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 Joseph and Fanny 
 
 — Joseph Aitdrenvs I, p. j^
 
 THE COMPLETE 
 WORKS OF 
 
 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 THE HISTORY OF THE 
 ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH 
 ANDREWS AND HIS FRIEND 
 MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS 
 
 VOLUME I 
 
 ^ 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 P. F. COLLIER & SON 
 
 NEW YORK
 
 Copxriaht 190:i 
 University Press
 
 PR 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAQB 
 
 Introduction xv 
 
 Preface xxix 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 Of writing lives in general, and particularly of 
 Pamela ; with a word by the bye of Colley 
 Gibber and others 1 
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 Of Mr. Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, ed- 
 ucation, and great endowments ; \vith a word 
 or two concerning ancestors 5 
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 Of Mr. Abraham Adams the curate, Mrs. Slipslop 
 
 the chambermaid, and others 9 
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 What happened after their journey to London , 15 
 
 Vol. 1 1
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER FI'ST: 
 
 PAOB 
 
 The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affec- 
 tionate and mournful behaviour of his widow, 
 and the great purity of Joseph Andrews . , 18 
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 How Joseph Andrews writ a letter to his sister 
 
 Pamela 23 
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 Sayings of wise men. A dialogue between the 
 lady and her maid ; and a panegj^ric, or rather 
 satire, on the passion of love, in the sublime 
 style 29 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 In which, after some very fine writing, the history 
 goes on, and relates the inter\'iew between the 
 lady and Joseph ; where the latter hath set an 
 example which we despair of seeing followed 
 by his sex in this vicious age 35 
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 What passed between the lady and Mrs. Slipslop ; 
 in which we prophesy there are some strokes 
 which every one will not truly comprehend at 
 the first reading 43
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 FAOB 
 
 Joseph ^vTites another letter : his transactions with 
 Mr, Peter Pounce, etc., with his departure from 
 Lady Booby 49 
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 Of several new matters not expected 52 
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 Q)ntaining many surprizing adventures which 
 Joseph Andrews met with on the road, scarce 
 credible to those who have never travelled in 
 a stage-coach 57 
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 What happened to Joseph during his sickness at 
 the inn, with the curious discourse between 
 him and Mr. Barnabas, the parson of the parish 6S 
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 Being very full of adventures which succeeded 
 
 each other at the inu 74 
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 Showing how Mrs. Tow-wouse was a little mollified ; 
 and how officious Mr. Barnabas and the sur- 
 geon were to prosecute the thief: with a dis- 
 [viij
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAOB 
 
 sertation accounting for their zeal, and that of 
 many other persons not mentioned in this 
 history 82 
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 The escape of the thief. Mr. Adams's disappoint- 
 ment. The arrival of two very extraordinary 
 personages, and the introduction of parson 
 Adams to parson Barnabas 89 
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and 
 the bookseller, which was broke off by an un- 
 lucky accident happening in the inn, which 
 produced a dialogue between Mrs. Tow-wouse 
 and her maid of no gentle kind 103 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an 
 account of what occasioned the violent scene 
 in the preceding chapter 112 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 Of divisions in authors 117 
 
 [viii]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 PAQE 
 
 A surprizing instance of Mr Adams' short mem- 
 oiy, with the unfortunate consequences which 
 it brought on Joseph 121 
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same 
 gentleman, with Mr. Adams's inquiry into the 
 religion of his host 129 
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 The histoiy of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt . 139 
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 A dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn 
 where the company dined, with its bloody 
 consequences to Mr. Adams 164 
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt 177 
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 A verj' short chapter, in which parson Adams 
 
 went a great way 184 
 
 [ix]
 
 CONTEiNTS 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 PAGB 
 
 A notable dissertation by Mr. Abraham Adams ; 
 wherein that gentleman appears in a political 
 light 189 
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 In which the gentleman discants on bravery and 
 heroic virtue, till an unlucky accident puts an 
 end to the discourse 194 
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of 
 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 202 
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 What happened to them while before the justice. 
 
 A chapter very full of learning 210 
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 A very delightful adventure, as well to the per- 
 sons concerned as to the good-natured reader 221
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 dissertation concerning high people and low 
 people, with Mrs. Slipslop's departure in no 
 very good temper of mind, and the evil plight 
 in which she left Adams and his company . . 227 
 
 [«]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ** "W* 'W'AVE you any more of Pamela, Mr. 
 
 I I R. ? We are come to hear a little 
 
 I ■ more of Pamela." 
 
 JtL JL So, according to Richardson's own 
 story, his "worthy-hearted wife" used to speak 
 every evening when, accompanied by a young woman 
 who was boarding with her, she visited the *' little 
 closet " in which her husband was composing that 
 work by which, quite undesignedly, he directed into 
 the path of fame one of the very greatest novelists 
 of the world, Henry Fielding. The story of how 
 Richardson did so has been told again and again ; it 
 is found in every history of English literature ; and 
 because knowledge of it helps to an understanding of 
 Fielding*'s literary development, it will probably con- 
 tinue to be told, and it is worth telling here. 
 
 Samuel Richardson, who even as a boy had been 
 distinguished for letter- writing, was a fat, prosy 
 printer about fifty years old, when certain publishers 
 urged him to give them a book of familiar letters, 
 which should be useful to people in common life. 
 Richardson decided to weave the letters together bj 
 making them tell the story of a pretty servant-girl, 
 Pamela Andrews, who, after many adventures, oiar< 
 [xvj
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ried her master, a young gentleman who had tried 
 in vain to make her his mistress. The result was 
 Pawe^, published in 1740. It met with such favour 
 that the next year Richardson gratified the world 
 with a continuation, which showed the heroine 
 regarding with a jealous but forgiving eye the 
 attentions that her husband bestowed on a certain 
 countess, or relating dull moral tales to her children. 
 In spite of her favourable reception one hundred 
 and sixty years ago, Pamela cannot make us feel 
 to-day the charm which Richardson unquestionably 
 would have us feel. As a victim of persecution in 
 the earlier part of her story, she succeeds, thanks to 
 her innocence, in exciting our sympathy ; but such is 
 not the case when she has triumphed over her would- 
 be seducer. So far is she from showing maidenly 
 hesitation when marriage is offered to her, that after 
 some prudent fears of deceit through a mock- 
 marriage, she fairly jumps at the chance of bettering 
 her social position. One cannot but feel that Pamela 
 has preserved her virtue for the sake of the reward. 
 To all intents and purposes she sells herself; only 
 her shrewd, mercantile sense makes her name as her 
 price the right to become Mrs. B. The same sort 
 of calculating virtue is apparent in most of her 
 actions ; though always satisfied with her own con- 
 duct to an exasperating degree, she apparently has 
 no idea of doing right for right's sake. In the con- 
 tinuation of her history, her teaching to her chil- 
 dren (teaching which Richardson plainly approved) 
 is : " Be good, and you will get tangible earthly 
 rewards." 
 
 [ xvi 3
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Now Fielding — like Thackeray and Cervantes, 
 and others who from Homer down have known 
 human nature best — was well aware that unfortu- 
 nately such is not always the case. The marketable 
 honour of the vulgar Pamela (who, in addition to 
 her other short-comings, lacked all sense of humour) 
 seemed to a man of the world like him meet subject 
 for ridicule. In the drama, which so far had been 
 almost the sole field of his literary work, his con- 
 spicuous successes had been in satirical burlesque — 
 Torn Thumb and Pasquin. It was natural, there- 
 fore, that he should take up his pen to ridicule the 
 book which had just offended him. According to 
 Fielding, Richardson's hero, Mr. B., became Mr. 
 Booby. To his alre^^dy large circle of Booby rela- 
 tives was added an aunt by marriage, Lady Booby, 
 a female sinner, who had in her service as footman a 
 male saint, Joseph Andrews, brother to the paragon 
 of virtue herself. With Lady Booby tempting this 
 footman, whose virtue like his sister'^s should be as 
 adamant. Fielding thought that he had excellent 
 material for his parody. And so he began the com- 
 position of Joseph Andrews, which appeared in Febru- 
 ary, 1742, the first of his novels to be published. 
 
 All critics agree that Pamela thus gave the imme- 
 diate impulse to Joseph Andrew's; they are not 
 agreed, however, as to how strong its influence re- 
 mained throughout the book. It is certain that the 
 parody runs into the tenth chapter, for in that is a 
 letter from Joseph to his sister, in imitation of some 
 of her own correspondence. It is equally certain that 
 in the eleventh chapter, Fielding breaks away from the i 
 [xvii]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 parody ; but, according to Professor Saintsbur}', all 
 through the story signs of it are to be found in the 
 love that Joseph inspires in more than one feminine 
 breast. Finally, there is an undoubted return to the 
 parody in the fourth book, which introduces not only 
 Lady Booby, still amorously pursuing Joseph, but 
 also her nephew, Squire Booby, and his saintly spouse. 
 So far as they appear, they remain amusingly faith- 
 ful to the pictures which Richardson had given of 
 them himself. The passages are fair hits at the 
 earlier novelists work which show the ex-maid- 
 servant declaring to her supposed brother that Fanny 
 is no longer her equal but her inferior, chiding 
 Fanny for her assurance in aiming at such a match 
 as Joseph, and finally, on learning that after all 
 Fanny is her sister, behaving " with great decency." 
 
 Though the influence of Pamela probably went 
 farther than those chapters in which the parody is 
 plain, I am not inclined to accept as truth the state- 
 ment frequently made : that without Richardson 
 we should never have had Fielding. To argue 
 otherwise at length would be ftitile, for we never 
 could reach certainty. The fact will always remain 
 that Richardson wrote a novel which led his greater 
 contemporary to write a greater novel. It is not 
 impossible, however, — perhaps not improbable — 
 that Fielding would have produced something of the 
 kind had Samuel Richardson never been bom. At 
 all events, the influence of many another book than 
 Pamela is apparent in Joseph Andrews. The author i 
 on the title-page frankly announced it as " written 
 in imitation of the manner of Cervantes ^ ; and even i 
 [ xviii ]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 vithout this acknowledgment, readers might have 
 suspected as much from the succession of rough, 
 horse-play incidents, to say nothing of the Quixotic 
 character of Joseph's friend, Mr. Abraham Adams. 
 Less marked, but not less real, is the influence of 
 Scarron's Roman Comique. It is apparent in the 
 mock-heroic passages, in the headings to the chap- 
 ters, and in the f^eneral bantering tone of the whole 
 book, a good part of which seems to be an experi- 
 ment, tried for the mere fun of the thing. And 
 yet, before you are done with Joseph Andrews y you 
 feel that here is something to be taken much more 
 seriously than you would ever take the Roman 
 Comique. 
 
 There are other authors who probably exerted an 
 influence on Fielding, though their influence is more 
 or less problematical. He himself speaks ^ of Mari- 
 vaux and LeSage in a way which shows acquaintance 
 with them and admiration for their works ; but no 
 such undoubted traces of them are to be found in 
 Joseph Andrews as of Cervantes and Scarron. True, 
 the hero of the Paysan Parvenu is exposed, in the 
 first part of his entertaining history, to temptations 
 not unlike those which Joseph triumphantly over- 
 comes, but the resemblance may be only fortuitous. 
 Of Fielding's acquaintance with yet other picaresque 
 writers it is impossible to speak certainly ; knowl- 
 edge of the works of some of them, however, it is 
 pretty safe to assume. And finally, and by no means 
 of least importance, we must remember that Field- 
 ing knew well the character-sketches of Addison 
 1 Joteph Andrews, Book III, Chapter I. 
 [xix]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 and Steele. In short, even had he never heard of 
 Pamela^ Fielding's reading among the later Spanish 
 and French and English writers had been of just the 
 nature to prepare him for that new kind of fiction in 
 which he was to excel. 
 
 Knowledge of books, however, without knowledge 
 of life will not make a great novelist ; and fortu- 
 nately Fielding knew life even better than he knew 
 books. He knew it so well, when he composed 
 Joseph Andrews at the age of thirty-four, that he 
 had by that time a training for the career of novelist 
 such as few men gifted with literary genius have 
 ever had. He knew countiy life and he knew town 
 life ; and he knew all grades of society from the 
 highest to the lowest. On both sides of his house 
 he came of gentle blood — on his father's, indeed, of 
 the noble blood of the Earls of Denbigh^ — a family 
 somewhat doubtfully reported to descend from the 
 royal house of Hapsburg, whence that oft-quoted 
 rhetorical encomium of Gibbon on Tom Jones: — 
 that it would " outlive the palace of the Escurial 
 and the Imperial Eagle of the house of Austria." The 
 brilliant Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, daughter to 
 the Duke of Richmond, was Henry Fielding's second 
 cousin. But Fielding's nature was not such as would 
 restrict his friendships to his own class. Born in 
 1707 at Sharpham Park in Somersetshire, the seat of 
 
 1 Fielding's father was General Edmund Fielding, his 
 grandfather was John Fielding, Canon of Salisbury, and his 
 great-grandfather was the Earl of Desmond, in the peerage of 
 Ireland. This nobleman was descended from the younger 
 branch of the Earls of Denbigh. 
 [«]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 his mother's father, and brought up in that county 
 and in Dorsetshire, he no doubt became acquainted 
 in his boyhood with the neighbouring peasantry, as 
 well as the country gentry. It is not unreasonable 
 to imagine an intimacy between him and some vag- 
 abond game-keeper, like that between Black George 
 and Tom Jones, Fielding's chances of observing 
 mankind, however, were not to be confined to this 
 western country. When about eleven or twelve, he 
 was sent to school at Eton where he probably 
 strengthened a taste already formed for outdoor 
 sports, and certainly made several life-long friends. 
 On leaving school he seems directly to have enlarged 
 and matured his still boyish experience by falling in 
 love with Miss Sarah Andrew, a young lady of 
 Lyme, thought to be a cousin of his on his mother's 
 side. Then came a year or two of foreign university 
 experience, when he was studying law at Leyden. 
 And then, it is said because his father's remittances 
 stopped, he returned to England and began to 
 gain in London the fuller experience of life which 
 generally comes to men when, ceasing to depend 
 on their parents, they begin really to support 
 themselves. 
 
 Fielding was not far fi-om twenty-one when he be- 
 gan his London career. According to all reports he 
 was then a fine-looking fellow, over six feet in his 
 stockings, manly, generous, and good-natured, with 
 a vast capacity for enjoyment. It is small wonder 
 that, considering his penniless condition, he thought 
 the path to legal success too long and hard; the 
 path to dramatic fame seemed shorter and pleas- 
 [xxi]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 anter. Accordingly, he had soon entered on what 
 we may call his first literary period — that in which 
 he was writing plays and probably, at some detri- 
 ment to his health, adding materially to his knowledge 
 of mankind. After making all allowance for the ex- 
 aggeration (and there has been a great deal of it) in 
 the pictures of Fielding as a brilliant rake, we must 
 believe that in the first years of his dramatic writ- 
 ings, he saw much of a society very different from 
 that to which he was born. He kissed the hands, 
 no doubt, of second-rate actresses, long since indiffer- 
 ent to those troublesome things called reputations, 
 as well as the hands of ladies of quality. Green- 
 rooms, shabby lodgings, and sponging-houses he 
 knew as well as the drawing-rooms and country- 
 houses of his friends and kinsmen. Careless Bohe- 
 mianism, however, which might have brutalised 
 Fielding far too much, and which did bmtalise him 
 a little too much, was not the only influence that he 
 felt; there were other influences which steadied 
 him and kept his nature sweet. Wlien not quite 
 twenty-eight, he married, and everything leads us to 
 suppose that he was a tender husband and father. At 
 thirty, on account of the "Licensing Act*" which 
 closed the theatre that he owned, he returned seri- 
 ously to studying the law. Three years later — the 
 year before he wrote Joseph Andixxcs — he was called 
 to the bar. We can see, therefore, that Fielding 
 had an uncommonly broad knowledge of human 
 nature when, by good chance, he entered the path 
 which led him to Joseph Andrews and thence to Torn 
 Jones and Amelia. We have already seen that few 
 [xxii]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 men of his time were better read in the various 
 books which helped prepare the way for the English 
 novel. And so, as I have said, I am by no means 
 sure, that without Pamela to precede it, Joseph An- 
 drews would never have gladdened and instructed 
 the world. 
 
 Although I should have hesitation in asserting 
 positively that we do not owe Fielding as a novelist 
 to Richardson, I should say without hesitation that 
 until Joseph. Andrews had been composed, the future 
 of the English novel was not assured. By a novel 
 we commonly understand to-day a story with a fairly 
 well-defined beginning, middle, and end, in which 
 characters, who are not unnatural, go through ad- 
 ventures which may be ever so romantic, pro\ided 
 that we can still accept them as real. Some novels 
 we read chiefly for the sake of the plot ; some, for 
 the clever delineation of the characters ; and the best, 
 for a happy combination of both, such as Tom 
 Jonesy Pride and Prejudice^ and Henry Esmond. 
 Furthermore, in these three, as in all the best novels, 
 the background seems real. When we read Esmond^ 
 for instance, we feel that we are in the England of 
 Anne and the great Marlborough and the " Augus- 
 tan " wits almost as strongly as when we read Tlie 
 Spectator or The Rape of the Lock. In other words, 
 the elements of a good novel are plot, characters, and 
 general verisimilitude. It is not necessary that each 
 of these should be present in an equal degree, but it 
 is essential that none of them should be wholly lack- 
 ing. Now nowhere in English prose had these three 
 elements been so well combined in the year 1742 as 
 [xxiiij
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 in Joseph Andrews. Not to go back of the eighteenth 
 century, Addison and Steele had made excellent 
 character-sketches standing out against excellent 
 backgrounds, but more they did not do. If they had 
 given the Sir Roger de Coverley papers a good plot, 
 they would have produced a novel. Defoe had 
 written many stories whose verisimilitude could not 
 be sui*passed, but they had no plot and very few liv- 
 ing characters. At length in Pamela^ Richardson hit 
 after a fashion upon the combination of elements 
 that the English novel should have. Pamela had 
 plot, it had fairly real characters, and, to a certain ex- 
 tent, it had verisimilitude. The characters, however, 
 like all of Richardson"'s, are too conventional and not 
 enough individual — especially his people of quality ; 
 you would never find a Squire Western or a Sir Pitt 
 Crawley among them. Nor are the scenes always 
 such as to make you for the time accept them as 
 real. No, there is not that in Pamela which makes 
 you believe that the English novel is going to become 
 a literary form unsurpassed for giving pictures of 
 actual life. After reading it you feel no certainty 
 that the kind of literature has been discovered which 
 shall introduce us to such bits of reality as the small 
 country balls honoured by Elizabeth Bennet and 
 Emma Woodhouse ; which shall hurry us breathless 
 across the streets and squares of Vanity Faivy while 
 Mrs. Rawdon dines alone with Lord Steyne ; or (to 
 take a recent but not unworthy instance) which shall 
 carry us in the te-rain from Lahore to Umballa with 
 Kim and the old lama and their strange eastern com- 
 panions. Of all this life, and of the much more 
 [ xxiv J
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 that is in the English novel, Pamela gives us only 
 slight hope; but Joseph Andrews gives us certain 
 promise. For this reason it is that I say, till Joseph 
 Andrews was composed, the future of the English 
 novel was not assured. For this reason it is that 
 Joseph Andrews is one of the most important books 
 in our literature. 
 
 Yet one does not have to examine Joseph Andrews 
 very critically to find a conspicuous weakness in its 
 structure — a weakness arising not from inadequacy 
 of plot (for the plot is coherent and substantial 
 enough), but from the way in which it is unfolded. 
 Instead of going straight to its end, the story con- 
 tinually wanders off the track to incidents which help 
 it forward little, if any. Fielding's French and Span- 
 ish models, of course, are responsible for this leisurely, 
 uncertain movement. They have no very definite 
 ends to reach, and they frequently digress into so- 
 called " novels " — that is, short stories distinct from 
 the main tale — or into long-winded life-histories of 
 characters in the main story. It is not so surprising, 
 therefore, that similar digressive episodes are found in 
 Joseph Andrews, as that here they break the thread of 
 the principal narrative much less than they do in most 
 works in which they appear. Mr. Wilson's history 
 is shown by subsequent disclosures to be scarcely 
 irrelevant at all ; and the less relevant stories of 
 Leonora, the unfortunate jilt, and of Leonard 
 and Paul are made acceptable (if not almost in- 
 tegrant) parts of the main tale by the very char- 
 acteristic interruptions of Parson Adams and the 
 other hearers. 
 
 [xxv]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 But if Joseph Andreics is weak in one of the ele- 
 ments of a good novel, in the other two it is strong. 
 Were its structure much less firm that it is, the 
 reality of its characters and of its scenes would still 
 keep it alive. Nowhere in earlier English prose will 
 you find such a living character as Parson Adams 
 appearing in a series of credible scenes so closely con- 
 nected. And nowhere in English prose, later or 
 earlier, will you find a character more lovable in his 
 simplicity. In the chapters which introduce him, as 
 elsewhere in Joseph Andrews^ the influence of Cer- 
 vantes is strongly apparent ; there is more than one 
 resemblance between Adams and Don Quixote. 
 They are alike, as Scott has ob «rved, in that both 
 are beaten too much ; and notwithstanding some 
 obvious differences, they are alike in their natures. 
 Natui'ally a Spanish gentleman of the sixteenth 
 century, with his head full of the romances of 
 chivalry, must be in many ways different from a poor 
 English clergyman of the eighteenth century, with 
 his head fall of the Greek poets. And yet Parson 
 Adams, for all his pedantry, is the same sort of 
 simple, pure-minded gentleman as that dear, crazy 
 old Don — one of the truest gentlemen in the world. 
 There is another gentleman — his portrait is given 
 us by the novelist who of nineteenth century writers 
 is most like Fielding — who always seems to me to 
 take his place properly beside Don Quixote and 
 Parson Adams — I mean Colonel Newcome. It 
 would be hard to find three men with finer gentle- 
 manly feelings than these. 
 
 Adams is unquestionably the great character of 
 [ rxvi ]
 
 INTRODUCTIOxN 
 
 Joseph Andrews. Joseph himself and Fanny, in 
 spite of their importance in the plot, interest us less. 
 Indeed, like many stage-lovers, they are less alive 
 than most of the other characters. They are not so 
 interesting as the young people whom Fielding was 
 to create later — as Tom Jones and Sophia Western, 
 or as Booth and Amelia. In Mrs. Slipslop, however, 
 is a character-sketch which Fielding could not have 
 bettered ; she is a mixture of servility, impertinence, 
 hypocrisy, and sensuality that could not be sui- 
 passed. Nor is Mrs. JNIalapiop herself more amusing 
 in the " nice derangement of her epitaphs "" than 
 Slipslop, when she talks about " flagrant crimes "" 
 and the " infections," meaning affections, " of her 
 sect."" 
 
 As to the rest of the characters, it is enough to say 
 that, even if they are on the stage but a few minutes, 
 lliey act their parts to the life. Parson Trullibcr, 
 for instance, appears in only one chapter, but he 
 is a figure in our literature forever. The people of 
 Joseph Andre'iCS aU live, and that is the great merit 
 of the book. It proves, as I have said, that the 
 English novel is a literary form unsurpassed for giv- 
 ing pictures of actual life. A reader feels that he 
 has really travelled along the road from London to 
 Somersetshire, stopped at the inns kept by Mr. and 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse and others, and ridden in the stage- 
 coach to which Joseph was admitted after so much 
 dispute. A rough life it is and a coarse life, but it 
 gives you the fresh breath of the fields and the woods, 
 and it makes you feel in the best physical condition. 
 Unless you are squeamish, you feel in good mental 
 [ xxvii ]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 condition, too, for you have had the vices and foibles 
 and also the virtues of life pointed out and com- 
 mented on frankly, shrewdly, and sympathetically by 
 one of the sanest observers of human nature who 
 ever lived. 
 
 G. H. Maynadier. 
 
 [ xxviii ]
 
 AUTHOR S PREFACE 
 
 j^ S it is possible the mere English reader 
 /^^ may have a different idea of romance 
 
 / ■ ^ ^ from the author of these little^ volumes, 
 ^ jk. and may consequently expect a kind of 
 entertainment not to be found, nor which was even 
 intended, in the following pages, it may not be 
 improper to premise a few words concerning this 
 kind of writing, which I do not remember to have 
 seen hitherto attempted in our language. 
 
 The Epic, as well as the Drama, is divided into 
 tragedy and comedy. Homer, 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 relation to 
 comedy which his Iliad bears to tragedy. And per- 
 haps, that we have no more instances of it among 
 the writers of antiquity, is owing to the loss of this 
 great pattei'n, 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 mil not scruple to say it may be likewise 
 either in verse or prose : for though it wants one 
 particular, which the critic enumerates in the con- 
 
 1 Joseph Andrews was originally published in 2 vols. 12mo. 
 [ xxix ]
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 stituent parts of an epic poem, namely metre ; yet, 
 when any kind of writing contains all its other parts, 
 such as fable, action, characters, sentiments, and 
 diction, and is deficient in metre only, it seems, I 
 think, reasonable to refer it to the epic ; at least, as 
 no critic hath thought proper to range it under any 
 other head, or to assign it a particular name to 
 itself. 
 
 Thus the Telemachus of the archbishop of Cam- 
 bray appears to me of the epic kind, as well as the 
 Odyssey of Homer ; indeed, it is much fairer and 
 more reasonable to give it a name common with that 
 species from which it differs only in a single instance, 
 than to confound it with those which it resembles in 
 no other. Such are those voluminous works, com- 
 monly called Romances, namely, Clelia, Cleopatra, 
 Astraea, Cassandra, the Grand Cyrus, and innumer- 
 able others, which contain, as I apprehend, very 
 little instruction or entertainment. 
 
 Now, a comic romance is a comic epic poem in 
 prose ; differing from comedy, as the serious epic 
 from tragedy: its action being more extended and 
 comprehensive; containing a much larger circle of 
 incidents, and introducing a greater variety of char- 
 acters. It differs from the serious romance in its 
 fable and action, in this ; that as in the one these 
 are grave and solemn, so in the other they are light 
 and ridiculous ; it differs in its characters by intro- 
 ducing persons of inferior rank, and consequently, 
 of inferior manners, whereas the grave romance sets 
 the highest before us : lastly, in its sentiments and 
 diction ; by preserving the ludia'ous instead of the 
 [xxx]
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 sublime. In the diction, I think, burlesque itself 
 may be sometimes admitted ; of which many instances 
 will occur in this work, as in the description of the 
 battles, and some other places, not necessary to be 
 pointed out to the classical reader, for whose enter- 
 tainment those parodies or burlesque imitations are 
 chiefly calculated. 
 
 But though we have sometimes admitted this in 
 our diction, we have carefully excluded it from our 
 sentiments and characters ; for there it is never prop- 
 erly introduced, unless in writings of the burlesque 
 kind, which this is not intended to be. Indeed, no 
 two species of writing can differ more widely than 
 the comic and the burlesque ; for as the latter is 
 ever the exhibition of what is monstrous and un- 
 natural, and where our delight, if we examine it, 
 arises from the surprizing absurdity, as in appro- 
 priating the manners of the highest to the lowest, or 
 c converso ; so in the former we should ever confine 
 ourselves strictly to nature, from the just imitation 
 of which will flow all the pleasure we can this way 
 convey to a sensible reader. And perhaps there is 
 one reason why a comic writer should of all others 
 be the least excused for deviating from nature, since 
 it may not be always so easy for a serious poet to 
 meet with the great and the admirable ; but life 
 everywhere furnishes an accurate observer with the 
 ridiculous. 
 
 I have hinted this little concerning burlesque, 
 because I have often heard that name given to per- 
 formances ^which have been truly of the comic kind, 
 from the author's having sometimes admitted it in 
 [ xxxi J
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 his diction only ; which, as it is the dress of poetry, 
 doth, like the dress of men, establish characters ( the 
 one of the whole poem, and the other of the whole 
 man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater 
 excellences : but surely, a certain drollery in stile, 
 where characters and sentiments are perfectly natural, 
 no more constitutes the burlesque, than an empty 
 pomp and dignity of words, where everj'thing else is 
 mean and low, can entitle any performance to the 
 appellation of the true sublime. 
 
 And I apprehend my Lord Shaftesbury's opinion 
 of mere burlesque agrees with mine, when he asserts, 
 There is no such thing to be found in the writings 
 of the ancients. But perhaps I have less abhorrence 
 than he professes for it ; and that, not because I have 
 had some little success on the stage this way, but 
 rather as it contributes more to exquisite mirth and 
 laughter than any other; and these are probably 
 more wholesome physic for the mind, and conduce 
 better to purge away spleen, melancholy, and ill 
 aflPections, than is generally imagined. Nay, I will 
 appeal to common observation, whether the same 
 companies are not found more full of good-humour 
 and benevolence, after they have been s\^ eetened for 
 two or three hours with entertainments of this kind, 
 than when soured by a tragedy or a grave lectm'e. 
 
 But to illustrate all this by another science, in 
 which, perhaps, we shall see the distinction more 
 clearly and plainly, let us examine the works of a 
 comic history painter, with those performances 
 which the Italians call Caricatura, where we shall 
 find the true excellence of the former to consist in 
 [ xxxii ]
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 the exactest copying of nature ; insomuch that a 
 judicious eye instantly rejects anything oidrk^ any 
 hberty which the painter hath taken with the features 
 of that alma mater; whereas in the Caricatura we 
 allow all licence — its aim is to exliibit monsters, not 
 men ; and all distortions and exaggerations 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 Mon- 
 strous is much easier to paint than describe, and the 
 Ridiculous to describe than paint. 
 
 And though perhaps this latter species doth not 
 in either science so strongly affect and agitate the 
 muscles as the other ; yet it will be owned, I believe, 
 that a more rational and useful pleasure arises to us 
 from it. He who should call the ingenious Hogarth 
 a burlesque painter, would, in my opinion, do him 
 very little honour ; for sure it is much easier, much 
 less the subject of admiration, to paint a man with 
 a nose, or any other feature, of a preposterous size, 
 or to expose him in some absurd or monstrous atti- 
 tude, than to express the affections of men on canvas. 
 It hath been thought a vast commendation of a 
 painter to say his figures seem to breathe ; but 
 surely it is a much greater and nobler applause, that 
 they appear to think. 
 
 But to return. Tlie Ridiculous onlv, as I have 
 before said, falls within my province in the present 
 [ xxxiii j
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 work. Nor will some explanation of this word be 
 thought impertinent by the reader, if he considers 
 how wonderfully it hath been mistaken, even by 
 writers who have professed it : for to what but such 
 a mistake can we attribute the manv attempts to 
 ridicule the blackest villanies, and, what is yet worse, 
 the most dreadful calamities ? "What could exceed 
 the absurdity of an author, who should \vrite the 
 comedy of Nero, with the merry incident of ripping 
 up his mother's belly ? or what would give a gi-eater 
 shock to humanity than an attempt to expose the 
 miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule ? And 
 yet the reader will not want much learning to suggest 
 such instances to himself. 
 
 Besides, it may seem remarkable, that Aristotle, 
 who is so fond and free of definitions, hath not 
 thought proper to define the Ridiculous. Indeed, 
 where he tells us it is proper to comedy, he hath 
 remarked that villany is not its object : but he hath 
 not, as I remember, positively asserted what is. 
 Nor doth the Abbe Bellegarde, who hath written a 
 treatise on this subject, though he shows us many 
 species of it, once trace it to its fountain. 
 ST^ The only soui'ce of the true Ridiculous (as it 
 appears to me) is affectation. But though it arises 
 from one spring only, when we consider the infinite 
 streams into which this one branches, we shall pres- 
 ently cease to admire at the copious field it affords 
 to an observer. Now, affectation proceeds from one 
 of these two causes, vanity or hypocrisy : for as vanity 
 puts us on affecting false cha,racters, in order to pur- 
 chase applause ; so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavour 
 [ xxxiv ]
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 to avoid censure, by concealing our vices under an 
 appearance of their opposite virtues. And though 
 these two causes are often confounded (for there is 
 some difficulty in distinguishing them), yet, as they 
 proceed from very different motives, so they are as 
 clearly distinct in their operations; for indeed, the 
 affectation which arises from vanity is nearer to truth 
 than the other, as it hath not that violent repug- 
 nancy of nature to struggle with, which that of the 
 hypocrite hath. It may be likewise noted, that 
 affectation doth not imply an absolute negation of 
 those qualities which are affected; and, therefore, 
 though, when it proceeds from hypocrisy, it be 
 nearly allied to deceit; yet when it comes from 
 vanity only, it partakes of the nature of ostentation : 
 for instance, the affectation of liberality in a vain 
 man differs visibly from the same affectation in the 
 avaricious ; for though the vain man is not what he 
 would appear, or hath not the virtue he affects, to 
 the degree he would be thought to have it ; yet it 
 sits less awkwardly on him than on the avaricious 
 man, who is the very reverse of what he would seem 
 to be. 
 
 From the discovery of this affectation ai'ises the 
 Ridiculous, which always strikes the reader with sur- 
 prize and pleasure ; and that in a higher and stronger 
 d^ree when the affectation arises from hypocrisy, 
 than when from vanity ; for to discover any one to 
 be the exact reverse of what he affects, is more sur- 
 prizing, and consequently more ridiculous, than to 
 find him a little deficient in the quality he desires 
 the reputation of. I might obsene that our Ben 
 
 [ XXXV J
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 Jonson, who of all men understood the Ridiculous the 
 best, hath chiefly used the hypocritical affectation. 
 
 Now, from affectation only, the misfortunes and 
 calamities of life, or the imperfections of nature, 
 may become the objects of ridicule. Surely he hath 
 a very ill-framed mind who can look on ugliness, 
 infirmity, or poverty, as ridiculous in themselves : 
 nor do I believe any man living, who meets a dirty 
 fellow riding through the streets in a cart, is struck 
 with an idea of the Ridiculous from it ; but if he 
 should see the same figure descend from his coach 
 and six, or bolt from his chair with his hat under 
 his arm, he would then begin to laugh, and with jus- 
 tice. In the same manner, were we to enter a poor 
 house and behold a wretched family shivering with 
 cold and languishing with hunger, it would not 
 incline us to laughter (at least we must have very 
 diabolical natures if it would) ; but should we dis- 
 cover there a grate, instead of coals, adorned with 
 flowei's, empty plate or china dishes on the side- 
 board, or any other affectation of riches and finery, 
 either on their persons or in their furniture, we 
 might then indeed be excused for ridiculing so fan- 
 tastical an appearance. Much less are natural 
 imperfections the object of derision ; but when ugli- 
 ness aims at the applause of beauty, or lameness 
 endeavours to display agility, it is then that these 
 unfortunate circumstances, which at first moved our 
 compassion, tend only to raise our mirth. 
 
 The poet cames this very far : — 
 
 None are for being what they are in fault. 
 But for not being what they would be thought 
 [ xxxvi j
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 Where if the metre would suffer the word Ridiculous 
 to close the first line, the thought would be i-ather 
 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 omu rules introduced vices, and of a very 
 black kind, into this work. To which I shall answer : 
 first, that it is very difficult to pursue a series of 
 human actions, and keep clear from them. Secondly, 
 that the vices to be found here are rather the acci- 
 dental consequences of some human frailty or foible, 
 than causes habitually existing in the mind. Thirdly, 
 that they are never set forth as the objects of ridicule, 
 but detestation. Fourthly, that tliey are never the 
 principal figure at that time on the scene : and, 
 lastly, they never produce tlie intended evil. 
 
 Having thus distinguished Joseph Andrews from 
 the productions of romance writers on the one hand 
 and burlesque writers on the other, and given some 
 few very short hints (for I intended no more) of this 
 species of writing, which I have affirmed to be 
 hitherto unattempted in our language ; I shall leave 
 to my good-natured reader to apply my piece to my 
 observations, and will detain him no longer than with 
 a word concerning the characters in this work. 
 
 And here I solemnly protest I have no intention 
 to vilify or asperse any one ; for though everything is 
 copied from the book of nature, and scarce a char- 
 acter or action produced which I have not taken 
 from my own observations and experience; yet J 
 [ xxxvii ]
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 have used the utmost care to obscure the persons by 
 such different circumstances, degrees, and colours, 
 that it will be impossible to guess at them with any 
 degree of certainty ; and if it ever happens other- 
 wise, it is only where the failure characterized is so 
 minute, that it is a foible only which the party 
 himself may laugh at as well as any other. 
 
 As to tlie character of Adams, as it is the most 
 glaring in the whole, so I conceive it is not to be 
 found in any book now extant. It is designed a 
 character of perfect simplicity ; and as the goodness 
 of his heart will recommend him to the good-natured, 
 so I hope it will excuse me to the gentlemen of his 
 cloth ; for whom, while they are worthy of their sacred 
 order, no man can possibly have a greater respect. 
 They will therefore excuse me, notwthstanding the 
 low adventures in which he is engaged, that I have 
 made him a clergyman ; since no other office could 
 have given him so many opportunities of displaying 
 his worthy inclinations. 
 
 [ xxxviii ]
 
 THE HISTORY of the ADVENTURES 
 
 0/ JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 AND HIS FRIEND MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 OP WRITING LIVES IN GENERAL, AND PARTICULARLY OF 
 PAMELA ; WITH A WORD BY THE BYE OF COLLEY 
 GIBBER AND OTHERS. 
 
 IT is a trite but true observation, that examples 
 work more forcibly on the mind than pre- 
 cepts : and if this be just in what is odious 
 and blameable, it is more strongly so in what 
 is amiable and praiseworthy. Here enmlation most 
 effectually operates upon us, and inspires our imita- 
 tion in an irresistible manner. A good man there- 
 fore is a standing lesson to all his acquaintance, and 
 of far greater use in that narrow circle than a good 
 book. 
 
 But as it often happens that the best men are but 
 little known, and consequently cannot extend the 
 usefulness of their examples a great way ; the writer 
 may be called in aid to spread their history farther, 
 
 Veil. 1 *
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and to present the amiable pictures to those who 
 have not the happiness of knowing the originals ; 
 and so, by communicating such valuable patterns to 
 the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive ser- 
 vice to mankind than the person whose life originally 
 afforded the pattern. 
 
