 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 lie 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 neighbors, 
 insomuch that he had neither alehouse nor lewd 
 woman in the parish where he lived." — "No," re- 
 i:>lied Barnabas, "that will not do quite so well;
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 89 
 
 for thie deceased, upon whose virtues I am to 
 harangue, was a little too much addicted to liquor, 
 
 and publicly 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 sei^arated : Adams and the doctor went up to 
 Joseph, parson Barnabas departed to celebrate 
 the aforesaid deceased, and the exciseman de- 
 scended into the cellar to guage 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 and examined his wounds, declared him 
 much better, which he imputed to that sanative 
 soporiferous draught, a medicine "whose vir- 
 tues," he said, "were never to be sufficiently ex- 
 tolled." And great indeed they must be, if 
 Joseph was so much indebted to them as the doc- 
 tor imagined; since nothing more than those ef- 
 fluvia which escaped the cork could have contrib- 
 uted to his recovery; for the medicine had stood 
 untouched in the window ever since its arrival. 
 
 Joseph passed that day, and the three following, 
 with his friend Adams, in which nothing so re- 
 markable 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
 
 90 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 pressed Mr. Adams to let him depart ; told him he 
 should never be able to return suflScient thanks for 
 all his favors, but begged that he might no longer 
 delay his journey to London. 
 
 Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he 
 conceived it, of Mr. Tow-wouse, and the envy (for 
 such he thought it) of Mr. Barnabas, had great ex- 
 pectations from his sermons: seeing therefore 
 Joseph in so good a way, he told him he would 
 agree to his setting out the next morning in the 
 stage-coach, that he believed he should have suffi- 
 cient, after the reckoning paid, to procure him 
 one day's conveyance in it, and afterwards he 
 would be able to get on on foot, or might be 
 favored with a lift in some neighbor's wagon, es- 
 pecially 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 him- 
 self, 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 
 smoking his pipe on a bench. 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 accom- 
 panied him, and took this opportunity to expati- 
 ate on the great mercies God had lately shown him, 
 of which he ought not only to have the deepest in- 
 ward sense, but likewise to express outward thank- 
 fulness for them. They therefore fell both on
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 91 
 
 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.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the book- 
 seller, which was broke off by an unlucky accident hap- 
 pening in the inn, which produced a dialogue between 
 Mi"s, Tow-wouse and her maid of no gentle kind. 
 
 AS soon as Adams came into the room, Mr. 
 Barnabas introduced him to the stranger, 
 who was, he told him, a bookseller, and 
 would be as likely to deal with him for his ser- 
 mons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting the 
 stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very 
 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 
 misfortune. He then snapped his fingers (as was 
 usual with him), and took two or three turns about 
 the room in an ecstasy. And to induce the book- 
 seller 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 oc- 
 casion for money at that time, his own being al- 
 most 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 in- 
 digent condition. ''So that nothing," says he, 
 "could be so opportune for the supplying both our 
 
 92
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 93 
 
 necessities as my making an immediate bargain 
 with you." 
 
 As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger 
 began in these words: "Sir, I do not care abso- 
 lutely 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." 
 
 *'0h!" 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 grocer doth figs, immediately objected to, and 
 advised Adams to let the bookseller have his ser- 
 mons: telling him, "if he gave him a direction, 
 he might be certain of a speedy answer;" adding, 
 he need not scruple trusting them in his posses- 
 sion. "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
 
 94 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 to plays." — ''Not by me, I assure you," cried 
 the bookseller, ''though I don't know whether the 
 licensing act may not shortly bring them to the 
 same footing; but I have formerly known a hun- 
 dred 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 con- 
 veying 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 hin- 
 drance," 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 ser- 
 mons, but because they don't sell: for I would as 
 soon print one of Whitefield's as any farce what- 
 ever. ' ' 
 
 "Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought 
 to be hanged," says Barnabas. "Sir," said he, 
 turning to Adams, "this fellow's writings (I 
 know not whether you have seen them) are leveled 
 at the clergy. He would reduce us to the exam- 
 l^le of the primitive ages, forsooth! and would 
 insinuate to the people that a clergyman ought 
 to be always preaching and praying. He pre- 
 tends 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 pre-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 95 
 
 served in her flourishing and established state. 
 Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all 
 the freethinkers, are not calculated to do half the 
 mischief, as those professed by this fellow and 
 his followers." 
 
 "Sir," answered Adams, ''if Mr. Whitefield 
 had carried his doctrine no farther than you men- 
 tion, I should have remained, as I once was, his 
 well-wisher. I am, myself, as great an enemy 
 to the luxury and splendor 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 savor 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 detest- 
 able doctrine of faith against good 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 
 honor 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 
 orthodox manner, thy want of faith shall con- 
 demn thee?' Or, on the other side, can any doc- 
 trine have a more pernicious influence on society, 
 than a persuasion that it will be a good plea for
 
 96 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 the villain at the last day — 'Lord, it is true I 
 never obeyed one of thy commandments, yet pun- 
 ish me not, for I believe them all?' " — "I sup- 
 pose, 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 belie my own opin- 
 ion, which hath always been, that a virtuous and 
 good Turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the 
 sight of their Creator than a vicious and wicked 
 Christian, though his faith was as perfectly ortho- 
 dox as St. Paul's himself." — "I wish you suc- 
 cess," 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 backward- 
 ness in the trade to engage in a book which the 
 clergy would be certain to cry down." — "God 
 forbid," says Adams, "any books should be prop- 
 agated 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 favorite 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 ven- 
 ture on the expression) with the pen of an angel, 
 and calculated to restore the true use of Chris- 
 tianitj^, and of that sacred institution; for what 
 could tend more to the noble purposes of religion 
 than frequent cheerful meetings among the mem- 
 bers of a society, in which they should, in the
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 97 
 
 presence of one another, and in the service of the 
 Supreme Being, make promises of being good, 
 friendly, and benevolent to each other? 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 attending, he bid him *' bring a 
 bill immediately; for that he was in company, for 
 aught he knew, with the devil himself; and he ex- 
 pected to hear the Alcoran, the Leviathan, or 
 Woolston commended, if he stayed a few minutes 
 longer." Adams desired, ''as he was so much 
 moved at his mentioning a book which he did with- 
 out apprehending any possibility of oifense, that 
 he would be so kind to propose any objections he 
 had to it, which he would endeavor 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 to- 
 gether; but Mrs. Tow-wouse 's voice, like a bass 
 viol in a concert, was clearly and distinctly dis- 
 tinguished among the rest, and was heard to ar- 
 ticulate the following sounds : — ' ' 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'll maul the slut, I'll tear her nasty eyes out! 
 1—7
 
 98 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 beg- 
 garly, saucy, dirty servant-maid. Get you out of 
 mj^ house, you whore." To which she added an- 
 other name, which we do not care to stain our pa- 
 per with. It was a monosyllable beginning with a 
 b — , and indeed was the same as if she had pro- 
 nounced the words, she-dog. Which term we 
 shall, to avoid offense, 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 lam- 
 entations; but the last appellation stung her to 
 the quick. "I am a woman as well as yourself," 
 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, sob- 
 bing, ''that's no reason you should call me out of 
 ray name; my be-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 that's 
 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.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 99 
 
 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 hav- 
 ing no defense to make, very prudently withdrew 
 himself; and Betty committed herself to the pro- 
 tection of the hostler, who, though she could not 
 conceive him jjleased 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 comi- 
 cal enough too perhaps, in modern history, yet 
 often fatal to the repose and well-being of fami- 
 lies, and the subject of many tragedies, both in 
 life and on the stage.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 The historj' 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 compassion, 
 but unfortunately, her constitution was composed 
 of those warm ingredients which, though the pur- 
 ity of courts or nunneries might have happily con- 
 troled 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 foot- 
 men, 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 armory of love, against them. 
 
 Betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now 
 lived three years in this dangerous situation, dur- 
 ing which she had escaped pretty well. An en- 
 sign of foot was the first person who made an im- 
 pression on her heart; he did indeed raise a flame 
 in her which required the care of a surgeon to 
 cool. 
 
 While she burned for him, several others burned 
 
 100
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 101 
 
 for her. Officers of the army, young gentlemen 
 traveling the western circuit, inoffensive squires, 
 and some of graver character, were set a-fire by 
 her charms ! 
 
 At length, having perfectly recovered the ef- 
 fects 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 neighboring 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 endearments of their lovers. This lat- 
 ter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being 
 entirely constant to John, with whom she per- 
 mitted Tom Whipwell the stage-coachman, and 
 now and then a handsome young traveler, to share 
 her favors. 
 
 Mr. Tow-wouse had for some time cast the 
 languishing eyes of affection on this young 
 maiden. He had laid hold on every opportunity 
 of saying tender things to her, squeezing her by 
 the hand, and sometimes kissing her lips; for, as 
 the violence of his passion had considerably 
 abated to Mrs. Tow-wouse, so, like water, which 
 is stopped from its usual current in one place, it 
 naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs. Tow- 
 wouse is thought to have perceived this abate- 
 ment, and, probably, it added very little to the
 
 102 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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. 
 
 Every since Joseph's arrival, Betty had con- 
 ceived an extraordinary liking to him, which dis- 
 covered 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 mod- 
 esty 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, leaped from her, and 
 told her he was sorry to see a young woman cast 
 off all regard to modesty; but she had gone too 
 far to recede, and grew so very indecent, that Jo- 
 seph 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. 
 
 How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is 
 always in his own power; that, if he hath suffi- 
 cient strength of mind, he hath always a compe- 
 tent strength of body to defend himself, and can- 
 not, like a poor weak woman, be ravished against 
 his will ! 
 
 Betty was in the most violent agitation at this 
 disappointment. Rage and lust pulled her heart, 
 as with two strings, two different ways; one mo- 
 ment she thought of stabbing Joseph ; the next, of 
 taking him in her arms, and devouring him with
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 103 
 
 kisses ; but the latter passion was far more preva- 
 lent. 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 engaged 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 into 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 whimsically capricious that one 
 man only could lay them, though, perhaps, she 
 would have rather preferred that one — the van- 
 quished fair one quietly submitted, I say, to her 
 master's will, who had just attained the accom- 
 plishment of his bliss when Mrs. Tow-wouse unex- 
 pectedly 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 dis- 
 charge of Betty, the submission of Mr. Tow- 
 wouse, with some things to be performed on his 
 side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness
 
 104 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 in being reconciled to him, with many hearty 
 l^romises never to offend any more in the like 
 manner; and, lastly, his quietly and contentedly 
 bearing to be reminded of his transgressions, as 
 a kind of penance, once or twice a day during the 
 residue of his life.
 
 BOOK II 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Of Divisions in Authors. 
 
 THERE are certain mysteries or secrets in 
 all trades, from the liighest to the lowest, 
 from that of prime-ministering to this of 
 authoring, which are seldom discovered nnless 
 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 tailor's bill, serving 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 advan- 
 tage of our reader, not our own ; and indeed, many 
 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 
 
 105
 
 106 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 lie may stop and take a glass or any other refresh- 
 ment as it pleases Mm. Nay, our fine readers 
 will, perhaps, be scarce able to travel farther than 
 through one of them in a day. As to those va- 
 cant pages which are placed between our books, 
 they are to be regarded as those stages where in 
 long journeys the traveler stays some time to re- 
 pose 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 ad- 
 vise him to travel through these pages too 
 fast; for if he doth, he may probably miss the 
 seeing some curious productions of nature, which 
 will be observed by the slower and more accurate 
 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 equally with other 
 historians, so a chapter or two (for instance, this 
 I am now writing) may be often passed over with- 
 out any injury to the whole. And in these in- 
 scriptions I have been as faithful as possible, not 
 imitating the celebrated Montaigne, who promises 
 you one thing and gives you another; nor some
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 107 
 
 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 ob- 
 vious, 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, 
 when they return to their study after half-an- 
 hour's absence, to forget where they left off. 
 
 These divisions have the sanction of great an- 
 tiquity. Homer not only divided his great work 
 into twenty-four books (in compliment perhaps to 
 the twenty-four letters to which he had very par- 
 ticular obligations), but, according to the opinion 
 of some very sagacious critics, hawked them all 
 separately, delivering only one book at a time 
 (probably by subscription). He was the first in- 
 ventor of the art which hath so long lain dormant, 
 of publishing by numbers; and art now brought 
 to such perfection, that even dictionaries are di- 
 vided and exhibited piecemeal to the public; nay, 
 one bookseller hath (to encourage learning and 
 ease the public) contrived to give them a diction- 
 ary in this divided manner for only fifteen shil- 
 lings 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 would insinuate that he pretends to no more
 
 108 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 than half the merit of the Greek; for the same 
 reason, our Milton went originally no farther than 
 ten; till, being puffed 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 critics have done; 
 who have with infinite labor and acute discern- 
 ment discovered what books are proper for em- 
 bellishment, 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 n'oint his 
 meat, for such assistance is of great help to both 
 the reader and the carver. And now, having in- 
 dulged myself a little, I will endeavor to indulge 
 the curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt im- 
 patient to know what he will find in the subse- 
 quent chapters of this book.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A surprising instance of Mr. Adams's short memory, with the 
 unfortmiate consequences which it brought on Joseph. 
 
 ME. ADAMS and Joseph were now ready 
 to depart different ways, when an acci- 
 dent determined the former to return 
 with his friend, which Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and 
 the bookseller had not been able to do. This ac- 
 cident was, that those sermons, which the parson 
 was traveling to London to publish, were, 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 
 presence of Joseph at the opening the saddle- 
 bags ; 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 them in the bags, where the par- 
 son had said they were deposited, had the curios- 
 ity to cry out, "Bless me, sir, where are your ser- 
 mons?" The parson answered, "There, there, 
 child; there they are, under my shirts." Now it 
 happened that he had taken forth his last shirt, 
 
 109
 
 110 THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 and the vehicle remained visibly empty. ''Sure, 
 sir," says Josei^h, "there is nothing in the bags." 
 Upon which Adams, starting, and testifying some 
 surprise, cried, ''Hey! fie, fie upon it! they are 
 not here sure enough. Ay, they are certainly 
 left behind." 
 
 Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasi- 
 ness which he apprehended his friend must feel 
 from this disappointment ; he begged him to pur- 
 sue his journey, and promised he would himself 
 return with the books to him with the utmost ex- 
 pedition. "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 dis- 
 courses with me, which are ut ita dicam, the sole 
 cause, the aitia monotate of my peregrination? 
 No, child, as this accident hath happened, I am re- 
 solved to return back to my cure, together with 
 you ; which indeed my inclination sufficiently leads 
 me to. This disappointment may perhaps be in- 
 tended 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 the inclination which the parson expressed of 
 returning with him; and now the bill was called 
 for, which, on examination, amounted within a shil- 
 ling 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 surprised, therefore, it cannot be 
 unnecessary to acquaint him that he had bor-
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 111 
 
 rowed a guinea of a servant belonging to the coach 
 and six, who had been formerly one of his parish- 
 ioners, 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 evem 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 traveling much used by persons who 
 have but one horse between them, and is thus 
 performed. The two travelers set out together, 
 one on horseback, the other on foot: now, as it 
 generally happens that he on horseback out-goes 
 him on foot, the custom is, that, when he arrives 
 at the distance agreed on, he is to dismount, tie 
 the horse to some gat«, 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 j^assed by his fellow-traveler, he 
 likewise arrives at the place of tying. And this 
 is that method of traveling 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 
 suffering 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 parlia- 
 ment's lady used to mount a pillion behind her 
 husband; and a grave sergeant at law conde- 
 scended to amble to "Westminster on an easy pad, 
 with his clerk kicking his heels behind him. 
 
 Adams was now gone some minutes, having in-
 
 112 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 sisted on Joseph's beginning the journey on horse- 
 back, 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, be- 
 ing referred to Mr. Tow-woiise, was by him de- 
 cided in favor 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 the last shilling with him). 
 Now, though there have been some ingenious per- 
 sons 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 expedient to ex- 
 tricate 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 impres- 
 sion, 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 dis- 
 covered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out 
 that little piece of gold which we have mentioned
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 113 
 
 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 jDreserve my life from starving, nor to redeem 
 it from a robber, would I part with this dear 
 piece!" answered Joseph. "What," 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, in- 
 deed, till I have the money," cried Tow-wouse. 
 A resolution 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. Jo- 
 seph out of the inn, we shall leave him in it, and 
 carry our reader on after parson Adams, who, 
 his mind being j^erfectly at ease, fell into a con- 
 templation on a passage in ^schylus, which en- 
 tertained him for three miles together, without 
 suffering him once to reflect on his fellow-traveler. 
 
 At length, having spun out his thread, and be- 
 
 1—8
 
 114 THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 ing now at the summit of a hill, he cast his eyes 
 backwards, 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 dis- 
 course. 
 
 He therefore resolved to proceed slowly for- 
 wards, not doubting but that he should be shortly 
 overtaken ; and soon came to a large water, which 
 filling the whole road, he saw no method of pass- 
 ing unless by wading through, which he accord- 
 ingly 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 have found a footpath 
 capable of conducting him without wetting his 
 shoes. 
 
 His surprise 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 
 entertainment 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 hundred yards forwards), he sat him- 
 self down on a stile, and pulled out his ^schylus. 
 
 A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked 
 Mm if he could direct him to an alehouse. The 
 fellow, who had just left it, and perceived the
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 115 
 
 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. 
 
 A horseman, following immediately after, and 
 being asked the same question, answered, 
 "Friend, there is one within a stone's throw; I 
 believe you may see it before you." Adams lift- 
 ing up his eyes, cried, "I protest, and so there 
 is;" and, thanking his informer, proceeded di- 
 rectly to it.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, 
 with Mr, Adams's inquiiy 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, fasten- 
 ing 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 detain- 
 ing the horse for his corn and hay." But the 
 former answered, "Undoubtedly he can; it is an 
 adjudged ease, and I have known it tried." 
 
 Adams, who, though he was, as the reader may 
 suspect, a little inclined to forgetfulness, never 
 wanted more than a hint to remind him, overhear- 
 ing their discourse, immediately suggested to him- 
 self that this 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 likely to have more rest than food, 
 unless he was paid for. 
 
 116
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 117 
 
 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, how- 
 ever, prevailed on to stay under covert, till the 
 shower, which was now very violent, was over. 
 
 The three travelers them sat down together over 
 a mug of good beer; when Adams, who had ob- 
 served 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 particular 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 submission to 
 refrain, his horsewhip was always ready to do 
 them justice." He said, ''That he was the great- 
 est tyrant to the neighbors 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 cruel a master, that he never kept a 
 servant a twelvemonth. In his capacity as a just- 
 ice," continued he, "he behaves so partially, that 
 he commits or acquits just as he is in the humor, 
 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
 
 118 THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 a prosecutor before liim : if I had an estate in the 
 neighborhood, 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 com- 
 panion was a prejudiced person. It is true," 
 says he, "perhaps, 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 tyrannizing over his neighbors, 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 great- 
 est equity and the highest wisdom ; and he verily 
 believed, several persons would give a year's pur- 
 chase more for an estate near him, than under the 
 wings of any other great man." He had just 
 finished his encomium when his companion re- 
 turned and acquainted him the storm was over. 
 Upon which they presently 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 119 
 
 to imagine they had by mistake been speaking of 
 two several gentlemen. "No, no, master," an- 
 swered the host (a shrewd, cunning fellow): "I 
 know the gentleman very well of whom they have 
 been speaking, as I do the gentleman 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 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 determined that justly, 
 for I heard the whole matter." — "Which did he 
 decide it in favor 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 contradict gen- 
 tlemen while they are drinking in my house; but 
 I knew neither of them spoke a syllable of truth."
 
 120 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 — *'God forbid!" said Adams, '^that men should 
 arrive at such a pitch of wickedness to belie the 
 character of their neighbor 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 lie in thy life?" — "Never a ma- 
 licious 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," says Adams, "for by 
 doing otherwise you injure the noblest part of 
 yourself, your immortal soul. I can hardly be- 
 lieve any man such an idiot to risk 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, tak- 
 ing up the cup, with a smile, drank a health to 
 hereafter; adding, "He was for something pres- 
 ent." — "Why," says Adams very gravely, "do 
 not you believe another world?" To which the 
 host answered, "Yes; he was no atheist." — "And 
 you believe 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 121 
 
 but In church." Adams asked him, ''Whj^ 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 an- 
 other?" 
 
 Whilst he was going for that purpose a stage- 
 coach drove up to the door. The coachman com- 
 ing into the house was asked by the mistress what 
 passengers he had in his coach? "A parcel of 
 squinny-gut h — s, ' ' says he ; "I have a good mind 
 to overturn them; you won't prevail upon them to 
 drink anything, I assure you." Adams asked 
 him, "If he had not seen a young man on horse- 
 back 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 surprise 
 when he saw his old acquaintance. Madam Slip- 
 slop? 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
 
 122 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 mistakem Adams for 
 a person traveling to a neighboring 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, 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 horse- 
 back. 
 
 Mrs. Slipslop would have persisted longer, had 
 not a lady in the coach put a short end to the dis- 
 pute, 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 Josej^h should proceed on 
 horseback. 
 
 They had not proceeded far before Mrs. Slip- 
 slop, addressing herself to the parson, spoke thus : 
 — ''There hath been a strange alteration in our 
 family, ]\Ir. Adams, since Sir Thomas's death." 
 "A strange alteration indeed," says Adams, "as 
 I gather from some hints which have dropped 
 from Joseph." — ''Aye," says she, "I could never
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 123 
 
 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 par- 
 son: ''he forced me to promise before he would 
 communicate anything. I am indeed concerned 
 to find her ladyship behave in so unbecoming 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 be- 
 haved more like a mad woman than anything 
 else." "Truly, I am heartily concerned," says 
 Adams, "for she was a good sort of a lady. In- 
 deed, I have often wished she had attended a lit- 
 tle more constantly at the service, but she hath 
 done a great deal of good in the parish." "0 
 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 ought not to brag ; but indeed I can't 
 avoid saying, 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 con- 
 trolled ; 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
 
 124 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 here." — Adams answered, ''He had never heard 
 this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for 
 he remembered she used to commend her mistress 
 and blame her master) had not formerly been of 
 another opinion." "I don't know," replied she, 
 **what I might once think; but now I am confidous 
 matters are as I tell you; the world will shortly 
 see who hath been deceived; for my part, I 
 say nothing, but that it is wondersome how some 
 people can carry all things with a grave face." 
 
 Thus Mr. Adams and she discoursed, till they 
 came opposite to a great house which stood at 
 some distance from the road: a lady in the coach, 
 spying it, cried, ''Yonder lives the unfortunate 
 Leonora, if one can justly call a woman unfortu- 
 nate 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 remark- 
 able. 
 
 The lady, who was perfectly well-bred, did not 
 require many entreaties, and having only wished 
 their entertainment might make amends for the 
 company's attention, she began in the following 
 manner.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The history of Leonoi'a, or the unfortunate jilt. 
 
 LEONORA was the daughter of a gentle- 
 man of fortune; she was tall and well- 
 shaped, with a sprightliness in her coun- 
 tenance which often attracts, beyond more regular 
 features joined with an insipid air: nor is this 
 kind of beauty less apt to deceive than allure; 
 the good humor which it indicates being often 
 mistaken for good nature, and the vivacity for 
 true understanding. 
 
 Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, 
 lived with an aunt of hers in a town in the north 
 of England. She was an extreme lover of 
 gayety, 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 partic- 
 ular in their gallantries towards her, Horatio 
 soon distinguished himself in her eyes beyond all 
 his competitors; she danced with more than or- 
 dinary gayety when he happened to be her part- 
 ner; neither the fairness of the evening, nor the 
 music of the nightingale, could lengthen her walk 
 like his company. She affected no longer to un- 
 derstand the civilities of others; whilst she in- 
 
 125
 
 126 TPIE HISTORY OF 
 
 dined 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 ferw years called to the degree of a barrister. 
 His face and person were such as the generality 
 allowed handsome; but he had a dignity in his 
 air very rarely to be seen. His temper was of 
 the saturnine complexion, and without the least 
 taint of moroseness. He had wit and humor, 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 impolitic to talk seriously 
 of love to a woman before you have made such a 
 progress in her affections, that she herself ex- 
 pects and desires to hear it. 
 
 But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may 
 create, which are apt to magnify every favor con- 
 ferred on a rival, and to see the little advances to- 
 wards themselves through the other end of the 
 perspective, it was impossible that Horatio's pas- 
 sion should so blind his discernment as to prevent 
 his conceiving hopes from the behavior of Leo-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 127 
 
 nora, 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 com- 
 municate to her of great consequence. "Are you 
 sure it is of consequence?" said she, smiling. ''I 
 hope," answered he, "you will think so too, since 
 the whole future happiness of my life must de- 
 pend on the event." 
 
 Leonora, who very much suspected what was 
 coming, would have deferred it till another time ; 
 but Horatio, who had more than half conquered 
 the difficulty of speaking by the first motion, was 
 so very importunate, that she at last yielded, and, 
 leaving the rest of the company, they turned aside 
 into an unfrequented walk. 
 
 They had retired far out of the sight of the 
 company, both maintaining a strict silence. At 
 last Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leo- 
 nora, 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, "0 Leonora! is 
 it necessary for me to declare to you on what the 
 future happiness of my life must be founded?
 
 128 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Must I say there is something belonging to yon 
 which is a bar to my happiness, and which unless 
 you will part with, I must be miserable!" — 
 "What can that be I" replied Leonora. "No 
 wonder," said he, "you are surprised that I 
 should make an objection to anything which is 
 yours ; yet sure you may guess, since it is the only 
 one which the riches of the world, if they were 
 mine, should purchase for me. Oh, it is that 
 which you must part with to bestow all the 
 rest! Can Leonora, or rather will she, doubt 
 longer? Let me then whisper it in her ears — It is 
 your name, madam. It is by parting with that, 
 by your condescension to be for ever mine, which 
 must at once prevent me from being the most 
 miserable, and will render me the happiest of 
 mankind." 
 
 Leonora, covered with blushes, and with as 
 angry a look as she could possibly put on, told 
 him, "That had she suspected what his declara- 
 tion would have been, he should not have decoyed 
 her from her company, that he had so surprised 
 and frightened her, that she begged him to convey 
 her back as quick as possible;" which he, trem- 
 bling 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.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 129 
 
 Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, 
 said the lady, many weeks had not passed after 
 this interview before Horatio and Leonora were 
 what they call on a good footing together. All 
 ceremonies except the last were now over; the 
 writings were now drawn, and everything was in 
 the utmost forwardness preparative to the put- 
 ting 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 let- 
 ters; but being put to the vote, it was carried 
 against her by all the rest in the coach; parson 
 Adams contending for it with the utmost ve- 
 hemence. 
 
 HOBATIO 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 learn- 
 ing, which, however agreeable it might have form- 
 erly 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 en- 
 gagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of see- 
 ing 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 
 
 1—9
 
 130 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 warm imagination of a lover will sometimes in- 
 dulge him, and which I suspect my eyes then be- 
 tray. To fear this discovery of our thoughts may 
 perhaps appear too ridiculous a nicety to minds 
 not susceptible of all the tendernesses of this 
 delicate passion. And surely, we shall sus- 
 pect there are few such, when we consider that 
 it requires every human virtue to exert itself in its 
 full extent; since the beloved, whose happiness it 
 ultimately respects, may give us charming oppor- 
 tunities of being brave in her defense, generous to 
 her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grate- 
 ful to her kindness; and in the same manner, of 
 exercising every other virtue, which he who would 
 not do to any degree, and that with the utmost 
 rapture, can never deserve the name of a lover. 
 It is, therefore, with a view to the delicate mod- 
 esty of your mind that I cultivate it so purely in 
 my own ; and it is that which will sufficiently sug- 
 gest to you the uneasiness I bear from those lib- 
 erties, which men to whom the world allow po- 
 liteness will sometimes give themselves on these 
 occasions. 
 
 **Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect 
 the arrival of that blessed day, when I shall ex- 
 perience the falsehood of a common assertion, 
 that the greatest human happiness consists in 
 hope? A doctrine which no person had ever 
 stronger reason to believe than myself at present, 
 since none ever tasted such bliss as fires my 
 bosom with the thoughts of spending my future 
 days with such a companion, and that every action
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 131 
 
 of my life will have the glorious satisfaction of 
 conducing to your happiness." 
 
 LEONORA TO HORATIO.^ 
 
 "The refinement of your mind has been so evi- 
 dently proved by every word and action ever since 
 I had the first pleasure of knowing you, that I 
 thought it impossible my good opinion of Horatio 
 could have been heightened to any additional 
 proof of merit. This very thought was my 
 amusement when I received your last letter, 
 which, when I opened, I confess I was surprised to 
 find the delicate sentiments expressed there so far 
 exceeding what I thought could come even from 
 you (although I know all the generous principles 
 human nature is capable of are centered in your 
 breast), that words cannot paint what I feel on 
 the reflection that my happiness shall be the ulti- 
 mate end of all your actions. 
 
 "Oh, Horatio! what a life must that be, where 
 the meanest domestic cares are sweetened by the 
 pleasing consideration that the man on earth who 
 best deserves, and to whom you are most inclined 
 to give your affections, is to reap either profit or 
 pleasure from all you do! In such a case toils 
 must be turned into diversions, and nothing but 
 the unavoidable inconveniences of life can make 
 us remember that we are mortal. 
 
 "If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the 
 desire of keeping them undiscovered, makes even 
 
 1 This letter was written by a young lady on reading the 
 former.
 
 132 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 the conversation of men of wit and learning tedi- 
 ous to you, what anxious hours must I spend, who 
 am condemned by custom to the conversation of 
 women, whose natural curiosity leads them to pry 
 into all my thoughts, and whose envy can never 
 suffer Horatio's heart to be possessed by any one, 
 without forcing them into malicious designs 
 against the person who is so happy as to possess 
 it! But, indeed, if ever envy can possibly have 
 any excuse, or even alleviation, it is in this case, 
 where the good is so great, and it must be equally 
 natural to all to wish it for themselves; nor am 
 r ashamed to own it: and to your merit, Horatio, 
 1 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 
 tlie sessions chanced to be held for that county in 
 a town about twenty miles' distance from *hat 
 which is the scene of our story. It seems, it is 
 usual for the young gentlemen of the bar to re- 
 pair to these sessions, not so much for the sake of 
 profit as to show their parts and learn the law of 
 the justices of peace; for which purpose one of 
 the wisest and gravest of all the justices is ap- 
 pointed speaker, or chairman, as they modestly 
 call it, and he reads them a lecture, and instructs 
 them in the true knowledge of the law.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 133 
 
 ''You are here guilty of a little mistake," says 
 Adams, ''which, if you please, I will correct: I 
 have attended at one of these quarter-sessions, 
 where I observed the counsel taught the justices, 
 instead of learning anything of them." 
 
 It is not very material, said the lady. Hither 
 repaired Horatio, who, as he hoped by his profes- 
 sion to advance his fortune, which was not at pres- 
 ent very large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, 
 he resolved to spare no pains, nor lose any op- 
 portunity of improving or advancing himself 
 in it. 
 
 The same afternoon in which he left the town, 
 as Leonora stood at her window, a coach and six 
 passed by, which she declared to be the com- 
 pletest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever 
 saw; adding these remarkable words, "Oh, I am 
 in love with that equipage!" which, though her 
 friend Florella at that time did not greatly re- 
 gard, she hath since remembered. 
 
 In the evening an assembly was held, which 
 Leonora honored with her company' ; but intended 
 to pay her dear Horatio the compliment of refus- 
 ing to dance in his absence. 
 
 Oh, why have not women as good resolution to 
 maintain their vows as they have often good in- 
 clinations in making them! 
 
 The gentleman wiio owned the coach and six 
 came to the assembly. His clothes were as re- 
 markably 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 edg- 
 ings, were eclipsed in an instant.
 
 134 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 "Madam," said Adams, "if it be not imperti- 
 nent, I should be glad to know how this gentleman 
 was dressed." 
 
 Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had 
 on a cut velvet coat of a cinnamon color, lined with 
 a pink satin, embroidered all over with gold; 
 his waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was em- 
 broidered with gold likewise. I cannot be partic- 
 ular as to the rest of his dress; but it was all in 
 the French fashion, for Bellarmine (that was his 
 name) was just arrived from Paris. 
 
 This fine figure did not more entirely engage 
 the eyes of every lady in the assembly than 
 Leonora did his. He had scarce beheld her, but 
 he stood motionless and fixed as a statue, or at 
 least would have done so if good breeding had per- 
 mitted him. However, he carried it so far before 
 he had power to correct himself, that every person 
 in the room easily discovered where his admira- 
 tion was settled. The other ladies began to single 
 out their former partners, all perceiving who 
 would be Bellarmine 's choice; which they how- 
 ever endeavored, by all possible means, to pre- 
 vent: many of them saying to Leonora, "O 
 madam! I suppose we shan't have the pleasure 
 of seeing you dance to-night;" and then crying 
 out, in Bellarmine's hearing, "Oh! Leonora will 
 not dance, I assure you: her partner is not here." 
 One maliciously attempted to prevent her, by 
 sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her, that so 
 she might be obliged either to dance with him, or 
 sit down; but this scheme proved abortive. 
 
 Leonora saw herself admired by the fine
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 135 
 
 stranger, and envied by every woman present. 
 Her little heart began to flutter within her, and 
 her head was agitated with a convulsive motion: 
 she seemed as if she would speak to several of her 
 acquaintance, but had nothing to say; for, as she 
 would not mention her present triumph, so she 
 could not disengage her thoughts one moment 
 from the contemplation of it. She had never 
 tasted anything like this happiness. She had be- 
 fore known what it was to torment a single 
 woman; but to be hated and secretly cursed by 
 a whole assembly was a joy reserved for this 
 blessed moment. As this vast profusion of 
 ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so 
 there was nothing so foolish as her behavior: she 
 played a thousand childish tricks, distorted her 
 person into several shapes, and her face into sev- 
 eral 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 admi- 
 ration, and at the same time a triumph, from that 
 admiration, over every woman in the room. 
 
 In this temper of mind, Bellarmine, having in- 
 quired who she was, advanced to her, and with a 
 low bow begged the honor of dancing with her, 
 which she, with as low a courtesy, immediately 
 granted. She danced with him all night, and en- 
 joyed, 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."
 
 136 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six 
 in the morning, but not to rest. She tumbled and 
 tossed in her bed, with very short intervals of 
 sleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the 
 equipage and fine clothes she had seen, and the 
 balls, operas, and ridottos, which had been the 
 subject of their conversation. 
 
 In the afternoon, Bellarmine, in the dear coach 
 and six, came to wait on her. He was indeed 
 channed with her person, and was, on inquiry, so 
 well pleased with the circumstances of her father 
 (for he himself, notwithstanding all his finer}'-, 
 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 accord- 
 ingly, and that with so much warmth and brisk- 
 ness, that he quickly baffled her weak repulses, 
 and obliged the lady to refer him to her father, 
 who, she knew, would quickly declare in favor 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 gayety and gal- 
 lantry possessed himself of in an instant. In 
 othei' 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
 
 JOSEPH AXDREAVS 137 
 
 of Bellarmine's visit, Leonora bad scarce once 
 thought of Horatio : biu he now began, though an 
 unwelcome guest, to enter into her raind. She 
 wished she had seen the charming Bellarmine and 
 his charming ecjuipage before matters had gone 
 so far. "Yet why," says she, "shouki I wish to 
 have seen him before ; or what signifies it that I 
 have seen him now? Is not Horatio my lover, al- 
 most my husband? Is he not as handsome, nay 
 handsomer than Bellarmine? Aye, but Bellar- 
 mine is the genteeler. and the finer man ; yes. that 
 he must be allowed. Yes. yes, he is that rer 
 tainly. But did not I. no longer ago than yester- 
 day, love Horatio more than all the world? Aye, 
 but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. But 
 doth not Horatio dote on me, and may he not in 
 despair break hi> 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. v\'hen every she was laying out 
 for him? When was it in Horatio's power to 
 give me such an instance of atfection? 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 
 coimselor and the wife of one of Bellarmine's 
 fortrme ! If I marry Horatio. I shall triumph 
 over no more than one rival : but by marrying 
 Bellarmine, I shall be the envy of all my ac- 
 quaintance. What happiness ! But can I suf-
 
 138 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 fer Ploratio to die? for he hath sworn he cannot 
 survive my loss: but perhaps he may not die: if 
 he should, can I prevent it? Must I sacrifice my- 
 self to him? besides, Bellarmine may be as mis- 
 erable for me too." She was thus arguing with 
 herself, when some young ladies called her to the 
 walks, and a little relieved her anxiety for the 
 present. 
 
 The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with 
 her in presence of her aunt, whom he sufficiently 
 informed of his passion for Leonora. He was no 
 sooner withdrawn than the old lady began to ad- 
 vise 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 en- 
 gagements to Horatio. "Engagements to a fig!" 
 cried the aunt; "you should thank Heaven on 
 your knees that you have it yet in your power to 
 break them. Will any woman hesitate a moment 
 whether she shall ride in a coach or walk on foot 
 all the days of her life? But Bellarmine drives 
 six, and Horatio not even a pair." — "Yes, but, 
 madam, what will the world say?" answered 
 Leonora: "will not they condemn me?" — "The 
 world is always on the side of prudence," cries 
 the aunt, "and would surely condemn you if you 
 sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. 
 Oh! I know the world very well; and you show 
 your ignorance, my dear, by your objection. 0' 
 my conscience! the world is wiser. I have lived 
 longer in it than you; and I assure you there is
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 139 
 
 not anything worth our regard besides money; 
 nor did I ever know one person who married from 
 other considerations, who did not afterwards 
 heartily repent it. Besides, if we examine the 
 two men, can yon prefer a sneaking fellow, who 
 hath been bred at the university, to a fine gentle- 
 man just come from his travels. All the world 
 must allow Bellarmine to be a fine gentleman, 
 positively a fine gentleman, and a handsome 
 man." — ''Perhaps, madam, I should not doubt, if 
 I knew how to be handsomely off with the other." 
 — ''Oh! leave that to me," says the aunt. "You 
 know your father hath not been acquainted with 
 the affair. Indeed, for my part I thought it 
 might do well enough, not dreaming of such an 
 offer; but I'll disengage you: leave me to give 
 the fellow an answer. I warrant you shall have 
 no farther trouble." 
 
 Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's 
 reasoning; and Bellarmine supping with her that 
 evening, it was agreed he should the next morn- 
 ing go to her father and propose the match, which 
 she consented should be consummated at his re- 
 turn. 
 
 The aunt retired soon after supper; and, the 
 lovers being left together, Bellarmine began in 
 the following manner: "Yes, madam; this coat, I 
 assure you, was made at Paris, and I defy the 
 best English tailor even to imitate it. There is 
 not one of them can cut, madam; they can't cut. 
 If you observe how this skirt is turned, and this 
 sleeve: a clumsy English rascal can do nothing 
 like it. Pray, how do you like my liveries?"
 
 140 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Leonora answered, "She thought them very 
 pretty." — "All French," says he, *'I assure you, 
 except the greatcoats; I never trust anything 
 more than a greatcoat to an Englishman. You 
 know one must encourage our own people what 
 one can, especially as, before I had a place, I was 
 in the country interest, he, he, he! But for my- 
 self, I would see the dirty island at the bottom 
 of the sea. rather than wear a single rag of Eng- 
 lish 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 
 tirst opera I saw since I came over, I mistook the 
 English ladies for chambermaids, he, he, he!" 
 
 With such sort of polite discourse did the gay 
 Bellarmine entertain his beloved Leonora, when 
 the door opened on a sudden, and Horatio entered 
 the room. Here 'tis impossible to express the 
 surprise of Leonora. 
 
 "Poor woman!" says Mrs. Slipslop, "what a 
 teiTible quandary she must be in!" — "Not at 
 all," says Mrs. Grave-airs; "such sluts can never 
 be confounded." — "She must have then more 
 than Corinthian assurance," said Adams; "aye, 
 more than Lais herself." 
 
 A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in 
 the whole company. If the familiar entrance of 
 Horatio struck the greatest astonishment into 
 Bellarmine, the unexpected presence of Bellar- 
 mine no less surprised Horatio. At length 
 Leonora, collecting all the spirit she was mistress
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 141 
 
 t)f, addressed herself to the latter, and pretended 
 to wonder at the reason of so late a visit. "I 
 should indeed," answered he, ''have made some 
 apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not 
 my finding you in company assured me I do not 
 break in upon your repose." Bellarmine rose 
 from his chair, traversed the room in a minuet 
 step, and hummed an opera tune, while Horatio, 
 advancing to Leonora, asked her in a whisper if 
 that gentleman was not a relation of hers; to 
 which she answered with a smile, or rather sneer, 
 "No, he is no relation of mine yet;" adding, ''she 
 could not guess the meaning of his question." 
 Horatio told her softly, "It did not arise from 
 jealousy." — "Jealousy! I assure you, it would 
 be very strange in a common acquaintance to give 
 himself any of those airs." These words a little 
 surprised Horatio ; but, before he had time to an- 
 swer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady and told 
 her, "He feared he interrupted some business 
 between her and the gentleman." — "I can have 
 no business," said she, "with the gentleman, nor 
 any other, which need be any secret to you." 
 
 "You'll pardon me," said Horatio, "if I de- 
 sire to know who this gentleman is who is to be 
 entrusted with all our secrets." — "You'll know 
 soon enough," cries Leonora; "but I can't guess 
 what secrets can ever pass between us of such 
 mighty consequence." — "No, madam!" cries 
 Horatio; "I am sure you would not have me un- 
 derstand you in earnest." — " 'Tis indifferent to 
 me," says she, "how you understand me; but I 
 think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be
 
 142 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 understood at all, at least when people find one 
 engaged: though one's servants do not deny one, 
 one may expect a well-bred person should soon 
 take the hint." ''Madam," said Horatio, *'I did 
 not imagine any engagement with a stranger, as 
 it seems this gentleman is, would have made my 
 visit impertinent, or that any such ceremonies 
 were to be preserved between persons in our sit- 
 uation." ''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 breed- 
 ing." "Sure," said he, "I am in a dream; for it 
 is impossible I should be really esteemed a com- 
 mon acquaintance by Leonora, after what has 
 passed between us?" "Passed between us! Do 
 you intend to affront me before this gentleman?" 
 "D — n me^ affront the lady," says Bellarmine, 
 cocking his hat, and strutting up to Horatio: 
 "does any man dare affront this lady before me, 
 d — n me?" "Hark'ee, sir," says Horatio, "I 
 would advise you to lay aside that fierce air; for 
 I am mightily deceived if this lady has not a vio- 
 lent desire to get your worship a good drubbing." 
 "Sir," said Bellarmine, "I have the honor 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 i^repared for you" 
 (shaking his whip at him). "Oh, serviteur ires 
 Inimble/' says Bellarmine: "Je vous entend 
 parfaitment hien." At which time the aunt, who 
 had heard of Horatio's visit, entered the room,
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 143 
 
 an(3 soon satisfied all his doubts. She convinced 
 him that he was never more awake in his life, and 
 that nothing more extraordinary had happened in 
 his three days' absence than a small alteration in 
 the affections of Leonora; who now burst into 
 tears, and wondered what reason she had given 
 him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio 
 desired Bellarmine to withdraw with him; but 
 the ladies prevented it by laying violent hands 
 on the latter; upon which the former took his 
 leave without any great ceremony, and departed, 
 leaving the lady with his rival to consult for his 
 safety, which Leonora feared her indiscretion 
 might have endangered; but the aunt comforted 
 her with assurances that Horatio would not ven- 
 ture his person against so accomplished a cavalier 
 as Bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would 
 seek revenge in his own way, and the most they 
 had to apprehend from him was an action. 
 
 They at length therefore agreed to permit Bel- 
 larmine to retire to his lodgings, having first set- 
 tled all matters relating to the journey which he 
 was to undertake in the morning, and their prep- 
 arations for the nuptials at his return. 
 
 But, alas! as wise men have observed, the seat 
 of valor 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 pru- 
 dently decline it. 
 
 Leonora was waked in the morning, from a vis- 
 ionary coach and six, with the dismal account
 
 144 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 that Bellarmine was run through the body by 
 Horatio; that he lay languishing at an inn, and 
 the surgeons had declared the wound mortal. 
 She immediately leaped out of the bed, danced 
 about the room in a frantic manner, tore her hair 
 and beat her breast in all the agonies of despair ; 
 in which sad condition her aunt, who likewise 
 arose at the news, found her. The good old lady 
 applied her utmost art to comfort hei' niece. She 
 told her, ''While there was life there was hope; 
 but that if he should die her affliction would be of 
 no service to Bellarmine, and would only expose 
 herself, which might, probably, keep her some 
 time without any future offer; that, as matters 
 had happened, her wisest waj^ would be to think 
 no more of Bellarmine, but to endeavor to regain 
 the affections of Horatio." ''Speak not to me," 
 cried the disconsolate Leonora; "is it not owing 
 to me that poor Bellarmine has lost his life? 
 Have not these cursed charms (at which words 
 she looked steadfastly in the glass) been the ruin 
 of the most charming man of this age? Can I 
 ever bear to contemplate my own face again 
 (with her eyes still fixed on the glass) ? Am I not 
 the murderess of the finest gentleman? No other 
 woman in the town could have made any impres- 
 sion on him." "Never think of things past," 
 cries the aunt: "think of regaining the affections 
 of Horatio." "What reason," said the niece, 
 "have I to hope he would forgive me? No, I 
 have lost him as well as the other, and it was 
 your wicked advice which was the occasion of all ; 
 you seduced me, contrary to my inclinations, to
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 145 
 
 abandon poor Horatio (at which words she burst 
 into tears) ; you prevailed upon me, whether I 
 would or no, to give up my affections for him ; had 
 it not been for you, Bellarmine never would have 
 entered into my thoughts; had not his addresses 
 been backed by your persuasions, they never 
 would have made any impression on me ; I should 
 have defied all the fortune and equipage in the 
 world; but it was you, it was you, who got the 
 better of my youth and simplicity, and forced me 
 to lose my dear Horatio for ever." 
 
 The aunt was almost borne down with this tor- 
 rent of words; she, however, rallied all the 
 strength she could, and, drawing her mouth up in 
 a purse, began: "I am not surprised, 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 un- 
 grateful in you to desire or attempt it, after the 
 presents you have received from him." (For in- 
 deed 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 compli- 
 mented her with a brilliant from his finger, of 
 much greater value than all she had touched of 
 the other.) 
 
