CHAP. I.

Of writing lives in general, and particularly of Pamela; with a word by the bye of Colley Cibber and others.

IT is a trite but true obſervation, that examples work more forcibly on the mind than precepts: and if this be juſt in what is odious and blameable, it is more ſtrongly ſo in what is amiable and praiſe-worthy. Here emulation moſt effectually operates upon us, and inſpires our imitation in an irreſiſtable manner. A good man therefore 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 gre •• 〈◊〉 ; the writer may be called in aid to ſpread their hiſtory farther, 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 ſervice to mankind, than the perſon whoſe life originally afforded the pattern.

In this light I have always regarded thoſe biographers, who have recorded the actions of great an • worthy perſons of both ſexes. Not to mention theſe •• cient writers which of late days are little 〈◊〉 being written in abſolete, 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 are 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 mention two books lately publiſhed, which repreſent an admirable pattern of the amiable in either ſex. The former of theſe which deals in male-virtue, was written by the great perſon himſelf, who lived the life he hath recorded, and is by many thought to have lived ſuch a life only in order to write it. The other, communicated to us by an hiſtorian who borrows his lights, as the common method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, I believe, already conjectures I mean the lives of Mr. Colley Cibber, and of Mrs. Pamela Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by inſinuating that he eſcaped being promoted to the higheſt ſtations in church and ſtate, teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur! how ſtrongly doth he inculcate an abſolute ſubmiſſion to our ſuperiors! Laſtly, how completely doth he arm us againſt ſo uneaſy, ſo wretched a paſſion as the fear of ſhame! how clearly doth he expoſe the emptineſs and vanity of that phantom, reputation!

What the female readers are taught by the memoirs of Mrs. Andrews, is ſo well ſet forth in the excellent eſſays or letters prefixed to the 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 excellent pattern of his ſiſter's virtues before his eyes, that Mr. Joſeph Andrews was chiefly enabled to preſerve his purity in the midſt of ſuch great temptations. I ſhall only add, that this character of male-chaſtity, though 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.

CHAP. II.

Of Mr. Joſeph Andrews, his birth, parentage, education, 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 Gaffer and Gammer Andrews, and brother to the illuſtrious Pamela, whoſe virtue is at preſent ſo famous. As to his anceſtors, we have ſearched with great diligence, but little ſucceſs; being unable to trace them farther than his great-grandfather, who, as an elderly perſon in the pariſh remembers to have heard his father ſay, was an excellent cudgel-player. Whether he had any anceſtors before this, we muſt leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding nothing of ſufficient certainty to rely on. However, we cannot omit inſerting an epitaph which an ingenious friend of ours hath communicated. Stay, traveller, for underneath this pew Lies faſt aſleep that merry man Andrew; When the laſt day's great ſun ſhall gild the ſkies, Then he ſhall from his tomb get up and riſe. Be merry while thou can'ſt: for ſurely thou Shall ſhortly be as ſad as he is now. The words are almoſt out of the ſtone with antiquity. But it is needleſs to obſerve that Andrew here is writ without an s and is, beſides, a Chriſtian name. My friend moreover conjectures this to have been the founder of that ſect of laughing philoſophers, ſince called Merry Andrews.

To wave 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 hundred years backwards, might be related to ſome perſons of very great figure at preſent, whoſe anceſtors within half the laſt century are buried in as great obſcurity. But ſuppoſe, for argument's ſake, we ſhould admit that he had no anceſtors at all, but had ſprung up, according to the modern phraſe, out of a dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they themſelves did from the earth, would not this In Engliſh ſprung from a dunghill. 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 rendered 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) 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 an eſtate in his own hands, the young Andrew • 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 tranſplanted from the fields into the dog-kennel, where he was placed under the huntſman, and made what 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 provide 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 his ſtrength and agility, beyond his years, and conſtantly rode the moſt ſpirited and vicious horſes to water, with an intrepidity which ſurprized 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 gentlemen frequently ſolici •• d the knight to permit little Joey (for ſo he was called) to ride their matches. The beſt gameſters, before they laid their money, always enquired 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 character, and ſo pleaſed the lady Booby, that ſhe deſired to have him (being now ſeventeen years of age) for her own foot-boy. Joey was now preferred from the ſtable to attend on his lady, to go on her errands, ſtand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry her prayer-book to church; at which place his voice gave him an opportunity of diſtinguiſhing himſelf by ſinging pſalms: he behaved likewiſe in every other reſpect ſo well at divine ſervice, that it recommended him, to the notice of Mr. Abraham Adams the curate, who took an opportunity one day, as he was drinking a cup of ale in Sir Thomas's kitchen, to aſk the young man ſeveral queſtions concerning religion; with his anſwers to which he was wonderfully pleaſed.

CHAP. III.

Of Mr. Abraham, Adams the curate, Mrs. Slipſlop the chambermaid, and others.

MR. Abraham Adams was an excellent ſcholar. He was a perfect maſter of the Greek and Latin languages; to which he added a great ſhare of knowledge in the Oriental tongues, and could read and tranſlate French, Italian, and Spaniſh. He had applied many years to the moſt ſevere ſtudy, and had treaſured up a fund of learning, rarely to be met with in a 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 Cibber, apprehend any ſuch paſſions as malice and envy to exiſt in mankind, which was indeed leſs remarkable in a country parſon, than in a gentleman who hath paſt his life behind the ſcenes a place which hath been ſeldom thought the ſchool of innocence; and where a very little obſervation would have convinced the great apologiſt, that thoſe paſſions have a real exiſtence in the human mind.

His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered him equal to his office; ſo they made him an agreeable and valuable companion, and had ſo much endeared and well recommended him to a biſhop, that at the age of fifty, he was provided with a handſome income of twenty three pounds a year: which, however, he could not make any great figure with; becauſe he lived in a dear county, and was a little incumbered with a wife and ſix children.

It was this gentleman, who having, as I have ſaid, obſerved the ſingular devotion of young Andrews, had found means to queſtion him concerning ſeveral particulars; as how many books there were in the New Teſtament? which were they? how many chapters 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 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 church-warden in a boroughtown, yet had been himſelf at the expence of ſixpence a week for his learning. He told hi • 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 book which lay open in the hall-window, where he had read, as how the devil carried away half a church in ſermon-time, without hurting one of the congregation; and as how a field of corn ran away down a ſteep 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 ſtate to which he was called, that he ſhould endeavour to improve his talent, which was all required of him, but not to repine at his own lot, nor envy thoſe of his betters. Well ſaid, my lad, replied the curate, and I wiſh ſome who have read many more good books, nay, and ſome who have written good books themſelves, had profited ſo much by them.

Adams had no nearer acceſs to Sir Thomas or my lady, than through the waiting gentlewoman; for Sir Thomas was too apt to eſtimate men merely by their dreſs, or fortune; and my lady was a woman of gaiety, who had been bleſs'd 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 domeſtick only, belonging to the parſon of the pariſh, who was at this time at variance with the knight; for the parſon had for many years lived in a conſtant ſtate of civil war, or, which is perhaps, as bad, of civil law, with Sir Thomas himſelf and the tenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel was a modus, by ſetting which aſide, an advantage of ſeveral ſhillings per annum would have accrued to the rector: but he had not yet been able to accompliſh his purpoſe; and had reaped hitherto nothing better from the ſuits than the pleaſure (which he uſed indeed frequently to ſay was no ſmall one) of reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the poor tenants, though he had at the ſame time greatly impoveriſhed himſelf.

Mrs. Slipſlop the waiting-gentlewoman, being herſelf the daughter of a curate, preſerved ſome reſpect, for Adams; ſhe profeſſed great regard for his learning, and would frequently diſpute with him on points of theology: but always inſiſted on a deference to be paid to her underſtanding, as ſhe had been frequently at London, and knew more of the world than a country parſon could pretend to.

She had in theſe diſputes a particular advantage over Adams: for ſhe was a mighty affecter of hard words, which ſhe uſed in ſuch a manner, that the parſon, who durſt not offend her by calling her words in queſtion, was frequently at ſome loſs to gueſs her meaning, and would have been much leſs puzzled by an Arabian manuſcript.

Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after a pretty long diſcourſe with her on the eſſence, (or, as ſhe pleaſed to term it, the incence) of matter, to mention the caſe of young Andrews; deſiring her to recommend him to her lady as a youth very ſuſceptible of learning, and one whoſe inſtruction in Latin he would himſelf undertake; by which means he might be qualified for a higher ſtation than that of a footman; and added, ſhe knew it was in his maſter's power eaſily to provide for him in a better manner. He therefore deſired, that the boy might be left behind, under his care.

"La, Mr. Adams," ſaid Mrs. Slipſlop, do you, think my lady will ſuffer any preamble 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 the one as the other. Adams would have interrupted but ſhe proceeded: And why is Latin more neceſſitous for a footman than a gentleman? It is very proper that you clergymen muſt learn it, becauſe you can't preach without it: but I have heard gentlemen ſay in London, that it is fit for nobody elſe. I am confidous my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it; and I ſhall draw myſelf into no ſuch delemy. At which words her lady's bell rung, and Mr. Adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a ſecond opportunity with her before their London journey, which happened a few days afterwards. However, Andrews behaved very thankfully and gratefully to him for his intended kindneſs, which he told him he never would forget, and at the ſame time received from the good man many admonitions, concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and his perſeverance in innocence and induſtry.

CHAP. IV.

What happened after their journey to London.

NO ſooner was young Andrews arrived at London, than he began to ſcrape an acquaintance with his party-coloured brethren who endeavoured to make him deſpiſe his former courſe of life. His hair was cut after the neweſt faſhion, and became his chief care: he went abroad with it all the morning in papers, and dreſſed it out in the afternoon. They could not, however, teach him to game, ſwear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the town abounded with. He applied moſt of his leiſure hours to muſic, in which he greatly improved himſelf; and became ſo perfect a connoiſſeur in that art, that he led the opinion of all the other footmen at an opera, and they never condemned or applauded a ſingle ſong contrary to his approbation, or diſlike. He was a little too forward in riots at the play-houſes and aſſemblies: and when he attended his lady at church (which was but ſeldom) he behaved with leſs ſeeming devotion than formerly: however, if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals remained entirely uncorrupted, though he was at the ſame time ſmarter 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 contrary, ſhe was frequently heard to cry out, Ay, there is ſome life in this fellow. She plainly ſaw the effects which the town-air hath on the ſobereſt conſtitutions. She would now walk out with him into Hyde-Park in a morning, and when tired, which happened almoſt every minute, would lean on his arm, and converſe with him in great familiarity. Whenever ſhe ſt • pt out of her coach, ſhe would take him by the hand, and ſometimes, for fear of ſtumbling, preſs it very hard; ſhe admitted him to deliver meſſages at her bed-ſide in a morning, leer'd at him at table, and indulged him in all thoſe innocent freedoms which women of figure may permit without the leaſt fully of their virtue.

But though their virtue remains unſullied, yet, now and then ſome ſmall arrows will glance on the ſhadow of it, their reputation; and ſo it fell out to lady Booby, who happened to be walking arm-in-arm with Joey one morning in Hyde-Park, when lady Tittle and lady Tattle, came accidentally by in their coach. Bleſs me, ſays lady Tittle, can I believe my eyes? Is that lady Booby? Surely, ſays Tattle. But what makes you ſurprized? Why, is not that her footman, replied Tittle? At which Tittle laughed and cried, An old buſineſs, I aſſure you, is it poſſible you ſhould not have heard it? The whole town hath known it this half year. The conſequence of this interview was a whiſper through a hundred viſits, which were ſeparately performed by the two ladies It may ſeen an abſurdity that Tattle ſhould viſit as ſhe actually did, to ſpread a known ſcandal: but the reader may reconcile this, by ſuppoſing with me, that notwithſtanding what ſhe ſays, this was her firſt acquaintance with it. the ſame afternoon, and might have had a miſchievous effect, had it not been ſtopt by two freſh reputations which were publiſhed the day afterwards, and engroſſed the whole talk of the town.

But whatever opinion or ſuſpicion the ſcandalous inclination of defamers might entertain of lady Booby's innocent freedoms, it is certain they made no impreſſion on young Andrews, who never offered to encroach beyond the liberties which his lady allowed him. A behaviour which ſhe imputed to the violent reſpect he preſerved for her, and which ſerved only to heighten a ſomething ſhe began to conceive, and which the next chapter will open a little farther.

CHAP. V.

The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and mournful behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of Joſeph Andrews.