 In this light I have always regarded those biogra- 
 phers who have recorded the actions of great and 
 worthy persons of both sexes. Not to mention those 
 antient writers which of late days are little read, 
 being written in obsolete, and as they are generally 
 thought, unintelligible languages, such as Plutarch, 
 Nepos, and others which I heard of in my youth ; 
 our own language affords many of excellent use and 
 instruction, finely calculated to sow the seeds of 
 virtue in youth, and very easy to be comprehended 
 by persons of moderate capacity. Such as the 
 history of John the Great, who, by his brave and 
 heroic actions against men of large and athletic 
 bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the 
 Giant-killer ; that of an Earl of Warwick, whose 
 Christian name was Guy ; the lives of Argalus and 
 Parthenia ; and above all, the history of those seven 
 worthy personages, the Champions of Christendom. 
 In all these delight is mixed with instruction, and the 
 reader is almost as much improved as entertained. 
 
 But I pass by these and many others to men- 
 tion two books lately published, which represent 
 [2j
 
 THE PREVALENCE OF EXAMPLE 
 
 an admirable pattern of the amiable in either sex. 
 The former of these, which deals in male virtue, was 
 written by the great person himself, who lived the 
 life he hath recorded, and is by many thought to 
 have lived such a life only in order to write it. The 
 other is communicated to us by an historian who 
 borrows his lights, as the common method is, from 
 authentic papers and records. The reader, I believe, 
 already conjectures, I mean the lives of Mr. Colley 
 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 worldly grandeur ! 
 how strongly doth he inculcate an absolute sub- 
 mission to our superiors ! Lastly, how completely 
 doth he arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a 
 passion as the fear of shame ! how clearly doth he 
 expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom, 
 reputation ! 
 
 What the female readers are taught by the mem- 
 oirs of Mrs. Andrews is so well set forth in the 
 excellent essays or letters prefixed to the second and 
 subsequent editions of that work, that it would be 
 here a needless repetition. The authentic history with 
 which I now present the public is an instance of the 
 great good that book is likely to do, and of the 
 prevalence of example which I have just observed: 
 since it will appear that it was by keeping the excel- 
 
 [8]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 lent pattern of his sister's virtues before his eyes, 
 that jMr. Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to pre- 
 serve his purity in the midst of such great tempta- 
 tions. I shall only add that this character of male 
 chastity, though doubtless as desirable and becoming 
 in one part of the human species as in the other, is 
 almost the only virtue which the great apologist hath 
 not given himself for the sake of giving the example 
 to his readers. 
 
 [4j
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 OF MR. JOSEPH AKDUEWS, HIS BIRTH, PARENTAGE, EDUCA- 
 TION', AND GREAT ENDOWMENTS ; WITH A WORD OR 
 TWO CONCERNING ANCESTORS. 
 
 MR. JOSEPH ANDREWS, the hero of 
 our ensuing history, was esteemed to 
 be the only son of Gaff'ar and Gam- 
 mer Andrews, and brother to the 
 illustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so 
 famous. As to his ancestors, we have searched with 
 great diligence, but little success ; being unable to 
 trace them farther than his great-grandfather, who, 
 as an elderly pei-son in the parish remembers to have 
 heard his father say, was an excellent cudgel-player. 
 "Wliether he had any ancestors before this, we must 
 leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding 
 nothing of sufficient certainty to rely on. However, 
 we cannot omit inserting an epitaph which an ingen- 
 ious friend of ours hath communicated : — 
 
 Stay, traveller, for underneath this pew 
 Lies fast asleep that merry man Andrew : 
 When the last day's great sun shall gild the skies, 
 Tlien he shall from his torab get up and rise. 
 Be merry while thou canst : for surely thou 
 Shalt shortly be as sad as he is now. 
 
 [5J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 The words are almost out of the stone with antiquitj. 
 But it is needless to observe that Andrew here is 
 writ without an s, and is, besides, a Christian name. 
 My friend, moreover, conjectures this to have been 
 y the founder of that sect of laughing philosophers 
 since called Merry-andrews. 
 
 To waive, therefore, a circumstance which, though 
 mentioned in conformity to the exact rules of 
 biography, is not greatly material, I proceed to 
 things of more consequence. Indeed, it is sufficiently 
 certain that he had as many ancestors as the best 
 man living, and, perhaps, if we look five or six hun- 
 dred years backwards, might be related to some 
 persons of very great figure at present, whose ances- 
 tors within half the last century are buried in as 
 great obscurity. But suppose, for argument's sake, 
 we should admit that he had no ancestors at all, but 
 had sprung up, according to the modern phrase, out 
 of a dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they them- 
 selves did from the earth, would not this autokopros ^ 
 have been justly entitled to all the praise arising 
 from his own virtues.? Would it not be hard that a 
 man who hath no ancestors should therefore be ren- 
 dered incapable of acquiring honour; when we see 
 so many who have no virtues enjoying the honour of 
 their forefathers ? At ten years old ( by which time 
 his education was advanced to writing and reading ) 
 1 In English, sprung from a dunghill. 
 
 [6]
 
 A SPIRITED RIDER 
 
 he was bound an apprentice, according to the statute, 
 to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr. Booby's by 
 the father's side. Sir Thomas having then an estate 
 in his own hands, the young Andrews was at first 
 employed in what in the country they call keeping 
 birds. His office was to perform the part the ancients 
 assigned to the god Priapus, which deity the moderns 
 call by the name of Jack o' Lent ; but his voice 
 being so extremely musical, that it rather allured 
 the birds than terrified them, he was soon trans- 
 planted from the fields into the dog-kennel, where 
 he was placed under the huntsman, and made what 
 the sportsmen term whipper - in. For this place 
 likewise the sweetness of his voice disqualified him ; 
 the dogs preferring the melody of his chiding to all 
 the alluring notes of the huntsman, who soon became 
 so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to pro- 
 vide otherwise for him, and constantly laid every fault 
 the dogs were at to the account of the poor boy, 
 who was now transplanted to the stable. Here he 
 soon gave proofs of strength and agility beyond his 
 years, and constantly rode the most spirited and 
 vicious horses to water, with an intrepidity which sur- 
 prised every one. While he was in this station, he 
 rode several races for Sir Thomas, and this with such 
 expertness and success, that the neighbouring gentle- 
 men frequently solicited the knight to permit little 
 Joey ( for so he was called ) to ride their matches.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 The best gamesters, before they laid their money, 
 always inquired which horse little Joey was to ride ; 
 and the bets were rather proportioned by the rider 
 than by the horse himself; especially after he had 
 scornfully refused a considerable bribe to play booty 
 on such an occasion. This extremely raised his char- 
 acter, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that she desired 
 to have him ( being now seventeen years of age ) for 
 her own footboy. 
 
 Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend 
 on his lady, to go on her errands, stand behind 
 her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry her pra^er- 
 book to church ; at which place his voice gave him 
 an opportunity of distinguishing himself by singing 
 psalms : he behaved likewise in every other respect so 
 well at Divine service, that it recommended him to 
 the notice of Mr. 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 
 roan several questions concerning religion ; with his 
 answers to which he was wonderftilly pleased. 
 
 [8]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 OF MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS THE CURATE, JIRS. SLIPSLOP THE 
 CHAMBERMAID, AND OTHERS. 
 
 MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS was an ex- 
 cellent scholar. He was a perfect 
 master of the Greek and Latin lan- 
 guages ; to which he added a great share 
 of knowledge in the Oriental tongues ; and could read 
 and translate French, Italian, and Spanish. He had 
 applied many years to the most severe study, and 
 had treasured up a fund of learning rarely to be met 
 with in a university. He was, besides, a man of 
 good sense, good parts, and good nature ; but was at 
 the same time as entirely ignorant of the ways of 
 this world as an infant just entered into it could 
 possibly be. As he had never any intention to 
 deceive, so he never suspected such a design in others. 
 He was generous, friendly, and brave to an excess ; 
 but simplicity was his characteristick : he did, -no 
 more than Mr. Colley Gibber, apprehend any such 
 passions as malice and envy to exist in mankind ; 
 which was indeed less remarkable in a countr}"^ parson 
 than in a gentleman who hath passed his life behind 
 
 [9]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 the scenes, — a place which hath been seldom thought 
 the school of innocence, and where a very little 
 observation would have convinced the great apologist 
 that those passions have a real existence in the 
 human mind. 
 
 His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they 
 rendered him equal to his office, so they made hira 
 an agreeable and valuable companion, and had so 
 much endeared and well recommended him to a 
 bishop, that at the age of fifty he Avas 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 Avith a wife and six children. ] 
 
 It was this gentleman, who having, as I have said, 
 observed the singular devotion of young Andrews, 
 had found means to question him concerning several 
 particulars ; as, how many books there were in the 
 New Testament ? which were they ? how many chap- 
 ters they contained ? and such like : to all which, Mr. 
 Adams privately said, he answered much better than 
 Sir Thomas, or two other neighbouring justices of 
 the peace could probably have done. 
 
 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 learnt to read and write 
 by the goodness of his father, who, though he had 
 
 LAO]
 
 INSTANCES OF APPLICATION 
 
 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 expense of six- 
 pence a week for his learning. He told him likewise, 
 that ever since he was in Sir Thomas's family he had 
 employed all his hours of leisure in reading good 
 books ; that he had read the Bible, the Whole Duty 
 of Man, and Thomas a Kempis ; and that as often 
 as he could, without being perceived, he had studied 
 a great good book w hich lay open in the hall window, 
 where he had read, " as how the devil carried away 
 half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one 
 of the congregation ; and as how a field of corn ran 
 away down a hill with all the trees upon it, and 
 covered another man's meadow." This sufficiently 
 assured Mr. Adams that the good book meant could 
 be no other than Baker's Chronicle. 
 
 The curate, surprized to find such instances of 
 industry and application in a young man who had 
 never met with the least encouragement, asked him. 
 If he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal 
 education, and the not having been born of parents 
 who might have indulged his talents and desire of 
 knowledge ? To which he answered, " He hoped he 
 had profited somewhat better from the books he had 
 read than to lament his condition in this world. 
 That, for his part, he was perfectly content with the
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 state to whicla he was called ; that he should endeav- 
 our to improve his talent, which was all required of 
 him ; but not repine at his own lot, nor envy those 
 of his betters/' " Well said, my lad,'' replied the 
 curate ; " and I wish some who have read many 
 more good books, nay, and some who have written 
 good books themselves, had profited so much by 
 them." 
 
 Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my 
 lady than through the waiting-gentlewoman ; for Sir 
 Thomas was too apt to estimate men merely by their 
 dress or fortune ; and my lady was a woman of gaiety, 
 wlio had been blest with a town education, and never 
 spoke of any of her country neighbours by any other 
 appellation than that of the brutes. They both 
 regarded the curate as a kind of domestic 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 quan'el was a modus, by set- 
 ting which aside an advantage of several shillings 
 per annum would have accrued to the rector ; but he 
 had not yet been able to accomplish his puipose, 
 and had reaped hitherto nothing better from the 
 suits than the pleasure (which he used indeed fre- 
 quently to say was no small one) of reflecting that 
 [12]
 
 FREQUENT DISPUTES 
 
 he had vitterly undone many of the poor tenants, 
 though he had at the same time greatly impoverished 
 himself. 
 
 Mrs. Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, being 
 herself the daughter of a curate, preserved some 
 respect for Adams : she professed great regard for 
 his learning, and would frequently dispute with him 
 on points of theology ; but always insisted on a 
 deference to be paid to her understanding, as she 
 had been frequently at London, and knew more of 
 tlie world than a country parson could pretend to. 
 
 She had in these disputes a particular advantage 
 over Adams : for she was a mighty affecter of hard 
 words, which she used in such a manner that the 
 parson, who durst not offend her by calling her words 
 in question, was frequently at some loss to guess her 
 meaning, and would have been much less puzzled by 
 an Arabian manuscript. 
 
 Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, 
 after a pretty long discourse with her on the essence 
 (or, as she pleased to term it, the incence) of matter, 
 to mention the case of young Andrews ; desiring her 
 to recommend him to her lady as a youth very sus- 
 ceptible of learning, and one whose instruction in 
 Latin ho would himself undertake ; by which means 
 he might be qualified for a higher station than that 
 of a footiiian ; and added, she knew it was in his 
 master's power casilv to pre ide for him in a- better 
 [13]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 manner. He therefore desired that the boy might 
 be left behind under his care. 
 
 " La ! Mr. Adams," said Mrs. Shpslop, " do you 
 think my lady will suffer any preambles about any 
 such matter ? She is going to London very concisely, 
 and I am confidous would not leave Joey behind her 
 on any account ; for he is one of the genteelest young 
 fellows you may see in a summer''s day ; and I am 
 confidous she would as soon think of parting with a 
 pair of her grey mares, for she values herself as much 
 on one as the other." Adams would have interrupted, 
 but she proceeded : " And why is Latin more neces- 
 sitous for a footman than a gentleman ,'' It is very 
 proper that you clergymen must learn it, because 
 you can"'t preach without it : but I have heard gentle- 
 men say in London, that it is fit for nobody else. I 
 am confidous my lady would be angry with me for 
 mentioning it ; and I shall draw myself into no such 
 delemy." At which words her lady"'s bell rung, and 
 Mr. Adams was forced to retire ; nor could he gain a 
 second opportunity with her before their London 
 journey, which happened a few days afterwards. 
 However, Andrews behaved very thankfully and 
 gi'atefully to him for his intended kindness, which he 
 told him he never would forget, and at the same 
 time received from the good man many admonitions 
 concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and 
 his perseverance in innocence and industry. 
 [14]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THEIR JOTTRNEY TO LOXDON. 
 
 NO sooner was young Andrews arrived at 
 London than he began to scrape an 
 acquaintance with his party-coloured 
 brethren, who endeavoured to make 
 him despise his former course of hfe. His hair was 
 cut after the newest fashion, and became his chief 
 care; he went abroad with it all the morning in 
 papers, and drest it out in the afternoon. They 
 could not, however, teach him to game, swear, drink, 
 nor any other genteel vice the town abounded with. 
 He applied most of his leisure hours to music, in 
 which he greatly improved himself; and became so 
 perfect a connoisseur in that art, that he led the 
 opinion of all the other footmen at an opera, and 
 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-liouses and 
 assemblies ; and when he attended his lady at church 
 (which was but seldom) he behaved with less seeming 
 devotion than formerly : however, if he was out- 
 wardly a pretty fellow, his morals remained entirely 
 [15]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 uncoiTupted, though he was at the same tiniesniarccr 
 and genteeler than any of the beaus 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 
 kingdom, but that it was pity he wanted spirit, 
 began now to find that fault no longer ; on the con- 
 trary, she was frequently heard to cry out, *^ Ay, 
 there is some life in this fellow."' She plainly saw 
 the effects which the town air hath on the soberest 
 constitutions. She would now walk out with him 
 into Hyde Park in a morning, and when tired, which 
 happened almost every minute, would lean on his 
 arm, and converse with him in gi'eat familiarity. 
 Whenever she stept out of her coach, she w ould take 
 him by the hand, and sometimes, for fear of stum- 
 bling, press it very hard ; she admitted him to deliver 
 messages at her bedside in a morning, leered at him 
 at table, and indulged him in all those innocent 
 freedoms which women of figure may permit M'ithout 
 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,"' savs Lady Tittle, " can 
 [16] ■
 
 A WHISPERED SCANDAL 
 
 I believe my eyes ? Is that Lady Booby ? " — 
 " Surely/' says Tattle. " But what makes you sur- 
 prized ? " — " Why, is not that her footman ? *" 
 replied Tittle. At which Tattle laughed, and cried, 
 " An old business, I assure you : is it possible you 
 should not have heard it ? The whole town hath 
 known it this half-year." The consequence of this 
 interview was a Avhisper through a hundred visits, 
 which w ere separately performed by the two ladies ^ 
 the same afternoon, and might have had a mischiev- 
 ous effect, had it not been stopt by two fresh repu- 
 tations which were published the day afterwards, 
 and engrossed the whole talk of the town. 
 
 But, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous 
 inclination of defamers might entertain of Lady 
 Booby's innocent freedoms, it is certain they made 
 no impression on young Andrews, who never offered 
 to encroach be^-ond the liberties which his lady 
 allowed him, — a behaviour which she imputed to 
 the violent respect he preserved for her, and which 
 served only to heighten a something she began to 
 conceive, and which the next chapter ^\^ll open a 
 little farther. 
 
 ^ It may seem an absurdity that Tattle should \-isit, as she 
 actually did, to spread a known scandal .- but the reader maj"- 
 reconcile this by supposing, with me, that, notwithstanding 
 what she says, this was her first acquaintance Avith it. 
 
 [17]
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 THE DEATH OF SIE THOMAS BOOBY, WITH THE AF- 
 FECTIONATE AND MOURNFUL BEHAVIOUR OF HIS 
 WIDOW, AND THE GREAT PURITY OF JOSEPH 
 ANDREWS. 
 
 jA T this time an accident happened which put 
 / ^k ^ ^^®P ^° those agreeable walks, which 
 f"^^ probably would have soon puffed up the 
 •^ "^^ cheeks of Fame, and caused her to blow 
 her brazen trumpet through the to\vn ; and this was 
 no other than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who, 
 departing this life, left his disconsolate lady confined 
 to her house, as closely as if she herself had been 
 attacked by some violent disease. During the first 
 six days the poor lady admitted none but Mrs. 
 Slipslop, and three female friends, who made a party 
 at cards : but on the seventh she ordered Joey, 
 whom, for a good reason, we shall hereafter call 
 Joseph, to bring up her tea-kettle. The lady being 
 in bed, called Joseph to her, bade him sit down, and, 
 having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked 
 him if he had ever been in love. Joseph answered, 
 [18]
 
 DESIGNS UPON JOSEPH 
 
 with some confusion, it was time enough for one so 
 young as himself to think on such things. "As 
 young as you are," 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, 
 that all the women he had ever seen were equally 
 indifferent to him. " Oh then," said the lady, " you 
 are a general lover. Indeed, 3-ou handsome fellows, 
 like handsome women, arc very long and difficult in 
 fixing ; but yet you shall never persuade me that 
 your heart is so insusceptible of affection ; I rather 
 impute what you say to your secrecy, a very com- 
 mendable quality, and what I am far from being 
 angry with you for. Nothing can be more unworthy 
 in a young man, than to betray any intimacies with 
 the ladies." " Ladies ! madam," said Joseph, " I am 
 sure I never had the impudence to think of any that 
 deserve that name." " Don't pretend to too much 
 modesty," said she, " for that sometimes may be 
 impertinent : but pray answer me this question. 
 Suppose a lady should happen to like you ; suppose 
 she should prefer you to all your sex, and admit you 
 to the same familiarities as you might have hoped 
 for if you had been born her equal, are you certain 
 that no vanity could tempt you to discover her ? 
 Answer me honestly, Joseph ; have you so much more 
 sense and so much more virtue than you handsome 
 [19j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 young fellows generally have, who make no scruple 
 of sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride, with- 
 out considering the great obligation we lay on you 
 by our condescension and confidence ? Can you 
 keep a secret, my Joey ? " " Madam," says he, " I 
 hope your ladyship can't tax me with ever betraying 
 the secrets of the family ; and I hope, if you was to 
 turn me away, I might have that character of you." 
 " I don't intend to turn you away, Joey," said she, and 
 sighed ; " I am afraid it is not in my power." She 
 then raised herself a little in her bed, and discovered 
 one of the whitest necks that ever was seen ; at which 
 Joseph blushed. " La ! " says she, in an affected 
 surprize, " what am I doing ? I have trusted myself 
 with a man alone, naked in bed ; suppose you should 
 have any wicked intentions upon my honour, how 
 should I defend myself.''" Joseph protested that he 
 never had the least evil design against her. " No," 
 says she, "perhaps you may not call your designs 
 wicked ; and perhaps they are not so." — He swore 
 they were not. " You misimdei-stand me," sa^'s she 
 " I mean if they were against my honour, they mav 
 not be wicked ; but the world calls them so. But 
 then, say you, the world will never know anvthing 
 of the matter ; vet would not that be trustincj to 
 your secrecy ? Must not my reputation be then in 
 your power ? Would you not then be my master .'' " 
 Joseph begged her ladvbhip to be comforted ; for 
 [*20]
 
 JOSEPirS PURITY 
 
 that he would nevei' 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 sus[)ect 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, " do 
 you think it would not disoblige me then ? Do you 
 think I Mould 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." — " Madam," said Joseph, " I would not have 
 your ladyship think any evil of me. I have always 
 endeavoured to be a dutiful servant both to you and 
 my master." — " O thou villain ! " answered my lady ; 
 " why didst thou mention the name of that dear 
 man, unless to torment me, to bring his precious 
 memory to my mind .'' " (and then she burst into a 
 fit of tears.) " Get thee from my sight ! I shall 
 [21]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 never endure thee more." At ■which words she 
 turned away from 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. 
 
 [2«]
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 HOW JOSEPH ANDREWS WRIT A LETTER TO HIS SISTEE 
 PAMELA. 
 
 •* To Mns. Pamela Andrews, Itvinff with Squire Booby. 
 
 DEAR SISTER, — Since I received your 
 letter of your good lady's death, we have 
 had a misfortune of the same kind in our 
 family. My worthy master Sir Thomas 
 died about four days ago ; and, what is worse, my poor 
 lady is certainly gone distracted. None of the servants 
 expected her to take it so to heart, because they quar- 
 relled almost every day of their lives : but no more of 
 that, because you know, Pamela, I never loved to tell 
 the secrets of my master's family ; but to be sure you 
 must have known they never loved one another ; and I 
 have heard her ladyship wish his honour dead above a 
 thousand times ; but nobody knows what it is to lose a 
 friend till they have lost him. 
 
 " Don't tell anybody what I write, because I should 
 not care to have folks say I discover what passes in our 
 family ; but if it had not been so great a lady, I should 
 have thought she had had a mind 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 G>vent 
 [23]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Garden, while she wanted him to be no better than he 
 should be. 
 
 '*' If madam be mad, f shall not care for staying long 
 in the family ; so I heartily wish you could get me a 
 place, either at the squire's, or some other neighbouring 
 gentleman's, unless it be true that you are going to be 
 married to parson Williams, as folks talk, and then I 
 should be very willing to be his clerk ; for which you 
 know I am qualified, being able to read and to set a 
 psalm. 
 
 " I fancy I shall be discharged very soon ; and the 
 moment I am, unless I hear from you, I shall return to 
 my old master's country-seat, if it be only to see parson 
 Adams, who is the best man in the world. London is 
 a bad place, and there is so little good fellowship, that 
 the next-door neighbours don't know one another. 
 Pray give my service to all friends that inquire for me. 
 So I rest 
 
 " Your loving brother, 
 
 "Joseph Andrews." 
 
 As soon a« Joseph had sealed and directed this 
 letter he walked downstairs, where he met Mrs. Slip- 
 slop, 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 
 [24]
 
 MRS. SLIPSLOP 
 
 was likewise rather too large, and her eyes too little ; 
 nor did she resemble a cow so much in her breath as 
 in two brown globes which she cairied before her; 
 one of her legs was also a httle shorter than the 
 other, which occasioned her to limp as slie walked. 
 This fair creature had long cast the eyes of affection 
 on Joseph, in which she had not met with quite so 
 good success as she probably wished, though, besides 
 the allurements of her native charms, she had given 
 him tea, sweetmeats, wine, and many other delicacies, 
 of which, by keeping the keys, she had the absolute 
 command. Joseph, however, had not returned the 
 least gratitude to all these favours, not even so much 
 as a kiss ; though I would not insinuate she was so 
 easily to be satisfied ; for surely then he would have 
 been highly blameable. The truth is, she was arrived 
 at an age when she thought she might indulge her- 
 self in any liberties with a man, without the danger 
 of bringing a third person into the world to betray 
 them. She imagined that by so long a self-denial 
 she had not only made amends for the small slip of 
 her youth above hinted at, but had Hkewise laid up 
 a quantity of merit to excuse any futui-e failings. 
 In a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorous 
 inclinations, and to pay off the debt of pleasure 
 which she found she owed herself, as fast as possible. 
 With these charms of person, and in this disposi- 
 tion of mind, she encountered poor Joseph at the 
 [25]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 bottom of the stairs, and asked him if he would drink 
 a glass of something good this morning. Joseph, 
 whose spirits were not a little cast down, very 
 readily and thankfully accepted the offer ; and 
 together they went into a closet, where, having 
 delivei-ed him a fiill glass of ratafia, and desired him 
 to sit down, Mrs. Slipslop thus began : — 
 
 " Sure nothing can be a more simple contract in 
 a woman than to place 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. AVljereas a boy proposes 
 upon us to break through all the regulations of 
 modesty, before we can make any oppression upon 
 him." Joseph, who did not understand a word she 
 said, answered, *' Yes, madam." — " Yes, madam ! " 
 replied Mrs. Slipslop with some warmth, " Do you 
 intend to result my passion ? Is it not enough, 
 ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the 
 favours I have done you ; but you must treat me 
 with ironing .'* Barbarous monster ! how have I 
 deserved that my passion should be resulted and 
 treated with ironing ? " " Madam," answered Joseph, 
 "I don't understand your hard words; but I am 
 ceiiain you have no occasion to call me ungrateful, 
 for, so far from intending you any wrong, I have 
 always loved you as well as if you had been my own 
 [26]
 
 JOSEPH'S ESCAPE 
 
 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 
 whatsomdever : but I ought to despise you rather 
 than be angry with you, for referring the conver- 
 sation of girls to that of a woman of sense,'" — 
 " Madam,'" says Joseph, " I am sure I have always 
 valued the honour you did me by your conversation, 
 for I know you are a woman of learning." — " Yes, 
 but, Joseph," said she, a little softened by the com- 
 pliment to her learning, " if you had a value for me, 
 you certainly would have found some method of 
 showing it me ; for I am convicted you must see the 
 value I have for you. Yes, Joseph, my eyes, whether 
 I would or no, nmst have declared a passion I cannot 
 conquer. — Oh ! Joseph ! "" 
 
 As when a hungry tigi*ess, who long has traversed 
 the woods in fruitless search, sees within the reach of 
 her claws a lamb, she prepares to leap on her prey ; 
 or as a voracious pike, of immense size, surveys 
 through the liquid element a roach or gudgeon, 
 which cannot escape her jaws, opens them wide to 
 swallow the little fish ; so did Mrs. Slipslop prepare 
 to lay her violent amorous hands on the poor Joseph, 
 when luckily her mistress's bell rung, and delivered 
 the intended martyr from her clutches. She was 
 
 [a7j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer the 
 execution of her purpose till some other time. We 
 shall therefore return to the Lady Booby, and give 
 our reader some account of her behaviour, after she 
 was left by Joseph in a temper of inind not greatly 
 different from that of the inflamed Slipslop. 
 
 [28]
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 SAYINGS OF WISE MEN. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE LADY 
 AND HER MAID ; AND A PANEGYRIC, OR RATHER 
 SATIRE, ON THE PASSION OF LOVE, IN THE SUBLIME 
 
 STYLE. 
 
 IT is the observation of some antient sage, 
 whose name I have forgot, that passions operate 
 differently on the human mind, as diseases on 
 the body, in proportion to the strength or 
 weakness, soundness or rottenness, of the one and 
 the other. 
 
 We hope, therefore, a judicious reader will give 
 himself some pains to observe, what we have so greatly 
 laboured to describe, the different operations of this 
 passion of love in the gentle and cultivated mind of 
 the Lady Booby, from those which it effected in the 
 less polished and coarser disposition of Mrs. Slipslop. 
 Another philosopher, whose name also at present 
 escapes my memory, hath somewhere said, that reso- 
 lutions taken in the absence of the beloved object 
 are very apt to vanish in its presence ; on both which 
 wise sayings the following chapter may serve as a 
 comment. 
 
 [29]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 No sooner had Joseph left the room in the man- 
 ner we liave before related than the lady, enraged 
 at her disappointment, began to reflect with severity 
 on her conduct. Her love was now changed to dis- 
 dain, which pride assisted to torment her. She 
 despised herself for the meanness of her passion, and 
 Joseph for its ill success. However, she had now 
 got the better of it in her own opinion, and deter- 
 mined immediately to dismiss the object. After 
 much tossing and turning in her bed, and many 
 soliloquies, which if we had no better matter for our 
 reader we would give him, she at last rung the bell 
 as above mentioned, and was presently attended by 
 Mi's. Slipslop, who was not much better pleased with 
 Joseph than the lady herself. 
 
 " Slipslop,"" said Lady Booby, " when did you see 
 Joseph ? "" The poor woman was so surprized at the 
 unexpected sound of his name at so critical a time, 
 that she had the greatest difficulty to conceal the 
 confusion she was under from her mistress ; whom 
 she answered, nevertheless, with pretty good confi- 
 dence, though not entirely void of fear of suspicion, 
 that she had not seen him that morning. "I am 
 afraid," said Lady Booby, "he is a wild young 
 fellow. "" — " That he is," said Slipslop, " and a wicked 
 one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, 
 and fights eternally ; besides, he is horribly indicted 
 to wenching." — " Ay ! " said the lady, " I never 
 [30]
 
 A DIALOGUE 
 
 heard that of him." — " O madam ! " answered the 
 other, " he is so lewd a rascal, that if your ladyship 
 keeps him much longer, you will not have one virgin 
 in your house except myself. And yet I can't con- 
 ceive what the wenches see in him, to be so foolishly 
 fond as they are ; in my eyes, he is as ugly a scare- 
 crow as I ever upheld." — " Nay," said the lady, 
 "the boy is well enough," — "La! ma'am," cries 
 Slipslop, " 1 think him the ragmaticallest fellow in 
 the family," — " Sure, SHpslop," says she, "you are 
 mistaken : but which of the women do you most 
 suspect?" — "Madam," says Slipslop, "there is 
 Betty the chambermaid, I am almost convicted, is 
 with child by him." — " Ay ! " says the lady, " then 
 pray pay her her wages instantly. I will keep no 
 such sluts in my family. And as for Joseph, you 
 may discard him too." — " Would your ladyship 
 have him paid oif immediately ? " cries Slipslop, " for 
 perhaps, when Betty is gone he may mend : and 
 really the boy is a good servant, and a strong healthy 
 luscious boy enough." — " This morning," answered 
 the lady with some vehemence. " I wish, madam," 
 cries Slipslop, "your ladyship would be so good as 
 to try him a little longer." — "I will not have my 
 commands disputed," said the lady ; " sure you are 
 not fond of him yourself.? " — " I, madam ! " cries 
 Slipslop, reddening, if not blushing, " I should be 
 sorry to think your ladyship had any reason to 
 [31]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 respect me of fondness for a fellow ; and if it be your 
 pleasure, I shall fulfil it with as much reluctance as 
 possible." — "As little, I suppose you mean,"' said 
 the lady ; " and so about it instantly." Mi"s. Slip- 
 slop went out, and the lady had scarce taken two 
 turns before she fell to knocking and ringing with 
 great violence. Slipslop, who did not travel post 
 haste, soon returned, and was countermanded as to 
 Joseph, but ordered to send Betty about her business 
 without delay. She went out a second time with 
 much greater alacrity than before ; when the lady 
 began immethatelv to accuse herself of want of reso- 
 lution, and to apprehend the return of her affection, 
 with its pernicious consequences ; she therefore applied 
 hei-self again to the bell, and resummoned Mrs. 
 Slipslop into her presence ; who again returned, and 
 was told by her mistress that she had considered 
 better of the matter, and was absolutely resolved to 
 turn away Joseph ; which she ordered her to do 
 immediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of 
 her lady's temper, and would not venture her place 
 for any Adonis or Hercules in the universe, left her 
 a third time ; which she had no sooner done, than 
 the little god Cupid, fearing he had not yet done the 
 lady's business, took a fresh arrow with the sharpest 
 point out of his quiver, and shot it directly into her 
 heart ; in other and plainer language, the lady's pas- 
 sion got the better of her reason. She called back 
 [32]
 
 A SATIRE ON LOVE 
 
 Slipslop once more, and told her she had resolved to 
 see the bov, and examine him herself; therefore bid 
 her send him up. This wavering in her mistress's 
 temper probably put something into the waiting- 
 gentlewoman's liead not necessary to mention to the 
 sagacious reader. 
 
 Ladv Booby was going to call her back again, but 
 could not prevail witli herself. The next considera- 
 tion therefore was, how she should behave to Joseph 
 when he came in. She resolved to preserve 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 fii^st insulting and then discard- 
 ing him. 
 
 O Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play 
 with thy votaries of both sexes ! How dost thou 
 deceive them, and make them deceive themselves ! 
 Their follies are thy delight! Their sighs make 
 thee laugh, and their pangs are thy merriment ! 
 
 Not the gi-eat Rich, who turns men into monkeys, 
 
 wheel-barrows, and whatever else best humours his 
 
 fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed the human 
 
 shape; nor the great Gibber, wlio confounds all 
 
 number, gender, and breaks through evei-y rule of 
 
 granunar at his will, hath so distorted the Englisli 
 
 language as thou doth metamorphose and distort the 
 
 human senses. 
 
 [33] 
 Vol. 1 3
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Thou puttest out our eyes, stoppest up our ears, 
 and takest away the power of our nostrils ; so that 
 we can neither see the largest object, hear the loudest 
 noise, nor smell the most poignant perfume. Again, 
 when thou pleasest, thou canst make a molehill 
 appear as a mountain, a Jew's-harp sound like a 
 trumpet, and a daisy smell like a violet. Thou 
 canst make cowardice brave, avarice generous, pride 
 humble, and cruelty tender-hearted. In short, thou 
 turnest the heart of man inside out, as a juggler 
 doth a petticoat, and bringest whatsoever pleaseth 
 thee out from it. If there be any one who doubts 
 all this, let him read the next chapter. 
 
 [34]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 IN WHICH, AFTER SOME \'ERy FINE WRITING, THE 
 HISTORY GOES ON, AND RELATES THE INTERVIEW 
 BETX^'EEN THE LADY AND JOSEPH ; WHERE THE 
 LATTER HATH SET AN EXAMPLE WHICH WE DE- 
 SPAIR OF SEEING FOLLOWED BY HIS SEX IN THIS 
 VICIOUS AGE. 
 
 N^OW the rake Hesperus had called for 
 his breeches, and, having well rubbed 
 his drowsy eyes, prepared to dress him- 
 — self for all night ; by whose example his 
 
 brother rakes on earth likewise leave those beds in 
 which they had slept away the day. Now Thetis, 
 the good housewife, began to put on the pot, in 
 order to regale the good man Phoebus after his 
 daily labours were over. In vulgar language, it was 
 in the evening when Joseph attended his lady's 
 orders. 
 
 But as it becomes us to preserve the character of 
 this lady, who is the heroine of our tale ; and as we 
 have naturally a wonderful tenderness for that beau- 
 tiful part of the human species called the fair sex ; 
 before we discover too much of her frailty to our 
 [35]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 reader, it will be proper to give him a lively idea of 
 the vast temptation, which overcame all the efforts 
 of a modest and virtuous mind ; and then we humbly 
 hope his good nature will rather pity than condemn 
 the imperfection of human virtue. 
 
 Nay, the ladies themselves will, we hope, be in- 
 duced, by considering the uncommon variety of 
 channs which united in this young man's person, to 
 bridle their rampant passion for chastity, and be at 
 least as mild as their violent modesty and virtue will 
 permit them, in censuring the conduct of a woman 
 who, perhaps, was in her own disposition as chaste 
 as those pure and sanctified virgins who, after a life 
 innocently spent in the gaieties of the town, begin 
 about fifty to attend twice per dkm at the polite 
 churches and chapels, to return thanks for the grace 
 which preserved them formerly amongst beaus from 
 temptations perhaps less powerful than what now 
 attacked the Lady Booby. 
 
 Mr. Joseph Andrews was now in the one-and- 
 twentieth year of his age. He was of the highest 
 degree of middle stature ; his limbs were put together 
 with great elegance, and no less strength ; his legs 
 and thighs were formed in the exactest proportion ; 
 his shoulders were broad and brawny, but yet his 
 arm hung so easily, that he had all the symptoms 
 of strength without the least clumsiness. His hair 
 was of a nut-brown colour, and was displayed in 
 [36]
 
 A FALSE ACCUSATION 
 
 wanton ringlets clown hh back ; his forehead was 
 high, his eyes dark, and as full of sweetness as of fire ; 
 his nose a little inclined to the Roman ; his teeth 
 white and even ; his lips full, red, and soft ; his beard 
 was only rough on his chin and upper lip ; but his 
 cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread 
 with a thick down ; his countenance had a tenderness 
 joined with a sensibility inexpressible. Add to this 
 the most perfect neatness in his dress, and an air 
 which, to those who have not seen many noblemen, 
 would give an idea of nobility. 
 
 Such was the person who now appeared before the 
 lady. She viewed him some time in silence, and 
 twice or thrice before she spake changed her mind as 
 to the manner in which she should begin. At length 
 she said to him, " Joseph, I am sorry to hear such 
 complaints against you : I am told you behave so 
 rudely to the maids, that they cannot do their busi- 
 ness in quiet; I mean those who are not wicked 
 enough to hearken to your solicitations. As to 
 others, they may, perhaps, not call you rude ; for 
 there are wicked shits who make one ashamed of 
 one"'s own sex, and are as ready to admit any nau- 
 seous familiarity as fellows to offer it : nay, there 
 are such in my family, but they shall not stay in 
 it ; that impudent trollop who is with child by you 
 is discharged by this time."' 
 