 The aunt's gall was on float to reply, when a 
 servant brought a letter into the room, which 
 Leonora, hearing it came from Bellarmine, with 
 
 i— 10
 
 146 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 great eagerness opened, and read as follows: — 
 
 "Most nmNE Ceeature, — 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 bril- 
 liant. Those are the only cannons by which I am 
 to fall; for my surgeon gives me hopes of being 
 soon able to attend your ruelle; till when, unless 
 you would do me an honor 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 favor, 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 appre- 
 hend such rumors, should they get abroad, might 
 injure a reputation which, by frequenting church 
 twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigor and 
 strictness in her countenance and behavior for 
 many years, she had established. ^
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 147 
 
 Leonora's passion returned now for Bellar- 
 mine with greater force, after its small relax- 
 ation, than ever. She proposed to her aunt to 
 make him a visit in his confinement, which the old 
 lady, with great and commendable prudence, ad- 
 vised her to decline: ''For," says she, "should 
 any accident intervene to prevent your intended 
 match, too forward a behavior with this lover may 
 injure you in the eyes of others. Every woman, 
 till she is married, ought to consider of, and pro- 
 vide against, the possibility of the affair's break- 
 ing off." Leonora said, "She should be indif- 
 ferent 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 insatiable curiosity, and heartily de- 
 sirous of hearing the end of this amour, though 
 he professed he could scarce wish success to a 
 lady of so inconstant a disposition.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A dreadful quan-el which happened at the inn where the com- 
 pany dined, with its bloody consequences to Mi*. Adams. 
 
 AS soon as the passengers had alighted from 
 the coach, Mr. Adams, as was his custom, 
 made directly to the kitchen, where he 
 found Joseph sitting by the fire, and the hostess 
 anointing his leg ; for the horse which Mr. Adams 
 had borrowed of his clerk had so violent a pro- 
 pensity 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 inten- 
 tion; he was often found on his knees when the 
 rider least expected it. This foible, however, was 
 of no great inconvenience to the parson, who was 
 accustomed to it; and, as his legs almost touched 
 the ground when he bestrode the beast, had but 
 a little way to fall, and threw himself forward on 
 such occasions with so much dexterity that he 
 never received any mischief ; the horse and he fre- 
 quently rolling many paces' distance, and after- 
 wards both getting up and meeting as good 
 friends as ever. 
 
 Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such 
 kind of cattle, though an excellent horseman, did 
 not so happily disengage himself ; but, falling with 
 his leg under the beast, received a violent con- 
 tusion, to which the good woman was, as we have 
 
 148
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 149 
 
 said, applying a warm hand, with some camphor- 
 ated spirits, just at the time when the parson en- 
 tered the kitchen. 
 
 He had scarce expressed his concern for 
 Joseph's misfortune before the host likewise en- 
 tered. He was by no means of Mr. Tow-wouse's 
 gentle dis^DOsition ; and was, indeed, perfect mas- 
 ter of his house, and everything in it but his 
 guests. 
 
 This surly fellow, who always proportioned his 
 respect to the appearance of a traveler, from * ' God 
 bless your honor," down to plain ''Coming pres- 
 ently, ' ' observing his wife on her knees to a foot- 
 man, cried out, without considering his circum- 
 stances, ''What a pox is the woman about? why 
 don't you mind the company in the coach? Go 
 and ask them what they will have for dinner." 
 "My dear," says she, "you know they can have 
 nothing but what is at the fire, which will be ready 
 presently, and really the poor young man's leg is 
 very much bruised." At which words she fell to 
 chafing more violently than before: the bell then 
 happening to ring, he damn'd his wife, and bid 
 her go in to the company, and not stand rubbing 
 there all day, for he did not believe the young fel- 
 low's leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it 
 was, within twenty miles he would find a surgeon 
 to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams fetched 
 two strides across the room; and snapping his 
 fingers over his head, muttered aloud, He would 
 excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for 
 he believed the devil had more humanity. These 
 words occasioned a dialogue between Adams and
 
 150 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 compliment over his 
 face with his fist, that the blood immediately 
 gushed out of his nose in a stream. The host, be- 
 ing unwilling to be outdone in courtesy, especially 
 by a person of Adams's figure, returned the favor 
 with so much gratitude, that the parson's nostrils 
 began to look a little redder than usual. Upon 
 which he again assailed his antagonist, and with 
 another stroke laid him sprawling on the floor. 
 
 The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly 
 a husband deserved, seeing her husband all bloody 
 and stretched along, hastened presently to his as- 
 sistance, or rather to revenge the blow, which, to 
 all appearance, was the last he would ever re- 
 ceive; when, lo! a pan full of hog's blood, which 
 unluckily stood on the dresser, presented itself 
 first to her hands. She seized it in her fury, and 
 without any reflection, discharged it into the par- 
 son's face; and with so good an aim, that much 
 the greater part first saluted his countenance, and 
 trickled thence in so large a current down to his 
 beard, and over his garments, that a more horri- 
 ble spectacle was hardly to be seen, or even 
 imagined. All which was perceived by Mrs. Slip- 
 slop, who entered the kitchen at that instant.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 151 
 
 iThis good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so 
 extremely cool and patient as perhaps was re- 
 quired to ask many questions on this occasion, 
 flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, 
 which, together with some of her hair, she plucked 
 from her head in a moment, giving her, at the 
 same time, several hearty cuffs in the face; which 
 by frequent practice on the inferior servants, she 
 had learned an excellent knack of delivering with 
 a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise 
 from his chair; the parson was employed in wip- 
 ing the blood from his eyes, which had entirely 
 blinded him ; and the landlord was but just begin- 
 ning to stir; whilst Mrs. Slipslop, holding down 
 the landlady's face with her left hand, made so 
 dexterous an use of her right, that the poor woman 
 began to roar, in a key which alarmed all the com- 
 pany in the inn. 
 
 There happened to be in the inn, at this time, 
 besides the ladies who arrived in the stage-coach, 
 the two gentlemen who were present at Mr. Tow- 
 wouse's when Joseph was detained for his horse's 
 meat, and whom we have before mentioned to 
 have stopped at the alehouse with Adams. There 
 was likewise a gentleman just returned from his 
 travels to Italy; all whom the horrid outcry of 
 murder presently brought into the kitchen, where 
 the several combatants were found in the pos- 
 tures already described. 
 
 It was now no difficulty to put an end to the 
 fray, the conquerors being satisfied with the ven- 
 geance they had taken, and the conquered having 
 no appetite to renew the fight. The principal fig-
 
 152 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 ure, and which engaged the eyes of all, was 
 Adams, who was all over covered with blood, 
 which the whole company concluded to be his own, 
 and consequently imagined him no longer for this 
 world. But the host, who had now recovered 
 from his blow, and was risen from the ground, 
 soon delivered them from this apprehension, by 
 damning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings, 
 and telling her all would have been very well if 
 she had not intermeddled, like a b — as she was; 
 adding, he was very glad the gentlewoman had 
 paid her, though not half what she deserved. The 
 poor woman had indeed fared much the worst; 
 having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost 
 a quantity of hair, which Mrs. Slipslop in triumph 
 held in her left hand. 
 
 The traveler, addressing himself to Mrs. Grave- 
 airs, desired her not to be frightened ; for here had 
 been only a little boxing, which he said, to their 
 disgracia, the English were accustomata to: add- 
 ing, it must be, however, a sight somewhat strange 
 to him, who was just come from Italy ; the Italians 
 not being addicted to the cu/fardo, but hastonza, 
 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 re- 
 turned to the lady, and cried, ^'I find the bloody 
 gentleman is uno insipido del nullo senso. Dam- 
 mato di me, if I have seen such a spectaculo in my 
 way from Viterbo." 
 
 One of the gentlemen having learned from the
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 153 
 
 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 re- 
 cover." — "Recover! master," said the host, smil- 
 ing: "yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying with a 
 blow or two neither ; I am not such a chicken as 
 that." — "Pugh!" said the gentleman, "I mean 
 you will recover damages in that action which, 
 undoubtedly, you intend to bring, as soon as a writ 
 can be returned from London ; for you look like a 
 man of too much spirit and courage to suffer any 
 one to beat you without bringing your action 
 against him: he must be a scandalous fellow in- 
 deed 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 in- 
 termeddle 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 circum- 
 stances, 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, scratch- 
 ing his head, "I have no stomach to law, I thank 
 you. I have seen enough of that in the parish, 
 where two of my neighbors have been at law about 
 a house, till they have both lawed themselves into
 
 154 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 a jail." 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 defense, 
 had not some awe of the company, especially of 
 the Italian traveler, who was a person of great 
 dignity, withheld his rage. 
 
 Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen 
 was employed, as we have seen him, on the behalf 
 of the landlord, the other was no less hearty on 
 the side of Mr. Adams, whom he advised to bring 
 his action immediately. He said the assault of 
 the wife was in law the assault of the husband, 
 for they were but one person; and he was liable 
 to pay damages, which he said must be consid- 
 erable, where so bloody a disposition appeared. 
 Adams answered, If it was true that they were but 
 one person, he had assaulted the wife; for he was 
 sorry to own he had struck the husband the first 
 blow. ''I am sorry you own it too," cries the 
 gentleman; ''for it could not possibly appear to 
 the court; for here was no evidence present but 
 the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be 
 your friend, and would consequently say nothing 
 but what made for you." — ''How, sir," says 
 Adams, "do you take me for a villain, who would 
 prosecute revenge in cold blood, and use unjusti- 
 fiable 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."
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 155 
 
 Matters being now composed, the company re- 
 tired to their several apartments ; the two gentle- 
 men congratulating each other on the success of 
 their good offices in procuring a perfect reconcili- 
 ation between the contending parties; and the 
 traveler went to his repast, crying, "As the Ital- 
 ian poet says — 
 
 'Je vol very well que tutta e pace, 
 So send up dinner, good Boniface.' " 
 
 The coachman began now to grow importunate 
 with his passengers, whose entrance into the 
 coach was retarded by Miss Grave-airs insisting, 
 against the remonstrance of all the rest, that she 
 would not admit a footman into the coach; for 
 poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. A 
 young lady, who was, as it seems, an earl's grand- 
 daughter, begged it with almost tears in her eyes. 
 Mr. Adams prayed, and Mrs. Slipslop scolded; 
 but all to no purpose. She said, ''She would not 
 demean herself to ride with a footman : that there 
 were wagons on the road: that if the master of 
 the coach desired it, she would pay for two places ; 
 but would suffer no such fellow to come in." 
 — "Madam," says Slipslop, "I am sure no one 
 can refuse another coming into a stage-coach." — 
 "I don't know, madam," says the lady; "I am 
 not much used to stage-coaches; I seldom travel 
 in them. ' ' — * ' That may be, madam, ' ' replied Slip- 
 slop; "very good people do; and some people's 
 betters, for aught I know." Miss Grave-airs 
 said, "Some folks might some times give their 
 tonnes a liberty, to some people that were their
 
 156 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 betters, which did not become them ; for her part, 
 she was not used to converse with servants." 
 Slipslop returned, "Some people kept no servants 
 to converse with; for her part, she thanked 
 Heaven she lived in a family where there were a 
 great many, and had more under her own com- 
 mand than any paltry 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 bet- 
 ters," answered Miss Grave-airs, "and I'll ac- 
 quaint your mistress." — At which Mrs. Slipslop 
 laughed aloud, and told her, "Her lady was one 
 of the great gentry ; and such little paltry gentle- 
 women as some folks, who traveled 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 an- 
 swered, "0 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 un- 
 less 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 whis-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 157 
 
 >) 
 
 per, *'If he knew who the gentleman was 
 The coachman answered, ''He was now a gentle- 
 man, and kept his horse and man; but times are 
 altered, master," said he; "I remember when he 
 was no better born than myself." — ''Ay! ay!" 
 says Adams. "My father drove the squire's 
 coach," answered he, "when that very man rode 
 postilion ; but he is now his steward ; and a great 
 gentleman." Adams then snapped his fingers, 
 and cried, "He thought she was some such trol- 
 lop." 
 
 Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs. Slipslop 
 with this good news, as he imagined it; but it 
 found a reception different from what he ex- 
 pected. 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 serv- 
 ants of a great family in her neighborhood, began 
 to fear her interest with the mistress. She 
 wished she had not carried the dispute so far, and 
 began to think of endeavoring 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
 
 158 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 fourth a smelling-bottle behind her; to find all 
 which occasioned some delay and much swearing 
 to the coachman. 
 
 As soon as the coach had left the inn, the 
 women all together fell to the character of Miss 
 Grave-airs; whom one of them declared she had 
 suspected to be some low creature, from the be- 
 ginning of their journey, and another affirmed she 
 had not even the looks of a gentlewoman : a third 
 warranted she was no better than she should be; 
 and, turning to the lady who had related the story 
 in the coach, said, "Did you ever hear, madam, 
 anything so prudish as her remarks? Well, de- 
 liver me from the censoriousness of such a prude." 
 The fourth added, "0 madam! all these crea- 
 tures are censorious; but for my part, I wonder 
 where the wretch was bred ; indeed, I must own I 
 have seldom conversed with these mean kind of 
 people, so that it may appear stranger to me ; but 
 to refuse the general desire of a whole company 
 had something in it so astonishing, that, for my 
 part, I own I should hardly believe it if my own 
 ears had not been witnesses to it." — "Yes, and 
 so handsome a young fellow," cries Slipslop; "the 
 woman must have no compulsion in her : I believe 
 she is more of a Turk than a Christian ; I am cer- 
 tain, if she had any Christian woman's blood in 
 her veins, the sight of such a young fellow must 
 have warmed it. Indeed, there are some 
 wretched, miserable old objects, that turn one's 
 stomach; I should not wonder if she had refused 
 such a one; I am as nice as herself, and should 
 have cared no more than herself for the company
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 159 
 
 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, perceiv- 
 ing the spirits which Mrs. Slipslop was in (for in- 
 deed 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 re- 
 quest that well-bred woman immediately com- 
 plied with.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt. 
 
 LEONORA, having once broke through the 
 bounds which custom and modesty impose 
 on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indul- 
 gence to her passion. Her visits to Bellarmine 
 were more constant, as well as longer, than his 
 surgeon's: in a word, she became absolutely his 
 nurse; made his water-gruel, administered him 
 his medicines; and, notwithstanding the prudent 
 advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost entirely 
 resided in her wounded lover's apartment. 
 
 The ladies of the town began to take her con- 
 duct under consideration : it was the chief topic of 
 discourse at their tea-tables, and was very se- 
 verely censured by the most part; especially by 
 Lindamira, a lady whose discreet and starch car- 
 riage, together with a constant attendance at 
 church three times a day, had utterly defeated 
 many malicious attacks on her own reputation; 
 for such was the envy that Lindamira 's virtue 
 had attracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict 
 behavior and strict inquiry into the lives of others, 
 she had not been able to escape being the mark 
 of some arrows herself, which, however, did her 
 no injury ; a blessing, perhaps, owed by her to the 
 clergy, who were her chief male companions, and 
 
 160
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 161 
 
 with two or three of whom she had been barbar- 
 ously and unjustly calumniated. 
 
 ''Not so unjustly neither, perhaps," says Slip- 
 slop; ''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 al- 
 lowed herself: she said, "It was an atfront to her 
 sex; that she did not imagine it consistent with 
 any woman's honor to speak to the creature, or 
 to be seen in her company ; and that, for heri' jDart, 
 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 Bellar- 
 mine was recovered, which was somewhat within 
 a month from his receiving the wound, he set out, 
 according to agreement, for Leonora's father's, in 
 order to propose the match, and settle all matters 
 with him touching settlements, and the like. 
 
 A little before his arrival the old gentleman had 
 received an intimation of the affair by the fol- 
 lowing letter, which I can repeat verbatim, and 
 which, thej^ say, was written neither by Leonora 
 nor her aunt, though it was in a woman's hand. 
 The letter was in these words : — 
 
 "Sib, — ^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 gen- 
 tleman to whom she had engaged herself, and 
 whom she hath (pardon the word) jilted for an- 
 other of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his su- 
 I— 11
 
 162 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 perior figure. You may take what measures 
 YOU please on this occasion; I have performed 
 what I thought my duty; as I have, though un- 
 known to YOU, a very great respect for your fam- 
 ily." 
 
 The old gentleman did not give himself the 
 trouble to answer this kind epistle; nor did he 
 take any notice of it, after he had read it, till he 
 saw Bellarmine. He was, to say the truth, one of 
 those fathers who look on children as an unhappy 
 consequence of their youthful pleasures; which, 
 as he would have been delighted not to have had 
 attended them, so was he no less pleased with any 
 opportunity to rid himself of the incumbrance. 
 He passed, in the world's language, as an exceed- 
 ing good father ; being not only so rapacious as to 
 rob and plunder all mankind to the utmost of his 
 power, but even to deny himself the conveniencies, 
 and almost necessaries, of life; which his neigh- 
 bors attributed to a desire of raising immense for- 
 tunes for his children : but in fact it was not so ; 
 he heaped up money for its own sake only, and 
 looked on his children as his rivals, who were to 
 enjoy his beloved mistress when he was incapable 
 of possessing her, and which he would have been 
 much more charmed with the power of carrying 
 along with him; nor had his children any other 
 security of being his heirs than that the law would 
 constitute them such without a will, and that he 
 had not affection enough for any one living to 
 take the trouble of writing one. 
 
 To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the er- 
 rand I have mentioned. His person, his equi-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 163 
 
 page, his family, and his estate, seemed to the 
 father to make him an advantageous match for 
 his daughter: he therefore very readily accepted 
 his proposals : but when Bellarmine imagined the 
 principal affair concluded, and began to open the 
 incidental matters of fortune, the old gentleman 
 presently changed his countenance, saying, ''He 
 resolved never to marry his daughter on a Smith- 
 field match ; that whoever had love for her to take 
 her would, when he died, find her share of his for- 
 tune in his coffers; but he had seen .such exam- 
 ples 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 dis- 
 sertation on horses; and came at length to com- 
 mend those Bellarmine drove. That fine gentle- 
 man, who at another season would have been well 
 enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, 
 was now very eager to resume the circumstance 
 of fortune. He said, "He had a very high value 
 for the young lady, and would receive her with 
 less than he would any other whatever; but that 
 even his love to her made some regard to worldly 
 matters necessary; for it would be a most dis- 
 tracting sight for him to see her, when he had 
 the honor to be her husband, in less than a coach 
 and six." The old gentleman answered, "Four
 
 164 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 pur- 
 pose; 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 impos- 
 sible for him, though he loved Leonora more than 
 tout le monde, to marry her without any fortune." 
 To which the father answered, ''He was sorry that 
 his daughter must lose so valuable a match ; that, 
 if he had an inclination, at present it was not in 
 his power to advance a shilling: that he had had 
 great losses, and been at great expenses on proj- 
 ects; which, though he had great expectation 
 from them, had yet produced him nothing: that 
 he did not know what might happen hereafter, as 
 on the birth of a son, or such accident; but he 
 would make no promise, or enter into any article, 
 for he would not break his vow for all the daugh- 
 ters in the world. 
 
 In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in sus- 
 pense, Bellarmine, having tried every argument 
 and persuasion which he could invent, and find- 
 ing them all ineffectual, at length took his leave, 
 but not in order to return to Leonora; he pro- 
 ceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after a 
 few days' stay, he returned to Paris, to the great 
 delight of the French and the honor of the Eng- 
 lish nation. 
 
 But as joon as he arrived at his home he pres-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 165 
 
 cntly dispatched a messenger with the following 
 epistle to Leonora: — 
 
 ''Adorable and Charmante, — ^I am sorry to 
 have the honor to tell you I am not the heureux 
 person destined for your divine arms. Your papa 
 hath told me so with a polUesse not often seen on 
 this side Paris. You may perhaps guess his man- 
 ner of refusing me. Ah, mon Dieu! You will cer- 
 tainly believe me, madam, incapable myself of de- 
 livering this triste message, which I intend to try 
 the French air to cure the consequences of. A 
 jamais! Coeur! Ange! Au diable! If your 
 papa obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall 
 see you at Paris; till when, the wind that flows 
 from thence will be the warmest dmis le monde, 
 for it will consist almost entirely of my sighs. 
 Adieu, ma princessef Ah, V amour I 
 
 Bellarmine.'* 
 
 I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's 
 condition when she received this letter. It is a 
 picture of horror, which I should have as little 
 pleasure in drawing as you in beholding. She 
 immediately left the place where she was the 
 subject of conversation and ridicule, and retired 
 to that house I showed you when I began the 
 story; where she hath ever since led a disconso- 
 late life, and deserves, perhaps, pity for her mis- 
 fortunes, more than our censure for a behavior 
 to which the artifices of her aunt very probably 
 contributed, and to which very young women are
 
 166 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 often rendered too liable by that blamable 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 gen- 
 tleman was a little false-hearted; but howsum- 
 ever, it was hard to have two lovers, and get 
 never a husband at all. But pray, madam, what 
 became of Our-ashof" 
 
 He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and 
 hath applied himself so strictly to his business, 
 that he hath raised, I hear, a very considerable 
 fortune. And what is remarkable, they say he 
 never hears the name of Leonora without a sigh, 
 nor hath ever uttered one syllable to charge her 
 with her ill-conduct towards him.
 
 CHAPTER Yll 
 
 A very short chapter, in which parson Adams went a great 
 
 way. 
 
 THE lady having finished her story, re- 
 ceived the thanks of the company; and 
 now Joseph, putting his head out of the 
 coach, cried out, "Never believe me if yonder be 
 not our parson Adams walking along without his 
 horse!" — "On my word, and so he is," says Slip- 
 slop: "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 Jo- 
 seph into the coach, that he never once thought 
 of the beast in the stable ; and, finding his legs as 
 nimble as he desired, he sallied out, brandishing 
 a crabstick, and had kept on before the coach, 
 mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so 
 that he had never been much more or less than a 
 quarter of a mile distant from it. 
 
 Mrs. Slipslop desired the coachman to over- 
 take him, which he attempted, but in vain ; for the 
 faster he drove the faster ran the parson, often 
 crying out, "Aye, aye, catch me if you can;" till 
 at length the coachman swore he would as soon 
 attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, giving 
 the parson two or three hearty curses, he cried 
 
 167
 
 168 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 ''Softly, softly, boys," to his horses, which the 
 ci^'il 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 be- 
 hind him, till, having left the coach full three miles 
 in his rear, he came to a place where, by keeping 
 the extremest track to the right, it was just barely 
 possible for a human creature to miss his way. 
 This track, however, did he keep, as indeed he had 
 a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare possi- 
 bilities, and, traveling in it about three miles over 
 the plain, he arrived at the summit of a hill, 
 whence looking a great way backwards, and per- 
 ceiving no coach in sight, he sat himself down on 
 the turf, and, pulling out his ^schylus, deter- 
 mined 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 tak- 
 ing up a partridge which he had just shot. 
 
 Adams stood up and presented a figure to the 
 gentleman which would have moved laughter in 
 many; for his cassock had just again fallen down 
 below his greatcoat, that is to say, it reached his 
 knees, whereas the skirts of his greatcoat de- 
 scended no lower than half-way down his thighs; 
 but the gentleman's mirth gave way to his sur- 
 prise at beholding such a personage in such a 
 place. 
 
 Adams, advancing; to the gentleman, told him
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 169 
 
 lie hoped he had good sport, to which the other an- 
 swered, ''Very little." — ''I see, sir," says Adams, 
 ''you have smote one partridge;" to which the 
 sportsman made no reply, but proceeded to charge 
 his piece. 
 
 Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained 
 in silence, which he at last broke by observing 
 that it was a delightful evening. The gentleman, 
 who had at first sight conceived a very distaste- 
 ful opinion of the parson, began, on perceiving a 
 book in his hand and smoking likewise the infor- 
 mation 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 traveler, and invited by the beauty of the even- 
 ing 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 afternooon, 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 gen- 
 tleman: "the soldiers, who are quartered in the 
 neighborhood, have killed it all." — "It is very 
 probable," cries Adams, "for shooting is their 
 profession." — "Ay, shooting the game," an- 
 swered the other; "but I don't see they are so 
 forward to shoot our enemies. I don't like that af- 
 fair 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?
 
 170 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 a man who won't sacrifice Ins life for his country, 
 deserves to be hanged, d — n me." Which words 
 he spoke with so violent a gesture, so loud a voice, 
 so strong an accent, and so fierce a countenance, 
 that he might have frightened a captain of trained 
 bands at the head of his company ; but Mr. Adams 
 was not greatly subject to fear; he told him in- 
 trepidly that he very much approved his virtue, 
 but disliked his swearing, and begged him not to 
 addict himself to so bad a custom, without which 
 he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did. 
 Indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he 
 told the gentleman he would willingly have gone 
 many miles to have met a man of his generous 
 way of thinking; that, if he pleased to sit down, 
 he should be greatly delighted to commune with 
 him; for, though he was a clergyman, he would 
 himself be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his 
 life for his country. 
 
 The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; 
 and then the latter began, as in the following- 
 chapter, a discourse which we have placed by 
 itself, as it is not only the most curious in this 
 but perhaps in any other book.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A notable dissertation by Mr. Abraham Adams; wherein that 
 gentleman appears in a political light. 
 
 I 
 
 ^^~f" DO assure you, sir" (says he, taking the 
 gentleman by the hand), '*I am heartily 
 glad to meet with a man of your kidney; 
 for, though I am a poor parson, I will be bold to 
 say I am an honest man, and would not do an ill 
 thing to be made a bishop ; nay, though it hath not 
 fallen in my way to offer so noble a sacrifice, I 
 have not been without opportunities of suffering 
 for the sake of my conscience, I thank Heaven for 
 them; for I have had relations, though I say it, 
 who made some figure in the world; particularly 
 a nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman 
 of a corporation. He was a good lad, and was 
 under my care when a boy ; and I believe would do 
 what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it 
 looks like extreme vanity in me to affect being a 
 man of such consequence as to have so great an 
 interest in an alderman; but others have thought 
 so too, as manifestly appeared by the rector, 
 whose curate I formerly was, sending for me on 
 the approach of an election, and telling me, if I 
 expected to continue in his cure, that I must 
 bring my nephew to vote for one Colonel Courtly, 
 a gentleman whom I had never heard tidings of 
 till that instant. I told the rector I had no power 
 
 171
 
 172 THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 over my nephew's vote (God forgive me for such 
 prevarication!); that I supposed he would give 
 it according to his conscience; that I would by no 
 means endeavor to influence him to give it other- 
 wise. He told me it was in vain to equivocate; 
 that he knew I had already spoke to him in favor 
 of esquire Fickle, my neighbor; and, indeed, it 
 was true I had; for it was at a season when the 
 church was in danger, and when all good men ex- 
 pected they knew not what would happen to us all. 
 I then answered boldly, if he thought I had given 
 my promise, he atfronted 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 verhum quidem, ut ita dicam-. within two years 
 he got a place, and hath ever since lived in Lon- 
 don; where I have been informed (but God forbid 
 I should believe that,) that he never so much as 
 goeth to church. I remained, sir, a considerable 
 time without any cure, and lived a full month on 
 one funeral sermon, which I preached on the in- 
 disposition of a clergyman; but this by the bye. 
 At last, when Mr. Fickle got his place. Colonel 
 Courtly stood again ; and who should make inter- 
 est 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 solicit my nephew for 
 him ; and the colonel himself offered me to make 
 me chaplain to his regiment, which I refused in fa-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 173 
 
 vor of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us he would 
 sacrifice everything to his country; and I believe 
 he would, except his hunting, which he stuck so 
 close to, that in five years together he went but 
 twice up to parliament ; and one of those times, I 
 have been told, never was within sight of the 
 House. However, he was a worthy man, and the 
 best friend I ever had ; for, by his interest with a 
 bishop, he got me replaced into my curacy, and 
 gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket to 
 buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. 
 He had our interest while he lived, which was not 
 many years. On his death I had fresh applica- 
 tions made to me; for all the world knew the in- 
 terest I had with my good nephew, who now was 
 a leading man in the corporation ; and Sir Thomas 
 Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir 
 Oliver's, proposed himself a candidate. He was 
 then a young gentleman just come from his trav- 
 els ; and it did me good to hear him discourse on 
 affairs which, for my part, I knew nothing of. If 
 I had been master of a thousand votes he should 
 have had them all. I engaged my nephew in his 
 interest, and he was elected ; and a very fine par- 
 liament-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 pos- 
 siimus 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, in- 
 deed, I never heard till afterwards; for my
 
 174 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 nephew, who died about a month before the in- 
 cumbent, always told me I might be assured of it. 
 Since that time, Sir Thomas, poor man, had al- 
 ways so much business, that he never could find 
 leisure to see me. I believe it was partly my lady's 
 fault too, who did not think my dress good enough 
 for the gentry at her table. However, I must do 
 him the justice to say he never was ungrateful; 
 and I have always found his kitchen, and his cellar 
 too, open to me: many a time, after service 
 on a Sunday — for I preach at four churches 
 — have I recruited my spirits with a glass of his 
 ale. Since my nephew's death, the corporation 
 is in other hands ; and I am not a man of that con- 
 sequence I was formerly. I have now no longer 
 any talents to lay out in the service of my country ; 
 and to whom nothing is given, of him can nothing 
 be required. However, on all proper seasons, 
 such as the approach of an election, I throw a 
 suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I 
 have the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to 
 Sir Thomas and the other honest gentleman my 
 neighbors, 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 uni- 
 versity, 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 endeavored to do before
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 175 
 
 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 pub- 
 lic light as his father once was, I can answer for 
 him he will use his talents as honestly as I have 
 done."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 In which the gentleman discants on braveiy and heroic virtue, 
 till an unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse. 
 
 THE gentleman highly commended Mr. Ad- 
 ams 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 ex- 
 change his commission and go to the West Indies. 
 I believe the rascal is a coward, though he pre- 
 tends to be in love forsooth. I would have all 
 such fellows hanged, sir; I would have them 
 hanged." Adams answered, "That would be too 
 severe ; that men did not make themselves ; and if 
 fear had too much ascendance in the mind, the 
 man was rather to be pitied than abhorred; that 
 reason and time might teach him to subdue it." 
 He said, "A man might be a coward at one time, 
 and brave at another. Homer," says he, "who 
 so well understood and copied Nature, hath taught 
 us this lesson; for Paris fights and Hector runs 
 away. Nay, we have a mighty instance of this 
 in the history of later ages, no longer ago than 
 the 705th year of Rome, when the great Pompey, 
 
 176
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 177 
 
 who bad won so many battles and been bonored 
 witb so many triumpbs, and of wbose valor sev- 
 eral autbors, especially Cicero and Paterculus, 
 bave formed sucli elogiums; tbis very Pompey 
 left tbe battle of Pbarsalia before be bad lost it, 
 and retreated to bis tent, wbere he sat like tbe 
 most pusillanimous rascal in a fit of despair, and 
 yielded a victory, wbicb was to determine tbe 
 empire of tbe world, to Caesar. I am not mucb 
 traveled in tbe bistory of modern times, tbat is to 
 say, tbese last thousand years ; but tbose wbo are 
 can, I make no question, furnish you witb parallel 
 instances." He concluded, therefore, tbat, had 
 he taken any such hasty resolutions against bis 
 nephew, he hoped be would consider better, and 
 retract them. Tbe gentleman answered with 
 great warmth, and talked mucb of courage and his 
 country, till, perceiving it grew late, be asked 
 Adams, ''What place be intended for that night?" 
 He told him, '*He waited there for the stage- 
 coach." — "The stage-coach, sir!" said tbe gentle- 
 man; ''they are all passed by long ago. You may 
 see tbe last yourself almost three miles before 
 us." — ''I protest and so they are," cries Adams; 
 ''then I must make baste and follow them." The 
 gentleman told him, he would hardly be able to 
 overtake them; and that, if be did not know bis 
 way, be would be in danger of losing himself on 
 tbe downs, for it would be presently dark ; and he 
 might ramble about all night, and perhaps find 
 ! himself farther from his journey's end in the 
 morning than be was now." He advised him, 
 j therefore, "to accompany him to his bouse, which 
 
 1—12
 
 178 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 traveled, the gentleman re- 
 newing 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 com- 
 panion's hand. "What are you doing!" said he. 
 * ' Doing ! ' ' said Adams ; " I am hastening to the as- 
 sistance of the poor creature whom some villains 
 are murdering." — ''You are not mad enough, I 
 hope," says the gentleman, trembling: "do you 
 consider this gun is only charged with shot, and 
 that the robbers are most probably furnished 
 with pistols loaded with bullets? This is no busi- 
 ness of ours; let us make as much haste as pos- 
 sible out of the way, or we may fall into their 
 hands ourselves." The shrieks now increasing, 
 Adams made no answer, but snapped his fingers, 
 and, brandishing his crabstick, made directly to 
 the place whence the voice issued ; and the man of 
 courage made as much expedition towards his 
 own home, whither he escaped in a very short 
 time without once looking behind him ; where we 
 will leave him, to contemplate his own bravery, 
 and to censure the want of it in others, and return 
 to the good Adams, who, on coming up to the 
 place whence the noise proceeded, found a woman
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 179 
 
 struggling with a man, who had thrown her on 
 the ground, and had almost overpowered her. 
 The great abilities of Mr. Adams were not neces- 
 sary to have formed a right judgment of this af- 
 fair on the first sight. He did not, therefore, 
 want the entreaties of the poor wretch to assist 
 her; but, lifting up his crabstick, he immediately 
 leveled 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 Na- 
 ture (who, as wise men have observed, equips all 
 creatures with what is most expedient for them) 
 taken a provident care (as she always doth with 
 those she intends for encounters) to make this 
 part of the head three times as thick as those of 
 ordinary men who are designed to exercise talents 
 which are vulgarly called rational, and for whom, 
 as brains are necessary, she is obliged to leave 
 some room for them in the cavity of the skull; 
 whereas, those ingredients being entirely useless 
 to persons of the heroic calling, she hath an op- 
 portunity of thickening the bone, so as to make 
 it less subject to any impression, or liable to be 
 cracked or broken: and indeed, in some who are 
 predestined to the command of armies and em- 
 pires, she is supposed sometimes to make that 
 part perfectly solid. 
 
 As a game cock, when engaged in amorous toy- 
 ing with a hen, if perchance he espies another cock 
 at hand, immediately quits his female, and op- 
 poses himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on 
 the information of the crabstick, immediately leap
 
 180 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 from the woman and hasten to assail the man. 
 He had no weapons but what Nature had fur- 
 nished him with. However, he clenched his fist, 
 and presently darted it at that part of Adams's 
 breast where the heart is lodged. Adams stag- 
 gered at the violence of the blow, when, throwing 
 away his staff, he likewise clenched that fist which 
 we have before commemorated, and would have 
 discharged it full in the breast of his antagonist, 
 had he not dexterously caught it with his left 
 hand, at the same time darting his head (which 
 some modern heroes of the lower class use, like 
 the battering-ram of the ancients, for a weapon of 
 offense; another reason to admire the cunning- 
 ness of Nature, in composing it of those impene- 
 h-able 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 hero- 
 ism, 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 belabored the body of Adams till he was 
 weary, and indeed till he concluded (to use the 
 language of fighting) ''that he had done his busi- 
 ness;" 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 labors, he exerted his utmost force at once,
 
 JOSEPH ANDBEWS 181 
 
 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' con- 
 stant application, he gave him so dexterous a 
 blow just under his chin that the fellow no longer 
 retained any motion, and Adams began to fear he 
 had struck him once too often; for he often as- 
 serted '*he should be concerned to have the blood 
 of even the wicked upon him." 
 
 Adams got up and called aloud to the young 
 woman. "Be of good cheer, damsel," said he, 
 ''you are no longer in danger of your ravisher, 
 who, I am terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet; 
 but God forgive me what I have done in defense 
 of innocence!" The poor wretch, who had been 
 some time in recovering strength enough to rise, 
 and had afterwards, during the engagerment, stood 
 trembling, being disabled by fear even from run- 
 ning 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 behavior and 
 gentle words. They were both standing by the 
 body, which lay motionless on the ground, and 
 which Adams wished to see stir much more than 
 the woman did, when he earnestly begged her to 
 tell him "by what misfortune she came, at such 
 a time of night, into so lonely a place. ' ' She ac- 
 quainted him, "She was traveling towards Lon- 
 don, 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
 
 182 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 would keep her company ; an offer which, suspect- 
 ing 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 fol- 
 lowing the road; that if she had suspected him 
 (which she did not, he spoke so kindly to her), 
 being alone on these downs in the dark, she had no 
 human means to avoid him; that, therefore, she 
 put her whole trust in Providence, and walked on, 
 expecting every moment to arrive at the inn; 
 when on a sudden, being come to those bushes, he 
 desired her to stop, and after some rude kisses, 
 which she resisted, and some entreaties, which 
 she rejected, he laid violent hands on her, and 
 was attempting to execute his wicked will, when, 
 she thanked G — , he timely came up and prevented 
 him." Adams encouraged her for saying she had 
 put her whole trust in Providence, and told her, 
 **He doubted not but Providence had sent him to 
 her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. He 
 wished indeed he had not deprived the wicked 
 wretch of life, but G — 's will be done;" said, **He 
 hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse 
 him in the next world, and he trusted in her evi- 
 dence to acquit him in this." He was then silent, 
 and began to consider with himself whether it 
 would be proper to make his escape, or to deliver 
 himself into the hands of justice; which medita- 
 tion ended as the reader will see in the next chap- 
 ter.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding 
 adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities; 
 and who the woman was who owed the preservation of her 
 chastity to his victorious arm. 
 
 THE silence of Adams, added to the dark- 
 ness of the night and loneliness of the 
 place, struck dreadful apprehension into 
 the poor woman's mind; she began to fear as 
 great an enemy in her deliverer as he had deliv- 
 ered her from ; and as she had not light enough to 
 discover the age of Adams, and the benevolence 
 visible in his countenance, she suspected he had 
 used her as some very honest men have used their 
 countr}' ; 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 in- 
 deed they were ill-grounded. He stood over his 
 vanquished enemy, wisely weighing in his mind 
 the objections which might be made to either of the 
 two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last 
 chapter, his judgment sometimes inclining to the 
 one, and sometimes to the other ; for both seemed 
 to him so equally advisable and so equally danger- 
 ous, that probably he would have ended his days, 
 at least two or three of them, on that very spot, 
 before he had taken any resolution; at length he 
 lifted up his eyes, and spied a light at a distance, 
 
 183
 
 ]84 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 to which he instantly addressed himself with Hens 
 tu, traveler, hens tul He presently heard serveral 
 voices, and perceived the light approaching to- 
 ward 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 par- 
 son 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-bat- 
 ting. This, if you are ignorant of it (as perhaps 
 if thou hast never traveled beyond Kensington, Is- 
 lington, Hackney^, or the Borough, thou mayst 
 be), I will inform thee, is performed by holding a 
 large clap-net before a lantern, 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 enticed 
 within the net. Adams immediately told them 
 what happened, and desired them to hold the lan- 
 tern to the face of the man on the ground, for he 
 feared he had smote him fatally. But indeed his 
 fears were frivolous; for the fellow, though he 
 had been stunned by the last blow he received, 
 had long since recovered his senses, and, finding 
 himself quit of Adams, had listened attentively 
 to the discourse between him and the young 
 woman; for whose departure he had patiently 
 waited, that he might likewise withdraw himself,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 185 
 
 having no longer hopes of succeeding in his de- 
 sires, 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 improv- 
 ing any accident, thought he might now play a 
 better part than that of a dead man ; and, accord- 
 ingly, the moment the candle was held to his face 
 he leaped up, and, laying hold on Adams, cried 
 out, ''No, villain, I am not dead, though you and 
 your wicked whore might well think me so, after 
 the barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. 
 Gentlemen," said he, ''you are luckily come to the 
 assistance of a poor traveler, who would other- 
 wise 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 
 ajiswer, when one of the young fellows cried, 
 "D — n them, let's carry them both before the 
 justice." The poor woman began to tremble, and 
 Adams lifted up his voice, but in vain. Three or 
 four of them laid hands on him ; and one holding 
 the lantern to his face, they all agreed he had the 
 most villainous countenance they ever beheld; 
 and an attorney's clerk, who was of the com- 
 pany, declared he was sure he had remembered 
 him at the bar. As to the woman, her hair was 
 disheveled in the struggle, and her nose had bled ; 
 so that they could not perceive whether she was 
 handsome or ugly, but they said her fright plainly 
 discovered her guilt. And searching her pockets, 
 as they did those of Adams, for money, which the
 
 186 THE HTSTOEY OF 
 
 fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket 
 a purse with some gold in it, which abundantly 
 convinced them, especially as the fellow offered 
 to swear to it. Mr. Adams was found to have no 
 more than one halfpenny about him. This the 
 clerk said ''was a great presumption that he was 
 an old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty 
 to the woman." To which all the rest readily as- 
 sented. 
 
 This accident promising them better sport than 
 what they had proposed, they quitted their inten- 
 tion of catching birds, and unanimously resolved 
 to proceed to the justice with the offenders. Be- 
 ing informed what a desperate fellow Adams was, 
 they tied his hands behind him; and, having hid 
 their nets among the bushes, and the lantern be- 
 ing carried before them, they placed the two pris- 
 oners in their front, and then began their march; 
 Adams not only submitting patiently to his own 
 fate, but comforting and encouraging his compan- 
 ion 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 apprehend- 
 ing 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 lantern to the man's 
 face on the ground, by which, he said, "the whole 
 was discovered." The clerk claimed four-fifths
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 187 
 
 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, how- 
 ever, 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 de- 
 sired them to consider that they had assigned 
 their nets to his care, which prevented him from 
 being as forward as any in laying hold of the rob- 
 bers" (for so those innocent people were called) ; 
 "that if he had not occupied the nets, some other 
 must;" concluding, however, "that he should be 
 contented with the smallest share imaginable, and 
 should think that rather their bounty than his 
 merit." But they were all unanimous in exclud- 
 ing him from any part whatever, the clerk par- 
 ticularly swearing, "If they gave him a shilling 
 they might do what they pleased with the rest; 
 for he would not concern himself with the affair. ' ' 
 This contention was so hot, and so totally engaged 
 the attention of all the parties, that a dexterous 
 nimble thief, had he been in Mr, Adams 's situation, 
 would have taken care to have given the justice 
 no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not 
 the art of a Sheppard to escape, especially as the 
 darkness of the night would have so much be- 
 friended him; but Adams trusted rather to his
 
 188 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 innocence than his heels, and, without thinking 
 of flight, which was easy, or resistance (which was 
 impossible, as there were six lusty young fellows, 
 besides the villain himself, present), he walked 
 with perfect resignation the way they thought 
 proper to conduct him. 
 
 Adams frequenth^ vented himself in ejacula- 
 tions during their journey; at last, poor Joseph 
 Andrews occurring to his mind, he could not re- 
 frain sighing forth his name, which being heard 
 by his companion in affliction, she cried with some 
 vehemence, '^Sure I should know that voice; you 
 cannot certainly, sir, be Mr. Abraham Adams?" 
 — "Indeed, damsel," says he, "that is my name; 
 there is something also in your voice which per- 
 suades me I have heard it before." — '"La! sir," 
 says she, "don't you remember poor Fanny?" — 
 "How, Fanny!" answered Adams: "indeed I 
 very well remember you ; what can have brought 
 you hither?" — "I have told you, sir," replied she, 
 "I was traveling towards London; but I thought 
 you mentioned Joseph Andrews ; pray what is be- 
 come of him?" — "I left him, child, this after- 
 noon," 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 189 
 
 am sorry to hear this," said Adams; ''a virtuous 
 passion for a young man is what no woman need 
 be ashamed of. You either do not tell me truth, 
 or you are false to a very worthy man." Adams 
 then told her what had happened at the inn, to 
 which she listened very attentively; and a sigh 
 often escaped from her, notwithstanding her ut- 
 most endeavors 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 de- 
 sired to let him, of the truth of a passion she en- 
 deavored to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that 
 this poor girl, having heard of JoseiDh's misfor- 
 tune, by some of the servants belonging to the 
 coach which we have formerly mentioned to have 
 stopped at the inn while the poor youth was con- 
 fined to his bed, that instant abandoned the cow 
 she was milking, and, taking with her a little bun- 
 dle 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 recom- 
 mend her character to all our female readers, and 
 not greatly surprise such of our males as are well 
 acquainted with the younger part of the other sex, 
 we shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindi- 
 cate.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 What happened to them while before the justice. A chapter 
 very full of learning. 
 
 THEIR fellow-travelers were so engaged in 
 the hot dispute concerning the division 
 of the reward for apprehending these in- 
 nocent 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 jus- 
 tice, 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 ser\^ants in the house, and 
 all the people in the neighborhood, who flocked 
 together to see them with as much curiosity as if 
 there was something uncommon to be seen, or 
 that a rogue did not look like other people. 
 
 The justice, now being in the height of his mirth 
 and his cups, berthought himself of the prisoners ; 
 and, telling his company he believed they should 
 have good sport in their examination, he ordered 
 them into his presence. They had no sooner en- 
 tered the room than he began to revile them, say- 
 ing, ''That robberies on the highway were now 
 grown so frequent, that people could not sleep 
 safely in their beds, and assured them they both 
 
 190
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 19l 
 
 should be made examples of at the ensuing as- 
 sizes." After he had gone on sometime in this 
 manner, he was reminded by his clerk, "That it 
 would be proper to take the depositions of the wit- 
 nesses against them." Which he bid him do, and 
 he would light his pipe in the meantime. Whilst 
 the clerk was employed in writing down the depo- 
 sition of the fellow who had pretended to be 
 robbed, the justice employed himself in cracking 
 jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by 
 all the company at table. One asked, "Whether 
 she was to be indicted for a highwayman?" An- 
 other whispered in her ear, "If she had not pro- 
 vided herself a great belly, he was at her service." 
 A third said, "He warranted she was a relation of 
 Turpin." To which one of the company, a great 
 wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered, 
 "He believed she was nearer related to Turpis;" 
 at which there was an universal laugh. They 
 were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when 
 somebody, smoking the cassock peeping forth 
 from under the greatcoat of Adams, cried out, 
 "What have we here, a parson?" "How, sir- 
 rah," says the justice, "do you go robbing in the 
 dress of a clergyman? let me tell you your habit 
 will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy." 
 "Yes," said the witty fellow, "he will have one 
 benefit of clergy, he will be exalted above the 
 heads of the people;" at which there was a sec- 
 ond 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, pro- 
 voking him by giving the first blow, he repeated —
 
 192 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 "MoUe meum levibus cord est vilehile telisJ' 
 
 Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable 
 contempt, told him, "He deserved scourging for 
 his pronunciation." The witty fellow answered, 
 "What do you deserve, doctor, for not being able 
 to answer the first time? Why, I'll give one, you 
 blockhead, with an S. 
 
 " 'Si licet, ut fiilvum spectatur in ignibus haurum.' 
 
 "What, canst not with an M neither? Thou art 
 a pretty fellow for a parson ! Why didst not steal 
 some of the parson's Latin as well as his gown?" 
 Another at the table then answered, "If he had, 
 you would have been too hard for him; I remem- 
 ber 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 j^ou," "I have for- 
 got those things now," cried the wit. "I believe 
 I could have done pretty well formerly. Let's see, 
 what did I end with? — an M again — aye 
 
 " 'Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.' 
 