AT this time, an accident happened, which put a ſtop to thoſe agreeable walks, which probably would have ſoon puffed up the che • ks of ſame, and cauſed her to blow her brazen trumpet through the town; and this was no other than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who departing this life, left his diſconſolate lady confined to her houſe, as cloſely as if ſhe herſelf had been attacked by ſome violent diſeaſe. During the firſt ſix days the poor lady admitted none but Mrs. Slipſlop, and three female friends, who made a party at cards: but on the ſeventh ſhe ordered Joey, whom, for a good reaſon, we ſhall hereafter call JOSEPH, to bring up her tea-kettle. The lady being in bed, called Joſeph to her, bade him ſit down, and having accidentally laid her hand on his, ſhe aſked him, if he had ever been in love? Joſeph anſwered 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. 'O then,' ſaid the lady, you are a general lover. Indeed, you handſome fellows, like handſome women, are very long and difficult in fixing: but yet you ſhall never perſuade me that your heart is ſo inſuſceptible of affection; I rather impute what you ſay to your ſecrecy, a very commendable 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 your handſome young fellows generally have, who make no ſcruple of ſacrificing our dear reputation to your pride, without conſidering the great obligation we lay on you, by our condeſcenſion and confidence? Can you keep a ſecret, my Joey? "Madam, 'ſays he, I hope your ladyſhip can't tax me with ever betraying the ſecrets of the family; and I hope, if you was to turn me away, I might have that character of you. I don't intend to turn you away, Joey, ſaid ſhe, and ſighed, I am 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 miſunderſtand me, ſays ſhe; I mean, if they were againſt my honour, they may not be wicked; but the world calls them ſo. But, then, ſay you, the world will never know any thing of the matter; yet would not that be truſting to your ſecrecy? Muſt not my reputation be then in your power? Would you not then be my maſter? Joſeph begged her ladyſhip to be comforted; for that he would never imagine the leaſt wicked thing againſt her, and that he had rather die a thouſand deaths than give her any reaſon to ſuſpect him. 'Yes,' ſaid ſhe, I muſt have reaſon to ſuſpect you. Are you not a man? and without vanity I may pretend to ſome charms. But perhaps you may fear I ſhould proſecute you; indeed I hope you do; and yet heaven knows I ſhould never have the confidence to appear before a court of juſtice; and you know, Joey, I am of a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don't you think I ſhould forgive you? 'Indeed, Madam,' ſays Joſeph, I will never do any thing to diſoblige your ladyſhip. 'How,' ſays ſhe, do you think it would not diſoblige me then? Do you think I would willingly ſuffer you? I don't underſtand you, Madam, ſays Joſeph. 'Don't you?' ſaid ſhe, then you either are a fool or pretend to be ſo; I find I was miſtaken in you. So get you down ſtairs, 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 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.

CHAP. VI.

How Joſeph Andrews writ a letter to his ſiſter Pamela.

To Mrs. Pamela Andrews, living with ſquire Booby. Dear Siſter,

SINCE I received your 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 quarrelled 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 no body knows what it is to loſe a friend till they have loſt him.

Don't tell any body 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 any body: but ſhe ordered me to ſit down by her bed-ſide, when ſhe was in naked bed; and ſhe held my hand, and talked exactly as a lady does to her ſweet-heart in a ſtage-play, which I have ſeen in Covent-Garden, while ſhe wanted him to be no better than he ſhould be.

If Madam be mad, I ſhall not care for ſtaying long in the family: ſo I heartily wiſh you could get me a place either at the ſquire's, or ſome other 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 enquire for me; ſo I reſt

Your loving brother, JOSEPH ANDREWS.

As ſoon as Joſeph had ſealed and directed this letter he walked down ſtairs, where he met Mrs. Slipſlop, with whom we ſhall take this opportunity to bring the reader a little better acquainted. She was a maiden gentlewoman of about forty-five years of age, who having made a ſmall ſlip in her youth, had continued a good maid ever ſince. She was not at this time remarkably handſome; being very ſhort, and rather too corpulent in body, and ſomewhat red, with the addition of pimples in the face. Her noſe was likewiſe rather too large, and her eyes too little; nor did ſhe reſemble a cow ſo much in her breath, as in two brown globes which ſhe carried before her; one of her legs was alſo a little ſhorter than the other, which occaſioned her to limp as ſhe walked. This fair creature had long caſt the eyes of affection on Joſeph, in which ſhe had not met with quite ſo good ſucceſs as ſhe probably wiſhed, tho', beſides all 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; tho' 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 herſelf in any liberties with a man, without the danger of bringing a third perſon into the world to betray them. She imagined, that by ſo long a ſelf-denial, ſhe had not only made amends for the ſmall ſlip of her youth above hinted at: but had likewiſe laid up a quantity of merit to excuſe any future failings. In a word, ſhe reſolved to give a looſe to her amorous inclinations, and to pay off the debt of pleaſure ſhe found ſhe owed herſelf, as faſt as poſſible.

With theſe charms of perſon, and in this diſpoſition of mind, ſhe encountered poor Joſeph at the bottom of the ſtairs, and aſked him if he would drink a glaſs of ſomething good this morning. Joſeph, whoſe ſpirits were not a little caſt down, very readily and thankfully accepted the offer; and together they went into a cloſet, where having delivered him a full glaſs of ratifia, and deſired him to ſit down, Mrs. Slipſlop thus began:

Sure nothing can be a more ſimple contraſt in a woman, than to place her affections on a boy. If I had ever thought it would have been my fate, I ſhould have wiſhed to die a thouſand deaths rather than live to ſee that day. If we like a man, the lighteſt hint ſophiſticates. Whereas a boy propoſes upon us to break through all the regulations of modeſty, before we can make any oppreſſion upon him. Joſeph, who did not underſtand a word ſhe ſaid, anſwered, 'Yes, Madam;—' 'Yes, Madam,' replied Mrs Slipſlop, with ſome warmth, Do you intend to reſult my paſſion? Is it not enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the favours I have done you: but you muſt treat me with ironing? Barbarous monſter! how have I deſerved that my paſſion ſhould be reſulted and treated with ironing? 'Madam,' anſwered Joſeph, I don't underſtand your hard words: but I am certain, you have no occaſion to call me ungrateful: for ſo far from intending you any wrong, I always loved you as well as if you had been my own mother. 'How, ſirrah!' ſays Mrs. Slipſlop in a rage: Your own mother? Do you aſſinuate that I am old enough to be your mother? I don't know what a ſtrippling may think: but I believe a man would refer me to any greenſickneſs ſilly girl whatſomdever: but I ought to deſpiſe you rather than be angry with you, for referring the converſation 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 compliment to her learning, If you had a value for me, you certainly would have found ſome method of ſhewing it me; for I am convicted you muſt ſee the value I have for you. Yes, Joſeph, my eyes, whether I would or no, muſt have declared a paſſion I cannot conquer.—Oh! Joſeph!

As when a hungry tigreſs, who long has traverſed the woods in fruitleſs ſearch, ſees within the reach of her claws a lamb, ſhe prepares to leap on her prey; or as a voracious pike of immenſe ſize, ſurveys thro' 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 obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer the execution of her purpoſe till ſome other time. We ſhall therefore return to the lady Booby, and give our reader ſome account of her behaviour, after ſhe was left by Joſeph in a temper of mind not greatly different from that of the inflamed Slipſlop.

CHAP. VII.

Sayings of wiſe men. A dialogue between the lady and her maid; and a panegyric, or rather ſatire, on the paſſion of love, in the ſublime ſtile.

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 reſolutions 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.

No ſooner had Joſeph left the room in the manner we had before related, than the lady, enraged at her diſappointment, began to reflect with ſeverity on her conduct. Her love was now changed to diſdain, 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 determined immediately to diſmiſs the object. After much toſſing and turning in her bed, and many ſoliloquies, which, if we had no better matter for our reader, we would give him; ſhe at laſt rung the bell as above-mentioned, and was preſently attended by Mrs. Slipſlop, who was not much better pleaſed with Joſeph than the lady herſelf.

Slipſlop, ſaid lady Booby, when did you ſee Joſeph? the poor woman was ſo ſurprized at the unexpected ſound of his name, at ſo critical a time, that ſhe had the greateſt difficulty to conceal the confuſion ſhe was under, from her miſtreſs; whom ſhe anſwered, nevertheleſs, with pretty good confidence, though not entirely void of fear or 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 wicket one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, ſwears, and fights eternally: beſides, he is horribly indicted to wenching. 'Ay!' ſaid the lady, I never heard that of him. '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 conceive what the wenches ſee in him, to be ſo fooliſhly fond as they are: in my eyes, he is as ugly a ſcarecrow as ever I upheld. 'Nay,' ſaid the lady, 'the boy is well enough.'—La, Ma'm, cries Slipſlop, I think him the ragmaticalleſt fellow in the family. 'Sure, Slipſlop,' ſays ſhe, you are miſtaken: but which of the women do you ſuſpect? 'Madam,' ſays Slipſlop, there is Betty the chambermaid, I am almoſt convicted, is with child by him. 'Ay!' ſays the lady, then pray pay her her wages inſtantly. I will keep no ſuch ſluts in my family. And as for Joſeph, you may diſcard him too. Would your ladyſhip have him paid off immediately? cries Slipſlop, for perhaps, when Betty is gone, he may mend; and really the boy is a good ſervant, and a ſtrong healthy, luſcious boy enough. This morning, anſwered the lady with ſome vehemence. 'I wiſh Madam,' cries Slipſlop, your ladyſhip would be ſo good as to try him a little longer. I will not have my commands diſputed, ſaid the lady; ſure you are not fond of him yourſelf. 'I Madam?' cries Slipſlop, reddening, if not bluſhing. I ſhould be ſorry to think your ladyſhip had any reaſon to reſpect me of fondneſs for a fellow; and if it be your pleaſure, I ſhall fulfil it with as much reluctance as poſſible. As little, I ſuppoſe you mean, ſaid the lady; and ſo about it inſtantly. Mrs. Slipſlop went out, and the lady had ſcarce taken two turns, before ſhe fell to knocking and ringing with great violence. Slipſlop, who did not travel poſt-haſte, ſoon returned, and was countermanded as to Joſeph, but ordered to ſend Betty about her buſineſs without delay. She went out a ſecond time with much greater alacrity than before; when the lady began immediately to accuſe herſelf of want of reſolution, and to apprehend the return of her affection with it's pernicious conſequences: ſhe therefore applied herſelf 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 po •• out of his quiver, and ſhot it directly into her heart: in other and plainer language, the lady's paſſion got the better of her reaſon. She called back Slipſlop once more, and told her, ſhe had reſolved to ſee the boy, and examine him herſelf; therefore bid her ſend him up. This wavering in her miſtreſs's temper probably put ſomething into the waiting-gentlewoman's head, not neceſſary to mention to the ſagacious reader.

Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could not prevail with herſelf. The next conſideration 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 expence, by firſt inſulting, and then diſcarding them.

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 great Rich, who turns men into monkeys, wheelbarrows, and whatever elſe beſt humours his fancy, hath ſo ſtrangely metamorphoſed the human ſhape; nor the great Cibber, who confounds all number, gender, and breaks thro' every rule of grammar at his will, hath ſo diſtorted the Engliſh, language, as thou doſt metamorphoſe and diſtort the human ſenſes.

Thou putteſt out our eyes, ſtoppeſt up our ears, and takeſt away the power of our noſtrils; ſo that we can neither ſee the largeſt object, hear the loudeſt noiſe, nor ſmell the moſt poignant perfume. Again, when thou pleaſeſt, thou canſt make a mole-hill appear as a mountain; a Jew's harp ſound like a trumpet, and a daizy ſmell like a violet. Thou canſt make cowardice, brave, avarice generous, pride humble, and cruelty, tenderhearted. 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.

CHAP. VIII.

In which, after ſome very fine writing, the hiſtory goes on, and relates the interview between the lady and Joſeph; where the latter hath ſet an example, which we deſpair of ſeeing followed by his ſex, in this vicious age.

NOW the rake Heſperus had called for his breeches, and having well rubbed his drowſy eyes, prepared to dreſs himſelf for all night; by whoſe example his brother rakes on earth like wiſe 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 beautiful part of the human ſpecies, called the fair ſex; before we diſcover too much of her frailty to our reader, it will be proper to give him a lively idea of the vaſt temptation, which overcame all the efforts of a modeſt and virtuous mind; 〈◊〉 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 induced, by conſidering the uncommon variety of charms, which united in this young man's perſon, to bridle their rampant paſſion for chaſtity, and be at leaſt as mild as their violent modeſty and virtue will permit them, in cenſuring the conduct of a woman, who, perhaps, was in her own diſpoſition as chaſte as thoſe pure and ſanctified virgins, who, after a life innocently ſpent in the gaieties of the town, begin about fifty to attend twice per diem at the polite churches and chapels, to return thanks for the grace which preſerved them formerly amongſt beaus, from temptations perhaps leſs powerful than what now attack 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 arms 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 wanton ringlets down his back. His forehead was high, his eyes dark, and as full of ſweetneſs as of fire. His noſe a little inclined to the Roman. His tee •• white and • en. His lips full, red, and ſoft. • is 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 buſineſs in quiet; I mean thoſe who are not wicked enough to hearken to your ſolicitations. As to others, they may perhaps not call you rude: for there are wicked ſluts who make one aſhamed of one's own ſex; and are as ready to admit any nauſeous familiarity as fellows to offer it; nay, there are ſuch in my family; but they ſhall not ſtay in it; that impudent trollop, who is with child by you, is diſcharged by this time.