 As a person who is struck through the heart with 
 [37]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 a thunderbolt looks extremely surprised, nay, and 
 
 perhaps is so too thus the poor Joseph received 
 
 the false accusation of his mistress ; he blushed and 
 looked confounded, which she misinterpreted to be 
 symptoms of his guilt, and thus went on : — 
 
 " Come hither, Joseph : another mistress might 
 discard you for these offences ; but I have a compas- 
 sion for your youth, and if I could be certain you 
 would be no more guilty — Consider, child," laying 
 her hand carelessly upon his, "you are a handsome 
 young fellow, and might do better ; you might make 
 your fortune." " Madam," said Joseph, " I do assure 
 your ladyship I don't know whether any maid in 
 the house is man or woman." " Oh fie ! Joseph," 
 answered the lady, " don't commit another crime in 
 denying the truth. I could pardon the first ; but 
 I hate a lyar." "Madam," cries Joseph, "I hope 
 your ladyship will not be offended at my asserting 
 my innocence ; for, by all that is sacred, I have 
 •never offered more than kissing." " Kissing ! " said 
 the lady, with great discomposure of countenance, 
 and more redness in her cheeks than anger in her 
 eyes ; " do you call that no crime ? Kissing, Joseph, 
 is as a prologue to a play. Can I believe a young 
 fellow of your age and complexion will be content 
 with kissing? No, Joseph, there is no woman who 
 grants that but will gi'ant more ; and I am deceived 
 greatly in you if you would not put her closely to it. 
 [38]
 
 A TEMPTATION 
 
 What would you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to 
 kiss me ? " Joseph replied he would sooner die than 
 have any such tliought. " And yet, Joseph,"" re- 
 turned she, "ladies have admitted their footmen to 
 such familiarities ; and footmen, I confess to you, 
 much less deserving them ; fellows without half your 
 charms — for such might almost excuse the crime. 
 Tell me therefore, Joseph, if I should admit you to 
 such freedom, what would you think of me ? — tell 
 me freely." " Madam," said Joseph, " I should think 
 your ladyship condescended a great deal below your- 
 self." " Pugh ! " said she ; " that I am to answer to 
 myself: but would not you insist on more? Would 
 you be contented with a kiss ? Would not your in- 
 clinations be all on fire rather by such a favour ? " 
 " Madam," said Joseph, " if they were, I hope I 
 should be able to controul them, without suffering 
 them to get the better of my virtue." You have 
 heard, reader, poets talk of the statue of Surprize; 
 you have heard likewise, or else you have heard very 
 little, how Surprize made one of the sons of Croesus 
 speak, though he was dumb. You have seen the faces, 
 in the eighteen-penny gallery, when, through the trap- 
 door, to soft or no music, Mr. Bridgewater, Mr. Wil- 
 liam Mills, or some other of ghostly appearance, hath 
 ascended, with a face all pale with powder, and a 
 shirt all bloody with ribbons ; — but from none of 
 these, nor fi-om Phidias or Praxiteles, if they should 
 [39]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 return to life — no, not from the inimitable pencil of 
 my friend Hogarth, could you receive such an idea of 
 surprize as would have entered in at your eyes had 
 they beheld the Lady Booby when those last woi-ds 
 issued out from the lips of Joseph. " Your virtue ! " 
 said the lady, recovering after a silence of two 
 minutes ; " I shall never survive it. Your virtue ! — 
 intolerable confidence ! Have 3'ou the assurance to 
 pretend, that when a lady demeans herself to throw 
 aside the rules of decency, in order to honour you 
 with the highest favour in her power, your virtue 
 should resist her inclination? that, when she had 
 conquered her own virtue, she should find an obstruc- 
 tion in yours.?"" "Madam," said Joseph, "I can't 
 see why her having no virtue should be a reason 
 against my having any ; or why, because I am a man, 
 or because I am poor, my virtue must be subservient 
 to her pleasures.'' " I am out of patience," cries the 
 lady : " did ever mortal hear of a man's virtue ? 
 Did ever the greatest or the gravest men pretend to 
 any of this kind.? Will magistrates who punish 
 lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make any 
 scruple of committing it ? And can a boy, a strip- 
 ling, have the confidence to talk of his virtue ? " 
 " Madam," says Joseph, " that boy is the brother of 
 Pamela, and would be ashamed that the chastity of 
 his family, which is preserved in her, should be 
 stained in him. If there ai*e such men as your lady- 
 [40]
 
 JOSEPH'S DISMISSAL 
 
 ship mentions, I am sorry for it ; and I wish they 
 had an opportunity of reading over those letters 
 which ray 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 offended your ladyship, I am sure I never 
 intended it."" "Yes, siiTah,"""* cries she, "you have 
 had the vanity to misconstrue the little innocent free- 
 dom I took, in order to try whether what I had heard 
 was true. O' ray 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, ordered 
 him instantly to leave the room. 
 
 He was no sooner gone than she burst forth into 
 the following exclamation : — " \\nKither doth this 
 violent passion hurry us ? What meannesses do we 
 submit to from its impulse! Wisely we resist its 
 first and least approaches; for it is then only we 
 [41]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 can assure ourselves the victory. No woman could 
 ever safely say, so far only will I go. Have I not 
 exposed myself to the refusal of my footman ? I 
 cannot bear the reflection." Upon which she ap- 
 plied herself to the bell, and rung it with infinite 
 more violence than was necessary — the faithfiil 
 Slipslop attending near at hand : to say the truth, 
 she had conceived a suspicion at her last interview 
 with her mistress, and had waited ever since in the 
 antechamber, having carefully applied her ears to 
 the keyhole during the whole time that the preced- 
 ing conversation passed between Joseph and the 
 lady. 
 
 [42]
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THE LADY AKD MRS. SLIPSLOP ; 
 IN WHICH WE PROPHESY THERE ARE SOME STROKES 
 WHICH EVERY ONE WILL NOT TRULY COMPREHEND 
 AT THE FIRST READING. 
 
 SLIPSLOP," said the lady, " I find too much 
 reason to 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 cei'tain she would call her 
 back again before she was got half-way downstairs."" 
 The lady replied, she had taken a resolution, 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 
 [43]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 lady; "do vou think I will countenance leudness in 
 my house ? " " If you will turn away every footman,'' 
 ^said Slipslop, " that is a lover of the sport, you must 
 soon open the coach door yourself, or get a. set of 
 mophrodites to wait upon you ; and I am sure I 
 hated the sight of them even singing in an opera."" 
 " Do as I bid you,"" says my lady, " and don't shock 
 my ears with your beastly language." " Marry- 
 come-up," cries Slipslop, " people's ears are some- 
 times the nicest part about them." 
 
 The ladv, who began to adnn're the new style in 
 which her waiting-gentlewoman delivered herself, and 
 by the conclusion of her speech suspected somewhat of 
 the truth, called her back, and desired to know what 
 she meant by the extraordinary degree of freedom in 
 which she thought proper to indulge her tongue. 
 " Freedom ! "" says Slipslop ; " I don't know what 
 you call freedom, madam ; servants have tongues as 
 well as their mistresses." " Yes, and saucy ones too," 
 answered the lady ; " but I assure you I shall bear 
 no such impertinence." " Impertinence ! I don't 
 know that I am impertinent," says Slipslop. " Yes, 
 indeed you are," cries my lady, " and, unless you 
 mend your manners, this house is no place for you." 
 " Manners ! " cries Slipslop ; " I never was thought 
 to want manners nor modesty neither ; and for places, 
 there arc more places than one ; and I know what I 
 know." " \Vliat do you know, mistress.''" answered 
 - [44]
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID 
 
 the lady. ** I am not obliged to tell that to every- 
 body," says Slipslop, " any more than I am obliged 
 to keep it a secret."" " I desire you would provide 
 yourself," answered the lady. " With all my heart," 
 replied the waiting-gentlewoman ; and so departed 
 in a passion, and slapped the door after her. 
 
 The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting- 
 gentlewoman knew more than she would willingly 
 have had her acquainted %\ath ; and this she imputed 
 to Joseph'^s having discovered to her what passed at 
 the first interview. This, therefore, blew up her 
 rage against him, and confirmed her in a resolution 
 of parting with him. 
 
 But the dismissing Mrs. Slipslop was a point not 
 so easily to be resolved upon. She had the utmost 
 tenderness for her reputation, as she knew on that 
 depended many of the most valuable blessings of 
 life ; particularly cards, making curtsies in public 
 places, and, above all, the pleasure of demolishing 
 the reputations of others, in which innocent amuse- 
 ment she had an extraordinary delight. She there- 
 fore detennined to submit to any insult from a 
 servant, rather than run a risque of losing the title 
 to so many great privileges. 
 
 She therefore sent for her steward, Mr. Peter 
 Pounce, and ordered him to pay Joseph his wages, 
 to strip off his liver}', and to turn him out of the 
 house that evening. 
 
 [45]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 She then called Slipslop up, and, after refreshing 
 her spirits with a small cordial, which she kept in 
 her closet, she began in the following manner : — 
 
 " Slipslop, why will you, who know my passionate 
 temper, attempt to provoke me by your answers ? I 
 am convinced you are an honest servant, and should be 
 very unwilling to part with you. I believe, likewise, 
 you have found me an indulgent mistress on many 
 occasions, and have as little reason on your side to 
 desire a change. I can't help being surprized, there- 
 fore, that you will take the surest method to offend 
 me — I mean, repeating my words, which you know 
 I have always detested." 
 
 The prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly 
 weighed the whole matter, and found, on mature 
 deliberation, that a good place in possession was 
 better than one in expectation. As she found her 
 mistress, therefore, inclined to relent, she thought 
 proper also to put on some small condescension, 
 which was as readily accepted ; and so the affair 
 was reconciled, all offences forgiven, and a present 
 of a gown and petticoat made her, as an instance 
 of her lady"'s future favour. 
 
 She offered once or twice to speak in favour of 
 Joseph ; but found her lady''s heart so obdurate, that 
 she prudently dropt all such efforts. She considered 
 there w^ere more footmen in the house, and some 
 as stout fellows, though not quite so handsome, as 
 [46]
 
 LADY BOOBY'S PERPLEXITY 
 
 Joseph ; besides, the reader hath ah'eady seen her 
 tender advances had not met with the encourage- 
 ment she might have reasonably expected. She 
 thought she had thrown away a great deal of sack 
 and sweetmeats on an ungrateful rascal ; and, being 
 a little inclined to the opinion of that female sect, 
 who hold one lusty young fellow to be nearly as good 
 as another lusty young fellow, she at last gave up 
 Joseph and his cause, and, with a triumph over her 
 passion highly commendable, walked off with her 
 present, and with great tranquillity paid a visit to a 
 stone-bottle, which is of sovereign use to a philoso- 
 phical temper. 
 
 She left not her mistress so easy. The poor lady 
 could not reflect without agony that her dear repu- 
 tation was in the power of her servants. All her 
 comfort as to Joseph was, that she hoped he did not 
 undei'stand her meaning ; at least she could say for 
 herself, she had not plainly expressed anything to 
 him ; and as to Mrs. Slipslop, she imagined she 
 could bribe her to secrecy. 
 
 But what hurt her most was, that in reality she 
 had not so entirely conquered her passion ; the little 
 god lay lurking in her heart, though anger and dis- i 
 dain so hoodAvinked her, that she could not see him. 
 She was a thousand times on the very brink of 
 revoking the sentence she had passed against the 
 poor youth. Love became his advocate, and whis- U// 
 [47]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 pered nianv things in his favour. Honour Hkewise 
 endeavoured to vindicate his crime, and Pity to miti- 
 gate his punishment. On the other side, Pride and 
 Ilevenge spoke as loudly against him. And thus 
 the poor lady was tortured with perplexity, opposite 
 passions distracting and tearing her mind different 
 ways. 
 
 So have I seen, in the hall of Westminster, where 
 Sei'jeant Bramble hath been retained on the right 
 side, and Serjeant Puzzle on the left, the balance of 
 opinion ( so equal were their fees ) alternately incline 
 to either scale. Now Bramble throws in an argument, 
 and Puzzle's scale strikes the beam ; again Bramble 
 shares the like fate, overpowered by the weight of 
 Puzzle. Here Bramble hits, there Puzzle strikes; 
 here one has you, there V other has you ; till at last 
 all becomes one scene of confusion in the tortured 
 minds of the hearers ; equal wages are laid on the 
 success, and neither judge nor jury can possibly make 
 anything of the matter ; all things are so enveloped 
 by the careful Serjeants in doubt and obscurity. 
 
 Or, as it happens in the conscience, where honour 
 and honesty pull one way, and a bribe and necessity 
 
 another, If it was our present business only 
 
 to make similes, we could produce many more to 
 this purpose ; but a simile ( as well as a word ) to the 
 wise. — We shall therefore see a little after our hero, 
 for whom the reader is doubtless in some pain.
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 JOSEPH WRITES AXOTHER LETrER : HIS TRANSACTIONS 
 WITH .AIR. PETER POUNCE, &C., WITH HIS DEPARTtTRE 
 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 gan-et, and 
 entered liimself into an ejaculation on the number- 
 less calamities which attended beauty, and the mis- 
 fortune it was to be handsomer than one's neighbours. 
 He then sat down, and addressed himself to his 
 sister Pamela in the following words : — 
 
 "Dear Sistcti Pamela. — llopinc^ you arc well, 
 what news have I to tell you ! O Pamela ! my mistress 
 is fallen in love with me — that is, what gre-at folks 
 call falling in love — she has a mind to ruin rac ; but I 
 hope I shall have more resolution and more ^racc than 
 to part with mv virtue to anv lad}'^ upon earth. 
 
 [49]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 " Mr. Adams hath often told me, that chastity is as 
 great a virtue in a man as in a woman. He says he 
 never knew any more than his wife, and I shall endeav- 
 our to follow his example. Indeed, it is owing entirely 
 to his excellent sermons and advice, together with your 
 letters, that I have been able to resist a temptation, 
 which, he says, no man complies with, but he repents 
 in this world, or is damned for it in the next ; and why 
 should I trust to repentance on my deathbed, since I 
 may die in my sleep.'' What fine things are good 
 advice and good examples ! But I am glad she turned 
 me out of the chamber as she did : for I had once 
 almost forgotten every word parson Adams had ever 
 said to me. 
 
 " I don't doubt, dear sister, but j-ou will have grace 
 to preserve your virtue against all trials ; and I beg you 
 earnestly to pray I may be enabled to preserve mine ; 
 for truly it is very severely attacked by more than one ; 
 but I hope I shall copy your example, and that of 
 Joseph my namesake, and maintain my virtue against 
 all temptations." 
 
 Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was 
 summoned downstairs by Mr. Peter Pounce, to 
 receive his wages ; for, besides that out of eight 
 pounds a year he allowed his father and mother four, 
 he had been obliged, in order to furnish himself 
 with musical instruments, to apply to the generosity 
 of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent occasions, 
 used to advance the servants their wages : not before 
 they were due, but before they were payable ; that 
 [50]
 
 JOSEPH'S DEPARTURE 
 
 is, perhaps, half a year after they were due ; and this 
 at the moderate premium of fifty per cent, or a 
 little more : by Avhich charitable methods, together 
 with lending money to other people, and even to his 
 own master and mistress, the honest man had, from 
 nothing, in a few years amassed a small sum of 
 twenty thousand pounds or thereabouts. 
 
 Joseph having received his little remainder of 
 wages, and having stript off his livery, was forced to 
 borrow a frock and breeches of one of the servants 
 ( for he was so beloved in the family, that they would 
 all have lent him anything ) : and, being told by 
 Peter that he must not stay a moment longer in the 
 house than was necessary to pack up his linen, which 
 he easily did in a very narrow compass, he took a 
 melancholy leave of his fellow-servants, and set out 
 at seven in the evening. 
 
 He had proceeded the length of two or three 
 streets, before he absolutely determined with him- 
 self whether he should leave the town that night, or, 
 procuring a lodging, wait till the morning. At last, 
 the moon shining very bright helped him to come to 
 a resolution of beginning his journey immediately, 
 to which likewise he had some other inducements ; 
 which the reader, without being a conjurer, cannot 
 possibly guess, till we have given him those hints 
 which it may be now proper to open. 
 
 [61]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 OF SEVERAL NEW JIATTERS NOT EXPECTED. 
 
 T is an observation sometimes made, that to 
 indicate our idea of a simple fellow, we say, 
 he is easily to be seen through : nor do I 
 believe it a more improper denotation of a 
 simple book. InvStead of applying this to any par- 
 ticular performance, we chuse rather to remark the 
 contrary in this history-, where the scene opens itself 
 by small degrees ; and he is a sagacious reader who 
 can see two chapters before him. 
 
 For this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a 
 matter which now seems necessary to be explained ; 
 since it may be wondered at, first, that Joseph made 
 such extraordinary haste out of town, which hath 
 been already shewn ; and secondly, which will be 
 now shewn, that, instead of proceeding to the habi- 
 tation of his father and mother, or to his beloved 
 sister Pamela, he chose rather to set out full speed 
 tf> the Lady Booby's country-seat, which he had left 
 on his journey to Loudon. 
 
 Be it known, then, that iu the same parish where 
 this seat stood there lived a young girl whom Joseph 
 [52 J
 
 JOSEPH AND FANNY 
 
 ( though the best of sons and brothers) longed more 
 impatiently to see than his parents or his sister. 
 She was a poor girl, who had formerly been bred up 
 in Sir John's family ; whence, a little before the 
 journey to London, she had been discarded by jNIrs. 
 Slipslop, on account of her extraordinary beauty: 
 for I never could find any other reason. 
 
 This young creature (who now lived with a former 
 in the pansh) had Ix^cn always beloved by Joseph, 
 and returned his affection. She was two years only 
 younger than our hero. They had been acquainted 
 from their infancy, and had conceived a very early 
 liking for each other ; which had grown to such a 
 degree of affection, that Mr. Adams had with much 
 ado prevented them from marrying, and persuaded 
 them to wait till a few years' service and thrift had a 
 little improved their experience, and enabled them 
 to live comfortably together. 
 
 They followed this good man's advice, as indeed 
 his word was little less than a law in his parish ; for 
 as he had shown his parishioners, by an uniform 
 behaviour of thirty-five years'' duration, that he had 
 their good entirely at heart, so they consulted him 
 on every occasion, and very seldom acted contrary 
 to his opinion. 
 
 Nothing can be imagined more tender than was 
 the parting between these t^vo Icncrs. A thousand 
 sighs hea\cd tlie boson) of Joseph, a thousand tears
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 distilled from the lovely eyes of Fanny (for that was 
 her name). Though her modesty M-ould only suffer 
 her to admit his eager kisses, her violent love made 
 her more than passive in his embraces ; and she often 
 pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure, which 
 though perhaps it would not have squeezed an insect 
 to death, caused more emotion in the heart of Joseph 
 than the closest Cornish hug could have done. 
 
 The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a 
 pair should, during a twelvemonth's absence, never 
 converse with one another : indeed, there was but 
 one reason which did or could have prevented them ; 
 and this was, that poor Fanny could neither write 
 nor read : nor could she be prevailed upon to trans- 
 mit the delicacies of her tender and chaste passion 
 by the hands of an amanuensis. 
 
 They contented themselves therefore with frequent 
 inquiries after each other's health, with a mutual 
 confidence in each other's fidelity, and the prospect 
 of their future happiness. 
 
 Having explained these matters to oiu' reader, and, 
 as far as possible, satisfied all his doubts, we return 
 to honest Joseph, whom we left just set out on his 
 travels by the light of the moon. 
 
 Those who have read any romance or poetry, 
 antient or modern, must have been informed that 
 love hath wings : by which they are not to under- 
 stand, as some young ladies by mistake have done, 
 [54J
 
 A FAMOUS INN 
 
 that a lover can fly ; the writers, by this ingenious 
 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 traveller. It presents you a lion on the 
 sign-post: and the master, who was christened 
 Timotheus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some 
 have conceived that he hath particularly chosen the 
 lion for his sign, as he doth in countenance greatly 
 resemble that magnanimous beast, though his dis- 
 position savours more of the sweetness of the lamb. 
 He is a person well received among all sorts of men, 
 being qualified to render himself agi'eeable to any ; 
 as he is well versed in history and politics, hath a 
 smattering in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, 
 and plays wonderfully well on the French horn. 
 
 A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take 
 shelter in this inn, where he remembered Sir Thomas 
 had dined in his way to town. Joseph had no 
 sooner seated himself by the kitchen fire than 
 Timotheus, observing his livery, began to condole 
 the loss of his late master ; who was, he said, his very 
 particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he 
 had cracked many a merry bottle, ay many a dozen, 
 in his time. He then remarked, that all these 
 [55]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 things were over now, all passed, and just as if thev 
 had never been ; and concluded with an excellent 
 observation on the certainty of death, which his wife 
 said was indeed very true. A fellow now arrived at 
 the same inn with two horses, one of which he 
 was leading farther down into the country to meet 
 his master ; these he put into the stable, and came 
 and took his place by Joseph's side, who immediately 
 knew him to be the servant of a neighbouring gentle- 
 man, who used to visit at their house. 
 
 This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm ; 
 for he had orders to go twenty miles farther that 
 evening, and luckily on the same road which Joseph 
 himself intended to take. He, therefore, embraced 
 this opportunity of complimenting his friend with 
 his master's horse (notwithstanding he had received 
 express commands to the contrary), which was 
 readily accepted ; and so, after they had drank a 
 loving pot, and the storm was over, they set out 
 together. 
 
 [56J
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 CONTAINING MANY SURPRIZING AO'ENTURES WHICH 
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS MET WITH ON THE ROAD, 
 
 SCARCE CREDIBLE TO THOSE WHO HAVE NEVER 
 TRAVELLED IN A STAGE-COACH, 
 
 N^OTHING remarkable happened on the 
 road till their arrival at the inn to 
 which the horses were ordered ; whither 
 they came about two in the morning. 
 The moon then shone very bright ; and Joseph, mak- 
 ing his friend a present of a pint of wine, and 
 thanking him for the favour of his horse, notwith- 
 standing all entreaties to the contrar}', proceeded on 
 his journey on foot. 
 
 He had not gone above two miles, charmed with 
 the hope of shortly seeing his beloved Fanny, when 
 he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and 
 ordered to stand and deliver. He readily gave them 
 all the money he had, which was somewhat less than 
 two pounds ; and told them he hoped they would 
 be so generous as to return him a few shillings, to 
 dej&ay his charges on his way home. 
 
 One of the ruffians answered with an oath, " Yes, 
 we 'll give you something presently : but firet strip 
 [57]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and be d — n'd to you." — " Strip," cried the other, 
 '* or I '11 blow your brains to the devil." Joseph, re- 
 membering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches 
 of a friend, and that he should be ashamed of mak- 
 ing any excuse for not returning them, replied, he 
 hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which 
 were not worth much, but consider the coldness of 
 the night. " You are cold, are you, you rascal ? " 
 said one of the robbers : " I '11 warm you with a 
 vengeance ; " and, damning his eyes, snapped a pistol 
 at his head ; which he had no sooner done than the 
 other levelled a blow at him with his stick, which 
 Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught 
 with his, and returned the favour so successfully on his 
 adversary, that he laid him sprawling at his feet, and 
 at the same instant received a blow from behind, 
 with the butt end of a pistol, from the other villain, 
 which felled him to the ground, and totally deprived 
 him of his senses. 
 
 The thief who had been knocked down had now 
 recovered himself; and both together fell to bela- 
 bouring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they were 
 convinced they had put an end to his miserable 
 being : they then stripped him entirely naked, threw 
 him into a ditch, and departed with their booty. 
 
 The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, 
 just began to recover his senses as a stage-coach 
 came by. The postillion, hearing a man's groans, 
 [58]
 
 JOSEPH ASKS FOR AID 
 
 stopt his horses, and told the coachman he was cer- 
 tain there was a dead man lying in the ditch, for he 
 heard him groan. " Go on, sirrah," says the coach- 
 man ; " we are confounded late, and have no time to 
 look after dead men." A lady, who heard what the 
 postillion said, and likewise heard the groan, called 
 eagerly to the coacliman to stop and see what was 
 the matter. Upon which he bid the postillion alight, 
 and look into the ditch. He did so, and returned, 
 " that there was a man sitting upright, as naked as 
 ever he was horn.'" — " O J — sus ! " cried the lady ; 
 *' a naked man ! Dear coachman, drive on and leave 
 him." Upon this the gentlemen got out of the 
 coach ; and Joseph begged them to have mercy upon 
 him : for that he had been robbed and almost beaten 
 to death. " Robbed ! " cries an old gentleman : 
 *' let us make all the haste imaginable, or we shall 
 be robbed too." A young man who belonged to the 
 law answered, '* He wished they had passed by 
 without taking any notice ; but that now they might 
 be proved to have been last in his company ; if he 
 should die they might be called to some account for 
 his murder. He therefore thought it advisable to 
 save the poor creature'';s life, for their own sakes, if 
 possible ; at least, if he died, to prevent the jury's 
 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 insisttni, " That he 
 [59]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 .slioukl nol come into trie coach. Tltat. if they lifted 
 liim in, slie would herself alight : for she liad rather 
 stay in that place to all eternity than ride with a 
 naked man." The coachman objected, " That he 
 could not suffer liim to be taken in unless somebody 
 would pay a shilling for liis carriage the four iniles." 
 Which the two gentlemen refused to do. But the 
 lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief happening 
 to himself, if the wretch was left behind in that 
 condition, saying no man could be too cautious in 
 these mattei-s, and that he remembered very extraor- 
 dinary cases in the books, threatened the coachman, 
 and bid him deny taking him up at his peril ; for 
 that, if he died, he should be indicted for his murder ; 
 and if he lived, and brought an action against him, 
 he would willingly take a brief in it. These words 
 had a sensible effect on the coachman, who was well 
 acquainted with the person who spoke them ; and 
 the old gentleman above mentioned, thinking the 
 naked man would afford him frequent opportunities 
 of showing his wit to the lady, offered to join with 
 the company in giving a nuig of beer for his fare ; 
 till, partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and 
 partly by the promises of the other, and being per- 
 haps a little moved with compassion at the poor 
 creature's condition, who stood bleeding and shiver- 
 ing with the cold, he at length agreed ; and Joseph 
 was now advancing to the coach, where, seeing the 
 [60]
 
 AN ACT OF KINDNESS 
 
 lady, who held the sticks of her fan before her eyes, 
 he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, 
 unless he was furnished with sufilcient covering to 
 prevent giving the least offence to decency — so per- 
 fectly modest was this young man ; such mighty 
 effects had the spotless example of the amiable 
 Pamela, and the excellent sermons of Mr. Adams, 
 ■wrought upon him. 
 
 Though there were several greatcoats about the 
 coach, it was not easy to get over tliis difficulty 
 which Joseph had started. The two gentlemen 
 complained they were cold, and could not spare a 
 rag ; the man of wit saying, with a laugh, that 
 charity began at home ; and the coachman, who had 
 two greatcoats spread under him, refused to lend 
 either, lest they should be made bloody : the lady's 
 footman desired to be excused for the same reason, 
 which the lady herself, notwithstanding her abhor- 
 rence of a naked man, approved : and it is more than 
 probable poor Joseph, who obstinately adhered to 
 his modest resolution, must have perished, unless 
 the postillion (a lad who hath been since transported 
 for robbing a hen-roost) had voluntarily stript off' a 
 greatcoat, his only garment, at tlie same time swear- 
 ing a great oath (for which he was rebuked by the 
 passengers), " that he would rather ride in his shirt 
 all his life than suffer a fellow-creature to lie in so 
 miserable a condition."' 
 
 [61]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Joseph, having put on the greatcoat, was lifted 
 into the coach, which now proceeded on its journey. 
 He declared himself almost dead with the cold, 
 which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the 
 lady if she could not accommodate him with a dram. 
 She answered, with some resentment, " She 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 stopt, and one of the 
 ruffians, putting a pistol in, demanded their money 
 of the passengers, who readily gave it them ; and 
 the lady, in her fright, delivered up a little silver 
 bottle, of about a half-pint size, which the rogue, 
 clapping it to his mouth, and drinking her health, 
 declared, held some of the best Nantes he had ever 
 tasted : this the lady afterwards assured the company 
 was the mistake of her maid, for that she had ordered 
 her to fill the bottle with Hungary-water. 
 
 As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, 
 who had, it seems, a case of pistols in the seat of the 
 coach, informed the company, that if it had been 
 daylight, and he could have come at his pistols, he 
 would not have submitted to the robbery : he like- 
 wise set forth that he had often met highway- 
 men when he travelled on horseback, but none 
 ever durst attack him ; concluding that, if he had 
 not been more afraid for the lady than for him- 
 [62]
 
 THE LAWYER'S JESTS 
 
 self, he should not have now parted with his monev 
 so easily. 
 
 As wit is generally observed to love to reside in 
 empty pockets, so the gentleman whose ingenuity 
 we have above remarked, as soon as he had parted 
 with his money, began to grow wonderfully facetious. 
 He made frequent allusions to Adam and Eve, and 
 said many excellent things on figs and fig-leaves; 
 which perhaps gave more offence to Joseph than to 
 any other in the company. 
 
 The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests 
 without departing from his profession. He said, 
 " If Joseph and the lady were alone, he would be 
 more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his 
 affairs were not fettered with any incumbrance ; he'd 
 warrant he soon suffered a recovery by a writ of 
 entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in 
 tail ; that, for his own part, he would engage to make 
 so firm a settlement in a coach, that there should be 
 no danger of an ejectment," with an inimdation of 
 the like gibberish, which he continued to vent till 
 the coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid 
 only was up, in readiness to attend the coachman, 
 and furnish him with cold meat and a dram. Joseph 
 desired to alight, and that he might have a bed pre- 
 pared for him, which the maid readily promised to 
 perform ; and, being a good-natured wench, and not 
 so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapt a large 
 [63]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 fagot on the fire, and, furnisliing Jaseph with a great- 
 coat belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to 
 !sit down and warm himself whilst she made his bed. 
 The coachman, in the meantime, took an opportunity 
 to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors; 
 after which, he reminded his passengers liow late 
 they were, and, after they had taken leave of Joseph, 
 harried them off as fast as he could. 
 
 The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised 
 to use her interest to borrow him a shirt ; but imag- 
 ining, as she afterwards said, by his being so bloody, 
 that he must be a dead man, she ran with all speed 
 to hasten the surgeon, who was more than half drest, 
 apprehending that tlie coach had been overturned, 
 and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as the 
 wench had informed him at his window that it was a 
 poor foot-passenger who had been stripped of all he 
 had, and almost murdered, he chid her for disturbing 
 him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very 
 quietly returned to bed and to sleep. 
 
 Aiu'ora now began to shew her blooming cheeks 
 over the hills, whilst ten millions of feathered song- 
 sters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes a thousand 
 times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sung 
 both the day and the song ; when the master of the 
 inn, Mr. Tow-wouse, arose, and learning from his 
 maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of 
 his poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, 
 [64]
 
 CHARITY DENIED 
 
 " good-lack-a-day ! " and then ordered the girl to 
 carry him one of his own shirts. 
 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched 
 out her arms in vain to lold her departed husband, 
 when the maid entered the room. " Who 's there ? 
 Betty ? " — ** Yes, madam." — " Where 's your mas- 
 ter ? ''"' — " He 's without, madam ; he hath sent me 
 for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been 
 robbed and murdered." — " Touch one if you dare, 
 you slut," said Mrs. Tow-wouse : *' your master is a 
 pretty sort of a man, to take in naked vagabonds, 
 and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have 
 no such doings. If you offer to touch anything, I '11 
 throw the chamber-pot at your head. Go, send your 
 master to me." — " Yes, madam," answered Betty. 
 As soon as he came in, she thus began : " What the 
 devil do you mean by this, Mr. Tow-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 devil have we to do with poor 
 wretches ? The law makes us provide for too many 
 already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches 
 in red coats shortly." — " My dear," cries Tow-wouse, 
 " this man hath been robbed of all he hath." — 
 " Well then," said she, " where 's his money to pay 
 his reckoning ? WTiy doth not such a fellow go to 
 an alehouse ? I shall send him packing as soon as I
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 am up, I assure you." — " My dear," said he, " com- 
 mon charity won't suffer you to do that." — " Com- 
 mon charity, a f — t ! " says she, " common charity 
 teaches us to provide for ourselves and our 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 fi'om the 
 hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and put it 
 on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last 
 visited him, and washed and drest his wounds, and 
 was now come to acquaint Mr. Tow-wouse that his 
 guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he 
 scarce saw any hopes of his recovery. " Here 's a 
 pretty kettle of fish," cries Mrs. Tow-wouse, " you 
 have brought upon us ! W^e are like to have a 
 funeral at our own expense." Tow-wouse (who, not- 
 withstanding his charity, would have given his vote 
 as freely as ever he did at an election, that any other 
 house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of 
 his guest) answered, " My dear, I am not to blame ; 
 he was brought hither by the stage-coach, and Betty 
 had put him to bed before I was stirring." — " I 'U 
 Betty her," savs she. — At which, with half her gar- 
 [66j
 
 THE SURGEON'S VISIT 
 
 merits 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 circumstances of this 
 melancholy affair. 
 
 [67]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOSEPH DURING HIS SICKNESS AT THE 
 INN, WITH THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE BETWEEN HIM 
 AND MR. BARNABAS, THE PARSON OF THE PARISH. 
 
 jA S soon as Joseph had communicated a par- 
 /^k ticular history of the robberv, together 
 
 / ^k with a short account of himself, and his 
 "^^ intended journey, he asked the surgeon 
 if he apprehended him to be in any danger : to 
 which the surgeon very honestly answered, " He 
 feared he was ; for that his pulse was veiy exalted 
 and feverish, and, if his fever should prove more than 
 symptomatic, it would be impossible to save Jiim." 
 Joseph, fetching a deep sigh, cried, " Poor Fanny, I 
 would I could have lived to see thee ! but God\s will 
 be done." 
 
 The surgeon then advised him, if he had any 
 worldly affairs to settle, that he would do it as soon 
 as possible ; for, though he hoped he might recover, 
 yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he 
 was in great danger ; and if the malign concoction 
 of his humours should cause a suscitation of his fever, 
 he might soon grow delirious and incapable to make 
 [68]
 
 THE CLERGYMAN'S VISIT 
 
 his will. Joseph answered, *• That it was impossible 
 for any creature in the universe to be in a poorer 
 condition than himself; for since the robbery he had 
 not one thing of any kind whatever which he could 
 call his own." " I had," said he, " a poor little piece 
 of gold, which they took away, that would have been 
 a comfort to me in all my afflictions ; but surely, 
 Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I 
 have thy dear image in ray heart, and no villain 
 can ever tear it thence." 
 
 Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but 
 they were lefused him ; and he was advised to use all 
 his endeavours to compose himself. They then left 
 him ; and Mr. Tow-wouse sent to a clergyman to 
 como and administer his good offices to the soul of 
 poor Joseph, since tlie surgeon despaired of making 
 any successful applications to his body. 
 
 Mr. Barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) 
 came as soon as sent for ; and, having first drank a 
 dish of tea with the landlady, and afterwards a bowl 
 of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the 
 room where Joseph lay ; but, finding him asleep, 
 returned to take the other sneaker ; which when he 
 had finished, he again crept softly up to the chamber- 
 door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talk- 
 ing to himself in the following manner : — 
 
 " O most adorable Pamela ! most virtuous sister ! 
 whose example could alone enable me to withstand 
 [69J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to pre- 
 serve my virtue pure and chaste for the arms of 
 my dear Fanny, if it had pleased Heaven that I 
 should ever have come unto them. What riches, or 
 honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the 
 loss of innocence? Doth not that alone afford us 
 more consolation than all worldly acquisitions ? 
 What but innocence and virtue could give any com- 
 fort to such a miserable wretch as I am ? Yet these 
 can make me prefer this sick and painful bed to 
 all the pleasures I should have found in my lady's. 
 These can make me face death without fear ; and 
 though I love my Fanny more than ever man loved 
 a woman, these can teach me to resign myself to the 
 Divine will without repining. O thou delightful 
 charming creature! if. Heaven had indulged thee to 
 my arms, the poorest, humblest state would have 
 been a paradise; I could have lived with thee in 
 the lowest cottage without envying the palaces, the 
 dainties, or the riches of any man breathing. But I 
 must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest 
 aneel ! I must think of another world ; and I 
 heartily pray thou may'st meet comfort in this,'"' — • 
 Barnabas thought he had lieard enough, so down- 
 stairs he went, and told Tow-wouse he could do his 
 guest no service ; for that he was very light-headed, 
 and had uttered nothing but a I'hapsody of nonsense 
 all the time he staved in the room. 
 [ 70 ]
 
 PREPARATION FOR DEATH 
 
 The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found 
 his patient in a higher fever, as he said, than when 
 he left him, though not delirious ; for, notwithstand- 
 ing Mr. Bamabas''s opinion, he had not been once 
 out of his senses since his arrival at the inn. 
 
 Mr. Barnabas was again sent for, and with much 
 difficulty prevailed on to make another visit. As 
 soon as he entered the room he told Joseph " He 
 was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for an- 
 other world : in the first place, therefore, lie hoped 
 he had repented of all his sins." Joseph answered, 
 " He hoped he had ; but there was one thing which 
 he knew not whether he should call a sin ; if it was, 
 he feared he should die in the commission of it ; and 
 that was, the regret of parting with a young woman 
 whom he loved as tenderly as he did his heart- 
 strings." Barnabas bad him be assured " that any 
 repining at the Divine will was one of the greatest 
 sins he could commit; that he ought to forget all 
 carnal affections, and think of better things." Joseph 
 said, " That neither in this world nor the next he 
 could forget his Fanny ; and that the thought, how- 
 ever grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not 
 half so tormenting as the fear of what she would 
 suffer when she knew his misfortune." Barnabas 
 said, " That such fears argued a diffidence and despon- 
 dence very criminal ; that he must divest himself of 
 all human passions, and fix his heart above." Joseph 
 [71]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 answered, " That was what he desired to do, and 
 should be obliged to him if he would enable him to 
 accomplish it." Barnabas replied, " That must be 
 done by grace." Joseph besought him to discover 
 how he might attain it. Barnabas answered, "By 
 prayer and faith." He then questioned him concern- 
 ing his forgiveness of the thieves. Joseph answered, 
 " He feared that was more than he could do ; for 
 nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear 
 they were taken." — " That," cries Barnabas, "is for 
 the sake of justice." — " Yes," said Joseph, " but if 
 I was to meet them again, I am afraid I should 
 attack them, and kill them too, if I could." — 
 " Doubtless," answered Barnabas, " it is la>vful to kill 
 a thief; but can you say you forgive them as a Chris- 
 tian ought ? " Joseph desired to know what that 
 forgiveness was. " That is," answered Barnabas, " to 
 forgive them as — as — it is to forgive them as — in 
 short, it is to forgive them as a Chnstian." — Joseph 
 replied, " He forgave them as much as he could." — 
 "Well, well," said Barnabas, "that will do." He 
 then demanded of him, " If he remembered any more 
 sins unrepented of; and if he did, he desired him to 
 make haste and repent of them as fast as he could, 
 that they might repeat over a few prayers together." 
 Joseph answered, " He could not recollect any great 
 crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he had 
 committed he was sincerely sorry for." Barnabas said 
 [72]
 
 BETTY'S KINDNESS 
 
 that was enough, and then proceeded to prayer with 
 all the expedition he was master of, some company 
 then waiting for him below in the parlour, where the 
 ingredients for punch were all in readiness ; but no 
 one would squeeze the oranges till he came. 
 
 Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little 
 tea ; which Barnabas reported to Mrs. Tow-wouse, 
 who answered, " She had just done drinking it, and 
 could not be slopping all day ; " but ordered Betty to 
 carry him up some small beer. 
 
 Betty obeyed her mistress''s commands ; but Joseph, 
 as soon as he had tasted it, said, he feared it would in- 
 crease his fever, and that he longed very much for 
 tea ; to which the good-natured Betty answered, he 
 should have tea, if there was any in the land ; she 
 accordingly went and bought him some herself, and 
 attended him with it ; where we will leave her and 
 Joseph together for some time, to entertain the 
 reader with other mattei's. 
 
 [73]
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 BEDfG 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, committing his 
 horse to the hostler, went directly into the 
 kitchen, and, having called for a pipe of tobacco, 
 took his place by the fireside, where several other per- 
 sons were likewise assembled. 
 
 The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which 
 was committed the night before, and on the poor 
 wretch who lay above in the dreadful condition in 
 which we have already seen him. Mrs. Tow-wouse 
 said, " She wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell 
 meant by bringing such guests to her house, when 
 there were so many alehouses on the road proper for 
 their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the 
 parish should be at the expense of the funeral." She 
 added, " Nothing would serve the fellow"'s turn but 
 tea, she would assure him." Betty, who was just 
 returned from her charitable office, answered, she 
 believed he was a gentleman, for she never saw a finer 
 [74]
 
 MRS. TOW-WOUSE 
 
 skin in her life. " Pox on his kin ! "" 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). 
 
 The gentleman lately an'ived discovered a great 
 deal of emotion at the distress of this poor creature, 
 whom he obsei'ved to be fallen not into the most 
 compassionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs. Tow-wouse 
 had given no utterance to the sweetness of her temper, 
 nature had taken such pains in her countenance, that 
 Hogarth himself never gave more expression to a 
 picture. 
 
 Her person was 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 hiuig over her 
 lips, had not nature turned up the end of it. Her 
 lips were two bits of skin, which, whenever she spoke, 
 she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked ; 
 and at the upper end of that skin which composed 
 her cheeks, stood two bones, that almost hid a pair 
 of small red eyes. Add to this a voice most wonder- 
 fully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, be- 
 ing both loud and hoarse. 
 
 It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had 
 conceived a greater dislike for his landlady or com- 
 passion for her unhappy guest. He inquired very 
 [75]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 earnestly of the surgeon, who vas now come into the 
 kitchen, whether he had any hopes of liis recovery ? 
 He begged him to use all possible means towards it, 
 telling him, " it was the duty of men of all professions 
 to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor 
 and necessitous." The surgeon answered, " He should 
 take proper care ; but he defied all the surgeons 
 in London to do him any good." — " Pray, sir,"" 
 said the gentleman, "what are his wounds.'*'" — 
 " Why, do you know anything of wounds ? " says 
 the surgeon (winking upon Mrs. Tow-wouse). — 
 " Sir, I have a small smattering in surgery," answered 
 the gentleman. — "A smattering — ho, ho, ho ! " 
 said the surgeon ; " I believe it is a smattering 
 indeed." 
 
 Tlie company were all attentive, expecting to hear 
 the doctor, who was what they call a dry fellow, 
 expose the gentleman. 
 
 He began therefore with an air of triumph: "I 
 suppose, sir, you have travelled ? " — " No, really, 
 sir," said the gentleman. — " Ho ! then you have 
 practised in the hospitals perhaps ? " — " No, sir." 
 — " Hum ! not that neither .'' Whence, sir, then, 
 if I may be so bold to inquire, have you got your 
 knowledge in surgery?" — "Sir," answered the 
 gentleman, " I do not pi-etend to much ; but the 
 little I know I have from books." — " Books ! " cries 
 the doctor. " What, I suppose you have read Galen 
 [76]
 
 A DISPLAY OF LEARNING 
 
 and Hippocrates ! *" — " No, sir,"" said the gentleman. 
 — " How ! you understand surgery," answers the 
 doctor, " and not read Galen and Hippocrates ? " — 
 " Sir," cries the other, " I believe there are many 
 surgeons who have never read these authors." — "I 
 believe so too," says the doctor, " more shame for 
 them ; but, thanks to my education, I have them by 
 heart, and very seldom go without them both in my 
 pocket." — " 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 winking, and the whole company 
 burst into a laugh.) 
 
 The doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the 
 gentleman, " If he did not understand physic as well 
 as surgery." " Rather better," answered the gentle- 
 man. — "Aye, like enough," cries the doctor, with 
 a wink. " Why, I know a little of physic too." — 
 *' I wish I knew half so much," said Tow-wouse, " I 'd 
 never wear an apron again." — " Why, I beheve, 
 landlord," cries the doctor, "there are few men, 
 though I say it, within twelve miles of the place, 
 that handle a fever better. Venknte accurrite morho : 
 that is my method. I suppose, brother, you under- 
 stand Latin ? " — "A little," says the gentleman. — 
 " Aye and Greek now, I '11 warrant you : Ton da- 
 pomibominos poluflosboio Thalasses. But I have 
 almost forgot these things : I could have repeated 
 [77]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Homer by heart once/' " Ifags ! the gentleman 
 
 has caught a traytor," says Mrs. Tow-wouse ; at 
 which they all fell a laughing. 
 
 The gentleman, who had not the least affection 
 for joking, very contentedly suffered the doctor to 
 enjoy his victory, which he did with no small satis- 
 faction ; and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, 
 told him, " He was thoroughly convinced of his 
 great learning and abilities ; and that he would be 
 obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion 
 of his patient's case above-stairs." — " Sir," says the 
 doctor, " his case is that of a dead man — the con- 
 tusion on his head has perforated the internal mem- 
 brane of the occiput, and divelicated that radical 
 small minute invisible nerve which coheres to the 
 pericranium ; and this was attended with a fever 
 at first symptomatic, then pneumatic ; and he is at 
 length grown deliriuus, or delirious, as the x-ulgar 
 express it." 
 
 He was proceeding in this learned manner, when 
 a mighty noise interrupted him. Some young 
 fellows in the neighbourhood had taken one of the 
 thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty 
 ran upstairs witli this news to Joseph, who begged 
 they might search for a little piece of broken gold, 
 which had a ribband tied to it, and which he could 
 swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men 
 in the universe.
 
 MR. ADAMS ARRIVES 
 
 Notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his in- 
 nocence, the mob were very busy in searching him, 
 and presently, among other things, pulled out the 
 piece of gold just mentioned ; which Betty no sooner 
 saw than she laid violent hands on it, and conveyed 
 it up to Joseph, who received it with raptures of joy, 
 and, hugging it in his bosom, declared he could now 
 die contented. 
 
 Within a few minutes afterwards came in some 
 other fellows, with a bundle which they had found 
 in a ditch, and which was indeed the cloaths which 
 had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other 
 things they had taken from him. 
 
 The gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he 
 declared he knew the lively ; and, if it had been 
 taken from the poor creature above-stairs, desired 
 he might see him ; for that he was very well acquainted 
 with the family to whom that livery belonged. 
 
 He was accordingly conducted up by Betty; but 
 what, reader, was the surprize on both sides, when 
 he saw Joseph was the person in bed, and when 
 Joseph discovered the face of his good friend Mr. 
 Abraham Adams ! 
 
 It would be impertinent to insert a discourse 
 which chiefly turned on the relation of matters 
 already well known to the reader ; for, as soon as the 
 curate had satisfied Joseph concerning the perfect 
 health of his Fanny, he was on his side very inquisi- 
 [79]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 tive into all the particulars which had produced 
 this unfortunate accident. 
 
 To return therefore to the kitchen, where a great 
 variety of company were now assembled from all the 
 rooms of the house, as well as the neighbourhood : 
 so much delight do men take in contemplating the 
 countenance of a thief. 
 
 Mr. Tow-wouse began to mb 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 robbery, and drink a 
 health to all honest men. But Mi's. Tow-wouse, 
 whose misfortune it was commonly to see things a 
 little perversely, began to rail at those who brought 
 the fellow into her house ; telling her husband, 
 " They were very likely to thrive who kept a house 
 of entertainment for beggars and thieves." 
 
 The mob had now finished their search, and could 
 find nothing about the captive likely to prove any 
 evidence ; for as to the cloaths, though the mob were 
 very well satisfied with that proof, yet, as the sur- 
 geon observed, they could not convict him, because 
 they were not found in his custody ; to which Barna- 
 bas agreed, and added that these were bona wav'iatay 
 and belonged to the lord of the manor. 
 
 " How," says the surgeon, " do you say these 
 goods belong to the lord of the manor ? " — "I do," 
 cried Barnabas. — " Then I deny it," savs the sur- 
 [80]
 
 EVIDENCE OF GUILT 
 
 geon : " what can the lord of the manor have to do 
 in the case ? Will any one attempt to persuade me 
 that what a man finds is not his own ? " — "I have 
 heard,"'"' says an old fellow in the corner, "justice 
 Wise-one say, that, if every man had his right, what- 
 ever is found belongs to the king of London.'' — 
 " That may be true,"" says Barnabsis, " in some sense ; 
 for the law makes a difference between things stolen 
 and things found ; for a thing may be stolen that 
 never is found, and a thing may be found that never 
 was stolen : Now, goods that are both stolen and 
 found are zcaviafa ; and they belong to the lord of the 
 manor."" — " So the lord of the manor is the receiver 
 of stolen goods,"" says the doctor ; at which there was 
 an universal laugh, being first begun by himself. 
 
 While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, 
 had almost (as there was no evidence against him) 
 brought over Baniabas, the surgeon, Tow-wouse, and 
 several others to his side, Betty informed them that 
 they had overlooked a little piece of gold, which she 
 had carried up to the man in bed, and which he offered 
 to swear to amongst a million, aye, amongst ten 
 thousand. This immediately turned the scale against 
 the prisoner, and every one now concluded him 
 guilty. It was resolved, therefore, to keep him se- 
 cured that night, and early in the morning to carry 
 him before a justice. 
 
 [81]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 SHOWTNG HOW MRS. TOW-WOUSE WAS A LITTLE MOLLI- 
 FIED; AND HOW OFFICIOUS ME. BARNABAS AND 
 THE SURGEON WERE TO PROSECUTE THE THIEF: 
 WITH A DISSERTATION ACCOUNTING FOR THEIR 
 ZEAL, AND THAT OF MANY OTHER PERSONS NOT 
 MENTIONED IN THIS HISTORY. 
 
 ETTY told her mistress she believed the 
 man in bed was i 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 they were intimate acquaintance, if not 
 relations. 
 
 This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs. Tow- 
 wouse^s countenance. She said, " God forbid she 
 should not discharge the duty of a Christian, since the 
 poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had 
 a natural antipathy to vagabonds ; but could pity the 
 misfortunes of a Christian as soon as another.'' 
 Tow-wouse said, " If the traveller be a gentleman, 
 though he hath no money about him now, we shall 
 [ 82 ]
 
 THE PIECE OF GOLD 
 
 most likely be 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 gentle- 
 man''s misfortune with all my heart ; and I hope the 
 villain Avho hath used him so barbarously will be 
 hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. God forbid 
 he should want anything in my house." 
 
 Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to 
 satisfy themselves concerning the piece of gold ; 
 Joseph was ^vith difficulty prevailed upon to show it 
 them, but would by no entreaties be brought to de- 
 liver it out of his own possession. He however 
 attested this to be the same which had been taken 
 from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the find- 
 ing it on the thief. 
 
 The only difficulty that remained was, how to pro- 
 duce this gold before the justice ; for as to carrying 
 Joseph himself, it seemed impossible ; nor was there 
 any great likelihood of obtaiin'ng it from him, for 
 he had fastened it with a ribband to his arm, and 
 solemnly vowed that nothing but irresistible force 
 should ever separate them ; in which resolution, Mr. 
 Adams, clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle 
 of an ox, declared he would support him. 
 
 A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evi- 
 dence not very necessary to be related here ; after 
 which the surgeon dressed Mr. Joseph's head, still 
 [83j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 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 encouraged, 
 as he said, by an advertisement lately set forth by the 
 society of booksellers, who proposed to purchase any 
 copies offered to them, at a price to be settled by two 
 persons; but though he imagined he should get a 
 considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his 
 family were in urgent need of, he protested he would 
 not leave Joseph in his present condition : finally, he 
 told him, " He had nine shillings and threepence 
 halfpenny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use 
 as he pleased.'' 
 
 This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into 
 Joseph's eyes ; he declared, *' He had now a second 
 reason to desire life, that he might show his gratitude 
 to such a friend." Adams bad him "be cheerful; 
 for that he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his igno- 
 rance, desired to make a merit of curing him, though 
 the wounds in his head, he perceived, were by no 
 means dangerous ; that he was convinced he had no 
 [84]
 
 CONVALESCENCE 
 
 fever, and doubted not but he would be able to travel 
 in a day or two."" 
 
 These words infused a spirit into Joseph ; he said, 
 " He found himself very sore from the bruises, but 
 had no reason to think any of his bones injured, or 
 that he had received any harm in his inside, unless 
 that he felt something very odd in his stomach ; 
 but he knew not whether that might not arise from 
 not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four 
 hours." Being then asked if he had any inclination 
 to eat, he answered in the affirmative. Then parson 
 Adams desired him to "name what he had the 
 greatest fancy for ; whether a poached egg, or 
 chicken-broth." He answered, " He could eat both 
 very well ; but that he seemed to have the greatest 
 appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage." 
 
 Adams was pleased with so perfect a confinnation 
 that he had not the least fever, but advised him to 
 a lighter diet for that evening. He accordingly ate 
 either a rabbit or a fowl, I never could with any 
 tolerable certainty discover which ; after this he was, 
 by Mrs. Tow-wouse''s order, conveyed into a better 
 bed and equipped with one of her husband's shirts. 
 
 In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon 
 came to the inn, in order to see the thief conveyed 
 before the justice. They had consumed the whole 
 night in debating what measures they should take to 
 produce the piece of gold in evidence against him ; 
 [85]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 for they were both extremely zealous in the business, 
 though neither of them were in the least interested 
 in the prosecution ; neither of them had ever re- 
 ceived any private injury fi'om the fellow, nor had 
 either of them ever been suspected of loving the 
 publick well enough to give them a sermon or a dose 
 of physic for nothing. 
 
 To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible 
 to account for this zeal, we must inform him that, as 
 this parish was so unfortunate as to have no lawyer 
 in it, there had been a constant contention between 
 the two doctoi's, spiritual and physical, concerning 
 their abilities in a science, in which, as neither of them 
 professed it, they had equal pretensions to dispute 
 each other"'s opinions. These disputes were carried 
 on with great contempt on both sides, and had al- 
 most divided the parish ; Mr. Tow-wouse and one 
 half of the neighbours inclining to the surgeon, and 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse with the other half to the parson. 
 The surgeon drew his knowledge from those inestim- 
 able fountains, called The Attorney's Pocket Com- 
 panion, and Mr. Jacob's Law-Tables ; Barnabas 
 trusted entirely to Wood's Institutes. It happened 
 on this occasion, as was pretty frequently the case, 
 that these two learned men differed about the suffi- 
 ciency of evidence ; the doctor being of opinion that 
 the maid's oath would convict the prisoner without 
 producing the gold ; the parson, e contra, toUs viri' 
 [86]
 
 VANITY 
 
 bus. To display their parts, therefore, before the 
 justice and the parish, was the sole motive which we 
 can discover to this zeal which both of them pretended 
 to have for publick justice. 
 
 O Vanity ! how little is thy force acknowledged, or 
 thy operations discerned ! How wantonly dost thou 
 deceive mankind under different disguises ! Some- 
 times thou dost wear the face of pity, sometimes of 
 generosity : nay, thou hast the assurance even to put 
 on those glorious ornaments ^^hich belong only to 
 heroic virtue. Thou odious, deformed monster ! 
 whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, 
 and poets ridiculed ; is there a wretch so abandoned 
 as to own thee for an acquaintance in publick ? — yet, 
 how few ^vill refuse to enjoy thee in private ? nay, 
 thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. 
 The greatest villainies are daily practised to please 
 thee ; nor is the meanest thief below, or the gi-eatest 
 hero above, thy notice. Thy embraces are often the 
 sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery and 
 the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, 
 thou harlot, that we attempt to withdraw from 
 others what we do not want, or to withhold from 
 them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves. 
 Avarice itself is often no more than thy handmaid, 
 and even Lust thy pimp. The bully Fear, like a 
 coward, flies before thee, and Joy and Grief hide 
 their heads in thy presence. 
 [87]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee 
 I court thee, and that thy love hath inspired me to 
 write this sarcastical panegyric on thee ; but thou 
 art deceived : I value thee not of a farthing ; nor 
 will it give rae any pain if thou shouldst prevail on 
 the reader to censure this digression as arrant non- 
 sense ; for know, to thy confusion, that I have intro- 
 duced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen 
 out a short chapter, and so I return to my history. 
 
 [88]
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 THE ESCAPE OF THE TRIEF. MR. ADAMSES DISAPPOINT- 
 MENT. THE ARBIVAI. OF TWO VERY EXTRAORDI- 
 NARY PERSONAGES, AND THE IKTRODUCTION OF 
 PARSON ADAMS TO PARSON BARNABAS. 
 
 ARNABAS and the surgeon, being re- 
 turned, as we have said, to t[\e inn, in 
 order to convey the thief before the jus- 
 tice, were greatly concerned to find a 
 small accident had happened, which somewhat dis- 
 concerted them ; and this was no other than the 
 thief s escape, who had modestly withdi'awn him- 
 self by night, declining all ostentation, and not 
 chusing, in imitation of some great men, to dis- 
 tinguish himself at the expense of being pointed at. 
 
 When the company had retired the evening before, 
 the thief was detained in a room where the constable, 
 and one of the young fellows who took him, were 
 planted as his guard. About the second watch a 
 general complaint of drought was made, both by the 
 prisoner and his keepers. Among whom it was at last 
 agreed that the constable should remain on duty, and 
 the young fellow call up the tapster ; in which dis- 
 [89]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 position the latter 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 before 
 it came into the constable's head that the prisoner 
 nn'ght leap on him by surprize, and, thereby prevent- 
 ing him of the use of his weapons, especially the long 
 staff in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the 
 success of a struggle to an equal chance. He wisely, 
 therefore, to prevent this inconvenience, slipt out of 
 the room himself, and locked the door, waiting with- 
 out with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the 
 unhappy prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt 
 to break out. 
 
 But human life, as hath been discovered by some 
 great man or other (for I would by no means be un- 
 derstood to affect the honour of making any such dis- 
 covery), very much resembles a game at chess ; for as 
 in the latter, while a gamester is too attentive to 
 secure himself very strongly on one side the board, 
 he is apt to leave an unguarded opening on the other ; 
 so doth it often happen in life, and so did it happen 
 on this occasion ; for whilst the cautious constable 
 with such wonderful sagacity had possessed himself 
 of the door, he most unhappily forgot the window. 
 
 The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner 
 perceived this opening than he began to move that 
 [90]
 
 THE THIEF'S ESCAPE 
 
 way ; and, finding the passage easy, he took with him 
 the young fellow's hat, and without any ceremony 
 stepped into the street and made the best of his 
 way. 
 
 The young fellow, returning with a double mug of 
 strong beer, was a little surprized to find the con- 
 stable at the door ; but much more so when, the door 
 being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made 
 his escape, and which way. He threw down the beer, 
 and, without uttering anything to the constable 
 except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt out of 
 the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, 
 being verv unwilling to lose the reward which he had 
 assured himself of. 
 
 The constable hath not been discharged of suspi- 
 cion on this account ; it hath been said that, not 
 being concerned in the taking the thief, he could 
 not have been entitled to any part of the reward if 
 he had been convicted ; that the thief had several 
 guineas in his pocket ; that it was very unlikely he 
 should have been guilty of such an oversight ; that 
 his pretence for leaving the room was absurd ; that 
 it was his constant maxim, that a wise man never 
 refused money on any conditions ; that at every elec- 
 tion he always had sold his vote to both parties, &c. 
 
 But, notwithstanding these and many other such 
 allegations, I am sufficiently convinced of his inno- 
 cence ; having been positively assured of it bv those 
 [91]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 who received their informations from his own mouth ; 
 which, in the opinion of some modems, is the best 
 and indeed only evidence. 
 
 All the family were now up, and with many others 
 assembled in the kitchen, where Mr. Tow-wouse was 
 in some tribulation ; the surgeon having declared 
 that by law he was liable to be indicted for the 
 thiefs escape, as it was out of his house ; he was a 
 little comforted, however, by Mr. Barnabas''s opinion, 
 that as the escape was by night the indictment would 
 not lie. 
 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following 
 words : " Sure never was such a fool as my husband ; 
 would any other person living have left a man in the 
 custody of such a drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom 
 Suckbribe ? " (which v,as the constable*'s name) ; " and 
 if he could be indicted without any harm to his wife 
 and children, I should be glad of it." (Then the 
 bell rung in Joseph''s room.) " Why Betty, John, 
 Chamberlain, where tiie devil are you all ? Have you 
 no ears, or no conscience, not to tend the sick better ? 
 See what the gentleman wants. Why don''t you go 
 yourself, Mr. Tow-wouse ? But any one may die for 
 you; you have no more feeling than a deal board. 
 If a man lived a fortnight in your house without 
 spending a penny, you would never put him in mind 
 of it. See whether he drinks tea or coffee for break- 
 fast.^' " Yes, my dear," cried Tow-wouse. She then 
 [92]
 
 MR. ADAMS'S STRATAGEM 
 
 asked the doctor and Mr. Baniabas what morning's 
 draught they chose, who answered, they had a pot of 
 cyder-and at the fire ; which we will leave them merry 
 over, and return to Joseph. 
 
 He had rose pretty early this morning ; but, 
 though his wounds were far from thi'eatening any 
 danger, he was so sore with the bruises, that it was 
 impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey 
 yet ; Mr. Adams, therefore, whose stock was visibly 
 decreased with the expenses of supper and breakfast, 
 and which could not survive that day's scoring, 
 began to consider how it was possible to recruit it. 
 At last he cried, " He had luckily hit on a sure 
 method, and, though it would oblige him to return 
 himself home together with Joseph, it mattered not 
 much." He then sent for Tow-wouse, and, taking 
 him into another room, told him "he wanted to 
 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 believed he could furnish him." 
 Upon which Adams, pointing to his saddle-bag, told 
 him, with a face and voice full of solemnity, " that 
 there were in that bag no less than nine volumes of 
 manuscript sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds 
 as a shilling was worth twelve pence, and that he 
 would deposit one of the volumes in his hands by way 
 of pledge ; not doubting but that he would have the 
 [93]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 honesty to return it on his repayment of the money ; 
 for otherwise he must be a very great loser, seeing 
 that every volume would at least bring him ten 
 pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring 
 clergyman in the countiy ; for," said he, " as to my 
 own part, having never yet dealt in printing, I do 
 not pretend to ascertain the exact value of such 
 things." 
 
 Tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, 
 said ( and not without some truth ), " Tliat he was 
 no judge of the price of such kind of goods ; and as 
 for money, he really was very short." Adams 
 answered, " Certainly he would not scruple to lend 
 him three guineas on what was undoubtedly worth 
 at least ten." The landlord replied, " He did not 
 believe he had so much money in the house, and 
 besides, he was to make up a sum. He was very 
 confident the books Avere of much higher value, and 
 heartily sorry it did not suit him." He then cried 
 out, " Coming sir ! " though nobody called ; and 
 ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his 
 neck. 
 
 Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this dis- 
 appointment, nor knew he what further stratagem 
 to try. He immediately applied to his pipe, his 
 constant friend and comfort in his afflictions ; and, 
 leaning over the rails, he devoted himself to medita- 
 tion, assisted by the inspiring fumes of tobacco. 
 
 [9*]
 
 NEW ARRIVALS 
 
 He had on a nightcap diawn over his wig, and a 
 short greatcoat, which half co\ered his cassock — a 
 dress which, added to something comical enough in 
 his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract 
 the eyes of those who were not over given to obser- 
 vation. 
 
 Whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this posture, 
 a coach and six, with a numerous attendance, drove 
 into the inn. There alighted from the coach a 
 young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which 
 another young fellow leapt 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 entei-tained themselves with the following short 
 facetious dialogue : — 
 
 " You are a pretty fellow for a coachman. Jack ! " 
 says he from the coach ; " you had almost overturned 
 us just now." — " Pox take you ! " says the coachman ; 
 " if I had only broke your neck, it would have been 
 saving somebody else the trouble ; but I should have 
 been sorry for the pointers." — " Why, you son of a 
 b — ," answered the other, "if nobody could shoot 
 better than you, the pointers would be of no use,'' — 
 " D — n me," says the coachman, " I will shoot with 
 you five guineas a shot." — " You be hanged," says 
 the other ; " for five guineas you shall shoot at my 
 a—." — "Done," says the coachman; "I'll pepper 
 [96]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 you better than ever you was peppered by Jenny 
 Bouncer.*" — " Pepper your grandmother,"" says the 
 other : " Here 's Tow-wouse will let you shoot at 
 him for a shilling a time."" — "I know his honour 
 better,'' cries Tow-wouse ; " I never saw a surer 
 shot at a partridge. Every man misses now and 
 then ; but if I could shoot half as well as his 
 honour, I would desire no better livelihood than I 
 could get by my gun."" — " Pox on you," said the 
 coachman, " you demolish more game now than your 
 head ""s worth. There 's a bitch, Tow-wouse : by 
 G — she never blinked ^ a bird in her life." — "I 
 have a puppy, not a year old, shall hunt with her 
 for a hundred," cries the other gentleman. — " Done," 
 says the coachman : "but you will be pox"'d before 
 you make the bett." — " If 3'ou have a mind for a 
 bett," cries the coachman, " I will match my spotted 
 dog with your white bitch for a hundred, play or 
 pay." — " Done," says the other : " and I '11 run 
 Baldface against Slouch with you for another." — 
 " No," cries he from the box ; " but I '11 venture Miss 
 Jenny against Baldface, or Hannibal either." — " Go 
 to the devil," cries he from the coach : " I will make 
 every bett your own way, to be sure ! I will match 
 Hannibal with Slouch for a thousand, if you dare ; 
 and I say done first." 
 
 1 To blink is a term used to signify the dog's passing by 
 a bird without pointing at it. 
 
 [96]
 
 THE TWO CLERGYMEN 
 
 They were now amved ; and the reader will be 
 very contented to leave them, and repair to the 
 kitchen ; where Barnabas, the surgeon, and an excise- 
 man were smoaking tlieir pipes over some cyder- 
 and ; and where the servants, who attended the two 
 noble gentlemen we have just seen alight, were now 
 arrived. 
 
 *' Tom," cries one of the footmen, " there 's parson 
 Adams smoaking his pipe in the gallery." — " Ye%' 
 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 shew a proper respect for 
 the cloth : but what say you, doctor, shall we 
 adjourn into a room, and invite him to take part 
 of a bowl of punch ? " 
 
 This proposal was immediately agreed to and exe- 
 cuted ; and parson Adams accepting the invitation, 
 much civility passed between the two clergymen, who 
 both declared the great honour they had for tlie 
 cloth. Tliey had not been long together before they 
 entered into a discourse on small tithes, which con- 
 tinued a full hour, without the doctor or exciseman's 
 having one opportunity to offer a word. 
 
 [ 9' 1
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 It was then proposed to begin a general conversa- 
 tion, and the exciseman opened on foreign affairs; 
 but a word unluckily dropping from one of them 
 introduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered 
 by the inferior clergy ; which, after a long duration, 
 concluded with bringing the nine volumes of sermons 
 on the carpet. 
 
 Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams ; he 
 said, " The age was so wicked, that nobody read 
 sermons : would you think it, Mr. Adams ? " said lie, 
 " I once intended to print a volume of sermons my- 
 self, and they had the approbation of two or tliree 
 bishops ; but what do you think a bookseller offered 
 me ? " — " Twelve guineas perhaps," cried Adams. 
 — "Not twelve pence, I assure you," answered 
 Barnabas : " nay, the dog refused me a Concordance 
 in exchange. At last I offered to give him the 
 printing them, for the sake of dedicating them to 
 that very gentleman who just now drove his own 
 coach into the inn ; and, I assure you, he had the 
 impudence to refuse my offer ; by which means I lost 
 a good living, that was afterwards given away in 
 exchange for a pointer, to one who — but I will not 
 say anything against the cloth. So you may guess, 
 Mr. Adams, what you are to expect ; for if sermons 
 would have gone down, I believe — I will not be 
 vain ; but to be concise with you, three bishops said 
 they were the best that ever were writ : but indeed 
 [98j
 
 VALUE OF SERMONS 
 
 there are a pretty moderate number printed already, 
 and not all sold yef — " 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 : " WTiat can they be 
 writ upon ? I remember when I was a boy, I used 
 to read one Tillotson''s sermons ; and, I am sure, if 
 a man practised half so much as is in one of those 
 sermons, he will go to heaven." — " Doctor," cried 
 Barnabas, " you have a prophane way of talking, for 
 which I must reprove you. A man can never have 
 his duty too frequently inculcated into him. And 
 as for Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and 
 said things very well ; but comparisons are odious ; 
 
 another man may write as well as he 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, perhaps you may sell them by advertising the 
 manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately deceased, 
 all warranted originals, and never printed. And 
 now I think of it, I should be obliged to you, if 
 [99]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 there be ever a funeral one among them, to lend it 
 me ; for I am this very day to preach a funeral 
 sermon, for which I have not penned a line, though 
 I am to have a double price."" — Adams answered, 
 " He had but one, which he feared would not serve 
 his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magis- 
 trate, who had exerted himself very singularly in the 
 preservation of the morality of his neighbours, inso- 
 much that he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman 
 in the parish where he lived."" — " No,'* replied Barna- 
 bas, " that will not do quite so well ; for the deceased, 
 upon whose virtues I am to harangue, was a little 
 too much addicted to hquor, and publickly kept a 
 
 mistress. 1 believe I must take a common sermon, 
 
 and trust to my memory to introduce something 
 handsome on him." — " To your invention rather," 
 said the doctor : " your memory will be apter to put 
 you out ; for no man living remembers anything good 
 of him." 
 
 With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied 
 the bowl of punch, paid their reckoning, and sepa- 
 rated : Adams and the doctor went up to Joseph, 
 parson Barnabas departed to celebrate the aforesaid 
 deceased, and the exciseman descended into the 
 cellar to gauge the vessels. 
 
 Joseph was now ready to sit do\vn to a loin of 
 mutton, and waited for Mr. Adams, when he and the 
 doctor came in. The doctor, having felt his pulse 
 [100]
 
 JOSEPH'S RECOVERY 
 
 and examined his wounds, declared him much better, 
 which he imputed to that sanative soporiferous 
 draught, a medicine " whose virtues,'* he said, *' were 
 never to be sufficiently extolled." And great indeed 
 they must be, if Joseph was so much indebted to 
 them as the doctor imagined ; since nothing more 
 than those effluvia which escaped the cork could 
 have contributed to his recovery ; for the medicine 
 had stood untouched in the window ever since its 
 arrival, 
 
 Joseph passed that day, and the three following, 
 with his friend Adams, in which nothing so remark- 
 able happened as the swift progress of his recovery. 
 As he had an excellent habit of body, his wounds 
 were now almost healed ; and his bruises gave him so 
 little uneasiness, that he pressed Mr. Adams to let 
 him depart ; told him he should never be able to 
 return sufficient thanks for all his favours, but begged 
 that he might no longer delay his journey to 
 London. 
 
 Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he con- 
 ceived it, of Mr. Tow-wouse, and the envy (for such 
 he thought it) of Mr. Barnabas, had great expecta- 
 tions from his sermons : seeing therefore Joseph in so 
 good a way, he told him he would agree to his set- 
 ting out the next morning in the stage-coach, that he 
 believed he should have sufficient, after the reckoning 
 paid, to procure him one day's conveyance in it, and
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 afterwards he would be able to get on on foot, or might 
 be favoured with a lift in some neighbour's waggon, 
 especially as there was then to be a fair in the town 
 whither the coach would carry him, to which num- 
 bei*s from his parish resorted — And as to himself, 
 he agreed to proceed to the great city. 
 
 They were now walking in the inn-yard, when a 
 fat, fair, short person rode in, and, alighting from 
 his horse, went directly up to Barnabas, who was 
 smoaking his pipe on a 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 accompanied him, 
 and took this opportunity to expatiate on the great 
 mercies God had lately shown him, of which he 
 ought not only to have the deepest inward sense, but 
 likewise to express outward thankfulness for them. 
 They therefore fell both on their knees, and spent a 
 considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving. 
 
 They had just finished when Betty came in and 
 told Mr. Adams Mr. Barnabas desired to speak to 
 him on some business of consequence below-stairs. 
 Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, 
 he would let him know it, that he might go to bed, 
 which Adams promised, and in that case they wished 
 one another good-night. 
 
 [ 102 ]
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 A FLEASANT DISCOURSE BETWEEN' THE TWO PARSONS AND 
 THE BOOKSELLER, WHICH WAS BROKE OFF BY AS 
 UNLUCKY ACCIDENT HAPPENING IN THE INN, WHICH 
 PRODUCED A DIALOGLTS BET\\'EEN MRS. TOW-WOUSE 
 AND HER MAID OF NO GENTLE KIND. 
 
 ]A S soon as Adams came into the room, Mr. 
 /^L Barnabas introduced him to the stranger, 
 / ■ ^^ who was, he told him, a bookseller, and 
 "^" "^^ would be as likely to deal with him for 
 his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting 
 the stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very 
 much obliged to him ; that nothing could be more 
 convenient, for he had no other business to die great 
 city, and was heartily desirous of returning with the 
 young man, who was just recovered of his misfor- 
 tune. He then snapt his fingers ( as was usual with 
 him), and took two or three turns about the room 
 in an extasy. And to induce the bookseller to be 
 as expeditious as possible, as likewise to offer him a 
 better price for his commodity, he assured them their 
 meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for that he 
 had the most pressing occasion for money at that 
 [ 103 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 time, his own being almost spent, and having a 
 friend then in the same inn, who was just recovered 
 ft'om some wounds he had received from robbers, 
 and was in a most indigent condition. "So that 
 nothing,^ says he, "could be so opportune for the 
 supplying both our necessities as my making an 
 immediate bargain with you." 
 
 As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger 
 began in these words : " Sir, I do not care absolutely 
 to deny engaging in what my friend Mr. Barnabas 
 recommends ; but sermons are mere drugs. The 
 trade is so vastly stocked with them, that really, 
 unless they come out with the name of Whitefield or 
 Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, 
 or those sort of people, I don't care to touch ; unless 
 now it was a sermon preached on the 30th of 
 Januaiy ; or we could say in the title-page, published 
 at the earnest request of the congregation, or the 
 inhabitants ; but, truly, for a dry piece of sermons, 
 I had rather be excused ; especially as my hands are 
 so full at present. However, sir, as Mr. Barnabas 
 mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take 
 the manuscript with me to town, and send you my 
 opinion of it in a very short time." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Adams, " if you desire it, I will read 
 two or three discourses as a specimen." This 
 Barnabas, who loved sermons no better than a gro- 
 cer doth figs, immediately objected to, and advised 
 [ 104 ]
 
 THE BOOKSELLER 
 
 Adams to let the bookseller have his sermons : telling 
 him, " If he gave him a direction, he might be cer- 
 tain of a speedy answer ;" adding, he need not 
 scruple trusting them in his possession. " No," said 
 the bookseller, " if it was a play that had been acted 
 twenty nights together, I believe it would be safe." 
 
 Adams did not at all relish the last expression ; 
 he said " he was sorry to hear sermons compared to 
 plays." — " Not by me, I assure you," cried the book- 
 seller, " though I don't know whether the licensing 
 act may not shortly bring them to the same footing ; 
 but I have formerly known a hundred guineas given 
 for a play." — " More shame for those who gave it," 
 cried Barnabas. — " Why so ? " said the bookseller, 
 " for they got hundreds by it." — " But is there no 
 difference between conveying good or ill instructions 
 to mankind ? " said Adams : " Would not an honest 
 mind rather lose money by the one, than gain it by 
 the other .^ " — " If you can find any such, I will not 
 be their hindrance," answered the bookseller ; " but 
 I think those persons wlio get by preaching sernions 
 are the properest to lose by printing them : for my 
 part, the copy that sells best will be always the best 
 copy in my opinion ; I am no enemy to sermons, but 
 because they don't sell : for I would as soon print 
 one of Whitefield's as any farce whatever." 
 
 " Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to 
 be hanged," says Barnabas. " Sir," said he, turning 
 [105]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 to Adams, " this fellow's writings (I know not whether 
 you have seen tliem) are levelled at the clergy. He 
 would reduce us to the example of the primitive 
 ages, forsooth ! and would insinuate to the people 
 that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and 
 praying. He pretends to understand the Scripture 
 literally ; and would make mankind believe that the 
 poverty and low estate which was recommended to 
 the Church in its infancy, and was only temporary 
 doctrine adapted to her under persecution, was to be 
 preserved in her flourishing and established state. 
 Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all the 
 freethinkers, are not calculated to do half the mis- 
 chief, as those professed by this fellow and his 
 followers.'" 
 