 I could have done it once." "Ah! evil betide 
 you, and so you can now," said the other: "no- 
 body in this country will undertake you." Adams 
 could hold no longer: "Friend," said he, "I 
 have a boy not above eight years old who would 
 instruct thee that the last verse runs thus: — 
 
 "'Vt sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.'" 
 
 "I'll hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, 
 throwing the money on the table. "And I'll go
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 193 
 
 your halves," cries the other. *'Done," answered 
 Adams; but upon applying to his pocket he was 
 forced to retract^ and own he had no money about 
 him ; which set them all a-laughing, and confirmed 
 the triumph of his adversary, which was not mod- 
 erate, 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. 
 
 Adams then said, *'He hoped he should not be 
 condemned unheard." ''No, no," cries the jus- 
 tice, ''you will be asked what you have to say for 
 yourself when you come on your trial : we are not 
 tiying you now; I shall only commit you to jail: 
 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 jail? " cries Adams: "I 
 beg you would at least hear me before you sign 
 the mittimus." "What signifies all you can 
 say?" says the justice: "is it not here in black and 
 white against you? I must tell you you are a 
 very impertinent fellow to take up so much of my 
 time. So make haste with his mittimus." 
 
 The clerk now acquainted the justice that among 
 other suspicious things, as a penknife, &c., found 
 in Adams's pocket, they had discovered a book 
 
 1—13
 
 194 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 written, as he appreliende3, in ciphers ; for no one 
 could read a word in it. ''Ay," says the justice, 
 ''the fellow may be more than a common robber, 
 he may be in a plot against the Government. Pro- 
 duce the book." Upon which the poor manu- 
 scrijot of ^schylus, 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 ci- 
 phers. "Ciphers'?" answered Adams, "it is a 
 manuscript of ^schylus." "Who? who?" said 
 the justice. Adams repeated, "^schylus." 
 "That is an outlandish name," cried the clerk. 
 "A fictitious name rather, I believe," said the jus- 
 tice. One of the company declared it looked very 
 much like Greek. "Greek?" said the justice; 
 "why, 'tis all writing." "No," says the other, 
 "I don't positively say it is so; for it is a very 
 long time since I have seen any Greek." 
 "There's one," says he, turning to the parson of 
 the parish, who was present, "will tell us imme- 
 diately." The parson, taking up the book, and 
 putting on his spectacles and gravity together, 
 muttered some words to himself, and then pro- 
 nounced aloud — "Ay, indeed, it is a Greek manu- 
 script ; 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 ^schylus?" says the 
 justice. "Pooh!" answered the doctor, with a 
 contemptuous grin, "do you think that fellow 
 knows anything of this-book? ^schylus ! ho ! ho I 
 I see now what it is — a manuscript of one of the
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 195 
 
 fathers. I know a nobleman who would give a 
 great deal of money for such a piece of antiquity. 
 •Aj) ^y> question and answer. The beginning is 
 the catechism in Greek. Ay, ay, Pollaki toi: 
 
 What's your name?" "Ay, what's your 
 
 name?" says the justice to Adams; who answered, 
 *'It is ^schylus, and I will maintain it." — ''Oh! 
 it is," says the justice; ''make Mr. ^schylus his 
 mittimus. I will teach you to banter me with a 
 false name." 
 
 One of the company, having looked steadfastly 
 at Adams, asked him, "If he did not know Lady 
 Booby?" Upon which Adams, presently called 
 him to mind, answered in a rapture, "0 squire! 
 are you there? I believe you will inform his wor- 
 ship I am innocent." — "I can indeed say," replied 
 the squire, "that I am very much surprised 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 very good character. I wish you 
 would inquire a little farther into this affair ; for 
 I am convinced of his innocence." — "Nay," says 
 the justice, "if he is a gentleman, and you are sure 
 he is innocent, I don't desire to commit him, not 
 I: I will commit the woman by herself, and take 
 your bail for the gentleman: look into the book, 
 clerk, and see how it is to take bail — come — and 
 make the mittimus for the woman as fast as you 
 can." — "Sir," cries Adams, "I assure you she is 
 as innocent as mj^self." — "Perhaps," said the 
 squire, "there may be some mistake! pray let us 
 hear Mr. Adams's relation." — "With all my
 
 196 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 heart," answerred the justice; **aud give the gen- 
 tleman a glass to wet his whistle before he be- 
 gins. I know how to behave myself to gentlemen 
 as well as another. Nobody can say I have com- 
 mitted a gentleman since I have been in the com- 
 mission." Adams then began the narrative, in 
 which, though he was very prolix, he was uninter- 
 rupted, 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 fin- 
 ished, the justice, who, on what the squire had 
 said, believed every syllable of his story on his 
 bare affirmation, notwithstanding the depositions 
 on oath to the contrary, began to let loose several 
 rogues and rascals against the witness, whom he 
 ordered to stand forth, but in vain; the said wit- 
 ness, long since finding what turn matters were 
 likely to take, had privily withdrawn, without at- 
 tending 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 per- 
 jury, and bring him before him within two days, 
 or he would bind them all over to their good be- 
 havior." They all promised to use their best en- 
 deavors to that purpose, and were dismissed. 
 Then the justice insisted that Mr. Adams should 
 sit down and take a glass with him ; and the par- 
 son of the parish delivered him back the manu- 
 script without saying a word; nor would Adams, 
 who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. 
 As for Fanny, she was, at her own request, recom-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 197 
 
 mended to tbe care of a maid-servant of the house, 
 who helped her to new dress and clean herself. 
 
 The company in the parlor had not been long 
 seated before they were alarmed with a horrible 
 uproar from without, where the persons who had 
 apprehended Adams and Fanny had been regaling, 
 according to the custom of the house, with the 
 justice's strong beer. These were all fallen to- 
 gether by the ears, and were cuffing each other 
 without any mercy. The justice himself sallied 
 out, and with the dignity of his presence soon put 
 an end to the fray. On his return into the parlor, 
 he reported, "That the occasion of the quarrel 
 was no other than a dispute to whom, if Adams 
 had been convicted, the gi^eater share of the re- 
 ward for apprehending him had belonged." All 
 the company laughed at this, except Adams, who, 
 taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep 
 groan, and said, "He was concerned to see so liti- 
 gious a temper in men. That he remembered a 
 story something like it in one of the parishes where 
 his cure lay: — There was," continued he, "a com- 
 petition between three young fellows for the place 
 of the clerk, which I disposed of, to the best of my 
 abilities, according to merit; that is, I gave it to 
 him who had the happiest knack at setting a psalm. 
 The clerk was no sooner established in his place 
 than a contention began between the two disap- 
 pointed candidates concerning their excellence; 
 each contending on whom, had they two been the 
 only competitors, my election would have fallen. 
 This dispute frequently disturbed the congrega- 
 tion, and introduced a discord into the psalmody,
 
 198 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 till I was forced to silence them both. But, alas ! 
 the litigious spirit could not be stifled ; and, being 
 no longer able to vent itself in singing, it now 
 broke forth in fighting. It produced many battles 
 (for they were very near a match), and I believe 
 would have ended fatally, had not the death of the 
 clerk given me an opportunity to promote one of 
 them to his place; which presently put an end to 
 the dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending 
 parties." Adams then proceeded to make some 
 philosophical observations on the folly of growing 
 warm in disputes in which neither party is inter- 
 ested. He then applied himself vigorously to 
 smoking ; 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 exceed- 
 ingly on his nice discernment in the cause which 
 had lately been before him. He was quickly in- 
 terrupted by Mr. Adams, between whom and his 
 worshii3 a dispute now arose, whether he ought 
 not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, 
 the said Adams ; in which the latter maintained he 
 ought to have been committed, and the justice as 
 vehemently held he ought not. This had most 
 probably produced a quarrel (for both were 
 very violent and positive in their opinions), 
 had not Fanny accidentally heard that a young 
 fellow was going from the justice's house to 
 the very inn where the stage-coach in which 
 Joseph was, put up. Upon this news, she im- 
 mediately sent for the parson out of the par- 
 lor. Adams, when he found her resolute to 
 go (though she would not own the reason, but
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 199 
 
 pretended she could not bear to see the faces of 
 those who had suspected her of such a crime), was 
 as fully determined to go with her ; he accordingly 
 took leave of the justice and company: and so 
 ended a dispute in which the law seemed shame- 
 fully to intend to set a magistrate and a divine to- 
 gether by the ears.
 
 CHAPTER Xn 
 
 A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned 
 as to the good-natured reader. 
 
 ADAMS, Fanny, and the guide, set out to- 
 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 him- 
 self a good fire, a toast and ale, and a pipe, and 
 began to smoke with great content, utterly forget- 
 ting 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 any- 
 thing half so handsome ; and indeed, reader, if thou 
 art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over 
 the next paragraph; which, to render our history 
 perfect, we are obliged to set down, humbly hoping 
 that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion ; for if 
 it should happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with 
 this picture, we should be perhaps in as helpless a 
 condition as Narcissus, and might say to ourselves, 
 Quod petis est nusquam. Or, if the finest fea- 
 tures in it should set Lady 's image before 
 
 our eyes, we should be still in as bad a situation, 
 
 200
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 201 
 
 and might say to onr desires, Ccelum ipsum 
 petimus stuUitia. 
 
 Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her 
 age; she was tall and delicately shaped; but not 
 one of those slender young women who seem rather 
 intended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist 
 than for any other purpose. On the contrary, she 
 was so plump that she seemed bursting through 
 her tight stays, especially in the part which con- 
 fined her swelling breasts. Nor did her hips want 
 the assistance of a hoop to extend them. The ex- 
 act shape of her arms denoted the form of those 
 limbs which she concealed; and though they were 
 a little reddened by her labor, yet, if her sleeve 
 slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchief dis- 
 covered any part of her neck, a whiteness ap- 
 peared which the finest Italian paint would be un- 
 able to reach. Her hair was of a chestnut 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 fore- 
 head was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather 
 full than otherwise. Her eyes black and spark- 
 ling ; her nose just inclining to the Roman ; her lips 
 red and moist, and her underlip, according to the 
 opinion of the ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were 
 white, but not exactly even. The small-pox had 
 left one only mark on her chin, which was so large, 
 it might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not 
 her left cheek produced one so near a neighbor 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
 
 202 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 the finest ladies would have exchanged all their 
 white for it : add to these a countenance in which, 
 though she was extremely bashful, a sensibility ap- 
 peared almost incredible; and a sweetness, when- 
 ever she smiled, beyond either imitation or de- 
 scription. To conclude all, she had a natural gen- 
 tility, superior to the acquisition of art, and which 
 surprised 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 fol- 
 lowing 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? 
 
 rapture! imthought of before, 
 
 To be thus of Chloe possess'd; 
 Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power. 
 
 Her image can tear from my breast. 
 But felt not Narcissus more joy, 
 
 With his eyes he beheld his loved charms? 
 Yet what he beheld the fond boy 
 
 More eagerly wish'd in his anns. 
 
 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?
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 203 
 
 This counterfeit snatch from my heart, 
 Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave, 
 
 Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart: 
 I then shall find rest in my grave. 
 
 Ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain 
 
 Come smiling and tripping along! 
 A thousand Loves dance in her train. 
 
 The Graces around her all throng. 
 To meet her soft Zephyrus flies. 
 
 And wafts all the sweets from the flowers, 
 Ah, rogTie ! 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 kmd. 
 My hope almost reaeh'd my desire, 
 
 And left lame despair far behind. 
 Transported with madness, I flew, 
 
 And eagerly seized on my bliss; 
 Her bosom but half she withdrew, 
 
 But half she refused my fond kiss 
 
 Advances like these made me bold; 
 
 I whispei-'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 pressmg before. 
 
 Adams had been ruminating all this time on a 
 passage in ^schylus, without attending in the 
 least to the voice, though one of the most melodi- 
 ous that ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on 
 Fanny, he cried out, '* Bless us, you look extremely 
 pale!" — 'Tale! Mr. Adams," says shej ''6.
 
 204 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Jesus!" and fell backwards in her chair. Adams 
 jumped up, flung his uEschylus 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, reader ! when 
 this nightingale, who was no other than Joseph 
 Andrews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in the sit- 
 uation 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 An- 
 drews?" — ''Art thou my Fanny?" he answered 
 eagerly : and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted 
 numberless kisses on hei* 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 per- 
 hajos doubt whether he was not the happiest of the 
 three: for the goodness of his heart enjoyed the 
 blessings which were exulting in the breasts of 
 ))oth the other two, together with his own. But we 
 shall leave such disquisitions, as too deep for us, 
 to those who are building some favorite hypoth- 
 esis, which they will refuse no metaphysical rub- 
 bish to erect and su])port : for our part, we give it 
 clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was 
 not only greater than the parson's, but of longer 
 duration: for as soon as the first tumults of
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 205 
 
 Adams's rapture were over he cast his eyes to- 
 wards 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 in- 
 separable companion for upwards of thirty years. 
 Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered her- 
 self than she began to restrain the impetuosity of 
 her transports; and, reflecting on what she had 
 done and suffered in the presence of so many, she 
 was immediately covered with confusion; and, 
 pushing Joseph gently from her, she begged him to 
 be quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace 
 any longer. Then, seeing Mrs. Slipslop, she 
 courtesied, and offered to advance to her ; but that 
 high woman would not return her courtesies ; but, 
 casting her eyes another way, immediately with- 
 drew into another room, muttering, as she went, 
 she wondered who the creature was.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A dissertation coneeming 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 shad 
 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 endeavor to explain the reasons 
 of her conduct ; nor do we doubt being able to sat- 
 isfy the most curious reader that Mrs. Slipslop 
 did not in the least deviate from the common road 
 in this behavior ; and, indeed, had she done other- 
 wise, she must have descended below herself, and 
 would have very justly been liable to censure. 
 
 Be it known then, that the human species are 
 divided into two sorts of people, to wit, high peo- 
 ple and low people. As by high people I would not 
 be understood to mean persons literally born 
 higher in their dimensions than the rest of the 
 species, nor metaphorically those of exalted char- 
 acters or abilities; so by low people I cannot be 
 construed to intend the reverse. High people sig- 
 nify no other than people of fashion, and low peo- 
 
 206
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 207 
 
 pie 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 ac- 
 complishments superior to the herd of mankind; 
 whereas, in reality, nothing more was originally 
 meant by a person of fashion than a person who 
 dressed 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 peo- 
 ple of fashion and people of no fashion, a fierce 
 contention arose between them; nor would those 
 of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publicly 
 to speak to those of the other, though they often 
 held a very good correspondence in private. In 
 this contention it is difficult to say which party 
 succeeded ; for, whilst the people of fashion seized 
 several places to their own use, such as courts, as- 
 semblies, operas, balls, &c., the people of no fash- 
 ion, besides one royal place, called his Majesty's 
 Bear-garden, have been in constant possession of 
 all hops, fairs, revels, &c. Two places have been 
 agreed to be divided between them, namely, the 
 church and the playhouse, where they segregate 
 themselves from each other in a remarkable man- 
 ner ; for, as the people of fashion exalt themselves 
 at church over the heads of the people of no fash- 
 ion, so in the playhouse they abase themselves in 
 the same degree under their feet. This distinc- 
 tion 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,
 
 208 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 evi- 
 dently 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 dependence like a kind of lad- 
 der; as, for instance; early in the morning arises 
 the postilion, or some other boy, which great fam- 
 ilies, no more than great ships, are without, and 
 falls to brushing the clothes and cleaning the 
 shoes of John the footman; who, being dressed 
 himself, applies his hands to the same labors for 
 Mr. Second-hand, the squire's gentleman; the gen- 
 tleman in the like manner, a little later in the day, 
 attends the squire; the squire is no sooner equip- 
 ped than he attends the levee of my lord ; which 
 is no sooner over than my lord himself is seen 
 at the levee of the favorite, 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 dependence, 
 any one step at a greater distance from the other 
 than the first from the second ; so that to a philos- 
 opher the question might only seem, whether you
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 209 
 
 would choose to be a great man at six in the morn- 
 ing, or at two in the afternoon. And yet there 
 are scarce two of these who do not think the least 
 familiarity with the persons below them a con- 
 descension, 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 ac- 
 count for otherwise than I have here endeavored ; 
 and perhaps, if the gods, according to the opinion 
 of some, made men only to laugh at them, there is 
 no part of our behavior which answers the end of 
 our creation better than this. 
 
 But to return to our history : Adams, who knew 
 no more of this than the cat which sat on the table, 
 imagining Mrs. Slipslop's memory had been much 
 worse than it really was, followed her into the next 
 room, crying out, ''Madam Slipslop, here is one 
 of your old acquaintance ; do but see what a fine 
 woman she is grown since she left Lad}" Booby's 
 service." — *'I think I reflect something of her," 
 answered she, with great dignity, "but I can't 
 remember all the inferior servants in our family. ' ' 
 She then proceeded to satisfy Adams's curiosity, 
 by telling him, *'"V\Tien she arrived at the inn, she 
 found a chaise ready for her ; that, her lady being 
 expected very shortly in the country, she was 
 
 1—14
 
 210 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 obliged to make the utmost haste; and, in commen- 
 suration of Joseph's lameness, she had taken him 
 with her;" and lastly, ''that the excessive viru- 
 lence of the storm had driven theni into the house 
 where he found them." After which, she ac- 
 quainted Adams with his having left his horse, and 
 expressed 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 reflec- 
 tion on the character of Fanny. He protested, 
 *'He believed there was not a chaster damsel in 
 the universe. I heartily wish, I heartily wish," 
 cried he (snapping his fingers), ''that all her bet- 
 ters were as good." He then proceeded to inform 
 her of the accident of their meeting ; but when he 
 came to mention the circumstance of delivering 
 her from the rape, she said, "She thought him 
 properer for the army than the clergy ; that it did 
 not become a clergyman to lay violent hands on 
 any one; that he should have rather prayed that 
 she might be strengthened." Adams said, "He 
 was very far from being ashamed of what he had 
 done:" she replied, "Want of shame was not the 
 currycuristic of a clergyman." This dialogue 
 might have probably grown warmer, had not 
 Joseph opportunely entered the room, to ask leave 
 of Madam Slipslop to introduce Fanny: but she 
 positively refused to admit any such trollops, and 
 told him, "She would have been burned before she
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 211 
 
 would have suffered him to get into a chaise with 
 her, if she had once respected him of having his 
 sluts waylaid on the road for him ; ' ' adding, ' ' that 
 Mr. Adams acted a very pretty part, and she did 
 not doubt but to see him a bishop." He made the 
 best bow he could, and cried out, ''I thank you, 
 madam, for that right-reverend appellation, which 
 I shall take all honest means to deserve." — ''Very 
 honest means," returned she, with a sneer, ''to 
 bring people together." At these words Adams 
 took two or three strides across the room, when the 
 coachman came to inform Mrs. Slipslop, "That 
 the storm was over, and the moon shone very 
 bright." She then sent for Joseph, who was sit- 
 ting without with his Fanny, and would have had 
 him gone with her ; but he peremptorily refused to 
 leave Fanny behind, which threw the good woman 
 into a violent rage. She said, ' ' She would inform 
 her lady what doings were carrying on, and did 
 not doubt but she would rid the parish of all such 
 people;" and concluded a long speech, full of bit- 
 terness and very hard words, with some reflections 
 on the clergy not decent to repeat ; at last, finding 
 Joseph unmovable, 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
 
 212 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 more than Fanny from the danger of a rape that 
 evening. 
 
 When the chaise had carried off the enraged 
 Slipslop, Adams, Joseph, and Fanny assembled 
 over the fire, where they had a great deal of inno- 
 cent chat, pretty emough ; but, as possibly it would 
 not be very entertaining to the reader, we shall 
 hasten to the morning; only observing that none 
 of them went to bed that night. Adams, when he 
 had smoked three pipes, took a comfortable nap 
 in a great chair, and left the lovers, whose eyes 
 were too well employed to permit any desire of 
 shutting them, to enjoy by themselves, during 
 some hours, an happiness which none of my read- 
 ers 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, '*0 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, 
 leaped up in a rapture, and awakened the parson, 
 earnestly begging him "that he would that instant 
 join their hands together." Adams rebuked him 
 for his request, and told him ''He would by no
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 213 
 
 means consent to anything contrary to the forms 
 of the Church ; that he had no license, nor indeed 
 would he advise him to obtain one ; that the Church 
 had prescribed a form — namely, the publication of 
 banns — with which all good Christians ought to 
 comply, and to the omission of which he attributed 
 the many miseries which befell great folks in mar- 
 riage;" concluding, "As many as are joined to- 
 gerther 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 reso- 
 lution 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 surprisingly recovered, 
 proposed to walk forwards; but when they were 
 all ready to set out, an accident a little retarded 
 them. This was no other than the reckoning, 
 which amounted to seven shillings ; no great sum if 
 we consider the immense quantity of ale which 
 Mr. Adams poured in. Indeed, they had no ob- 
 jection to the reasonableness of the bill, but many 
 to the probability of paying it ; for the fellow who 
 had taken poor Fanny's purse had unluckily for- 
 got to return it. So that the account stood 
 thus : —
 
 214 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 
 
 £ s. d. 
 Mr, Adams and company, Dr 7 
 
 In Mr. Adams's pocket 6i 
 
 In Mr. Joseph's 
 
 In Mrs. Fanny's 
 
 Balance 6 5i 
 
 They stood silent some few minutes, staring at 
 each other, when Adams whipped out on his toes, 
 and asked the hostess, *'If there was no clergj^man 
 in that parish?" She answered, ''There was." — 
 "Is he wealthy?" replied he; to which she like- 
 wise answered in the affirmative. Adams then 
 snapping his fingers returned overjoyed to his 
 companions, crying out, ''Heureka, Ileureka;" 
 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 de- 
 fray the reckoning, and that he would just step to 
 his house and fetch the money, and return to them 
 instantly." 
 
 END or VOLUME I
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 yoL. n.
 
 ^t 
 
 'O'i^y /Ic/jcrri yi-e/oAu, /vt^ c/zt^A^^. 
 
 .^.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK II. — continued 
 Chapter XIV. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 An interview between parson Adams and parson Trulliber . 1 
 
 Chapter XV. 
 
 An adventure, the consequence of a new instance which 
 
 parson Adams gave of his forgetfulness 11 
 
 Chapter XVI. 
 
 A very curious adventure in which Mr. Adams gave a much 
 greater instance of the honest simplicity of his heart, 
 than of his experience in the ways of this world . . 15 
 
 Chapter XVII. 
 
 A dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and his host, which, 
 by the disagreement in their opinions, seemed to threaten 
 an unlucky catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented 
 by the return of the lovers 27 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 Matter prefatory in praise of biography 36 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 A night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befell 
 
 Adams and his fellow-travelers 43 
 
 Chapter III. 
 In which the gentleman relates the history of his life . . 67 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 
 A description of Mr. Wilson's way of living. The tragical 
 
 adventure of the dog, and other grave matters . . .91
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter V. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A disputation on schools held on the road between Mr. 
 Abraham Adams and Joseph; and a discovery not un- 
 welcome to them both 98 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 
 Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the hunting 
 
 adventure, and parson Adams's miraculous escape . . 104 
 
 Chapteu VII. 
 
 A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste 
 
 and times » . . . 118 
 
 Chapteb VIII. 
 Which some readers will think too short and others too long 130 
 
 Chapter IX. 
 
 Containing as surprising and bloody adventures as can be 
 
 found in this or perhaps any other authentic history . 136 
 
 Chapter X. 
 
 A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use 
 
 in this history but to divert the reader 142 
 
 Chapter XI. 
 
 Containing the exhortations of parson Adams to his friend 
 in affliction ; calculated for the instruction and improve- 
 nent of the reader 148 
 
 Chapter XII. 
 
 More adventures, which we hope will as much please as sur- 
 prise the reader 153 
 
 Chapter XIII. 
 
 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 . . . 163 
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 The arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at Booby-hall . . 167
 
 CONTENTS vii 
 
 Chaptee II. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and the Lady 
 
 Booby 174 
 
 Chai-teb III. 
 What passed between the lady and lawyer Scout .... 178 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 
 A short chapter, but very full of matter; particularly the 
 
 arrival of Mr. Booby and his lady 183 
 
 Chapter V. 
 
 Containing justice business; curious precedents of deposi- 
 tions, and other matters necessary to be perused by all 
 justices of the peace and their clerks 186 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 Of which you are desired to read no more than you like . 195 
 
 Chapter VII. 
 
 Philosophical reflections, the like not to be found in any light 
 French romance. Mr. Booby's grave advice to Joseph, 
 and Fanny's encounter with a beau 203 
 
 Chapter VIII. 
 
 A discourse which happened between Mr. Adams, Mrs. 
 Adams, Joseph, and Fasny; with some behavior of Mr. 
 Adams which will be called by some few readers very 
 low, absurd, and unnatural 214 
 
 Chapter IX. 
 
 A visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite friend 
 
 paid to the parson 223 
 
 Chapter X. 
 
 The history of two friends, which may aflFord an useful lesson 
 to all those persons who happen to take up their residence 
 in married families 228 
 
 Chapter XI. 
 In which the history is continued 237
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter XII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Where the sood-natured reader will see something which 
 
 will give him no great pleasure 243 
 
 Chapter XIII. 
 
 The history, returning to the Lady Booby, gives some account 
 of the terrible conflict in her breast between love and 
 pride; with what happened on the present discovery . 247 
 
 Chapter XIV. 
 
 Containing several curious night-adventures, in which Mr. 
 Adams fell into many hair-breadth 'scapes, partly owing 
 to his goodness, and partly to his inadvertency . . 254 
 
 Chapter XV. 
 
 The arrival of Gaffar and Gammar Andrews, with another 
 person not much expected ; and a perfect solution of the 
 difficulties raised by the peddler 263 
 
 Chapter XVI. 
 
 Being the last. In which this true history is brought to a 
 
 happy conclusion .............. 270
 
 THE HISTORY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 ADVENTURES OF 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS FRIEND MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS 
 
 BOOK II. — continued. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 An interview between parson Adams and parson Trulliber. 
 
 PARSON ADAMS came to the house of par- 
 son Trulliber, whom he found stripped into 
 his waistcoat, with an apron on, and a pail 
 in his hand, just come from serving his hogs ; for 
 Mr. Trulliber was a parson on Sundays, but all 
 the other six might more properly be called a 
 farmer. He occupied a small piece of land of his 
 own, besides which he rented a considerable deal 
 more. His wife milked his cows, managed his 
 dairy, and followed the markets with butter and 
 eggs. The hogs fell chiefly to his care, which he 
 carefully waited on at home, and attended to 
 fairs; on which occasion he was liable to many 
 jokes, his own size being, with much ale, rendered 
 little inferior to that of the beasts he sold. He 
 
 was indeed one of the largest men you should see, 
 li-i 1
 
 2 THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 and could have acted the part of Sir John Falstaff 
 without stuffing. Add to this that the rotundity 
 of his belly was considerably increased by the 
 shortness of his stature, his shadow ascending 
 very near as far in height, when he lay on his back, 
 as when he stood on his legs. His voice was loud 
 and hoarse, and his accents extremely broad. To 
 complete the whole, he had a stateliness in his 
 gait, when he walked, not unlike that of a goose, 
 only he stalked slower. 
 
 Mr. Trulliber, being informed that somebody 
 wanted to speak with him, immediately slipped 
 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 mis- 
 take ; for she had told her husband, * ' She believed 
 there was a man come for some of his hogs." 
 This supposition made Mr. Trulliber hasten with 
 the utmost expedition to attend his guest. He no 
 sooner saw Adams than, not in the least doubting 
 the cause of his errand to be what his wife had 
 imagined, he told him, ''He was come in very 
 good time; that he expected a dealer that very 
 afternoon;" and added, ''they were all pure and 
 fat, and upwards of twenty score a-piece." 
 Adams answered, "He believed he did not know 
 him." "Yes, yes," cried Trulliber, "I have seen 
 you often at fair ; why, we have dealt before now, 
 mun, I warrant you. Yes, yes," cries he, "I re- 
 member 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 3 
 
 the sty." Upon which he laid violent hands on 
 Adams, and dragged him into the hog- sty, which 
 was indeed but two steps from his parlor window. 
 They were no sooner arrived there than he cried 
 out, "Do but handle them! step in, friend! art 
 welcome to handle them, whether dost buy or no." 
 At which words, opening the gate, he pushed 
 Adams into the pig-sty, 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 sty, 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 haheo cum porcis: I am a clergyman, sir, 
 and am not come to buy hogs." Trulliber an- 
 swered, "He was sorry for the mistake, but that 
 he must blame his wife, ' ' adding, ' ' she was a fool, 
 and always committed blunders." He then de- 
 sired him to walk in and clean himself, that he 
 would only fasten up the sty and follow him. 
 Adams desired leave to dry his greatcoat, wig, and 
 hat by the fire, which Trulliber granted. Mrs. 
 Trulliber would have brought him a basin of
 
 4 THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 water to wash his face, but her husband bid h-er 
 be quiet like a fool as she was, or she would com- 
 mit more blunders, and then directed Adams to 
 the pump. While Adams was thus employed, 
 Trulliber, conceiving no great respect for the ap- 
 pearance of his guest, fastened the parlor 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, grin- 
 ning, "I perceive you have some cassock; I will 
 not venture to caale it a whole one." Adams an- 
 swered, ''It was indeed none of the best, but he 
 had the misfortune to tear it about ten years ago 
 in passing over a stile." Mrs. Trulliber, return- 
 ing with the drink, told her husband, ' ' She fancied 
 the gentleman was a traveler, 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 sup- 
 posed the gentleman had none by his having no 
 boots on." — "Yes, sir, yes," says Adams; "I 
 have a horse, but I have left him behind me." — 
 "I am glad to hear you have one," says Trulliber; 
 "for I assure you I don't love to see clergymen 
 on foot; it is not seemly nor suiting the dignity 
 of the cloth." Here Trulliber made a long ora- 
 tion on the dignity of the cloth (or rather gown) 
 not much worth relating, till his wife had spread 
 the table and set a mess of porridge on it for his 
 breakfast. He then said to Adams, "I don't
 
 JOSEPH ANDKEWS 5 
 
 know, friend, how you came to caale on me ; how- 
 ever, as you are here, if you think proper to eat 
 a morsel, you may." Adams accepted the invita- 
 tion, and the two parsons sat down together ; Mrs. 
 Trulliber waiting behind her husband's chair, as 
 was, it seems, her custom. Trulliber eat heartily, 
 but scarce put anything in his mouth without find- 
 ing fault with his wife's cookery. All which the 
 poor woman bore patiently. Indeed, she was so 
 absolute an admirer of her husband's greatness 
 and importance, of which she had frequent hints 
 from his own mouth, that she almost carried her 
 adoration to an opinion of his infallibility. To 
 say the truth, the parson had exercised her more 
 ways than one ; and the pious woman had so well 
 edified by her husband's sermons, that she had re- 
 solved to receive the bad things of this world to- 
 gether 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 worshiped 
 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 great- 
 ness; for, as she had just delivered a cup of ale 
 to Adams, he snatched it out of his hand, and, 
 crying out, "I caal'd vurst," swallowed down the 
 ale. Adams denied it; it was referred to the 
 wife, who, though her conscience was on the side 
 of Adams, durst not give it against her husband ;
 
 6 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 upon which he said, ''No, sir, no; I should not 
 have been so rude to have taken it from you if 
 you had eaal'd vurst, but I'd have you know I'm 
 a better man than to suffer the best he in the king- 
 dom to drink before me in my own house when I 
 caale vurst." 
 
 As soon as their breakfast was ended, Adams 
 began in the following manner: "I think, sir, it 
 is high time to inform you of the business of my 
 embassy, I am a traveler, and am passing this 
 way in company with two young people, a lad and 
 a damsel, my parishioners, towards my own cure; 
 we stopped 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 Trul- 
 liber, '*I believe I am as warm as the vicar him- 
 self, 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 busi- 
 ness is, that we are by various accidents stripped 
 of our money, and are not able to pay our reck- 
 oning, being seven shillings. I therefore request 
 you to assist me with the loan of those seven 
 shillings, and also seven shillings more, which, 
 peradventure, I shall return to you ; but if not, I 
 am convinced you will joyfully embrace such an 
 opportunity of laying up a treasure in a better 
 place than any this world affords." 
 
 Suppose a stranger, who entered the chambers 
 of a lawyer, being imagined a client, when the law- 
 yer was preparing his palm for the fee, should 
 pull out a writ against him. Suppose an apothe- 
 cary, at the door of a chariot, containing some
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 7. 
 
 great doctor of eminent skill, sliould, instead of 
 directions to a patient, present Mm with a potion 
 for himself. Suppose a minister should, instead 
 
 of a good round sum, treat my lord , or sir 
 
 , or esq. with a good broomstick. 
 
 Suppose a civil companion, or a led captain, 
 should, instead of virtue, and honor, and beauty, 
 and parts, and admiration, thunder vice, and in- 
 famy, 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 sup- 
 position of waiting. In short — suppose what you 
 will, you never can nor will sujopose anything 
 equal to the astonishment which seized on Trul- 
 liber, as soon as Adams had ended his speech. 
 A while he rolled his eyes in silence; sometimes 
 surveying Adams, then his wife; then casting 
 them on the ground, then lifting them up to 
 heaven. At last he burst forth in the following 
 accents : ' ' Sir, I believe I know where to lay up 
 my little treasure as well as another. I thank 
 G — , if I am not so warm as some, I am content ; 
 that is a blessing greater than riches; and he to 
 whom that is given need ask no more. To be 
 content with a little is greater than to possess the 
 world; which a man may possess without being 
 so. Lay up my treasure ! what matters where a 
 man's treasure is whose heart is in the Scrip- 
 tures? 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,
 
 8 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 *' Brother," says he, ^'heavens bless the accident 
 by which I came to see you ! I would have walked 
 many a mile to have communed with you ; and, be- 
 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 immediately." 
 Trulliber then put on a stern look, and cried out, 
 ''Thou dost not intend to rob me?" At which 
 the wife, bursting into tears, fell on her knees 
 and roared out, ''0 dear sir! for Heaven's sake 
 don't rob my master; we are but poor people." 
 ' ' Get up, for a fool as thou art, and go about thy 
 business," said Trulliber; *'dost think the man 
 will venture his life? he is a beggar, and no rob- 
 ber." ''Very true, indeed," answered Adams. 
 "I wish, with all my heart, the tithing-man was 
 here," cries Trulliber; "I would have thee pun- 
 ished as a vagabond for thy impudence. Four- 
 teen shillings indeed! I won't give thee a farth- 
 ing. 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 stripped 
 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),
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 9 
 
 *'I shall not learn my duty from such as thee. 
 I know what charity is, better than to give to vaga- 
 bonds." '^ Besides, if we were inclined, the 
 poor's rate obliges us to give so much charity," 
 cries the wife. "Pugh! thou art a fool. Poor's 
 reate ! Hold thy nonsense, ' ' answered Trulliber ; 
 and then, turning to Adams, he told him, "he 
 would give him nothing." "I am sorry," an- 
 swered Adams, "that you do know what charity 
 is, since you practice it no better: I must tell 
 you, if you trust to your knowledge for your justi- 
 fication, you will find yourself deceived, though 
 you should add faith to it, without good works." 
 "Fellow," cries Trulliber, "dost thou speak 
 against faith in my house? Get out of my doors : 
 I will no longer remain under the same roof with 
 a wretch who speaks wantonly of faith and the 
 Scriptures." "Name not the Scriptures," says 
 Adams. "How! not name the Scriptures! Do 
 you disbelieve the Scriptures?" cries Trulliber. 
 "No; but you do," answered Adams, "if I may 
 reason from your practice; for their commands 
 are so explicit, and their rewards and punish- 
 ments so immense, that it is impossible a man 
 should steadfastly believe without obeying. Now, 
 there is no command more express, no duty more 
 frequently enjoined, than charity. Whoever, 
 therefore, is void of charity, I make no scruple of 
 pronouncing that he is no Christian." "I would 
 not advise thee," says Trulliber, "to say that I 
 am no Christian: I won't take it of you; for I 
 believe I am as good a man as thyself" (and in- 
 deed, though he was now rather too corpulent for
 
 10 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 athletic exercises, he had, in his youth, been one 
 of the best boxers and cudgel-players in the coun- 
 ty). 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 
 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.
 
 CHAPTEE XV 
 
 An adventure, the consequence of a new instance which par- 
 son 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 ab- 
 sence long, as he had feared they would, that they 
 never once missed or thought of him. Indeed, I 
 have been often assured by both, that they spent 
 these hours in a most delightful conversation ; but, 
 as I never could prevail on either to relate it, so 
 I cannot communicate it to the reader. 
 
 Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success 
 of his enterprise. They were all greatly con- 
 founded, none being able to propose any method 
 of departing, till Joseph at last advised calling 
 in the hostess, and desiring her to trust them; 
 which Fanny said she despaired of her doing, as 
 she was one of the sourest-faced women she had 
 ever beheld. 
 
 But she was agreeably disappointed; for the 
 hostess was no sooner asked the question than she 
 readily agreed; and, with a courtesy and smile, 
 wished them a good journey. However, lest Fan- 
 ny's skill in physiognomy should be called in 
 question, we will venture to assign one reason 
 which might probably incline her to this confi- 
 dence and good-humor. When Adams said he 
 
 11
 
 12 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 inquiry after him. Now Mr. Trul- 
 liber had, by his professions of piety, by his grav- 
 ity, 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 appre- 
 hension of him. It was therefore no wonder that 
 the hostess, who knew it was in his option whether 
 she should ever sell another mug of drink, did not 
 dare to affront his supposed brother by denying 
 him credit. 
 
 They were now just on their departure when 
 Adams recollected he had left his greatcoat and 
 hat at Mr. Trulliber's. As he was not desirous of 
 renewing his visit, the hostess herself, having no 
 servant at home, offered to fetch it. 
 
 This was an unfortunate expedient; for the 
 hostess was soon undeceived in the opinion she 
 had entertained of Adams, whom Trulliber abused 
 in the grossest terras, 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 
 traveling about, and pretending to be what they 
 were not. , That taxes were high, and for her part 
 she was obliged to pay for what she had ; she could 
 not therefore possibly, nor would she, trust any- 
 body; no, not her own father. That money was 
 never scarcer, and she wanted to make up a sum.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 13 
 
 That she expected, therefore, they should pay 
 their reckoning before they left the house. ' ' 
 
 Adams was now greatly perplexed; but, as he 
 knew that he could easily have borrowed such a 
 sum in his own parish, and as he knew he would 
 have lent it himself to any mortal in distress, so 
 he took fresh courage, and sallied out all round 
 the parish, but to no purpose ; he returned as pen- 
 niless 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, enter- 
 tained them with the goodness of parson Trulli- 
 ber. And, indeed, he had not only a very good 
 character as to other qualities in the neighbor- 
 hood, but was reputed a man of great charity; 
 for, though he never gave a farthing, he had al- 
 ways 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 of- 
 fered to stir without paying her, she would soon 
 overtake them with a warrant. 
 
 Plato and Aristotle, or somebody else, hath 
 said, that ivhen the most exquisite cunning fails, 
 chance often hits the mark, and that by means the 
 least expected. Yirgil expresses this very bold- 
 
 Turne, quod- optanti divum promittere nemo 13 
 
 'Auderet, volvenda dies, en! attulit ultro.
 
 14 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 
 
 I would quote more great men if I could ; but my 
 memory not permitting me, I will proceed to ex- 
 emplify these observations by the following in- 
 stance : — 
 
 There chanced (for Adams had not cunning 
 enough to contrive it) to be at that time in the ale- 
 house a fellow who had been formerly a drummer 
 in an Irish regiment, and now traveled the coun- 
 try as a peddler. 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 cried out, "It would do; for 
 that he had sixpence himself." And thus these 
 poor people, who could not engage the compassion 
 of riches and piety, were at length delivered out 
 of their distress by the charity of a poor peddler. 
 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 
 from their hostess, or indeed without paying her 
 any; Adams declaring he would take particular 
 care never to call there again; and she on her 
 side assuring them she wanted no such guests.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A very curious adventure, in which Mr. Adams gave a much. 
 greater instance of the honest simplicity of his heart, 
 than of his experience in the ways of this world. 
 
 OUR travelers had walked about two miles 
 froni that inn, which they had more rea- 
 son 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 smoking a pipe at the door, 
 of whom Adams inquired the road, and received 
 so courteous and obliging an answer, accompa- 
 nied with so smiling a countenance, that the good 
 parson, whose heart was naturally disposed to 
 love and affection, began to ask several other 
 questions; particularly the name of the parish, 
 and who was the owner of a large house whose 
 front they then had in prospect. The gentleman 
 answered as obligingly as before; and as to the 
 house, acquainted him it was his own. He then 
 proceeded in the following manner : ^ ' Sir, I pre- 
 sume by your habit you are a clergyman ; and as 
 you are traveling on foot I suppose a glass of 
 good beer will not be disagreeable to you ; and I 
 can recommend my landlord's within as some of 
 the best in all this country. "What say you, will 
 
 15
 
 16 THE HISTOKY OF 
 
 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 flavor, to that which distilled from 
 those grains her generous husband bestowed on 
 his hogs. Having, therefore, abundantly thanked 
 the gentleman for his kind invitation, and bid 
 Joseph and Fanny follow him, he entered the ale- 
 house, 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 travelers 
 fell to eating, with appetites infinitely more vora- 
 cious 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 behavior of Adams ; and par- 
 ticularly in the familiarity with which he con- 
 versed with Joseph and Fanny, whom he often 
 called his children; a term he exjDlained 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 gen- 
 tleman, shaking him by the hand, highly ap- 
 plauded those sentiments. "They are, indeed," 
 says he, ''the true principles of a Christian di- 
 vine ; 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 parish- 
 ioners as a part of his family, seems rather to 
 consider them as not of the same species with
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 17 
 
 himself. He seldom speaks to any, unless some 
 few of the richest of us; nay, indeed, he will not 
 move his hat to the others. I often laugh when 
 I behold him on Sundays strutting along the 
 churchyard like a turkey-cock through rows of his 
 parishioners, who bow to him with as much sub- 
 mission, 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 honor to know maintain a 
 different behavior ; and you will allow me, sir, that 
 the readiness which too many of the laity show to 
 contemn the order may be one reason of their 
 avoiding too much humility." "Very true, in- 
 deed," says the gentleman; "I find, sir, you are 
 a man of excellent sense, and am happy in this 
 opportunity of knowing you; perhaps our acci- 
 dental meeting may not be disadvantageous to 
 you neither. At present I shall only say to you 
 that the incumbent of this living is old and infirm, 
 and that it is in my gift. Doctor, give me your 
 hand; and assure yourself of it at his decease." 
 Adams told him, "He was never more confounded 
 in his life than at his utter incapacity to make any 
 return to such noble and unmerited generosity." 
 "A mere trifle, sir," cries the gentleman, "scarce 
 worth your acceptance; a little more than three 
 
 II— 2
 
 18 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 chil- 
 dren, besides those in the spiritual sense he had 
 mentioned." "Sir," replied the parson, "I have 
 a wife and six at your service." "That is un- 
 lucky," says the gentleman; "for I would other- 
 wise have taken you into my own house as my 
 chaplain; however, I have another in the parish 
 (for the parsonage-house is not good enough), 
 which I will furnish for you. Pray, does your 
 wife understand a dairy?" "I can't profess she 
 does," says Adams. "I am sorry for it," quoth 
 the gentleman; "I would have given you half-a- 
 dozen cows, and very good grounds to have main- 
 tained them." "Sir," said Adams, in an ecstasy, 
 "you are too liberal; indeed you are." "Not at 
 all," cries the gentleman: "I esteem riches only 
 as they give me an opportunity of doing good; 
 and I never saw one whom I had a greater in- 
 clination 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 accom- 
 modated 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 traveling, he said it was 
 too long a journey to take on foot, and begged 
 that they would favor him by suffering him to lend 
 them a servant and horses; adding, withal, that,
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 19 
 
 if they would do him the pleasure of their com- 
 pany only two days, he would furnish them with 
 his coach and six. Adams, turning to Joseph, 
 said, ''How lucky is this gentleman's goodness to 
 you, who I am afraid would be scarce able to hold 
 out on your lame leg!" and then, addressing the 
 person who made him these liberal promises, after 
 much bowing, he cried out, ''Blessed be the hour 
 which first introduced me to a man of your char- 
 ity ! you are indeed a Christian of the true prim- 
 itive kind, and an honor to the country wherein 
 j^ou live. I would willingly have taken a pilgrim- 
 age to the Holy Land to have beheld you ; for the 
 advantages which we draw from your goodness 
 give me little pleasure, in comparison of what I 
 enjoy for your own sake when I consider the treas- 
 ures you are by these means laying up for your- 
 self in a country that passeth not away. "We will 
 therefore, most generous sir, accept your good- 
 ness, as well the entertainment you have so kindly 
 offered us at your house this evening, as the ac- 
 commodation of your horses to-morrow morn- 
 ing." He then began to search for his hat, as did 
 Joseph for his ; and both they and Fanny were in 
 order of departure, when the gentleman, stopping 
 short, and seeming to meditate by himself for the 
 space of about a minute, exclaimed thus: "Sure 
 never anything was so unlucky ; I had forgot that 
 my 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 away all my linen. 
 I am glad it entered into my head before I had
 
 20 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 given you the trouble of walking there; besides, 
 1 believe you will find better accommodations here 
 than you expected. — Landlord, you can provide 
 good beds for these people, can't you?" "Yes, 
 and please your worship," cries the host, "and 
 such as no lord or justice of the peace in the king- 
 dom need be ashamed to lie in." "I am heartilyi 
 sorry," says the gentleman, "for this disappoint- 
 ment. 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 
 favor 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 smoked 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 dis- 
 pute ensued, whether Fanny should ride behind 
 Joseph, or behind the gentleman's servant; 
 Joseph insisting on it that he was perfectlj^ recov- 
 ered, 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 21 
 
 her behind him; for that he was weaker than he 
 imagined himself to be. 
 
 This dispute continued a long time, and had be- 
 gun to be tery hot, when a servant arrived from 
 their good friend, to acquaint them that he was 
 unfortunately prevented from lending them any 
 horses ; for that his groom had, unknown to him, 
 put his whole stable under a course of physic. 
 
 This advice presently struck the two disputants 
 dumb: Adams cried out, "Was ever anything so 
 unlucky as this poor gentleman? I protest I am 
 more sorry on his account than my own. You see, 
 Joseph, how this good-natured man is treated by 
 his servants; one locks up his linen, another 
 physics his horses, and I suppose, by his being at 
 this house last night, the butler had locked up his 
 cellar. Bless us ! how good-nature is used in this 
 world! I protest I am more concerned on his 
 account than my own." ''So am not I," cries 
 Joseph; "not that I am much troubled about walk- 
 ing on foot; all my concern is, how we shall get 
 out of the house, unless God sends another peddler 
 to redeem us. But certainly this gentleman has 
 such an affection for you, that he would lend you 
 a larger sum than we owe here, which is not above 
 four or five shillings." "Very true, child," an- 
 swered 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 oc- 
 casion for them."
 