As a perſon who is ſtruck through the heart with a thunderbolt, looks extremely ſurpriſed, nay, and perhaps is ſo too—thus the poor Joſeph received the falſe accuſation of his miſtreſs; he bluſhed and looked confounded, which ſhe 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 compaſſion for your youth, and if I could be certain you would, be no more guilty—Conſider, child, (laying her hand careleſly upon his) you are a handſome young fellow, and might do better; you might make your fortune.—Madam, ſaid Joſeph, I do aſſure your ladyſhip, I don't know whether any maid in the houſe is man or woman. Oh fie! Joſeph anſwered the lady, don't commit another crime in denying the truth. I could pardon the firſt; but I hate a lyar. 'Madam cries Joſeph, I hope your ladyſhip will not be offended at my aſſerting my innocence: for by all that is ſacred, I have never offered more than kiſſing. 'Kiſſing!' ſaid the lady with great diſcompoſure of countenance, and more redneſs in her cheeks, than anger in her eyes, do you call that no crime? kiſſing, Joſeph, is as a prologue to a play. Can I believe a young fellow of your age and complexion will be content with kiſſing? No, Joſeph, there is no woman who grants that, but will grant more; and I am deceived greatly in you, if you would not put her cloſely to it. What would you think, Joſeph, if I admitted you to kiſs me? Joſeph reply'd, he would ſooner die than have any ſuch thought. 'And yet, Joſeph,' returned ſhe, ladies have admitted their footmen to ſuch familiarities; and footmen, I confeſs to you much leſs deſerving them; fellows without half your charms: for ſuch might almoſt excuſe the crime. Tell me therefore, Joſeph, if I ſhould admit you to ſuch freedoms, what would you think of me?—tell me freely. 'Madam,' ſaid Joſeph, I ſhould think your ladyſhip condeſcended a great deal below yourſelf. 'Pugh!' ſaid ſhe, that I am to anſwer to myſelf: but would not you inſiſt on more? Would you be contented with a kiſs? Would not your inclinations be all on fire rather by ſuch a 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 tho' he was dumb. You have ſeen the faces, in the eighteen-penny gallery, when through the trap-door, to ſoft or no muſick, Mr. Bridgwater, Mr. William Mills, or ſome other of ghoſtly appearance, hath aſcended with a face all pale with powder, and a ſhirt all bloody with ribands; but from none of theſe, nor from Phidias, or Praxiteles, if they ſhould return to life—no, not from the inimitable pencil of my friend Hogarth, could you receive ſuch an idea of ſurprize, as would have entered in at your eyes, had they beheld the lady Booby, when thoſe laſt words iſſued out from the lips of Joſeph.—'Your virtue! (ſaid the lady recovering after a ſilence of two minutes) I ſhall never ſurvive it. Your virtue! Intolerable confidence! Have you the aſſurance to pretend, that when a lady demeans herſelf to throw aſide the rules of decency, in order to honour you with the higheſt favours in her power, your virtue ſhould reſiſt her inclination? that when ſhe had conquered her own virtue, ſhe ſhould find an obſtruction in yours? 'Madam,' ſaid Joſeph, I can't ſee why her having no virtue ſhould be a reaſon againſt my having any: Or why, becauſe I am a man, or becauſe I am poor, my virtue muſt be ſubſervient to her pleaſures. I am out of patience, cries the lady: Did ever mortal hear of a man's virtue! Did ever the greateſt or the graveſt men pretend to any of this kind! Will magiſtrates who puniſh lewdneſs, or parſons who preach againſt it, make any ſcruple, of committing it? And can a boy, a ſtripling have the confidence to talk of his vir • ue? 'Madam,' ſays Joſeph, that boy is the brother of Pamela, and would be aſhamed that the chaſtity of his family, which is preſerved in her, ſhould be ſtained in him. If there are ſuch men as your ladyſhip mentions, I am ſorry for it; and I wiſh they had an opportunity of reading over thoſe letters, which my father hath ſent me of my ſiſter Pamela's; nor do I doubt but ſuch an example would amend them. You impudent villain, cries the lady in a rage, do you inſult me with the follies of my relation, who hath expoſed himſelf all over the country upon your ſiſter's account? a little vixen, whom I have always wondered my late lady Booby ever kept in her houſe. Sirrah! get out of my ſight, and prepare to ſet out this night; for I will order you your wages immediately, and you ſhall be ſtripped and turned away.—'Madam,' ſays Joſeph, I am ſorry I have offended your ladyſhip, I am ſure I never intended it. 'Yes, ſirrah,' cries ſhe, you have had the vanity to miſconſtru • the little innocent freedom I took in order to try, whether what I heard was true. O' my conſcience, you have had the aſſurance to imagine, I was fond of you myſelf. Joſeph anſwered, he had only ſpoke out of tenderneſs 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; Whither doth this violent paſſion hurry us? What meanneſſes do we ſubmit to from its impulſe? Wiſely we reſiſt its firſt and leaſt approaches; for it is then only we can aſſure ourſelves the victory. No woman could ever ſafely ſay, ſo far only will I go. Have I not expoſed myſelf to the refuſal of my footman? I cannot bear the reflection. Upon which ſhe applied herſelf to the bell, and rung it with infinite more violence than was neceſſary; the faithful S • ipſlop 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 antichamber, having carefully applied her ears to the key-hole during the whole time that the preceding converſation paſſed between Joſeph and the lady.

CHAP. IX.

What paſſed between the lady and Mrs. Slipſlop, in which we prophecy 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 him his wages. Slipſlop, who had preſerved hitherto a diſtance to her lady, rather out of neceſſity than inclination, and who thought the knowledge of this ſecret had thrown down all diſtinction between them, anſwered her miſtreſs very pertly, She wiſhed ſhe knew her own mind; and that ſhe was certain ſhe would call her back again, before ſhe was got half-way down ſtairs. The lady replied, ſhe had taken a 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 lady; Do you think I will countenance lewdneſs in my houſe? If you will turn away every footman, ſaid Slipſlop, that is a lover of the ſport, you muſt ſoon open the coachdoor 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 ſometimes the niceſt part about them.

The lady, who began to admire the new ſtyle in which her waiting-gentlewoman delivered herſelf, and by the concluſion of her ſpeech, ſuſpected ſomewhat of the truth, called her back, and deſired to know what ſhe meant by the extraordinary degree of freedom in which ſhe thought proper to indulge her tongue. 'Freedom!' ſays Slipſlop, I don't know what you call freedom! Madam; ſervants have tongues as well as their miſtreſſes. Yes, and ſaucy ones too, anſwered the lady; but I aſſure you I ſhall bear no ſuch impertinence. Impertinence! I don't know that I am impertinent, ſays Slipſlop. 'Yes indeed you are,' cries my lady; and unleſs you mend your manners, this houſe is no place for you. Manners! cries Slipſlop, I never was thought to want manners nor modeſty neither; and for places, there are more places than one; and I know what I know. What do you know, miſtreſs? anſwered 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 waitinggentlewoman; and ſo departed in a paſſion, and ſlapped the door after her.

The lady too plainly perceived that her waitinggentlewoman knew more than ſhe would willingly have had her acquainted with; and this ſhe imputed to Joſeph's having diſcovered to her what paſſed at the firſt interview. This therefore blew up her rage againſt him, and confirmed her in a reſolution of parting with him.

But the diſmiſſing Mrs. Slipſlop was a point not ſo ea • y 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 curt'ſies in public places, and, above all, the pleaſure of demoliſhing the reputations of others, in which innocent amuſement ſhe had an extraordinary delight. She therefore determined to ſubmit to any inſult from a ſervant, rather than run a riſk of loſing the title to ſo many great privileges.

She therefore ſent for her ſteward, Mr. Peter Pounce; and ordered him to pay Joſeph his wages, to ſtrip off his livery, and turn him out of the houſe that evening.

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 therefore, that you will take the ſureſt method to offend me: I mean repeating my words, which you know I have always deteſted.

The prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly weighed the whole matter, and found on mature deliberation, that a good place in poſſeſſion was better than one in expectation. As ſhe found her miſtreſs therefore inclined to relent, ſhe thought proper alſo to put on ſome ſmall condeſcenſion; which was as readily accepted: and ſo the affair was reconciled, all offences forgiven, and a preſent of a gown and petticoat made her as an inſtance of her lady's future favour.

She offered once or twice to ſpeak in favour of Joſeph: but found her lady's heart ſo obdurate, that ſhe prudently dropt all ſuch efforts. She conſidered there were ſome more footmen in the houſe, and ſome as ſtout fellows, tho' not quite ſo handſome as Joſeph: beſides, the reader hath already ſeen her tender advances had not met with the encouragement 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 near 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 tranquility paid a viſit to a ſtone-bottle, which is of ſovereign uſe to a philoſophical temper.

She left not her miſtreſs ſo eaſy. The poor lady could not reflect without agony, that her dear reputation was in the power of her ſervants. All her comfort, as to Joſeph, was, that ſhe hoped he did not underſtand her meaning; at leaſt, ſhe could ſay for herſelf, ſhe had not plainly expreſs'd any thing 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, tho' anger and diſdain ſo hoodwinked her, that ſhe could not ſee him. She was a thouſand times on the very brink of revoking the ſentence ſhe had paſſed againſt the poor youth. Love became his advocate, and whiſpered many things in his favour. Honour likewiſe endeavoured to vindicate his crime, and pity to mitigate his puniſhment; on the other ſide, pride and revenge ſpoke as loudly againſt him; and thus the poor lady was tortured with perplexity, oppoſite paſſions diſtracting and tearing her mind different ways.

So I have ſeen, in the hall of Weſtminſter, where ſerjeant Bramble hath been retained on the right ſide, and ſerjeant Puzzle on the left, the balance of opinion (ſo equal were their • ees) alternately incline to either ſcale. Now Bramble throws in an argument, and Pu ••• e's ſcale ſtrikes the beam; again, Bramble ſhares the like fate, overpowered by the weight of Puzzle. Her Bramble hits, there Puzzle ſtrikes; here one has you, there t'other has you, 'till at laſt all becomes one ſcene of confuſion in the tortured minds of the hearers; equal wagers are laid on the ſucceſs, and neither judge nor jury can poſſibly make any thing of the matter; all things are ſo enveloped by the careful 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 ſimilies, 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.

CHAP. X.

Joſeph writes another letter: His tranſactions with Mr. Peter Pounce, &c. with his departure from lady Booby.

THE diſconſolate Joſeph would not have had a • 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 apply to an unwillingneſs in him to diſcover what he muſt condemn in her as a fault. Having therefore quitted her preſence, he retired into his own garret, and entered himſelf into an ejaculation on the numberleſs calamities which attended beauty, and the misfortune it was to be handſomer than one's neighbours.

He then ſat down and addreſſed himſelf to his ſiſter Pamela, in the following words:

Dear ſiſter Pamela,

HOPING you are well, what news have I to tell you! O Pamela, my miſtreſs is fallen in love with me—That is, what great folks call falling in love, ſhe has a mind to ruin me; but I hope I ſhall have more reſolution and more grace than to part with my virtue to any lady upon earth.

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 endeavour 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 death-bed, ſince I may die in my ſleep? What fine things are good advice and good examples! But I am glad ſhe turned me out of the chamber as ſhe did: for I had once almoſt forgotten every word parſon Adams had ever ſaid to me.

I don't doubt, dear ſiſter, but you will have grace to preſerve your virtue againſt all trials; and I beg you earneſtly to pray, I may be enabled to preſerve mine; for truly it is very ſeverely attacked by more than one: but, I hope I ſhall copy your example, and that of Joſeph my nameſake: and maintain my virtue againſt all temptations.

Joſeph had not finiſhed his letter, when he was ſummoned down ſtairs 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 is, perhaps, half a year after they were due, and this at the moderate praemium of fifty per cent▪ or a little more; by which charitable methods, together with lending money to other people, and even to his own maſter and miſtreſs, the honeſt man had from nothing, in a few years amaſſed a ſmall ſum of twenty thouſand pounds or thereabouts.

Joſeph having received his little remainder of wages, and having ſtript off his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and breeches of one of the ſervants: (for he was ſo beloved in the family, that they would all have lent him any thing) 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 very 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 himſelf, 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.

CHAP. XI.

Of ſeveral new matters not expected.