 "..^,'" answered Adams, "if Mr, Whitefield had 
 earned his doctrine no farther than you mention, I 
 should have remained, as I once was, his well-wisher. 
 I am, myself, as great an enemy to the luxury and 
 splendour of the clergy as he can be. I do not, 
 more than he, by the flourishing estate of the Church, 
 understand the palaces, equipages, dress, furniture, 
 rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. 
 Surely those things, which savour so strongly of this 
 world, become not the servants of one who professed 
 His kingdom was not of it. \But when he began to 
 call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up 
 the detestable doctrine of faith against good works, 
 [ 106 ]
 
 FAITH AND WORKS 
 
 I was his friend no longer ; for surely that doctrine 
 was coined in hell ; and one would think none but 
 the devil himself could have the confidence to preach 
 it. For can anything 1^ more derogatorv to the 
 honour of God than for men to imagine that the 
 all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good and 
 virtuous, * Notwithstanding the purity of thv life, 
 notwithstanding that constant rule of virtue and 
 goodness in which you walked upon earth, still, as 
 thou didst not believe ever}- thing in the true ortho- 
 dox manner, thy want of faith shall condemn tliee ' ? 
 Or, on the other side, can any doctrine have a more 
 pernicious influence on society, than a pei'suasion 
 that it will be a good plea for the villain at the last 
 day^ ' Lord, it is true I never obeyed one of thv 
 commandments, yet punish me not, for I believe 
 them all \'' " — "I suppose, sir," said the bookseller, 
 "your sermons are of a different kind." — "Aye, 
 sir," said Adams ; " the contrary, I thank Heaven, 
 is inculcated in almost every page, or I should belye 
 my own opinion, which hath always been, that a 
 virtuous and good Turk, or heathen, are more ac- 
 ceptable in the sight of their Creator than a vicious 
 and wicked Christian, though his faith was as per- 
 fectly orthodox as St. Paul's himself." — "I wish 
 you success," says the bookseller, " but must beg to 
 be excused, as my hands are so very full at present ; 
 and, indeed, I am afraid vou will find a backwardness 
 [107j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 in the trade to engage in a book which the clergy 
 would be certain to cry down." — "God forbid," 
 says Adams, "aiiy books should be propagated 
 which the clergy would cry down ; but if you mean 
 by the clergy, some few designing factious men, who 
 have it at heart to establish some favourite schemes 
 at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very 
 essence of religion, it is not in the power of such 
 persons to decry any book they please ; witness that 
 excellent book called, ' A Plain Account of the 
 Nature and End of the Sacrament ; "* a book written 
 (if I may venture on the expression) with the pen of 
 an angel, and calculated to restore the true use of 
 Christianity, and of that sacred institution ; for what 
 could tend more to the noble purposes of religion 
 than frequent chearful meetings among the members 
 of a society, in which they should, in the presence 
 of one another, and in the service of the Supreme 
 Being, make promises of being good, friendly, and 
 benevolent to each other? Now, this excellent 
 book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully/' 
 At these words Barnabas fell a-ringing with all the 
 violence imaginable ; upon which a servant attend- 
 ing, he bid him " bring a bill immediately; for that 
 he was in company, for aught he knew, with the 
 devil himself; and he expected to hear the Alcoran, 
 the Leviathan, or Woolston commended, if he staid 
 a few minutes longer." Adams desired, " as he was 
 [108]
 
 A VIOLENT SCENE 
 
 so much moved at his mentioning a book which he 
 did without apprehending any possibihty of offence, 
 that he would be so kind to propose any objections 
 he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer." 
 
 — "I propose objections ! " said Barnabas, " I never 
 read a syllable in any such wicked book ; I never 
 saw it in my life, I assure you."" — Adams was going 
 to answer, when a most hideous uproar began in the 
 inn. Mrs. Tow-wouse, Mr. Tow-wouse, and Betty, 
 all lifting up their voices together ; but Mrs. Tow- 
 wouse"'s voice, like a bass viol in a concert, was 
 clearly and distinctly distinguished among the rest, 
 and was heard to articulate the following sounds : 
 
 — " O you damn''d villain ! is this the return to all 
 the care I have taken of your family ? This the 
 reward of my virtue ? Is this the manner in which 
 you behave to one who brought you a fortune, and 
 preferred you to so many matches, all your betters ? 
 To abuse my bed, my own bed, with my own servant ! 
 but 1 11 maul the slut, I '11 tear her nasty eyes out ! 
 Was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such 
 a mean trollop? If she had been a gentlewoman, 
 like myself, it had been some excuse ; but a beggarly, 
 saucy, dirty servant-maid. Get you out of my 
 house, you whore.'' To which she added another 
 name, which we do not care to stain our paper with. 
 It was a monosyllable beginning with a b — , and 
 indeed was the same as if she had pronounced the 
 
 [109]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 words, she-dog. Which term we shall, to avoid 
 offence, use on this occasion, though indeed both 
 the mistress and maid uttered the above-mentioned 
 b — , a word extremely disgustful to females of the 
 lower sort. Betty had borne all hitherto with 
 patience, and had uttered only lamentations ; but 
 the last appellation stung her to the quick. " I am 
 a woman as well as 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, sobbing, *'* that 's no 
 reason you should call me out of my name ; my 
 b-betters are wo-rse than me." — " Huzzy, huzzy," 
 says Mrs. Tow-wouse, " have you the impudence to 
 answer me ? Did I not catch vou, vou saucv " — 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. Adams, 
 who confined her arms with the strength of a \^Tist 
 which Hercules would not have been ashamed of. 
 Ml-. Tow-wouse, being caught, as our la\\yers express 
 it, with the manner, and having no defence to make, 
 [llOj
 
 COMPOSURE RESTORED 
 
 very prudently withdrew himself; and Betty com- 
 mitted herself to the protection of the hostler, who, 
 though she could not conceive him pleased with 
 what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather a 
 gentler beast than her mistress. 
 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr. Adams, 
 and finding the enemy vanished, began to compose 
 herself, and at length recovered the usual serenity of 
 her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to 
 the reader the steps which led to a catastroplie, 
 common enough, and comical enough too perhaps, 
 in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and 
 well-being of families, and the subject of many 
 tragedies, both in life and on the stage. 
 
 [in J
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 THE HISTORY OF BETTY THE CHAMBERMAID, AND AN 
 ACCOUNT OF WHAT OCCASIONED THE VIOLENT 
 SCENE IN THE PRECEDING CHAPTER. 
 
 BETTY, who was the occasion of all this 
 hurry, had some good qualities. She 
 had good-nature, generosity, and com- 
 passion, but unfortunately, her constitu- 
 tion was composed of those warm ingredients which, 
 though the purity of courts or nunneries might have 
 happily controuled them, were by no means able to 
 endure the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at an 
 inn ; who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers 
 of all complexions ; to the dangerous addresses of fine 
 gentlemen of the army, who sometimes are obliged 
 to reside with them a whole year together ; and, 
 above all, are exposed to the caresses of footmen, 
 stage-coachmen, and drawers ; all of whom employ 
 the whole artillery of kissing, flattering, bribing, 
 and eveiT other weapon which is to be found in the 
 whole armoui-y of love, against them. 
 
 Betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now lived 
 three years in this dangerous situation, during which 
 [llSj
 
 BETTY'S HISTORY 
 
 she had escaped pretty well. An ensign of foot was 
 the first person who made an impression on her 
 heart ; he did indeed raise a flame in her which re- 
 quired the care of a surgeon to cool. 
 
 While she burnt for him, several others burnt for 
 her. Officers of the army, young gentlemen travel- 
 ling the western circuit, inoffensive squires, and some 
 of graver character, were set a-fire by her charms ! 
 
 At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of 
 her first unhappy passion, she seemed to have vowed 
 a state of perpetual chastity. She was long deaf to 
 all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a 
 neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hostler, 
 with a new straw hat and a pint of >vine, made a 
 second conquest over her. 
 
 She did not, however, feel any of those flames on 
 this occasion which had been the consequence of her 
 former amour ; nor, indeed, those other ill effects 
 which prudent young women very justly apprehend 
 from too absolute an indulgence to the pressing endear- 
 ments of their lovers. This latter, perhaps, was a 
 little owing to hei* not being entirely constant to 
 John, with whom she permitted Tom Whipwell the 
 stage-coachman, and now and then a handsome young 
 traveller, to share her favours. 
 
 Mr. Tow-wouse had for some time cast the lan- 
 guishing eyes of affection on this young maiden. He 
 had laid hold on every opportunity of saying tender
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 things to her, squeezing her by the hand, and some- 
 times kissing her lips ; for, as the violence of hia 
 passion had considerably abated to Mrs. Tow-wouse, 
 so, like water, which is stopt from its usual cunent 
 in one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. 
 Mrs. Tow-wouse is thought to have perceived this 
 abatement, and, probably, it added very little to the 
 natural sweetness of her temper ; for though she was 
 as true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was 
 rather more desirous of being shone on, as being more 
 capable of feeling his warmth. 
 
 Ever since Joseph"'s arrival, Betty had conceived an 
 extraordinary liking to him, which discovered itself 
 more and more as he grew better and better; till 
 that fatal evening, when, as she was warming his bed, 
 her passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly 
 mastered both her modesty and her reason, that, after 
 many fruitless hints and sly insinuations, she at last 
 threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him 
 with great eageniess, swore he was the handsomest 
 creature she had ever seen. 
 
 Joseph, in gi-eat confusion, leapt from her, and told 
 her he was sorry to see a young woman cast off all re- 
 gard to modesty ; but she had gone too far to recede, 
 and grew so very indecent, that Joseph was obliged, 
 contrary to his inclination, to use some violence to 
 her ; and, taking her in his arms, he shut her out of 
 the room, and locked the door. 
 [114]
 
 A CATASTROPHE 
 
 How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is al- 
 ways in his own power ; that, if he hath sufficient 
 strength of mind, he hath always a competent 
 strength of body to defend himself, and cannot, like 
 a poor weak woman, be ravished against his will ! 
 
 Betty was in the most violent agitation at this dis- 
 appointment. Rage and lust pulled her heart, as with 
 two strings, two different ways ; one moment she 
 thought of stabbing Joseph ; the next, of taking him 
 in her arms, and devouring him with kisses ; but the 
 latter passion was far more prevalent. Then she 
 thought of revenging his refusal on herself; but, 
 whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily 
 death presented himself to her in so many shapes, of 
 drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c., that her distracted 
 mind could resolve on none. In this perturbation of 
 spirit, it accidentally occurred to her memory that her 
 master"'s bed was not made ; she therefore went 
 directly to his room, where he happened at that time 
 to be 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 in- 
 to her ears, and then pressed her so closely with his 
 kisses, that the vanquished fair one, whose passions 
 were already raised, and which were not so whimsi- 
 cally capricious that one man only could lay them, 
 though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that 
 [115]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 one — the vanquished fair one quietly submitted, I 
 say, to her master''s will, who had just attained the 
 accomplishment of his bliss when Mrs. Tow-wouse 
 unexpectedly entered the room, and caused all 
 that confusion which we have before seen, and 
 which it is not necessary, at present, to take any 
 farther notice of ; since, without the assistance of a 
 single hint from us, every reader of any speculation or 
 experience, though not married himself, may easily 
 conjecture that it concluded with the discharge of 
 Betty, the submission of Mr. Tow-wouse, with some 
 things to be performed on his side by way of grati- 
 tude for his wife's goodness in being reconciled 
 to him, with many hearty promises never to offend 
 any more in the like manner ; and, lastly, his quietly 
 and contentedly bearing to be reminded of his trans- 
 gressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a day 
 during the residue of his life. 
 
 [116]
 
 BOOK II 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 OF DIVISIONS IN AUTHORS. 
 
 THERE are certain mysteries or secrets in 
 all trades, from the highest to the lowest, 
 from that of prime-ministering to this 
 of authoring, which are seldom discovered 
 unless to members of the same calling. Among those 
 used by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take 
 this of dividing our works into books and chapters to 
 be none of the least considerable. Now, for want of 
 being tinily acquainted with this secret, common 
 readers imagine, that by this art of dividing we mean 
 only to swell our works to a much larger bulk than 
 they would otherwise be extended to. These several 
 places therefore in our paper, which are filled with 
 our books and chapters, are understood as so much 
 buckram, stays, and stay-tape in a taylor's bill, serv- 
 ing only to make up the sum total, commonly found 
 at the bottom of our first page and of his last. 
 
 But in reality the case is otherwise, and in tliis as 
 well as all other instances we consult the advantage 
 of our reader, not our own ; and indeed, many 
 [117]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 notable uses arise to him fi'om this method ; for, first, 
 those little spaces between our chapters may be looked 
 upon as an inn or resting-place where he may stop and 
 take a glass or any other refreshment as it pleases 
 him. Nay, our fine readers will, perhaps, be scarce 
 able to travel farther than through one of them in 
 a day. As to those vacant pages which are placed 
 between our books, they are to be regarded as those 
 stages where in long journies the traveller stays some 
 time to repose himself, and consider of what he hath 
 seen in the parts he hath already passed through ; a 
 consideration which I take the liberty to recommend 
 a little to the reader ; for, however swift his capacity 
 may be, I would not advise him to travel through 
 these pages too fast ; for if he doth, he may probably 
 miss the seeing some curious productions of nature, 
 which will be observed by the slower and more ac- 
 curate reader. A volume without any such places of 
 rest resembles the opening of wilds or seas, which tires 
 the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon. 
 
 Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every 
 chapter but so many inscriptions over the gates of 
 inns (to continue the same metaphor), informing the 
 reader what entertainment he is to expect, which if 
 he likes not, he may travel on to the next ; for, in 
 biography, as we are not tied down to an exact 
 concatenation equally with other historians, so a 
 chapter or two (for instance, this I am now writing) 
 [118]
 
 DIVISIONS IN AUTHORS 
 
 may be often passed over without any injury to the 
 whole. And in these inscriptions I have been as 
 faithful as possible, not imitating the celebrated 
 Montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives 
 you another; nor some title-page authors, who 
 promise a great deal and produce nothing at all. 
 
 There are, besides these more obvious benefits, 
 several others which our readers enjoy irom this art 
 of dividing; though perhaps most of them too 
 mysterious to be presently understood by any who 
 are not initiated into the science of authoring. To 
 mention, therefore, but one which is most obvious, 
 it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning 
 do^vn 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 anti- 
 quity. Homer not only divided his great work into 
 twenty-four books (in compliment perhaps to the 
 twenty-four letters to which he had very particular 
 obligations), but, according to the opinion of some 
 very sagacious criticks, hawked them all separately', 
 delivering only one book at a time (probably by 
 subscription). He was the first inventor of the art 
 which hath so long lain dormant, of publishing by 
 numbers ; an art now brought to such perfection, 
 [ 119 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited 
 piecemeal to the public ; nay, one bookseller hath (to 
 encourage learning and ease the public) contrived to 
 give them a dictionary in this divided manner for only 
 fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire. 
 Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an 
 argument of his modesty ; for by that, doubtless, he 
 would insinuate that he pretends to no more than 
 half the merit of the Greek ; for the same reason, 
 our Milton went originally no farther than ten; till, 
 being 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 criticks have done ; who have 
 with infinite labour and acute discernment discovered 
 what books are proper for embellishment, and what 
 require simplicity only, particularly with regard to 
 similes, which I think are now generally agieed to 
 become any book but the first. 
 
 I will dismiss this chapter with the following 
 observation : that it becomes an author generally to 
 divide a book, as it does a butcher to joint his meat, 
 for such assistance is of great help to both the reader 
 and the carver. And now, having indulged myself 
 a little, I will endeavour to indulge the cuiiosity of 
 my reader, who is no doubt impatient to know what 
 he will find in the subsequent chapters of this book. 
 
 [120]
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 A SUEPEIZINO INSTANCE OF MR. ADAMS's SHORT MEMORY, 
 WITH THE UNFORTUNATE CONSEQUENCES WHICH IT 
 BROUGHT ON JOSEPH. 
 
 MR. ADAMS and Joseph were now 
 ready to depart different ways, when 
 an accident determined the former to 
 return with his friend, which Tow- 
 wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been 
 able to do. This accident was, that those sermons, 
 which the parson was travelling to London to publish, 
 were, O my good reader ! left behind ; what he had 
 mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other 
 than three shirts, a pair of shoes, and some otlier 
 necessaries, which JMrs. Adams, who thought her 
 husband would want shirts more than sermons on his 
 journey, had carefully provided him. 
 
 This discovery Avas now luckily owing to the pres- 
 ence of Joseph at the opening the saddlebags ; who, 
 having heard his friend say he carried with him 
 nine volumes of sermons, and not being of that sect 
 of philosophers who can reduce all the matter of the 
 world into a nutshell, seeing there was no room for 
 [121]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 them in the bags, where the parson had said they 
 were deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, " Bless 
 me, sir, where are your sermons r " The parson 
 answered, " There, there, child; there they are, under 
 my shirts." Now it happened that he had taken 
 forth his last shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly 
 empty. " Sure, sir," says Joseph, ** there is nothing 
 in the bags." Upon which Adams, starting, and 
 testifying some sui"prize, cried, *' Hey ! fie, fie upon 
 it! they are not here sure enough. Ay, they are 
 certainly left behind." 
 
 Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness 
 which he apprehended his friend must feel from this 
 disappointment ; he begged him to pursue his journey, 
 and promised he would himself return w ith the books 
 to him witli the utmost expedition. " No, thank 
 you, child," answered Adams ; " it shall not be so. 
 What would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, 
 unless I had my discourses with me, which are ut Ha 
 clkam^ the sole cause, the aitia monotate of my pere- 
 grination .'' No, child, as this accident hath happened, 
 I am resolved to return back to my cure, together 
 with you ; which indeed my inclination sufficiently 
 leads me to. This disappointment may perhaps be 
 intended for my good." He concluded with a verse 
 out of Theocritus, which signifies no more than that 
 sometimes it rains, and sometimes the sun shines. 
 
 Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for
 
 THE HOMEWARD JOURNEY 
 
 the inclination which the parson expressed of return- 
 ing with him ; and now the bill was called for, which, 
 on examination, amounted within a shilling to the 
 sum Mr. Adams had in his pocket. Perhaps the 
 reader may wonder how he was able to produce a 
 sufficient sura for so many days : that he may not 
 be surprized, therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to 
 acquaint him that he had borrowed a guinea of a 
 servant belonging to the coach and six, who had been 
 formerly one of his parishioners, and whose master, 
 the owner of the coach, then lived within three miles 
 of him ; for so good was the credit of Mr. Adams, 
 that even Mr. Peter, the Lady Booby's steward, 
 would have lent him a guinea with very little 
 security. 
 
 Mr. Adams discharged the bill, and they were both 
 setting out, having agreed to ride and tie ; a method 
 of travelling much used by persons who have but one 
 horse between them, and is thus performed. The 
 two travellers set out together, one on horseback, 
 the other on foot : now, as it generally happens that 
 he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the custom 
 is, that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, 
 he is to dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, 
 post, or other thing, and then proceed on foot ; when 
 the other comes up to the horse he unties him, 
 mounts, and gallops on, till, having passed by his 
 fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place of
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 tying. And this is that method of traveUing so 
 much in use among our prudent ancestors, who kn^w 
 that horses had mouths as well as legs, and that th y 
 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 parli iraent's 
 lady used to mount a pillion behind her hnsband ; 
 and a grave serjeajit at law condescended to amble 
 to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk kick- 
 ing his heels behind him. 
 
 Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted 
 on Joseph's beginning the journey on horseback, and 
 Joseph had his foot in the stirrup, when the hostler 
 presented him a bill for the horse's board during his 
 residence at the inn. Joseph said Mr. Adams had 
 paid all ; but this matter, being referred to Mr. Tow- 
 wouse, was by him decided in favour of the hostler, 
 and indeed with truth and justice ; for this was a 
 fresh instance of that shortness of memory which 
 did not arise from want of parts, but that continual 
 hurry in which parson Adams was always involved. 
 
 Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which ex- 
 tremely puzzled him. The sum due for horse-meat 
 was twelve shillings (for Adams, who had borrowed 
 the beast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as 
 well as they could feed him), and the cash in his 
 pocket amounted to sixpence (for Adams had divided 
 [124]
 
 THE KEEPSAKE 
 
 the last shilling with him). Now, though there have 
 bften some ingenious persons who have contrived to 
 pry twelve shillings with sixpence, Joseph was not 
 one of them. He had never contracted a debt in his 
 life, and was consequently the less ready at an expe- 
 dient to extricate himself. Tow-wouse was willing 
 to giv6ihim credit till next time, to which Mrs. Tow- 
 vt'ouse would probably have consented (for such was 
 Joseph's beauty, that it had made some impression 
 even on that piece of flint which that good woman 
 wore in her bosom by way of heart). Joseph would 
 have found, therefore, very likely the passage free, had 
 he not, when he honestly discovered the nakedness 
 of his' pockets, pulled out that little piece of gold 
 which we have mentioned before. This caused Mrs. 
 Tow-wouse's eyes to water ; she told Joseph she did 
 not conceive a man could want money whilst he had 
 gold in his pocket. Joseph answered he had such a 
 .value for that little piece of gold, that he would not 
 part with it for a hundred times the riches which the 
 greatest esquire in the county was worth. " A pretty 
 way, indeed," said Mrs. Tow-wouse, " to run in debt, 
 and then refuse to part with your money, because you 
 have a value for it ! I never knew any piece of gold 
 of more value than as many shillings as it would 
 change for." — " Not to preserve my life from starv- 
 ing, nor to redeem it from a robber, would I part 
 with this dear piece ! " answered Joseph. " What," 
 [125]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 says Mrs. Tow-wouse, " I suppose it was given you 
 by some vile trollop, some miss or other ; if it had 
 been the present of a virtuous woman, you \\ ould not 
 have had such a value for it. My husband is a fool 
 if he parts with the horse without being paid for 
 him."" — " No, no, I can't part with the horse, indeed, 
 till 1 have the money," cried Tow-wouse, A resolu- 
 tion highly commended by a lawyer then in the yard, 
 who declared Mr, Tow-wouse might justify the 
 detainer. 
 
 As we cannot therefore at present get Mr. Joseph 
 out of the inn, we shall leave him in it, and carry our 
 reader on after parson Adams, who, his mind being 
 perfectly at ease, fell into a contemplation on a pas- 
 sage in iEschylus, which entertained him for three 
 miles together, without suffering him once to reflect 
 on his fellow-traveller. 
 
 At length, having spun out his thread, and being 
 now at the summit of a hill, he cast his eyes back- 
 wards, and wondered that he could not see any sign 
 of Joseph, As he left him ready to mount the horse, 
 he could not apprehend any mischief had happened, 
 neither could he suspect that he missed his wav, it 
 being so broad and plain ; the only reason which 
 presented itself to him was, that he had met with an 
 acquaintance who had prevailed with him to delay 
 some time in discourse. 
 
 He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, 
 [126]
 
 THE PARSON'S DILEMMA 
 
 not doubting but that he should be shortly over- 
 taken ; and soon came to a large water, which, filling 
 the whole road, he saw no method of passing unless 
 by wading through, which lie accordingly did up to 
 his middle ; but was no sooner got to the other side 
 than he perceived, if he had looked over the hedge, 
 he would have found a footpath capable of conduct- 
 ing him without wetting his shoes. 
 
 His surprize at Joseph's not coming up grew now 
 very troublesome ; he began to fear he knew not 
 what ; and as he determined to move no farther, 
 and, if he did not shortly overtake him, to return 
 back, he wished to find a house of public entertain- 
 ment where he might dry his clothes and refresh 
 himself with a pint ; but, seeing no such (for no other 
 reason than because he did not cast his eyes a hun- 
 dred yards forwards), he sat himself down on a stile, 
 and pulled out his ^Eschylns. 
 
 A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him if 
 he could direct him to an alehouse. The fellow, who 
 had just left it, and perceived the house and sign to 
 be within sight, thinking he had jeered him, and 
 being of a morose temper, bade him follow his nose 
 and be d — n'd. Adams told him he was a saucy 
 jackanapes ; upon which the fellow turned about 
 angrily ; but, perceiving Adams clench his fist, he 
 thought proper to go on without taking any farther 
 notice. 
 
 [127]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 A horseman, following immediately after, and being 
 asked the same question, answered, " Friend, there is 
 one within a stone''s throw ; I believe you may see it 
 before you." Adams, lifting up his eyes, cried, "I 
 protest, and so there is ; " and, thanking his informer, 
 proceeded directly to it. 
 
 [128]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 THE OPIKION OF TWO LA\n.'ERS CONCERXIXG THE SAMS 
 GENTLEMAN, WITH MR. ADAMs's INQUIRY INTO THE 
 EEUGION OF HIS HOST. 
 
 HE had just entered the house, and called 
 for his pint, and seated himself, when 
 two horsemen came to the door, and, 
 fastening their horses to the rails, 
 alighted. They said there was a \iolent 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 great while ? " 
 Upon which the other said, " He doubted whether, 
 by law, the landlord could justify detaining the horse 
 for his com and hay." But the former answei-ed, 
 " Undoubtedly he can ; it is an adj udged case, and I 
 have knoAvn it tried." 
 
 Adams, who, though he was, as the reader may sus- 
 pect, a little inclined to forgctfalness, never wanted 
 more than a hint to remind him, overhearing their 
 discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 was his own horse, and that he had forgot to pay for 
 him, which, upon inquiry, he was certified of by the 
 gentlemen ; who added, that the horse was hkely to 
 have more rest than food, unless he was paid for. 
 
 The poor parson resolved to return presently to 
 the inn, though he knew no more than Joseph how 
 to procure his horse his liberty ; he was, however, 
 prevailed on to stay under covert, till the shower, 
 which was now very violent, was over. 
 
 The three travellers then sat down together over 
 a mug of good beer ; when Adams, who had observed 
 a gentleman's house as he passed along the road, 
 inquired to whom it belonged ; one of the horsemen 
 had no sooner mentioned the owner's name, than the 
 other began to revile him in the most opprobrious 
 terms. The English language scarce affords a single 
 reproachful word, which he did not vent on this 
 occasion. He charged him likewise with many par- 
 ticular facts. He said, " He no more regarded a 
 field of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the 
 highway ; that he had injured several poor farmers 
 by trampling their corn under his horse's heels ; and 
 if any of them begged him with the utmost sub- 
 mission to refrain, his horsewhip was always ready to 
 do them justice." He said, " That he was the great- 
 est tyrant to the neighbours in every other instance, 
 and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though 
 he might justify it by law ; and in his own family so 
 [130]
 
 OPPOSITE OPINIONS 
 
 cruel a master, that he never kept a sen'ant a twelve- 
 month. In his capacity as a justice," continued he, 
 " he behaves so partially, that he commits or acquits 
 just as he is in the humour, without any regard to 
 truth or evidence ; the devil may caiTV any one 
 before him for me ; I would rather be tried before 
 some judges, than be a prosecutor before him : if I 
 had an estate in the neighbourhood, I would sell it 
 for half the value rather than live near him." 
 
 Adams shook his head, and said, *' He was sorry 
 such men were suffered to proceed with impunity, 
 and that riches could set any man above the law." 
 The reviler, a little after, retiring into the yard, the 
 gentleman who had first mentioned his name to 
 Adams began to assure him " that his companion 
 was a prejudiced person. It is true," says he, ** per- 
 haps, that he may have sometimes pursued his game 
 over a field of coni, but he hath always made the 
 party ample satisfaction : that so far from tyrannising 
 over his neighbours, or taking away their guns, he 
 himself knew several farmers not qualified, who not 
 only kept guns, but killed game with them ; that he 
 was the best of masters to his servants, and several 
 of them had grown old in his service ; that he was 
 the best justice of peace in the kingdom, and, to his 
 certain knowledge, had decided many difficult points, 
 which were referred to him, with the greatest equity 
 and the highest wisdom ; and he verily believed,
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 several persons would give a year'^s purchase more for 
 an estate near him, than under the wings of any 
 other great man." He had just finished his encomium 
 when his companion returned and acquainted him 
 the storm was over. Upon which 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 to 
 imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two 
 several gentlemen. " No, no, master," answered the 
 host (a shrewd, cunning fellow) ; " I know the gentle- 
 man very well of whom they have been speaking, as 
 I do the gentlemen who spoke of him. As for riding 
 over other men's com, to my knowledge he hath not 
 been on hoi'seback 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 woi'st master in the world, and the 
 other that he is the best ; but for my own part, I 
 know all his servants, and never heard from any of 
 them that he was either one or the other." — " Aye ! 
 aye ! " says Adams ; " and how doth he behave as a 
 [ 132 J
 
 UNTRUTHFUL TESTIMONY 
 
 justice, pray ? " — " Faith, fnend,"" answered the host, 
 " I question whether he is in the commission ; the 
 only cause I have heard he hath decided a great 
 while, was one between those very two persons who 
 just went out of this house ; and I am sure he deter, 
 mined that justly, for I heard the whole matter." — 
 " Which did he decide it in favour of ? " quoth 
 Adams. — "I think I need not answer that question," 
 cried the host, "after the different characters you 
 have heard of him. It is not ray business to con- 
 tradict gentlemen while thev are drinking in my 
 hoiLse ; but I knew neither of them spoke a svilable 
 of truth." — " God forbid ! " said Adams, " that men 
 should arrive at such a pitch of wickedness to belye 
 the character of their neighbom* from a little private 
 affection, or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. 
 I rather believe we have mistaken them, and they 
 mean two other persons ; for there are many houses 
 on the road." — " Why, prithee, friend," cries the 
 host, '• dost thou pretend never to have told a lye in 
 thy life ? " — " Never a malicious one, I am certain," 
 answered Adams, " nor with a design to injure the 
 reputation of any man living." — " Pugh ! malicious ; 
 no, no," replied the host ; *' not malicious with a 
 design to hang a man, or bring him into trouble ; 
 but surely, out of love to oneself, one must sp eak 
 better of a friend than an enemy." — "Out of love ) 
 to yourself, you should confine yourself to truth,'* / 
 [183 J \
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 says Adams, " for by doing otherwise you injure the 
 noblest part of youi-self, your immortal soul. I can 
 hardly believe any man such an idiot to risque the 
 loss of that by any trifling gain, and the greatest 
 gain in this world is but dirt in comparison of what 
 shall be revealed hereafter.^ Upon which the host, 
 taking up the cup, with ^smile, drank a health to 
 hereafter ; adding, " He was for something present." 
 — " Why," says Adams very gravely, " do not you 
 believe another world?" To which the host an- 
 swered, " Yes ; he was no atheist." — " And you be- 
 lieve you have an immortal soul ? " cries Adams. 
 He answered, *' God forbid he should not." — " And 
 heaven and hell ? " said the parson. The host then 
 bid him " not to profane ; for those ^vere things not 
 to be mentioned nor thought of but in church," 
 Adams asked him, " Why he went to church, if what 
 he learned there had no influence on his conduct in 
 life ? " "I go to church," answered the host, ".to 
 say my prayers and behave godly." — " And dost 
 not thou," cried Adams, " believe what thou hearest 
 at church?" — "Most part of it, master," returned 
 the host. " And dost not thou then tremble," cries 
 Adams, " at the thought of eternal punishment? " 
 — " As for that, master," said he, "I never once 
 thought about it ; but what signifies talking about 
 matters so far off? The mug is out, shall I draw 
 another?" 
 
 [1S4]
 
 MRS. SLIPSLOP AGAIN 
 
 Whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage- 
 coach drove up to the door. The coachman coming 
 into the house was asked by the mistress what pas- 
 sengers he had in his coach ? " A parcel of squinny- 
 gut b — s,'' says he ; " I have a good mind to overturn 
 them ; you won't prevail upon them to drink any- 
 thing, I assure you." Adams asked him, " If he had 
 not seen a young man on horseback on the road" 
 (describing Joseph). " Aye," said the coachman, " a 
 gentlewoman in my coach that is his acquaintance 
 redeemed him and his horse; he would have been 
 here before this time, had not the storm driven 
 him to shelter." " God bless her ! " said Adams, in 
 a rapture ; nor could he delay walking out to satisfy 
 himself who this charitable woman was; but what 
 was his surprize when he saw his old acquaintance, 
 Madam Slipslop ? Hers indeed was not so great, 
 because she had been informed by Joseph that he 
 was on the road. Very civil were the salutations on 
 both sides ; and Mrs. Slipslop rebuked the hostess 
 for denying the gentleman to be there when she 
 asked for him ; but indeed the poor woman had not 
 erred designedly ; for Mrs. Slipslop asked for a clergy- 
 man, and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a 
 person travelling to a neighbouring fair with the 
 thimble and button, or some other such operation ; 
 for he marched in a swinging great but short white 
 coat with black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, 
 [135]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 so far from having a black hatbaiid, had uothing 
 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 veiy able to ride ; and added, he 
 hoped he knew his duty better than to ride in a 
 coach while Mr. Adams was on horseback. 
 
 Mrs. Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not 
 a lady in the coach put a short end to the dispute, 
 by refusing to suffer a fellow in a livery to ride in 
 the same coach with herself; so it was at length 
 agreed that Adams should fill the vacant place in the 
 coach, and Joseph should proceed on horseback. 
 
 They had not proceeded far before Mrs. Slipslop, 
 addi'essing herself to the pai-son, spoke thus : — 
 "There hath been a strange alteration in our family, 
 Mr. Adams, since Sir Thomas's death."" " A strange 
 alteration indeed," says Adams, "as I gather fix)m 
 some hints which have dropped from Joseph." — 
 " Aye," says she, " I could never have believed it ; 
 but the longer one lives in the woild, the more one 
 sees. So Joseph hath given you hints." "But of 
 what nature will always remain a perfect secret with 
 me," cries the parson : " he forced me to promise 
 before he would communicate anything. I am indeed 
 concerned to find her ladyship behavein so unbecoming 
 [136]
 
 LADY BOOBY CRITICISED 
 
 a manner. I always thought her in the main a good 
 lady, and should never have suspected her of thoughts 
 so unworthy a Christian, and with a young lad her 
 own servant." " These things are no secrets to me, 
 I assure you," cries Slipslop, "and I believe they 
 will be none anywhere shortly ; for ever since the 
 boy's departure, she hath behaved more like a mad 
 woman than anything else." " Truly, I am heartily 
 concerned," says Adams, " for she was a good sort 
 of a lady. Indeed, I have often wished she had 
 attended a little more constantly at the service, but 
 she hath done a great deal of good in the parish." 
 " O Mr. Adams," says Slipslop, " people that don't 
 see all, often know nothing. IMany 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 say- 
 ing, if she had kept the keys herself, the poor would 
 have wanted many a cordial which I have let them 
 have. As for my late master, he was as worthy a 
 man as ever lived, and would have done infinite good 
 if he had not been controuled ; but he loved a quiet 
 life. Heaven rest his soul ! I am confident he is there, 
 and enjoys a quiet life, which some folks would not 
 allow him here." — Adams answered, " He had never 
 heard this before, and was mistalcen if she herself ( for 
 he remembered she used to commend her mistress and 
 blame her master) had not formerly been of another 
 [137]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 opinion/' " I don"'! know,'' replied she, " what I might 
 once think ; but now I am confidous matters are as I 
 tell you ; the world will shortly see who hath been 
 deceived ; for my part, I say nothing, but that it is 
 wondersome how some people can carry all things 
 with a grave face."" 
 
 Thus Mr. Adams and she discoursed, till they came 
 opposite to a great house which stood at some dis- 
 tance from the road : a lady in the coach, spying it, 
 cried, " Yonder lives the anfortunate Leonora, if one 
 can justly call a woman unfortunate whom we must 
 own at the same time guilty and the author of her 
 own calamity."" This was abundantly sufficient to 
 awaken the curiosity of Mr. Adams, as indeed it did 
 that of the whole company, who jointly solicited the 
 lad}- to acquaint them with Leonora's history, since 
 it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something 
 remarkable. 
 
 Tlie 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. 
 
 [138]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 THE HISTORY OF LEONORA, OR THE CTNFOETUNATE JILT. 
 
 LEONORA was the daughter of a gentleman of 
 fortune ; she was tall and well-shaped, 
 J with a sprightliness in her countenance 
 which often attracts beyond more regu- 
 lar features joined with an insipid air : nor is this 
 kind of beauty loss apt to deceive than allure; the 
 good humour which it indicates being often mistaken 
 for good nature, and the vivacity for true under- 
 standing. 
 
 Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived 
 with an aunt of hers in a town in the north of Eng- 
 land. She was an extreme lover of gaiety, and very 
 rarely missed a ball or any other public assembly ; 
 where she had frequent opportunities of satisfying a 
 greedy appetite of vanity, with the preference which 
 was given her by the men to almost every other 
 woman present. 
 
 Among many young fellows who were particular 
 in their gallantries towards her, Homtio soon distin- 
 guished himself in her eyes bevond all his competi- 
 [139j '
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 tors ; she danced with more than ordinary gaiety 
 when he liappeucd to be her partner ; neither the 
 fairness of the evening, nor the miisick of the nightin- 
 gale, could lengthen her walk like his company. She 
 affected no longer to understand the civilities of 
 others ; whilst she inclined so attentive an ear to 
 every compliment of Horatio, that she often smiled 
 even when it was too delicate for her comprehension. 
 
 " Pray, madam," says Adams, " who was this 
 squire Horatio ? " 
 
 Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of 
 a good family, bred to the law, and had been some 
 few years called to the degree of a bairister. His 
 face and person were such as the generality allowed 
 handsome ; but he had a dignity in his air very rarely 
 to be seen. His temper was of the saturnine com- 
 plexion, and without the least taint of moroseness. 
 He had wit and humour, with an inclination to 
 satire, which he indulged rather too much. 
 
 This gentleman, who had contracted the most 
 ▼iolent passion for Leonora, was the last person who 
 perceived the probability of its success. The whole 
 town had made the match for him before he himself 
 had drawn a confidence from her actions sufficient to 
 mention his passion to her; for it was his opinion 
 ( and perhaps he was there in the right ) that it is 
 highly impolitick to talk seriously of love to a 
 woman before you have made such a progress in her 
 [140]
 
 HISTORY OF LEONORA 
 
 affections, that she herself expects and desires to 
 hear it. 
 