 22 THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 Fanny being now risen, Joseph paid her a visit, 
 and left Adams to write his letter, which having 
 finished, he dispatched a boy with it to the gentle- 
 man, and then seated himself by the door, lighted 
 his pipe, and betook himself to meditation. 
 
 The boy staying longer than seemed to be neces- 
 sary, Joseph, who with Fanny was now returned 
 to the parson, expressed some apprehensions that 
 the gentleman's steward had locked up his purse 
 too. To which Adams answered, "It might very 
 possibly be, and he should wonder at no liberties 
 which the devil might put into the head of a 
 wicked servant to take with so worthy a master;" 
 but added, "that, as the sum was so small, so 
 noble a gentleman would be easily able to procure 
 it in the parish, though he had it not in his own 
 pocket. Indeed," says he, "if it was four or five 
 guineas, or any such large quantity of money, it 
 might be a different matter." 
 
 They were now sat down to breakfast over 
 some toast and ale, when the boy returned and in- 
 formed 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 can- 
 not 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, bring- 
 ing an account that the gentleman was gone a 
 long journey, and would not be at home again
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 23 
 
 this montli. At these words Adams seemed 
 greatly confounded, saying, ' ' Tliis must be a sud- 
 den accident, as the sickness or death of a relation 
 or some such unforeseen misfortune;" and then, 
 turning to Joseph, cried, ^'I wish you had re- 
 minded me to have borrowed this money last 
 night." Joseph, smiling, answered, "He was 
 very much deceived if the gentleman would not 
 have found some excuse to avoid lending it. — I 
 own," says he, "I was never much pleased with 
 his professing so much kindness for you at first 
 sight ; for I have heard the gentlemen of our cloth 
 in London tell many such stories of their masters. 
 But when the boy brought the message back of 
 his not being at home, I presently knew what 
 would follow ; for, whenever a man of fashion doth 
 not care to fulfill his promises, the custom is to 
 order his servants that he will never be at home 
 to the person so promised. In London they call 
 it denying him. I have myself denied Sir Thomas 
 Booby above a hundred times, and when the man 
 hath danced attendance for about a month or 
 sometimes longer, he is acquainted in the end that 
 the gentleman is gone out of town and could do 
 nothing in the business." — "Good Lord!" says 
 Adams, "what wickedness is there in the Chris- 
 tian world! I profess almost equal to what I 
 have read of the heathens. But surely, Joseph, 
 your suspicions of this gentleman must be unjust, 
 for what a silly fellow must he be who would do 
 the devil's work for nothing! and canst thou tell 
 me any interest he could possibly propose to him- 
 self by deceiving us in his professions!" — "It is.
 
 24 THK HISTORY OF 
 
 not for me," answered Joseph, '*to give reasons 
 for what men do, to a gentleman of your learn- 
 ing."— ''You say right," quoth Adams; ''knowl- 
 edge of men is only to be learned from books; 
 Plato and Seneca for that ; and those are authors, 
 I am afraid, child, you never read." — "Not I, sir, 
 truly," answered Joseph; "all I know is, it is a 
 maxim among the gentlemen of our cloth, that 
 those masters who promise the most perform the 
 least ; and I have often heard them say they have 
 found the largest vails in those families where 
 they were not promised any. But, sir, instead of 
 considering any farther these matters, it would 
 be our wisest way to contrive some method of 
 getting out of this house; for the generous gen- 
 tleman, instead of doing us any service, hath left 
 us the whole reckoning to pay." Adams was go- 
 ing to answer, when their host came in, and, with 
 a kind of jeering smile, said, "Well, masters! the 
 squire hath not sent his horses for you yet. Laud 
 help me! how easily some folks make promises!" 
 — "How!" says Adams; "have you ever known 
 him do anything of this kind before?" — "Ay! 
 marry have I," answered the host: "it is no busi- 
 ness 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 liv- 
 ing, 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 25 
 
 these words Adams, blessing himself, declared, 
 **He had never read of such a monster. But 
 what vexes me most," says he, "is, that he hath 
 decoyed us into running up a long debt with you, 
 which we are not able to pay, for we have no 
 money about us, and, what is worse, live at such a 
 distance, that if you should trust us, I am afraid 
 you would lose your money for want of our find- 
 ing any conveniency of sending it. ' ' — ' ' Trust you, 
 master!" says the host, ''that I will with all my 
 heart. I honor 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 you, 
 master, shall we have t'other pot before we part? 
 It will waste but a little chalk more, and if you 
 never pay me a shilling the loss will not ruin me." 
 Adams liked the invitation very well, especially 
 as it was delivered with so hearty an accent. He 
 shook his host by the hand, and thanking him, 
 said, * ' He would tarry another pot rather for the 
 pleasure of such worthy company than for the 
 liquor;" adding, ''he was glad to find some Chris- 
 tians left in the kingdom, for that he almost began 
 to suspect that he was sojourning in a country in- 
 habited 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,
 
 26 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Adams sat down with his host; and, both filling 
 their glasses, and lighting their pipes, they began 
 that dialogue which the reader will find in the 
 next chapter.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and his host, which, 
 by the disagreement in their opinions, seemed to threaten 
 an unlucky catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented 
 by the return of the lovers. 
 
 ^^if^IR," said the host, *'I assure you you 
 are not the first to whora our squire 
 hath promised more than he hath per- 
 formed. 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 learn- 
 ing to qualify him for the place ; and the boy held 
 up his head above his condition with these hopes ; 
 nor would he go to plow, nor to any other kind 
 of work, and went constantly dressed as fine as 
 could be, with two clean Holland shirts a week, 
 and this for several years ; till at last he followed 
 the squire up to London, thinking there to mind 
 him of his promises ; but he could never get sight 
 of him. So that, being out of money and business, 
 he fell into evil company and wicked courses; 
 and in the end came to a sentence of transporta- 
 tion, the news of which broke the mother's heart. 
 — I will tell you another true story of him. There 
 was a neighbor of mine, a farmer, who had two 
 
 27
 
 28 THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 sons whom he bred up to the business. Pretty 
 lads they were. Nothing would serve the squire 
 but that the youngest must be made a parson. 
 Upon which he persuaded the father to send him 
 to school, promising that he would afterwards 
 maintain him at the university, and, when he was 
 of a proper age, give him a living. But after the 
 lad had been seven years at school, and his father 
 brought him to the squire, with a letter from 
 his master that he was fit for the university, 
 the squire, instead of minding his promise, 
 or sending him thither at his expense, only 
 told his father that the young man was a fine 
 scholar, and it was pity he could not afford to 
 keep him at Oxford for four or five years more, 
 by which time, if he could get him a curacy, he 
 might have him ordained. The farmer said, * ' He 
 was not a man sufficient to do any such thing." 
 — *'Why then," answered the squire, "I am very 
 sorry you have given him so much learning; for, 
 if he cannot get his living by that, it will rather 
 spoil him for anything else; and your other son, 
 who can hardly write his name, will do more at 
 plowing and sowing, and is in a better condition, 
 than he." And indeed so it proved; for the poor 
 lad, not finding friends to maintain him in his 
 learning, as he had expected, and being unwilling 
 to work, fell to drinking, though he was a very 
 sober lad before ; and in a short time, partly with 
 grief, and partly with good liquor, fell into a con- 
 sumption, and died. — Nay, I can tell you more 
 still : there was another, a young woman, and the 
 handsomest in all this neighborhood, whom he
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 29 
 
 enticed up to London, promising to make her a 
 gentlewoman to one of your women of quality; 
 but, instead of keeping his word, we have since 
 heard, after having a child by her himself, she 
 became a common whore ; then kept a coffee-house 
 in Covent Garden; and a little after died of the 
 French distemper in a jail — I could tell you 
 many more stories; but how do you imagine he 
 served me myself? You must know, sir, I was 
 bred a seafaring man, and have been many voy- 
 ages; till at last I came to be master of a ship 
 myself, and was in a fair way of making a for- 
 tune, when I was attacked by one of those cursed 
 guarda-costas who took our ships before the be- 
 ginning 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 defense 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
 
 30 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 the admiralty. He never returned from London 
 but I was assured I might be satisfied now, for 
 I was certain of the first vacancy ; and, what sur- 
 jorises me still, when I reflect on it, these as- 
 surances were given me with no less confidence, 
 after so many disappointments, than at first. At 
 last, sir, growing weary, and somewhat suspicious, 
 after so much delay, I wrote to a friend in London, 
 who I knew had some acquaintance at the best 
 house in the admiralty, and desired him to back 
 the squire's interest; for indeed I feared he had 
 solicited the affair with more coldness than he 
 i:)retended. 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 faith- 
 fuller interest, advised me to give over my pre- 
 tensions; which I immediately did, and, with the 
 concurrence of my wife, resolved to set up an 
 alehouse, where you are heartily welcome; and 
 so my service to you; and may the squire, and 
 all such sneaking rascals, go to the devil to- 
 gether." — ''0 fie!" says Adams, ''0 fie! He is 
 indeed a wicked man ; but G — will, I hope, turn 
 his heart to repentance. Nay, if he could but 
 once see the meanness of this detestable vice; 
 would he but once reflect that he is one of the 
 most scandalous as well as pernicious liars; sure 
 he must despise himself to so intolerable a degree, 
 that it would be impossible for him to continue 
 a moment in such a course. And to confess the 
 truth, notwithstanding the baseness of this char- 
 acter, which he hath too well deserved, he hath
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 31 
 
 in liis countenance sufficient symptoms of that 
 bona indoles, that sweetness of disposition, which 
 furnishes out a good Christian." — "Ah, master! 
 master!" says the host, "if you had traveled as 
 far as I have, and conversed with the many 
 nations where I have traded, you would not give 
 any credit to a man's countenance. Symptoms 
 in his countenance, quotha! I would look there, 
 perhaps, to see whether a man had the small- 
 pox, but for nothing else." He spoke this with 
 so little regard to the parson's observation, that 
 it a good deal nettled him; and, taking the pipe 
 hastily from his mouth, he thus answered: 
 "Master of mine, perhaps I have traveled a great 
 deal farther than you without the assistance of 
 a ship. Do you imagine sailing by different cities 
 or countries is traveling? No. 
 
 "Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare eurrimt. 
 
 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 Car- 
 thage. Nay, you may have heard Scylla, and seen 
 Charybdis ; you may have entered the closet where 
 Archimedes was found at the taking of Syracuse, 
 I suppose you have sailed among the Cyclades, 
 and passed the famous straits which take their 
 name from the unfortunate Helle, whose fate is 
 sweetly described by Apollonius Rhodius; you 
 have passed the very spot, I conceive, where 
 Daedalus fell into that sea, his waxen wings being 
 melted by the sun ; you have traversed the Euxine 
 sea, I make no doubt ; nay, you may have been on
 
 32 THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 the banks of the Caspian, and called at Colchis, 
 to see if there is ever another golden fleece." 
 ''Not I, truly master," answered the host: "I 
 never touched at any of these places." — "But I 
 have been at all these," replied Adams. "Then, 
 I suppose," cries the host, "you have been at the 
 East Indies ; for there are no such, I will be sworn, 
 either in the West or the Levant." — "Pray 
 Where's the Levant?" quoth Adams; "that should 
 be in the East Indies by right." "Oho! you are 
 a pretty traveler," cries the host, "and not know 
 the Levant! My service to you, master; you 
 must not talk of these things with me! you must 
 not tip us the traveler ; it won 't go here. " " Since 
 thou art so dull to misunderstand me still," quoth 
 Adams, "I will inform thee; the traveling I 
 mean is in books, the only way of traveling by 
 which any knowledge is to be acquired. From 
 them I learn what I asserted just now, that nature 
 generally imprints such a portraiture of the mind 
 in the countenance, that a skillful jihysiognomist 
 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 phys- 
 iognomist asserted of Socrates that he plainly dis- 
 covered by his features that he was a rogue in his 
 nature. A character so contrary to the tenor of 
 all this great man's actions, and the generally 
 received opinion concerning him, incensed the 
 boys of Athens so that they threw stones at the 
 physiognomist, and would have demolished him 
 for his ignorance, had not Socrates himself pre- 
 vented them by confessing the truth of his obser-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 33 
 
 vations, and acknowledging that, though he cor- 
 rected his disposition by philosophy, he was 
 indeed naturally as inclined to vice as had been 
 predicted of him. Now, pray resolve me — How 
 should a man know this story if he had not read 
 it?" ''Well, master," said the host, "and what 
 signifies it whether a man knows it or no? He 
 who goes abroad, as I have done, will always 
 have opportunities enough of knowing the world 
 without troubling his head with Socrates, or any 
 such fellows." ''Friend," cries Adams, "if a 
 man should sail round the world, and anchor in 
 every harbor of it, without learning, he would 
 return home as ignorant as he went out." "Lord 
 help you ! ' ' answered the host ; ' ' there was my 
 boatswain, poor fellow! he could scarce either 
 write or read, and yet he would navigate a ship 
 with any master of a man-of-war; and a very 
 pretty knowledge of trade he had too." 
 "Trade," answered Adams, "as Aristotle proves 
 in his first chapter of Politics, is below a philoso- 
 pher, and unnatural as it is managed now. ' ' The 
 host looked steadfastly at Adams, and after a 
 minute's silence asked him, "If he was one of 
 the writers of the Gazetteers 1 for I have heard, ' ' 
 says he, "they are writ by parsons." "Gazet- 
 teers!" 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 lie on my table, 
 though it hath been offered me for nothing." 
 "Not I truly," said Adams; "I never write any- 
 
 II— 3
 
 34 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 thing 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 trades- 
 man as a very valuable member of society, and, 
 perhaps inferior to none but the man of learn- 
 ing." *'No, I believe he is not, nor to him 
 neither," answered the host. ^*0f what use 
 would learning be in a country without trade? 
 What would all you parsons do to clothe your 
 backs and feed your bellies? Who fetches you 
 your silks, and your linens, and your wines, and 
 all the other necessaries of life? I speak chiefly 
 with regard to the sailors." ''You should say 
 the extravagancies of life," replied the joarson; 
 ''but admit they were the necessaries, there is 
 something more necessary than life itself, which 
 is provided by learning; I mean the learning of 
 the clergy. Who clothes you with piety, meek- 
 ness, 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 all of impure carnal affections, and 
 fattens them with the truly rich spirit of grace? 
 Who doth this?" "Ay, who, indeed?" cries the 
 host; "for I do not remember ever to have seen 
 any such clothing or such feeding. And so, in 
 the mean time, master, my service to you." 
 Adams was going to answer with some severity, 
 when Joseph and Fanny returned and pressed 
 his departure so eagerly that he would not re- 
 fuse them ; and so, grasping his crabstick, he took 
 leave of his host (neither of them being so well
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 35 
 
 pleased with each other as they had been at their 
 first sitting down together), and with Joseph and 
 Fanny, who both expressed much impatience, de- 
 parted, and now all together renewed their 
 journey.
 
 BOOK ni 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Matter prefator in praise of biography. 
 
 NOTAVITHSTANDING the preference 
 which may be vulgarly given to the au- 
 thority of those romance writers who 
 entitle their books "the History of England, the 
 History of France, of Spain, &c.," it is most cer- 
 tain 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 chorog- 
 raphers; words which might well mark the dis- 
 tinction between them; it being the business of 
 the latter chiefly to describe countries and cities, 
 which, with the assistance of maps, they do pretty 
 justly, and may be depended upon; but as to the 
 actions and characters of men, their writings are 
 not quite so authentic, of which there needs no 
 other proof than those eternal contradictions oc- 
 curring between two topographers who undertake 
 the history of the same country: for instance, be- 
 tween my Lord Clarendon and Mr. Whitelocke, 
 between Mr. Echard and Rapin, and many others ; 
 where, facts being set forth in a different light, 
 every reader believes as he pleases; and, indeed, 
 the more judicious and suspicious very justly 
 
 36
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 37 
 
 esteem the whole as no other than a romance, in 
 which the writer hath indulged a happy and fertile 
 invention. But though these widely differ in the 
 narrative of facts; some ascribing victory to the 
 one and others to the other party; some repre- 
 senting the same man as a rogue, ivhile 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 hap- 
 pened : for, though it may be worth the examina- 
 tion of critics, whether the shepherd Chrysostom, 
 who, as Cervantes informs us, died for love of 
 the fair Marcella, who hated him, was ever in 
 Spain, will any one doubt but that such a silly 
 fellow hath really existed? Is there in the world 
 such a skeptic as to disbelieve the madness of Car- 
 denio, the perfidy of Ferdinand, the impertinent 
 curiosity of Anselmo, the weakness of Camilla, the 
 irresolute friendship of Lothario? though per- 
 haps, as to the time and place where those several 
 persons lived, that good historian may be deplor- 
 ably 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-ves- 
 sels, by letting out their blood, and filling them 
 up with water. Doth not every one, who is the 
 least versed in physical history, know that Spain
 
 38 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 was not the country in which this doctor lived? 
 The same writer hath likewise erred in the 
 country of his archbishop, as well as that of those 
 great personages whose understandings were too 
 sublime to taste anything but tragedy, and in 
 many others. The same mistakes may likewise 
 be observed in Scarron, the Arabian Nights, the 
 History of Marianne and le Paisan Parvenu, and 
 perhaps some few other writers of this class, 
 whom I have not read, or do not at present recol- 
 lect; for I would by no means be thought to com- 
 prehend those persons of surprising genius, the 
 authors of immense romances, or the modern nov- 
 el and Atalantis writers ; who, without any assist- 
 ance from nature or history, record persons who 
 never were, or will be, and facts which never 
 did, nor possibly can, happen; whose heroes are 
 of their own creation, and their brains the chaos 
 whence all their materials are selected. Not that 
 such writers deserve no honor; so far otherwise, 
 that perhaps they merit the highest ; for what can 
 be nobler than to be as an example of the wonder- 
 ful extent of human genius! One may apply to 
 them what Balzac says of Aristotle, that they are 
 a second nature (for they have no communication 
 with the first; by which, authors of an inferior 
 class, who cannot stand alone, are obliged to 
 support themselves as with crutches) ; but these 
 of whom I am now speaking seem to be possessed 
 of those stilts, which the excellent Voltaire tells 
 us, in his letters, ''carry the genius far off, but 
 with an regular pace." Indeed, far out of the 
 sight of the reader,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 39 
 
 Beyond the realm of Chaos and old Night. 
 
 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 achievements of the renowned Don Quixote 
 more worthy the name of a history than even 
 Mariana's: for, whereas the latter is confined to 
 a particular period of time, and to a particular 
 nation, the former is the history of the world in 
 general, at least that part which is polished by 
 laws, arts, and sciences; and of that from the 
 time it was first polished to this day; nay, and 
 forwards as long as it shall so remain? 
 
 I shall now proceed to apply these observations 
 to the work before us ; for indeed I have set them 
 down principally to obviate some constructions 
 which the good-nature of mankind, who are always 
 forward to see their friends' virtues recorded, 
 may put to particular parts. I question not but 
 several of my readers will know the lawyer in 
 the stage-coach the moment they hear his voice. 
 It is likewise odds but the wit and the prude meet 
 with some of their acquaintance, as well as all 
 the rest of my characters. To prevent, therefore, 
 any such malicious applications, I declare here, 
 once for all, I describe not men, but manners; 
 not an individual, but a species. Perhaps it will 
 be answered, Are not the characters then taken 
 from life? To which I answer in the affirmative; 
 nay, I believe I might aver that I have writ little 
 more than I have seen. The lawyer is not only
 
 40 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 alive, but hath been so these four thousand years ; 
 and I hope G — will indulge his life as many yet 
 to come. He hath not indeed confined himself 
 to one profession, one religion, or one country; 
 but when the first mean selfish creature appeared 
 on the human stage, who made self the center of 
 the whole creation, would give himself no pain, in- 
 cur no danger, advance no money, to assist or pre- 
 serve his fellow-creatures; then was our lawyer 
 born; and, whilst such a person as I have de- 
 scribed exists on earth, so long shall he remain 
 upon it. It is, therefore, doing him little honor 
 to imagine he endeavors to mimic some little 
 obscure fellow, because he happens to resemble 
 him in one particular feature, or perhaps in his 
 profession; whereas his appearance in the world 
 is calculated for much more general and noble 
 purposes ; not to expose one pitiful wretch to the 
 small and contemptible circle of his acquaintance ; 
 but to hold the glass to thousands in their closets, 
 that they may contemplate their deformity, and 
 endeavor to reduce it, and thus by suffering 
 private mortification may avoid public shame. 
 This places the boundary between, and distin- 
 guishes the satirist from the libeler: for the 
 former privately corrects the fault for the benefit 
 of the person, like a parent; the latter publicly 
 exposes the person himself, as an example to 
 others, like an executioner. 
 
 There are besides little circumstances to be 
 considered; as the drapery of a picture, which 
 though fashion varies at different times, the re- 
 semblance of the countenance is not by those
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 41 
 
 means diminished. Thus I believe we may ven- 
 ture to say Mrs. Tow-wouse is coeval with our 
 lawyer : and, though perhaps, during the changes 
 which so long an existence must have passed 
 through, she may in her turn have stood behind 
 the bar at an inn, I will not scruple to affirm she 
 hath likewise in the revolution of ages sat on a 
 throne. In short, where extreme turbulency of 
 temper, avarice, and an insensibility of human 
 misery, with a degree of hypocrisy, have united 
 in a female composition, Mrs. Tow-wouse was 
 that woman; and where a good inclination, 
 eclipsed by a poverty of spirit and understand- 
 ing, hath glimmered forth in a man, that man 
 hath been no other than her sneaking husband. 
 I shall detain my reader no longer than to give 
 him one caution more of an opposite kind : for, as 
 in most of our particular characters we mean not 
 to lash individuals, but all of the like sort, so, 
 in our general descriptions, we mean not uni- 
 versals, but would be understood with many ex- 
 ceptions : for instance, in our description of high 
 people, we cannot be intended to include such 
 as, whilst they are an honor to their high rank, 
 by a well-guided condescension make their superi- 
 ority as easy as possible to those whom for- 
 tune 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 honor on his person, bears 
 the truest stamp of dignity on his mind, adorned 
 with greatness, enriched with knowledge, and em- 
 bellished with genius. I have seen this man re-
 
 42 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 lieve with generosity, while he hath conversed 
 with freedom, and be to the same person a patron 
 and a companion. I could name a commoner, 
 raised higher above the multitude by superior 
 talents than is in the power of his prince to exalt 
 him, whose behavior 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 enter- 
 tained. These are pictures which must be, I be- 
 lieve, 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 honors and fortunes 
 they inherit (or perhaj^s a greater to their mother, 
 for such degeneracy is scarce credible), have 
 the insolence to treat those with disregard who 
 are at least equal to the founders of their own 
 splendor. It is, I fancy, impossible to conceive 
 a spectacle more worthy of our indignation, than 
 that of a fellow, who is not only a blot in the 
 escutcheon of a great family, but a scandal to 
 the human species, maintaining a supercilious be- 
 havior to men who are an honor 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 se- 
 quel of this our true history.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befell 
 Adams and his fellow-travelers. 
 
 IT was so late when our travelers left the inn 
 or ale-house (for it might be called either), 
 that they had not traveled many miles be- 
 fore night overtook them, or met them, which you 
 please. The reader must excuse me if I am not 
 particular as to the way they took; for, as we 
 are now drawing near the seat of the Boobies, 
 and as that is a ticklish name, which malicious 
 persons may apply, according to their evil incli- 
 nations, 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 pur- 
 poses. 
 
 Darkness had now overspread the hemisphere, 
 when Fanny whispered Joseph *'that she begged 
 to rest herself a little; for that she was so tired 
 she could walk no farther." Joseph immediately 
 prevailed with parson Adams, who was as brisk 
 as a bee, to stop. He had no sooner seated 
 himself than he lamented the loss of his dear 
 ^schylus; but was a little comforted when re- 
 minded that, if he had it in his possession, he 
 could not see to read. 
 
 The sky was so clouded, that not a star ap- 
 peared. It was indeed, according to Milton, dark- 
 
 43
 
 44 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 ness visible. This was a circumstance, however, 
 very favorable to Joseph; for Fanny, not sus- 
 picious 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 him- 
 self to meditation; in which he had not spent 
 much time before he discovered a light at som« 
 distance that seemed approaching towards him. 
 He immediately hailed it ; but, to his sorrow and 
 surprise it stopped for a moment, and then 
 disappeared. He then called to Joseph, asking 
 him, "it he had not seen the light?" Joseph an- 
 swered, ^'he had." — ^'And did you not mark how 
 it vanished?" returned he: *' though I am not 
 afraid of ghosts, I do not absolutely disbelieve 
 them." 
 
 He then entered into a meditation on those 
 unsubstantial beings ; which was soon interrupted 
 by several voices, which he thought almost at his 
 elbow, though in fact they were not so extremely 
 near. However, he could distinctly hear them 
 agree on the murder of any one they met ; and a 
 little after heard one of them say, "he had killed 
 a dozen since that day fortnight." 
 
 Adams now fell on his knees, and committed 
 himself to the care of Providence; and poor
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 45 
 
 Fanny, who likewise heard those terrible words, 
 embraced Joseph so closely, that had not he, 
 whose ears were also open, been apprehensive 
 on her account, he would have thought no danger 
 which threatened only himself too dear a price 
 for such embraces. 
 
 Joseph now drew forth his penknife, and 
 Adams, having finished his ejaculations, grasped 
 his crab-stick, his only weapon, and coming up to 
 Joseph, would have had him quit Fanny, and 
 place her in the rear ; but his advice was fruitless ; 
 she clung closer to him, not at all regarding the 
 presence of Adams, and in a soothing voice de- 
 clared, "she would die in his arms." Joseph, 
 clasping her with inexpressible eagerness, whis- 
 pered her, "that he preferred death in hers to 
 life out of them." Adams, brandishing his crab- 
 stick, said, "he despised death as much as any 
 man," and then repeated aloud — 
 
 "Est hie, est animus lueis eontemptor et ilium, 
 Qui vita bene eredat emi quo tendis, honorem." 
 
 Upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and 
 then one of them called out, "D — ^n you, who is 
 there?" To which Adams was prudent enough 
 to make no reply; and of a sudden he observed 
 half-a-dozen lights, which seemed to rise all at 
 once from the ground and advance briskly to- 
 wards him. This he immediately concluded to 
 be an apparition; and now, beginning to con- 
 ceive 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
 
 46 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 tlian he heard one of the voices cry out, ''D — n 
 them, here they come ; ' ' and soon after heard sev- 
 eral hearty blows, as if a number of men had been 
 engaged at quarter staff. He was just advancing 
 towards the place of combat, when Joseph, catch- 
 ing 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 i3resently complied, and, Joseph lifting up 
 Fanny, they all three made the best of their way ; 
 and without looking behind them, or being over- 
 taken, they had traveled full two miles, poor 
 Fanny not once complaining of being tired, when 
 they saw afar off several lights scattered at a 
 small distance from each other, and at the same 
 time found themselves on the descent of a very 
 •steep hill. Adams's foot slipping, he instantly 
 disappeared, which greatly frightened both 
 Joseph 'and Fanny: indeed, if the light had per- 
 mitted them to see it, they would scarce have 
 refrained laughing to see the parson rolling down 
 the hill; which he did from top to bottom, with- 
 out receiving any harm. He then hollowed as 
 loud as he could, to inform them of his safety, 
 and relieve them from the fears which they had 
 conceived for him. Joseph and Fanny halted 
 some time, considering what to do ; at last they 
 advanced a few paces, where the declivity seemed 
 least steep; and then Joseph taking his Fanny in 
 his arms, walked firmly down the hill, without 
 making a false step, and at length landed her at 
 the bottom, where Adams soon came to them. 
 Learn hence, my fair countrywomen, to consider
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 47 
 
 your own weakness, and the many occasions on 
 which the strength of a man may be useful to you ; 
 and, duly weighing this, take care that you match 
 not yourselves with the spindle-shanked beaux and 
 petit-mattres 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 travelers now moved forwards where the 
 nearest light presented itself; and, having crossed 
 a common field, they came to a meadow, where 
 they seemed to be at a very little distance from 
 the light, when, to their grief, they arrived at 
 the banks of a river. Adams here made a full 
 stop, and declared he could swim, but doubted how 
 it was possible to get Fanny over : to which Joseph 
 answered, "If they walked along its banks, they 
 might be certain of soon finding a bridge, espe- 
 cially as by the number of lights they might be 
 assured a parish was near." "Odso, that's true 
 indeed," said Adams; ''I did not think of that." 
 
 Accordingly, Joseph's advice being taken, they 
 passed over two meadows, and came to a little 
 orchard, which led them to a house. Fanny 
 begged of Joseph to knock at the door, assuring 
 him, "she was so weary that she could hardly 
 stand on her feet." Adams, who was foremost, 
 performed this ceremony; and, the door being 
 immediately opened, a plain kind of man appeared 
 at it: Adams acquainted him "that they had a 
 young woman with them who was so tired with 
 her journey that he should be much obliged to
 
 48 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 him if he would suffer her to come in and rest 
 herself." The man, who saw Fanny by the light 
 of the candle which he held in his hand, perceiving 
 her innocent and modest look, and having no ap- 
 prehensions from the civil behavior of Adams, 
 presently answered, ' ' That the young woman was 
 very welcome to rest herself in his house, and so 
 were her company." He then ushered them into 
 a very decent room, where his wife was sitting 
 at a table : she immediately rose up, and assisted 
 them in setting forth chairs, and desired them to 
 sit down; which they had no sooner done than 
 the man of the house asked them if they would 
 have anything to refresh themselves with 1 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 manj^ thanks, saying it was true she 
 was very much tired, but a little rest she hoped 
 would restore her. As soon as the company were 
 all seated, Mr. Adams, who had filled himself 
 with ale, and by public permission had lighted his 
 pipe, turned to the master of the house, asking 
 him, '*If evil spirits did not use to walk in that 
 neighborhood?" To which receiving no answer, 
 he began to inform him of the adventure which 
 they met with on the downs ; nor had he proceeded 
 far in the story when somebody knocked very 
 hard at the door. The company expressed some 
 amazement, and Fann)^ and the good woman
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 49 
 
 turned pale: her husband went forth, and whilst 
 he was absent, which was some time, they all 
 remained silent, looking at one another, and heard 
 several voices discoursing pretty loudly. Adams 
 was fully persuaded that spirits were abroad, and 
 began to meditate some exorcisms; Joseph a 
 little inclined to the same opinion; Fanny was 
 more afraid of men ; and the good woman herself 
 began to suspect her guests, and imagined those 
 without were rogues belonging to their gang. At 
 length the master of the house returned, and, 
 laughing, told Adams he had discovered his ap- 
 parition ; that the murderers were sheep-stealers, 
 and the twelve persons murdered were no other 
 than twelve sheep ; adding, that the shepherds had 
 got the better of them, had secured two, and were 
 proceeding with them to a justice of peace. This 
 account greatly relieved the fears of the whole 
 company; but Adams muttered to himself, '^He 
 was convinced of the truth of apparitions for all 
 that." 
 
 They now sat cheerfully round the fire, till the 
 master of the house, having surveyed his guests, 
 and conceiving that the cassock, which, having 
 fallen down, appeared under Adams's greatcoat, 
 and the shabby livery on Joseph Andrews, did not 
 well suit with the familiarity between them, began 
 to entertain some suspicions not much to their 
 advantage: addressing himself therefore to 
 Adams, he said, *'He perceived he was a clergy- 
 man 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 
 
 II— 4
 
 50 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 young man, whom you have rightly termed hon- 
 est, he is at present in nobody's service; he never 
 lived in any other family than that of Lady Booby, 
 from whence he was discharged, I assure you, for 
 no crime. ' ' Joseph said, ' ' He did not wonder the 
 gentleman was surprised to see one of Mr. 
 Adams's character condescend to so much good- 
 ness with a poor man."— ''Child, '* said Adams, 
 ''I should be ashamed of my cloth if I thought 
 a poor man, who is honest, below my notice or my 
 familiarity. I know not how those who think 
 otherwise can profess themselves followers and 
 servants of Him who made no distinction, unless, 
 peradventure, by preferring the poor to the rich. 
 — Sir," said he, addressing himself to the gentle- 
 men, ''these two poor young people are my parish- 
 ioners, and I look on them and love them as my 
 children. There is something singular enough in 
 their history, but I have not now time to recount 
 it." The master of the house, notwithstanding 
 the simplicity which discovered itself in Adams, 
 knew too much of the world to give a hasty belief 
 to professions. He was not yet quite certain that 
 Adams had any more of the clergyman in him 
 than his cassock. To try him therefore further, 
 he asked him, "If Mr. Pope had lately published 
 anything new?" Adams answered, "He had 
 heard great commendations of that poet, but that 
 he had never read nor knew any of his works." — 
 "Ho! ho!" says the gentleman to himself, "have 
 I caught you ! What ! ' ' said he, ' ' have you never 
 seen his Homer?" Adams answered, "he had 
 never read any translation of the classics."
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 51 
 
 ''Why, truly," replied the gentleman, ''there is a 
 dignity in the Greek language which I think no 
 modern tongue can reach." — "Do you understand 
 Greek, sir?" said Adams hastily. "A little, sir," 
 answered the gentleman. "Do you know, sir," 
 cried Adams, "where I can buy an ^schylus? an 
 unlucky misfortune lately happened to mine." 
 ^schylus was beyond the gentleman, though he 
 knew him very well by name ; he therefore, return- 
 ing back to Homer, asked Adams, "What part of 
 the Iliad he thought most excellent T' Adams re- 
 turned, "His question would be properer, What 
 kind of beauty was the chief in poetry? for that 
 Homer was equally excellent in them all. And, 
 indeed," continued he, "what Cicero says of a 
 complete orator may well be applied to a great 
 poet: 'He ought to comprehend all perfections.' 
 Homer did this in the most excellent degree; it is 
 not without reason, therefore, that the philoso- 
 pher, in the twenty-second chajiter of his Poetics, 
 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 analog}^ to comedy 
 as his Odyssey and Iliad to tragedy. To him, 
 therefore, we owe Aristophanes as well as Eurip- 
 ides, Sophocles, and my poor xEschylus. 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 prefer- 
 ence, as I remember, to the Odyssey. First, then, 
 as to his subject, can anything be more simple, and
 
 52 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 at the same time more noble'? He is rightly 
 praised by the first of those judicious critics for 
 not choosing the whole war, which, though he says 
 it hath a complete beginning and end, would have 
 been too great for the understanding to compre- 
 hend at one view. I have, therefore, often won- 
 dered 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 per- 
 fect unity, and at the same time so replete with 
 greatness? And here I must observe, what I do 
 not remember to have seen noted by any, the Har- 
 motton, that agreement of his action to his sub- 
 ject: 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 immedi- 
 ately relates. Thirdly, his manners, which Aris- 
 totle places second in his description of the sev- 
 eral parts of tragedy, and which he says are in- 
 cluded in the action; I am at a loss whether I 
 should rather admire the exactness of his judg- 
 ment 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, in- 
 jured resentment of Achilles, distinguished from 
 the hot, insulting passion of Agamemnon ! How 
 widely doth the brutal courage of Ajax differ from 
 the amiable bravery of Diomedes; and the wisdom 
 of Nestor, which is the result of long reflection 
 and experience, from the cunning of Ulysses, the 
 effect of art and subtlety only! If we consider
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 53 
 
 their variety, we may cry out, with Aristotle iu 
 his 24th chapter, that no part of this divine poem 
 is destitute of manners. Indeed, I might affirm 
 that there is scarce a character in human nature 
 untouched in some part or other. And, as there 
 is no passion which he is not able to describe, so 
 is there none in his reader which he cannot raise. 
 If he hath any superior excellence to the rest, I 
 have been inclined to fancy it is in the pathetic. 
 I am sure I never read with dry eyes the two 
 episodes where Andromache is introduced in the 
 former lamenting the danger, and in the latter the 
 death, of Hector. The images are so extremely 
 tender in these, that I am convinced the poet had 
 the worthiest and best heart imaginable. Nor can 
 I help obser\dng 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 Soph- 
 ocles was the greatest genius who ever wrote 
 tragedy; nor have any of his successors in that 
 art, that is to say, neither Euripides nor Seneca 
 the tragedian, been able to come near him. As to 
 his sentiments and diction, I need say nothing ; the 
 former are particularly remarkable for the ut- 
 most perfection on that head, namely, propriety; 
 and as to the latter, Aristotle, whom doubtless 
 you have read over and over, is very diffuse. I 
 shall mention but one thing more, which that great 
 critic in his division of tragedy calls Opsis, or the 
 scenery; and which is as proper to the epic as to 
 the drama, with this difference, that in the former 
 it falls to the share of the poet, and in the latter
 
 54 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 to that of the painter. But did ever painter 
 imagine a scene like that in the 13th and 14th 
 IHads? where the reader sees at one view the pros- 
 pect of Troy, with tlie army drawn up before it; 
 the Grecian army, camp, and fleet ; Jupiter sitting 
 on Mount Ida, with his head wrapped 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 
 rapped out a hundred Greek verses, and with such 
 a voice, emphasis, and action, that he almost 
 frightened the women; and as for the gentleman, 
 he was so far from entertaining any further sus- 
 picion of Adams, that he now doubted whether he 
 had not a bishop in his house. He ran into the 
 most extravagant encomiums on his learning; and 
 the goodness of his heart began to dilate to all the 
 strangers. He said he had great compassion for 
 the poor young woman, who looked pale and faint 
 with her journey; and in truth he conceived a 
 much higher opinion of her quality than it de- 
 served. He said he was sorry he could not ac- 
 commodate 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, par- 
 take 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 scat, his ale, his 
 tobacco, and his company, xDorsuaded Fanny to 
 accept this kind proposal, in which solicitation he
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 55 
 
 was seconded by Joseph. Nor was she very diffi- 
 cultly prevailed on ; for she had slept little the last 
 night and not at all the preceding; so that love 
 itself was scarce able to keep her eyes open any 
 longer. The offer, therefore, being kindly ac- 
 cepted, the good woman produced everything eat- 
 able in her house on the table, and the guests, be- 
 ing heartily invited, as heartily regaled them- 
 selves, especially parson Adams. As to the other 
 two, they were examples of the truth of that 
 physical observation, that love, like other sweet 
 things, is no whetter of the stomach. 
 
 Supper was no sooner ended, than Fanny at her 
 own request retired, and the good woman bore her 
 company. The man of the house, Adams, and 
 Joseph, who would modestly have withdrawn, had 
 not the gentleman insisted on the contrary, drew 
 round the fireside, where Adams (to use his own 
 words) replenished his pipe, and the gentleman 
 produced a bottle of excellent beer, being the best 
 liquor in his house. 
 
 The modest behavior of Joseph, with the grace- 
 fulness of his person, the character which Adams 
 gave of him, and the friendship he seemed to en- 
 tertain for him, began to work on the gentleman's 
 affections, and raised in him a curiosity to know 
 the singularity which Adams had mentioned in his 
 history. This curiosity Adams was no sooner 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
 
 56 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 birth and education. These latter circumstances 
 entirely cured a jealousy which had lately risen in 
 the gentleman's mind, that Fanny was the daugh- 
 ter of some person of fashion, and that Joseph 
 had run away with her, and Adams was concerned 
 in the plot. He was now enamored of his guests, 
 drank their healths with great cheerfulness, and 
 returned many thanks to Adams, who had spent 
 much breath, for he was a circumstantial teller of 
 a story. 
 
 Adams told him it was now in his power to re- 
 turn that favor; 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 common 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 him to call it so. I have, how- 
 ever, 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 Hens 
 pour une maxime constante, qu'une beaut4 mediocre plait plus 
 g^n&ralement qu'une 'beauts sans d^faut. 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,"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 In which the gentleman relates the history of his life. 
 
 SIR, I am descended of a good family, and 
 was born a gentleman. My education was 
 liberal, and at a public school, in which 
 I proceeded so far as to become master of the 
 Latin, and to be tolerably versed in the Greek 
 language. My father died when I was sixteen, 
 and left me master of myself. He bequeathed me 
 a moderate fortune, which he intended I should 
 not receive till I attained the age of twenty-five : 
 for he constantly asserted that was full early 
 enough to give up any man entirely to the 
 guidance of his own discretion. However, as this 
 intention was so obscurely worded in his will that 
 the lawyers advised me to contest the point with 
 my trustees, I own I paid so little regard to the 
 inclinations of my dead father, which were suffi- 
 ciently certain to me, that I followed their advice, 
 and soon succeeded, for the trustees did not con- 
 test the matter very obstinately on their side. 
 "Sir," said Adams, ''may I crave the favor 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 ex- 
 tremely impatient to be in the world, for which I 
 thought my parts, knowledge, and manhood thor- 
 
 57
 
 58 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 oughly qualified me. And to this early introduc- 
 tion into life, without a guide, I impute all my 
 future misfortunes; for, besides the obvious mis- 
 chiefs which attend this, there is one which hath 
 not been so generally observed: the first impres- 
 sion which mankind receives of j^ou will be very 
 difficult to eradicate. How unhappy, therefore, 
 must it be to fix your character in life, before 
 you can possibly know its value, or weigh the con- 
 sequences 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 surprised 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 
 tailor, a periwig-maker, and some few more 
 tradesmen, who deal in furnishing out the human 
 body. Notwithstanding the lowness of my purse, 
 I found credit with them more easily than I ex- 
 pected, and was soon equipped to my wish. This 
 I own then agreeably surprised 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, fenc- 
 ing, riding the great horse, and music, came into 
 my head : but, as they required expense and time,
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 59 
 
 I comforted myself, with regard to dancing, that I 
 had learned a little in my youth, and could walk 
 a minuet genteelly enough; as to fencing, I 
 thought my good-humor 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 im- 
 agined 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 ingre 
 dient; this I thought I should arrive at by fre 
 quenting public places. Accordingly I paid con- 
 stant attendance to' them all; by which means I 
 was soon master of the fashionable phrases, 
 learned to cry up the fashionable diversions, and 
 knew the names and faces of the most fashionable 
 men and women. 
 
 Nothing now seemed to remain but an intrigue, 
 which I was resolved to have immediately ; I mean 
 the reputation of it; and indeed I was so success- 
 ful, 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 I 
 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 prob-
 
 60 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 ably the persons to whom I showed their billets 
 knew as well as I that they were counterfeits, and 
 that I had written them to myself. "Write let- 
 ters to yourself!" said Adams, staring. 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 re- 
 plied, "He thought her virtuous," I have an- 
 swered, "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 tailor's bill, and 
 kissed it, crying at the same time, "By Gad I was 
 once fond of her." 
 
 "Proceed, if you please, but do not swear any 
 more," said Adams. 
 
 Sir, said the gentleman, I ask your pardon. 
 Well, sir, in this course of life I continued full 
 three years. — "What course of life!" answered 
 Adams ; "I do not remember you have mentioned 
 any." — Your remark is just, said the gentleman, 
 smiling; I should rather have said, in this course 
 of doing nothing. I remember some time after- 
 wards I wrote the journal of one day, which would 
 serve, I believe, as well for any other during the 
 whole time. I will endeavor to repeat it to you.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 61 
 
 In the morning I arose, took my great stick, 
 and walked out in my green frock, with my hair 
 in papers (a groan from Adams), and sauntered 
 about till ten. Went to the auction; told lady 
 
 she had a dirty face ; laughed heartily at 
 
 something captain said, I can't remember 
 
 what, for I did not very well hear it; whispered 
 
 lord ; bowed to the duke of ; and was 
 
 going to bid for a snujff-box, but did not, for fear 
 I should have had it. 
 
 From 2 to 4, dressed myself. A groan. 
 4 to 6, dined. A groan. 
 
 6 to 8, coffee-house. 
 
 8 to 9, Di-ury-lane playhouse. 
 
 9 to 10, Lincobi's Inn Fields. 
 
 10 to 12, Drawing-room. A great groan. 
 
 At all which places nothing happened worth re- 
 mark. 
 