IT is an obſervation ſometimes made, that to indicate our idea of a ſimple fellow, we ſay, he is eaſily to be ſeen through: Nor do I believe it a more improper denotation of a ſimple book. Inſtead of applying this to any particular performance, we chuſe rather to remark the contrary in this hiſtory, where the ſcene opens itſelf by ſmall degrees; and he is a ſaga ous 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 habitation of his father and mother, or to his beloved ſiſter Pamela, he choſe rather to ſet out full ſpeed to the lady Booby's country ſeat, which he had left on his journey to London.

Be it known then, that in the ſame pariſh where this ſeat ſtood, there lived a young girl whom Joſeph (tho' the beſt of ſons and brothers) longed more impatiently to ſee than his parents or his ſiſter. She was a poor girl, who had formerly been bred up in Sir John's family; whence, a little before the journey to London, ſhe had been diſcarded by Mrs. Slipſlop on account of her extraordinary beauty: for I never could find any other reaſon.

This young creature (who now lived with a farmer in the pariſh) had been always beloved 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 ſhewn his pariſhoners by an uniform behaviour of thirty-five years duration, that he had their good entirely at heart; ſo they conſulted him on every occaſion, and very ſeldom acted contrary to his opinion.

Nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting between theſe two lovers. A thouſand ſighs heaved the boſom of Joſeph; a thouſand tears diſtilled from the lovely eyes of Fanny, (for that was her name) tho' her modeſty would only ſuffer her to admit his eager kiſſes, her violent love made her more than paſſive in his embraces; and ſhe often pulled him to her breaſt with a ſoft preſſure, which tho' 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 tranſmit the delicacies of her tender and chaſte paſſion, by the hands of an amanuenſis.

They contented themſelves therefore with frequent enquiries after each other's health, with a mutual confidence in each other's fidelity, and the proſpect of their future happineſs.

Having explained theſe matters to our reader, and, as far as poſſible, ſatisfied all his doubts, we return to honeſt Joſeph, whom we left juſt ſet out on his travels by the light of the moon.

Thoſe who have read any romance or poetry antient or modern, muſt have been informed, that love hath wings; by which they are not to underſtand, as ſome young ladies by miſtake have done, that a lover can fly; the writers, by this ingenious allegory, intended 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 a ſign-poſt: and the maſter, who was chriſtened Timotheus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some hath conceived that he hath particularly choſen the lion for his ſign, as he doth in countenance greatly reſemble that magnanimous beaſt, tho' his diſpoſition favours more of the ſweetneſs of the lamb. He is a perſon well received among all ſorts of men, being qualified to render himſelf agreeable to any; as he is well verſed in hiſtory and politicks, 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, aye many a dozen in his time. He then remarked, that all thoſe things were over now, all paſt, and juſt as if they had never been; and concluded with an excellent obſervation on the certainty of death, which his wife ſaid was indeed very true. A fellow now arrived at the ſame inn with two horſes, one of which he was leading farther down into the country to meet his maſter; theſe he put into the ſtable, and came and took his place by Joſeph's ſide, who immediately knew him to be the ſervant of a neighbouring gentleman, who uſed to viſit at their houſe.

This fellow was likewiſe forced in by the ſtorm; for he had orders to go twenty miles farther that evening, and luckily on the ſame road which Joſeph himſelf intended to take. He therefore embraced this opportunity of complimenting his friend with his maſter's horſes, (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.

CHAP. XII.

Containing many ſurprizing adventures which Joſeph Andrews met with on the road, ſcarce credible to thoſe who have never travelled in a ſtage-coach.

NOTHING remarkable happened on the road, till their arrival at the inn to which the horſes were ordered; whither they came about two in the morning. The moon then ſhone very bright; and Joſeph making his friend a preſent of a pint of wine, and thanking him for the favour of his horſe, notwithſtanding all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his journey on foot.

He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hopes of ſhortly ſeeing his beloved Fanny, when he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and ordered to ſtand and deliver. He readily gave them all the money he had, which was ſomewhat leſs than two pounds; and told them he hoped they would be ſo generous as to return him a few ſhillings, to defray his charges on his way home.

One of the ruffians anſwered with an oath, yes, we'll give you ſomething preſently: but firſt ſtrip and be d—n'd to you.—Strip, cry'd the other, or I'll blow your brains to the devil. Joſeph remembering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches of a friend, and that he ſhould be aſhamed of making any excuſe for not returning them, replied, he hoped they would not inſiſt on his cloaths, which were not worth much, but conſider the coldneſs of the night. You are cold, are you, you raſcal! ſays one of the robbers, I'll warm you with a vengeance; and damning his eyes, ſnapt 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 but-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 belabouring poor Joſeph with their ſticks, till they were convinced they had put an end • o his miſerable being: They then ſtript 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 ſtagecoach came by. The poſtilion hearing a man's groans, ſtopt his horſes, and told the coachman, he was certain there was a dead man lying in the ditch; for he heard him groan. 'Go on, ſirrah,' ſays the coachman, we are confounded late, and have no time to look after dead men. A lady, who heard what the poſtilion ſaid, and likewiſe heard the groan, called eagerly to the coachman, to ſtop and ſee what was the matter. Upon which he bid the poſtilion alight, and look into the ditch. He did ſo, and returned, That there was a man ſitting upright as naked as ever he was born.—O J—ſus, cry'd 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 inſiſted, That he ſhould not come into the coach. That if they lifted him in, ſhe would herſelf alight: for ſhe had rather ſtay in that place to all eternity, than ride with a naked man. The coachman objected, That he could not ſuffer him to be taken in, unleſs ſomebody would pay a ſhilling for his carriage the four miles. which the two gentlemen refuſed to do. But the lawyer, who was afraid of ſome miſchief happening to himſelf if the wretch was left behind in that condition, ſaying, no man could be too cautious in theſe matters, and that he remembered very extraordinary caſes in the books, threatened the coachman, and bid him deny taking him up at his peril; for that if he died, he ſhould be indicted for his murder; and if he lived, and brought an action againſt him, he would willingly take a brief in it. Theſe words had a ſenſible effect on the coachman, who was well acquainted with the perſon who ſpoke them; and the old gentleman abovementioned, thinking the naked man would afford him frequent opportunities of ſhewing his wit to the lady, offered to join with the company in giving a mug of beer for his fare; till partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the promiſes of the other, and being, perhaps, a little moved with compaſſion at the poor creature's condition, who ſtood bleeding and ſhivering with the cold, he at length agreed; and Joſeph was now advancing to the coach, where, ſeeing the lady, who held the ſticks of her fan before her eyes, he abſolutely refuſed, miſerable as he was, to enter, unleſs he was furniſhed with ſufficient covering, to prevent giving the leaſt offence to decency. So perfectly modeſt was this young man; ſuch mighty effects had the ſpotleſs example of the amiable Pamela, and the excellent ſermons of Mr. Adams, wrought upon him.

Though there were ſeveral great coats about the coach, it was not eaſy to get over the 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 great coats 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 abhorrence 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 poſtilion, (a lad who hath been ſince tranſported for robbing a henrooſt) had voluntarily ſtript off a great coat, his only garment, at the ſame time ſwearing 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.

Joſeph, having put on the great coat, 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 enquiring 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 it 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 day-light, and he could have come at his piſtols, he would not have ſubmitted to the robbery; he likewiſe ſet forth, that he had often met highwaymen when he travelled on horſeback, but none ever durſt attack him; concluding, that if he had not been more afraid for the lady than for himſelf, he ſhould not have now parted with his money ſo eaſily.

As wi • is generally obſerved to love to reſide in empty pockets, ſo the gentleman, whoſe ingenuity we have above remarked, as ſoon as he had parted with his money, began to grow wonderfully facetious. He made frequent alluſions to Adam and Eve, and ſaid many excellent things on figs, and fig-leaves; which, perhaps, gave more offence to Joſeph than to any other in the company.

The lawyer likewiſe made ſeveral very pretty jeſts, without departing from his profeſſion, He ſaid, If Joſeph and the lady were alone, he would be more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his affairs were not fettered with any incumbrance; he'd warrant, he ſoon ſuffered a recovery by a writ of entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in tail; that for his own part, he would engage to make ſo firm a ſettlement in a coach, that there ſhould be no danger of an ejectment; with an inundation of the like gibberiſh, which he continued to vent till the coach arrived at an inn, where one ſervant-maid only was up in readineſs to attend the coachman, and furniſh him with cold meat and a dram. Joſeph deſired to alight, and that he might have a bed prepared for him, which the maid readily promiſed to perform; and being a good-natured wench, and not ſo ſquemiſh as the lady had been, ſhe clapt a large faggot on the fire, and furniſhing Joſeph with a great coat belonging to one of the hoſtlers, deſired him to ſit down and warm himſelf, whilſt ſhe made his bed. The coachman, in the mean time, took an opportunity to call up a ſurgeon, who lived within a few doors: after which, he reminded his paſſengers how late they were, and after they had taken leave of Joſeph, hurried them off as faſt as he could.

The wench ſoon got Joſeph to bed, and promiſed to uſe her intereſt to borrow him a ſhirt; but imagined, as ſhe afterwards ſaid, by his being ſo bloody, that he muſt be a dead man: ſhe ran with all ſpeed to haſten the ſurgeon, who was more than half dreſt, apprehending that the coach had been overturned and ſome gentleman or lady hurt. As ſoon as the wench had informed him at his window, that it was a poor foot-paſſenger who had been ſtript of all he had, and almoſt murdered; he chid her for diſturbing him ſo early, ſlipped off his clothes again, and very quietly returned to bed and to ſleep.

Aurora now began to ſhow her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilſt ten millions of feathered ſongſters, 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, 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 fold her departed huſband, when the maid entered the room. Who's there? Betty? 'Yes, Madam.' Where's your maſter? He's without, Madam; he hath ſent me for a ſhirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been robbed and murdered. Touch one, if you dare, you ſlut, ſaid Mrs. Tow-wouſe; your maſter is a pretty ſort of a man to take in naked vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. I ſhall have no ſuch doings.—If you offer to touch any thing, I'll 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. Towwouſe 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,' ſays ſhe, where's his money to pay his reckoning? Why doth not ſuch a fellow go to an ale-houſe? I ſhall ſend him packing as ſoon as I am up, I aſſure you. My dear ſaid he, 'common charity won't ſuffer you to do that.' Common charitty, 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 contradict me, I would make the houſe too hot to hold him.

With ſuch like diſcourſes they conſumed near half an hour, whilſt Betty provided a ſhirt from the hoſtler, who was one of her ſweethearts, and put it on poor Joſeph. The ſurgeon had likewiſe at laſt viſited him, and waſhed and dreſt his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr. Tow-wouſe, that his gueſt was in ſuch extreme danger of his life, that he ſcarce ſaw any hopes of his recovery.—'Here's a pretty kettle of fiſh,' cries Mrs. Towwouſe, you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeral at our own expence. Towwouſe, (who notwithſtanding 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'll Betty her,' ſays ſhe—At which, with half her garments on, the other half under her arm, ſhe ſallied out in queſt of the unfortunate Betty, whilſt Tow-wouſe and the ſurgeon went to pay a viſit to poor Joſeph, and enquire into the circumſtances of this melancholy affair.

CHAP. XIII.

What happened to Joſeph during his ſickneſs at the inn, with the curious diſcourſe between him and Mr. Barnabas the parſon of the pariſh.

AS ſoon as Joſeph had communicated a particular hiſtory of the robbery, together with a ſhort account of himſelf and his intended journey, he aſked the ſurgeon, if he apprehended him to be in any danger: To which the ſurgeon very honeſtly anſwered, He feared he was; for that his pulſe was very exalted and feveriſh, and if his fever ſhould prove more than ſymptomatic, it would be impoſſible to ſave him. Joſeph fetching a deep ſigh, cried, Poor Fanny, I would I could have lived to ſee thee! but God's will be done.

The ſurgeon then adviſed him, if he had any worldly affairs to ſettle, that he would do it as ſoon as poſſible; for tho' 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 his will. Joſeph anſwered, That it was impoſſible for any creature in the univerſe to be in a poorer condition than himſelf: for ſince the robbery, he had not one thing of any kind whatever, which he could call his own. I had, ſaid he, a poor little piece of gold, which they took away, that would have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions; but ſurely, Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I have thy dear image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence.

Joſeph deſired paper and pens to write a letter, but they were refuſed him; and he was adviſed to uſe all his endeavours to compoſe himſelf. They then left him; and Mr. Tow-wouſe ſent to a clergyman to come and adminiſter his good offices to the ſoul of poor Joſeph, ſince the ſurgeon deſpaired of making any ſucceſsful applications to his body.