 But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may 
 create, which are apt to magnify every favour con- 
 ferred on a rival, and to see the little advances 
 towards themselves through the other end of the 
 perspective, it was impossible that Horatio''s passion 
 should so blind his discernment as to prevent his 
 conceiving hopes from the behaWour of Leonora, 
 whose fondness for him was now as visible to an 
 indifferent person in their company as his for her. 
 
 " I never knew any of these forward sluts come to 
 good " (says the lady who refused Joseph^s entrance 
 into the coach), " nor shall I wonder at anything 
 she doth in the sequel." 
 
 The lady proceeded in her story thus : It was in 
 the midst of a gay conversation in the walks one 
 evening, when Horatio whispered Leonora, that he 
 was desirous to take a turn or two with her in 
 private, for that he had something to communicate 
 to her of great consequence. " Are you sure it is 
 of consequence ? " said she, smiling. " I hope," an- 
 swered he, " you will think so too, since the whole 
 future happiness of my life must depend on the 
 event." 
 
 Leonora, who very much suspected what was com- 
 ing, would have deferred it till another time ; but 
 Horatio, who had more than half conquered the 
 [141]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 difficulty of speaking by the first motion, was so very 
 importunate, that she at last yielded, and, leaving 
 the rest of the company, they turned aside into an 
 unfrequented walk. 
 
 They had retired far out of the sight of the com- 
 pany, both maintaining a strict silence. At last 
 Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leonora, who 
 stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he 
 fetched a deep sigh, and then, looking on her eyes 
 with all the tenderness imaginable, he cried out in a 
 faltering accent, " O Leonora ! is it necessary for 
 me to declare to you on what the future happiness 
 of my life must be founded ? Must I say there is 
 something belonging to you which is a bar to my 
 happiness, and which unless you will part with, I 
 must be miserable ! " — " "What can that be ? " replied 
 Leonora. " No wonder," said he, " you are surprized 
 that I should make an objection to anything which 
 is yours : yet sure you may guess, since it is the only 
 one which the riches of the world, if they were mine, 
 should purchase for me. Oh, it is that which you 
 must part with to bestow all the rest ! Can Leonora, 
 or rather will slie, doubt longer ? Let me then 
 whisper it in her ears — It is your name, madam. 
 It is by parting with that, by your condescension to 
 be for ever mine, which must at once prevent me 
 from being the most miserable, and will render me 
 the happiest of mankind." 
 
 [142]
 
 WEDDING PREPARATIONS 
 
 Leonora, covered with blushes, and with as angry 
 a look as she could possibly put on, told him, " That 
 had she suspected what his declaration would have 
 been, he should not have decoyed her from her 
 company, that he had so surprized and frighted 
 her, that she begged him to convey her back as quick 
 as possible ; " which he, trembling very near as much 
 as herself, did. 
 
 " More fool he," cried Slipslop ; " it is a sign he 
 knew very little of our sect," — "Truly, madam," 
 said Adams, " I think you are in the right : I should 
 have insisted to know a piece of her mind, when I 
 had carried matters so far." But Mrs. Grave-airs 
 desired the lady to omit all such fulsome stuff in her 
 story, for that it made her sick. 
 
 Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, 
 said the lady, many weeks had not passed after this 
 interview before Horatio and Leonora were what 
 they call on a good footing together. All ceremonies 
 except the last were now over ; the writings were now 
 drawn, and everything was in the utmost fonvard- 
 ness preparative to the putting Horatio in possession 
 of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a 
 letter from each of them, which I have got by heart, 
 and which will give you no small idea of their 
 passion on both sides. 
 
 Mrs. Grave-airs objected to hearing these letters ; 
 but being put to the vote, it was carried against her 
 [143 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 by all the rest in the coach ; parson Adams contend- 
 ing for it with the utmost vehemence. 
 
 Horatio to Leonora. 
 
 " How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit 
 of pleasure in the absence of an object to which the 
 mind is entirely devoted, unless it have some relation 
 to that object ! I was last night condemned to the 
 society of men of ■wit and learning, which, however 
 agreeable it might have formerly been to me, now only 
 gave me a suspicion that they imputed my absence in 
 conversation to the tnie cause. For which reason, 
 when your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happi- 
 ness of seeing you, I am always desirous to be alone ; 
 since my sentiments for Leonora are so delicate, that I 
 cannot bear the apprehension of another's pr3ring into 
 those delightful endearments with which the warm 
 imagination of a lover will sometimes indulge him, and 
 which I suspect my eyes then betray. To fear this 
 discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too ridi- 
 culous a nicety to minds not susceptible of all the 
 tendernesses of this dehcate passion. And surely we 
 shall suspect there are few such, w^hen we consider that 
 it requires every human virtue to exert itself in its full 
 extent ; since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately 
 respects, may give us charming opportunities of being 
 brave in her defence, generous to her wants, com- 
 passionate to her afflictions, grateful to her kindness ; 
 and in the same manner, of exercising every other 
 virtue, which he who would not do to any degree, 
 and that with the utmost rapture, can never deserve 
 the name of a lover. It is, therefore, with a view to 
 [14-4]
 
 LEONORA^S LETTER 
 
 the delicate modesty of your mind that I cultivate it so 
 purely in my own ; and it is that which will sufficiently 
 suggest to you the uneasiness I bear from those liberties, 
 which men to whom the world allow politeness will 
 sometimes give themselves on these occasions. 
 
 "Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the 
 arrival of that blest day, when I shall experience the 
 falsehood of a common assertion, that the greatest 
 human happiness consists in hope ? A doctrine which 
 no person had ever stronger reason to believe than my- 
 self at present, since none ever tasted such bliss as fires 
 my bosom with the thoughts of spending my future 
 days with such a companion, and that every action of 
 my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conduc- 
 ing to your happiness." 
 
 Leonora to Horatio.* 
 
 " The refinement of your mind has been so evidently 
 proved by every word and action ever since I had the 
 first pleasure of knowing you, that I thought it im- 
 possible my good opinion of Horatio could have been 
 heightened to any additional proof of merit. This very 
 thought was my amusement when I received your last 
 letter, which, when I opened, I confess I was surprized 
 to find the delicate sentiments expressed there so far 
 exceeding what I thought could come even from you 
 (although I know all the generous principles human 
 nature is capable of are centred in your breast), that 
 words cannot paint what I feel on the reflection that 
 
 1 This letter was written by a young lady on reading the 
 former. 
 
 [ 145 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 my happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your 
 actions. 
 
 " Oh, Horatio ! what a life must that be, where the 
 meanest domestic cares are sweetened by the pleasing 
 consideration that the man on earth who best deserves, 
 and to whom you are most inclined to give your affec- 
 tions, is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do ! 
 In such a case toils must be turned into diversions, and 
 nothing but the unavoidable inconveniences of life can 
 make us remember that we are mortal. 
 
 ** If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire 
 of keeping them undiscovered, makes even the conver- 
 sation of men of wit and learning tedious to you, what 
 anxious hours must I spend, who am condemned by 
 custom to the conversation of women, whose natural 
 curiosity leads them to pry into all my thoughts, and 
 whose envy can never suffer Horatio's heart to be pos- 
 sessed by any one, without forcing them into malicious 
 designs against the person who is so happy as to possess 
 it ! But, indeed, if ever envy can possibly have any 
 excuse, or even alleviation, it is in this case, where the 
 good is so great, and it must be equally natural to all to 
 wish it for themselves ; nor am I ashamed to own it : 
 and to your merit, Horatio, I am obliged, that prevents 
 my being in that most uneasy of all the situations I can 
 figure in my imagination, of being led by inclination 
 to love the person whom my own judgment forces me 
 to condemn." 
 
 Matters were in so great forwardness between 
 this fond couple, that the day was fixed for their 
 marriage, and was now within a fortniglit, when the 
 [146]
 
 HORATIO AT THE SESSIONS 
 
 sessions chanced to be held for that county in a towTi 
 about twenty miles' distance from that which is the 
 scene of our story. It seems, it is usual for the 
 young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these ses- 
 sions, not so much for the sake of profit as to show 
 their parts and learn the law of the justices of peace ; 
 for which purpose one of the wisest and gravest of 
 rU the justices is appointed speaker, or chairman, 
 as they modestly call it, and he reads them a lecture, 
 and instructs them in the true knowledge of the 
 law. 
 
 "You are here guilty of a little mistake," says 
 Adams, " which, if you please, I will correct : I have 
 attended at one of these quarter-sessions, where I 
 observed the counsel taught the justices, instead of 
 learning anything of them." 
 
 It is not very material, said the lady. Hither re- 
 paired Horatio, who, as he hoped by his profession 
 to advance his fortune, which was not at present very 
 large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, he resolved 
 to spare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of im- 
 proving or advancing himself in it. 
 
 The same afternoon in which he left the town, as 
 Leonora stood at her window, a coach and six passed 
 by, which she declared to be the completest, genteel- 
 est, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding these 
 remarkable words, "Oh, I am in love with that 
 equipage ! " which, though her friend Florella at 
 [U7j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 that time did not greatly regard, slie hath since 
 remembered. 
 
 In the evening an assembly was held, which Leonora 
 honoured with her company ; but intended to pay 
 her dear Horatio the compliment of refusing to dance 
 in his absence. 
 
 Oh, why have not women as good resolution to 
 maintain their vows as they have often good inclina- 
 tions in making them ! 
 
 The gentleman who owned the coach and six came 
 to the assembly. His clothes were as remarkably 
 fine as his equipage could be. He soon attracted 
 the eyes of the company ; all the smarts, all the silk 
 waistcoats with silver and gold edgings, were eclipsed 
 in an instant. 
 
 " Madam," said Adams, " if it be not impertinent, 
 I should be glad to know how this gentleman was 
 drest."" 
 
 Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had on 
 a cut velvet coat of a cinnamon colour, lined with a 
 pink satten, embroidered all over with gold ; his 
 waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was embroidered 
 with gold likewise. I cannot be particular as to the 
 rest of his dress ; but it was all in the French fashion, 
 for Bellaraiine (that was his name) was just arrived 
 from Paris. 
 
 This fine figure did not more entirely engage the 
 eyes of every lady in the assembly than Leonora did 
 [148]
 
 LEONORA AT THE ASSEMBLY 
 
 his. He had scarce beheld her, but he stood motion- 
 less and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done 
 so if good breeding had permitted him. However, 
 he carried it so far before he had power to correct 
 himself, that every person in the room easily dis- 
 covered where his admiration was settled. The other 
 ladies began to single out their former partners, all 
 perceiving who would be Bellarmine's choice ; which 
 they however endeavoured, by all possible means, to 
 prevent : many of them saying to Leonora, " O 
 rnadam ! 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 assui'e you ; her partner is not here."" One mali- 
 ciously attempted to prevent her, by sending a dis- 
 agreeable fellow to ask her, that so she might be 
 obliged either to dance with him, or sit down ; but 
 this scheme proved abortive. 
 
 Leonora saw hei-self admired by the fine stranger, 
 and envied by every woman present. Her little heart 
 began to flutter within her, and her head was agi- 
 tated with a convulsive motion : she seemed as if she 
 would speak to several of her acquaintance, but had 
 nothing to say ; for, as she would not mention her 
 present triumph, so she could not disengage her 
 thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. 
 She had never tasted anything like this happiness. 
 She had before known what it was to torment a single 
 [149]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 woman ; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a 
 whole assembly was a joy reserved for this blessed 
 moment. As this vast profusion of extasy had con- 
 founded her understanding, so there was nothing so 
 foolish as her behaviour : she played a thousand 
 childish tricks, distorted her person into several 
 shapes, and her face into several laughs, without any 
 reason. In a word, her cari'iage was as absurd as her 
 desires, which were to affect an insensibility of the 
 stranger's admiration, and at the same time a triumph, 
 from that admiration, over every woman in the room. 
 
 In this temper of mine, Bellarmine, having inquired 
 who she was, advanced to her, and with a low bow 
 begged the honour of dancing with her, which she, 
 with as low a curtesy, immediately granted. She 
 danced with him all night, and enjoyed, perhaps, the 
 highest pleasure that she was capable of feeling. 
 
 At these words, Adams fetched a deep groan, 
 which frighted the ladies, who told him, "They 
 hoped he was not ill." He answered, " He groaned 
 only for the folly of Leonora." 
 
 Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in 
 the morning, but not to rest. She tumbled and 
 tossed in her bed, with very short intervals of sleep, 
 and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage 
 and fine clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, 
 and ridottos, which had been the subject of their 
 conversation. 
 
 . [150]
 
 BELLARMIxNE^S SUCCESS 
 
 In the afternoon, Bellarmine, in the dear coach 
 and six, came to wait on her. He was indeed 
 charmed with her person, and was, on inquiry, so 
 well pleased with the circumstances • of her father 
 (for he himself, notwithstanding all his finery, was 
 not quite so rich as a Croesus or an Attains). — 
 " Attains," says Mr. Adams : " but pray how came 
 you acquainted with these names?" The lady 
 smiled at the question, and proceeded. He was so 
 pleased, I say, that he resolved to make his addresses 
 to her directly. He did so accordingly, and that 
 with so much warmth and briskness, that he quickly 
 baffled her weak repulses, and obliged the lady to 
 refer him to her father, who, she knew, would quickly 
 declare in favour of a coach and six. 
 
 Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love 
 and tenderness, been so long obtaining, the French- 
 English Bellarmine with gaiety and gallantry pos- 
 sessed himself of in an instant. In other words, 
 what modesty had employed a full year in raising, ^ 
 
 impudence demolished in twenty-four hours. okPw^ 
 
 Here Adams groaned a second time ; but the ^ r^ 
 ladies, who began to smoke him, took no notice. ^*^'^Ji^ 
 
 From the opening of the assembly till the end of _^ 
 Bellarmine's visit, Leonora had scarce once thought ^ 
 of Horatio ; but he now began, though an unwel- 
 come guest, to enter into her mind. She wished she 
 had seen the charming Bellarmine and his charming 
 [151]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 equipage before matters had gone so far. "Yet 
 why," says she, " should I wish to have seen him 
 before ; or what signifies it that I have seen him now ? 
 Is not Horatio my lover, almost my husband ? Is 
 he not as handsome, nay handsomer than Bellarmine ? 
 Aye, but Bellarmine is the genteeler, and the finer 
 man ; yes, that he must be allowed. Yes, yes, he is 
 that certainly. But did not I, no longer ago than 
 yesterday, love Horatio more than all the world ? 
 Aye, but yesterday I had not seen BeJlarmine. But 
 doth not Horatio doat on me, and may he not in 
 despair break his heart if I abandon him ? Well, 
 and hath not Bellamiine a heart to break too ? Yes, 
 but I promised Horatio first ; but that was poor 
 Bellarmine's misfortune; if I had seen him first, I 
 should certainly have preferred him. Did not the 
 dear creature prefer me to every woman in the 
 assembly, when every she was laying out for him ? 
 When was it in Horatio's power to give me such an 
 instance of affection .'' Can he give me an equipage, 
 or any of those things which Bellarmine will make 
 me mistress of? How vast is the difference between 
 being the wife of a poor counsellor and the wife of one 
 of Bellannine''s fortune ! If I marry Horatio, I shall 
 triumph over no more than one rival ; but by marry- 
 ing Bellarmine, I shall be the envy of all my acquaint- 
 ance. What happiness ! But can I suffer Horatio 
 to die ? for he hath sworn he cannot survive my loss : 
 [152]
 
 THE AUNT'S ADVICE 
 
 but perhaps he may not die: if he should, can I 
 prevent it ? Must I sacrifice myself to him ? besides, 
 Bellarmine may be as miserable for me too." She 
 was thus arguing with herself, when some young 
 ladies called her to the walks, and a little reUeved 
 her anxiety for the present. 
 
 The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her 
 in presence of her aunt, whom he sufficiently informed 
 of his passion for Leonora. He was no sooner with- 
 drawn than the old lady began to advise her niece 
 on this occasion. " You see, child," says she, " what 
 fortune hath thrown in your way ; and I hope you 
 will not withstand your own preferment." Leonora, 
 sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing, 
 when she knew her engagements to Horatio. 
 " Engagements to a fig ! " cried the aunt ; " you 
 should thank Heaven on your knees that you have 
 it yet in your power to break them. Will any 
 woman hesitate a moment whether she shall ride in 
 a coach or walk on foot all the days of her life.?' 
 But Bellarmine drives six, and Horatio not even a 
 pair." — " Yes, but, madam, what will the world 
 say ? " answered Leonora : " will not they condemn 
 me .'' " — " The world is always on the side of pru- 
 dence," cries the aunt, " and would surely condemn 
 you if you sacrificed your interest to any motive I 
 whatever. Oh ! I know the world very well ; and 
 you shew your ignorance, my dear, by your objection. I 
 [153]
 
 / JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 O' my conscience ! the world is wiser. I have lived 
 longer in it than you ; and I assure you there is not 
 anything worth our regard besides money ; nor did 
 I ever know one person wlio manied from other 
 considerations, who did not afterwards heartily re- 
 pent it. Besides, if we examine the two men, can 
 you prefer a sneaking fellow, who hath been bred at 
 the university, to a fine gentleman just come from 
 L.Jiis travels. All the world must allow Bellarmine to 
 be a fine gentleman, positively a fine gentleman, and 
 a handsome man."" — " Perhaps, madam, I should not 
 doubt, if I knew how to be handsomely off with the 
 other." — " Oh ! leave that to me," says the aunt. 
 " You know your father hath not been acquainted with 
 the affair. Indeed, for my part I thought it might do 
 well enough, not dreaming of such an offer ; but I '11 
 disengage you : leave me to give the fellow an answer. 
 I warrant you shall have no farther trouble.'' 
 
 Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's 
 reasoning; and Bellarmine supping with her that 
 evening, it was agreed he should the next morning 
 go to her father and propose the match, which she 
 consented should be consummated at his return. 
 
 The aunt retired soon after supper ; and, the lovers 
 being left together, Bellarmine began in the follow- 
 ing manner : " Yes, madam ; this coat, I assure you, 
 was made at Paris, and I defy the best English 
 taylor even to imitate it. There is not one of them 
 [154]
 
 HORATIO'S RETURN 
 
 can cut, madam ; they can't cut. If you observe how 
 this skirt is turned, and this sleeve : a clumsy English 
 rascal can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you like 
 my liveries?'' Leonora answered, "She thought 
 them very pretty." — " All French," says he, " I 
 assure you, except the greatcoats ; I never trust any- 
 thing more than a greatcoat to an Englishman. 
 You know one must encourage our own people what 
 one can, especially as, before I had a place, I was in 
 the country interest, he, he, he ! But for myself, I 
 would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, 
 rather than wear a single rag of English work about 
 me : and I am sure, after you have made one tour to 
 Paris, you will be of the same opinion with regard 
 to your own clothes. You can't conceive what an 
 addition a French dress would be to your beauty ; I 
 positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since 
 I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chamber- 
 maids, he, he, he ! " 
 
 With such sort of polite discourse did the gay 
 Bellarmine entertain his beloved Leonora, when the 
 door opened on a sudden, and Horatio entered the 
 room. Here 't is impossible to express the surprize 
 of Leonora. 
 
 " Poor woman ! " says Mrs. Slipslop, " what a 
 terrible quandary she must be in ! " — " Not at all," 
 says Mrs. Grave-airs ; " such sluts can never be con- 
 founded," — " She must have then more than Corin- 
 [155]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 thian assurance," said Adams ; " aye, more than Lais 
 herself." 
 
 A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in 
 the whole company. If the familiar on trance of 
 Horatio struck the greatest astonishment into Bel- 
 larmine, the unexpected presence of Bellarmine no 
 less surprized Horatio. At length Leonora, collect- 
 ing all the spirit she was mistress of, addressed her- 
 self to the latter, and pretended to wonder at the 
 reason of so late a visit. " I should indeed," an- 
 swered he, " have made some apology for disturbing 
 you at this hour, had not my finding you in company 
 assured me I do not break in upon your repose." 
 Bellarmine rose from his chair, traversed the 
 room in a minuet step, and hummed an opera tune, 
 while Horatio, advancing to Leonora, asked her in 
 a whisper if that gentleman was not a relation of 
 hers ; to which she answered with a smile, or rather 
 sneer, " No, he is no relation of mine yet ; " adding, 
 " she could not guess the meaning of his question." 
 Horatio told her softly, " It did not arise from jeal- 
 ousy." — "Jealousy! I assure you, it would be 
 very strange in a common acquaintance to give him- 
 self any of those airs." These words a little surprized 
 Horatio ; but, before he had time to answer, Bellar- 
 mine danced up to the lady and told her, " He feared 
 he interrupted some business between her and the 
 gentleman." — "I can have no business," said she, 
 [156]
 
 A COLD RECEPTION 
 
 " with the gentleman, nor any other, which need be 
 any secret to you." 
 
 " You '11 pardon me,'' said Horatio, " if I desire to 
 know who this gentleman is who is to be entrusted 
 with all our secrets." — " You '11 know soon enough," 
 cries Leonora; "but I can't guess what secrets can 
 ever pass between us of such mighty consequence.'* 
 — " No, madam ! " cries Horatio ; " I am sure you 
 would not have me understand you in earnest." — 
 "'Tis indifferent to me," says she, "how you under- 
 stand me ; but I think so unseasonable a visit is diffi- 
 cult to be understood at all, at least when people 
 find one engaged : though one's servants do not deny 
 one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon 
 take the hint." " Madam," said Horatio, " I did not 
 imagine any engagement with a stranger, as it seems 
 this gentleman is, would have made my visit imperti- 
 nent, or that any such ceremonies were to be pre- 
 served between persons in our situation." " Sure you 
 are in a dream," says she, "or would persuade me 
 that I am in one. I know no pretensions a common 
 acquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies of 
 good breeding." " Sure," said he, " I am in a dream ; 
 for it is impossible I should be really esteemed a 
 common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has 
 passed between us ? " " Passed between us ! Do you 
 intend to affront me before this genti ■ man ? " " D — n 
 me, afiront the lady," says Bellarmine, cocking hia 
 [157]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 hat, and strutting up to Horatio : " does any man 
 dare affront this lady before me, d — n me ? "" 
 " Hark 'ee, sir," says Horatio, " I would advise you to 
 lay aside that fierce air ; for I am mightily deceived 
 if this lady has not a violent desire to get your wor- 
 ship a good drubbing."" " Sir,"" said Bellarmine, *' I 
 have the honour to be her protector ; and, d — n me, 
 if I understand your meaning."" "Sir," ansvi^ered 
 Horatio, " she is rather your protectress ; but give 
 yourself no more aii*s, for you see I am prepared for 
 you "" (shaking his whip at him). " Oh ! servHeur ires 
 humble^'' says Bellarmine : " Je vaus entend parfait- 
 ment bien.'*'' At which time the aunt, who had heard 
 of Horatio's visit, entered the room, and soon satisfied 
 all his doubts. She convinced him that he was never 
 more awake in his life, and that nothing more extra- 
 ordinary had happened in his three days'* absence 
 than a small alteration in the affections of Leonora ; 
 who now burst into tears, and N\ondcrcd what rea- 
 son she had given him to use her in so barbarous a 
 manner. Horatio desired Bellarmine to withdraw 
 with him ; but tlie ladies prevented it by laying 
 violent hands on the latter ; upon which the former 
 took his leave without any great ceremony, and de- 
 parted, leaving the lady with his rival to consult for 
 his safety, which Leonora feared her indisci-etion 
 might have endangered ; but the aunt comforted her 
 with assurances that Horatio would not venture his 
 [158]
 
 BAD NEWS 
 
 person against so accomplished a cavalier as Bellar- 
 mine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge 
 in his own way, and the most they had to apprehend 
 from him was an action. 
 
 They at length therefore agreed to permit Bellar- 
 mine to retire to his lodgings, having first settled all 
 matters relating to the journey which he was to 
 undertake in the morning, and their preparations 
 for the nuptials at his return. 
 
 But, alas ! as wise men have observed, the seat of 
 valour is not the countenance ; and manv 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, w^ill more prudently decline it. 
 
 Leonora was waked in the morning, from a vision- 
 ary coach and six, with the dismal account that Bel- 
 larmine was run through the body by Horatio ; that 
 he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had 
 declared the wound mortal. She immediately leaped 
 out of the bed, danced about the room in a frantic 
 manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all the 
 agonies of despair ; in which sad condition her aunt, 
 who likewise arose at the news, found her. The good 
 old lady applied her utmost art to comfort her niece. 
 She told her, " While there was life there was hope ; 
 but that if he should die her affliction would be of no 
 service to Bellarmine, and would only expose herself^ 
 . [159]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 which might, pro])ably, keep her some time without 
 any fatui'e offer ; that, as mattei-s had happened, her 
 wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, 
 but to endeavour to regain the affections of Horatio." 
 " Speak not to mc,'' cried the disconsolate Leonora ; 
 " is it not owing to mo that poor Bellarmine has lost 
 his life ? Have not these cursed charms (at which 
 words she looked steadfastly in the glass) been the 
 ruin of the most charming man of this age ? Can I 
 ever bear to contemplate my own face again (with her 
 eyes still fixed on the glass) ? Am I not the mur- 
 deress of the finest gentleman ? No other woman in 
 the town could liave made any impression on him."" 
 " Never think of things past," cries the aunt : " think 
 of regaining the affections of Horatio." " What 
 reason," said the niece, " have I to hope he would for- 
 give me ? No, I have lost him as well as the other, 
 and it was your wicked advice which was the occasion 
 of all ; you seduced me, contrary to my inclinations, 
 to abandon poor Horatio (at which words she burst 
 into tears) ; you prevailed upon me, w hether I would 
 or no, to give up my affections for him ; had it not 
 been for you, Bellarmine never would have entered 
 into ray thoughts ; had not his addresses been backed 
 by your persuasions, they never would have made 
 any impression on me ; I should have defied all the 
 fortune and equipage in the world ; but it was you, 
 it was you, who got the better of my youth and 
 [160]
 
 BELLARMINE'S LETTER 
 
 simplicity, and forced me to lose my dear Horatio 
 for ever."" 
 
 Tlie aunt was almost borne down with this torrent 
 of words ; she, however, rallied all the strength she 
 could, and, drawing her mouth up in a purse, began : 
 " I am not surprized, niece, at this ingi'atitude. 
 Those who advise young women for their interest, 
 must always expect such a return : I am convinced 
 my brother will thank me for breaking oft' your match 
 with Horatio, at any rate." — " That may not be in 
 your power yet," answered Leonora, " though it is 
 very ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it, after 
 the presents yon have received from him." (For 
 indeed true it is, that many presents, and some pretty 
 valuable ones, had passed from Horatio to the old 
 lady ; but as true it is, that Bellarmine, when he 
 breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented 
 her with a brilliant from his finger, of much greater 
 value than all she had touched of the other.) 
 
 Hie aunt's gall was on float to reply, when a servant 
 brought a letter into the room, which Leonora, hear- 
 ing it came from Bellarmine, with great eagerness 
 opened, and read as follows : — 
 
 " Most divine Creature, — The wound which I fear 
 you have heard I received from my rival is not like to 
 be so fatal as those shot into my heart wliich have been 
 fired from your eyes, lout brilliant. Those are the only 
 cannons by which I am to fall ; for my surgeon gives 
 [161] 
 
 Vol. 1 «. J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 me hopes of being soon able to attend your ruelU ; till 
 when, unless you would do me an honour which I have 
 scarce the hardiesse to think of, your absence will be 
 the greatest anguish which can be felt by. 
 Madam, 
 Avec toule le respecte in the world. 
 
 Your most obedient, most absolute 
 Devote, 
 
 " Bellabminb." 
 
 As aoon as Leonora perceived such hopes of 
 Bellarmine's recovery, and that the gossip Fame had, 
 according to custom, so enlarged his danger, she 
 presently abandoned all further thoughts of Horatio, 
 and was soon reconciled to her aunt, who received her 
 again into favour, with a more Christian forgiveness 
 than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is possible 
 she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her 
 niece had given her concerning the presents. She 
 might apprehend such rumours, should they get 
 abroad, might injure a reputation which, by fre- 
 quenting church twice a day, and preserving the 
 utmost rigour and strictness in her countenance and 
 behaviour for many years, she had established. 
 
 Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine with 
 greater force, after its small relaxation, than ever. 
 She proposed to her aunt to make him a visit in 
 his confinement, which the old lady, with great 
 and commendable prudence, advised her to decline : 
 [162j
 
 THE TALE INTERRUPTED 
 
 " For," says she, " should any accident intervene to 
 prevent your intended match, too forward a be- 
 haviour with this lover may injure you in the eyes 
 of others. Every woman, till she is married, ought 
 to consider of, and provide against, the possibility of 
 the affair's breaking off." Leonora said, " She should 
 be indifferent to whatever might happen in such a 
 case ; for she had now so absolutely placed lier affec- 
 tions on this dear man (so she called him), that, if it 
 was her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever 
 abandon all thoughts of mankind." She, therefore, 
 resolved to visit him, notwithstanding all the prudent 
 advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very 
 afternoon executed her resolution. 
 
 The lady was proceeding in her story, when the 
 coach drove into the inn where the company were 
 to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of Mr. Adams, 
 whose ears were the most hungry part about him ; he 
 being, as the reader may perhaps guess, of an insa- 
 tiable curiosity, and heartily desirous of hearing the 
 end of this amour, though he professed he could 
 scarce wish success to a lady of so inconstant a 
 disposition. 
 
 [163]
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 A DREADFUL QUARREL WHICH HAPPENED AT THE INN 
 WHERE THE COMPANY DINED, WITH ITS BLOODY 
 CONSEQUENCES TO MR. ADAMS. 
 
 jA S soon as the passengers had alighted from 
 / ^k the coach, Mr. Adams, as was his cus- 
 / ^k torn, made directly to the kitchen, where 
 he found Joseph sitting by the fire, and 
 the hostess anointing his leg ; for the horse which 
 Mr. Adams had borrowed of his clerk had so violent 
 a propensity to kneeling, that one would have 
 thought it had been his trade, as well as his master's ; 
 nor would he always give any notice of such his 
 intention ; he was often found on his knees when the 
 rider least expected it. This foible, however, was of 
 no great inconvenience to the parson, who was accus- 
 tomed to it; and, as his legs almost touched the 
 ground when he bestrode the beast, had but a little 
 way to fall, and threw himself forward on such occa- 
 sions with so much dexterity that he never received 
 any mischief; the horse and he frequently rolling 
 many paces' distance, and afterguards both getting up 
 and meeting as good friends as ever. 
 [164]
 
 JOSEPH'S FALL 
 
 Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind 
 of cattle, though an excellent iiorseman, did not so 
 happily disengage himself; but, falling with his leg 
 under the beast, received a violent contusion, to 
 which the good woman was, as we have said, apply- 
 ing a warm hand, with some camphorated spirits, 
 just at the time when the parson entered the kitchen. 
 
 He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph's 
 misfortune before the host likewise entered. He was 
 by no means of Mr. Tow-wouse\s gentle disposition ; 
 and was, indeed, perfect master of his house, and 
 everything in it but his guests. 
 
 This surly fellow, who always proportioned his 
 respect to the appearance of a traveller, from " God 
 bless your honour," down to plain " Coming pres- 
 ently," observing his wife on her knees to a footman, 
 cried out, without considering his circumstances, 
 " What a pox is the woman about ? why don't you 
 mind the company in the coach ? Go and ask them 
 what they will have for dinner." " My dear," says 
 she, " you know they can have nothing but what Is 
 at the fire, which will be ready presently ; and really 
 the poor young man's leg is very much bruised." At 
 which words she fell to chafing more violently than 
 before : the bell then happening to ring, he damn'd 
 his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and not 
 stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe 
 the young fellow's leg was so bad as he pretended ; 
 [ 165 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 and if it was, within twenty miles he would find a 
 surgeon to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams 
 fetched two strides across the room ; and snapping 
 his fingers over his head, muttered aloud, He would 
 excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for he 
 believed the devil had more humanity. These words 
 occasioned a dialogue between Adams and the host, 
 in which there were two or three sharp replies, till 
 Joseph bade the latter know how to behave himself 
 to his betters. At which the host (having first 
 strictly surveyed Adams) scornfully repeating the 
 word " betters," flew into a rage, and, telling Joseph 
 he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been 
 to walk into it, offered to lay violent hands on him ; 
 which perceiving, Adams dealt him so sound a com- 
 pliment over his face with his fist, that the blood 
 immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. 
 The host, being unwilling to be outdone in courtesy, 
 especially by a person of Adams's figure, returned 
 the favour with so much gratitude, that the par- 
 son's nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. 
 Upon which he again assailed his antagonist, and 
 with another stroke laid him sprawling on the floor. 
 The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a 
 husband deserved, seeing her husband all bloody and 
 stretched along, hastened presently to his assistance, 
 or rather to revenge the blow, which, to all appear- 
 ance, was the last he would ever receive ; when, lo ! 
 [166]
 
 A QUARREL AT THE INN 
 
 a pan full of hog's blood, which unluckily stood on 
 the dresser, presented itself first to her hands. She 
 seized it in her fury, and without any reflection, dis- 
 charged it into the parson's face ; and with so good 
 an aim, that much the greater part first saluted his 
 countenance, and trickled thence in so large a cur- 
 rent down to his beard, and over his garments, that 
 a more homble spectacle was hardly to be seen, or 
 even imagined. All which was perceived by Mrs. 
 Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant. 
 This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so 
 extremely cool and patient as perhaps was required 
 to ask many questions on this occasion, flew with 
 great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, to- 
 gether with some of her hair, she plucked from her 
 head in a moment, giving her, at the same time, 
 several hearty cufls in the face ; which by frequent 
 practice on the inferior servants, she had learned 
 an excellent knack of delivering with a good grace. 
 Poor Joseph could hardly rise from his chair; the 
 parson was employed in wiping the blood from his 
 eyes, which had entirely blinded him ; and the land- 
 lord was but just beginning to stir; whilst Mrs. Slip- 
 slop, holding down the landlady's face with her left 
 hand, made so dexterous an use of her right, that the 
 poor woman began to roar, in a key which alarmed 
 all the company in the inn. 
 
 There happened to be in the inn, at this time, 
 [167]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 besides the ladies who arrived in the stage-coach, the 
 two gentlemen who were present at Mr. Tow-wouse's 
 when Joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and 
 whom we have before mentioned to have stopt at 
 the ale-house with Adams. There was likewise a 
 gentleman just returned from his travels to Italy ; 
 all whom the hon'id outcry of murder presently 
 brought into the kitchen, where the several com- 
 batants were found in the postures already described. 
 It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, 
 the conquerors being satisfied with the vengeance 
 they had taken, and the conquered having no appe- 
 tite to renew the fight. The principal figure, and 
 which engaged the eyes of all, was Adams, who was 
 all over covered with blood, which the whole com- 
 pany concluded to be his own, and consequently 
 imagined him no longer for this world. But the 
 host, who had now recovered from his blow, and was 
 risen from the ground, .soon delivered them from 
 this apprehension, by damning his wife for wasting 
 the hog's puddings, and tilling 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. 
 [168j
 
 THE TRAVELLER'S ADVICE 
 
 The traveller, addressing himself to Mrs. Grave- 
 airs, desired her not to be frightened ; for here had 
 been only a little boxing, which he said, to their 
 disgracia, the English were accustomata to : adding, 
 it must be, however, a sight somewhat strange to 
 him, who was just come from Italy ; the Italians not 
 being addicted to the citffardo, but bastonza^ says he. 
 He then went up to Adams, and telling him he 
 looked like the ghost of Othello, bid him not shake 
 his gory- locks at him, for he could not say he did it. 
 Adams very innocently answered, " Sir, I am far from 
 accusing you." He then returaed to the lady, and 
 cried, " I find the bloody gentleman is wno insipido 
 del nuUo senso. Dammato di me, if I have seen such 
 a spectacuh in my M'ay from Viterbo."" 
 
 One of the gentlemen having learnt from the host 
 the occasion of this bustle, and being assured by him 
 that Adams had struck the first blow, whispered in 
 his ear, " He 'd warrant he would recover." — " Re- 
 cover ! master,"" said the host, smiling : " yes, yes, I 
 am not afraid of dying with a blow or two neither ; 
 I am not such a chicken as that." — " Pugh ! " said 
 the gentleman, " I mean you will recover damages 
 in that action which, undoubtedly, you intend to 
 bring, as soon as a writ can be returned from Lon- 
 don ; for you look like a man of too much spirit and 
 courage to suffer any one to beat you without bring- 
 ing your action against him : he must be a scandalous 
 [169 3
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 fellow indeed who would put up with a drubbing 
 whilst the law is open to revenge it ; besides, he hath 
 drawn blood from you, and spoiled your coat ; and 
 the jury will give damages for that too. An excel- 
 lent new coat upon my word ; and now not worth a 
 shilling ! I don't care," continued he, " to inter- 
 meddle in these cases ; but you have a right to my 
 evidence ; and if I am sworn, I must speak the truth. 
 I saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing 
 fi'om your nostrils. You may take your own opinion ; 
 but was I in your circumstances, every di'op of my 
 blood should convey an ounce of gold into my pocket : 
 remember I don't advise you to go to law; but if 
 your jury were Christians, they must give swinging 
 damages. That 's all." — " Master," cried the host, 
 scratching his head, "I have no stomach to law, I 
 thank you. I have seen enough of that in the painsh, 
 where two of my neighbours have been at law about 
 a house, till they have both lawed themselves into a 
 gaol." At which words he turned about, and began 
 to inquire again after his hog's puddings ; nor would 
 it probably have been a sufficient excuse for his wife, 
 that she spilt them in his defence, had not some awe 
 of the company, especially of the Italian traveller, 
 who was a person of great dignity, withheld his 
 rage. 
 
 Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was 
 employed, as we have seen him, on the behalf of the 
 [170]
 
 PEACE RESTORED 
 
 landlord, the other was no less hearty on the side 
 of Mr. Adams, whom he advised to bring his action 
 immediately. He said the assault of the wife was in 
 law the assault of the husband, for they were but 
 one person ; and he was liable to pay damages, which 
 he said must be considerable, where so bloody a dis- 
 position appeared. Adams answered, If it was true 
 that they were but one pei'son, he had assaulted tlic 
 wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck the 
 husband the first blow. " I am sorry you own it 
 too," cries the gentleman ; " for it could not possibly 
 appear to the court ; for here was no evidence present 
 but the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to 
 be your friend, and would consequently say nothing 
 but what made for you." — " How, sir,"''* says Adams, 
 " do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute 
 revenge in cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to 
 obtain it ? If you knew me, and my order, I should 
 think you affronted both."" At the word order, the 
 gentleman stared (for he was too bloody to be of 
 any modern order of knights) ; and, turning hastily 
 about, said, " Every man knew his own business." 
 