 At which Adams said, with some vehemence, 
 ^'Sir, this is below the life of an animal, hardly 
 above vegetation : and I am surprised what could 
 lead a man of your sense into it." What leads 
 us into more follies than you imagine, doctor, an- 
 swered the gentleman — vanity; for as contempti- 
 ble 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 ap- 
 pearance (you will pardon me), with all your 
 learning and those excellent qualities which I have 
 remarked in you. Adams bowed, and begged him
 
 62 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 to proceed. After I had continued two years in 
 this course of life, said the gentleman, an acci- 
 dent happened which obliged me to change the 
 scene. As I was one day at St. James's coffee- 
 house, making very free with the character of a 
 young lady of quality, an officer of the guards, 
 who was present, thought proper to give me the 
 lie. I answered I might possibly be mistaken, but 
 I intended to tell no more than the truth. To 
 which he made no reply but by a scornful sneer. 
 After this I observed a strange coldness in all my 
 acquaintance ; none of them spoke to me first, and 
 very few returned me even the civility of a bow. 
 The company I used to dine with left me out, and 
 within a week I found myself in as much solitude 
 at St. James's as if I had been in a 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 de- 
 sired till the next day, continued the gentleman, 
 to consider on it, and, retiring to my lodgings, I 
 weighed the consequences on both sides as fairly 
 as I could. On the one, I saw the risk of this 
 alternative, either losing my own life, or having 
 on my hands the blood of a man with whom I 
 was not in the least angry. I soon determined
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 63 
 
 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 Tem- 
 ple, 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 beaux of 
 the Temple are only the shadows of the others. 
 They are the affectation of aif ectation. The van- 
 ity of these is still more ridiculous, if possible, 
 than of the others. Here I met with smart fel- 
 lows who drank with lords they did not know, 
 and intrigued with women they never saw. 
 Covent Garden was now the farthest stretch of 
 my ambition ; where I shone forth in the balconies 
 at the playhouses, visited whores, made love to 
 orange-wenches, and damned plays. This career 
 was soon put a stop to by my surgeon, who con- 
 vinced me of the necessity of confining myself to 
 my room for a month. At the end of which, hav- 
 ing had leisure to reflect, I resolved to quit all 
 further conversation with beaux and smarts of 
 every kind, and to avoid, if possible, any occasion 
 of returning to this place of confinement. "I 
 think," said Adams, ^'the advice of a month's 
 retirement and reflection was very proper; but 
 I should rather have expected it from a divine 
 than a surgeon." The gentleman smiled at 
 Adams's simplicity, and, without explaining him- 
 self farther on such an odious subject, went on 
 thus: I was no sooner perfectly restored to 
 health than I found my passion for women, which
 
 64 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 recom- 
 mended by a celebrated bawd. I took her home 
 to my chambers, and made her a settlement dur- 
 ing cohabitation. This would, perhaps, have been 
 very ill paid: however, she did not suffer me to 
 be perplexed on that account ; for, before quarter- 
 day, I found her at my chambers in too familiar 
 conversation with a young fellow who was dressed 
 like an officer, but was indeed a city apprentice. 
 Instead of excusing her inconstancy, she rapped 
 out half-a-dozen oaths, and, snapping her fingers 
 at me, swore she scorned to confine herself to the 
 best man in England. Upon this we parted, and 
 the same bawd presently provided her another 
 keeper. I was not so much concerned at our sep- 
 aration 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 gentle- 
 man 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 
 distressed 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 65 
 
 my first acquaintance with her, solicited in mar- 
 riage by a young fellow in good circumstances. 
 He was apprentice to a linendraper, and had a 
 little fortune, sufficient to set up his trade. The 
 mother was greatly pleased with this match, as 
 indeed she had sufficient reason. However, I 
 soon prevented it. I represented him in so low 
 a light to his mistress, and made so good an use 
 of flattery, promises, and presents, that, not to 
 dwell longer on this subject than is necessary, I 
 prevailed with the poor girl, and conveyed her 
 away from her mother! In a word, I debauched 
 her. — (At which words Adams started up, fetched 
 three strides across the room, and then replaced 
 himself in his chair.) You are not more affected 
 with this part of my story than myself; I assure 
 you it will never be sufficiently repented of in my 
 own opinion: but, if you already detest it, how 
 much more will your indignation be raised when 
 you hear the fatal consequences of this barbarous, 
 this villainous 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 con- 
 versation, more than we found in one another : but 
 this could not continue always ; and, though I still 
 
 II— 5
 
 66 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 preserved great affection for her, I began more 
 and more to want the relief of other company, 
 and consequently to leave her by degrees — at last 
 whole days to herself. She failed not to testify 
 some uneasiness on these occasions, and com- 
 plained of the melancholy life she led; to remedy 
 which, I introduced her into the acquaintance of 
 some other kept mistresses, with whom she used 
 to play at cards, and frequent plays and other 
 diversions. She had not lived long in this inti- 
 macy before I perceived a visible alteration in 
 her behavior ; all her modesty and innocence van- 
 ished by degrees, till her mind became thoroughly 
 tainted. She affected the company of rakes, gave 
 herself all manner of airs, was never easy but 
 abroad, or when she had a jDarty at my chambers. 
 She was rapacious of money, extravagant to ex- 
 cess, loose in her conversation; and, if ever I de- 
 murred to any of her demands, oaths, tears, and 
 fits were the immediate consequences. As the 
 first raptures of fondness were long since over, 
 this behavior soon estranged my affections from 
 her ; I began to reflect with pleasure that she was 
 not my wife, and to conceive an intention of part- 
 ing 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 her- 
 self, having first broken open my escritoire, and 
 taken with her all she could find, to the amount 
 of about £200. In the first heat of my resentment 
 I resolved to pursue her with all the vengeance of 
 the law: but, as she had the good luck to escape
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 67 
 
 me during that ferment, my passion afterwards 
 cooled ; and, having reflected that I had been the 
 first aggressor, and had done her an injury for 
 which I could make her no reparation, by robbing 
 her of the innocence of her mind ; and hearing at 
 the same time that the poor old woman her mother 
 had broke her heart on her daughter's elopement 
 from her, I, concluding myself her murderer ("As 
 you very well might," cries Adams, with a groan), 
 was pleased that God Almighty had taken this 
 method of punishing me, and resolved quietly to 
 submit to the loss. Indeed, I could wish I had 
 never heard more of the poor creature, who be- 
 came in the end an abandoned profligate; and, 
 after being some years a common prostitute, at 
 last ended her miserable life in Newgate. — Here 
 the gentleman fetched a deep sigh, which Mr. 
 Adams echoed very loudly; and both continued 
 silent, looking on each other for some minutes. 
 At last the gentleman proceeded thus: I had 
 been perfectly constant to this girl during the 
 whole time I kept her : but she had scarce departed 
 before I discovered more marks of her infidelity 
 to me than the loss of my money. In short, I was 
 forced to make a third visit to my surgeon, out of 
 whose hands I did not get a hasty discharge. 
 
 I now forswore all future dealings with the sex, 
 complained loudly that the pleasure did not com- 
 pensate the pain, and railed at the beautiful crea- 
 tures 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
 
 68 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 se- 
 cured 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 affec- 
 tions ; which, however, he had not the reputation 
 of having. She was indeed a coquette achevee. 
 *'Pray, sir," says Adams, **what is a coquette? 
 I have met with the word in French authors, but 
 never could assign any idea to it. I believe it is 
 the same with une sotte, Anglice, a fool." Sir, an- 
 swered the gentleman, perhaps you are not much 
 mistaken; but, as it is a particular kind of folly, 
 I will endeavor to describe it. Were all creatures 
 to be ranked in the order of creation according 
 to their usefulness, I know few animals that would 
 not take place of a coquette ; nor indeed hath this 
 creature much pretense to anything beyond in- 
 stinct; 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 69 
 
 gestures and tricks, infinitely more foolish than 
 what can be observed in the most ridiculous birds 
 and beasts, and which would persuade the be- 
 holder that the silly wretch was aiming at our 
 contempt. Indeed its characteristic is affecta- 
 tion, and this led and governed by whim only, for 
 as beauty, wisdom, wit, good-nature, politeness, 
 and health are sometimes affected by this crea- 
 ture, so are ugliness, folly, nonsense, ill-nature, 
 ill-breeding, and sickness likewise put on by it in 
 their turn. Its life is one constant lie; and the 
 only rule by which you can form any judgment 
 of them is, that they are never what they seem. 
 If it was possible for a coquette to love (as it is 
 not, for if ever it attains this passion the coquette 
 ceases instantly), it would wear the face of in- 
 difference, if not of hatred, to the beloved object ; 
 you may therefore be assured, when they en- 
 deavor to persuade you of their liking, that they 
 are indifferent to you at least. And indeed this 
 was the case of my Sapphira, who no sooner saw 
 me in the number of her admirers than she gave 
 me what is commonly called encouragement: she 
 would often look at me, and, when she perceived 
 me meet her eyes, would instantly take them off, 
 discovering at the same time as much surprise 
 and emotion as possible. These arts failed not of 
 the success she intended ; and, as I grew more par- 
 ticular 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, whis- 
 per, lisp, sigh, start, laugh, and many other indi-
 
 70 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 cations 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, 
 "hal I can't imagine what I was thinking of." 
 To detain you no longer, after I had gone through 
 a sufficient course of gallantry, as I thought, and 
 was thoroughly convinced I had raised a violent 
 passion in my mistress, I sought an opportunity 
 of coming to an eclaircissement with her. She 
 avoided this as much as possible ; however, great 
 assiduity at length presented me one. I will not 
 describe all the particulars of this interview; let 
 it suffice that, when she could no longer pretend 
 not to see my drift, she first aifected a violent sur- 
 prise, and immediately after as violent a passion : 
 she wondered what I had seen in her conduct 
 which could induce me to affront her in this man- 
 ner ; and, breaking from me the first moment she 
 could, told me I had no other way to escape the 
 consequence of her resentment than by never see- 
 ing, or at least speaking to her more. I was not 
 contented with this answer; I still pursued her, 
 but to no purpose; and was at length convinced 
 that her husband had the sole possession of her 
 person, and that neither he nor any other had 
 made any impression on her heart. I was taken 
 off from following this ignis fatims by some ad- 
 vances which were made me by tl;e wife of a citi- 
 zen, who, though neither very young nor hand- 
 some, was yet too agreeable to be rejected by 
 my amorous constitution. I ace ^rdingly soon sat-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 71 
 
 isfied her that she had not cast away her hints on 
 a barren or cold soil: on the contrary, they in- 
 stantly produced her an eager and desiring lover. 
 Nor did she give me any reason to complain ; she 
 met the warmth she had raised with equal ardor. 
 I had no longer a coquette to deal with, but one 
 who was wiser than to prostitute the noble passion 
 of love to the ridiculous lust of vanity. We pres- 
 ently understood one another ; and, as the pleas- 
 ures we sought lay in a mutual gratification, we 
 soon found and enjoyed them. I thought myself 
 at first gi^eatly happy in the possession of this 
 new mistress, whose fondness would have quickly 
 surfeited a more sickly appetite ; but it had a dif- 
 ferent effect on mine: she carried my passion 
 higher by it than youth or beauty had been able. 
 But my happiness could not long continue unin- 
 terrupted. The apprehensions we lay under from 
 the jealousy of her husband gave us great uneasi- 
 ness. ''Poor wretch! I pity him," cried Adams. 
 He did indeed deserve it, said the gentleman ; for 
 he loved his wife with great tenderness ; and, I as- 
 sure you, it is a great satisfaction to me that I 
 was not the man who first seduced her affections 
 from him. These apprehensions appeared also 
 too well grounded, for in the end he discovered 
 us, and procured witnesses of our caresses. He 
 then prosecuted me at law, and recovered £3000 
 damages, which much distressed my fortune to 
 pay; and, what was worse, his wife, being di- 
 vorced, came upon my hands. I led a very uneasy 
 life with her; for, besides that my passion was
 
 72 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 now much abated, her excessive jealousy was very 
 troublesome. At length death rid me of an in- 
 convenience which the consideration of my hav- 
 ing been the author of her misfortunes would 
 never suffer me to take any other method of dis- 
 carding. 
 
 I now bade adieu to love, and resolved to pur- 
 sue other less dangerous and expensive pleasures. 
 I fell into the acquaintance of a set of jolly com- 
 panions who slept all day and drank all night; 
 fellows who might rather be said to consume time 
 than to live. Their best conversation was noth- 
 ing but noise: singing, hollowing, wrangling, 
 drinking, toasting, sp — wing, smoking were the 
 chief ingredients of our entertainment. And yet, 
 bad as these were, they were more tolerable than 
 our graver scenes, which were either excessive 
 tedious narratives of dull common matters of fact, 
 or hot disputes about trifling matters, which com- 
 monly ended in a wager. This way of life the 
 first serious reflection put a period to ; and I be- 
 came member of a club frequented by young men 
 of great abilities. The bottle was now only called 
 in to the assistance of our conversation, which 
 rolled on the deepest points of philosophy. These 
 gentlemen were engaged in a search after truth, 
 in the pursuit of which they threw aside all the 
 prejudices of education, and governed themselves 
 only by the infallible guide of human reason. This 
 great guide, after having shown them the false- 
 hood of that very ancient but simple tenet, that 
 there is such a being as a Deity in the universe.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 7^ 
 
 helped them to establish in his stead a certain 
 rule of right, by adhering to which they all ar- 
 rived 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 succes- 
 sively, which at first much surprised me ; — for one 
 of our greatest philosophers, or rule-of-right men, 
 withdrew himself from us, taking with him the 
 wife of one of his most intimate friends. Second- 
 ly, another of the same society left the club with- 
 out remembering to take leave of his bail. A 
 third, having borrowed a sum of money of me, 
 for which I received no security, when I asked 
 him to repay it, absolutely denied the loan. These 
 several practices, so inconsistent with our golden 
 rule, made me begin to suspect its infallibility; 
 but when I communicated my thoughts to one of 
 the club, he said, "There was nothing absolutely 
 good or evil in itself; that actions were denom- 
 inated good or bad by the circumstances of the
 
 74 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 agent. That possibly the man who ran away with 
 his neighbor's wife might be one of very good 
 inclinations, but over-prevailed on by the violence 
 of an unruly passion; and, in other particulars, 
 might be a very worthy member of society; that 
 if the beauty of any woman created in him an un- 
 easiness, he had a right from nature to relieve 
 himself;" — ^with many other things, which I then 
 detested so much, that I took leave of the society 
 that very evening and never returned to it again. 
 Being now reduced to a state of solitude which 
 I did not like, I became a great frequenter of the 
 playhouses, which indeed was always my favorite 
 diversion; and most evenings passed away two 
 or three hours behind the scenes, where I met with 
 several poets, with whom I made engagements at 
 the taverns. Some of the players were likewise 
 of our parties. At these meetings we were gen- 
 erally entertained by the poets with reading their 
 performances, and by the players with repeating 
 their parts : upon which occasions, I observed the 
 gentleman who furnished our entertainment was 
 commonly the best pleased of the company; who, 
 though they were pretty civil to him to his face, 
 seldom failed to take the first opportunity of his 
 absence to ridicule him. Now I made some re- 
 marks which probably are too obvious to be worth 
 relating. "Sir," says Adams, ''your remarks 
 if you please." First then, says he, I concluded 
 that the general observation, that wits are most 
 inclined to vanity, is not true. Men are equally 
 vain of riches, strength, beauty, honors, &c. But 
 these appear of themselves to the eyes of the be-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 75 
 
 holders, whereas the poor wit is obliged to pro- 
 duce his performance to show you his perfection ; 
 and on his readiness to do this that vulgar opin- 
 ion I have before mentioned is grounded ; but doth 
 not the person who expends vast sums in the fur- 
 niture 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, labor, or even villainy, 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 con- 
 taminate the mind than any other : for, as selfish- 
 ness is much more general than we please to al- 
 low 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, ''0 la! I have it not about me." 
 Upon this, the gentleman asking him what he was 
 searching for, he said he searched after a sermon, 
 which he thought his masterpiece, against vanity. 
 ''Fie upon it, fie upon it!" cries he, ''why do I 
 ever leave that sermon out of my pocket! I wish 
 it was within five miles; I would willingly fetch 
 it, to read it you." The gentleman answered that 
 there was no need, for he was cured of the pas- 
 sion. ' ' And for that very reason, ' ' quoth Adams,
 
 76 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 "I would read it, for I am confident you would 
 admire it: indeed, I have never been a greater 
 enemy to any passion than that silly one of van- 
 ity." The gentleman smiled, and proceeded — 
 From this society I easily passed to that of the 
 gamesters, where nothing remarkable happened 
 but the finishing my fortune, which those gentle- 
 men soon helped me to the end of. This opened 
 scenes of life hitherto unknown ; poverty and dis- 
 tress, with their horrid train of duns, attorneys, 
 bailiffs, haunted me day and night. My clothes 
 grew shabby, my credit bad, my friends and ac- 
 quaintance 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 theater. I remembered to have formerly 
 taken tickets of other poets for their benefits, long 
 before the appearance of their performances ; and, 
 resolving to follow a precedent which was so well 
 suited to my present circumstances, I immedi- 
 ately provided myself with a large number of lit- 
 tle papers. Happy indeed would be the state of 
 poetry, would these tickets pass current at the 
 bakehouse, the ale-house, and the chandler's shop: 
 but alas! far otherwise; no tailor 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 77 
 
 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 parlors 
 of men of quality ; where, after seeing the lowest 
 rascals in lace and embroidery, the pimps and 
 buffoons in fashion, admitted, I have been some- 
 times told, on sending in my name, that my lord 
 could not possibly see me this morning; a suffi- 
 cient assurance that I should never more get 
 entrance into that house. Sometimes I have been 
 at last admitted; and the great man hath thought 
 proper to excuse himself, by telling me he was tied 
 up. "Tied up," says Adams, ''pray what's 
 that ? ' ' Sir, says the gentleman, the profit which 
 booksellers allowed authors for the best works 
 was so very small, that certain men of birth and 
 fortune some years ago, who were the patrons 
 of wit and learning, thought fit to encourage them 
 farther by entering into voluntary subscriptions 
 for their encouragement. Thus Prior, Rowe, 
 Pope, and some other men of genius, received 
 large sums for their labors from the public. This 
 seemed so easy a method of getting money, that 
 many of the lowest scribblers of the times ven- 
 tured to publish their works in the same way; 
 and many had the assurance to take in subscrip- 
 tions for what was not writ, nor ever intended. 
 Subscriptions in this manner growing infinite, and 
 a kind of tax on the public, some persons, finding 
 it not so easy a task to discern good from bad
 
 78 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 autliors, or to know what genius was worthy en- 
 couragement and what was not, to prevent the ex- 
 pense of subscribing to so many, invented a 
 method to excuse themselves from all subscrip- 
 tions whatever; and this was to receive a small 
 sum of money in consideration of giving a large 
 one if ever they subscribed; which many have 
 done, and many more have pretended to have 
 done, in order to silence all solicitation. The 
 same method was likewise taken with playhouse 
 tickets, which were no less a public grievance; 
 and this is what they call being tied up from sub- 
 scribing. ' ' I can 't say but the term is apt enough, 
 and somewhat typical," said Adams; ''for a man 
 of large fortune, who ties himself up, as you call 
 it, from the encouragement of men of merit, ought 
 to be tied up in reality." Well, sir, says the gen- 
 tleman, to return to my story. Sometimes I have 
 received a guinea from a man of quality, given 
 with as ill a grace as alms are generally to the 
 meanest beggar ; and purchased too with as much 
 time spent in attendance as, if it had been spent 
 in honest industry, might have brought me more 
 profit with infinitely more satisfaction. After 
 about two months spent in this disagreeable way, 
 with the utmost mortification, when I was plum- 
 ing my hopes on the prospect of a plentiful har- 
 vest from my play, upon applying to the prompter 
 to know when it came into rehearsal, he informed 
 me he had received orders from the managers to 
 return me the play again, for that they could not 
 possibly act it that season ; but, if I would take it 
 and revise it against the next, they would be glad
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 79 
 
 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 con- 
 sider coolly what course I should take, in a situa- 
 tion without friends, money, credit, or reputation 
 of any kind. After revolving many things in my 
 mind, I could see no other possibility of furnish- 
 ing myself with the miserable necessaries of life 
 than to retire to a garret near the Temple, and 
 commence hackney-writer to the lawyers, for 
 which I was well qualified, being an excellent pen- 
 man. This purpose I resolved on, and immedi- 
 ately put it in execution. I had an acquaintance 
 with an attorney who had formerly transacted af- 
 fairs for me, and to him I applied; but, instead 
 of furnishing me with any business, he laughed 
 at my undertaking, and told me, ''He was afraid 
 I should turn his deeds into plays, and he should 
 expect to see them on the stage." Not to tire 
 you with instances of this kind from others, I 
 found that Plato himself did not hold poets in 
 greater abhorrence than these men of business do. 
 "Whenever I durst venture to a 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 a malignity in 
 the nature of man, which, when not weeded out, 
 or at least covered by a good education and polite-
 
 8a THE HISTORY OF 
 
 ness, delights in making another uneasy or dissat- 
 isfied with himself. This abundantly appears in 
 all assemblies, except those which are filled by 
 people of fashion, and especially among the young- 
 er 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 suf- 
 ficient business to keep me from starving, the rep- 
 utation of a poet being my bane, I accidentally be- 
 came 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 con- 
 ditions, which were none of the most favorable, 
 and fell to translating with all my might. I had 
 no longer reason to lament the want of business ; 
 for he furnished me with so much, that in half 
 a year I almost writ myself blind. I likewise 
 contracted a distemper by my sedentary life, in 
 which no part of my body was exercised but my 
 right arm, which rendered me incapable of writing 
 for a long time. This unluckily happening to de- 
 lay the publication of a work, and my last per- 
 formance not having sold well, the bookseller de- 
 clined anv further engagement, and aspersed me 
 to his brethren as a careless idle fellow. I had,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 81 
 
 however, by having half worked and half starved 
 myself to death during the time I was in his 
 service, saved a few guineas, with which I bought 
 a lottery-ticket, resolving to throw myself into 
 Fortune's lap, and try if she would make me 
 amends for the injuries she had done me at the 
 gaming-table. This purchase, being made, left 
 me almost penniless; when, as if I had not been 
 sufficiently miserable, a bailiff in woman's clothes 
 got admittance to my chamber, whither he was 
 directed by the bookseller. He arrested me at my 
 tailor's suit for thirty-five pounds; a sum for 
 which I could not procure bail ; and was therefore 
 conveyed to his house, where I was locked up in 
 an upper chamber. I had now neither health (for 
 I was scarce recovered from my indisposition), 
 liberty, money, or friends ; and had abandoned all 
 hopes, and even the desire, of life. *'But this 
 could not last long," said Adams; *'for doubtless 
 the tailor released you the moment he was truly 
 acquainted with your affairs, and knew that your 
 circumstances would not permit you to pay him." 
 *'0h, sir," answered the gentleman, "he knew 
 that before he arrested me; nay, he knew that 
 nothing but incapacity could prevent me paying 
 my debts ; for I had been his customer many years, 
 had spent vast sums of money with him, and had 
 always paid most punctually in my prosperous 
 days; but when I reminded him of this, with as- 
 surances that, if he would not molest my en- 
 deavors, I would pay him all the money I could 
 by my utmost labor and industry procure, re- 
 serving only what was sufficient to preserve me 
 
 II— 6
 
 82 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 alive, he answered, liis patience was worn out; 
 that I had put him off from time to time ; that he 
 wanted the money ; that he had put it into a law- 
 yer 's hands; and if I did not pay him immedi- 
 ately, or find security, I must die in jail and ex- 
 pect no mercy." "He may expect mercy," cries 
 Adams, starting from his chair, "where he will 
 find none! flow can such a wretch repeat the 
 Lord's Prayer; where the word, which is trans- 
 lated, 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 un- 
 able to pay them, so surely shall we ourselves be 
 unforgiven when we are in no condition of pay- 
 ing." He ceased, and the gentleman proceeded. 
 While I was in this deplorable situation, a for- 
 mer acquaintance, to whom I had communicated 
 my lottery-ticket, found me out, and, making me 
 a visit, with great delight in his countenance, 
 shook me heartily by the hand, and wished me joy 
 of my good fortune: for, says he, your ticket is 
 come up a prize of £3000. Adams snapped his 
 fingers at these words in an ecstasy of joy ; which, 
 however, did not continue long ; for the gentleman 
 thus proceeded : — Alas ! sir, this was only a trick 
 of Fortune to sink me the deeper ; for I had dis- 
 posed of this lottery-ticket two days before to a 
 relation, who refused lending me a shilling with- 
 out 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 83 
 
 she would; that I was now ruined without any 
 hopes of retrieval, nor must expect any pity from 
 my friends ; that it would be extreme weakness to 
 compassionate the misfortunes of a man who ran 
 headlong to his own destruction. He then painted 
 to me, in as lively colors as he was able, the hap- 
 piness I should have now enjoyed, had I not 
 foolishly disposed of my ticket. I urged the plea 
 of necessity ; but he made no answer to that, and 
 began again to revile me, till I could bear it no 
 longer, and desired him to finish his visit. I soon 
 exchanged the bailiff's house for a prison; where, 
 as I had not money sufficient to procure me a 
 separate apartment, I was crowded in with a great 
 number of miserable wretches, in common with 
 whom I was destitute of every convenience of life, 
 even that which all the brutes enjoy, wholesome 
 air. In these dreadful circumstances I applied 
 by letter to several of my old acquaintance, and 
 such to whom I had formerly lent money without 
 any great prospect of its being returned, for their 
 assistance; but in vain. An excuse, instead of a 
 denial, was the gentlest answer I received. Whilst 
 I languished in a condition too horrible to be 
 described, and which, in a land of humanity, and, 
 what is much more, Christianity, seems a strange 
 punishment for a little inadvertency and indiscre- 
 tion ; whilst I was in this condition, a fellow came 
 into the prison, and, inquiring me out, delivered 
 me the following letter: — 
 
 ' '■ Sir, — My father to whom you sold your ticket 
 in the last lottery, died the same day in which it
 
 84 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 came up a prize, as you have possibly heard, and 
 left me sole heiress of all his fortune. I am so 
 much touched with your present circumstances, 
 and the uneasiness you must feel at having been 
 driven to dispose of what might have made you 
 happy, that I must desire your acceptance of the 
 enclosed, and am your humble servant, 
 
 '^Haeriet Hearty." 
 
 And what do you think was enclosed 1 ' * I don 't 
 know," cried Adams; '*not less than a guinea, I 
 hope." Sir, it was a bank-note for £200. — 
 '*£200r' says Adams, in a rapture. No less, I as- 
 sure 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 re- 
 peated — But 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 out of town, 
 a circumstance which, upon reflection, pleased me ; 
 for by that means I had an opportunity to appear 
 before her in a more decent dress. At her return 
 to town, within a day or two, I threw myself at 
 her feet with the most ardent acknowledgments, 
 which she rejected with an unfeigned greatness 
 of mind, and told me I could not oblige her more
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 65 
 
 than by never mentioning, or if possible thinking 
 on, a circumstance which must bring to my mind 
 an accident that might be grievous to me to think 
 on. She proceeded thus : "What I have done is 
 in my own eyes a trifle, and perhaps infinitely less 
 than would have become me to do. And if you 
 think of engaging in any business where a larger 
 sum may be serviceable to you, I shall not be over- 
 rigid either as to the security or interest." I en- 
 deavored 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 under- 
 went; it affected me with severer reflections than 
 poverty, distress, and prisons united had been 
 able to make me feel ; for, sir, these acts and pro- 
 fessions of kindness, which were sufficient to have 
 raised in a good heart the most violent passion 
 of friendship to one of the same, or to age and 
 ugliness in a different sex, came to me from a 
 woman, a young and beautiful woman ; one whose 
 perfections I had long known, and for whom I had 
 long conceived a violent passion, though with a 
 despair which made me endeavor rather to curb 
 and conceal, than to nourish or acquaint her with 
 it. In short, they came upon me united with beau- 
 ty, softness, and tenderness: such bewitching 
 smiles ! — Mr. Adams, in that moment I lost my- 
 self, 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 pressed it
 
 86 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 with inconceivable ardor; then, lifting up my 
 swimming eyes, I saw her face and neck over- 
 spread with one blush; she offered to withdraw 
 her hand, yet not so as to deliver it from mine, 
 though I held it with the gentlest force. We both 
 stood trembling ; her eyes cast on the ground, and 
 mine steadfastly fixed on her. Good G — d, what 
 was then the condition of my soul! burning with 
 love, desire, admiration, gratitude, and every ten- 
 der passion, all bent on one charming object. 
 Passion at last got the better of both reason and 
 respect, and, softly letting go her hand, I offered 
 madly to clasp her in my arms; when, a little 
 recovering herself, she started from me, asking 
 me, with some show of anger, ''If she had any 
 reason to expect this treatment from me." I 
 then fell prostrate before her, and told her, if I 
 had offended, my life was absolutely in her power, 
 which I would in any manner lose for her sake. 
 Nay, madam, said I, you shall not be so ready to 
 punish me as I to suffer. I o^vm my guilt. I 
 detest the reflection that I would have sacrificed 
 your happiness to mine. Believe me, I sincerely 
 repent my ingratitude ; yet, believe me too, it was 
 my passion, my unbounded passion for you, which 
 hurried me so far: I have loved you long and 
 tenderly, and the goodness you have shown me 
 hath innocently weighed down a wretch undone 
 before. Acquit me of all mean, mercenary views ; 
 and, before I take my leave of you for ever, which 
 I am resolved instantly to do, believe me that 
 Fortune could have raised me to no height to 
 which I could not have gladly lifted you. 0,
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 87 
 
 cursed be Fortune! — "Do not," says she, inter- 
 rupting me with the sweetest voice, * ' do not curse 
 Fortune, since she hath made me happy; and, if 
 she hath put your happiness in my power, I have 
 told you you shall ask nothing in reason which I 
 will refuse." Madam, said I, you mistake me if 
 you imagine, as you seem, my happiness is in the 
 power of Fortune now. You have obliged me too 
 much already; if I have any wish, it is for some 
 blessed accident, by which I may contribute with 
 my life to the least augmentation of your felicity. 
 As for myself, the only happiness I can ever have 
 will be hearing of yours ; and if fortune will make 
 that complete, I will forgive her all her wrongs to 
 me. ''You may, indeed," answered she, smiling, 
 ''for your own happiness must be included in 
 mine. I have long known your worth ; nay, I must 
 confess," said she, blushing, "I have long discov- 
 ered that passion for me you profess, notwith- 
 standing those endeavors, 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. 0, sir ! can I de- 
 scribe her look? She remained silent, and almost 
 motionless, several minutes. At last, recovering 
 herself a little, she insisted on my leaving her, and
 
 88 THE HISTORY ,0F 
 
 in such a manner that I instantly obeyed : you may 
 imagine, however, I soon saw her again. — But I 
 ask pardon : I fear I have detained you too long 
 in relating the particulars of the former interview. 
 "So far otherwise," said Adams, licking his lips, 
 **that I could willingly hear it over again." Well, 
 sir, continued the gentleman, to be as concise as 
 possible, within a week she consented to make me 
 the happiest of mankind. We were married 
 shortly after; and when I came to examine the 
 circumstances of my wife's fortune (which, I do 
 assure you, I was not presently at leisure enough 
 to do), I found it amounted to about six thousand 
 pounds, most part of which lay in effects ; for her 
 father had been a wine-merchant, and she seemed 
 willing, if I liked it, that I should carry on the 
 same trade. I readily, and too inconsiderately, 
 undertook it ; for, not having been bred up to the 
 secrets of the business, and endeavoring to deal 
 with the utmost honesty and uprightness, I soon 
 found our fortune in a declining way, and my 
 trade decreasing by little and little ; for my wines, 
 which I never adulterated after their importation, 
 and were sold as neat as they came over, were 
 universally decried by the vintners, to whom I 
 could not allow them quite as cheap as those who 
 gained double the profit by a less price. I soon 
 began to despair of improving our fortune by 
 these means; nor was I at all easy at the visits 
 and familiarity of many who had been my ac- 
 quaintance in my prosperity, but had denied and 
 shunned me in my adversity, and now very for- 
 wardly renewed their acquaintance with me. In
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 89 
 
 short, I had sufficiently seen that the pleasures of 
 the world are chiefly folly, and the business of it 
 mostly knavery, and both nothing better than 
 vanity; the men of pleasure tearing one another 
 to pieces from the emulation of spending money, 
 and the men of business from envy in getting it. 
 My happiness consisted entirely in my wife, whom 
 I loved with an inexpressible fondness, which was 
 perfectly returned; and my prospects were no 
 other than to provide for our growing family ; for 
 she was now big of her second child: I therefore 
 took an opportunity to ask her opinion of enter- 
 ing into a retired life, which, after hearing my 
 reasons and perceiving my affection for it, she 
 readily embraced. We soon put our small for- 
 tune, now reduced under three thousand pounds, 
 into money, with part of which we purchased this 
 little place, whither we retired soon after her de- 
 livery, from a world full of bustle, noise, hatred, 
 envy, and ingratitude, to ease, quiet, and love. 
 We have here lived almost twenty years, with lit- 
 tle other conversation than our own, most of the 
 neighborhood taking us for very strange people ; 
 the squire of the parish representing me as a mad- 
 man, and the parson as a presbyterian, because 
 I will not hunt with the one nor drink with the 
 other. "Sir," says Adams, ''Fortune hath, I 
 think, paid you all her debts in this sweet retire- 
 ment." Sir, replied the gentleman, I am thank- 
 ful to the great Author of all things for the bless- 
 ings 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
 
 90 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 pure in this world: witliin three years of my ar- 
 rival here I lost my eldest son. (Here he sighed 
 bitterly.) ''Sir," says Adams, "we must submit 
 to Providence, and consider death as common to 
 all." We must submit, indeed, answered the gen- 
 tleman ; and if he had died I could have borne the 
 loss with patience; but alas! sir, he was stolen 
 away from my door by some wicked traveling 
 people whom they call gypsies; nor could I ever, 
 with the most diligent search, recover him. Poor 
 child ! he had the sweetest look — the exact picture 
 of his mother; at which some tears unwittingly 
 dropped from his eyes, as did likewise from those 
 of Adams, who always sympathized with his 
 friends on those occasions. Thus, sir, said the 
 gentleman, I have finished my story, in which if 
 I have been too particular, I ask your pardon; 
 and now, if you please, I will fetch you another 
 bottle: which proposal the parson thankfully ac- 
 cepted.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A description of Mr. Wilson's way of living. The tragical 
 adventure of the dog, and other grave matters. 
 
 THE gentleman returned with the bottle; 
 and Adams and he sat some time silent, 
 when the former started up, and cried, 
 ''No, that won't do." The gentleman inquired 
 into his meaning; he answered, "He had been con- 
 sidering that it was possible the late famous king 
 Theodore might have been that very son whom he 
 had lost;" but added, "that his age could not 
 answer that imagination. However," says he, 
 "G — disposes all things for the best; and very 
 probably he may be some great man, or duke, and 
 may, one day or other, revisit you in that ca- 
 pacity." The gentleman answered, he should 
 know him amongst ten thousand, for he had a 
 mark on his left breast of a strawberry, which his 
 mother had given him by longing for that fruit. 
 
 That beautiful young lady the Morning now 
 rose from her bed, and with a countenance bloom- 
 ing with fresh youth and sprightliness, like Miss 
 — ,^ with soft dews hanging on her pouting lips, 
 began to take her early walk over the eastern 
 hills ; and presently after, that gallant person the 
 Sun stole softly from his wife's chamber to pay 
 his addresses to her; when the gentleman asked 
 
 1 Whoever the reader pleases. 
 
 91
 
 92 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 his guest if he would walk forth and survey his 
 little garden, which he readily agreed to, and 
 Joseph at the same time awaking from a sleep 
 in which he had been two hours buried, went with 
 them. No parterres, no fountains, no statues, em- 
 bellished 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. 
 AVhilst 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 pre- 
 serve my health ever since my arrival here, with- 
 out assistance from physic. Hither I generally 
 repair at the dawn, and exercise myself whilst 
 my wife dresses her children and prepares our 
 breakfast; after which we are seldom asunder 
 during the residue of the day, for, when the 
 weather will not permit them to accompany me 
 here, I am usually within with them; for T am 
 neither ashamed of conversing with my wife nor 
 of playing with my children : to say the truth, I
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 93 
 
 do not perceive that inferiority of understanding 
 which the levity of rakes, the dullness of men of 
 business, or the austerity of the learned, would 
 persuade us of in women. As for my woman, 
 I declare I have found none of my own sex capable 
 of making juster observations on life, or of de- 
 livering them more agreeably; nor do I believe 
 any one possessed of a faithfuUer or braver 
 friend. And sure as this friendship is sweetened 
 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 common interest in the fruits of 
 our embraces? Perhaps, sir, you are not yourself 
 a father; if you are not, be assured you cannot 
 conceive the delight I have in my little ones. 
 Would you not despise me if you saw me stretched 
 on the ground, and my children playing round 
 me? *'I should reverence the sight," quoth 
 Adams; ^'I myself am now the father of six, and 
 have been of eleven, and I can say I never 
 scourged a child of my own, unless as his school- 
 master, and then have felt every stroke on my 
 own posteriors. And as to what you say con- 
 cerning women, I have often lamented my own 
 wife did not understand Greek," — The gentle- 
 man smiled, and answered, he would not be 
 apprehended to insinuate that his own had an 
 understanding above the care of her family; on 
 the contrary, says he, my Harriet, I assure you, 
 is a notable housewife, and few gentlemen's 
 housekeepers understand cookery or confection- 
 ery better; but these are arts which she hath no
 
 94 THE HISTOKY OF 
 
 great occasion for now: however, the wine you 
 commended so much last night at supper was of 
 her own making, as is indeed all the liquor in 
 my house, except my beer, which falls to my 
 province, ''And I assure you it is as excellent," 
 quoth Adams, "as ever I tasted." "VVe 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 hus- 
 band. 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 happi- 
 ness, 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 surprised at the beauty of 
 Fanny, who had now recovered herself from her 
 fatigue, and was entirely clean dressed; for the 
 rogues who had taken away her purse had left 
 her her bundle. But if he was so much amazed at 
 the beauty of this young creature, his guests were 
 no less charmed at the tenderness which appeared 
 in the behavior of the husband and wife to each 
 other, and to their children, and at the dutiful 
 and affectionate behavior of these to their par-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 95 
 
 ents. These instances pleased the well-disposed 
 mind of Adams equally with the readiness which 
 they expressed to oblige their guests, and their 
 forwardness to offer them the best of everything 
 in their house ; and what delighted him still more 
 was an instance or two of their charity; for 
 whilst they were at breakfast the good woman 
 was called for to assist her sick neighbor, 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 cheerful- 
 ness, when they heard the report of a gun, and 
 immediately afterwards a little dog, the favorite 
 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- 
 bors came in and informed them that the young 
 squire, the son of the lord of the manor, had 
 shot him as he passed 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 ex- 
 pressed great agony at his loss, and the other 
 children began to cry for their sister's misfor- 
 tune; nor could Fanny herself refrain. Whilst 
 the father and mother attempted to comfort her, 
 Adams grasped his crabstick and would have
 
 96 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 sallied out after the squire had not Joseph with- 
 held him. He could not however bridle his tongue 
 — he pronounced the word rascal with great 
 emphasis; said he deserved to be hanged more 
 than a highwayman, and wished he had the 
 scourging him. The mother took her child, la- 
 menting and carrying the dead favorite in her 
 arms, out of the room, when the gentleman said 
 this was the second time this squire had en- 
 deavored 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 neighborhood ; and not only that, but 
 he trampled down hedges and rode over corn 
 and gardens, with no more regard than if they 
 were the highway. "I wish I could catch him 
 in my garden," said Adams, "though I would 
 rather forgive him riding through my house than 
 such an ill-natured act as this." 
 
 The cheerfulness of their conversation being 
 interrupted by this accident, in which the guests 
 could be of no service to their kind entertainers ; 
 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 favorite, which had been fondling
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 97 
 
 with her a few minutes before; and as Joseph 
 and Fanny were impatient to get home and begin 
 those previous ceremonies to their happiness 
 which Adams had insisted on, they now offered 
 to take their leave. The gentleman importuned 
 them much to stay dinner; but when he found 
 their eagerness to depart he summoned his wife; 
 and accordingly, having performed all the usual 
 ceremonies of bows and curtsies more pleasant 
 to be seen than to be related, they took their 
 leave, the gentleman and his wife heartily wish- 
 ing them a good journey, and they as heartily 
 thanking them for their kind entertainment. 
 They then departed, Adams declaring that this 
 was the manner in which the people had lived in 
 the golden age. 
 
 II— f
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A disputation on schools held on the road between Mr. 
 Abraham Adams and Joseph; and a discovery not un- 
 welcome to them both. 
 
 OUR travelers, having well refreshed 
 themselves at the gentleman's house, 
 Joseph and Fanny with sleep, and Mr. 
 Abraham Adams with ale and tobacco, renewed 
 their journey with great alacrity; and pursuing 
 the road into which they were directed, traveled 
 many miles before they met with any adventure 
 worth relating. In this interval we shall present 
 our readers with a very curious discourse, as 
 we apprehend it, concerning public schools, which 
 passed between Mr. Joseph Andrews and Mr. 
 Abraham Adams. 
 
 They had not gone far before Adams, calling 
 to Joseph, asked him, ''If he had attended to the 
 gentleman's story?" He answered, ''To all the 
 former part." — "And don't you think," says he, 
 *'he was a very unhappy man in his youth?" — 
 *'A very unhappy man, indeed," answered the 
 other. "Joseph," cries Adams, screwing up his 
 mouth, "I have found it; I have discovered the 
 cause of all the misfortune which befell him : a pub- 
 lic school, Joseph, was the cause of all the calami- 
 ties which he afterwards suffered. Public schools 
 are the nurseries of all vice and immorality. All 
 
 98
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 99 
 
 the wicked fellows whom I remember at the uni- 
 versity were bred at them. — Ah, Lord! I can 
 remember as well as if it was but yesterday, a 
 knot of them; they called them King's scholars, 
 I forget why — very wicked fellows! Joseph, 
 you may thank the Lord you were not bred at 
 a public school ; you would never have preserved 
 your virtue as you have. The first care I always 
 take is of a boy's morals; I had rather he should 
 be a blockhead than an atheist or a presbyterian. 
 What is all the learning in the world compared 
 to his immortal soul? What shall a man take in 
 exchange for his soul? But the masters of great 
 schools trouble themselves about no such thing. 
 I have known a lad of eighteen at the university, 
 who hath not been able to say his catechism; 
 but for my own part I always scourged a lad 
 sooner for missing that than any other lesson. 
 Believe me, child, all that gentleman's misfor- 
 tunes arose from his being educated at a public 
 school." 
 
 ''It doth not become me," answered Joseph, 
 "to dispute anything, sir, with you, especially 
 a matter of this kind; for to be sure you must 
 be allowed by all the world to be the best teacher 
 of a school in all our county." "Yes, that,'* 
 says Adams, "I believe, is granted me; that I 
 may without much vanity pretend to — nay, I 
 believe I may go to the next county too — but 
 gloriari non est meum." — "However, sir, as you 
 are pleased to bid me speak," says Joseph, "you 
 know my late master. Sir Thomas Booby, was 
 bred at a public school, and he was the finest
 
 100 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 gentleman in all tlie neighborhood. And I have 
 often heard him say, if he had a hundred boys 
 he would breed them all at the same place. It 
 was his opinion, and I have often heard him de- 
 liver 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 lit- 
 tle societies, where a boy of any observation 
 may see in epitome what he will afterwards find 
 in the world at large." — "Hinc ilia lacJirymce: 
 for that very reason," quoth Adams, *'I prefer 
 a private school, where boys may be kept in in- 
 nocence 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, mdli secundum, in teaching these 
 things; so that a lad may have as much learning 
 in a private as in a public education." — "And, 
 with submission," answered Joseph, "he may 
 get as much vice : witness several country gentle- 
 men, who were educated within five miles of their 
 own houses, and are as wicked as if they had
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 101 
 
 known the world from their infancy. I remem-' 
 ber when I was in the stable, if a young horse 
 was vicious in his nature, no correction would 
 make him otherwise: I take it to be equally the 
 same among men: if a boy be of a mischievous 
 wicked inclination, no school, though ever so 
 private, will ever make him good: on the con- 
 trary, 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 practiced 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 disci- 
 plinarian? I do presume to confer in this point 
 with all who have taught from Chiron's time to 
 this day; and, if I was master of six boys only, 
 I would preserve as good discipline amongst 
 them as the master of the greatest school in the 
 world. I say nothing, young man; remember I 
 say nothing; but if Sir Thomas himself had been 
 educated nearer home, and under the tuition of 
 somebody — remember I name nobody — it might 
 have been better for him: — but his father must 
 institute him in the knowledge of the world. 
 Nemo mortalimn omnibus horis sapit." Joseph, 
 seeing him run on in this manner, asked pardon 
 many times, assuring him he had no intention to 
 offend. *'I believe you had not, child," said he, 
 "and I am not angry with you; but for main-
 
 102 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 taining 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 pre- 
 ferred himself to them all. Indeed, if this good 
 man had an enthusiasm, or what the vulgar call 
 a blind side, it was this: he thought a school- 
 master the greatest character in the world, 
 and himself the greatest of all schoolmasters: 
 neither of which points he would have given up 
 to Alexander the Great at the head of his army. 
 
 Adams continued his subject till they came to 
 one of the beautifullest spots of ground in the 
 universe. It was a kind of natural amphitheater, 
 formed by the winding of a small rivulet, which 
 was planted with thick woods, and the trees rose 
 gradually above each other by the natural ascent 
 of the ground they stood on; which ascent as 
 they hid with their boughs, they seemed to have 
 been disposed by the design of the most skillful 
 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 as- 
 sistance of love. 
 
 Here they arrived about noon, and Joseph pro- 
 posed to Adams that they should rest awhile 
 in this delightful place, and refresh themselves 
 with some provisions which the good-nature of 
 Mrs. Wilson had provided them with. Adams 
 made no objection to the proposal ; so down they 
 sat, and, pulling out a cold fowl and a bottle of 
 wine, they made a repast with a cheerfulness 
 which might have attracted the envy of more
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 103 
 
 splendid tables. I should not omit that they 
 found among their provision a little paper con- 
 taining a piece of gold, which Adams imagining 
 had been put there by mistake, would have re- 
 turned back to restore it; but he was at last 
 convinced by Joseph that Mr. Wilson had taken 
 this handsome way of furnishing them with a 
 supply for their journey, on his having related 
 the distress which they had been in, when they 
 were relieved by the generosity of the peddler. 
 Adams said he was glad to see such an instance 
 of goodness, not so much for the conveniency 
 which it brought them as for the sake of the doer, 
 whose reward would be great in heaven. He 
 likewise comforted himself with a reflection that 
 he should shortly have an opportunity of return- 
 ing it him ; for the gentleman was within a week 
 to make a journey into Somersetshire, to pass 
 through Adams 's parish, and had faithfully prom- 
 ised to call on him; a circumstance which we 
 thought too immaterial to mention before; but 
 which those who have as great an affection for 
 that gentleman as ourselves will rejoice at, as it 
 may give them hopes of seeing him again. Then 
 Joseph made a speech on charity, which the read- 
 er, if he is so disposed, may see in the next chap- 
 ter ; for we scorn to betray him into any such read- 
 ing, without first giving him warning.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; ■with the hunting ad- 
 venture, and parson Adams's miraculous escape. 
 
 I 
 
 ^^^ HAVE often wondered, sir," said Joseph, 
 *'to observe so few instances of charity 
 among mankind ; for though the goodness 
 of a man's heart did not incline him to relieve 
 the distresses of his fellow-creatures, methinks 
 the desire of honor should move him to it. What 
 inspires a man to build fine houses, to purchase 
 fine furniture, pictures, clothes, and other things, 
 at a great expense, but an ambition to be re- 
 spected more than other people? Now, would 
 not one great act of charity, one instance of re- 
 deeming a poor family from all the miseries of 
 poverty, restoring an unfortunate tradesman by 
 a sum of money to the means of procuring a 
 livelihood by his industry, discharging an undone 
 debtor from his debts or a jail, or any such- 
 like example of goodness, create a man more 
 honor and respect than he could acquire by the 
 finest house, furniture, pictures, or clothes, that 
 were ever beheld? For not only the object him- 
 self who was thus relieved, but all who heard 
 the name of such a person, must, I imagine, 
 reverence him infinitely more than the possessor 
 of all those other things; which when we so 
 admire, we rather praise the builder, the work- 
 
 104
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 105 
 
 man, the painter, the lace-maker, the tailor, and 
 the rest, by whose ingenuity they are produced, 
 than the person who by his money makes them 
 his own. For my own part, when I have waited 
 behind my lady in a room hung with fine pictures, 
 while I have been looking at them I have never 
 once thought of their owner, nor hath any one 
 else, as I ever observed; for when it hath been- 
 asked whose picture that was, it was never once 
 answered the master's of the house; but Ammy- 
 conni, Paul Varnish, Hannibal Scratchi, or Ho- 
 garthi, 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 honor 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 commended ; 
 and I have been told by other gentleman 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 endeavor it would be laughed at him- 
 self, instead of making others laugh. Nobody 
 scarce doth any good, yet they all agree in prais- 
 ing those who do. Indeed, it is strange that all 
 men should consent in commending goodness, 
 and no man endeavor to deserve that commen-
 
 106 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 dation ; wliilst, on the contrary, all rail at wicked- 
 ness, and all are as eager to be what they abuse. 
 This I know not the reason of; but it is as plain 
 as daylight to those who converse in the world, 
 as I have done these three years." ''Are all the 
 great folks wicked then!" says Fanny. ''To be 
 sure there are some exceptions," answered 
 Joseph. "Some gentlemen of our cloth report 
 charitable actions done by their lords and mas- 
 ters; and I have heard Squire Pope, the great 
 poet, at my lady's table, tell stories of a man that 
 lived at a place called Ross, and another at the 
 Bath, one Al — Al — I forget his name, but it 
 is in the book of verses. This gentleman hath 
 built up a stately house too, which the squire likes 
 very well ; but his charity is seen farther than his 
 house, though it stands on a hill, — ay, and brings 
 him more honor too. It was his charity that put 
 him in the book, where the squire says he puts all 
 those who deserve it; and to be sure, as he lives 
 among all the great people, if there were any 
 such, he would know them." This was all of Mr. 
 Joseph Andrew'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 surprised at the long silence of 
 parson Adams, especially as so many occasions 
 offered themselves to exert his curiosity and ob- 
 servation. The truth is, he was fast asleep, and 
 had so been from the beginning of the preceding 
 narrative; and, indeed, if the reader considers 
 that so many hours had passed since he had
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 107 
 
 closed his eyes, lie will not wonder at his repose, 
 though even Henley himself, or as great an ora- 
 tor (if any such be), had been in his rostrum or 
 tub before him. 
 