Mr. Barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) came as ſoon as ſent for; and having firſt drank a diſh of tea with the landlady, and afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the room where Joſeph lay; but finding him aſleep, returned to take the other ſna • er; which when he had finiſhed, he again crept ſoftly up to the chamber-door, and having opened it, heard the ſick man talking to himſelf in the following manner:

O moſt adorable Pamela! moſt virtuous ſiſter! whoſe example could alone enable me to withſtand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to preſerve my virtue pure and chaſte, for the arms of my dear Fanny, if it had pleaſed heaven that I ſhould ever have come unto them. What riches, or 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 comfort to ſuch a miſerable wretch as I am? Yet theſe can make me prefer this ſick and painful bed to all the pleaſures I ſhould have found in my lady's. Theſe can make me face death without fear; and though I love my Fanny more than ever man loved a woman, theſe can teach me to reſign myſelf to the divine will without repining. O thou delightful charming creature! if heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the pooreſt, humbleſt ſtate, would have been a paradiſe; I could have lived with thee in the loweſt cottage, without envying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any man breathing. But I muſt leave thee, leave thee for ever, my deareſt angel! I muſt think of another world; and I heartily pray thou may'ſt meet comfort in this.—Barnabas thought he had heard enough; ſo down ſtairs he went and told Tow-wouſe he could do his gueſt no ſervice; for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a rhapſody of nonſenſe all the time he ſtayed in the room.

The ſurgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his patient in a higher fever, as he ſaid, than when he left him, though not delirious; for notwithſtanding Mr. Barnabas's opinion, he had not been once out of his ſenſes ſince his arrival at the inn.

Mr. Barnabas was again ſent for, and with much difficulty prevailed on to make another viſit. As ſoon as he entered the room, he told Joſeph, He was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for another world: in the firſt place therefore, he hoped he had repented of all his ſins. Joſeph 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, however grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not half ſo tormenting, as the fear of what ſhe ſhould ſuffer, when ſhe knew his misfortune. Barnabas ſaid, That ſuch fears argued a diffidence and deſpondence very criminal; that he muſt diveſt himſelf of all human paſſions, and fix his heart above. Joſeph anſwered, That was what he deſired to do. He then queſtioned him concerning his forgiveneſs of the thieves.—Joſeph, with a very heavy ſigh, replied, He feared that was more than he could do: for nothing would give him more pleaſure than to hear they were taken. 'That,' cries Barnabas, is for the ſake of Juſtice. 'Yes,' ſaid Joſeph, but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I ſhould attack them, and kill them too, if I could. 'Doubtleſs anſwered Barnabas, it is lawful to kill a thief: but can you forgive them as a chriſtian 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 chriſtian. Joſeph replied, 'He forgave them as much as he could.' Well, well, ſaid Barnabas, 'that will do.' He then demanded of him, if he remembered any more ſins unrepented of; and if he did, he deſired him to make haſte and repent of them as faſt as he could: that they might repeat over a few prayers together. Joſeph anſwered, He could not recollect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that thoſe he had committed he was ſincerely ſorry for. Barnabas ſaid that was enough, and then proceeded to prayer with all the expedition he was maſter of, ſome company then waiting for him below i • 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. Towwouſe, who anſwered, She had juſt done drinking it, and could not bear to 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 taſted it, ſaid, he feared it would increaſe his fever, and that he longed very much for tea: To which the good-natured Betty anſwered, he ſhould have tea, if there was any in the land; ſhe accordingly went and bought him ſome herſelf, and attended him with it: where we will leave her and Joſeph together for ſome time, to entertain the reader with other matters.

CHAP. XIV.

Being very full of adventures, which ſucceeded each other at the inn.

IT was now the duſk of the evening, when a grave perſon rode into the inn, and committing his horſe to the hoſtler, went directly into the kitchen, and having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the fire-ſide; where ſeveral perſons were likewiſe aſſembled.

The diſcourſe ran altogether on the robbery which was committed the night before, and on the poor wretch, who lay above in the dreadful condition in which we have already ſeen him. Mrs. Towwouſe ſaid, She wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell meant by bringing ſuch gueſts to her houſe, when there were ſo many ale houſes on the road proper for their reception. But ſhe aſſured him, if he died, the pariſh ſhould be at the expence of the funeral. She added, Nothing would ſerve the fellow's turn but tea, ſhe would aſſure him. Betty, who was juſt returned from her charitable office, anſwered, ſhe believed he was a gentleman, for ſhe never ſaw a finer ſkin in her life. Pox on his ſkin! replied Mrs. Tow-wouſe, I ſuppoſe that is all we are like to have for the reckoning. I deſire no ſuch gentlemen ſhould ever call at the Dragon, (which it ſeems was the ſign of the inn.)

The gentleman lately arrived diſcovered a great deal of emotion at the diſtreſs of this poor creature, whom he obſerved to be fallen not into the moſt compaſſionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs. Tow-wouſe had given no utterance to the ſweetneſs of her temper, nature had taken ſuch pains in her countenance, that Hogarth himſelf never gave more expreſſion to a picture.

Her perſon was ſhort, thin, and crooked. Her forehead projected in the middle, and thence deſcended in a declivity to the top of her noſe, which was ſharp and red, and would have hung over her lips, had not nature turned up one end of it. Her lips were two bits of ſkin, which, whenever ſhe ſpoke, ſhe drew together in a purſe. Her chin was peaked; and at the upper end of that ſkin, which compoſed her cheeks, ſtood two bones, that almoſt hid a pair of ſmall red eyes. Add to this a voice moſt wonderfully adapted to the ſentiments it was to convey, being both loud and hoarſe.

It is not eaſy to ſay, whether the gentleman had conceived a greater diſlike for his landlady, or compaſſion for her unhappy gueſt. He enquired very earneſtly of the ſurgeon, who was now come into the kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery? he begged him to uſe all poſſible means towards it, telling him, it was the duty of men of all profeſſions, to apply their ſkill gratis for the relief of the poor and neceſſitous. The ſurgeon anſwered, he ſhould take proper care; but he defied all the ſurgeons in London to do him any good. 'Pray, Sir,' ſaid the gentleman, 'What are his wounds?—Why, do you know any thing of wounds? ſays the ſurgeon (winking upon Mrs. Tow-wouſe) Sir, I have a ſmall ſmattering in ſurgery, anſwered the genman. 'A ſmattering,—ho, ho, ho!' ſaid the ſurgeon, 'I believe it is a ſmattering indeed.

The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor, who was what they call a dry fellow, expoſe the gentleman.

He began therefore with an air of triumph: I ſuppoſe, Sir, you have travelled. No really Sir, ſaid the gentleman. Ho! then you have practiſed in the hoſpitals perhaps.—'No, Sir,' Hum! not that neither? Whence, Sir, then, if I may be ſo bold to enquire, have you got your knowledge in ſurgery? 'Sir', anſwered the genman, I do not pretend to much; but the little I know, I have from books. 'Book!' cries the doctor.—'What, I ſuppoſe you have read Galen and Hippocrates!' 'No, Sir, ſaid the gentleman. 'How! you underſtand ſurgery,' anſwers the doctor, 'and not read Galen and Hippocrates' 'Sir,' cries the other, I 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 gentleman. '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 believe, landlord, cries the doctor, there are few men, though I ſay it, within twelve miles of the place, that handle a fever better.—Veniente accurrite merbo: that is my method.—I ſuppoſe, brother, you underſtand Latin? A little, ſays the gentleman. Aye, and Greek now I'll warrant you: Ton dapomibo • inos polufloſhoio Thalaſſes. But I have almoſt forgot theſe things, I could have repeated Homer by heart once.—Iſags! 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 ſatisfaction: and having ſufficiently ſounded his depth, told him, he was thoroughly convinced of his great abilities; and that he would be obliged to him, if he would let him know his opinion of his patient's caſe above ſtairs. 'Sir,' ſays the doctor, his caſe is that of a dead man—The contuſion on his head has perforated the internal membrane of the occiput, and divelicated that radical ſmall minute inviſible nerve, which coheres to the pericranium; and this was antended with a fever at firſt ſymptomatic, then pneumatic; and he is at length grown deliriuus, or delirious as the vulgar expreſs it.

He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty noiſe interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighbourhood had taken one of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty ran up ſtairs with this news to Joſeph: who begged they might ſearch for a little piece of broken gold, which had a ribband tied to it, and which he could ſwear to amongſt all the hoards of the richeſt men in the univerſe.

Notwithſtanding the fellow's perſiſting in his innocence, the mob were very buſy in ſearching him, and preſently, among other things, pulled out the piece of gold juſt mentioned; which Betty no ſooner ſaw, than ſhe laid violent hands on it, and conveyed it up to 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 livery; 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 inquiſitive into all the particulars which had produced this unfortunate accident.

To return therefore to the kitchen, where a great variety of company were now aſſembled from all the rooms of the houſe, as well as the neighbourhood: ſo much delight do men take in contemplating the countenance of a thief.

Mr. Tow-wouſe began to rub his hands with pleaſure, at ſeeing ſo large an aſſembly; who would he hoped, ſhortly adjourn into ſeveral apartments, in order to diſcourſe over the robbery, and drink a health to all honeſt men. But Mrs. 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, tho' the mob was very well ſatisfied with that proof; yet, as the ſurgeon obſerved, they could not convict him, becauſe they were not found in his cuſtody; to which Barnabas agreed, and added, that theſe things were bona waviata, and belonged to the lord of the mannor.

'How,' ſays the ſurgeon, do you ſay theſe goods belong to the lord of the manor? 'I do,' cried Barnabas. 'Then I deny it,' ſays the ſurgeon. 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 Wiſeone ſay, that if every man had his right, whatever is found belongs to the king of London. That may be true, ſays Barnabas, in ſome ſenſe: for the law makes a difference 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 waviata; 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 a univerſal laugh, being firſt begun by himſelf.

While the priſoner, by perſiſting in his innocence, had almoſt (as there was no evidence againſt him) brought over Barnabas, the ſurgeon, Towwouſe, and ſeveral others to his ſide; Betty informed them, that they had over-looked a little piece of gold, which ſhe had carried up to the man in bed; and which he offered to ſwear 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 ſecure that night, and early in the morning to carry him before a juſtice.

CHAP. XV.

Shewing how Mrs. Tow-wouſe was a little mollified; and how officious Mr. Barnabas and the ſurgeon were to proſecute the thief: with a diſſertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other perſons not mentioned in this hiſtory.

BETTY told her miſtreſs, ſhe believed the man in bed was a greater man than they took him for: for beſides the extreme whiteneſs of his ſkin, and the ſoftneſs of his hands, ſhe obſerved a very great familiarity between the gentleman and him; and added, ſhe was certain they were intimate acquaintance, if not relations.

This ſomewhat abated the ſeverity of Mrs. Towwouſe'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, tho' he had no money about him now, we ſhall moſt likely be paid hereafter; ſo 'you may begin to ſcore whenever you will. Mrs. Tow-wouſe anſwered. Hold your ſimple tongue, and don't inſtruct me in my buſineſs. I am ſure I am ſorry for the gentleman's misfortune with all my heart; and I hope the villain who hath uſed him ſo barbarouſly will be hanged. Betty, go, ſee what he wants. God forbid he ſhould want any thing in my houſe.

Barnabas and the ſurgeon went up to Joſeph, to ſatisfy themſelves concerning the piece of gold. Joſeph was with difficulty prevailed upon to ſhew it them; but would by no entreaties be brought to deliver it out of his own poſſeſſion. He however atteſted this to be the ſame which had been taken from him; and Betty was ready to ſwear to the finding it on the thief.

The only difficulty that remained, was how to produce this gold before the juſtice: for as to carrying Joſeph himſelf, it ſeemed impoſſible; nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him: for he had faſtened it with a riband 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 evidence, not very neceſſary to be related here; after which the ſurgeon dreſt Mr. Joſeph's head; ſtill perſiſting in the imminent danger in which his patient lay; but concluding with a very important look, that he began to have 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 a ſociety of bookſellers, who propoſed to purchaſe, any copies offered to them, at a price to be ſettled by two perſons: but tho' 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 three pence half-penny in his pocket, which he was welcome to uſe as he pleaſed.

This goodneſs of parſon Adams brought tears into Joſeph's eyes; he declared he had now a ſecond reaſon to deſire life, that he might ſhew his gratitude to ſuch a friend. Adams bade him be chearful; for that he plainly ſaw the ſurgeon beſides his ignorance, deſired to make a merit of curing him, tho' the wounds in his head, he perceived, were by no means dangerous; that he was convinced he had no fever, and doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day or two.

Theſe words infuſed a ſpirit into Joſeph; he ſaid, he found himſelf very ſore from the bruiſes, but had no reaſon to think any of his bones injured, or that he had received any harm in his inſide; unleſs that he felt ſomething very odd in his ſtomach: but he knew not whether that might not ariſe from not having eaten one morſel for above twenty-four hours. Being then aſked if he had any inclination to eat, he anſwered in the affirmative. Then parſon Adams deſired him to name what he had the greateſt fancy for; whether a poached egg, or chicken broth: he anſwered, he could eat both very well; but that he ſeemed to have the greateſt appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage.