 Matters being now composed, the company retired 
 to their several apartments ; the two gentlemen con- 
 gratulating each other on the success of their good 
 offices in procuring a perfect reconciliation between 
 the contending parties ; and the traveller went to 
 his repast, crying, *' As the Italian poet says — 
 [171]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 ' 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 earPs gi'and-daughter, begged it 
 with almost tears in her eyes. Mr. Adams prayed, 
 and Mrs. Slipslop scolded ; but all to no purpose. 
 She said, "She would not demean herself to ride 
 with a footman : that there were waggons on the 
 road: that if the master of the coach desired it, 
 she would pay for two places ; but would suffer 
 no such fellow to come in.*" — " Madam," says Slip- 
 slop, " I am sure no one can refuse another coming 
 into a stage-coach." — "I don't know, madam," says 
 the lady ; " I am not much used to stage-coaches ; I 
 seldom travel in them." — "That may be, madam," 
 replied Slipslop ; " very good people do ; and some 
 people"'s betters, for aught I know." Miss Grave- 
 airs said, "Some folks might sometimes give their 
 tongues a liberty, to some people that were their 
 betters, which did not become them ; for her part, 
 she was not used to converse with servants." Slip- 
 slop returned, " Some people kept no servants to 
 converse with ; for her part, she thanked Heaven she 
 [172]
 
 A SMART DIALOGUE 
 
 lived in a family where there were a gi-eat many, and 
 had more under her own command than any paultrv 
 httle gentlewoman in the kingdom." Miss Grave- 
 airs cried, " She believed her mistress would not 
 encourage such saucine.ss to her bettei's.'" — " My 
 betters," says Slipslop, " who is my betters, pray ? " 
 — "I am your betters," answered Miss Grave-airs, 
 " and I '11 acquaint your mistress." — At which Mrs. 
 Slipslop laughed aloud, and told her, " Her lady was 
 one of the great gentry ; and such little paultry 
 gentlewomen as some folks, who travelled in stage- 
 coaches, would not easily come at her." 
 
 This smart dialogue between some people and 
 some folks was going on at the coach door when a 
 solemn person, riding into the inn, and seeing Miss 
 Grave-airs, immediately accosted her with "Dear 
 child, how do you ? " She presently answei*ed, " O 
 papa, I am glad you have overtaken me." — " So am 
 I," answered he ; " for one of our coaches is just at 
 hand ; and, there being room for you in it, you shall 
 go no farther in the stage unless you desire it." — 
 "How can you imagine I should desire it?" says 
 she; so, bidding Slipslop ride with her fellow, if she 
 pleased, she took her father by the hand, who was 
 just alighted, and walked with him into a room. 
 
 Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, 
 " If he knew who the gentleman was ? " The coach- 
 man answered, " He was now a gentleman, and kept 
 [173]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 his horse and man ; but times are altered, master,"^ 
 said he ; "I remember when he was no better born 
 than myself/' — "Aye! aye!" says Adams. "My 
 father drove the squire's coach," answered he, " when 
 that very man rode postillion; but he is now his 
 steward ; and a great gentleman."" Adams then 
 snapped his fingers, and cried, " He thought she 
 was some such trollop." 
 
 Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs. Slipslop with 
 this good news, as he imagined it ; but it found a 
 reception different from what he expected. The 
 prudent gentlewoman, who despised the anger of 
 Miss Grave-airs whilst she conceived her the daughter 
 of a gentleman of small fortune, now she heard her 
 alliance with the upper servants of a great family in 
 her neighbourhood, began to fear her interest with 
 the mistress. She wished she had not carried the 
 dispute so far, and began to think of endeavouring 
 to reconcile herself to the young lady before she left 
 the inn ; when, luckily, the scene at London, which 
 the reader can scarce have forgotten, presented itself 
 to her mind, and comforted her with such assurance, 
 that she no longer apprehended any enemy with her 
 mistress. 
 
 Everything being now adjusted, the company 
 
 entered the coach, which was just on its departure, 
 
 when one lady recollected she had left her fan, a 
 
 second her gloves, a third a snuff-box, and a fourth a 
 
 [174]
 
 SCANDAL 
 
 smelling-bottle behind her ; to find all which occa- 
 sioned some delay and much swearing to the 
 coachman. 
 
 As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women 
 all together fell to the character of Miss Grave-airs ; 
 whom one of them declared she had suspected to 
 be some low creature, from the beginning of their 
 journey, and another affirmed she had not even the 
 looks of a gentlewoman : a third waiTanted she was 
 no better than she should be ; and, turning to the 
 lady who had related the story in the coach, said, 
 " Did you ever hear, madam, anything so prudish as 
 her remarks ? Well, deliver me from the censori- 
 ousness of such a prude." The fourth added, " O 
 madam ! all these creatures are censorious ; but for 
 my part, I wonder where the wretch was bred ; indeed, 
 I must own I have seldom conversed with these mean 
 kind of people, so that it may appear stranger to 
 me ; but to refuse the general desire of a whole 
 company had something in it so astonishing, that, 
 for my part, I own I should hardly believe it if 
 my own ears had not been witnesses to it." — " Yes, 
 and so handsome a young fellow," cries Slipslop ; 
 *' the woman must have no compulsion in her : I 
 believe she is more of a Turk than a Christian ; I am 
 certain, if she had any Christian woman''s blood 
 in her veins, the sight of such a young fellow must 
 have warmed it. Indeed, there are some wretched.
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 miserable old objects, that turn one's stomach ; I 
 should not wonder if she had refused such a one ; 
 I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no 
 more than herself for the company of stinking old 
 fellows ; but, hold up thy head, Joseph, thou art 
 none of those ; and she who hath not compulsion for 
 thee is a Myhurametman, and I will maintain it." 
 This conversation made Joseph uneasy as well as the 
 ladies ; who, perceiving the spirits which Mrs. Slip- 
 slop was in (for indeed she was not a cup too low), 
 began to fear the consequence ; one of them therefore 
 desired the lady to conclude the story. " Aye, 
 madam,"" said Slipslop, " I beg your ladyship to give 
 us that story you commensated in the morning;" 
 which request that well-bred woman immediately 
 complied with. 
 
 [176]
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 CONCLUSION OF THE UNFORTUNATE JILT. 
 
 IEONORA, having once broke through the 
 bounds which custom and modesty impose 
 J on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indul- 
 ■^ gence to her passion. Her visits to Bel- 
 larmine were more constant, as well as longer, than 
 his surgeon*'s : in a word, she became absolutely his 
 nurse ; made his water-gruel, administered him his 
 medicines ; and, notwithstanding the prudent advice 
 of her aunt to the contrary, almost intirely resided 
 in her wounded lover's apartment. 
 
 The ladies of the town began to take her conduct 
 under consideration : it was the chief topic of dis- 
 course at their tea-tables, and was very severely 
 censured by the most part ; especially by Lindamira, 
 a lady whose discreet and starch carriage, together 
 with a constant attendance at church three times a 
 day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks on 
 her own reputation ; for such was the envy that 
 Lindamira\s virtue had attracted, that, notwith- 
 standing her OAvn strict behaviour and strict enquiry 
 [ 177 3
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 into the lives of others, she had not been able to 
 escape being the mark of some arrows herself, which, 
 however, did her no injury ; a blessing, perhaps, owed 
 by her to the clergy, who were her chief male com- 
 panions, and with two or three of whom she had been 
 barbarously and unjustly calumniated. 
 
 " Not so unjustly neither, perhaps,"" says Slipslop ; 
 " for the clergy are men, as well as other folks." 
 
 The extreme delicacy of Lindamira''s virtue was 
 cruelly hurt by those freedoms which Leonora allowed 
 herself : she said, " It was an affront to her sex ; that 
 she did not imagine it consistent with any woman*'s 
 honour to speak to the creature, or to be seen in her 
 company ; and that, for her part, she should always 
 refuse to dance at an assembly with her, for fear of 
 contamination by taking her by the hand." 
 
 But to return to my story : as soon as Bellarmine 
 was recovered, which was somewhat within a month 
 from his receiving the wound, he set out, according 
 to agreement, for Leonora"'s fathers, in order to 
 propose the match, and settle all matters with him 
 touching settlements, and the like. 
 
 A little before his arrival the old gentleman had 
 received an intimation of the affair by the following 
 letter, which I can repeat verbatim, and which, they 
 say, was written neither by Leonora nor her aunt, 
 though it was in a woman's hand. The letter was in 
 these words : — 
 
 [178]
 
 LEONORA^S FATHER 
 
 " SiRj — I am sorry to acquaint you that your 
 daughter, Leonora, hath acted one of the basest as well 
 as most simple parts with a young gentleman to whom 
 she had engaged herself, and whom she hath (pardon 
 the word) jilted for another of inferior fortune, notwith- 
 standing his superior figure. You may take what meas- 
 ures you please on this occasion ; I have performed 
 what I thought my duty ; as I have, though unknown 
 to you, a very great respect for your family." 
 
 The old gentleman did not give himself tlie 
 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 con- 
 sequence of their youthful pleasures ; which, as he 
 would have been delighted not to have had attended 
 them, so was he no less pleased with any opportunity 
 to rid himself of the incumbrance. He passed, in 
 the world's language, as an exceeding good father ; 
 being not only so rapacious as to rob and plunder 
 all mankind to the utmost of his power, but even 
 to deny himself the conveniences, and almost neces- 
 saries, of life ; which his neighbours attributed to a 
 desire of raising immense fortunes for his children : 
 but in fact it was not so ; he heaped up money 
 for its own sake only, and looked on his children 
 as his rivals, who were to enjoy his beloved mis- 
 tress when he was incapable of possessing her, and 
 [ 1^9 3
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 which he would have been much more charmed 
 with the power of carrying along with him ; nor 
 had his children any other security of being his heirs 
 than that the law would constitute them such with- 
 out a will, and that he had not affection enough for 
 any one living to take the trouble of writing one. 
 
 To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the errand 
 I have mentioned. His person, his equipage, his 
 family, and his estate, seemed to the father to make 
 him an advantageous match for his daughter : he 
 therefore very readily accepted his proposals : but 
 when Bellarmine imagined the principal affair con- 
 cluded, and began to open the incidental matters 
 of fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his 
 countenance, saying, " He resolved never to marry 
 his daughter on a Smithfield match ; that whoever 
 had love for her to take her would, when he died, 
 find her share of his fortune in his coffers ; but he 
 had seen such examples of undutifulness happen 
 from the too early generosity of parents, that he had 
 made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he 
 lived.^^ He commended the saying of Solomon, " He 
 that spareth the rod spoileth the child ; " but added, 
 "he might have likewise asserted, That he that 
 spareth the purse saveth the child." He then ran 
 into a discourse on the extravagance of the youth of 
 the age ; whence he launched into a dissertation on 
 horses ; and came at length to commend those Bellar- 
 [180]
 
 CONSIDERATIONS OF FORTUNE 
 
 mine drove. That fine gentleman, who at another 
 season would have been well enough pleased to dwell 
 a little on that subject, was now ven' eager to resume 
 the circumstance of fortune. He said, " He had 
 a very high value for the young lady, and would 
 receive her with less than he would any other what- 
 ever ; but that even his love to her made some regard 
 to worldly matters necessary ; for it would be a most 
 distracting sight for him to see her, when he had 
 the honour to be her husband, in less than a coach 
 and six." The old gentleman answered, " Four will 
 do, four will do ; "" and then took a turn from horses 
 to extravagance and from extravagance to horses, till 
 he came round to the equipage again ; whither he 
 was no sooner arrived than Bellarmine brought him 
 back to the point ; but all to no purpose ; he made 
 his escape from that subject in a minute ; till at last 
 the lover declared, " That in the present situation of 
 his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved 
 Leonora more than tout k monde, to marry her witli- 
 out any fortune." To which the father answered, 
 " He was sorry that his daughter must lose so valu- 
 able a match ; that, if he had an inclination, at 
 present it was not in his power to advance a shilling : 
 that he had had great losses, and been at gi-eat 
 expenses on projects; which, though he had great 
 expectation from them, had yet produced him noth- 
 ing : that he did not know what might happen 
 [ 181 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such acci- 
 dent ; but he would make no promise, or enter into 
 any article, for he would not break his vow for all 
 the daughters in the world." 
 
 In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, 
 Bellarmine, having tried every argument and per- 
 suasion which he could invent, and finding them all 
 ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order 
 to return to Leonora ; he proceeded directly to his 
 own seat, whence, after a few days'" stay, he returned 
 to Paris, to the great delight of the French, and the 
 honour of the English nation. 
 
 But as soon as he arrived at his home he presently 
 despatched a messenger with the following epistle to 
 Leonora : — 
 
 ** Adorable and Charmante, — I am sorry to have 
 the honour to tell you I am not the heureiix person 
 destined for your divine arms. Your papa hath told 
 me so with a politesse not often seen on this side Paris. 
 You may perhaps guess his manner of refusing me. Ah, 
 mwt Dieu ! You will certainly believe me, madam, in- 
 capable myself of delivering this irkte message, which I 
 intend to try the French air to cure the consequences 
 of. A jamais ! Cceiir ! Angel Aitdiable! If your papa 
 obliges you to a marriage, I hope ve shall see you at 
 Paris ; till when, the wind that flows from thence will 
 be the warmest dans le monde, for it will consist almost 
 entirely of my sighs. Adieu, ma princesse ! Ah, F amour ! 
 
 " Bellarminb." 
 [182]
 
 LEONORA DISCONSOLATE 
 
 I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's 
 condition when she received this letter. It is a 
 picture of horror, which I should have as little plea- 
 sure in drawing as you in beholding. She immedi- 
 ately left the place where she was the subject of 
 conversation and ridicule, and retired to that house 
 I showed you when I began the story ; where she 
 hath ever since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, 
 perhaps, pity for her misfortunes, more than our 
 censure for a behaviour to which the artifices of her 
 aunt very probably contributed, and to which very 
 young women are often rendered too liable by that 
 blameable levity in the education of our sex. 
 
 " If I was inclined to pity her," said a young lady 
 in the coach, " it would be for the loss of Horatio ; 
 for I cannot discern any misfortune in her missing 
 such a husband as Bellarmine." 
 
 " ^^Tiy, I must own," says Slipslop, " the gentleman 
 was a little false-hearted ; but howsumever, it was 
 hard to have two lovers, and get never a husband at 
 all. But pray, madam, what became of Our-ashof'' 
 
 He remains, said the lady, still unmamed, and 
 hath applied himself so strictly to his business, that 
 he hath raised, I hear, a very considerable fortune. 
 And what is remarkable, they say he never hears 
 the name of Leonora without a sigh, nor hath ever 
 uttered one syllable to charge her with her ill-con- 
 duct towards him. 
 
 [183]
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 A VERY SHORT CHAPTER, IN WHICH PARSON ADAMS WENT 
 A GREAT WAY. 
 
 THE lady, having finished her story, 
 received the thanks of the company; 
 and now Joseph, putting his head out 
 of the coach, cried out, *' Never believe 
 me if yonder be not our parson Adams walking along 
 without his horse ! " — " On my word, and so he is," 
 says Slipslop : " and as sure as twopence he hath 
 left him behind at the inn."" Indeed, true it is, the 
 parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence 
 of mind ; for he was so pleased with having got 
 Joseph into the coach, that he never once thought 
 of the beast in the stable ; and, finding his legs as 
 nimble as he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a 
 crabstick, and had kept on before the coach, mend- 
 ing and slackening his pace occasionally, so that he 
 had never been much more or less than a quarter of 
 a mile distant from it. 
 
 Mrs. Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake 
 him, which he attempted, but in vain ; for the faster 
 [184]
 
 THE PARSON'S ADVENTURE 
 
 he drove the faster ran the parson, often crying out, 
 " Aye, aye, catch me if you can ; '■" till at length the 
 coachman swore he would as soon attempt to drive 
 after a greyhound, and, giving the parson two or 
 three hearty curses, he cry' d, " Softly, softly, boys,"" 
 to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately 
 obeyed. 
 
 But we will be more courteous to our reader than 
 he was to Mrs. Slipslop ; and, leaving the coach and 
 its company to pursue their journey, we will carry 
 our reader on after parson Adams, who stretched 
 forwards without once looking behind him, till, hav- 
 ing left the coach full three miles in his rear, he 
 came to a place where, by keeping the extremest 
 track to the right, it was just barely possible for a 
 human creature to miss his way. This track, however, 
 did he keep, as indeed he had a wonderful capacity 
 at these kinds of bare possibilities, and, travelling 
 in it about three miles over the plain, he arrived 
 at the summit of a hill, whence looking a great 
 way backwards, and perceiving no coach in sight, 
 he sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling 
 out his iEschylus, determined to wait here for its 
 arrival. 
 
 He had not sat long here before a gun going off 
 very near, a little startled him ; he looked up and 
 saw a gentleman within a hundred paces taking 
 up a partridge which he had just shot. 
 [185]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Adams stood up and presented a figure to the 
 gentleman which would have moved laughter in 
 many ; for his cassock had just again fallen down 
 below his greatcoat, that is to say, it leached his 
 knees, whereas the skirts of his greatcoat descended 
 no lower than half-way down his thighs ; but the 
 gentleman's mirth gave way to his surprize at behold- 
 ing such a personage in such a place. 
 
 Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he 
 hoped he had good sport, to which the other 
 answered, " Very little." — "I see, sir," says Adams, 
 " you have smote one partridge ; " to which the sports- 
 man made no reply, but proceeded to charge his 
 piece. 
 
 Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in 
 silence, which he at last broke by observing that it 
 was a delightful evening. The gentleman, who had 
 at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of 
 the parson, began, on perceiving a book in his hand 
 and smoaking likewise the information of the cassock, 
 to change his thoughts, and made a small advance to 
 conversation on his side by saying, " Sir, I suppose 
 you are not one of these parts ? " 
 
 Adams immediately told him, " No ; that he was 
 a traveller, and invited by the beauty of the evening 
 and the place to repose a little and amuse himself 
 with reading."" — "I may as well repose myself too,"" 
 said the sportsman, " for I have been out this whole 
 [186]
 
 A TALK WITH A SPORTSMAN 
 
 afternoon, and the devil a bird have I seen till I 
 came hither." 
 
 " Perhaps then the game is not very plenty here- 
 abouts ? " cries Adams. " No, sir,'' said the gentle- 
 man : " the soldiers, who are quartered in the 
 neighbourhood, have killed it all." — " It is very 
 probable," cries Adams, " for shooting is their pro- 
 fession." — " Aye, shooting the game," answered the 
 other ; " but I don't see they are so forward to shoot 
 our enemies. I don't like that affair of Carthagena ; 
 if I had been there, I believe I should have done 
 other-guess things, d — n me : what 's a man's life when 
 his country demands it ? a man who won't sacrifice 
 his life for his country deserves to be hanged, d — n 
 me." \\1iich words he spoke with so violent a 
 gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so 
 fierce a countenance, that he might have frightened 
 a captain of trained bands at the head of his com- 
 pany ; but Mr. Adams was not greatly subject to 
 fear ; he told him intrepidly that he very mucli 
 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 cliarmed 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 commuae 
 [18T]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 with him ; for, though lie was a clergyman, he would 
 himself be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his 
 life for his country. 
 
 The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him ; 
 and then the latter began, as in the following chap- 
 ter, a discourse which we ha\e placed by itself, as it 
 is not only the most curious in this but perhaps in 
 any other book. 
 
 [188]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 A NOTABLE DISSERTATION BY MK. ABRAHAM ADAAIS ; 
 WHEREIN THAT GENTLEMAN APPEARS IN A POLIT- 
 ICAL LIGHT. 
 
 I DO assure you, sir" (says he, taking the 
 gentleman by the hand), " I am heartily 
 glad to meet with a man of your kidney ; 
 for, though I am a poor parson, I will be 
 bold to say I am an honest man, and would not do 
 an ill thing to be made a bishop ; nay, though it 
 hath not fallen in my way to offer so noble a sacrifice, 
 I have not been without opportunities of suffering 
 for the sake of my conscience, I thank Heaven for 
 them ; for I have had relations, though I say it, 
 who made some figure in the world; particularly a 
 nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a 
 corporation. He was a good lad, and was under my 
 care when a boy ; and I believe would do what I bade 
 him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like extreme 
 vanity in me to affect being a man of such consequence 
 as to have so great an interest in an alderman ; but 
 others have thought so too, as manifestly appeared by 
 the rector, whose curate I formerly was, sending for 
 [189 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 me on the approach of an election, and telHng me, if 
 I expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring 
 my nephew to vote for one Colonel Courtly, a gentle- 
 man whom I had never heard tidings of till tliat 
 instant. I told the rector I had no power over my 
 nephew's vote (God forgive me for such prevarica- 
 tion !) ; that I supposed he would give it according 
 to his conscience ; that I would by no means endeavour 
 to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it 
 was in vain to equivocate ; that he knew I had already 
 spoke to him in favour of esquire Fickle, my neigh- 
 bour ; and, indeed, it was true I had ; for it was at a 
 season when the church was in danger, and when all 
 good men expected they knew not what would happen 
 to us all. I then answered boldly, if he thought I 
 had given my pi'omise, he affronted me in proposing 
 any breach of it. Not to be too prolix ; I persevered, 
 and so did my nephew, in the esquire's interest, who 
 was chose chiefly through his means ; and so I lost 
 my curacy. Well, sir, but do you think the esquire 
 ever mentioned a word of the church ? Ne verhum 
 quidem^ ut ita d'lcam : within two yeai"s he got a place, 
 and hath ever since lived in London ; where I have 
 been informed (but God forbid I should believe that,) 
 that he never so much as goeth to church. I re- 
 mained, sir, a considerable time without any cure, 
 and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which 
 I preached on the indisposition of a clergyman ; but 
 [190]
 
 POLITICAL liNFLUENCE 
 
 this by the bye. At last, when Mr. Fickle got his 
 place, Colonel Courtly stood again ; and who should 
 make interest for hira but Mr. Fickle himself! that 
 very identical Mr. Fickle, who had formerly told me 
 the colonel was an enemy to both the church and state, 
 had the confidence to sollicit my nephew for him ; 
 and the colonel himself offered me to make me chap- 
 lain to his regiment, which I refused in favour of 
 Sir Oliver Heaity, who told us he would sacrifice 
 everything to his country ; and I believe he would, 
 except his hunting, which he stuck so close to, that 
 in five years together he went but twice up to parlia- 
 ment ; and one of those times, I have been told, never 
 was within sight of the House. However, he was a 
 worthy man, and the best friend I ever had ; for, by 
 his interest with a bishop, he got me replaced into 
 my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own 
 pocket to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish 
 my house. He had our interest while he lived, which 
 was not many years. On his death I had fresh ap- 
 plications made to me ; for all the world knew the 
 interest I had with my good nephew, who now was 
 a leading man in the corporation ; and Sir Thomas 
 Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver's, 
 proposed himself a candidate. He was then a young 
 gentleman just come from his travels ; and it did me 
 good to hear him discourse on affairs which, for my 
 part, I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a 
 
 [191]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 thousand votes he should have had them all. I 
 engaged my nephew in his interest, and he was 
 elected; and a very fine parliament-man he was. 
 They tell me he made speeches of an hour long, and, 
 I have been told, very fine ones ; but he could never 
 persuade the parliament to be of his opinion. Non 
 omnia possiimus omnes. He promised me a living, 
 poor man ! and I believe I should have had it, but 
 an accident happened, which was, that my lady had 
 promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I 
 never heard till afterwards ; for my nephew, who died 
 about a month before the incumbent, always told me I 
 might be assured of it. Since that time. Sir Thomas, 
 poor man, had always so much business, that he never 
 could find leisure to see me. I believe it was partly 
 my lady's fault too, who did not think my dress good 
 enough for the gentry at her table. However, I must 
 do him the justice to say he never was ungi-ateful ; 
 and I have always found his kitchen, and his cellar 
 too, open to me: many a time, after sei-vice on a 
 Sunday — for I preach at four churches — have I 
 recruited my spirits with a glass of his ale. Since 
 my nephew's death, the corporation is in other 
 hands ; and I am not a man of that consequence I 
 was formerly. I have now no longer any talents to 
 lay out in the service of my country ; and to whom 
 nothing is given, of him can nothing be required. 
 However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach 
 [192]
 
 THE PARSON'S SON 
 
 of an election, I throw a suitable dash or two into 
 my sermons ; which I have the pleasure to hear is 
 hot disagreeable to Sir Thomas and the other honest 
 gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me 
 these five years to procure an ordination for a son of 
 mine, who is now near thirty, hath an infinite stock 
 of learning, and is, I thank Heaven, of an unexcep- 
 tionable life ; though, as he was never at an univer- 
 sity, the bishop refuses to ordain him. Too much 
 care cannot indeed be taken in admitting any to the 
 sacred office ; though I hope he will never act so as 
 to be a disgrace to any order, but will serve his God 
 and his country to the utmost of his power, as I have 
 endeavoured to do before him ; nay, and will lay 
 down his life whenever called to that pui'pose. I am 
 sure I have educated him in those principles ; so that 
 I have acquitted my duty, and shall have nothing to 
 answer for on that account. But I do not distrust 
 him, for he is a good boy ; and if Providence should 
 throw it in his way to be of as much consequence in 
 a public light as his father once was, I can answer 
 for him he will use his talents as honestly as I have 
 done." 
 
 [193] 
 
 Vol. 1
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 IN WHICH THE GENTLEMAN DISCANTS ON BRAVERY AND 
 HEROIC VIRTUE, TILL AN UNLUCKY ACCIDENT PUTS 
 AN END TO THE DISCOURSE. 
 
 THE gentleman highly commended Mr. 
 Adams for his good resolutions, and 
 told him, " He hoped his son would 
 tread in his steps ; " adding, " that if he 
 would not die for his country, he would not be worthy 
 to live in it. I 'd make no more of shooting a man 
 that would not die for his country, than — 
 
 " Sir," said he, " I have disinherited a nephew, who 
 is in the army, because he would not exchange his 
 commission and go to the West Indies. I believe 
 the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in 
 love forsooth. I would have all such fellows hanged, 
 sir ; I would have them hanged." Adams answered, 
 " That would be too severe ; that men did not make 
 themselves ; and if fear had too much ascendance in 
 the mind, the man was rather to be pitied than 
 abhorred ; that reason and time might teach him to 
 subdue it.^ He said, " A man might be a coward at 
 one time^ and brave at another. Homer," says he,
 
 BRAVERY DISCUSSED 
 
 "who so well understood and copied Nature, hath 
 taught us this lesson ; for Paris fights and Hector 
 runs away. Nay, we have a mighty instance of this 
 in the history of later ages, no longer ago than the 
 705th year of Rome, when the great Pompey, who 
 had won so many battles and been honoured with so 
 many triumphs, and of whose valour several authors, 
 especially Cicero and Paterculus, have formed such 
 elogiums ; this very Pompey left the battle of 
 Pharsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to his 
 tent, where he sat like the most pusillanimous rascal 
 in a fit of despair, and yielded a victory, which was 
 to determine the empire of the world, to Caesar. I 
 am not much travelled in the history of modem times, 
 that is to say, these last thousand years ; but those 
 who are can, I make no question, furnish you with 
 parallel instances." He concluded, therefore, that, 
 had he taken any such hasty resolutions against his 
 nephew, he hoped he would consider better, and re- 
 tract them. The gentleman answered with great 
 wai'mth, and talked mucli of courage and his coun- 
 try, till, perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams, 
 *' What place he intended for that night ? " He 
 told him, " He waited there for the stage-coach."" 
 — " The stage-coach, sir ! " said the gentleman ; 
 " they are all passed by long ago. You may see the 
 last yourself almost thi-ee miles before us." — "I pro- 
 test and so they are," cries Adams ; " then I must make 
 [195]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 haste and follow them." The gentleman told him, 
 he would hardly be able to overtake them ; and that, 
 if he did not know his way, he would be in danger of 
 losing himself on the downs, for it would be presently 
 dark ; and he might ramble about all night, and per- 
 haps find himself farther from his journey's end in 
 the morning than he was now. He advised him, 
 therefore, "to accompany him to his house, which 
 was very little out of his way,'* assuring him " that 
 he would find some country fellow in his parish who 
 would conduct him for sixpence to the city where he 
 was going." Adams accepted this proposal, and on 
 they travelled, the gentleman renewing his discourse 
 on courage, and the infamy of not being ready, at all 
 times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night 
 overtook them much about the same time as they 
 arrived near some bushes; whence, on a sudden, they 
 heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a female 
 voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his 
 companion's hand. " What are you doing ? " said 
 he. " Doing ! " said Adams ; " I am hastening to 
 the assistance of the poor creature whom some 
 villains are murdering." — " You are not mad enough, 
 I hope," says the gentleman, trembling ; " do you con- 
 sider this gun is only charged with shot, and that the 
 robbers are most probably furnished with pistols 
 loaded with bullets ? This is no business of ours ; 
 let us make as much haste as possible out of the way, 
 [196]
 
 THE RESCUE 
 
 or we may fall into their hands ourselves.'' The 
 shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but 
 snapt his fingers, and, brandishing his crabstick, made 
 directly to the place whence the voice issued ; and 
 the man of courage made as much expedition towards 
 his own home, whither he escaped in a very short 
 time without once looking behind him ; where we 
 will leave him, to contemplate his own bravery, and 
 to censure the want of it in others, and return to the 
 good Adams, who, on coming up to the place whence 
 the noise proceeded, found a woman struggling with 
 a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had 
 almost overpowei*ed her. The great abilities of Mr. 
 Adams were not necessary to have formed a right 
 judgment of this affair on the first sight. He did not, 
 therefore, want the entreaties of the poor wretch to 
 assist her ; but, lifting up his crabstick, he immedi- 
 ately levelled a blow at that part of the ravisher's head 
 where, according to the opinion of the ancients, the 
 brains of some persons are deposited, and which he 
 had undoubtedly let forth, had not Nature (wlio, as 
 wise men have observed, equips all creatures with 
 what is most expedient for them) taken a provident 
 cai-e (as she always doth with those she intends for 
 encounters) to make this part of the head three times 
 as thick as those of ordinary men who are designed 
 to exercise talents which are vulgarly called rational, 
 and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged 
 [ 197 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 to leave some room for them in the cavity of the 
 skull ; whereas, those ingredients being entirely use- 
 less to persons of the heroic calHng, she hath an 
 opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it 
 less subject to any impression, or liable to be cracked 
 or broken : and indeed, in some who are predes- 
 tined to the command of armies and empires, she 
 i is supposed sometimes to make that part per- 
 fectly solid. OKG-^SVA 
 
 As a game cock, when engaged in amorous toying 
 with a hen, if perchance he espies another cock at 
 hand, immediately quits his female, and opposes 
 himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on the in- 
 formation of the crabstick, immediately leap from 
 the woman and hasten to assail the man. He had 
 no weapons but what Nature had fuinished him with. 
 However, he clenched his fist, and presently darted 
 it at that part of Adams's breast where the heart 
 is lodged. Adams staggered at the violence of the 
 blow, when, thi-owing away his staff, he likewise 
 clenched that fist which we have before commemo- 
 rated, and would have discharged it full in the breast 
 of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it 
 with his left hand, at the same time darting his head 
 (which some modern heroes of the lower class use, 
 like the battering-ram of the ancients, for a weapon 
 of offence ; another reason to admire the cunningness 
 of Nature, in composing it of those impenetrable 
 [198]
 
 MR. ADAMS VICTORIOUS 
 
 materials) ; dashing his head, I say, into the stomach 
 of Adams, he tumbled him on his back ; and, not 
 having any regard to the laws of heroism, which 
 would have restrained him from any farther attack 
 on his enemy till he was again on his legs, he threw 
 himself upon him, and, laying hold on the ground 
 with his left hand, he with his riglit belaboured tlie 
 body of Adams till he was weary, and indeed till he 
 concluded (to use the language of fighting) "that 
 he had done his business ; '" or, in the language of 
 poetry, " that he had sent him to the shades below • " 
 in plain English, " that he was dead." 
 
 But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear 
 a drubbing as well as any boxing champion in the 
 universe, lay still only to Avatch his opportunity ; 
 and now, perceiving his antagonist to pant with his 
 labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and 
 with such success that he overturned him, and became 
 his superior ; when, fixing one of his knees in his 
 bieast, he cried out in an exulting voice, " It is my 
 turn now ; " and, after a few minutes' constant appli- 
 cation, he gave him so dexterous a blow just under 
 his chin that the fellow no longer retained any 
 motion, and Adams began to fear he had struck him 
 once too often ; for he often asserted " he should be 
 concenied to have the blood of even the wicked upon 
 him." 
 
 Adams got up and called aloud to the young 
 [199]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 woman. " Be of good cheer, damsel,"" said he, "you 
 are no longer in danger of your ravisher, who, I am 
 terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet ; but God forgive 
 me what I have done in defence of innocence ! " 
 The poor wretch, who had been some time in 
 recovering strength enough to rise, and had after- 
 wards, during the engagement, stood trembling, 
 being disabled by fear even from running away, 
 hearing her champion was victorious, came up to 
 him, but not without apprehensions even of her 
 deliverer ; which, however, she was soon relieved from 
 by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. They 
 were both standing by the body, which lay motion- 
 less on the ground, and which Adams wished to see 
 stir much more than the woman did, when he 
 earnestly begged her to tell him " by what misfor- 
 tune she came, at such a time of night, into so lonely 
 a place." She acquainted him, " She was travelling 
 towards London, and had accidentally met with the 
 person from whom he had delivered her, who told 
 her he was likewise on his journey to the same place, 
 and would keep her company ; an offer which, sus- 
 pecting no harm, she had accepted ; that he told her 
 they were at a small distance from an inn where 
 she might take up her lodging that evening, and he 
 would show her a nearer way to it than by following 
 the road ; that if she had suspected him (which she 
 did not, he spoke so kindly to her), being alone on 
 [200]
 
 TRUST IN PROVIDENCE 
 
 these dovns in the dark, she had no human means 
 to avoid him ; that, therefore, she put her whole 
 trust in Providence, and walked on, expecting every 
 moment to arrive at the inn ; when on a sudden, 
 being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop, 
 and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and 
 some entreaties, which she rejected, he laid violent 
 hands on her, and was attempting to execute 
 his wicked will, when, she thanked G — , he timely 
 came up and prevented him." Adams encouraged 
 her for saying she had put her whole trust in Provi- 
 dence, and told her, " He doubted not but Providence 
 had sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that 
 trust. He wished indeed he had not deprived the 
 wicked wretch of life, but G — ^'s will be done ; "^ 
 said, " He hoped the goodness of his intention would 
 excuse him in the next world, and he trusted in her 
 evidence to acquit him in this." He was then silent, 
 and began to consider with himself whether it would 
 be properer to make his escape, or to deliver him- 
 self into the hands of justice; which meditation 
 ended as the reader will see in the next chapter. 
 
 [201]
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE STRANGE CATASTROPHE OF 
 THE PRECEDING ADVENTURE, WHICH DREW POOR 
 ADAMS INTO TRESH 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 
 delivered her from ; and as she had not light enough 
 to discover the age of Adams, and the benevolence 
 visible in his countenance, she suspected he had used 
 her as some very honest men have used their country ; 
 and had rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in 
 order to rifle her himself. Such were the suspicions 
 she drew from his silence ; but indeed they were ill- 
 grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, 
 wisely weighing in his mind the objections which 
 might be made to either of the two methods of pro- 
 ceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgment 
 sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the 
 [202]
 
 ARRIVAL OF THE SPORTSMEN 
 
 other ; for both seemed to him so equally advisable 
 and so equally dangerous, that probably he would 
 have ended his days, at least two or three of them, 
 on that very spot, before he had taken any resolu- 
 tion ; at length he lifted up his eyes, and spied a 
 light at a distance, to which he instantly addressed 
 himself with Heus tu^ traveller^ heus tu ! He pres- 
 ently heard several voices, and perceived the light 
 approaching toward him. The persons who attended 
 the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and 
 others to hollow, at which the woman testified some 
 fear (for she had concealed her suspicions of the 
 parson himself) ; but Adams said, " Be of good cheer, 
 damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Provi- 
 dence which hath hitherto protected thee, and never 
 will forsake the innocent." These people, who now 
 approached, were no other, reader, than a set of 
 young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit 
 of a diversion which they call bird-batting. This, if 
 you are ignorant of it (as perhaps if thou hast never 
 travelled beyond Kensington, Islington, Hackney, or 
 the Borough, thou mayst be), 1 will inform thee, 
 is performed by holding a large clap-net before a 
 lanthorn, and at the same time beating the bushes ; 
 for the birds, when they are disturbed from their 
 places of rest, or roost, immediately make to the 
 light, and so are inticed within the net. Adams 
 immediately told them what happened, and desired 
 [203]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 them to hold the lanthom to the face of the man on 
 the ground, for he feared he had smote him fatally. 
 But indeed his fears were frivolous ; for the fellow, 
 though he had been stunned by the last blow he 
 received, had long since recovered his senses, and, 
 finding himself quit of Adams, had listened atten- 
 tively to the discourse between him and the young 
 woman ; for whose departure he had patiently waited, 
 that he might likewise withdraw himself, having no 
 longer hopes of succeeding in his desires, which were 
 moreover almost as well cooled by Mr. Adams as 
 they could have been by the young woman herself 
 had he obtained his utmost wish. This fellow, who 
 had a readiness at improving any accident, thought 
 he might now play a better part than that of a dead 
 man ; and, accordingly, the moment the candle was 
 held to his face he leapt up, and, laying hold on 
 Adams, cried out, "No, villain, I am not dead, 
 though you and your wicked whore might well think 
 me so, after the barbarous cruelties you have ex- 
 ercised on me. Gentlemen,"*' said he, '* you are luckily 
 come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who would 
 otherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile 
 man and woman, who led me hither out of my way 
 from the high-road, and both falling on me have used 
 me as you see."''' Adams was going to answer, when 
 one of the young fellows cried, " D — n them, let 's 
 carry them both before the justice." The poor woman 
 [204]
 
 FRESH CALAMITIES 
 
 began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his voice, but 
 in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him ; 
 and one holding the lanthorn to his face, they all 
 agreed he had the most villainous countenance they 
 ever beheld ; and an attorney's clerk, who was of the 
 company, declared he was sure he had remembered 
 him at the bar. As to the woman, her hair was 
 dishevelled in the struggle, and her nose had bled ; 
 so that they could not perceive whether she was hand- 
 some or ugly, but they said her fright plainly dis- 
 covered her guilt. And searching her pockets, as 
 they did those of Adams, for money, which the 
 fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a 
 purse with some gold in it, which abundantly con- 
 vinced them, especially as the fellow offered to swear 
 to it. Mr. Adams was found to have no more than 
 one halfpenny about him. This the clerk said, 
 " was a great presumption that he was an old offender, 
 by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman." 
 To which all the rest readily assented. 
 