 Joseph, who whilst he was speaking had con- 
 tinued 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 delight- 
 ful manner they heard a pack of hounds ap- 
 proaching in full cry towards them, and presently 
 afterwards saw a hare pop forth from the 
 wood, and, crossing the water, land within a few 
 yards of them in the meadows. The hare was no 
 sooner on shore than it seated itself on its hinder 
 legs, and listened to the sound of the pursuers. 
 Fanny was wonderfully pleased with the little 
 wretch, and eagerly longed to have it in her arms 
 that she might preserve it from the dangers 
 which seemed to threaten it; but the rational 
 part of the creation do not always aptly dis- 
 tinguish their friends from their foes ; what won- 
 der then if this silly creature, the moment it 
 beheld her, fled from the friend who would have 
 protected it, and, traversing the meadows again, 
 passed the little rivulet on the opposite side? It
 
 108 THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 was, however, so spent and weak, that it fell 
 down twice or thrice in its way. This affected 
 the tender heart of Fanny, who exclaimed, with 
 tears in her eyes, against the barbarity of worry- 
 ing a poor innocent, defenseless animal out of its 
 life, and putting it to the extremest torture for 
 diversion. She had not much time to make re- 
 flections 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 
 passed the rivulet, and pursued the footsteps of 
 the hare; five horsemen attempted to leap over, 
 three of whom succeeded, and two were in the at- 
 tempt thrown from their saddles into the water; 
 their companions and their own horses too, pro- 
 ceeded 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, 
 sliaking 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 al- 
 most at every step, crawled through the wood, 
 and had almost got round to the place where
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 109 
 
 Fanny stood, wlien it was overtaken by its 
 enemies, and being driven out of the covert, was 
 caught, and instantly tore to pieces before 
 Fanny's face, who was unable to assist it with any 
 aid more powerful than pity ; nor could she prevail 
 on Joseph, who had been himself a sportsman in 
 his youth, to attempt anything contrary to the 
 laws of hunting in favor of the hare, which he 
 said was killed fairly. 
 
 The hare was caught within a yard or two of 
 Adams, who lay asleep at some distance from 
 the lovers; and the hounds, in devouring it, and 
 pulling it backwards and forwards had drawn it 
 so close to him, that some of them (by mistake 
 perhaps for the hare's skin) laid hold of the 
 skirts of his cassock; others at the same time 
 applying their teeth to his wig, which he had with 
 a handkerchief fastened to his head, began to 
 pull him about; and had not the motion of his 
 body had more effect on him than seemed to be 
 wrought by the noise, they must certainly have 
 tasted his flesh, which delicious flavor might have 
 been fatal to him ; but being roused by these tug- 
 gings, he instantly awaked, and with a jerk de- 
 livering his head from his wig, he with most 
 admirable dexterity recovered his legs, which now 
 seemed the only members he could entrust his 
 safety to. Having, therefore, escaped likewise 
 from at least a third part of his cassock, which 
 he willingly left as his exuvice 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
 
 110 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 the number of the enemies, and the surprise in 
 which he was taken, be considered; and if there 
 be any modern so outrageously brave that he can- 
 not admit of flight in any circumstance whatever, 
 I say (but I whisper that softly, and I solemnly 
 declare without any intention of giving offense to 
 any brave man in the nation), I say, or rather I 
 whisper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and hath 
 never read Homer nor Virgil, nor knows he any- 
 thing 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 surprise of their friends 
 and the entertainment of their enemies. But if 
 persons of such heroic disposition are a little 
 offended at the behavior of Adams, we assure 
 them they shall be as much pleased with what 
 we shall immediately relate of Joseph Andrews. 
 The master of the pack was just arrived, or, as 
 the sportsmen call it, come in, when Adams set 
 out, as we have before mentioned. This gentle- 
 man was generally said to be a great lover of 
 humor; but, not to mince the matter, especially 
 as we are upon this subject, he was a great 
 hunter of men; indeed, he had hitherto followed 
 the sport only with dogs of his own species; for 
 he kept two or three couple of barking curs for 
 that use only. However, as he thought he had 
 now found a man nimble enough, he was willing 
 to indulge himself with other sport, and accord- 
 ingly, crying out, "Stole away," encouraged the 
 hounds to pursue Mr. Adams, swearing it was
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 111 
 
 the largest jack-liare lie ever saw; at the same 
 time hallooing and hooping as if a conquered foe 
 was flying before him; in which he was imitated 
 by these two or three couple of human or rather 
 two-legged curs on horseback which we have men- 
 tioned before. 
 
 Now, thou, whoever thou art, whether a muse, 
 or by what other name soever thou choosest to 
 be called, who presidest over biography, and hast 
 inspired all the writers of lives in these our times : 
 thou who didst infuse such wonderful humor into 
 the pen of immortal Gulliver; who hast care- 
 fully guided the judgment whilst thou hast exalted 
 the nervous, manly style of thy Mallet : thou who 
 hadst no hand in that dedication and preface, or 
 the translations, which thou wouldst willingly 
 have struck out of the life of Cicero : lastly, thou 
 who, without the assistance of the least spice of 
 literature, and even against his inclination, hast, 
 in some pages of his book, forced Colley 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 admi- 
 ration and envy, tender virgins with love and 
 anxious concern for his safety. 
 
 No sooner did Joseph Andrews perceive the 
 distress of his friend, when first the quick-scent- 
 ing dogs attacked him, than he grasped his cudgel 
 in his right hand — a cudgel which his father had 
 of his grandfather, to whom a mighty strong 
 man of Kent had given it for a present in that 
 day when he broke three heads on the stage.
 
 112 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 beaux have lately 
 walked with about the Park in a morning; but 
 this was far his masterpiece. On its head was 
 engraved a nose and chin, which might have been 
 mistaken for a pair of nut-crackers. The learned 
 have imagined it designed to represent the Gor- 
 gon; but it was in fact copied from the face 
 of a certain long English baronet, of infinite wit, 
 humor, and gravity. He did intend to have en- 
 graved here many histories : as the first night of 
 
 Captain B 's play, where you would have 
 
 seen critics in embroidery transplanted from the 
 boxes to the pit, whose ancient inhabitants were 
 exalted to the galleries, where they played on 
 catcalls. He did intend to have xDainted an auc- 
 tion room, where Mr. Cock would have appeared 
 aloft in his pulpit, trumpeting forth the praises 
 of a china basin, and with astonishment wonder- 
 ing 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 heroic youth, swift of foot, ran with the 
 utmost speed to his friend's assistance. He 
 overtook him just as Eockwood had laid hold of 
 the skirt of his cassock, which, being torn, hung 
 to the ground. Eeader, we would make a simile 
 on this occasion, but for two reasons: the first
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS ll3 
 
 is, it would interrupt the description, which 
 should be rapid in this part; but that doth not 
 weigh much, many precedents occurring for such 
 an interruption ; the second and much the greater 
 reason is, that we could find no simile adequate 
 to our purpose: for indeed, what instance could 
 we bring to set before our reader's eyes at once 
 the idea of friendship, courage, youth, beauty, 
 strength, and swiftness? all which blazed in the 
 person of Joseph Andrews. Let those therefore 
 that describe lions and tigers, and heroes fiercer 
 than both, raise their poems or plays with the 
 simile of Joseph Andrews who is himself above 
 the reach of any simile. 
 
 Now Rockwood had laid fast hold on the par- 
 son 's skirts, and stopped his flight ; which Joseph 
 no sooner perceived than he leveled 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 re- 
 mained for thee, Ringw^ood ! Ringwood the best 
 hound that ever pursued a hare, who never threw 
 his tongue but where the scent was undoubtedly 
 true ; good at trailing, and sure in a highway ; no 
 babbler, no overrunner; respected by the whole 
 pack, who, whenever he opened, knew the game 
 was at hand. He fell by the stroke of Joseph. 
 Thunder and Plunder, and Wonder and Blunder, 
 were the next victims of his wrath, and measured 
 their lengths on the ground. Then Fairmaid, a 
 
 II— 3
 
 114 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 Ama- 
 zonian breed, and had worried bulls in her own 
 country, but now waged an unequal fight, and 
 had shared the fate of those we have mentioned 
 before, had not Diana (the reader may believe 
 it or not if he pleases) in that instant interposed, 
 and, in the shape of the huntsman, snatched her 
 favorite 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 Caesar and pulled 
 to the ground. Then Joseph flew to his rescue, 
 and with such might fell on the victor, that, 
 eternal blot to his name ! Ca?sar 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 equaled by any poet, romance 
 or life writer whatever, and, having brought it 
 to a conclusion, she ceased; we shall therefore 
 proceed in our ordinary style with the contin- 
 uation of this history. The squire and his com- 
 panions, whom the figTire of Adams and the gal-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 115 
 
 lantry of Joseph had at first thrown into a vio- 
 ent 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 s^Drawling in the fields. The squire, 
 therefore, having first called his friends about 
 him, as guards for safety of his person, rode man- 
 fully up to the combatants, and, summoning all 
 the terror he was master of into his countenance, 
 demanded with an authoritative voice of Joseph 
 what he meant by assaulting his dogs in that 
 manner? Joseph answered, with great intrepid- 
 ity, that they had first fallen on his friend ; and if 
 they had belonged to the greatest man in the king- 
 dom, he would have treated them in the same 
 way ; for, whilst his veins contained a single drop 
 of blood, he would not stand idle by and see that 
 gentleman (pointing to Adams) abused either by 
 man or beast; and, having so said, both he and 
 Adams brandished their wooden weapons, and put 
 themselves into such a posture, that the squire 
 and his company thought proper to preponderate 
 before they offered to revenge the cause of their 
 four-footed allies. 
 
 At this instant Fanny, whom the apprehension 
 of Joseph's danger had alarmed so much that, 
 forgetting her own, she had made the utmost ex- 
 pedition, came up. The squire and all the horse- 
 men were so surprised with her beauty, that they 
 immediately fixed both their eyes and thoughts 
 solely on her, every one declaring he had never
 
 116 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 seen so charming a creature. Neither mirth nor 
 anger engaged them a moment longer, but all sat 
 in silent amaze. The huntsman only was free 
 from her attraction, who was busy in cutting the 
 ears of the dogs, and endeavoring to recover them 
 to life; in which he succeeded so well, that only 
 two of no great note remained slaughtered on the 
 field of action. Upon this the huntsman declared, 
 *"Twas well it was no worse; for his part he 
 could not blame the gentleman, and wondered his 
 master would encourage the dogs to hunt Chris- 
 tians; that it was the surest way to spoil them, 
 to make them follow vermin instead of sticking 
 to a hare. ' ' 
 
 The squire, being informed of the little mischief 
 that had been done, and perhaps having more mis- 
 chief of another kind in his head, accosted Mr. 
 Adams with a more favorable asi^ect than before : 
 he told him he was sorry for what had happened ; 
 that he had endeavored all he could to prevent it 
 the moment he was acquainted with his cloth, and 
 greatly commended the courage of his servant, for 
 so he imagined Joseph to be. He then invited 
 Mr. Adams to dinner, and desired the young 
 woman might come with him. Adams refused 
 a long while ; but the invitation was repeated with 
 so much earnestness and courtesy, that at length 
 he was forced to accept it. His wig and hat, and 
 other spoils of the field, being gathered together 
 by Joseph (for otherwise probably they would 
 have been forgotten), he put himself into the best 
 order he could ; and then the horse and foot moved 
 forward in the same pace towards the squire's
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 117 
 
 house, which stood at a very little distance. 
 Whilst they were on the road the lovely Fanny 
 attracted the eyes of all : they endeavored to out- 
 vie one another in encomiums on her beauty; 
 which the reader will pardon my not relating, 
 as they had not anything new or uncommon in 
 them : so must he likewise my not setting down 
 the many curious jests which were made on 
 Adams ; some of them declaring that parson-hunt- 
 ing was the best sport in the world ; others com- 
 mending 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.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste 
 and times. 
 
 THEY arrived at the squire's house just 
 as his dinner was ready. A little dis- 
 pute arose on the account of Fanny, 
 whom the squire, who was a bachelor, was desirous 
 to place at his own table ; but she would not con- 
 sent, 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 
 favor which was likewise intended for Adams; 
 which design being executed, the squire thought 
 he should easily accomplish what he had when 
 he first saw her intended to perpetrate with 
 Fanny. 
 
 It may not be improper, before we proceed 
 farther, to open a little the character of this gen- 
 tleman, 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 child- 
 
 118
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 119 
 
 hood; for from the age of fifteen he addicted 
 himself entirely to hunting and other rural amuse- 
 ments, for which his mother took care to equip 
 him with horses, hounds, and all other neces- 
 saries; and his tutor, endeavoring to ingratiate 
 himself with his young pupil, who would, he knew, 
 be able handsomely to provide for him, became 
 his companion, not only at these exercises, but 
 likewise over a bottle, which the young squire had 
 a very early relish for. At the age of twenty his 
 mother began to think she had not fulfilled the 
 duty of a parent; she therefore resolved to per- 
 suade her son, if possible, to that which she im- 
 agined would well supply all that he might have 
 learned at a public school or university — this is 
 what they commonly call traveling; 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 savor 
 of the plain spirit and honesty of our ancestors. 
 His mother greatly applauded herself at his re- 
 turn. And now, being master of his own fortune, 
 he soon procured himself a seat in Parliament, 
 and was in the common opinion one of the finest 
 gentlemen of his age : but what distinguished him 
 chiefly was a strange delight which he took in 
 everything which is ridiculous, odious, and ab- 
 surd in his own species; so that he never chose 
 a companion without one or more of these in- 
 gredients, and those who were marked by nature
 
 120 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 in the most eminent degree with them were most 
 his favorites. If he ever found a man who either 
 had not, or endeavored to conceal, these im^Derfec- 
 tions, he took great pleasure in inventing methods 
 of forcing him into absurdities which were not 
 natural to him, or in drawing forth and expos- 
 ing 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 honor to the canine kind ; their business was 
 to hunt out and display everything that had any 
 savor of the above-mentioned qualities, and es- 
 pecially in the gravest and best characters; but 
 if they failed in their search, they were to turn 
 even virtue and wisdom themselves into ridicule, 
 for the diversion of their master and feeder. The 
 gentlemen of curlike disposition who were now 
 at his house, and whom he had brought with him 
 from London, were, an old half-pay officer, a 
 player, a dull poet, a quack-doctor, a scraping 
 fiddler, and a lame German dancing-master. 
 
 As soon as dinner was served, while Mr. Adams 
 was saying grace, the captain conveyed his chair 
 from behind him; so that when he endeavored to 
 seat himself he fell down on the ground, and this 
 completed joke the first, to the great entertain- 
 ment of the whole company. The second joke 
 was performed by the poet, who sat next him on 
 the other side, and took an opportunity, while 
 poor Adams was respectfully drinking to the mas- 
 ter 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 121 
 
 much mirth in the company. Joke the third was 
 served up by one of the waiting-men, who had 
 been ordered to convey a quantity of gin into 
 Mr. Adams's ale, which he declaring to be the 
 best liquor he ever drank, but rather too rich of 
 the malt, contributed again to their laughter. Mr. 
 Adams, from whom we had most of this relation, 
 could not recollect all the jests of this kind prac- 
 ticed on him, which the inoffensive disposition 
 of his own heart made him slow in discovering; 
 and indeed, had it not been for the information 
 which we received from a servant of the family, 
 this part of our history, which we take to be none 
 of the least curious, must have been deplorably 
 imperfect; though we must own it probable that 
 some more jokes were (as they call it) cracked 
 during their dinner; but we have by no means 
 been able to come at the knowledge of them. 
 When dinner was removed, the poet began to re- 
 peat some verses, which, he said, were made ex- 
 tempore. The following is a copy of them, pro- 
 cured with the greatest difficulty : — 
 
 An extempore Poem on Parson Adamas. 
 
 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 hai'e'? 
 
 Could Phoebus err thus grossly, even he 
 
 For a good player might have taken thee. 
 
 1 All hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will himt a 
 piece of rusty bacon trailed on the ground.
 
 122 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 At which words the bard whipped off the play- 
 er's wig, and received the approbation of the 
 comi^any, rather perhaps for the dexterity of his 
 hand than his head. The player, instead of re- 
 torting 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 min- 
 uet, telling him, "his cassock would serve for pet- 
 ticoats ; and that he would himself be his partner." 
 At which words, without waiting for an answer, 
 he pulled out his gloves, and the fiddler was pre- 
 paring his fiddle. The company all offered the 
 dancing-master wagers that the parson out-danced 
 him, which he refused, saying "he believed so too, 
 for he had never seen any man in his life who 
 looked de dance so well as de gentleman:" he then 
 stepped forwards to take Adams by the hand, 
 which the latter hastily withdrew, and, at the 
 same time clenching his fist, advised him not to 
 carry the jest too far, for he would not endure 
 being put upon. The dancing-master no sooner 
 saw the fist than he prudently retired out of its 
 reach, and stood aloof, mimicking Adams, whose 
 eyes were fixed on him, not guessing what he was
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 123 
 
 at, but to avoid his laying hold on him, which 
 he had once attempted. In the meanwhile, the 
 captain, perceiving an opportunity, pinned a 
 cracker or devil to the cassock, and then lighted 
 it with their little smoking-candle. Adams, being 
 a stranger to this sport, and believing he had 
 been blown up in reality, started from his chair, 
 and jumped about the room, to the infinite joy 
 of the beholders, who declared he was the best 
 dancer in the universe. As soon as the devil had 
 done tormenting him, and he had a little recovered 
 his confusion, he returned to the table, standing 
 up in the posture of one who intended to make a 
 speech. They all cried out, "Hear him, hear 
 him;" and he then spoke in the following man- 
 ner : ' ' Sir, I am sorry to see one to whom Provi- 
 dence hath been so bountiful in bestowing his fa- 
 vors 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, to- 
 wards 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 appre- 
 hend 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. 
 Ajiother gentleman, indeed, hath repeated some
 
 124 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 sentences, where the order itself is mentioned 
 with contempt. He says they are taken from 
 plays. I am sure such plays are a scandal to 
 the government which permits them, and cursed 
 will be the nation where they are represented. 
 How others have treated me I need not observe ; 
 they themselves, when they reflect, must allow the 
 behavior to be as improper to my years as to my 
 cloth. You found me, sir, traveling with 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 per- 
 suade 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 honor which I did not 
 ambitiously affect. When I was here, I endeav- 
 ored to behave towards you with the utmost re- 
 spect; if I have failed, it was not with design; 
 nor could I, certainly, so far be guilty as to de- 
 serve the insults I have suffered. If they were 
 meant, therefore, either to my order or my pov- 
 erty (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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 125 
 
 told him, ' ' He was sorry for what had happened ; 
 that he could not accuse him of any share in 
 it; that the verses were, as himself had well ob- 
 served, so bad, that he might easily answer them ; 
 and for the serpent, it was undoubtedly a very 
 great affront done him by the dancing-master, for 
 which, if he well thrashed him, as he deserved, 
 he should be very much pleased to see it" (in 
 which, probably, he spoke truth). Adams an- 
 swered, ^'Whoever had done it, it was not his pro- 
 fession to punish him that way ; but for the person 
 whom he had accused, I am a witness," says he, 
 *'of his innocence; for I had my eye on him all 
 the while. Whoever he was, God forgive him, 
 and bestow on him a little more sense as well as 
 humanity." The captain answered with a surly 
 look and accent, ^ ' That he hoped he did not mean 
 to reflect upon him; d — ^n him, he had as much 
 imanity as another, and, if any man said he had 
 not, he would convince him of his mistake by cut- 
 ting his throat." Adams, smiling, said, "He be- 
 lieved 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 per- 
 son, he would not find any protection for himself 
 in his gown;" and, clenching his fist, declared 
 "he had thrashed many a stouter man." The 
 gentleman did all he could to encourage this war- 
 like disposition in Adams, and was in hopes to
 
 126 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 have produced a battle, but he was disappointed ; 
 for the captain made no other answer than, "It is 
 very well you are a parson;" and so, drinking off 
 a bumper to old mother Church, ended the dis- 
 pute. 
 
 Then the doctor, who had hitherto been silent, 
 and who was the gravest but most mischievous 
 dog of all, in a very pompous speech highly ap- 
 plauded what Adams had said, and as much dis- 
 commended the behavior to him. He proceeded 
 to encomiums on the Church and poverty; and, 
 lastly, recommended forgiveness of what had 
 passed to Adams, who immediately answered, 
 "That everything was forgiven;" and in the 
 warmth of his goodness he filled a bumper of 
 strong beer (a liquor he preferred to wine), and 
 drank a health to the whole company, shaking 
 the captain and the poet heartily by the hand, 
 and addressing himself with great respect to the 
 doctor; who, indeed, had not laughed outwardly 
 at anything that passed, as he had a perfect com- 
 mand of his muscles, and could laugh inwardly 
 without betraying the least symptoms in his coun- 
 tenance. 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 per- 
 sons of all ages and degrees, from the rattle to 
 the discussing a point of philosophy; and that 
 men discovered themselves in nothing more than 
 in the choice of their amusements ; for, ' ' says he, 
 "as it must greatly raise our expectation of the 
 future conduct in life of boys whom in their ten-
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 127 
 
 der years we perceive, instead of taw or balls, or 
 other childish playthings, to choose, at their lei- 
 sure hours, to exercise their genius in conten- 
 tions of wit, learning, and such like; so must it 
 inspire one with equal contempt of a man, if we 
 should discover him playing at taw or other 
 childish play." Adams highly commended the 
 doctor's opinion, and said, "He had often won- 
 dered at some passages in ancient authors, where 
 Scipio, Lselius, and other great men were repre- 
 sented to have passed many hours in amusements 
 of the most trifling kind." The doctor replied, 
 **He had by him an old Greek manuscript where 
 a favorite diversion of Socrates was recorded." 
 *'Ay!" says the parson eagerly; "I should be 
 most infinitely obliged to you for the favor 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 am- 
 bassador, which part Socrates always used to 
 perform himself; and when he was led up to 
 the footsteps of the throne he addressed himself 
 to the monarchs in some grave speech, full of 
 yirtue, and goodness, and morality, and such like. 
 After which, he was seated between the king and 
 queen, and royally entertained. This I think was 
 the chief part. Perhaps I may have forgot some 
 particulars ; for it is long since I read it." Adams 
 said, "It was, indeed, a diversion worthy the re-
 
 128 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 laxation of so great a man; and thought some- 
 thing resembling it should be instituted among 
 our great men, instead of cards and other idle 
 pastime, in which, he was informed, they trifled 
 away too much of their lives." He added, "The 
 Christian religion was a nobler subject for these 
 speeches than any Socrates could have invented." 
 The gentleman of the house approved what Mr. 
 Adams said, and declared *'he was resolved to 
 perform the ceremony this very evening." To 
 which the doctor objected, as no one was prepared 
 with a speech, "unless," said he (turning to 
 Adams with a gravity of countenance which would 
 have deceived a more knowing man), "you have 
 a sermon about you, doctor." "Sir," said 
 Adams, "I never travel without one, for fear of 
 what may happen." He was easily prevailed on 
 by his worthy friend, as he now called the doctor, 
 to undertake the part of the ambassador ; so that 
 the gentleman sent immediate orders to have the 
 throne erected, which was performed before they 
 had drank two bottles; and, perhaps, the reader 
 will hereafter have no great reason to admire 
 the nimbleness of the servants. Indeed, to con- 
 fess 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 doc- 
 tor; who, having read his sermon, to the great
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 129 
 
 entertainment of all present, was led up to his 
 place and seated between their majesties. They 
 immediately rose up, when the blanket, wanting 
 its supports at either end, gave way, and soused 
 Adams over head and ears in the water. The 
 captain made his escape, but, unluckily, the gen- 
 tleman himself not being as nimble as he ought, 
 Adams caught hold of him before he descended 
 from his throne, and pulled him in with him, to 
 the entire secret satisfaction of all the company. 
 Adams, after ducking the squire twice or thrice, 
 leaped out of the tub, and looked sharp for the 
 doctor, whom he would certainly have conveyed 
 to the same place of honor; but he had wisely 
 withdrawn: he then searched for his crabstick, 
 and having found that, as well as his fellow trav- 
 elers, he declared he would not stay a moment 
 longer in such a house. He then departed, with- 
 out 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. 
 
 II— 9
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Which some readers will think too short and others too long. 
 
 ADAMS, and Joseph, who was no less en- 
 raged than his friend at the treatment he 
 met with, went out with their sticks in 
 their hands, and carried off Fanny, notwithstand- 
 ing 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, pre- 
 vent any harm from the water. The gentleman, 
 who had given such orders to his servants con- 
 cerning 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 dis- 
 patched 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 unan- 
 imously consented to pass the evening, Mr. Adams 
 being now as dry as he was before he had set 
 out on his embassy. 
 
 This inn, which indeed we might call an ale- 
 
 130
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 131 
 
 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, re- 
 turning thanks to the Almighty for his food, de- 
 clared he had eat his homely commons with much 
 greater satisfaction than his splendid dinner ; and 
 expressed great contempt for the folly of man- 
 kind, who sacrificed their hopes of heaven to the 
 acquisition of vast wealth, since so much com- 
 fort was to be found in the humblest state and the 
 lowest provision. ''Very true, sir," says a grave 
 man who sat smoking his pipe by the fire, and 
 who was a traveler as well as himself. "I have 
 often been as much surprised 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-favored faces haunting 
 the assemblies of the great, nor would such num- 
 bers of feeble wretches languish in their coaches 
 and palaces. No, not the wealth of a kingdom can 
 purchase any paint to dress pale Ugliness in the 
 bloom of that young maiden, nor any drugs to 
 equip Disease with the vigor of that young man, 
 Do not riches bring us to solicitude instead of rest, 
 envy instead of affection, and danger instead of 
 safety? Can they prolong their own possession,
 
 ]32 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 or lengthen his days who enjoys them! So far 
 otherwise, that the sloth, the luxury, the care 
 which attend them, shorten the lives of millions, 
 and bring them with pain and misery to an un- 
 timely grave. AVhere, then, is their value if they 
 can neither embellish nor strengthen our forms, 
 sweeten nor prolong our lives? — Again: Can 
 they adorn the mind more than the body? Do 
 they not rather swell the heart with vanity, puff 
 up the cheeks with pride, shut our ears to every 
 call of virtue, and our bowels to every motive of 
 compassion?" ''Give me your hand, brother," 
 said Adams, in a rapture, "for I suppose you are 
 a clergyman." — "No, truly," answered the other 
 (indeed, he was a priest of the Church of Rome; 
 but those who understand our laws will not won- 
 der he was not over-ready to own it). — "What- 
 ever you are," cries Adams, "you have spoken 
 my sentiments : I believe I have preached every 
 syllable of your speech twenty times over; for 
 it hath always appeared to me easier for a cable- 
 rope (which by the way is the true rendering of 
 that word we have translated camel) to go through 
 the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get 
 into the kingdom of heaven." — "That, sir," said 
 the other, "will be easily granted you by divines, 
 and is deplorably true ; but as the prospect of our 
 good at a distance doth not so forcibly affect us, 
 it might be of some service to mankind to be made 
 thoroughly sensible — which I think they might be 
 with very little serious attention — that even the 
 blessings of this world are not to be purchased 
 with riches; a doctrine, in my opinion, not only
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 133 
 
 metaphysically, but, if I may so say, mathemat- 
 ically demonstrable; and which I have been al- 
 ways so perfectly convinced of that I have a con- 
 tempt for nothing so much as for gold." Adams 
 now began a long discourse : but as most which he 
 said occurs among many authors who have treated 
 this subject, I shall omit inserting it. During its 
 continuance Joseph and Fanny retired to rest, and 
 the host likewise left the room. When the Eng- 
 lish parson had concluded, the Romish resumed 
 the discourse, which he continued with great bit- 
 terness and invective; and at last ended by de- 
 siring Adams to lend him eighteen-pence to pay 
 his reckoning; promising, if he never paid him, 
 he might be assured of his prayers. The good 
 man answered that eighteen-pence would be too 
 little to carry him any very long journey ; that he 
 had half a guinea in his pocket, which he would 
 divide with him. He then fell to searching his 
 pockets, but could find no money; for indeed the 
 company with whom he dined had passed one 
 jest upon him which we did not then enumerate, 
 and had picked his pocket of all that treasure 
 which he had so ostentatiously produced. 
 
 *' Bless me!" cried Adams, '*I have certainly 
 lost it ; I can never have spent it. Sir, as I am a 
 Christian, I had a whole half-guinea in my pocket 
 this morning, and have not now a single halfpenny 
 of it left. Sure the devil must have taken it from 
 me!" — ''Sir," answered the priest, smiling, "you 
 need make no excuses; if you are not willing to 
 lend me the money, I am contented." — ''Sir," 
 cries Adams, "if I had the greatest sum in the
 
 134 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 world — aye, if I had ten pounds about me — I 
 would bestow it all to rescue any Christian from 
 distress. I am more vexed at my loss on your 
 account than my own. Was ever anything so un- 
 lucky? Because I have no money in my pocket 
 I shall be suspected to be no Christian." — "I am 
 more unlucky," quoth the other, *4f you are as 
 generous as you say; for really a crown would 
 have made me happy, and conveyed me in plenty 
 to the place I am going, which is not above twenty 
 miles off, and where I can arrive by to-morrow 
 night. I assure you I am not accustomed to 
 travel penniless. I am but just arrived in Eng- 
 land ; and we were forced by a storm in our pas- 
 sage to throw all we had overboard. I don't sus- 
 pect 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 peo- 
 ple ; for these, and indeed too many others, know 
 little difference in their estimation between a beg- 
 gar and a thief. ' ' However, he thought he should 
 deal better with the host that evening than the 
 next morning: he therefore resolved to set out 
 immediately, notwithstanding the darkness; and 
 accordingly, as soon as the host returned, he com- 
 municated to him the situation of his affairs; 
 upon which the host, scratching his head, an- 
 swered, "Why, I do not know, master; if it be so, 
 and you have no money, I must trust, I think, 
 though I had rather always have ready money if 
 I could ; but, marry, you look like so honest a gen- 
 tleman that I don't fear your paying me if it was 
 twenty times as much." The priest made no re-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 135 
 
 ply, but, taking leave of him and Adams as fast 
 as lie could, not without confusion, and perhaps 
 with some distrust of Adams's sincerity, de- 
 parted. 
 
 He was no sooner gone than the host fell a-shak- 
 ing his head, and declared, if he had suspected the 
 fellow had no money, he would not have drawn 
 him a single drop of drink, saying he despaired 
 of ever seeing his face again, for that he looked 
 like a confounded rogue. "Rabbit the fellow," 
 cries he, "I thought, by his talking so much about 
 riches, that he had a hundred pounds at least in 
 his pocket. ' ' Adams chid him for his suspicions, 
 which, he said, were not becoming a Christian; 
 and then, without reflecting on his loss, or con- 
 sidering how he himself should depart in the 
 morning, he retired to a very homely bed, as his 
 companions had before; however, health and fa- 
 tigue gave them a sweeter repose than is often 
 in the power of velvet and down to bestow.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Containing as surprising 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 travelers in the house? and pres- 
 ently, 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 en- 
 tertain a suspicion of the truth — for indeed he 
 had received some information from one of the 
 servants of the squire's house of his design — and 
 answered in the negative. One of the servants, 
 who knew the host well, called out to him by his 
 name just as he had opened another window, and 
 asked him the same question; to which he an- 
 swered in the affirmative. ho! said another, 
 have we found you? and ordered the host to come 
 down and open his door. Fanny, who was as 
 wakeful as Joseph, no sooner heard all this than 
 she leaped from her bed, and, hastily putting 
 on her gown and petticoats ran as fast as possible 
 to Joseph's room, who then was almost dressed. 
 He immediately let her in, and, embracing her 
 
 136
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 137 
 
 with the most passionate tenderness, bid her fear 
 nothing, for he would die in her defense. "Is 
 that a reason why I should not fear," says she, 
 ''when I should lose what is dearer to me than the 
 whole world?" Joseph, then kissing her hand, 
 said, "He could almost thank the occasion which 
 had extorted from her a tenderness she would 
 never indulge him with before." He then ran 
 and waked his bedfellow Adams, who was yet fast 
 asleep, notwithstanding many calls from Joseph ; 
 but was no sooner made sensible of their danger 
 than he leaped from his bed, without considering 
 the presence of Fanny, who hastily turned her 
 face from him, and enjoyed a double benefit from 
 the dark, which, as it would have prevented any 
 offense, to an innocence less pure, or a modesty 
 less delicate, so it concealed even those blushes 
 which were raised in her. 
 
 Adams had soon put on all his clothes but his 
 breeches, which, in the hurry, he forgot ; however, 
 they were pretty well supplied by the length of 
 his other garments; and now, the house-door 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 be- 
 lieved the story, directed them, and instantly the 
 captain and poet, jostling one another, ran up.; 
 The poet, who was the nimblest, entering the 
 chamber first, searched the bed, and every other 
 part, but to no purpose; the bird was flown, as 
 the impatient reader, who might otherwise have
 
 138 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 been in pain for her, was before advertised. They 
 then inquired where the men lay, and were ap- 
 proaching the chamber, when Joseph roared out, 
 in a loud voice, that he would shoot the first man 
 who offered to attack the door. The captain in- 
 quired what fire-arms they had ; to which the host 
 answered, he believed they had none ; nay, he was 
 almost convinced of it, for he had heard one ask 
 the other in the evening what they should have 
 done if they had been overtaken, when they had no 
 arms; to which the other answered, they would 
 have defended themselves with their sticks as long 
 as they were able, and God would assist a just 
 cause. This satisfied the captain, but not the 
 poet, who prudently retreated downstairs, saying, 
 it was his business to record great actions, and not 
 to do them. The captain was no sooner well sat- 
 isfied that there were no fire-arms than, bidding 
 defiance to gunpowder, and swearing he loved the 
 smell of it, he ordered the servants to follow him, 
 and, marching boldly up, immediately attempted 
 to force the door, which the servants soon helped 
 him to accomplish. When it was opened, they 
 discovered the enemy drawn up three deep; 
 Adams in the front, and Fanny in the rear. The 
 captain told Adams that if they would go all back 
 to the house again they should be civilly treated; 
 but unless they consented he had orders to carry 
 the young lady with him, whom there was great 
 reason to believe they had stolen from her par- 
 ents; for, notwithstanding her disguise, her air, 
 which she could not conceal, sufficiently discov- 
 ered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs.
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 139 
 
 Fanny, bursting into tears, solemnly assured him 
 he was mistaken; that she was a poor helpless 
 foundling, and had no relation in the world which 
 she knew of; and, throwing herself on her knees, 
 begged that he would not attempt to take her 
 from her friends, who, she was convinced, would 
 die before they would lose her; which Adams 
 confirmed with words not far from amounting to 
 an oath. The captain swore he had no leisure to 
 talk, and, bidding them thank themselves for what 
 happened, he ordered the servants to fall on, at 
 the same time endeavoring to pass by Adams, in 
 order to lay hold on Fanny; but the parson, in- 
 terrupting him, received a blow from one of them, 
 which, without considering whence it came, he re- 
 turned to the captain, and gave him so dexterous 
 a knock in that part of the stomach which is vul- 
 garly called the pit, that he staggered some paces 
 backwards. The captain, who was not accus- 
 tomed to this kind of play, and who wisely appre- 
 hended 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 ap- 
 proached him, and was leveling 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 beaux could not have lifted with 
 both, and discharged it, together with the con- 
 tents, full in the captain's face. The uplifted 
 hanger dropped from his hand, and he fell pros- 
 trated on the floor with a lumpish noise, and his 
 halfpence rattled in his pocket; the red liquor
 
 140 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 which his veins contained, and the white liquor 
 which the pot contained, ran in one stream down 
 his face and his clothes. Nor had Adams quite 
 escaped, some of the water having in its passage 
 shed its honors on his head, and began to trickle 
 down the wrinkles or rather furrows of his 
 cheeks, when one of the servants, snatching a mop 
 out of a pail of water, which had already done 
 its duty in washing the house, pushed it in the 
 parson's face; yet could not he bear him down, 
 for the parson, wresting the mop from the fellow 
 with one hand, with the other brought his enemy 
 as low as the earth, having given him a stroke 
 over that part of the face where, in some men 
 of pleasure, the natural and artificial noses are 
 conjoined. 
 
 Hitherto, Fortune seemed to incline the victory 
 on the travelers' side, when, according to her cus- 
 tom, she began to show the fickleness of her dis- 
 position; for now the host, entering the field, or 
 rather chamber of battle, flew directly at Joseph, 
 and, darting his head into his stomach (for he 
 was a stout fellow and an expert boxer), almost 
 staggered him : but Joseph, stepping one leg back, 
 did with his left hand so chuck him under the 
 chin that he reeled. The youth was pursuing his 
 blow with his right hand when he received from 
 one of the servants such a stroke with a cudgel 
 on his temples, that it instantly deprived him of 
 sense, and he measured his length on the ground. 
 
 Fanny rent the air with her cries, and Adams 
 was coming to the assistance of Joseph; but the 
 two serving-men and the host now fell on him,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 141 
 
 and soon subdued liim, though he fought like a 
 madman, and looked so black with the impressions 
 he had received from the mop, that Don Quixote 
 would certainly have taken him for an enchanted 
 Moor. But now follows the most tragical part; 
 for the captain was risen again, and, seeing 
 Joseph on the floor, and Adams secured, he in- 
 stantly laid hold on Fanny, and, with the as- 
 sistance of the poet and player, who, hearing the 
 battle was over, were now come up, dragged her, 
 crying and tearing her hair, from the sight of 
 her Joseph, and, with a perfect deafness to all her 
 entreaties, carried her downstairs by violence, and 
 fastened her on the player's horse; and the cap- 
 tain, mounting his own, and leading that on which 
 this poor miserable wretch was, departed, without 
 any more consideration of her cries than a butcher 
 hath of those of a lamb; for indeed his thoughts 
 were entertained only with the degree of favor 
 which he promised himself from the squire on the 
 success of this adventure. 
 
 The servants, who were ordered to secure 
 Adams and Joseph as safe as possible, that the 
 squire might receive no interruption to his design 
 on poor Fanny, immediately, by the poet's advice, 
 tied Adams to one of the bed-posts, as they did 
 Joseph on the other side, as soon as they could 
 bring him to himself; and then, leaving them to- 
 gether, back to back, and desiring the host not to 
 set them at liberty, nor to go near them, till he 
 had further orders, they departed towards their 
 master; but happened to take a different road 
 from that which the captain had fallen into,
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other 
 use in this histoiy but to divert the reader. 
 
 BEFORE we proceed any farther in this 
 tragedy we shall leave Mr. Joseph and Mr. 
 Adams to themselves, and imitate the 
 wise conductors of the stage, who in the midst 
 of a grave action entertain you with some excel- 
 lent piece of satire or humor called a dance. 
 [Which piece, indeed, is therefore danced, and not 
 spoke, as it is delivered to the audience by per- 
 sons whose thinking faculty is by most people 
 held to lie in their heels; and to whom, as well 
 as heroes, who think with their hands, Nature hath 
 only given heads for the sake of conformity, and 
 as they are of use in dancing, to hang their hats 
 on. 
 
 The poet, addressing the player, proceeded thus, 
 ''As I was saying" (for they had been at this 
 discourse all the time of the engagement above- 
 stairs), "the reason you have no good new plays 
 is evident ; it is from your discouragement of au- 
 thors. Gentlemen will not write, sir, they will 
 not write, without the expectation of fame or 
 profit, or perhaps both. Plays are like trees, 
 which will not grow without nourishment ; but like 
 mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneously, as it 
 were, in a rich soil. The muses, like vines, may 
 
 142
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 143 
 
 be pruned, but not with a hatchet. The town, like 
 a peevish child, knows not what it desires, and is 
 always best pleased with a rattle. A farce-writer 
 hath indeed some chance for success: but they 
 have lost all taste for the sublime. Though I be- 
 lieve one reason of their depravity is the badness 
 of the actors. If a man writes like an angel, sir, 
 those fellows know not how to give a sentiment 
 utterance." — ''Not so fast," says the player: 
 ''the modern actors are as good at least as their 
 authors, nay, they come nearer their illustrious 
 predecessors; and I expect a Booth on the stage 
 again, sooner than a Shakespeare 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 con- 
 trary," said the poet; "but I am surprised you 
 grow so warm; you cannot imagine yourself in- 
 terested 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 com- 
 pliment to you, I think it impossible for any one 
 to have excelled you in most of your parts. Nay, 
 it is solemn truth, and I have heard many, and 
 all great judges, express as much; and, you will 
 pardon me if I tell you, I think every time I have 
 seen you lately you have constantly acquired some 
 new excellence, like a snow-ball. You have de- 
 ceived me in my estimation of perfection, and 
 have outdone what I thought inimitable." — "You
 
 144 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 are as little interested," answered the player, 
 *'in what I have said of other poets; for d — n me 
 if there are not many strokes, ay, whole scenes, 
 in your last tragedy, which at least equal Shake- 
 speare. There is a delicacy of sentiment, a dignity 
 of expression in it, which I will own many of our 
 gentlemen did not do adequate justice to. To 
 confess the truth, they are bad enough, and I pity 
 an author who is present at the murder of his 
 works." — ''Nay, it is but seldom that it can hap- 
 pen," returned the poet ; "the works of most mod- 
 ern authors, like dead-born children, cannot be 
 murdered. It is such wretched half-begotten, 
 half-writ, lifeless, spiritless, low, groveling 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 un- 
 derstand." — "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 fight- 
 ing with his mistress, and a brave hero suing to 
 his enemy with his sword in his hand. I don't 
 care to abuse my jDrofession, 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 per- 
 son'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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 145 
 
 Mallet's Eurydice; or those low, dirty, last-dying- 
 speeches, which a fellow in the city of Wapping, 
 your Dillo or Lillo, what was his name, called 
 tragedies?" — "Very well," says the player; 
 *'and pray what do you think of such fellows as 
 Quin and Delane, or that face-making puppy 
 young Gibber, that ill-looked dog Macklin, or that 
 saucy slut Mrs. Clive? What work would they 
 make with your Shakesj^eares, Otways, and Lees? 
 How would those harmonious lines of the last 
 come from their tongues? — 
 
 * No more; for I disdain 
 
 All pomp when thou art by : far be the noise 
 Of kings and crowns fx-om us, whose gentle souls 
 Our kinder fates have steer'd another way. 
 Free as the forest birds we'll pair together, 
 Without rememb'ring who our fathers were: 
 Fly to the arbors, grots, and flow'ry meads; 
 There in soft mui'murs 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 mom/ 
 
 Or how would this disdain of Otway — 
 
 'Who'd be that foolish sordid thing eall'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 
 
 11—10
 
 146 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 the stage ; an applause I was extremely concerned 
 for your losing." — ''Sure," says the player, "if 
 I remember, that was hissed more than any 
 passage in the whole play." — "Ay, your speaking 
 it was hissed," said the poet. — "My speaking it!" 
 said the player. — "I mean your not speaking it," 
 said the poet. "You was out, and then they 
 hissed." — "They hissed, and then I was out, if I 
 remember," answered the player; "and I must 
 say this for myself, that the whole audience al- 
 lowed I did your part justice; so don't lay the 
 damnation of your play to my account." — "I 
 don't know what you mean by damnation," re- 
 plied 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 tailors, sir, all tailors." — "Why 
 should the tailors 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 particu- 
 lar, 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 147 
 
 was distress in a tragedy — I am not fond of my 
 own performance; but if I should tell you what 
 
 the best judges said of it Nor was it entirely 
 
 owing to my enemies neither that it did not suc- 
 ceed on the stage as well as it hath since among 
 the polite readers ; for you can't say it had justice 
 done it by the performers." — ''I think," answered 
 the player, ''the performers did the distress of it 
 justice ; for I am sure we were in distress enough, 
 who were pelted with oranges all the last act : we 
 all imagined it would have been the last act of our 
 lives." 
 
 The poet, whose fury was now raised, had just 
 attemjoted 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 dis- 
 course between parson Abraham Adams and Mr. 
 Joseph Andrews.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Containing the exhortations of parson Adams to his friend in 
 aflQiction; calculated for the instruction and improvement 
 of the reader. 
 
 JOSEPH no sooner came perfectly to himself 
 than, perceiving his mistress gone, he be- 
 wailed her loss with groans which would 
 have pierced any heart but those which are pos- 
 sessed by some people, and are made of a certain 
 composition not unlike flint in its hardness and 
 other properties; for you may strike fire from 
 them, which will dart through the eyes, but they 
 can never distill one drop of water the same way. 
 His own, poor youth ! was of a softer composition ; 
 and at those words, **0 my dear Fanny! my 
 love! shall I never, never see thee more?" his eyes 
 overflowed with tears, which would have become 
 any but a hero. In a word, his despair was more 
 easy to be conceived than related. 
 