Adams was pleaſed with ſo perfect a confirmation that he had not the leaſt fever; but adviſed him to a lighter diet, for that evening. He accordingly eat 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: for they were both extremely zealous in the buſineſs, tho' neither of them were in the leaſt intereſted in the proſecution; neither of them had ever received any private injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever been ſuſpected of loving the publick well enough to give them a ſermon or a doſe of phyſick for nothing.

To help our reader therefore as much as poſſible to account for this zeal, we muſt inform him, that, as this pariſh was ſo unfortunate as to have no lawyer in it; there had been a conſtant contention between the two doctors, ſpiritual and phyſical, concerning their abilities in a ſcience, in which, as neither of them profeſſed it, they had equal pretenſions to diſpute each other's opinions. Theſe diſputes were carried on with great contempt on both ſides, and had almoſt divided the pariſh; Mr. Towwouſe 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 ineſtimable fountains called the Attorney's Pocket-Companion, 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 ſufficiency of evidence: the doctor being of opinion, that the maid's oath would convict the priſoner without producing the gold; the parſon è contra, totis viribus. To diſplay their parts therefore before the juſtice and the pariſh, was the ſole motive, which we can diſcover, to this zeal which both of them pretended to have for public juſtice.

O Vanity! how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy operations diſcerned! How wantonly doſt thou deceive mankind under different diſguiſes! Sometimes thou doſt wear the face of pity, ſometimes of generoſity: nay, thou haſt the aſſurance even to put on thoſe glorious ornaments which belong only to heroick virtue. Thou odious, deformed monſter! whom prieſts have railed at, philoſophers deſpiſed, and poets ridiculed: is there a wretch ſo abandoned as to own thee for an acquaintance in publick? yet how few will refuſe to enjoy thee in private! nay, thou art the purſuit of moſt men through their lives. The greateſt villainies are daily practiſed to pleaſe thee: nor is the meaneſt thief below, or the greateſt hero above thy notice. Thy embraces are often the ſole aim and ſole reward of the private robbery, and the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, that we attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to withhold from them what they do. All our paſſions are thy ſlaves. Avarice itſelf is often no more than thy hand-maid, and even luſt thy pimp. Thy bully fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and joy and grief hide their heads in thy preſence.

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 a farthing; nor will it give me any pain, if thou ſhouldſt prevail on the reader to cenſure this digreſſion as arrant nonſenſe: for know, to thy confuſion, that I have introduced thee for no other purpoſe than to lengthen out a ſhort chapter; and ſo I return to my hiſtory.

CHAP. XVI.

The eſcape of the thief. Mr. Adams's diſappointment. The arrival of two very extraordinary perſonages, and the introduction of parſon Adams to parſon Barnabas.

BARNABAS and the ſurgeon being returned, as we have ſaid, to the inn, in order to convey the thief before the juſtice, were greatly concerned to find a ſmall accident had happened, which ſomewhat diſconcerted them; and this was no other than the thief's eſcape, who had modeſtly withdrawn himſelf by night, declining all oſtentation, and not chuſing, in imitation of ſome great men, to diſtinguiſh himſelf at the expence 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 drowth 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 diſpoſition the latter apprehended not the leaſt danger, as the conſtable was well armed, and could beſides eaſily ſummon him back to his aſſiſtance, if the priſoner made the leaſt attempt to gain his liberty.

The young fellow had not long left the room, before it came into the conſtable's head, that the priſoner might leap on him by ſurpriſe, and thereby preventing him of the uſe of his weapons, eſpecially the long ſtaff, in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the ſucceſs of the ſtruggle to an equal chance. He wiſely, therefore, to prevent this inconvenience, ſlipt out of the room himſelf, and locked the door, waiting without with his ſtaff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the unhappy priſoner, if by ill fortune he ſhould attempt to break out.

But human life, as hath been diſcovered by ſome great man or other, (for I would by no means be underſtood to affect the honour of making any ſuch diſcovery) 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 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 conſtable 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 any thing to the conſtable, except a hearty curſe or two, he nimbly leapt out at the window, and went again in purſuit of his prey; being very unwilling to loſe the reward which he had aſſured himſelf of.

The conſtable hath not been diſcharged of ſuſpicion 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 election he always had ſold his vote to both parties, &c.

But notwithſtanding theſe and many other ſuch allegations, I am ſufficiently convinced of his innocence; having been poſitively aſſured of it, by thoſe who received their informations from his own mouth; which, in the opinion of ſome moderns, is the beſt and indeed only evidence.

All the family were now up, and with many others aſſembled in the kitchen, where Mr. Towwouſe was in ſome tribulation; the ſurgeon having declared, that by law he was liable to be indicted for the thief's eſcape, as it was out of his houſe: he was a little comforted however by Mr. Barnabas's opinion, that as the eſcape was by night, the indictment would not lie.

Mrs. Tow-wouſe delivered herſelf in the following words: Sure never was ſuch a fool as my huſband! would any other perſon living have left a man in the cuſtody of ſuch a drunken drowſy blockhead as Tom Suckbribe; (which was the conſtable's name) and if he could be indicted without any harm to his wife and children, I ſhould be glad of it. (Then the bell rung in Joſeph's room.) Why, Betty, John, Chamberlain, where the devil are you all? Have you no ears, or no conſcience, not to tend the ſick better?—See what the gentleman wants; why don't you go yourſelf, Mr. Tow-wouſe? but any one may die for you; you have no more feeling than a dead-board. If a man lived a fortnight in your houſe without ſpending a penny, you would never put him in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea or coffee for breakfaſt. 'Yes, my dear,' cried Tow-wouſe. She then aſked the doctor and Mr. Barnabas what morning's draught they choſe, who anſwered they had a pot of cyder-and at the fire; which we will leave them merry over, and return to Joſeph.

He had riſen pretty early this morning: but tho' his wounds were far from threatening any danger, he was ſo ſore with the bruiſes, that it was impoſſible for him to think of undertaking a journey yet; Mr. Adams therefore, whoſe ſtock was viſibly decreaſed with the expences 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 cry'd, 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 Towwouſe, and taking him into another room, told him, He wanted to borrow three guineas, for which he would put ample ſecurity into his hand. 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 voice and face 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 honeſty to return it on his repayment of the money: for otherwiſe he muſt be a very great loſer, ſeeing that every volume would at leaſt bring him ten pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in the country: for, ſaid he, as to my own part, having never yet dealt in printing, I do not pretend to aſcertain the exact value of ſuch things.

Tow-wouſe, who was a little ſurprized at the pawn, ſaid (and not without ſome truth) That he was no judge of the price of ſuch kind of goods: and as for money, he really was very ſhort. Adams anſwered, Certainly he would not ſcruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedly worth at leaſt ten. The landlord replied, He did not believe he had ſo much money in the houſe, and beſides he was to make up a ſum. He was very confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily ſorry it did not ſuit him. He then cryed out, coming Sir! though no body called; and ran down ſtairs without any fear of breaking his neck.

Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this diſappointment, nor knew he what farther 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 meditation, aſſiſted by the inſpiring fumes of tobacco.

He had on a night-cap drawn over his wig, and a ſhort great coat, which half-covered his caſſock; a dreſs which, added to ſomething comical enough in his countenance, compoſed a figure likely to attract the eyes of thoſe who were not ever-given to obſervation.

Whilſt he was ſmoaking his pipe in this poſture, a coach and fix, 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 entertained themſelves with the following ſhort facetious dialogue.

'You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack!' ſays he from the coach, you had almoſt overturned us juſt now. 'Pox take you,' ſays the coachman, if I had only broke your neck, it would have been ſaving ſomebody elſe the trouble: but I ſhould have been ſorry for the pointers. 'Why you ſon of a b—,' anſwered the other, if no body could ſhoot better than you, the pointers would be of no uſe. D—n me, ſays the coachman, I will ſhoot with you, five guineas a ſhot. 'You be hanged,' ſays the other, for five guineas you ſhall ſhoot at my a—. 'Done,' ſays the coachman, I'll pepper you better than ever you was pepper'd 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 ſhoot 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 blink'd a bird in her life. I have a puppy not a year old ſhall hunt with her for a hundred, cries the other gentleman, 'Done,' ſays the coachman, but you will be pox'd before you make the bett. If you have a mind for a bett, cries the coachman, I will match my ſpotted dog with your white bitch for a hundred, play or pay. 'Done,' ſays the other, and I'll run Baldface againſt Slouch with you for another. 'No,' cries he from the box, but I'll 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.

They were now arrived, and the reader will be very contented to leave them, and repair to the kitchen, where Barnabas, the ſurgeon, and an exciſeman were ſmoaking their pipes over ſome Cyderand, 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. 'Yes ſays Tom, I pulled off my hat to him, and the parſon ſpoke to me.

'Is the gentleman a clergyman then?' ſays Barnabas, (for his caſſock had been tied up when he firſt arrived.) 'Yes, Sir,' anſwered the footman, and one there is but few like. 'Aye,' ſaid Barnabas, If I had known it ſooner, I ſhould have deſired his company; I would always pay a proper reſpect for the cloth; but what ſay you, Doctor, ſhall we adjourn into a room, and invite him to take part of a bowl of punch?

This propoſal was immediately agreed to, and executed; and parſon Adams accepting the invitation, much civility paſſed between the two clergymen, who both declared the great honour they had for the cloth. They had not been long together, before they entered into a diſcourſe on ſmall tithes, which continued a full hour, without the doctor o • exciſeman's having one opportunity to offer a word.

It was then propoſed to begin a general converſation, and the exciſeman opened on foreign affairs: but a word unluckily dropping from one of them introduced a diſſertation on the hardſhips ſuffered by the inferior clergy; which after a long duration, concluded with bringing the nine volumes of ſermons on the carpet.

Barnabas greatly diſcouraged poor Adams; he ſaid, The age was ſo wicked, that nobody read ſermons: Would you think it, Mr. Adams, (ſaid he) I once intended to print a volume of ſermons myſelf, and they had the approbation of two or three biſhops: but what do you think a bookſeller offered me? 'Twelve guineas perhaps (cried Adams.') 'Not twelve pence, I aſſure you,' 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 any thing 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 there are a pretty moderate number printed already, and not all ſold yet.—'Pray, Sir,' ſaid Adams, to what do you think the numbers may amount? 'Sir,' anſwered Barnabas, a bookſeller told me, he believed five thouſand volumes at leaſt. 'Five thouſand!' • uoth the ſurgeon, what can they be writ upon? I remember when I was a boy, I uſed to read one Tillotſon's ſermons; and I am ſure, if a man practiſed half ſo much as is in one of thoſe ſermons, he will go to heaven. 'Doctor,' cried Barnabas, you have a prophane way of talking, for which I muſt reprove you. A man can never have his duty too frequently inculcated into him. And as for Tillotſon, to be ſure he was a good writer, and ſaid things very well: but compariſons are odious; another man may write as well as he—I believe there are ſome of my ſermons,—and then he applied the candle to his pipe—And I believe there are ſome of my diſcourſes, cries Adams, which the biſhops would not think totally unworthy of being printed; and I have been informed, I might procure a very large ſum (indeed an immenſe one) on them. 'I doubt that,' anſwered Barnabas, however, if you deſire to make ſome money of them, perhaps you may ſell them by advertiſing the manuſcript ſermons, of a clergyman lately deceaſed, all warranted originals, and never printed. And now I think of it, I ſhould be obliged to you, if 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 magiſtrate, who had exerted himſelf very ſingularly in the preſervation of the morality of his neighbours, inſomuch that he had neither ale-houſe, nor lewd woman in the pariſh where he lived.—'No,' replyed Barnabas, that will not do quite ſo well; for the deceaſed upon whoſe virtues I am to harangue, was a little too much addicted to liquor, and publickly kept a miſtreſs I believe I muſt take a common ſermon, 〈◊〉 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 any thing good of him.

With ſuch kind of ſpiritual diſcourſe, they emptied the bowl of punch, paid their reckoning, and ſeparated: Adams and the doctor went up to Joſeph, parſon Barnabas departed to celebrate the aforeſaid deceaſed, and the exciſeman deſcended into the cellar to gauge the veſſels.

Joſeph was now ready to ſit down to a loin of mutton, and waited for Mr. Adams, when he and the doctor came in. The doctor having felt his pulſe, 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 his arrival.

Joſeph paſſed that day and the three following with his friend Adams, in which nothing ſo remarkable 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 〈◊〉 it, of Mr. Tow-wouſe, and the envy (for ſuch he thought it) of Mr. Barnabas, had great expectations from his ſermons: ſeeing therefore Joſeph in ſo good a way, he told him he would agree to his ſetting out the next morning in the ſtage-coach, that he believed he ſhould have ſufficient, after the reckoning paid, to procure him one day's conveyance in it, and afterwards he would be able to get on, on foot, or might be 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 numbers 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 ſhewn 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.