 This accident promising them better sport than 
 what they had proposed, they quitted their intention 
 of catching birds, and unanimously resolved to pro- 
 ceed to the justice with the offenders. Being in- 
 formed what a desperate fellow Adams was, they 
 tied his hands behind him ; and, having hid their 
 nets among the bushes, and the lanthorn being 
 carried before them, tliey placed the two prisonei's 
 [205]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 in their front, and then began their march ; Adams 
 not only submitting patiently to his ovm fate, but 
 comforting and encouraging his companion under 
 her sufferings. 
 
 Whilst they were on their way the clerk in- 
 formed the rest that this adventure would prove a 
 very beneficial one ; for that they would all be entitled 
 to their proportions of .£'80 for apprehending the 
 robbers. This occasioned a contention concerning 
 the parts which they had severally borne in taking 
 them ; one insisting he ought to have the greatest 
 share, for he had first laid his hands on Adams ; 
 another claiming a superior part for having first held 
 the lanthom to the man''s face on the ground, by 
 which, he said, **the whole was discovered," The 
 clerk claimed four-fifths of the reward for having 
 proposed to search the prisoners, and likewise the 
 carrying them before the justice : he said, " Indeed, 
 in strict justice, he ought to have the whole." These 
 claims, however, they at last consented to refer to a 
 future decision, but seemed all to agree that the 
 clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated 
 what money should be allotted to the young fellow 
 who had been employed only in holding the nets. 
 He very modestly said, " That he did not apprehend 
 any large proportion would fall to his .share, but 
 hoped they would allow him something ; he desired 
 them to consider that they had assigned their nets 
 [ 206 ]
 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 to his care, which prevented him from being as 
 forward as any in laying hold of the robbers "" (for 
 so those innocent people were called) ; " that if he 
 had not occupied the nets, some other must;*** con- 
 cluding, however, " that he should be contented with 
 the smallest share imaginable, and should think that 
 rather their bounty than his merit." But they were 
 all unanimous in excluding him from any part what- 
 ever, the clerk particularly swearing, " If they gave 
 him a shilling they might do what they pleased with 
 the rest ; for he would not concern himself with the 
 affair." This contention was so hot, and so totally en- 
 gaged the attention of all the parties, that a dexterous 
 nimble thief, had he been in Mr. Adams's situation, 
 would have taken care to have given the justice no 
 trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the 
 artof a Sheppard to escape, especially as the dark- 
 ness of the night would have so much befriended 
 him ; but Adams trusted rather to his innocence 
 than his heels, and, without thinking of flight, which 
 was easy, or resistance (which was impossible, as there 
 were six lusty young fellows, besides the villain him- 
 self, present), he walked with perfect resignation the 
 way they thought proper to conduct him. 
 
 Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations 
 
 during their journey ; at last, poor Joseph Andrews 
 
 occurring to his mind, he could not refrain sighing 
 
 forth his name, which being heard by his companion 
 
 [207]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 in affliction, she cried with some veliemence, " Sure I 
 should know that voice ; you cannot certainly, sir, be 
 Mr. Abraham Adams ? '^ ■ — " Indeed, damsel," says 
 he, " that is my name ; there is something also in 
 your voice which persuades me I have heard it be- 
 fore."'^ — " La ! sir,^' says she, " don't you remember 
 poor Fanny ? " — " How, Fanny ! "" answered Adams : 
 " indeed I vei-y well remember you ; what can have 
 brought you hither?" — "I have told you, sir,"" 
 replied she, " I was travelling towards London ; but 
 I thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews ; pray 
 what is become of him ? " — "I left him, child, this 
 afternoon," said Adams, " in the stage-coach, in his 
 way towai'ds our parish, whither he is going to see 
 you." — *' To see me ! La, sir," answered Fanny, 
 " sure you jeer me ; what should he be going to see 
 me for ? " — " Can you ask that ? " replied Adams. 
 *' I hope, Fanny, you are not inconstant ; I assure 
 you he deserves much better of you." — " La ! Mr. 
 Adams," said she, " what is Mr. Joseph to me ? I 
 am sure I never had anything to say to him, but as 
 one fellow-servant might to another." — "I am sorry 
 to hear this," said Adams ; " a virtuous passion for a 
 young man is what no woman need be ashamed of. 
 You either do not tell me truth, or you are false to 
 a very worthy man." Adams then told her what 
 had happened at the inn, to which she listened very 
 attentively ; and a sigh often escaped from her, not- 
 [208]
 
 FANNY'S SUDDEN DEPARTURE 
 
 withstanding her utmost endeavours to the contrary ; 
 nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousand 
 questions, which would have assured any one but 
 Adams, who never saw farther into people than they 
 desired to let him, of the truth of a passion she 
 endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that 
 this poor girl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune, 
 by some of the servants belonging to the coach which 
 we have formerly mentioned to have stopt at the inn 
 while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that 
 instant abandoned the cow she was milking, and, 
 taking with her a little bundle of clothes under her 
 arm, and all the money she was worth in her own 
 purse, without consulting any one, immediately set 
 forward in pursuit of one whom, notwithstanding her 
 shyness to the parson, she loved with inexpressible 
 violence, though with the purest and most delicate 
 passion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will 
 recommend her character to all our female readers, 
 and not greatly surprize such of our males as are 
 well acquainted with the younger part of the other 
 sex, we shall not give ourselves any trouble to 
 vindicate. 
 
 [209]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO THEM WHILE BEFORE THE JUSTICE. 
 A CHAFTEE VERY FULL OF LEARNING. 
 
 THEIR fellow-travellers were so engaged 
 in the hot dispute concerning the di- 
 vision of the reward for apprehending 
 these innocent people, that they attended 
 very little to their discourse. They were now arrived 
 at the justice's house, and had sent oncof hisserrants 
 in to acquaint his worship that they had taken two 
 robbers and brought them before him. The justice, 
 who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not 
 yet finished his dinner, ordered them to cany the 
 prisoners into the stable, whither they were attended 
 by all the servants in the house, and all the people 
 in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see 
 them with as much curiosity as if there was some- 
 thing uncommon to be seen, or that a rogue did not 
 look like other people. 
 
 The justice, now being in the height of his mirth 
 and his cups, bethought himself of tlie prisoners ; 
 and, telling his company he believed they should have 
 . [ 210 j
 
 THE JUSTICE'S EXAMINATION 
 
 good sport in their examination, he ordered them 
 into his presence. They had no sooner entered the 
 room than he began to revile them, saying, " That 
 robberies on the highway were now grown so fre- 
 quent, that people could not sleep safely in their 
 beds, and assured them they both should be made 
 examples of at the ensuing assizes." After he had 
 gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded 
 by his clerk, " That it would be proper to take the 
 depositions of the witnesses against them." Which 
 he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the 
 meantime. WTiilst the clerk was employed in writ- 
 ing down the deposition of the fellow who had pre- 
 tended to be robbed, the justice employed himself 
 in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was 
 seconded by all the company at table. One asked, 
 "Whether she was to be indicted for a highway- 
 man ? " Another whispered in her ear, " If she had 
 not provided herself a great belly, he was at her ser- 
 vice," A third said, " He warranted she was a rela- 
 tion of Turpin." To which one of the company, 
 a great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, 
 answered, " He believed she was nearer related to 
 Turpis ; "" at which there was an universal laugh. 
 They were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when 
 somebody, smoaking the cassock peeping forth from 
 under the greatcoat of Adams, cried out, " What 
 have we here, a parson ? " " How, sirrah," says the 
 [211]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 justice, "do you go robbing in the dress of a clergy- 
 man? let me tell you your habit will not entitle 
 you to the benefit of the clergy." " Yes," said the 
 witty fellow, " he will have one benefit of clergy, he 
 will be exalted above the heads of the people;" at 
 which there was a second laugh. And now the witty 
 spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in spirits ; 
 and, turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verses, 
 and, provoking him by giving the first blow, he 
 repeated — 
 
 " Jdolle meum levibus cord est vilebile telis." 
 
 Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable 
 contempt, told him, " He deserved scourging for his 
 pronunciation." The witty fellow answered, " What 
 do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer 
 the first time ? Why, I '11 give one, you blockhead, 
 with an S. 
 
 " • Si licet, utftdvum »pectatur in ignUms haurumi 
 
 " What, canst not with an M neither ? Thou art 
 a pretty fellow for a parson ! Why didst not steal 
 some of the parson's Latin as well as his gown ? " 
 Another at the table then answered, " If he had, you 
 would have been too hard for him ; I remember you at 
 the college a very devil at this sport ; I have seen you 
 catch a freshman, for nobody that knew you would 
 engage with you."" " I have forgot those things now,'' 
 cried the wit. " I believe I could have done pretty
 
 CAPPING VERSES 
 
 well formerly. Let 's see, what did I end with ? — 
 an M again — aye 
 
 " ' Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.* 
 I could have done it once." " Ah ! evil betide you, 
 and so you can now," said the other : *' nobody in 
 this country will undertake you." Adams could hold 
 no longer : " Friend," said he, " I have a boy not 
 above eight years old who would instruct thee that 
 the last verse runs thus : — 
 
 " *Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.*^ 
 
 " I '11 hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, 
 throwing the money on the table. " And I '11 go 
 your halves," cries the other. " Done," answered 
 Adams ; but upon applying to his pocket he was 
 forced to retract, and own he had no money about 
 him ; which set them all a-laughing, and confirmed the 
 triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, 
 any more than the approbation he met with from the 
 whole company, who told Adams he must go a little 
 longer to school before he attempted to attack that 
 gentleman in Latin. 
 
 The clerk, having finished the depositions, as 
 well of the fellow himself, as of those who appre- 
 hended the prisoners, delivered them to the jus- 
 tice ; who, having sworn the several witnesses 
 without reading a syllable, ordered his clerk to 
 make the mittimus. 
 
 [213]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Adams then said, " He hoped he should not be 
 condemned unheard." " No, no," cries the justice, 
 " you will be asked what you have to say for j'our- 
 self when you come on your trial : we are not trying 
 you now ; I shall only commit you to gaol : if you 
 can prove your innocence at 'size, you will be found 
 ignoramus, and so no harm done."" " Is it no 
 pimishment, sir, for an innocent man to lie several 
 months in gaol ? " cries Adams : " I beg you would 
 at least hear me before you sign the mittimus." 
 " What signifies all you can say ? '' says the justice : 
 " is it not here in black and white against you ? I 
 must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow to 
 take up so much of my time. So make haste ^^th 
 his mittimus." 
 
 The clerk now acquainted the justice that among 
 other suspicious things, as a penknife, &c., found in 
 Adams's pocket, they had discovered a book written, 
 as he apprehended, in cyphers; for no one could 
 read a word in it. "Aye," says the justice, "the 
 fellow may be more than a common robber, he may 
 be in a plot against the Government. Produce the 
 book." Upon which the poor manuscript of ^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 cyphers. " Cyphers? " answered 
 Adams, " it is a manuscript of iEschylus." " Who ? 
 [214]
 
 THE MANUSCRIPT OF .ESCHYLUS 
 
 who ?'' said the justice. Adams repeated, " ^Eschylus." 
 ** That is an outlandish name," cried the clerk. " A 
 fictitious name rather, I believe," said the justice. 
 One of the company declared it looked very much 
 like Greek. " Greek .?" said the justice ; " why, *t is 
 all writing." " No," says the other, " I don't posi- 
 tively say it is so ; for it is a very long time since 
 I have seen any Greek." "There's one," says he, 
 turning to the parson of the parish, who was present, 
 "Mill tell us immediately." The parson, taking up 
 the book, and putting on his spectacles and gravity 
 together, muttered some words to himself, and then 
 pronounced aloud — " Aye, indeed, it is a Greek 
 manuscript; a very fine piece of antiquity. I make 
 no doubt but it was stolen from the same clergyman 
 from whom the rogue took the cassock." "What 
 did the rascal mean by his ^Eschylus?" says the 
 justice. " Pooh ! " answered the doctor, with a con- 
 temptuous griu, "do you think that fellow knows 
 anything of this book ? ^Eschylus ! ho ! ho ! I see 
 now what it is — a manuscript of one of the fathers. 
 I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of 
 money for such a piece of antiquity. Aye, aje, ques- 
 tion and answer. The beginning is the catechism in 
 Greek. Aye, aye, Pollaki tot : What's your name ? " 
 
 " Aye, what "s your name ? " says the justice to 
 
 Adams ; who answered, " It is /Eschylus, and I vill 
 
 maintaio it." — " Oh ! it is," .says the justice : 
 
 [«15j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 " make Mr. ^Eschylus his mittimus. I will teach 
 you to banter me with a false name.*^ 
 
 One of the company, having looked steadfastly at 
 Adams, asked him, "If he did not know Lady 
 Booby ? " Upon which Adams, presently calling 
 him to mind, answered in a rapture, " O squire ! are 
 you there ? I believe you will inform his worship I 
 am innocent.*" — " I can indeed say," replied the squire, 
 "that I am very much surprized to see you in this 
 situation:" and then, addressing himself to the 
 justice, he said, " Sir, I assure you Mr. Adams is a 
 clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very 
 good character. I wish you would enquire a little 
 farther into this affair ; for I am convinced of his 
 innocence." — " Nay," says the justice, " if he is a 
 gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don't 
 desire to commit him, not I: I will commit the 
 woman by herself, and take your bail for the gentle- 
 man : look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to 
 take bail — come — and make the mittimus for the 
 woman as fast as you can.'" — " Sir," cries Adams, 
 *' I assure you she is as innocent as myself.'' — 
 "Perhaps," said the squire, "there may be some 
 mistake ! pray let us hear Mr. Adams's relation." — 
 "With all my heart," answered the justice; "and 
 give the gentleman a glass to wet his whistle before 
 he begins. I know how to behave myself to gen- 
 tlemen as well as another. Nobody can say I have 
 [«16J
 
 THE DISMISSAL 
 
 committed a gentleman since I have been in the com- 
 mission."" Adams then began the narrative, in which, 
 though he was very proHx, he was uninterrupted 
 unless by several hums and hahs of the justice, and 
 his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to him 
 most material. When he had finished, the justice, 
 who, on what the squire had said, believed every 
 syllable of his story on his bare affirmation, notwith- 
 standing the depositions on oath to the contrary, 
 began to let loose several rogues and rascals against 
 the witness, whom he ordered to stand forth, but in 
 vain; the said witness, long since finding what turn 
 matters were likely to take, had privily withdrawn 
 without attending the issue. The justice now flew 
 into a violent passion, and was hardly prevailed with 
 not to commit the innocent fellows who had been im- 
 posed on as well as himself. He swore, " They had 
 best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, 
 and bring him before him within two days, or he 
 would bind them all over to their good behavioui.'^ 
 They all promised to use their best endeavours to 
 that purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice 
 insisted that Mr. Adams should sit down and take 
 a glass with him ; and the parson of the parish 
 delivered him back the manuscript without saying a 
 word ; nor would Adams, who plainly discerned his 
 ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she was, at her 
 own request, recommended to the care of a maid- 
 [217 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 servant of the house, who helped her to new dre»s 
 and clean herself. 
 
 The company in the parlour had not been long 
 seated before they were alarmed with a honible 
 uproar from without, where the persons who had 
 apprehended Adams and Fanny had been legaling, 
 according to the custom of the house, ^ith the 
 justice's strong beer. These were all fallen together 
 by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any 
 mercy. The justice himself sallied out, and with the 
 dignity of his presence soon put an end to the fray. 
 On his return into the parlour, he reported, " That 
 the occasion > f the quarrel was no other tlian a dis- 
 pute to whom, if Adams had been convicted, the 
 greater share of the reward for apprehending him 
 had belonged." All the company laughed at this, 
 except Adams, who, taking his pipe from his 
 mouth, fetched a deep groan, and said, " He was 
 concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. That 
 he remembered a story something like it in one of 
 the parishes where his cure lay : — There was,^ con- 
 tinued he, " a competition between three young fel- 
 lows for the place of the clerk, which I disposed of, 
 to the best of my abilities, according to merit ; that 
 is, I gave it to him who had the happiest knack at 
 setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner established 
 in his place than a contention began between the two 
 disappointed candidates concerning their excellence ; 
 [218 J
 
 A DISPUTE 
 
 each contending on whom, had they two been the 
 only competitors, my election would have fallen. 
 This dispute frequently disturbed the congregation, 
 and introduced a discord into the psalmody, till I was 
 forced to silence them both. But, alas ! the litigious 
 spirit could not be stifled ; and, being no longer able 
 to vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fight- 
 ing. It produced many battles (for they were very 
 near a match), and I believe would have ended fatally, 
 had not the death of the clerii given me an oppor- 
 tunity to promote one of them to his place ; which 
 presently put an end to the dispute, and entirely 
 reconciled the contending parties." Adams then pro- 
 ceeded to make some philosophical observations on the 
 folly (if growing warm in disputes in which neither 
 party is interested. He then applied himself vigor- 
 ously to smoaking •, and a long silence ensued, which 
 was at length broke by the justice, who began to 
 sing forth his own praises, and to value himself 
 exceedingly on his nice discernment in the cause 
 which had lately been before him. He was quickly 
 interrupted by Mr. Adams, between whom and his 
 worship a dispute now^ arose, whether he ought not, 
 in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said 
 Adams ; in which the latter maintained he ought to 
 have been committed, and the justice as vehemently 
 held he ought not. This had most probably pro- 
 duced a quarrel (for both were very violent and 
 [219]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 positive in their opinions), had not Fanny accident- 
 ally heard that a young fellow was going from the 
 justice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach 
 in which Joseph was, put up. Upon this news, she 
 immediately sent for the parson out of the parlour. 
 Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though 
 she would not own the reason, but pretended she 
 could not bear to see the faces of those who had 
 suspected her of such a crime), was as fully deter- 
 mined to go with her ; he accordingly took leave of 
 the justice and company : and so ended a dispute in 
 which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a 
 magistrate and a divine together by the ears. 
 
 [220]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 A VERY DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE, AS WELL TO THH 
 PERSONS CONCERNED AS TO THE GOOD-NATURED 
 READER. 
 
 jA DAMS, Fanny, and the guide, set out to- 
 /^L gether about one in the moniing, the 
 
 / ^ moon being then just risen. They had 
 ^^ ^^ not gone above a mile before a most 
 violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in 
 an inn, or rather alehouse, where Adams immediately 
 procured himself a good fire, a toast and ale, and a 
 pipe, and began to smoak with great content, utterly 
 forgetting everything that had happened. 
 
 Fanny sat likewise down by the fire ; but was much 
 more impatient at the storm. She presently engaged 
 the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of the house, 
 and the young fellow who was their guide ; they all 
 conceived they had never seen anything half so hand- 
 some ; and indeed, reader, if thou art of an amorous 
 hue, I advise thee to skip over the next paragraph ; 
 which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged 
 to set down, humbly hoping that we may escape the 
 £aite of Pygmalion ; for if it should happen to us, or 
 [221]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 to thee, to be struck with this picture, we should be 
 perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and 
 might say to ourselves, Quod petis ed nusquam. Or, 
 
 if the finest features in it should set Lady 's 
 
 image before our eyes, we should be still in as bad a 
 situation, and might say to our desires, Coelum iptitm 
 petimiis stultit'm. 
 
 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 Ijui-sting through her tight stays, 
 especially in the part which confined her swelling 
 breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a 
 hoop to extend them. The exact shape of her arms 
 denoted the form of those limbs which she concealed ; 
 and though they were a little reddened by her labour, 
 yet, if her sleeve slipped above her elbow, or her 
 handkerchief discovered any part of lier neck, a white- 
 ness appeared which the finest Italian paint would be 
 unable to reach. Her hair was of a chesnut brown, 
 and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, 
 which she had cut, and on Sundays used to curl down 
 her neck, in the modern fashion. Her forehead was 
 high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than other- 
 wise. Her eyes black and sparkling ; her nose just 
 inclining to the Roman ; her lips red and moist, and 
 [822]
 
 THE SONG 
 
 her under-lip, according to the opinion of the ladles, 
 too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly 
 even. The small-pox had left one only mark on her 
 chin, which was so large, it might have been mistaken 
 for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced one so 
 near a neighbour to it, that the former served only 
 for a foil to the latter. Her complexion was fair, a 
 little injured by the sun, but overspread vfith such 
 a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged 
 all their white for it: add to these a countenance in 
 which, though she was extremely bashful, a sensibility 
 appeared almost incredible; and a sweetness, when- 
 ever she smiled beyond either imitation or descrip- 
 tion. To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, 
 superior to the acquisition of art, and which surprized 
 all who beheld her. 
 
 This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with 
 Adams, when her attention was suddenly engaged by 
 a voice from an inner room, which sung the following 
 
 8ong : — 
 
 THE SONG. 
 
 Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray 
 
 Who is by thy beauties undone ? 
 To wash their remembrance away. 
 
 To what distant Lethe must run ? 
 The wretch who is sentenced to die 
 
 May escape, and leave justice behind ; 
 From his country perhaps he may fly. 
 
 But oh ! can he fly from his mind ? 
 
 O rapture ! unthought of betbre, 
 To be thus of Chloe possess'd ; 
 [223]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power. 
 Her image can tear from my breast 
 
 But felt not Narcissus more joy. 
 With his eyes he beheld his loved charms? 
 
 Yet what he beheld the fond boy 
 More eagerly wish'd in his arms. 
 
 How can it thy dear image be 
 
 Which fills thus my bosom wth woe ? 
 Can aught bear resemblance to thee 
 
 Which grief and not joy can bestow ? 
 This coimterfeit snatch from my heart, 
 
 Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave, 
 Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart : 
 
 I then shall find rest in my grave. 
 
 Ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain 
 
 Come smiling and tripping along ! 
 A thousand Loves dance in her train. 
 
 The Graces around her all throng. 
 To meet her soft Zephyrus flies. 
 
 And wafts all the sweets from the flowers, 
 Ah, rogue ! whilst he kisses her eyes, 
 
 More sweets from her breath he devour& 
 
 My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire : 
 
 But her looks were so tender and kind, 
 My hop< almost reach'd my desire, 
 
 And left lame despair far behind- 
 Transported with madness, I flew. 
 
 And eagerly seized on ray bliss ; 
 Her bosom but half she withdrew. 
 
 But half she refused my fond kiss. 
 
 Advances like theso made me bold ; 
 
 I whisper 'd her — Love, we 're alona — 
 The rest let immortal unfold ; 
 
 No language can tc" but their own. 
 Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried. 
 
 How long X thy crueltj' bore ! 
 Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied. 
 
 You ne'er was so pressing before. 
 
 [224]
 
 A JOYFUL MEETING 
 
 Adams had been ruminating all this time on a 
 passage in JEschylus, without attending in the least 
 to the voice, though one of the most melodious that 
 ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on Fanny, he 
 cried out, " Bless us, you look extremely pale ! " — 
 " Pale ! Mr. Adams," says she ; " O Jesus ! " and fell 
 backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung 
 his ^schylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the 
 people of the house for help. He soon summoned 
 every one into the room, and the songster among the 
 rest ; but, O reader ! when this nightingale, who was 
 no other than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his be- 
 loved Fanny in the situation we have described her, 
 canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind ? If 
 thou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his 
 happiness, when, clasping her in his arms, he found 
 life and blood returning into her cheeks : when he saw 
 her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the 
 softest accent whisper, " Are you Joseph Andi-ews ? " 
 — " Art thou my Fanny ? " he answered eagerly : 
 and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted number- 
 less kisses on her lips, without considering who were 
 present. 
 
 If prudes are offended at the lusciousuess of this 
 picture, they may take their eyes off from it, and 
 survey parson Adams dancing about the room in a 
 rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps 
 doul)t whether he was not the happiest of the three : 
 [225] 
 
 Vol. 1 9
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 for the goodness of his heart enjoyed the blessings 
 which were exulting in the breasts of both the other 
 two, together with his own. But we shall leave such 
 disquisitions, as too deep for us, to those who are 
 building some favourite hypothesis, which they will 
 refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support : 
 for our part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, 
 whose happiness was not only greater than the par- 
 son's, but of longer duration : for as soon as the first 
 tumults of Adams"'s rapture were over he cast his 
 eyes towards the fire, where ^schylus lay expiring ; 
 and immediately rescued the poor remains, to wit, 
 the sheepskin covering, of his dear friend, which was 
 the work of his own hands, and had been his insepa- 
 rable companion for upwards of thirty yeai's. 
 
 Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself 
 than she began to restrain the impetuosity of her 
 transports ; and, reflecting on A\hat she had done and 
 suffered in the presence of so many, she was imme- 
 diately covered with confusion ; and, pushing Joseph 
 gently from her, she begged him to be quiet, nor 
 would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer. 
 Then, seeing Mrs. Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered 
 to advance to her ; but that high woman would not 
 return her curtsies ; but, casting her eyes another way, 
 immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, 
 as she went, she wondered who the creature was. 
 
 [226]
 
 y 
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 A DISSERTATION CONCERNING HIGH PEOPLE AND LOW 
 PEOPLE, WITH MRS. SLIPSLOP's DEPARTURE IN KO 
 VERY GOOD TEMPER OF MIND, AND THE EVIL 
 PLIGHT IN WHICH SHE LEFT ADAMS AND HIS 
 COMPANY. 
 
 IT will doubtless seem extremely odd to many 
 readers, that Mrs. Slipslop, who had lived 
 several years in the same house with Fanny, 
 should, in a short separation, utterly forget 
 her. And indeed the truth is, that she remembered 
 her very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, 
 that anything should appear unnatural in this oiu- 
 history, we will endeavour to explain the reasons of 
 her conduct ; nor do we doubt being able to satisfy 
 the most curious reader that Mrs. Slipslop did not in 
 the least deviate from the cojinmon road in this be- 
 haviour; and, indeed, had she done otherwise, she 
 must have descended below herself, and would have 
 very justly been liable to censure. 
 
 Be it known then, that the human speciesare divided 
 into two sorts of people, to wit, high people and low 
 people. As by high people I would not be under- 
 [227j
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 stood to mean persons literally born higher in their 
 dimensions than the rest of the species, nor meta- 
 phorically those of exalted characters or abilities ; 
 so by low people I cannot be construed to intend the 
 reverse. High people signify no other than people 
 of fashion, and low people those of no fashion. Now, 
 this word fashion hath by long use lost its original 
 meaning, from which at present it gives Us a very 
 different idea ; for I am deceived if by persons of 
 fashion we do not generally include a conception of 
 birth and accomplishments superior to the herd 
 of manlcind ; whereas, in reality, nothing more was 
 originally meant by a person of fashion than a person 
 who drest himself in the fashion of the times ; and 
 the word really and truly signifies no more at this 
 day. Now, the world being thus divided into people 
 of fashion and people of no fashion, a fierce conten- 
 tion arose between them ; nor would those of one 
 party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publickly to speak 
 to those of the other, though they often held a very 
 good correspondence in private. In this contention 
 it is difficult to say which party succeeded ; for, whilst 
 the people of fashion seized several places to their 
 own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas, balls, 
 &c., the people of no fashion, besides one royal place, 
 called his Majesty''s Bear-garden, have been in con- 
 stant possession of all hops, fairs, revels, &c. Two 
 places have been agreed to be divided between them, 
 [228]
 
 HIGH AND LOW PEOPLE 
 
 namely, the church and the playhouse, where they 
 segregate themselves from each other in a remarkable 
 manner; for, as the people of fashion exalt them- 
 selves at church over the heads of the people of no 
 fashion, so in the playhouse they abase themselves in 
 the same degree under their feet. This distinction 
 I have never met with any one able to account for : 
 it is sufficient that, so far from looking on each other 
 as brethren in the Christian language, they seem 
 scarce to regard each other as of the same species. 
 This, the terms " strange persons, people one does 
 not know, the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes," 
 and many other appellations evidently demonstrate ; 
 which Mrs. Slipslop, having often heard her mistress 
 use, thought she had also a right to use in her turn ; 
 and perhaps she was not mistaken ; for these two 
 parties, especially those bordering nearly on each 
 other, to wit, the lowest of the high, and the highest 
 of the low, often change their parties according to 
 place and time ; for those who are people of fashion 
 in one place are often people of no fashion in another. 
 And with regard to time, it may not be unpleasant 
 to survey the picture of dependance like a kind of 
 ladder ; as, for instance ; early in the morning aiises 
 the postillion, or some other boy, which great 
 families, no more than great ships, are without, and 
 falls to brushing the clothes and cleaning the shoes 
 of John the footman ; who, being drest himself, 
 [229 J
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 applies his hands to the same labours for Mr. Second- 
 hand, the squire's gentleman ; the gentleman in the 
 like manner, a little later in the day, attends the 
 squire ; the squire is no sooner equipped than he 
 attends the levee of my lord ; which is no sooner over 
 than my lord himself is seen at the levee of the 
 favourite, who, after the hour of homage is at an 
 end, appears himself to pay homage to the levee of 
 his sovereign. Nor is there, perhaps, in this whole 
 ladder of dependance, any one step at a greater 
 distance from the other than the first from the 
 second ; so that to a philosopher the question might 
 only seem, whether you would chuse to be a great 
 man at six in the morning, or at two in the after- 
 noon. And yet there are scarce two of these who 
 do not think the least familiarity with the persons 
 below them a condescension, and, if they were to go 
 one step farther, a degradation. 
 
 And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this 
 long digression, which seemed to me necessary to 
 vindicate the great character of Mrs. Slipslop from 
 what low people, who have never seen high people, 
 might think an absurdity ; but we who know them 
 must have daily found very high persons know us in 
 one place and not in another, to-day and not to- 
 morrow ; all which it is difficult to account for other- 
 wise than I have here endeavoured ; and perhaps, if 
 the gods, according to the opinion of some, made 
 [230]
 
 MRS. SLIPSLOP'S STORY 
 
 men only to laugh at them, there is no part of our 
 behaviour which answers the end of our creation 
 better than this. 
 
 But to return to our history : Adams, who knew no 
 more of this than the cat which sat on the table, imag- 
 ining Mrs. Slipslop's memory had been much worse 
 than it really was, followed her into the next room, 
 crying out, " Madam Slipslop, here is one of your 
 old acquaintance ; do but see what a fine woman she 
 is grown since she left Lady Booby's service."" — "I 
 think I reflect something of her,"" answered she, with 
 great dignity, " but I can't remember all the inferior 
 servants in our family."" She then proceeded to 
 satisfy Adams's curiosity, by telling him, "When she 
 arrived at the inn, she found a chaise ready for her ; 
 that, her lady being expected very shortly in the 
 country, she was obliged to make the utmost haste ; 
 and, in commensuration of Joseph's lameness, she 
 had taken him with her;" and lastly, "that the 
 excessive virulence of the storm had driven them into 
 the house where he found them." After which, she 
 acquainted Adams with his having left his horse, and 
 exprest some wonder at his having strayed so far 
 out of his way, and at meeting him, as she said, "in 
 the company of that wench, who she feared was no 
 better than she should be." 
 
 The horse was no sooner put into Adams's head but 
 he was immediately driven out by this reflection on 
 [231 ]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 the character of Fanny. He protested, " He be- 
 lieved there was not a chaster damsel in the universe. 
 I heartily wish, I heartily wish,"" cried he (snapping 
 his fingers), "that all her betters were as good." 
 He then proceeded to inform her of the accident of 
 their meeting; but when he came to mention the 
 circumstance of delivering her from the rape, she 
 said, " She thought him properer for the army than 
 the clergy ; that it did not become a clergyman 
 to lay violent hands on any one; that he should 
 have rather prayed that she might be strength- 
 ened." Adams said, " He was very far from being 
 ashamed of what he had done : " she replied, " Want 
 of shame was not the currycuristic of a clergyman." 
 This dialogue might have probably grown warmer, 
 had not Joseph opportunely entered the room, to 
 ask leave of Madam Slipslop to introduce Fanny : 
 but she positively refused to admit any such trol- 
 lops, and told him, "She would have been burnt 
 before she would have suffered him to get into a 
 chaise with her, if she had once respected him of 
 having his sluts w aylaid on the road for him ; " add- 
 ing, " that Mr. Adams acted a very pretty part, and 
 she did not doubt but to see him a bishop." He 
 made the best bow he could, and cried out, " I thank 
 you, madam, for that right-reverend appellation, 
 which I shall take all honest means to deserve." — 
 " Very honest means," returned she, with a sneer, 
 [ 232 }
 
 MRS. SLIPSLOP ENRAGED 
 
 ** to bring people together."" At these words Adcams 
 took two or three strides across the room, when the 
 coachman came to inform Mrs. Shpslop, "That the 
 storm was ovei', and the moon shone very bright." 
 She then sent for Joseph, who was sitting without 
 with his Fanny, and would have had him gone with 
 her; but he peremptorily refused to leave Fanny 
 behind, which threw the good woman into a violent 
 rage. She said, " She would inform her lady what 
 doings were carrying on, and did not doubt but she 
 would rid the parisli of all such people ; "" and con- 
 cluded a long speech, full of bitterness and very hard 
 words, with some reflections on the clergy not decent 
 to repeat; at la,t, finding Joseph immoveable, 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 Fauny : she 
 had, from her first seeing Joseph at the inn, con- 
 ceived hopes of something which might have been 
 accomplished at an alehouse as well as a palace. 
 Indeed, it is probable Mr. Adams had rescued 
 more than Fanny from the danger of a rape that 
 evening. 
 
 When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slip- 
 slop, Adams, Joseph, and Fanny assembled over the 
 fire, where they had a great deal of innocent chat, 
 pretty enough ; but, as possibly it would not be 
 [233]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 very entertaining to the reader, we shall hasten to 
 the morning ; only observing that none of them went 
 to bed that night. Adams, when he had smoaked 
 three pipes, took a comfortable nap in a great chair, 
 and left the lovers, whose eyes were too well em- 
 ployed to permit any desire of shutting them, to 
 enjoy by themselves, during some hours, an happiness 
 which none of my readers who have never been in 
 love are capable of the least conception of, though 
 we had as many tongues as Homer desired, to describe 
 it with, and which all true lovers will rcprevsent 
 to their own minds without the least assistance 
 fi'om us. 
 
 Let it suffice then to say, that Fanny, after a 
 thousand entreaties, at last gave up her whole soul 
 to Joseph ; and, almost fainting in his arms, with 
 a sigh infinitely softer and sweeter too than any 
 Arabian breeze, she whispered to his lips, which were 
 then close to hers, " O Joseph, you have won me : 
 I will be yours for ever." Joseph, having thanked 
 her on his knees, and embraced her with an eagerness 
 which she now almost returned, leapt up in a rapture, 
 and awakened the parson, earnestly begging him 
 "that he would that instant join their hands to- 
 gether." Adams rebuked him for his request, and 
 told him " He would by no means consent to anything 
 contrary to the forms of the Church ; that he had no 
 licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one ; 
 [234 j
 
 AN EVIL PLIGHT 
 
 that the Church had prescribed a form — namely, the 
 publication of baiuis — with wliich all good Christians 
 ought to comply, and to the omission of which he 
 attributed the many miseries which befell great folks 
 in marriage ; "" concluding, " As many as arc joined 
 together otherwise than G — 's word doth allow are 
 not joined together by G — , neither is their matri- 
 mony lawful." Fanny agreed with the parson, saying 
 to Joseph, with a blush, " She assured him she would 
 not consent to any such thing, and that she wondered 
 at his offering it." In which resolution she was 
 comforted and commended by Adams ; and Joseph 
 was obliged to wait patiently till after the third 
 publication of the banns, which, however, he obtained 
 the consent of Fanny, in the presence of Adams, to 
 put in at their arrival. 
 
 The sun had been now risen some hours, when 
 Joseph, finding his leg surprizingly recovered, pro- 
 posed to walk forwards ; but when they were all 
 ready to set out, an accident a little retarded them. 
 This was no other than the reckoning, which 
 amounted to seven shillings ; no great sum if we 
 consider the immense quantity of ale which Mr. 
 Adams poured in. Indeed, they had no objection to 
 the reasonableness of the bill, but many to the prob- 
 ability of paying it ; for the fellow who had taken 
 poor Fanny's purse had unluckily forgot to return it. 
 So that the account stood thus : — 
 [235]
 
 JOSEPH ANDREWS 
 
 Mr. Adams and company; Dr. 
 In Mr. Adams's pocket 
 In Mr. Joseph's ... 
 In Mrs. Fanny's . . . 
 Balance . 
 
 £ I. d. 
 
 7*0 
 6i J 
 
 
 6 Si- 
 
 They stood silent some few minutes, staring at each 
 other, when Adams whipt out on his toes, and asked 
 the hostess, " If there was no clergyman in that 
 parish .'* " She answered, " There was." — " Is he 
 wealthy .'* " replied he ; to which she likewise answered 
 in the affirmative. Adams then snapping his fingers 
 returned oveijoyed to his companions, crying out, 
 "Heureka, Heureka;" which not being understood, 
 he told them in plain English, " They need give 
 themselves no trouble, for he had a brother in the 
 parish who would defray the reckoning, and that he 
 would just step to his house and fetch the money, 
 and return to them instantly." 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 / 
 
 [236]
 
 
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