 Mr. Adams, after many groans, sitting with his 
 back to Joseph, began thus in a sorrowful tone: 
 *'You cannot imagine, my good child, that I en- 
 tirely blame these first agonies of j^our grief; for, 
 when misfortunes attack us by surprise, it must 
 require infinitely more learning than you are mas- 
 ter of to resist them; but it is the business of a 
 man and a Christian to summon Reason as quickly 
 as he can to his aid; and she will presently teach 
 
 148
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 149 
 
 liim patience and submission. Be comforted, 
 therefore, child; I say be comforted. It is true, 
 you have lost the prettiest, kindest, loveliest, 
 sweetest young woman, one with whom you might 
 have expected to have lived in happiness, virtue, 
 and innocence ; by whom you might have promised 
 yourself many little darlings, who would have 
 been the delight of your youth and the comfort 
 of your age. You have not only lost her, but 
 have reason to fear the utmost violence which 
 lust and power can inflict upon her. Now, indeed, 
 you may easily raise ideas of horror, which might 
 drive you to despair." — "0 I shall run mad!" 
 cries Joseph. '*0 that I could but command my 
 hands to tear my eyes out and my flesh off!" — 
 "If you would use them to such purposes, I am 
 glad you can't," answered Adams. "I have 
 stated your misfortune as strong as I possibly 
 can; but, on the other side, you are to consider 
 you are a Christian, that no accident happens to 
 us without the Divine permission, and that it is 
 the duty of a man, and a Christian, to submit. 
 We did not make ourselves; but the same power 
 which made us rules over us, and we are abso- 
 lutely 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 ig- 
 norance; 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 two-fold (but I 
 have not at present time to divide properly), for,
 
 150 THE HISTORY OF. 
 
 as we know not to what purpose any event is ulti- 
 mately directed, so neither can we affirm from 
 what cause it originally sprung. You are a man, 
 and consequently a sinner ; and this may be a pun- 
 ishment to you for your sins : indeed in this sense 
 it may be esteemed as a good, yea, as the greatest 
 good, which satisfies the anger of Heaven, and 
 averts that wrath which cannot continue without 
 our destruction. Thirdly, our impotency of re- 
 lieving 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 armor can guard us, no speed 
 can fly? — a power which leaves us no hope but in 
 submission." "0 sir!" cried Joseph, ''all this is 
 very true, and very fine, and I could hear you all 
 day if I was not so grieved at heart as now I am." 
 — "Would you take physic," says Adams, "when 
 you are well, and refuse it when you are sick? 
 Is not comfort to be administered to the afflicted, 
 and not to those who rejoice or those who are at 
 easel" "01 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?" "0 tell me," cries 
 Joseph, "that Fanny will escape back to my arms, 
 that they shall again enclose that lovely creature, 
 with all her sweetness, all her untainted innocence 
 about her!" "Why, perhaps you may," cries 
 Adams, "but I can't promise you what's to come. 
 You must, with perfect resignation, wait the 
 event ; if she be restored to you again, it is your 
 duty to be thankful, and so it is if she be not.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 151 
 
 Joseph, if you are wise and truly know your own 
 interest, you will peaceably and quietly submit to 
 all the dispensations of Providence, being thor- 
 oughly assured that all the misfortunes, how great 
 soever, which happen to the righteous, happen to 
 them for their own good. Nay, it is not your in- 
 terest 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 
 angry, saying, he mistook him if he thought he 
 denied it was his duty, for he had known that 
 long ago. ''What signifies knowing your duty, if 
 you do not perform it?" answered Adams. 
 ''Your knowledge increases your guilt. O 
 Joseph! I never thought you had this stubborn- 
 ness in your mind. ' ' Joseph replied, ' ' He fancied 
 he misunderstood him; which I assure you," says 
 he, "you do, if you imagine I endeavor 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 writ- 
 ten against it, quoting several passages from Sen- 
 eca, 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,
 
 152 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and for a moment abated his agonies; but, wlien 
 his fears sufficiently set before his eyes the dan- 
 ger that poor creature was in, his grief returned 
 again with repeated violence, nor could Adams in 
 the least assuage it; though it may be doubted 
 in his behalf whether Socrates himself could have 
 prevailed any better. 
 
 They remained some time in silence, and groans 
 and sighs issued from them both ; at length Joseph 
 burst out into the following soliloquy : — 
 
 "Yes, I will bear my sorrows like a man, 
 But I must also feel them as a man. 
 I cannot but remember such things were, 
 And were most dear to me." 
 
 Adams asked him what stuff that was he re- 
 peated? 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 inquire after the subject of their con- 
 versation.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 More adventures, which we hope will as much please as sur- 
 prise the reader. 
 
 NEITHER the facetious dialogue which 
 passed between the poet and tlie player, 
 nor the grave and truly solemn dis- 
 course of Mr. Adams, will, we conceive, make the 
 reader sufficient amends for the anxiety which he 
 must have felt on the account of poor Fanny, 
 whom we left in so deplorable a condition. We 
 shall therefore now proceed to the relation of what 
 happened to that beautiful and innocent virgin, 
 after she fell into the wicked hands of the cap- 
 tain. 
 
 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 ravish- 
 er. He was not only deaf to all her bewailings 
 and entreaties on the road, but accosted her ears 
 with impurities which, having been never before 
 accustomed to them, she happily for herself very 
 little understood. At last he changed his note, 
 and attempted to soothe and mollify her, by set- 
 ting forth the splendor and luxury which would 
 be her fortune with a man who would have the 
 inclination, and power too, to give her whatever 
 
 153
 
 154 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 lier utmost wishes could desire; and told her he 
 doubted not but she would soon look kinder on 
 him, as the instrument of her happiness, and 
 despise that pitiful fellow whom her ignorance 
 only could make her fond of. She answered, she 
 knew not whom he meant ; she never was fond of 
 any pitiful fellow. ' ' Are you affronted, madam, ' ' 
 says he, ''at my calling him so? But what better 
 can be said of one in a livery, notwithstanding 
 your fondness for him?" She returned, that she 
 did not understand him, that the man had been her 
 fellow-servant, and she believed was as honest a 
 creature as any alive; but as for fondness for 
 men — ''I warrant ye," cries the captain, ''we 
 shall find means to persuade you to be fond ; and 
 I advise you to yield to gentle ones, for you may 
 be assured that it is not in your power, by any 
 struggles whatever, to preserve your virginity 
 two hours longer. It will be your interest to con- 
 sent ; 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 vocifera- 
 tion, he would find a means of stopping her mouth. 
 And now the poor wretch, perceiving no hopes 
 of succor, abandoned herself to despair, and, sigh- 
 ing out the name of Joseph! Joseph! a river of 
 tears ran down her lovely cheeks, and wet the 
 handkerchief which covered her bosom. A horse- 
 man now appeared in the road, upon which the
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 155 
 
 captain threatened her violently if she com- 
 plained; however, the moment they approached 
 each other she begged him with the utmost ear- 
 nestness to relieve a distressed creature who was 
 in the hands of a ravisher. The fellow stopped 
 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 passed than the cap- 
 tain abused her violently for breaking his com- 
 mands, and threatened to gag 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 Good- 
 will?" — "Indeed, indeed, I am," she cried — "0 
 John, I know you now — Heaven hath sent you to 
 my assistance, to deliver me from this wicked 
 man, who is carrying me away for his vile pur- 
 poses — for God's sake rescue me from him!" 
 A fierce dialogue immediately ensued between 
 the captain and these two men, who, being both 
 armed with pistols, and the chariot which they 
 attended being now arrived, the captain saw both 
 force and stratagem were vain, and endeavored 
 to make his escape, in which however he could
 
 156 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 not succeed. The gentleman who rode in the 
 chariot ordered it to stop, and with an air of 
 authority examined into the merits of the cause; 
 of which being advertised by Fanny, whose credit 
 was confirmed by the fellow who knew her, he 
 ordered the captain, who was all bloody from 
 his encounter at the inn, to be conveyed as a 
 prisoner behind the chariot, and very gallantly 
 took Fanny into it; for, to say the truth, this 
 gentleman (who was no other than the celebrated 
 Mr. Peter Pounce, and who preceded the Lady 
 Booby only a few miles, by setting out earlier 
 in the morning) was a very gallant person, and 
 loved a pretty girl better than anything besides 
 his own money or the money of other people. 
 
 The chariot now proceeded towards the inn, 
 which, as Fanny was informed, lay in their way, 
 and where it arrived at that very time while the 
 poet and jDlayer 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 proceeding chapters the 
 chariot stopped at the door, and in an instant, 
 Fanny, leaping from it, ran up to her Joseph. 
 — reader! conceive if thou canst the joy which 
 fired the breasts of these lovers on this meeting; 
 and if thy own heart doth not sympathetically 
 assist thee in this concejDtion, 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 157 
 
 of Adams, stopped to see him, and receive liis 
 homage; for, as Peter was an hypocrite, a sort 
 of people whom Mr. Adams never saw through, 
 the one paid that respect to his seeming goodness 
 which the other believed to be paid to his riches ; 
 hence Mr. Adams was so much his favorite, that 
 he once loaned him four pounds thirteen shillings 
 and sixpence to prevent his going to jail, 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 stock- 
 ings; 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 colors which appeared 
 on his face, where a long piss-burned beard served 
 to retain the liquor of the stone-pot, and that 
 of a blacker hue which distilled from the mop. 
 — This figure, which Fanny had delivered from 
 his captivity, was no sooner spied by Peter 
 than it disordered the composed gravity of his 
 muscles ; however, he advised him immediately to 
 make himself clean, nor would accept his homage 
 in that pickle. 
 
 The poet and player no sooner saw the captain
 
 158 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 in captivity than they began to consider of their 
 own safety, of which flight presented itself as 
 the only means; they therefore both of them 
 mounted the poet's horse, and made the most 
 expeditious retreat in their power. 
 
 The host, who well knew Mr. Pounce and Lady 
 Booby's livery, was not a little surprised 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 cud- 
 gel 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 cap- 
 tain into his presence, for he said he was guilty 
 of felony, and the next justice of peace should
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 159 
 
 commit him; but the servants (whose appetite 
 for revenge is soon satisfied), being sufficiently 
 contented with the drubbing which Joseph had 
 inflicted on him, and which was indeed of no 
 very moderate kind, had suffered him to go off, 
 which he did, threatening a severe revenge 
 against Joseph, which I have never heard he 
 thought proper to take. 
 
 The mistress of the house made her voluntary 
 appearance before Mr. Pounce, and with a thou- 
 sand curtsies told him, ''She hoped his honor 
 would pardon her husband, who was a very non- 
 sense 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 jail, they must all come to the parish; 
 for she was a poor weak woman, continually 
 a-breeding, and had no time to work for them. 
 She therefore hoped his honor would take it into 
 his worship's consideration, and forgive her hus- 
 band 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 stopped her tongue, by 
 telling her he had nothing to say to her husband
 
 160 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 nor her neither. So, as Adams and the rest had 
 assured her of forgiveness, she cried and curtsied 
 out of the room. 
 
 Mr. Pounce was desirous that Fanny should 
 continue her journey with him in the chariot; 
 but she absolutely refused, saying she would ride 
 behind Josej^h on a horse which one of Lady 
 Booby's servants had equipped him with. But, 
 alas! when the horse appeared, it was found to 
 be no other than that identical beast which Mr. 
 Adams had left behind him at the inn, and which 
 these honest fellows, who knew him, had re- 
 deemed. Indeed, whatever horse they had pro- 
 vided 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; how- 
 ever, when he was reminded of the affair, and 
 told that they had brought the horse with them 
 which he left behind, he answered — Bless me! 
 and so I did. 
 
 Adams was very desirous that Joseph and 
 Fanny should mount this horse, and declared he 
 could very easily walk home. ''If I walked 
 alone," says he, "I would wage a shilling that the 
 pedestrian outstripped the equestrian travelers; 
 but, as I intend to take the company of a pipe, 
 peradventure I may be an hour later." One of 
 the servants whispered Joseph to take him at his 
 word, and suffer the old put to walk if he would : 
 this proposal was answered with an angry look
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 161 
 
 and a peremptory refusal by Joseph, who, catch- 
 ing 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 be- 
 tween two gentlemen, or two ladies, quickly de- 
 cided, though they have both asserted they would 
 not eat such a nice morsel, and each insisted on 
 the other's accepting it; but in reality both were 
 very desirous to swallow it themselves. Do not 
 therefore conclude hence that this dispute would 
 have come to a speedy decision: for here both 
 parties were heartily in earnest, and it is very 
 probable they would have remained in the inn- 
 yard to this day, had not the good Peter Pounce 
 put a stop to it; for, finding he had no longer 
 hopes of satisfying his old appetite with Fanny, 
 and being desirous of having some one to whom 
 he might communicate his grandeur, he told the 
 parson he would convey him home in his chariot. 
 This favor was by Adams, with many bows and 
 acknowledgments, accepted, though he after- 
 wards said, ''he ascended the chariot rather that 
 he might not offend than from any desire of rid- 
 ing in it, for that in his heart he preferred the 
 pedestrian even to the vehicular expedition." 
 All matters being now settled, the chariot, in 
 which rode Adams and Pounce, moved forwards ; 
 and Joseph having borrowed a pillion from the 
 host, Fanny had just seated herself thereon, and 
 had laid hold of the girdle which her lover wore 
 
 for that purpose, when the wise beast, who con- 
 11—11
 
 162 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 eluded that one at a time was sufficient, that two 
 to one were odds, &c., discovered much uneasi- 
 ness at his double load, and began to consider 
 his hinder as his fore legs, moving the direct con- 
 trary way to that which is called forwards. Nor 
 could Joseph, with all his horsemanship, per- 
 suade him to advance; but, without having any 
 regard to the lovely part of the lovely girl which 
 was on his back, he used such agitations, that, 
 had not one of the men come immediately to her 
 assistance, she had, in plain English, tumbled 
 backwards on the ground. This inconvenience 
 was presently remedied by an exchange of horses ; 
 and then Fanny being again placed on her pillion, 
 on a better-natured and somewhat a better-fed 
 beast, the parson's horse, finding he had no longer 
 odds to contend with, agreed to march; and the 
 whole procession set forwards for Booby-hall, 
 where they arrived in a few hours without any- 
 thing remarkable happening on the road, unless 
 it was- a curious dialogue between the parson and 
 the steward: which, to use the language of a late 
 Apologist, a pattern to all biographers, ''waits 
 for the reader in the next chapter.'*
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A curious dialogue which passed between Mr. Abraham 
 Adams and Mr. Peter Pounce, better worth reading than 
 all the works of Colley Gibber and many others. 
 
 THE chariot laad 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 
 traveled over the Downs, which I take to exceed 
 this and all other prospects in the universe." — 
 "A fig for prospects!" answered Pounce; "one 
 acre here is worth ten there; and for my own 
 part, I have no delight in the prospect of any 
 land but my own." — "Sir," said Adams, "you 
 can indulge yourself with many fine prospects 
 of that kind."— "I thank God I have a little," 
 replied the other, "with which I am content, and 
 envy no man: I have a little, Mr. Adams, with 
 which I do as much good as I can." Adams 
 answered, "That riches without charity were 
 nothing worth ; for that they were a blessing only 
 to him who made them a blessing to others." — 
 "You and I," said Peter, "have different notions 
 of charity. I own, as it is generally used, I do 
 not like the word, nor do I think it becomes one 
 of us gentlemen ; it is a mean parson-like quality ; 
 though I would not infer many parsons have it 
 neither." — "Sir," said Adams, "my definition 
 163
 
 164 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 of charity is, a generous disposition to relieve the 
 distressed." — ''There is something in that defi- 
 nition," answered Peter, "which I like well 
 enough; it is, as you say, a disposition, and does 
 not so much consist in the act as in the disposir 
 tion to do it. But, alas! Mr. Adams, who are 
 meant by the distressed! Believe me, the dis- 
 tresses of mankind are mostly imaginary, and it 
 would be rather folly than goodness to relieve 
 them." — "Sure, sir," replied Adams, "hunger 
 and thirst, cold and nakedness, and other dis- 
 tresses which attend the poor, can never be said to 
 be imaginary evils." — "How can any man com- 
 plain of hunger, ' ' said Peter, " in a country where 
 such excellent salads are to be gathered in almost 
 every field? or of thirst, where every river and 
 stream produces such delicious potations? And 
 as for cold and nakedness, they are evils intro- 
 duced 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 with- 
 out them; but these are things perhaps which 
 you, who do not know the world" — "You will 
 pardon me, sir," returned Adams; "I have read 
 of the Gymnosophists." — "A plague of your 
 Jehosaphats!" cried Peter; "the greatest fault 
 in our constitution is the provision made for the 
 poor, except that perhaps made for some others. 
 Sir, I have not an estate which doth not con- 
 tribute almost as much again to the poor as to 
 the land-tax; and I do assure you I expect to 
 come myself to the parish in the end." To which 
 Adams giving a dissenting smile, Peter thus pro-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 165 
 
 ceeded: "I fancy, Mr. Adams, you are one of 
 those who imagine I am a lump of money; for 
 there are many who, I fancy, believe that not 
 only my pockets, but my whole clothes, are lined 
 with bank-bills ; but I assure you, you are all 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 neighbor, 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, tru- 
 ly," says Adams, "I have been always of your 
 opinion; I have wondered as well as yourself 
 with what confidence they could report such 
 things of you, which have to me appeared as 
 mere impossibilities ; for you know, sir, and I have 
 often heard you say it, that your wealth is of 
 your own acquisition ; and can it be credible that 
 in your short time you should have amassed 
 such a heap of treasure as these people will have 
 you worth"? Indeed, had you inherited an es- 
 tate like Sir Thomas Booby, which had descended 
 in your family for many generations, they might 
 have had a color 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
 
 166 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 frowned. "Nay, sir," said Adams, "you ask me 
 only the opinion of others; for my own part, I 
 have always denied it, nor did I ever believe you 
 could possibly be worth half that sum." "How- 
 ever, Mr. Adams," said he, squeezing him by the 
 hand, "I would not sell them all I am worth for 
 double that sum; and as to what you believe, or 
 they believe, I care not a fig, no not a fart. I am 
 not poor because you think me so, nor because 
 you attempt to undervalue me in the country. I 
 know the envy of mankind very well ; but I thank 
 Heaven I am above them. It is true, my wealth 
 is of my own acquisition. I have not an estate, 
 like Sir Thomas Booby, that has descended in my 
 family through many generations; but I know 
 heirs of such estates who are forced to travel 
 about the country like some people in torn cas- 
 socks, and might be glad to accept of a pitiful 
 curacy for what I know. Yes, sir, as shabby 
 fellows as yourself, whom no man of my figure, 
 without that vice of good-nature about him, would 
 suffer to ride in a chariot with him." "Sir," 
 said Adams, "I value not your chariot of a rush; 
 and if I had known you had intended to affront 
 me, I would have walked to the world's end on 
 foot ere I would have accepted a place in it. 
 However, sir, I will soon rid you of that incon- 
 venience;" and so saying, he opened the chariot 
 door, without calling to the coachman, and leaped 
 out into the highway, forgetting to take his hat 
 along with him; which, however, Mr. Pounce 
 threw after him with great violence. Joseph and 
 Fanny stopped to bear him companj^ the rest of 
 the way, which was not above a mile.
 
 BOOK IV 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The arrival of Lady Booby anii the rest at Booby-hall. 
 
 THE coach and six, in which Lady Booby 
 rode, overtook the other travelers 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 surprise almost stopped her 
 coach; but recollected herself timely enough to 
 prevent it. She entered the parish amidst the 
 ringing of bells and the acclamations of the poor, 
 who were rejoiced to see their patroness returned 
 after so long an absence, during which time all 
 her rents had been drafted to London, without 
 a shilling being spent among them, which tended 
 not a little to their utter impoverishing; for, if 
 the court would be severely missed in such a city 
 as London, how much more must the absence of 
 a person of great fortune be felt in a little country 
 village, for whose inhabitants such a family finds 
 a constant employment and supply; and with the 
 offals of whose table the infirm, aged, and infant 
 poor are abundantly fed, with a generosity which 
 hath scarce a visible effect on their benefactors' 
 pockets ! 
 But, if their interest inspired so public a joy 
 167
 
 168 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 into every countenance, how much more forcibly 
 did the affection which they bore parson Adams 
 operate upon all who beheld his return! They 
 flocked about him like dutiful children round an 
 indulgent parent, and vied with each other in 
 demonstrations of duty and love. The parson on 
 his side shook every one by the hand, inquired 
 heartily after the healths of all that were absent, 
 of their children, and relations; and expressed 
 a satisfaction in his face which nothing but benev- 
 olence made happy by its objects could infuse. 
 
 Nor did Joseph and Fanny want a hearty wel- 
 come from all who saw them. In short, no three 
 persons could be more kindly received, as, indeed, 
 none ever more deserved to be universally be- 
 loved. 
 
 Adams carried his fellow-travelers home to his 
 house, where he insisted on their partaking what- 
 ever 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 splendor, 
 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 dis- 
 mission of Joseph; and, to be honest with them, 
 they are in the right : the arrow had pierced 
 deeper than she imagined ; nor was the wound so 
 easily to be cured. The removal of the object 
 soon cooled her rage, but it had a different effect 
 on her love; that departed with his person, but 
 this remained lurking in her mind with his image.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 169 
 
 Restless, interrupted slumbers, and confused hor- 
 rible dreams were her portion the first night. In 
 the morning, fancy painted her a more delicious 
 scene; but to delude, not delight her; for, before 
 she could reach the promised happiness, it van- 
 ished, and left her to curse, not bless, the vision. 
 
 She started from her sleep, her imagination be- 
 ing all on fire with the phantom, when, her eyes 
 accidentally glancing towards the spot where yes- 
 terday the real Joseph had stood, that little cir- 
 cumstance raised his idea in the liveliest colors 
 in her memory. Each look, each word, each ges- 
 ture rushed back on her mind with charms which 
 all his coldness could not abate. Nay, she im- 
 puted that to his youth, his folly, his awe, his 
 religion, to everything but what would instantly 
 have produced contempt, want of passion for the 
 sex, or that which would have roused her hatred, 
 want of liking to her. 
 
 Reflection then hurried her farther, and told her 
 she must see this beautiful youth no more; nay, 
 suggested to her that she herself had dismissed 
 him for no other fault than probably that of too 
 violent an awe and respect for herself; and which 
 she ought rather to have esteemed a merit, the 
 effects of which were besides so easily and surely 
 to have been removed; she then blamed, she 
 cursed the hasty rashness of her temper ; her fury 
 was vented all on herself, and Joseph appeared in- 
 nocent in her eyes. Her passion at length grew so 
 violent, that it forced her on seeking relief, and 
 now she thought of recalling him: but pride for- 
 bade that ; pride, which soon drove all softer pas-
 
 170 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 sions from her soul, and represented to her the 
 meanness of him she was fond of. That thought 
 soon began to obscure his beauties ; contempt suc- 
 ceeded next, and then disdain, which presently 
 introduced her hatred of the creature who had 
 given her so much uneasiness. These enemies of 
 Joseph had no sooner taken possession of her 
 mind than they insinuated to her a thousand 
 things in his disfavor; everything but dislike of 
 her person; a thought which, as it would have 
 been intolerable to bear, she checked the moment 
 it endeavored to arise. Revenge came now to her 
 assistance; and she considered her dismission of 
 him, stripped, and without a character, with the 
 utmost pleasure. She rioted in the several kinds 
 of misery which her imagination suggested to her 
 might be his fate; and, with a smile composed 
 of anger, mirth, and scorn, viewed him in the rags 
 in which her fancy had dressed him. 
 
 Mrs. Slipslop, being summoned, attended her 
 mistress, who had now in her own opinion totally 
 subdued this passion. Whilst she wag dressing 
 she asked if that fellow had been turned away 
 according to her orders. Slipslop answered, she 
 had told her ladyship so (as indeed she had). — 
 "And how did he behave?" replied the lady. 
 *' Truly, madam," cries Slipslop, "in such a man- 
 ner that infected everybody who saw him. The 
 poor lad had but little wages to receive; for he 
 constantly allowed his father and mother half his 
 income; so that, when your ladyship's livery was 
 stripped off, he had not wherewithal to buy a 
 coat, and must have gone naked if one of the
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 171 
 
 footmen had not incommodated him with one ; and 
 whilst he was standing in his shirt (and, to say 
 truth, he was an amorous figure), being told your 
 ladyship would not give him a character, he 
 sighed, and said he had done nothing willingly to 
 offend; that for his part, he should always give 
 your ladyship a good character wherever he went ; 
 and he prayed God to bless you ; for you was the 
 best of ladies, though his enemies had set you 
 against him. I wish you had not turned him 
 away; for I believe you have not a faithfuller 
 servant in the house." — ''How came you then," 
 replied the lady, "to advise me to turn him 
 away?" — ''I, madam!" said Slipslop; ''I am 
 sure you will do me the justice to say, I did all 
 in my power to prevent it; but I saw your lady- 
 ship was angry; and it is not the business of 
 us upper servants to hinterfere on these occa- 
 sions." ''And was it not you, audacious 
 wretch!" cried the lady, "who made me angry? 
 Was it not your tittle-tattle, in which I believe 
 you belied 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 behavior 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
 
 172 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 footman, I hope." These words threw the lady 
 into a violent passion, and she sent Slipslop from 
 her presence, who departed, tossing her nose, and 
 crying, ''Marry, come up! there are some people 
 more jealous than I, I believe." Her lady 
 affected not to hear the words, though in reality 
 she did, and understood them too. Now ensued 
 a second conflict, so like the former, that it might 
 savor of repetition to relate it minutely. It may 
 suffice to say that Lady Booby found good reason 
 to doubt whether she had so absolutely conquered 
 her passion as she had flattered herself; and, 
 in order to accomplish it quite, took a resolution, 
 more common than wise, to retire immediately 
 into the country. The reader hath long ago seen 
 the arrival of Mrs. Slipslop, whom no pertness 
 could make her mistress resolve to part with; 
 lately, that of Mr. Pounce, her forerunners ; and, 
 lastly, that of the lady herself. 
 
 The morning after her arrival being Sunday 
 she went to church, to the great surprise of every- 
 body, who wondered to see her ladyship, being no 
 very constant church-woman, there so suddenly 
 upon her journey. Joseph was likewise there; 
 and I have heard it was remarked that she fixed 
 her eyes on him much more than on the parson ; 
 but this I believe to be only a malicious rumor. 
 When the prayers were ended Mr. Adams stood 
 up, and with a loud voice pronounced, ''I publish 
 the banns of marriage between Joseph Andrews 
 and Frances Goodwill, both of this parish," &c. 
 Whether this had any effect on Lady Booby or no, 
 who was then in her pew, which the congregation
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 173 
 
 could not see into, I could never discover: but 
 certain it is that in about a quarter of an hour 
 she stood up, and directed her eyes to that part 
 of the church where the women sat, and persisted 
 in looking that way during the remainder of the 
 sermon in so scrutinizing a manner, and with so 
 angry a countenance, that most of the women 
 were afraid she was offended at them. The 
 moment she returned home she sent for Slipslop 
 into her chamber, and told her she wondered what 
 that impudent fellow Joseph did in that parish! 
 Upon which Slipslop gave her an account of lier 
 meeting Adams with him on the road, and like- 
 wise the adventure with Fanny. At the relation 
 of which the lady often changed her countenance ; 
 and when she had heard all, she ordered Mr. 
 Adams into her presence, to whom she behaved 
 as the reader will see in the next chapter.
 
 CHAPTEE II 
 
 A dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and tbe Lady Booby. 
 
 MR. ADAMS was not far off, for lie was 
 drinking her ladyship's health below in 
 , a cup of her ale. He no sooner came 
 
 before her than she began in the following man- 
 ner: ''I wonder, sir, after the many great obliga- 
 tions you have had to this family" (with all which 
 the reader hath in the course of this history been 
 minutely acquainted), ''that you will ungratefully 
 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 endeavoring 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 
 for it; for I never have, nor will, encourage the 
 
 174
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 175 
 
 faults of those under my cure. As for the young 
 woman, I assure your ladyship I have as good an 
 opinion of her as your ladyship yourself or any 
 other can have. She is the sweetest-tempered, 
 honestest, worthiest young creature; indeed, as 
 to her beauty, I do not commend her on that ac- 
 count, though all men allow she is the handsomest 
 woman, gentle or simple, that ever appeared in 
 the parish." — "You are very impertinent," says 
 she, "to talk such fulsome stuff to me. It is 
 mighty becoming truly in a clergyman 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 in- 
 deed ! a country wench a beauty ! I shall be sick 
 whenever I hear beauty mentioned again. And 
 so this wench is to stock the parish with beauties, 
 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 desirous 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 tho
 
 176 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 lady, ''I suppose the slut is forward enough; 
 Slipslop tells me 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 
 publish 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 willing 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," an- 
 swered Adams, "with the utmost submission to 
 your ladyship, I have been informed by lawyer 
 Scout that any person who serves a year gains a 
 settlement in the parish where he serves." — 
 "Lawyer Scout," replied the lady, "is an im- 
 pudent 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 barbarous indeed to deny 
 them the common privileges and innocent enjoy- 
 ments which nature indulges to the animal crea- 
 tion." — "Since you understand yourself no bet- 
 ter," 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 177 
 
 mention but one short word; it is my orders to 
 you that you publish these banns no more ; and if 
 you dare, I will recommend it to your master, the 
 doctor, to discard you from his service. I will, 
 sir, notwithstanding 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 license) 
 thinks proper to turn me from my cure, God will 
 provide me, I hope another. At least, my family, 
 as well as myself, have hands; and he will pros- 
 per, I doubt not, our endeavors 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 confederate 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 coun- 
 try with beauties, to be entertained here." — • 
 "Madam," said Adams, "I shall enter into no 
 persons' doors against their will; but I am as- 
 sured, when you have inquired farther into this 
 matter, you will applaud, not blame, my pro- 
 ceeding ; and so I humbly take my leave : ' ' which 
 he did with many bows, or at least many attempts 
 at a bow. 
 
 11—12
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 What passed between the lady and lawyer 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 year's 
 service gained a settlement; and so far he owned 
 he might have formerly informed the parson and 
 believe 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 law's taking 
 effect; and that he himself could do for her 
 ladyship as well as any other; and I believe," 
 says he, "madam, your ladyship, not being con- 
 versant in these matters, hath mistaken a differ- 
 ence ; for I asserted only that a man who served 
 a year was settled. Now there is a material dif- 
 ference between being settled in law and settled 
 in fact ; and as I affirmed generally he was settled, 
 and law is preferable 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 re- 
 
 178
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 179 
 
 late. to fact? He is not settled in 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 parish; and you shall be taught better, I 
 assure you, you 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 ladyship 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," replied Scout^ 
 "for the subsequent marriage co-operating with 
 the law will carry law into fact. When a man is
 
 180 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 married, he is settled in fact, and then he is not 
 removable. I will see Mr. Adams, and I make no 
 doubt of i^revailing 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 con- 
 fident no farther objection will remain. No, no, 
 it is impossible; but your ladyship can't discom- 
 mend 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 lady- 
 ship pleases to employ me in it, I will venture to 
 promise you success. The laws of this land 
 are not so vulgar to permit a mean fellow to 
 contend with one of your ladyship's fortune. We 
 have one sure card, which is, to carry him before 
 Justice Frolick, who, upon hearing your lady- 
 ship's name, will commit him without 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 meas- 
 ures you please, 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 for- 
 ward as themselves; so that, to prevent the in- 
 crease of beggars, we must get rid of her." — 
 ''Your ladyship is very much in the right," an- 
 swered Scout; "but I am afraid the law is a little 
 deficient in giving us any such i^ower of preven-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 181 
 
 tion ; 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 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 
 committing 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 Bridewell, 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 ar- 
 rival 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, with- 
 out any knowledge of the law, or being bred to 
 it, take upon them, in defiance of an act of Par- 
 liament, to act as lawyers in the country, and are 
 called so. They are the pests of society, and a scan- 
 dal 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 cer- 
 tain passion for Joseph, and the jealousy and the 
 disdain of poor innocent Fanny, betray the Ladj 
 Booby into a familiar discourse, in which she in- 
 advertently confirmed many hints with which 
 Slipslop, whose gallant he was, had preacquainted 
 Mm; and whence he had taken an opportunity to
 
 182 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 assert tliose severe falsehoods 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.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A short chapter, but very full of matter; particularly the 
 arrival of Mr. Booby and his lady. 
 
 ALL that night, and the next day, the Lady 
 Booby passed with the utmost anxiety ; her 
 mind was distracted and her soul tossed up 
 and down by many turbulent and opposite pas- 
 sions. She loved, hated, pitied, scorned, admired, 
 despised the same person by fits, which changed 
 in a very short interval. On Tuesday morning, 
 which happened to be a holiday, she went to 
 church, where, to her surprise, 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 
 returning home to vent her rage, which she could 
 not have concealed from the congregation five 
 minutes ; indeed, it was not then very numerous, 
 the assembly consisting of no more than Adams, 
 his clerk, his wife, the lady, and one of her serv- 
 ants. At her return she met Slipslop, who ac- 
 costed her in these words: — "0 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 say they 
 will certainly be hanged ; for nobody knows what 
 it is for." — "I suppose they deserve it," says the 
 lady. ''What! dost thou mention such wretches 
 183
 
 184 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 to me?" — "0 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 be- 
 comes of her; and if poor Joseph hath done anj^- 
 thing, I could venture to swear she traduced him 
 to it: few men ever come to a fragrant punish- 
 ment, but by those nasty creatures, who are a 
 scandal to our sect." The lady was no more 
 pleased at this news, after a moment's reflection, 
 than Slipslop herself; for, though she wished 
 Fanny far 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 con- 
 ducted into a drawing-room, whither she presently 
 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 in- 
 terrupted, and that she should have an oppor- 
 tunity to execute any resolution she might take, 
 for which she saw herself provided with an excel- 
 lent 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 surprise when, at her entering 
 the room, her nephew presented his wife to her; 
 saying, "Madam, this is that charming Pamela, 
 of whom I am convinced you have heard so
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 185 
 
 much. ' ' The lady received her with more civility 
 than he expected ; indeed with the utmost ; for she 
 was perfectly polite, nor had any vice inconsistent 
 with good-breeding. They passed some little time 
 in ordinary discourse, when a servant came and 
 whispered Mr. Booby, who presently told the la- 
 dies he must desert them a little on some business 
 of consequence ; and, as their discourse during his 
 absence would afford little improvement or enter- 
 tainment to the reader, we will leave them for a 
 while to attend Mr. Booby.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Containing justice business; curious precedents of depositions, 
 and other matters necessary to be perused by all justices of 
 the peace and their clerks. 
 
 THE young squire and his lady were no 
 sooner alighted from their coach than the 
 servants began to inquire after Mr. Jo- 
 seph, from whom they said their lady had not 
 heard a word, to her great surprise, since he had 
 left Lady Booby's. Upon this they were in- 
 stantly informed of what had lately happened, 
 with which they hastily acquainted their master, 
 who took an immediate resolution to go himself, 
 and endeavor to restore his Pamela her brother, 
 before she even knew she had lost him. 
 
 The justice before whom the criminals were car- 
 ried, and who lived within a short mile of the 
 lady's house, was luckily Mr. Booby's acquaint- 
 ance, by his having an estate in his neighborhood. 
 Ordering therefore his horses to his coach, he set 
 out for the judgment-seat, and arrived 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 convinced he 
 had not a minute to lose, he insisted on the serv- 
 ant's introducing him directly into the room 
 
 186
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 187 
 
 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 honor," said Scout. 
 "Ay," says the justice, "a kind of felonious lar- 
 cenous thing. I believe I must order them a lit- 
 tle correction too, a little stripping and whip- 
 ping." (Poor Fanny, who had hitherto sup- 
 ported all with the thoughts of Joseph's company, 
 trembled at that sound; but, indeed, without rea- 
 son, for none but the devil himself would have ex- 
 ecuted such a sentence on her.) "Still," said the 
 squire, "I am ignorant of the crime — the fact I 
 mean." Wliy, there it is in peaper," answered 
 the justice, showing him a deposition which, in the 
 absence of his clerk, he had writ himself, of which 
 we have with great difficulty procured an authen- 
 tic copy; and here it follows verbatim et liter- 
 atim: — 
 
 The depusition of James Scout, layer, and Thomas Trotter, 
 yeoman, taken before mee, one of liis magesty's justasses 
 of the piece for Zumersetshire. 
 
 "These deponants saith, and first Thomas Trot- 
 ter for himself saith, that on the — of this instant 
 October, being Sabbath-day, betwin the ours of 
 2 and 4 in the afternoon, he zeed Joseph Andrews
 
 188 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 and Francis Goodwill walk akross a certane felde 
 belunging 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," &c. 
 
 ^'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 constable orders to let them run 
 away, if they please, but it seems they intend to 
 marry 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 in- 
 cumbrance on her. I shall be obliged to you, 
 therefore, if, instead of Bridewell, you will com- 
 mit them to my custody." "0! to be sure, sir,
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 189 
 
 if you desire it," answered the justice; and with- 
 out more ado Joseph and Fanny were delivered 
 over to Squire Booby, whom Joseph very well 
 knew, but little guessed how nearly he was related 
 to him. The justice burned his mittimus, the con- 
 stable was sent about his business, the lawyer 
 made no complaint for want of justice; and the 
 prisoners, with exulting hearts, gave a thousand 
 thanks to his honor Mr. Booby; who did not in- 
 tend 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, ordering his servant to take out a suit of 
 his own clothes, with linen and other necessaries, 
 he left Joseph to dress himself, who, not yet 
 knowing the cause of all this civility, excused his 
 accepting such a favor as long as decently he 
 could. Whilst Joseph was dressing, the squire 
 repaired to the justice, whom he found talking 
 with Fanny ; for, during the examination, 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 ren- 
 dered the arrival of Mr. Booby unnecessary, at 
 least for herself. The justice no sooner saw her 
 countenance cleared up, and her bright eyes shin- 
 ing through her tears, than he secretly cursed 
 himself for having once thought 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
 
 190 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 schemes to accomplish them, he employed the min- 
 utes whilst the squire was absent with Joseph in 
 assuring her how sorry he was for having treated 
 her so roughly before he knew her merit ; and told 
 her, that since Lady Booby was unwilling that she 
 should settle in her parish, she was heartily wel- 
 come 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 ex- 
 plaining the whole matter, oppose it. 
 
 It would be unnecessary, if I was able, which 
 indeed I am not, to relate the conversation be- 
 tween these two gentlemen, which rolled, as I have 
 been informed, entirely on the subject of horse- 
 racing. Joseph was soon dressed 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDBEWS 191 
 
 too large for the squire, exactly fitted him, so he 
 became it so well, and looked so genteel, that no 
 person would have doubted its being as well 
 adapted to his quality as his shape ; nor have sus- 
 pected, as one might, when my Lord , or Sir 
 
 , or Mr. , appear in lace or embroidery, 
 
 that the tailor's 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, ' ' 0, sir, 
 it is parson Adams!" "0 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 par- 
 son, 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'd warrant
 
 192 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 he kept up with it ; but he was at length over-pre- 
 vailed on. The squire now acquainted Joseph 
 with his marriage ; but he might have spared him- 
 self that labor ; for his servant, whilst Joseph was 
 dressing, had performed that office before. He 
 continued to express the vast happiness he en- 
 joyed in his sister, and the value he had for all 
 who belonged to her. Joseph made many bows, 
 and expressed as many acknowledgments: and 
 parson Adams, who now first perceived Joseph's 
 new apparel, burst into 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 Joseph'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 be- 
 come my brother ; and I have one happiness, that 
 neither his character, his behavior, or appearance, 
 give me any reason to be ashamed of calling him 
 so. In short, he is now below, dressed like a gen- 
 tleman, 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 193 
 
 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 you desire me ; and, 
 as he is now your relation, I cannot refuse to en- 
 tertain him as such." The squire told her he 
 knew his obligation to her for her compliance ; and 
 going three steps, returned and told her — he had 
 one more favor, which he believed she would 
 easily grant, as she had accorded him the former. 
 ''There is a young woman — " — "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 con- 
 descension agreed to suffer your brother-in-law to 
 come to my table, that I will submit to the com- 
 pany of all my own servants, and all the dirty trol- 
 lops in the country." "Madam," answered the 
 squire, "I believe you never saw this young crea- 
 ture. I never beheld such sweetness and inno- 
 cence joined with such beauty, and withal so gen- 
 teel." "Upon my soul I won't admit her," re- 
 plied the lady in a passion; "the whole world 
 shan't prevail on me; I resent even the desire 
 
 as an affront, and " The squire, who knew 
 
 her inflexibility, interrupted her, by asking par- 
 don, 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 his wife would have 
 
 11—13
 
 194 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 in her brother's company, would not admit it, 
 telling Joseph there would be 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 seen so long, 
 and who so tenderly loved him. Joseph immedi- 
 ately complied; for indeed no brother could love 
 a sister more ; and, recommending Fanny, who re- 
 joiced that she was not to go before Lady Booby, 
 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.
 
 CHAPTEE VI 
 
 Of which you are desired to read no more than you like. 
 
 THE meeting between Joseph and Pamela 
 was not without tears of joy on both 
 sides; and their embraces were full of 
 tenderness and affection. They were, however, 
 regarded with much more 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 colors 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 raptur- 
 ous 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 hus- 
 band 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 
 than they were mistresses of. At which words 
 both the women fixed their eyes on two looking- 
 
 195
 
 196 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 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 provided for him. 
 He declined this favor to his utmost; for his heart 
 had long been with his Fanny; but she insisted on 
 his accepting it, alleging that the parish had no 
 proper accommodation 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 ex- 
 pected him till midnight, when, in complacence to 
 Mr. Adams's family, 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 wak- 
 ing, and his not returning according to his prom- 
 ise 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 vis- 
 ited her in whom his soul delighted. She no soon- 
 er heard his voice in the parson's parlor than she 
 leaped from her bed, and, dressing herself in a 
 few minutes, went down to him. They passed two 
 hours with inexpressible happiness together j and
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 197 
 
 then, having appointed Monday, by Mr. Adams's 
 permission, for their marriage, Mr. Joseph re- 
 turned, according to his promise, to breakfast at 
 the Lady Booby's, with whose behavior, since the 
 evening, we shall now acquaint the reader. 
 
 She was no sooner retired to her chamber than 
 she asked Slipslop "What she thought of this won- 
 derful creature her nephew had married!" — 
 "Madam!" said Slipslop, not yet sufficiently un- 
 derstanding what answer she was to make. "I 
 ask you," answered the lady, "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 impossible for any one to have 
 known the person. The lady gave her all the as- 
 sistance she could, and ended with saying, "I 
 think. Slipslop, you have done her justice ; but yet, 
 bad as she is, she is an angel compared 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 al- 
 ways something in those low-life creatures which 
 must eternally extinguish them from their bet- 
 ters. "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 fel- 
 low; sure you are the dullest wretch," said the 
 lady. "0 la! I am indeed. Yes, truly, madam, 
 he is an accession," answered Slipslop. "Ay, is 
 he not. Slipslop?" returned the lady. "Is he not 
 so genteel that a prince might, without a blush,
 
 198 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 acknowledge Mm for his son? His behavior 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 behavior 
 in such persons. 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 affection 
 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 quali- 
 ties, it must render a woman of fashion contempti- 
 ble 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 born of a fam- 
 ily 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 
 must comply with; for we people of fashion are 
 the slaves of custom." — "Marry come up!" said 
 Slipsloj^, who now knew well which party to take.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 199 
 
 *'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 r ' cried the lady. ' ' Thou art always ready to 
 answer before thou hast heard one. So far I 
 must allow he is a charming 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 ujDon forgetfulness. Slipslop, let me hear 
 some of thy nonsense, to turn my thoughts an- 
 other way. What dost thou think of Mr. An- 
 drews?" — "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. An- 
 drews 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 parson Adams. Never tell me what peo- 
 ple 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," re- 
 plied Slipslop, "if he would have me." — "Fool,
 
 200 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 idiot ! ' ' cries the lady ; ' 'if he would have a woman 
 of fashion! is that a question?" — ''No, truly mad- 
 am," 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 
 word." This last speech of Slipslop raised a tem- 
 pest in the mind of her mistress. She feared 
 Scout had betrayed her, or rather that she had 
 betrayed herself. After some silence, and a dou- 
 ble change of her complexion, first to pale and 
 then to red, she thus spoke: "I am astonished 
 at the liberty you give j^our tongue. Would you 
 insinuate that I employed Scout against this 
 wench on account of the fellow?" — "La, ma'am," 
 said Slipslop, frightened out of her wits, "I as- 
 sassinate 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 behavior; if I had followed the 
 example 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 
 produced tears), "could not upbraid me with any 
 one act of tenderness or passion. No, Slipslop, 
 all the time I cohabited with him he never ob- 
 tained even a kiss from me without my expressing 
 reluctance in the granting it. I am sure he him- 
 self never suspected how much I loved him. Since
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 26i 
 
 liis death, thou knowest, though it is almost six 
 weeks (it wants but a day) ago, I have not admit- 
 ted 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 pas- 
 sion which I have always despised, but of fixing it 
 on such an object, a creature so much beneath my 
 notice!" — "Upon my word, ma'am," says Slip- 
 slop, "I do not understand your ladyship; nor 
 know I anything of the matter." — "I believe in- 
 deed thou dost not understand me. Those are 
 delicacies which exist only in superior minds ; thy 
 coarse ideas cannot comprehend them. Thou art 
 a low 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 lady- 
 ship," says Slipslop, whose passions were almost 
 of as high an order as her lady's, "I have no more 
 to do with Common Garden than other folks. 
 Really, your ladyship talks of servants as if they 
 were not born of the Christian specious. Serv- 
 ants have 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 peo- 
 ple's; and I am sure, if Mr. Andrews was a dear 
 of mine, I should not be ashamed of him in com- 
 pany 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 
 
 1 Meaning perhaps ideas.
 
 202 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 down neither; for I will say tliis, I never heard 
 him say an ill word of anybody in his life. I am 
 sure his coarseness 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 people'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'd behave so that 
 nobody should deprecate what I had done ; and I 
 fancy few would venture to tell him he was no 
 gentleman 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 an- 
 swered, she had none ; and, telling her she was a 
 comical creature, bid her good-night.
 
 CHAPTEK VII 
 
 Philosophical reflections, the like not to be found in any light 
 French romance. Mr. Booby's grave advice to Joseph, 
 and Fanny's encounter with a beau. 
 