CHAP. XVII.

A pleaſant diſcourſe between the two parſons and the bookſeller, which was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn, which produced a dialogue between Mrs. Tow-wouſe and her maid, of no gentle kind.

AS ſoon as Adams came into the room, Mr. Barnabas introduced him 〈◊〉 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 ſaluted the ſtranger, anſwered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; that nothing could be more convenient; for he had no other buſineſs to the great city, and was heartily deſirous of returning with the young man who was juſt recovered of his misfortune. He then 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 him their meeting was extremely lucky to himſelf: for that he had the moſt preſſing occaſion for money at that time, his own being almoſt ſpent, and having a friend then in the ſame inn who was juſt recovered from ſome wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a moſt indigent condition; 'So that nothing,' ſays he, could be ſo opportune, for the ſupplying both our neceſſities, as my making an 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 Whitfield or Weſtley, or ſome other ſuch great man, as a biſhop, or thoſe ſort of people, I don't care to touch, unleſs now i • was a ſermon preached on the 30th of January, or we could ſay in the title page, publiſhed at the earneſt requeſt of the congregation, or the inhabitants: but truly for a dry piece of ſermons, I had rather be excuſed; eſpecially, as my hands are ſo full at preſent. However, Sir, as Mr. Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you pleaſe take the manuſcript with me to town, and ſend you my opinion of it in a very ſhort time.

'O,' ſaid Adams, if you deſire it, I will read two or three diſcourſes as a ſpecimen. This Barnabas, who loved ſermons no better than a grocer doth figs, immediately objected to, and adviſed Adams to let the bookſeller have his ſermons; telling him, if he gave him a direction, he might be certain of a ſpeedy anſwer: adding, he need not ſcruple truſting them in his 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 bookſeller, tho' I don't know whether the licenſing act may not ſhortly bring them on the ſame footing: but I have formerly known a hundred guineas given for a play.—More ſhame for thoſe who gave it, cry'd Barnabas. 'Why ſo?' ſaid the bookſeller, 'for they got hundreds by it.' But is there no difference between conveying good or ill inſtructions to mankind? ſaid Adams; would not an honeſt mind rather loſe money by the one, than gain it by the other? If you can find any ſuch, I will not be their hindrance, anſwered the bookſeller; but I think thoſe perſons who get by preaching ſermons, are the propereſt to loſe by printing them: for my part, the copy that ſells beſt, will be always the beſt copy in my opinion; I am no enemy to ſermons but becauſe they don't ſell: for I would as ſoon print one of Whitfield's, as any farce whatever.

Whoever prints ſuch heterodox ſtuff ought to be hanged, ſays Barnabas. 'Sir,' ſaid he, turning to Adams, this fellow's writings (I know not whether you have ſeen them) are leveled at the clergy. He would reduce us to the 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 it's 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 free-thinkers, are not calculated to do half the miſchief, as thoſe profeſſed by this fellow and his followers.

Sir, anſwered Adams, if Mr. Whitefield had carried his doctrine no farther than you mention, I ſhould have remained, as I once was, his wellwiſher. I am myſelf as great an enemy to the luxury and ſplendor of the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flouriſhing eſtate of the church, underſtand the palaces, equipages, furniture, rich dainties, and vaſt fortunes of her miniſters. Surely thoſe things, which favour ſo ſtrongly of this world, become not the ſervants of one who profeſſes 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, 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 impudence to preach it. For can any thing be more derogatory to the honour of God, than for men to imagine that the all-wiſe Being will hereafter ſay to the good and virtuous, "notwithſtanding the purity of thy life, notwithſtanding that conſtant rule of virtue and goodneſs in which you walked upon earth, ſtill as thou didſt not believe every thing in the true orthodox manner, thy want of faith ſhall condemn thee?" Or on the other ſide, can any doctrine have a more pernicious influence on ſociety, than a perſuaſion, that it will be a good plea for the villain at the laſt day; "Lord, it is true, I never obeyed one of thy commands, yet puniſh me not, for I believe them all?" 'I ſuppoſe, Sir,' ſaid the bookſeller, your ſermons are of a different kind. 'Ay, Sir,' ſaid Adams, the contrary, I thank heaven, is inculcated in almoſt every page, or I ſhould bely my own opinion, which hath always been, that a virtuous and good Turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the ſight of their Creator, than a vicious and wicked Chriſtian, tho' his faith was as perfectly orthodox as St. Paul's himſelf.—I wiſh you ſucceſs, ſays the bookſeller, but muſt beg to be excuſed, as my hands are ſo very full at preſent; and indeed I am afraid, you will find a backwardneſs in the trade, to engage in a book which the clergy would be certain to cry down. 'God forbid,' ſays Adams, any books ſhould he 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 their power 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 attending, 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 ſo much moved at his mentioning a book, which he did without apprehending any poſſibility of offence, that he would be ſo kind to propoſe any objections he had to it, which he would endeavour to anſwer. 'I propoſe objections!' ſaid Barnabas, I never read a ſyllable in any ſuch wicked book; I never ſaw it in my life, I aſſure you.—Adams was going to anſwer, when a moſt hideous uproar began in the inn. Mrs. Tow-wouſe, Mr. Tow-wouſe, and Betty, all lifting up their voices together: but Mrs. Tow-wouſe's voice, like a baſs viol in a concert, was clearly and diſtinctly diſtinguiſhed among the reſt, and was heard to articulate the following ſounds,—O you damn'd villain, is this the return to all the care I have taken of your family? This the reward of my virtue? Is this the manner in which you behave to one who brought you a fortune, and preferred you to ſo many matches, all your betters? To abuſe my bed, my own bed, with my own ſervant: but I'll maul the ſlut, I'll 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 words, She-Dog. Which term we ſhall, to avoid offence, uſe on this occaſion, though, indeed, both the miſtreſs and maid uttered the abovementioned 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 be-betters are wo-rſe than me. 'Huzzy, huzzy,' ſays Mrs. Tow-wouſe, have you the impudence to anſwer me? Did I not catch you, you fancy— 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 wriſt which Hercules would not have been aſhamed of. Mr. Towwouſe being caught, as our lawyers expreſs it, with the manner, and having no defence to make, very prudently withdrew himſelf, and Betty committed herſelf to the protection of the hoſtler, who, tho' 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, • o open to the reader the ſteps which led to a cataſtrophe common enough and comical enough too, perhaps in modern hiſtory, yet often fatal to the repoſe and well-being of families, and the ſubject of many tragedies, both in life and on the ſtage.

CHAP. XVIII.

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 goodnature, generoſity, and compaſſion, but unfortunately her conſtitution was compoſed of thoſe warm ingredients, which, though the purity of courts or nunneries might have happily controuled them, were by no means able to endure the tickliſh ſituation of a chambermaid at an inn, who is daily liable to the ſolicitations of lovers of all complexions, to the dangerous addreſſes of fine gentlemen of the army, who ſometimes are obliged to reſide with them a whole year together; and above all are expoſed to the careſſes of footmen, ſtage-coachmen, and drawers; all of whom employ the whole artillery of kiſſing, flattering, bribing, and every other weapon which is to be found in the whole armoury of love, againſt them.

Betty, who was but one and twenty, had now lived three years in this dangerous ſituation, during which 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 required the care of a ſurgeon to cool.

While ſhe burnt for him, ſeveral others burnt for her. Officers of the army, young gentlemen travelling the weſtern circuit, inoffenſive ſquires, and ſome of graver character were ſet afire by her charms!

At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her firſt unhappy paſſion, ſhe ſeemed to have vowed a ſtate of perpetual ch ••• ity. She was long deaf to all the ſufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hoſtler, with a new ſtraw hat, and a pint of wine, made a ſecond conqueſt over her.

She did not, however, feel any of thoſe flames on this occaſion, which had been the conſequence of her former amour; nor indeed thoſe other ill effects, which prudent young women very juſtly apprehend from too abſolute an indulgence to the preſſing endearments of their lovers. This latter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being entirely conſtant to John, with whom ſhe permitted Tom Whipwell the ſtage-coachman, and now and then a handſome young traveller, to ſhare her favours.

Mr. Tow-wouſe had for ſome time caſt the languiſhing eyes of affection on this young maiden. He had laid hold on every opportunity of ſaying tender things, to her, ſqueezing her by the hand, and ſometimes kiſſing her lips: for as the violence of his paſſion had conſiderably abated to Mrs. Towwouſe; ſo like water, which is ſtopt from its uſual current in one place, it naturally ſought a vent in another. Mrs. Tow-wouſe is thought to have perceived this abatement, and probably it added very little to the natural ſweetneſs of her temper; for though ſhe was as true to her huſband as the dial to the ſun, ſhe was rather more deſirous of being ſhone on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth.

Ever ſince Joſeph's arrival, Betty had conceived an extraordinary liking to him, which diſcovered itſelf more and more, as he grew better and better; till that fatal evening when, as ſhe was warming his bed, her paſſion grew to ſuch a height, and ſo perfectly maſtered both her modeſty and her reaſon, that after many fruitleſs hints and fly inſinuations, ſhe at laſt threw down the warming-pan, and embracing him with great eagerneſs, ſwore he was the handſomeſt creature ſhe had ever ſeen.

Joſeph in great confuſion leapt from her, and told her, he was ſorry to ſee a young woman caſt off all regard to modeſty: but ſhe had gone too far to recede, and grew ſo very indecent, that Joſeph was obliged, contrary to his inclinations, to uſe ſome violence to her, and taking her in his arms, he ſhut her out of the room, and locked the door.

How ought man to rejoice, that his chaſtity is always in his own power, that if he hath 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 diſappointment. 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 whiſpered ſo many ſoft things into her ears, and then preſſed her ſo cloſely with his kiſſes, that the vanquiſhed fair one, whoſe paſſions were already raiſed, and which were not ſo whimſically capricious that one man only could lay them, though, perhaps, ſhe would have rather preferred that one: the 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, tho' 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 gratitude for his wife's goodneſs of 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 tranſgreſſions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a day, during the reſidue of his life.

CHAP. I.

Of diviſions in authors.

THERE are certain myſteries or ſecrets in all trades from the higheſt to the loweſt, from that of prime mini •• ring to this of authoring, which are ſeldom diſcovered, unleſs to members of the ſame calling. Among thoſe uſed by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of dividing our works into books and chapters to be none of the leaſt conſiderable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this ſecret, common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing, we mean only to ſwell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwiſe be extended to. Theſe ſeveral places therefore in our paper, which are filled with our books and chapters, are underſtood as ſo much buckram, ſtays, and ſtay tape in a taylor's bill, ſerving only to make up the ſum total, commonly found at the bottom of our firſt page, and of his laſt.

But in reality the caſe is otherwiſe, and in this, as well as in all other inſtances, we conſult the advantage of our reader, not our own; and indeed many notable uſes ariſe to him from this method: for firſt, thoſe little ſpaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn or reſting place, where 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 paſt 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 thro' theſe pages too faſt: for if he doth, he may probably miſs the ſeeing ſome curious productions of nature, which will be obſerved by the ſlower and more accurate reader. A volume without any ſuch places of reſt reſembles the opening of wilds or ſeas, which tires the eye and fatigues the ſpirit when entered upon.

Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter, but ſo many inſcriptions over the gates of inns (to continue the ſame metaphor) informing the reader what entertainment he is to expect, which, if he likes not, he may travel on to the next: for, in biography, as we are not tied down to an exact concatenation equally with other hiſtorians; ſo a chapter or two (for inſtance this I am now writing) may be often paſſed over without any injury to the whole. And in theſe inſcriptions I have been as faithful as poſſible, not imitating the celebrated Montaigne, who ſometimes promiſes a great deal and produces nothing at all.

There are, beſides theſe more obvious benefits, ſeveral others which our readers enjoy from this art of dividing; though perhaps moſt of them too myſterious to be preſently underſtood by any who are not initiated into the ſcience of authoring. To mention therefore but one which is moſt obvious, it prevents ſpelling the beauty of a book by turning down its leaves, a method otherwiſe neceſſary to thoſe readers, who, (tho' 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 antiquity. 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, that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited piece-meal 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 critics 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 ſimilies, which I think are now generally agreed to become any book but the firſt.

I will diſmiſs this chapter with the following obſervation: that it becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it does a butcher to joint his meat, for ſuch aſſiſtance is of great help to both the reader and the carver. And now having indulged my ſelf a little, I will endeavour to indulge the curioſity of my reader, who is no doubt impatient to know what he will find in the ſubſequent chapters of this book.

CHAP. II.

A ſurpriſing 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 ſaddle-bags being no other than three ſhirts, a pair of ſhoes, and ſome other neceſſaries, which Mrs. Adams, who thought her huſband would want ſhirts more than ſermons on his journey, had carefully provided him.