 HABIT, 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 de- 
 light and triumph picked his own pocket of a 
 guinea to convey to his hoard, is not impossible 
 or improbable. In like manner it fares with the 
 practicers of deceit, who, from having long de- 
 ceived their acquaintance, gain at last a power of 
 deceiving themselves, and acquire that very opin- 
 ion (however false) of their own abilities, excel- 
 lencies, and virtues, into which they have for 
 years perhaps endeavored to betray their neigh- 
 bors. 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 de- 
 ceit; for which thou wilt not be angry with the 
 beautiful creatures when thou hast considered 
 that at the age of seven, or something earlier, miss 
 is instructed by her mother that master is a very 
 
 203
 
 204 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 friends 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 incul- 
 cated 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 hare doth from the grey- 
 hound. Hence, to the age of fourteen or fifteen, 
 they entertain a mighty antipathy to master ; they 
 resolve, and frequently 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 farther, and, 
 from almost daily falling in master's way, to ap- 
 prehend the great difficulty of keeping out of it; 
 and when they observe him look often at them, 
 and sometimes very eagerly and earnestly too (for 
 the monster seldom takes any notice of them till 
 at this age), they then begin to think of their dan- 
 ger ; and, as they perceive they cannot easily avoid 
 him, the wiser part bethink themselves of pro-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 205 
 
 viding by other means for their security. They 
 endeavor, by all methods they can invent, to ren- 
 der 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 fre- 
 quent languishing, soon lessen their idea of his 
 fierceness, and so far abate their fears, that they 
 venture to parley with him; and when they per- 
 ceive him so different from what he hath been 
 described, all gentleness, softness, kindness, ten- 
 derness, fondness, their dreadful apprehensions 
 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 fright- 
 ened 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 appre- 
 hend devouring, cannot so entirely shake off all 
 that hath been instilled into them; they still en- 
 tertain 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 ardently they counterfeit the 
 antipathy. By the continual and constant prac- 
 tice of which deceit on others, they at length im-
 
 206 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 pose on themselves, and really believe they hate 
 what they love. Thus, indeed, it happened to 
 Lady Booby, who loved Joseph long before she 
 knew it ; and now loved him much more than she 
 suspected. She had indeed, from the time of his 
 sister's 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 se- 
 cretly a design which love had concealed from 
 herself 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 com- 
 pliments on his choice, she told him, ''He might 
 perceive, in her condescension to admit her own 
 servant to her table, that she looked on the fam- 
 ily of Andrews as his relations, and indeed hers ; 
 that, as he had married into such a family, it be- 
 came him to endeavor 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 accomplishments 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 re- 
 turn to her chamber, he immediately began thus : 
 *'My love to my dear Pamela, brother, will extend 
 to all her relations; nor shall I show them less re-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 207 
 
 spect than if I had married into the family of a 
 duke. I hope I have given you some early testi- 
 monies 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 friendship, you 
 will decline any thoughts of engaging 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 dififieulty 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 marriage. ' ' — 
 "Sir," said Joseph, *'I assure you her beauty is 
 her least perfection ; nor do I know a virtue which 
 that young creature is not possessed 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 see- 
 ing you make a figure in the world." — *'I know 
 not," replied Joseph, ''that my parents have any 
 power over my inclinations ; nor am I obliged to 
 sacrifice my happiness to their whim or ambition :
 
 208 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 besides, I shall be very sorry to see that the un- 
 expected advancement of my sister should so sud- 
 denly inspire them with this wicked pride, and 
 make them despise their equals. I am resolved 
 on no account to quit 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 Booby, ''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 difference 
 between us : my fortune enabled me to please my- 
 self ; 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 like- 
 wise," said Joseph; "for all my pleasure is cen- 
 tered in Fanny; and whilst I have health I shall 
 be able to support her with my labor in that sta- 
 tion to which she was born, and with which she 
 is content." — "Brother," said Pamela, "Mr. 
 Booby advises you as a friend; and no doubt my 
 papa and mamma will be of his opinion, and will 
 have great reason to be angry with you for de- 
 stroying what his goodness hath done, and throw- 
 ing 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 equal at least." 
 — "She was my equal," answered Pamela; "but 
 I am no longer Pamela Andrews; I am now this
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 209 
 
 gentleman's lady, and, as such, am above her. — 
 I hope I shall never behave with an unbecoming 
 pride: but, at the same time, I shall always en- 
 deavor to know myself, and question not the as- 
 sistance of grace to that purpose." They were 
 now summoned to breakfast, and thus ended their 
 discourse for the present, very little to the satis- 
 faction of any of the parties. 
 
 Fanny was now walking in an avenue at some 
 distance from the house, where Joseph had prom- 
 ised to take the first opportunity of coming to her. 
 She had not a shilling in the world, and had sub- 
 sisted ever since her return entirely on the char- 
 ity of parson Adams. A young gentleman, at- 
 tended 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 
 stopped his horse, and swore she was the most 
 beautiful creature he ever beheld. Then, instant- 
 ly alighting and delivering his horse to his serv- 
 ant, he rapped 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 endeavored to 
 kiss her breasts, which with all her strength she 
 resisted, and, as our spark was not of the Her- 
 culean race, with some difficulty prevented. The 
 
 11—14
 
 210 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 young gentleman, being soon out of breath in the 
 struggle, quitted her, and, remounting his horse, 
 called one of 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 of- 
 fice he had been long accustomed to, discharged 
 his part with all the fidelity and dexterity imagi- 
 nable, 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 
 solicit 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 great- 
 est lord in the land, would marry her, she would 
 refuse him. At last,, being weary with persua- 
 sions, 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 rude- 
 ness 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 211 
 
 like lightning, or anything that is swifter, if any- 
 thing be, he ran towards her, and, coming up just 
 as the ravisher had torn her handlcerchief from 
 her breast, before his lips had touched that seat 
 of innocence and bliss, 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 flash- 
 ing 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 up- 
 wards to his mouth, whence it dislodged three of 
 his teeth; and now, not conceiving any extraordi- 
 nary 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 backward, 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 
 ground. And now the ravisher meditated another 
 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
 
 212 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 then, moving both fist and foot forwards at the 
 same time, threw his head so dexterously into 
 the stomach 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, however, long under this affliction be- 
 fore 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 in- 
 jured 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 be- 
 lieved 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 agree- 
 able 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 re- 
 member, reader, that the ravisher had tore her 
 handkerchief from Fanny's neck, by which he had 
 discovered such a sight, tliat Joseph hath declared
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 213 
 
 all the statues he ever beheld were so much in- 
 ferior to it in beauty, that it was more capable 
 of converting a man into 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 van- 
 ished, 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 like- 
 wise changed to vermilion at the instant when she 
 clapped her handkerchief round her neck. Joseph 
 saw the uneasiness she suffered, and immediately 
 removed his eyes from an object, in surveying 
 which he had felt the greatest delight which the 
 organs of sight were capable of conveying to his 
 soul; — so great was his fear of offending her, and 
 so truly did his passion for her deserve the noble 
 name of love. 
 
 Fanny, being recovered from her confusion, 
 which was almost equaled by what Joseph had 
 felt from observing it, again mentioned her re- 
 quest; this was instantly and gladly complied 
 with; and together they crossed two or three 
 fields, which brought them to the habitation of 
 Mr. Adams.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A discourse which happened between Mr. Adams, Mi's. Adams, 
 Joseph, and Fanny; with some behavior of Mr. Adams 
 which will be called by some few readers very low, ab- 
 surd, and unnatural. 
 
 THE parson and his wife had just ended 
 a long dispute when the 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 daugh- 
 ter succeed Mrs. Slipslop, and of making her sec- 
 ond son an exciseman by Lady Booby's interest. 
 These were expectations she could not endure the 
 thoughts of quitting, and was, therefore, very un- 
 easy to see her husband so resolute to oppose the 
 lady's intention in Fanny's affair. She told him, 
 **It behooved 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 he had always jDreached 
 up submission to superiors, and would do ill to 
 give an example of the contrary behavior in his 
 own conduct; that if Lady Booby did wrong she 
 
 214
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 215 
 
 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 conse- 
 quently she must have known more of her than 
 they did, and it was very improbable, if she had 
 behaved 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 ex- 
 cellent arguments had no effect on the parson, 
 who persisted in doing his duty without regarding 
 the consequence it might have on his worldly in- 
 terest. He endeavored to answer her as well as 
 he could ; to which she had just finished her reply 
 (for she had always the last word everywhere 
 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 pre- 
 sented her a bone of bacon he had just been gnaw- 
 ing, being the only remains of his provision, and 
 then ran nimbly to the tap, and produced a mug
 
 216 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 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 
 passed between Squire Booby, his sister, and him- 
 self concerning Fanny; he then acquainted him 
 with the dangers whence he had rescued her, and 
 communicated some apprehensions on her ac- 
 count. 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 license, 
 saying he could easily borrow the money. The 
 parson answered, That he had already given his 
 sentiments concerning a license, and that a very 
 few days would make it unnecessary. "Joseph," 
 says he, "I wish this haste doth not arise rather 
 from your im^Datience 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, im- 
 patience. Now, child, I must inform you that, if 
 in your purposed marriage with this young 
 woman you have no intention but the indulgence 
 of carnal appetites, you are guilty of a very hei- 
 nous sin. Marriage was ordained for nobler pur- 
 poses, as you will learn when you hear the service 
 provided on that occasion read to you. Nay, per- 
 haps, 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 28th verse — Whosoever looketh on a 
 woman, so as to lust after her. The latter part 
 I shall omit, as foreign to my purpose. Indeed,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 217 
 
 all such brutal lusts and affections are to be great- 
 ly subdued, if not totally eradicated, before the 
 vessel can be said to be consecrated to honor. 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, therefore, 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. 
 When any accident threatens us we are not to 
 despair, nor, when it overtakes 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 subservient 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 qualities, and 
 value you for them; but, as I am to render an 
 account of your soul, which is committed to my
 
 218 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 cure, I cannot see any fault without reminding you 
 of it. You are too much inclined to passion, 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 dej^lore 
 his loss with the bitterest agony. Joseph, who 
 was overwhelmed with concern likewise, recovered 
 himself sufficiently to endeavor 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 conquest 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 my 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 I 
 gave him his first lesson in Qiiw Genus. This was 
 the very book he learned; poor child! it is of no
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 219 
 
 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 moreT' 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 surprise 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 lit- 
 tle 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 peddler who had relieved his father 
 before from a less distress. The parson's joy 
 was now as extravagant 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 peddler, and heard the fresh obligation 
 he had to him, what were his sensations f not those 
 which two courtiers feel in one another's em-
 
 220 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 braces ; not those with which a great man receives 
 the vile treacherous engines of his wicked pur- 
 poses, not those with which a worthless younger 
 brother wishes his elder joy of a son, or a man 
 congratulates his rival on his obtaining a mistress, 
 a place, or an honor. — No, reader ; he felt the ebul- 
 lition, the overflowings of a full, honest, open 
 heart, towards the person who had conferred a 
 real obligation, and of which, if thou canst not 
 conceive an idea within, I will not vainly endeavor 
 to assist thee. 
 
 When these tumults were over, the parson, tak- 
 ing 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 perhaps of Job, could bear no longer; he in- 
 terrupted the parson, saying, "It was easier to 
 give advice than take it; nor did he perceive he 
 could so entirely conquer himself, when he appre- 
 hended he had lost his son, or when he found him 
 recovered." — "Boy," replied Adams, raising his 
 voice, "it doth not become green heads to advise 
 gray 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 man is obliged to impossibilities; 
 and the loss of a child is one of those great trials 
 where our grief may be allowed to become immod- 
 erate." — "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 itself, and 
 ought to be conquered," answered Adams; "it
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 221 
 
 savors too much of the flesh." — ''Sure, sir," says 
 Joseph, "it is not sinful to love my wife, no, not 
 even to dote on her to distraction I " — ''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 
 discretion." — "I am afraid I shall be guilty of 
 some sin in spite of all my endeavors," 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 conversa- 
 tion, "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 sermon 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 ; and he is a sinful villain who doth not. Doth 
 he not promise to love her, and to comfort her, and 
 to cherish her, and all that? I am sure I remem- 
 ber 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 practice; for 
 you have been a loving and a cherishing husband 
 to me; that's the truth on't; and why you should 
 endeavor to put such wicked nonsense into this 
 young man's head I cannot devise. Don't heark- 
 en to him, Mr. Joseph; be as good a husband as
 
 222 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 produced 
 a scene which the reader will find in the next chap- 
 ter.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite friend paid 
 to the parson. 
 
 THE Lady Booby liad no sooner had an 
 account from the gentleman of his meet- 
 ing a wonderful beauty near her house, 
 and perceived the raptures 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 to- 
 wards Mr. 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 another ragged family 
 in the parish. They all readily agreed to this 
 visit, and arrived whilst Mrs. Adams was declaim- 
 ing 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, namely, Adams, his wife and 
 
 223
 
 224 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 three children, Joseph, Fanny, and the peddler, 
 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 
 courtesies; 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 honor 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 nightcap. He said 
 "They were heartily welcome to his poor cot- 
 tage," and turning to Mr. Didapper, cried out, 
 "Non mea renidet in domo lacunar." The beau 
 answered, "He did not understand AVelsh;" 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 peri- 
 wig. 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 nega- 
 tively. 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 much at court to be proud : 
 he seemed not much inclined to avarice, for he
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 225 
 
 was profuse in his expenses; nor had he all the 
 features of prodigality, for he never gave a shil- 
 ling: 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 charac- 
 ter of great moderation in his pleasures ; no drink- 
 er of wine ; nor so addicted to passion but that a 
 hot word or two from an adversary made him 
 immediately cool. 
 
 Now, to give him only a dash or two on the af- 
 firmative side : though he was born to an immense 
 fortune, he chose, for the pitiful and dirty con- 
 sideration of a place of little consequence, to de- 
 pend entirely on the will of a fellow whom they 
 call a great man; who treated him with the ut- 
 most disrespect, and exacted of him a plenary 
 obedience to his commands, which he implicitly 
 submitted to, at the expense of his conscience, his 
 honor, and of his country, in which he had himself 
 so very large a share. And to finish his charac- 
 ter ; as he was entirely well satisfied with his own 
 person and parts, so he was very apt to ridicule 
 and laugh at any imperfection in another. Such 
 was the little person, or rather thing, that hopped 
 after Lady Booby into Mr. 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 courtesies or extraordinary civility of 
 Mrs. Adams, the lady, turning to Mr. Booby, cried 
 out, ^'Quelle Bete! Quel Animal!" And pres- 
 ently after discovering Fanny (for she did not 
 need the circumstance of her standing by Joseph 
 
 11—15
 
 226 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 to assure the identity of her person), she asked 
 the beau ''Whether he did not think her a pretty 
 girl?" — ''Begad, madam," answered he, " 'tis the 
 very same I met." "I did not imagine," replied 
 the lady, "you had so good a taste." — "Because 
 I never liked you, I warrant," cries the beau. 
 "Ridiculous I" said she: "you know you was al- 
 ways my aversion." "I would never mention 
 aversion," answered the beau, "with that face; ^ 
 dear Lady Booby, wash your face before you men- 
 tion 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 favor which she 
 at last obtained. The little boy to whom the acci- 
 dent 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 Quee 
 Genus." — "A fig for quere genius I" 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 be- 
 
 1 Lest this should appear unnatural to some readers, we think 
 proper to acquaint them, that it is taken verbatim from very 
 polite conversation.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 227 
 
 sides?" says the father. ''Lege," quoth the son, 
 after some hesitation. *'A good boy," says the 
 father: ''and now, child, what is the English 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 quae 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 fol- 
 lowing chapter.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The history of two friends, which may afford an useful lesson 
 to all those persons who happen to take up their resi- 
 dence in married families. 
 
 L 
 
 ^'^ EONARD and Paul were two friends." 
 — ''Pronounce it Lennard, child," cried 
 the parson. — ' ' Pray, Mr. Adams, ' ' says 
 Lady Booby, "let your son read without inter- 
 ruption." Dick then proceeded. "Lennard and 
 Paul were two friends, who, having been educated 
 together at the same school, commenced a friend- 
 ship 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 main- 
 tained 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 ludi-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 success, that Lennard was 
 now married, and retired with a fortune of thirty 
 thousand pounds; and Paul was arrived to the 
 degree of a lieutenant of foot ; and was not worth 
 a single shilling. 
 
 228
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 229 
 
 ''The regiment in which Paul was stationed 
 happened to be ordered into quarters within a 
 small distance from the estate which Lennard 
 had purchased, and where he was settled. This 
 latter, who was now become a country gentleman, 
 and a justice of the peace, came to attend the 
 quarter sessions in the town where his old friend 
 was quartered, soon after his arrival. Some af- 
 fair in which a soldier was concerned occasioned 
 Paul to attend the justices. Manhood, and time, 
 and the change of climate, had so much altered 
 Lennard, that Paul did not immediately recollect 
 the features of his old acquaintance: but it was 
 otherwise with Lennard. He knew Paul the 
 moment he saw him; nor could he contain him- 
 self from quitting the bench, and running hastily 
 to embrace him. Paul stood at first a little sur- 
 prised; 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 cir- 
 cumstances, Lennard insisted on his friend's re- 
 turning with him to his house that evening ; which 
 request was complied with, and leave for a 
 month's absence for Paul obtained of the com- 
 manding officer. 
 
 "If it was possible for any circumstance to give 
 any addition to the happiness which Paul pro- 
 posed in this visit, he received that additional 
 pleasure by finding, on his arrival at his friend's
 
 230 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 liousej tliat 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 character she had ever main- 
 tained 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," answered 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 re- 
 markable 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 vigor as ever. These were still pursued 
 with the utmost ardor 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 fre- 
 quently 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 argument would hold equally on both sides,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 231 
 
 and was 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 dis- 
 putes, Paul always kept strict silence, and pre- 
 served 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 re- 
 ferring his cause to his friend. Was ever any- 
 thing so unreasonable, says he, as this woman? 
 What shall I do with her? I dote on her to dis- 
 traction; nor have I any cause to complain of, 
 more than this obstinacy in her temper; what- 
 ever 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 wrong; 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 mis- 
 taken; as you love her you say so tenderly, and 
 I believe she deserves it, would it not have been 
 wiser to have yielded, though you certainly knew 
 yourself in the right, than to give either her or 
 yourself any uneasiness. 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 Len-
 
 232 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 nard, my dear friend, shaking him by the hand, 
 there is great truth and reason in what you say; 
 and I will for the future endeavor to follow your 
 advice. They soon after broke up the conversa- 
 tion, 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 wor- 
 thiest 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 par- 
 tridge, 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; however, 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 answered nothing, and 
 the dispute continued, as usual, the greatest part 
 of the evening. The next morning the lady, ac- 
 cidentally meeting Paul, and being convinced he
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 233 
 
 was her friend, and of her side, accosted him, 
 thus: — I am certain, sir, you have long since 
 wondered at the unreasonableness of my husband. 
 He is indeed, in other respects, a good sort of 
 man, but so positive, that no woman but one 
 of my complying temper could possibly live with 
 him. Why, last night, now, was ever any creature 
 so unreasonable? I am certain you must con- 
 demn 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 man- 
 ners obliges me to answer against my will, so 
 an adherence to truth forces me to declare my- 
 self 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 a partridge. sir! replied the lady, 
 I cannot possibly help your taste. Madam, re- 
 turned Paul, that is very little material ; for, 
 had it been otherwise, a husband might have 
 expected submission. — Indeed! sir, says she, I 
 assure you! — Yes, madam, cried 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 greatest instance of affection imaginable; 
 for can anything be a greater object of our com- 
 passion than a person we love in the wrong? Ay, 
 but I should endeavor, said she, to set him right. 
 Pardon me, madam, answered Paul: I will apply
 
 234 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 to your own experience if you ever found your 
 arguments had that effect. The more our judg- 
 ments 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 warmest. Why, says she, I must confess 
 there is truth in what you say, and I will en- 
 deavor to practice it. The husband then coming 
 in, Paul departed. And Lennard, approaching 
 his wife with an air of good humor, 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 con- 
 descension to his complacence; that she was 
 ashamed to think a word had passed on so silly 
 an occasion, especially as she was satisfied 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 satis- 
 faction, 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 happi- 
 ness. He was now eternally the private referee 
 of every difference; in which, after having per- 
 fectly, as he thought, established 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 eon-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 235 
 
 trary method. One day a violent litigation hap- 
 pened in his absence, and both parties agreed to 
 refer it to his decision. The husband professing 
 himself sure the decision would be in his favor; 
 the wife answered, he might be mistaken; for 
 she believed his friend was convinced how sel- 
 dom she was to blame; and that if he knew all 
 — The husband replied, My dear, I have no de- 
 sire 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 after- 
 wards 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 in- 
 stances, in all which Paul had, on vows of secrecy, 
 given his opinion on both sides. In the con- 
 clusion, both believing each other, they fell 
 severely on the treachery of Paul, and agreed that 
 he had been the occasion of almost every dis- 
 pute which had fallen out between them. They 
 then became extremely loving, and so full of 
 condescension on both sides, that they vied with 
 each other in censuring their own conduct, and 
 jointly vented their indignation on Paul, whom 
 the wife, fearing a bloody consequence, earnestly
 
 236 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 entreated her husband to suffer quietly to depart 
 the next day, which was the time fixed for his 
 return to quarters, and then drop his acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 "However ungenerous this behavior in Len- 
 nard may be esteemed, his wife obtained a 
 promise from him (though with diflSculty) to 
 follow her advice; but they both expressed such 
 unusual coldness that day to Paul, that he, who 
 was quick of apprehension, taking Lennard aside, 
 pressed him so home, that he at last discovered 
 the secret. Paul acknowledged 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 secrecy. Paul replied, with some 
 indignation, he had given him a sufficient proof 
 how capable he was of concealing a secret from 
 his wife. Lennard returned with some warmth 
 — he had more reason to upbraid him, for that 
 he had caused most of the c^uarrels 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.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 In which the history is continued. 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS bad borne witb great 
 uneasiness tbe impertinence of beau Didap- 
 per to Fanny, wbo bad been talking pretty 
 freely to her, and offering ber settlements; but 
 tbe respect to tbe company bad restrained Mm 
 from interfering whilst the beau confined himself 
 to the use of his tongue only; but tbe said beau, 
 watching an opportunity whilst the ladies' eyes 
 were disposed another way, offered a rudeness 
 to her witb bis hands; which 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 immedi- 
 ately screamed out, rose from their chairs; and 
 tbe beau, as soon as he recovered himself, drew 
 his hanger : which Adams observing, snatched up 
 tbe lid of a pot in his left hand, and, covering 
 himself witb it as with a shield, without any 
 weapon of offense in his other hand, stepped in 
 before Joseph, and exposed himself to the en- 
 raged 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 bear his denunciations of vengeance. 
 Joseph was of a different complexion, and begged 
 Adams to let his rival come on; for he had a 
 
 237
 
 238 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 good cudgel in his hand, and did not fear him. 
 Fanny now fainted into Mrs. Adams's arms, and 
 the whole room was in confusion, when Mr. 
 Booby, passing by Adams, who lay snug under 
 the pot-lid, came up to Didapper, and insisted 
 on his sheathing the hanger, promising he should 
 have satisfaction; 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 ven- 
 geance all the time, re-adjusted his hair; the 
 parson deposited his shield; and Joseph, run- 
 ning to Fanny, soon brought her back to life. 
 Lady Booby chid Joseph for his insult on Didap- 
 per; 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 cham- 
 pion." — "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 
 woman with whom he is on the brink of mar- 
 riage." — "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,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 239 
 
 Mr. Adams, act in your proper character by en- 
 couraging any sucli doings ; and I am very much 
 surprised 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 astray, but I acquit him of that ; I can read 
 Scripture 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 ladyship knows, 
 for me and mine." — "You say very well, Mrs. 
 Adams," quoth the Lady Booby, who had not 
 spoke a word to her before; "you seem to be 
 a very sensible woman; and I assure you, your 
 husband is acting a very foolish part, and op- 
 posing 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 pro- 
 ceeded 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 an- 
 swered only with her tears, which had long since 
 begun to wet her handkerchief; which Joseph per- 
 ceiving, took her by the arm, and wrapping it in 
 his carried her off, swearing he would own no 
 relation to any one who was an enemy to her he
 
 240 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 loved more than all the world. He went out 
 with Fanny under his left arm, brandishing a 
 cudgel in his right, and neither Mr. Booby nor the 
 beau thought proper to oppose him. Lady Booby 
 and her company made a very short stay be- 
 hind 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 matri- 
 monial 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, maj^ keep them a month longer; are 
 you obliged to give her meat, tho'f she was never 
 so handsome? But I don't see she is so much 
 handsomer than other people. If people were 
 to be kept for their beauty, she would scarce 
 fare better than her neighbors, 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 — why dotli 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." "In- 
 deed but I would," cries little Dick; "and, father,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 241 
 
 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 
 boy, and told him he rejoiced to see he was a 
 Christian; and that if he had a halfpenny in 
 his pocket, he would have given it him; telling 
 him it was his duty to look upon all his neigh- 
 bors as his brothers and sisters, and love them 
 accordingly. "Yes, papa," says he, "I love her 
 better than my sisters, for she is handsomer than 
 any of them." "Is she so, saucebox?" says the 
 sister, giving him a box on the ear; which the 
 father would probably have resented, had not 
 Joseph, Fanny, and the peddler 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 very 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 design to give him 
 or Mrs. Adams any trouble; but to desire the 
 favor 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 economies, readily ac- 
 cepted this invitation, as did the parson himself 
 
 11—16
 
 242 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 by her example; and away they all walked to- 
 gether, not omitting little Dick, to whom Joseph 
 gave a shilling when he heard of his intended 
 liberality^ to Fanny.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Where the good-natured reader will see something which will 
 give him no great pleasure. 
 
 THE peddler had been very inquisitive from 
 the time he had first heard that the great 
 house in this parisli belonged to the Lady 
 Booby, and had learned 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 traveling 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 peddler's. He then proceeded 
 thus, while they all lent their strictest atten- 
 tion: — *' Though I am now contented with this 
 humble way of getting my livelihood, I was for- 
 merly a gentleman; for so all those of my pro- 
 fession are called. In a word, I was a drummer 
 in an Irish regiment of foot. Whilst I was in 
 this honorable station I attended an officer of 
 our regiment into England a-recruiting. In our 
 march from Bristol to Froome (for since the 
 decay of the woolen trade the clothing towns have 
 furnished the army with a great number of re- 
 cruits) we overtook on the road a woman, who 
 seemed to be about thirty years old or there- 
 abouts, not very handsome, but well enough for 
 
 243
 
 244 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 
 sergeant, two i^rivate men, and a drum, were 
 provided 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 c[uickly 
 succeeded to my wishes. We struck a bargain 
 within a mile, and lived together as man and wife 
 to her dying day." ''I suppose," says Adams, 
 interrupting him, ^'you were married with a 
 license; for I don't see how you could contrive 
 to have the banns published while you were march- 
 ing from place to place." ''No, sir," said the 
 peddler, "we took a license to go to bed together 
 without any banns." "Ay! ay!" said the par- 
 son; '^ex necessitate, a license may be allowable 
 enough; but surely, surely, the other is the more 
 regular and eligible way. ' ' The peddler proceeded 
 thus: "She returned with me to our regiment, 
 and removed with us from quarters to quarters, 
 till at last, whilst we lay at Galloway, she fell 
 ill of a fever and died. When she was on her 
 death-bed she called me to her, and, crying bit- 
 terly, declared she could not depart this world 
 without discovering a secret to me, which, she 
 said, was the only sin which sat heavj^ on her 
 heart. She said she had formerly traveled 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 crime ; which, 
 she sai-d, she lamented more than all the rest of
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 245 
 
 her sins, since probably it miglit 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 kidnapiDed it. We kept her (for 
 she was a girl) above two jeavs 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 ex- 
 actly 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 peddler, "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 circumstance; 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 color 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 com- 
 mitted; and the peddler was struck with amaze- 
 ment, not being able to account for all this 
 confusion; 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
 
 246 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 care of her) : and, indeed, Fanny was the only 
 creature whom the daughter would not have 
 pitied in her situation; wherein, though we com- 
 passionate her ourselves, we shall leave her for a 
 little while, and pay a short visit to Lady Booby.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 The history, returning to the Lady Booby, gives some account 
 of the terrible conflict in her breast between love and 
 pride; with what happened on the present discovery. 
 
 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; ending, at last, with expressing her 
 concern that so much tenderness should be thrown 
 away on so despicable an object as Fanny. Slip- 
 slop, well knowing how to humor her mistress's 
 frenzy, proceeded to repeat, with exaggeration, 
 if possible, all her mistress had said, and con- 
 cluded with a wish that Joseph had been a gen- 
 tleman, and that she could see her lady in the 
 arms of such a husband. The lady then started 
 from the bed, and, taking a turn or two across the 
 room, cried out, with a deep sigh, ' ' Sure he would 
 
 247
 
 248 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 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 infec- 
 tions; besides, he 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 lady- 
 ship 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 weak- 
 ness, there is that cursed Fanny in the way, whom 
 the idiot — how I hate and despise him!" — 
 "She! a little ugly minx," 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 endeavor to return to 
 the company; but let me know as soon as she is 
 carried off." Slipslop went away; and her mis-
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 249 
 
 tress began to arraign her own conduct in the 
 following manner: — 
 
 ''What am I doing? How do I suffer this pas- 
 sion to creep imperceptibly upon me? How many 
 days are past since I could have submitted to 
 ask myself the question? — Marry 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 without him can give me ! Retire 
 — to feed continually on beauties which my in- 
 flamed imagination sickens with eagerly gazing 
 on; to satisfy every appetite, every desire, with 
 their utmost wish. Ha! and do I dote 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 ungrate- 
 fully deaf to all the honors 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 con- 
 temn. No; though I despise him myself, though 
 I would spurn him from my feet, was he to 
 lang-uish at them, no other should taste the hap- 
 piness I scorn. Why do I say happiness? To 
 me it would be misery. To sacrifice my repu- 
 tation, my character, my rank in life, to the in-
 
 250 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 dulgence of a mean and a vile appetite! How I 
 detest the tlionght ! How much more exquisite is 
 the pleasure resulting from the reflection of vir- 
 tue 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 colors, and 
 immediately helped me to expel them. Yes, I 
 thank Heaven and my pride, I have now perfectly 
 conquered this unworthy passion; and if there 
 was no obstacle in its way, my pride would dis- 
 dain any pleasures which could be the consequence 
 of so base, so mean, so vulgar — " Slipslop re- 
 turned at this instant in a violent hurry, and with 
 the utmost eagerness cried out, ''0 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 discovered 
 that Fanny and Joseph are brother and sister." 
 — ''How, Slipslop?" cries the lady, in a surprise. 
 -—"I had not time, madam," cries Slipslop, "to 
 inquire 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 mo- 
 ment, and then, forgetting all the purport of her
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 251 
 
 soliloquy, dismissed her woman again, with or- 
 ders to bid Tom attend her in the parlor, 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 behavior to his wife : he told her, 
 if it had been earlier in the evening she should 
 not have stayed 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 things 
 reconciled. 
 
 The peddler now attended, as did Fanny and Jo- 
 seph, who would not quit her ; the parson likewise 
 was induced, not only by curiosity, of which he 
 had no small portion, but his duty, as he appre- 
 hended 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 parlor, where the peddler
 
 252 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 repeated the same story he had told before, and 
 insisted on the truth of every circumstance; so 
 that all who heard him were extremely well sat- 
 isfied of the truth, except Pamela, who imagined, 
 as she had never heard either of her parents men- 
 tion such an accident, that it must be certainly 
 false; and except the Lady Booby, who suspected 
 the falsehood of the story from her ardent desire 
 that it should be true; and Joseph, who feared 
 its truth, from his earnest wishes that it might 
 prove false. 
 
 Mr. Booby now desired them all to suspend 
 their curiosity and absolute belief or disbelief till 
 the next morning, when he expected old Mr. An- 
 drews 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 circumstances to induce their credit, 
 so he could not perceive any interest the peddler 
 could have in inventing it, or in endeavoring to 
 impose such a falsehood on them. 
 
 The Lady Booby, 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 humor at her 
 own table. As to the peddler, she ordered him to 
 be made as welcome as possible by her servants. 
 All the company in the parlor, except the disap- 
 pointed 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 253 
 
 between the beau and the parson, chiefly on each 
 other's dress; these afforded much diversion to 
 the company. Pamela chid her brother Joseph 
 for the concern which he expressed 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 an- 
 other. 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 in- 
 sisted on, that she at last, by Joseph's advice, 
 consented.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Containing several curious night-adventures, in which Mr. 
 Adams fell into many hair-breadth 'scapes, partly owing 
 to his goodness, and partly to his inadvertency. 
 
 ABOUT an hour after they had all separated 
 (it being now past three in the morning), 
 beau Didapper, whose passion for Fanny 
 permitted him not to close his eyes, but had em- 
 ployed 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 apart- 
 ment ; and, being come to the door, as he imagined 
 it, he opened it with the least noise possible and 
 entered the chamber. A savor 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, open- 
 ing 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 dis- 
 covered the falsehood of the story we last night 
 heard. I am no longer thy brother, but the lover ; 
 
 254
 
 JOSEPH ANDEEWS 255 
 
 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 of love to deny me the pos- 
 session of thy charms." — So saying, he disencum- 
 bered 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 sur- 
 prised at receiving no answer, he was no less 
 pleased to find his hug returned with equal ar- 
 dor. He remained not long in this sweet confu- 
 sion; for both he and his paramour presently dis- 
 covered 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 gentle- 
 woman, that light itself would have afforded him 
 no assistance in his conjecture. Beau Didapper 
 no sooner had perceived his mistake than he at- 
 tempted 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 of- 
 ferings which her fancy had promised her pleas- 
 ure, 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 
 person of the unfortunate beau to be luckily 
 thrown in her way to restore her lady's opinioii
 
 256 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 of her impregnable 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, "0 thou 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 ''Mur- 
 der! murder! rape! robbery! ruin!" At which 
 words, parson Adams, who lay in the next cham- 
 ber, wakeful, and meditating on the peddler's dis- 
 covery, jumped out of bed, and, without staying 
 to put a rag of clothes on, hastened into the apart- 
 ment whence the cries proceeded. He made di- 
 rectly 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 Slip- 
 slop 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 favor 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 257 
 
 he behindhand with her in his endeavors, but 
 happily the darkness of the night befriended her. 
 She then cried she was a woman ; but Adams an- 
 swered, 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 be- 
 gan 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 beginning; and, being a 
 woman of a bold spirit, she slipped on a night- 
 gown, petticoat, and slippers, and taking a can- 
 dle, which always burned 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 Slip- 
 slop 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 rav- 
 ished, with a most audible voice: and Adams, per- 
 ceiving 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 particularly 
 railed at his impudence in choosing her house for 
 
 11—17
 
 258 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 the scene of his debaucheries, and her own woman 
 for the object of his bestiality. Poor Adams had 
 before discovered the countenance of his bedfel- 
 low, and, now first recollecting he was naked, he 
 was no less confounded than Lady Booby her- 
 self, and immediately whipped under the bed- 
 clothes, whence the chaste Slipslop endeavored in 
 vain to shut him out. Then putting forth his 
 head, on which, by way of ornament, he wore a 
 flannel night-cap, he protested his innocence, and 
 asked ten thousand pardons of Mrs. Slipslop for 
 the blows he had struck her, vowing he had mis- 
 taken her for a witch. Lady Booby, then casting 
 her eyes on the ground, observed something spar- 
 kle with great luster, which, when she had taken 
 it up, api^eared 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?" "0, madam," says Slipslop, "I don't 
 know what hath happened, I have been so terri- 
 fied. 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 mis- 
 took for a woman on coming into the room, 
 whence proceeded all the subsequent mistakes; 
 for if I had suspected him for Si 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 259 
 
 and her gallant, whose heads only were visible at 
 the opposite corners of the bed, she could not re- 
 frain from laughter; nor did Slipslop persist in 
 accusing the parson of any motions towards a 
 rape. The lady therefore desired him to return 
 to his bed as soon as she was departed, and then 
 ordering Slipslop 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. Slipslop, who, with a most Chris- 
 tian 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 remem- 
 ber) had not slept a wink the preceding night, and 
 who was so bagged out with what had happened 
 to her in the day, that, notwithstanding all 
 thoughts of her Joseph, she was fallen into so 
 jDrofound a sleep, that all the noise in the adjoin- 
 ing 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 accus- 
 tomed him to, crept in, and deposited his carcass 
 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 quiet- 
 ly by the side of the charming maid, and, ignorant 
 of the scene of delight on which they repose, medi- 
 tates the future capture of a mouse, or surprisal
 
 260 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 now sleep had not overtaken the 
 good man, when Joseph, who had secretly ap- 
 pointed Fanny to come to her at the break of 
 day, rapped softly at the chamber-door, which 
 when he had repeated twice, Adams cried, ''Come 
 in, whoever you are." Joseph thought he had 
 mistaken the door, though she had given him the 
 most exact directions; however, knowing 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, — "0 heavens! 
 where am 11" "Bless me! where am If" said 
 the parson. Then Fanny screamed, Adams leaped 
 out of bed, and Joseph stood, as the tragedians 
 call it, like the statue of Surprise. "How came 
 she into my room?" cried Adams. "How came 
 you into hers?" cried Joseph, in an astonish- 
 ment. "I know nothing of the matter," an- 
 swered 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 days 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 at- 
 tempting to persuade Joseph of such a falsehood
 
 JOSEPH ANDKEWS 261 
 
 convinced her of his wiclvcd designs. "How!" 
 said Joseph in a rage, ''hath he offered any rude- 
 ness to you ? ' ' She answered — She could not ac- 
 cuse him of any more than villainously stealing 
 to bed to her, which she thought rudeness suffi- 
 cient, and what no man would do without a wicked 
 intention. 
 
 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 little 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 Fan- 
 ny'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 cur- 
 tains 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, ^nd begged Fanny's 
 pardon, assuring her he did not know whether 
 she was man or woman. That innocent creature 
 firmly believing all he said, told him she was 
 no longer angry, and begged Joseph to conduct 
 him into his own apartment, 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 com-
 
 262 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 mitted ; 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.
 
 CHAPTEE XV 
 
 The arrival of Gaffar and Gammar Andrews, with another 
 person not much expected; and a perfect solution of the 
 difficulties raised by the peddler. 
 
 AS soon as Fanny was dressed Joseph re- 
 turned to her, and they had a long con- 
 versation together, the conclusion of 
 which was, that if they found themselves to be 
 really brother and sister, they vowed a perpetual 
 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 cheerful than 
 the preceding night. The Lady Booby produced 
 the diamond button, which the beau most readily 
 owned, and alleged that he was very subject to 
 walk in his sleep. Indeed, he was far from being 
 ashamed of his amour, and rather endeavored 
 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 Mr. 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 in- 
 terval than (Edipus himself, whilst his fate was 
 revealing. 
 
 263
 
 264 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Mr. Booby first opened the cause by informing 
 the old gentleman that he had a child in the com- 
 pany 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 honor that he had never 
 lost a daughter 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 peddler to be called, who recounted his story 
 as he had done before. — At the end of which, old 
 Mrs. Andrews, running to Fanny, embraced her, 
 crying out, ''She is, she is my child!" The com- 
 pany were all amazed at this disagreement be- 
 tween 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 
 surprised 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 sergeant 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 suc- 
 kled 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 
 thereabouts, 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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 266 
 
 desired to know if you was ever to come home 
 again, which I remember as well as if it was but 
 yesterday: they faithfully 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, the 
 living! how was I surprised 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 boy, 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 neighbor 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 boy all to nothing as if 
 it had been my own girl. — Well, as I was saying,
 
 266 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 times growing very hard, I having two children 
 and nothing but my own work, which was little 
 enough, God knows, to maintain them, was 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 my- 
 self — 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 con- 
 vinced 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 be- 
 fore any justice in the kingdom." 
 
 The peddler, who had been summoned by the or- 
 der of Lady Booby, listened with the utmost at- 
 tention to Gammar 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 acknowl- 
 edged, and, unbuttoning his coat, at the interces- 
 sion of the company, showed to them. "Well," 
 says Gaffar Andrews, who was a comical sly old 
 fellow, and very likely desired to have no more 
 children than he could keej), "you have proved,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 267 
 
 I think, very plainly, that this boy doth not be- 
 long to us ; but how are you certain that the girl 
 is ours?" The parson then brought the peddler 
 forward, and desired him to repeat the story 
 which he had communicated to him the preceding 
 day at the ale-house; which he complied 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 strawber- 
 ry, 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 peddler assured Joseph that his 
 parents were persons of much greater circum- 
 stances than those he had hitherto mistaken for 
 such; for that he had been stolen from a gentle- 
 man's house by those whom they call gypsies, 
 and had been kej^t 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 acquainted 
 him he lived about forty miles from the place 
 where the exchange had been made, and which 
 way, promising to spare no pains in endeavoring 
 with him to discover the place. 
 
 But Fortune, which seldom doth good or ill, or 
 makes men happy or miserable, by halves, re- 
 solved to spare him this labor. The reader may
 
 268 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 please to recollect that Mr. Wilson had intended 
 a journey to the west, in which he was to pass 
 through Mr. Adams's parish, and had promised 
 to call on him. He was now arrived at the Lady 
 Booby's gates for that purpose, being directed 
 thither from the parson'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 wildness 
 in his looks, and the utmost eagerness in his 
 words, begged to be showed 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, 
 Hie est quern quceris; inventus est, Sc. 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 apprised yet to taste the same 
 delight with his father (for so in reality he was) ; 
 however, he returned some warmth to his em- 
 braces : but he no sooner perceived, from his fath- 
 er '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
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 260 
 
 with such tenderness on both sides, that it af- 
 fected all present; but none so much as Lady 
 Booby, who left the room in an agony, which 
 was but too much perceived, and not very char- 
 itably accounted for by some of the company.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Being the last, in ■which this true histoiy is brought to a happy 
 conclusion. 
 
 FANNY was very little behind her Joseph in 
 the duty she expressed towards her par- 
 ents, and the joy she evidenced in discov- 
 ering them. Gammar Andrews kissed 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 com- 
 plained bitterly that he wanted his pipe, not hav- 
 ing had a whiff that morning. 
 
 Mr. Booby, who knew nothing of his aunt's 
 fondness, imputed her abrupt departure to her 
 pride, and disdain of the family into which he 
 was married; he was therefore desirous to be 
 gone with the utmost celerity; and now, having 
 congratulated Mr. Wilson and Joseph on the dis- 
 covery, 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 re- 
 turned that she wished him a good journey, but 
 was too disordered to see any company : he there- 
 fore prepared to set out, having invited Mr. Wil- 
 son to his house; and Pamela and Joseph both 
 so insisted on his complying, that he at last con- 
 
 270
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 271 
 
 sented, 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 himself to delay a 
 moment in acquainting her with. 
 
 The company were ranged in this manner : the 
 two old people, with their two daughters, rode 
 in the coach; the squire, Mr. Wilson, Joseph, par- 
 son Adams, and the peddler, proceeded on horse- 
 back. 
 
 In their way, Joseph informed his father of his 
 intended match with Fanny; to which, though he 
 expressed some reluctance at first, on the eager- 
 ness 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 disadvan-^ 
 tages of birth and fortune might be compensated. 
 He however insisted on the match being deferred 
 till he had seen his mother ; in which, Joseph per- 
 ceiving him positive, with great duty obeyed him, 
 to the great delight of parson Adams, who by 
 these means saw an opportunity of fulfilling the 
 Church forms, and marrying his parishioners 
 without a license. 
 
 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
 
 272 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 that Ee tumbled the parson from his back ; which 
 Joseph perceiving, came to his relief. 
 
 This accident afforded infinite merriment to the 
 servants, and no less frightened poor Fanny, who 
 beheld him as he passed by the coach; but the 
 mirth of the one and terror of the other were soon 
 determined, when the parson declared he had re- 
 ceived no damage. 
 
 The horse having freed himself from his un- 
 worthy rider, as he probably thought him, pro- 
 ceeded to make the best of his way; but was 
 stopped by a gentleman and his servants, who 
 were traveling the opposite way, and were now at 
 a little distance from the coach. They soon met ; 
 and as one of the servants 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 jail, 
 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 dis- 
 dain 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.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 273 
 
 The company, arriving at Mr. Booby's house, 
 were all received by him in the most courteous 
 and entertained 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 imagina- 
 ble. 
 
 In the morning Mr. Wilson proposed to his son 
 to make a visit with him to his mother; which, 
 notwithstanding his dutiful inclinations, and a 
 longing desire he had to see her, a little concerned 
 him, as he must be obliged to leave his Fanny; 
 but the goodness of Mr. Booby relieved him; for 
 he proposed to send his own coach and six for 
 Mrs. Wilson, whom Pamela so very earnestly in- 
 vited, 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 em- 
 braces and tears of joy which succeeded her ar- 
 rival. It is sufficient to say she was easily pre- 
 vailed with to follow her husband's example in 
 consenting to the match. 
 
 On Sunday Mr. Adams performed the service 
 at the squire's parish church, the curate of which 
 
 11—18
 
 274 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 very kindly exchanged duty, and rode twenty 
 miles to the Lady Booby's parish so to do; being 
 particularly 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 dressed himself in a neat but plain 
 suit of Mr. Booby's, which exactly fitted him; for 
 he refused all finery ; 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 edging of lace 
 round the bosom. She likewise equipped her with 
 a pair of fine white thread stockings, 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-colored silk, and tied with 
 a cherry-colored 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 extraor- 
 dinary and unaffected modesty of Fanny, unless 
 the true Christian piety of Adams, who publicly 
 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 high- 
 est prince on earth; for, though he paid all sub- 
 mission and deference to his superiors in other 
 matters, where the least spice of religion inter- 
 vened he immediately lost all respect of persons.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 275 
 
 It was his maxim, that lie was a servant of the 
 Highest, and could not, without departing from 
 his duty, give up the least article of his honor 
 or of his cause to the greatest earthly potentate. 
 Indeed, he always asserted that Mr. Adams at 
 church with his surplice on, and Mr. Adams with- 
 out 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 at- 
 tended them likewise on foot; and now a most 
 magnificent entertainment was provided, at which 
 parson Adams demonstrated an appetite surpris- 
 ing as well as surpassing every one present. In- 
 deed the only persons who betrayed any deficiency 
 on this occasion were those on whose account the 
 feast was provided. They pampered their im- 
 aginations 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 
 facetiousness than was usual to him, the happy, 
 the blessed moment arrived when Fanny retired 
 with her mother, her mother-in-law, and her sis- 
 ter. 
 
 She was soon undressed ; for she had no jewels
 
 276 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 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 herself of none. How, reader, 
 shall I give thee an adequate idea of this lovely 
 young creature? the bloom of roses and lilies 
 might a little illustrate her complexion, or their 
 smell her sweetness; but to comprehend her en- 
 tirely, 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 constancy; 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 equaled. Mr. Booby hath, with unprece- 
 dented 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 with most excel- 
 lent management in his dairy; where, however, 
 she is not at present very able to bustle much,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 277 
 
 being, as Mr. Wilson informs me in his last letter, 
 extremely big with her first child. 
 
 Mr. Booby hath presented Mr. Adams with a 
 living 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 hath been lately inducted into it. 
 
 The peddler, besides several handsome pres- 
 ents, both from Mr. Wilson and Mr. Booby, is, by 
 the latter 's interest, made an exciseman; a trust 
 which he discharges with such justice, that he is 
 greatly beloved in his neighborhood. 
 
 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 ob- 
 literated the memory of Joseph. 
 
 Joseph remains blessed with his Fanny, whom 
 he dotes 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 remarka- 
 ble, he declares he will imitate them in their re- 
 tirement, nor will be prevailed on by any book- 
 sellers, or their authors, to make his appearance 
 in high life. 
 
 THE END
 
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