This diſcovery was now luckily owing to the preſence of Joſeph at the opening the ſaddle-bags; who having hea • d 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 nut-ſhell, ſeeing there was no room for 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? The parſon anſwer'd. 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 te •• ifying ſome ſurprize, cried, Hey! fie, fie upon it; they are not here ſure enough. Ay, they are certainly left behind.

Joſeph was greatly concerned at the uneaſineſs which he apprehended his friend muſt feel from this diſappointment: he begged him to purſue his journey, and promiſed he would himſelf return with the books to him, with the utmoſt expedition. 'No, thank you, child,' anſwered Adams, it ſhall not be ſo. What would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, unleſs I had my diſcourſes with me, which are, ut ita dicum, the ſole cauſe, the aitia 〈◊〉 of my peregrination. 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 inclination which the parſon expreſſed of returning with him; and now the bill was called for, which, on examination, amounted within a ſhilling to the ſum Mr. Adams had in his pocket. Perhaps the reader may wonder how he was able to produce a ſufficient ſum for ſo many days: that he may not be ſurprized therefore, it cannot be unneceſſary to acquaint him, that he had borrowed a guinea of a ſervant belonging to the coach and ſix, who had been formerly one of his pariſhioners, and whoſe maſter, the owner of the coach, then lived within three miles of him: for ſo good was the credit of Mr. Adams, that even Mr. Peter the lady Booby's ſteward would have lent him a guinea with very little ſecurity.

Mr. Adams diſcharged the bill, and they were both ſetting out, having agreed to ride and tie; a method of travelling much uſed by perſons who have but one horſe between them▪ and is thus performed. The two travellers ſet out together, one on horſeback, and the other 〈◊〉 : 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, 〈◊〉 , 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 li • ewiſe arrives at the place of tying. And this is that method of travelling ſo much in uſe among our prudent anceſtors, who knew that horſes had mouths as well as legs, and that they could not uſe the latter, without being at the expence 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 parliament's lady uſed to mount a pillion behind her huſband; and a grave ſerjeant at law condeſcended to amble to Weſtminſter on an eaſy pad, with his clerk kicking 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 extremely puzzled him. The ſum due for horſemeat was twelve ſhillings, (for Adams, who had borrowed the beaſt of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as well as they could feed him) and the caſh in his pocket amounted to ſixpence, (for Adams had divided the laſt ſhilling with him.) Now tho' there have been ſome ingenious perſons who have contrived to pay twelve ſhillings with ſixpence, Joſeph was not one of them. He had never contracted a debt in his life, and was conſequently the leſs ready at an expedient to extricate himſelf. Tow-wouſe was willing to give him credit 'till next time, to which Mrs. Tow-wouſe would probably have conſented (for ſuch was Joſeph's beauty, that it had made ſome impreſſion even on that piece of flint which that good woman wore in her boſom by way of heart.) Joſeph would have found therefore, very likely, the paſſage free, had he not, when he honeſtly diſcovered the nakedneſs of his pockets, pull'd 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 country 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 ſtarving, nor to redeem it from a robber, would I part with this dear piece, anſwered Joſeph. 'What,' (ſays Mrs. Tow-wouſe) I ſuppoſe it was given you by ſome vile trollop, ſome miſs or other; if it had been the preſent of a virtuous woman, you would not have had ſuch a value for it. My huſband is a fool if he parts with the horſe without being paid for him. No, no, I can't part with the horſe indeed till I have the money, cried Tow-wouſe. A reſolution highly commended by a lawyer then in the yard, who declared Mr. Tow-wouſe might juſtify the detainer.

As we cannot therefore at preſent get Mr. 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 paſſage in AEſchylus, 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 backwards, and wondered that he could not 〈◊〉 any ſign of Joſeph. As he left him ready to mount the horſe, he could not apprehend any miſchief had happened, neither could he ſuſpect that he miſſed his way, it being ſo broad and plain: the only reaſon which preſented itſelf to him, was, that he had met with an acquaintance who had prevailed with him to delay ſome time in diſcourſe.

He therefore reſolved to proceed ſlowly forwards, not doubting but that he ſhould be ſhortly overtaken and ſoon came to a large water, which filling the whole road, he ſaw no method of paſſing unleſs by wading through, which he accordingly did up to his middle; but was no ſooner got on the other ſide, than he perceived, if he had looked over the hedge, he would have found a foot-path capable of conducting him without wetting his 〈◊〉 .

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 publick entertainment where he might dry 〈◊〉 clothes, and refreſh himſelf with a pint: but ſeeing not ſuch, for no other reaſon than 〈◊〉 he did not caſt his eyes a hundred yards forwards he ſat himſelf down on a ſtile, and pulled out his AEſchylus.

A fellow paſſing preſently by, Adams aſked him, if he could direct him to an ale-hou • e. 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, bad him f • llow his noſe and be • d—n • d. Adams told him he was a ſaucy jackanapes; upon which the fellow turned about angrily: but perceiving Adams clench his fiſt, he thought proper to go on without taking any farther notice.

A horſeman following immediately after, and being aſked the ſame queſtion, anſwered, Friend, there is one within a ſtone's-throw; I believe you may ſee it before you. Adams, lifting up his eyes, cried, I proteſt and ſo there is: and, thanking his informer, proceeded directly to it.

CHAP. III.

The opinion of two lawyers concerning the ſame gentleman, with Mr. Adams's enquiry into the religion of his 〈◊〉 .

HE had juſt entered the houſe, had called for his pint, and ſeated himſelf, when two horſemen came to the door, and faſtening their horſes to the rails, alighted. They ſaid there was a violent ſhower of rain coming on, which they intended to weather there, and went into a little room by themſelves, not perceiving Mr. Adams.

One of theſe immediately aſked the other, if he had ſeen a more comical adventure a great while? Upon which the other ſaid, he doubted whether by law, the landlord could juſtify detaining the horſe for his corn and hay. But the former anſwered, undoubtedly he can; it is an adjudged caſe, and I have known it tried.

Adams, who tho' he was, as the reader may ſuſpect, a little inclined to forgetfulneſs, never wanted more than a hint to remind him, over-hearing their diſcourſe, immediately ſuggeſted to himſelf that this was his own horſe, and that he had forgot to pay for him, which, upon enquiry, he was certified of by the gentlemen; who added, that the horſe was likely to have more reſt than food, unleſs he was paid for.

The poor parſon reſolved to return preſently to the inn, tho' he knew no more than Joſeph, how to procure his horſe his liberty: he was however prevailed on to ſtay under cover, '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 pa • ed along the road, enquired 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 opprobrio • s terms. The Engliſh language ſcarce affords a ſingle reproachful word, which he did not vent on this occaſion. He charged him likewiſe with many particular facts. He ſaid,—he no more regarded a field of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he had injured ſeveral poor farmers by trampling their corn under his horſe's heels; and if any of them begged him with the utmoſt ſubmiſſion to refrain, his horſe whip was always ready to do them juſtice. He ſaid, that he was the greateſt tyrant to the neighbours in every other inſtance, and would not ſuffer a farmer to keep a gun, tho' he might juſtify it by law; and in his own family ſo cruel a maſter, that he never kept a ſervant a twelvemonth. In his capacity as a juſtice, continued he, he behaves ſo partially, that he commits or acquits juſt as he is in the humour, without any regard to truth or evidence: the devil may carry any one before him for me; I would rather be tried before ſome judges than be a proſecutor before him: if I had an eſtate in the neighbourhood▪ I would ſell it for half the value, rather than live near him.

Adams ſhook his head, and ſaid, he was ſorry ſuch men were ſuffered to proceed with impunity, and that riches could ſet any man above 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, perhaps, that he may have ſometimes purſued his game over a field of corn, but he hath always made the party ample ſatisfaction; that ſo far from tyrannizing over his 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, 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 know 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 gentlemen very well of whom they have been ſpeaking, as I do the gentleman who ſpoke of him. As for riding over other mens corn, to my knowledge he hath not been on horſeback theſe two years. I never heard he did any injury of that kind; and as to making reparation, he is not ſo free of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear of his taking away any man's gun; nay, I know ſeveral who have guns in their houſes: but as for killing game with them, no man is ſtricter; and I believe he would ruin any who did. You heard one of the gentlemen ſay, he was the worſt maſter in the world, and the other that he is the beſt: but for my own part, I know all his ſervants, and never heard from any of them that he was either one or the other.— 'Aye! aye!' ſays Adams. and how doth he behave as a juſtice, pray▪ 'Faith, Friend,' anſwered the hoſt, I queſtion whether he is in the commiſſion: the only cauſe I have heard he hath decided a great while, was one between thoſe very two perſons who juſt went out of this houſe; and I am ſure he determined that juſtly, for I heard the whole matter. 'Which did he decide it in favour of,' quoth Adams? I think I need not anſwer that queſtion, cried the hoſt, after the different characters you have heard of him. It is not my buſineſs to contradict gentlemen, while they are drinking in my houſe; but I knew neither of them ſpoke a ſyllable of truth. 'God forbid!' (ſaid Adams) that men ſhould arrive at ſuch a pitch of wickedneſs to belye the character of their neighbour from a little private affection, or, what is infinitely worſe, a private ſpite. I rather believe we have miſtaken them, and they mean two other perſons: for there are many houſes on the road. 'Why prithee, friend,' cries the hoſt, doſt thou pretend never to have told a lye in thy life? Never a malicious one, I am certain, anſwered Adams; nor with a deſign to injure the reputation of any man living. 'Pugh! malicious; no, no,' replied the hoſt; not malicious with a deſign to hang a man, or bring him into trouble; but ſurely out of love to one's ſelf, one muſt ſpeak better of a friend than an enemy. Out of love to yourſelf! you ſhould confine yourſelf to truth, ſays Adams, for by doing otherwiſe, you injure the nobleſt part of yourſelf, your immortal ſoul. I can hardly believe any man ſuch an ideot to riſque the loſs of that by any trifling gain, and the greateſt gain in this world is but dirt in compariſon of what ſhall be revealed hereafter. Upon which the hoſt, taking up the cup, with a ſmile, drank a health to Hereafter: adding, he was for ſomething preſent. 'Why,' ſays Adams very gravely, 'Do not you believe another world?' To which the hoſt anſwered, yes, he was no atheiſt. And you believe you have an immortal ſoul, cries Adams. He anſwered, God forbid he ſhould not. 'And heaven and hell?' ſaid the parſon.' The hoſt then bid him not to profane; for thoſe were things not to be mentioned nor thought of 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 doth 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?

Whilſt he was going for that purpoſe, a ſtage-coach drove up to the door. The coach-man coming into the houſe, was aſked by the miſtreſs, what paſſengers 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? Her's 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 clergyman; and ſhe had unhappily miſtaken Adams for a perſon travelling to a neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or ſ • me other ſuch operation: for he marched in a ſwinging great, but ſhort, white coat with black buttons, a ſhort wig, and a hat, which ſo far from having a black hatband, had nothing black about it.

Joſeph was now come up, and Mrs. Slipſlop would have had him quit his horſe to the parſon and come himſelf into the coach: but he abſolutely refuſed, ſaving, he thanked heaven he was well enough recovered 〈◊〉 be very able to ride, and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to ride in a coach, while Mr. Adams was on horſeback.

Mrs. Slipſlop would have perſiſted longer, had not a •• dy in the coach put a ſhort end to the diſpute, by refuſing to ſuffer a f • llow in a livery to ride in the ſame coach with herſelf: ſo it was at length agreed that Adams ſhould fill the vacant place in the coach, and Joſeph ſhould proceed on horſeback.

They had not proceeded far before Mrs. Slipſlop addreſſing herſelf to the parſon, ſpoke thus: There hath been a ſtrange alteration in our family, Mr. Adams, ſince Sir Thomas's death. A ſtrange alteration indeed! ſays Adams, as I gather from ſome hints which have dropped from Joſeph. 'Aye,' ſays ſhe, I could never have believed it, but the longer one lives in the world, the more one ſees. So Joſeph hath given you hints.—But of what nature will always remain a perfect ſecret with me, cries the parſon; he forced me to promiſe before he would communicate any thing. I am indeed concerned to find her ladyſhip behave in ſo unbecoming a manner. I always thought her in the main a good lady, and ſhould never have ſuſpected her of thoughts ſo unworthy a Chriſtian, and with a young lad her own ſervant. 'Theſe things are no ſecrets to me, I aſſure you,' cries Slipſlop; and I believe they will be none any where ſhortly: for ever ſince the boy's departure, ſhe hath behaved more like a mad-woman than any thing elſe. Truly, I am heartily concerned, ſays Adams, for ſhe was a good ſort of a lady; indeed I have often wiſhed ſhe had attended a little more conſtantly at the ſervice, but ſhe hath done a great deal of good in the pariſh. 'O Mr. Adams!' ſays Slipſlop, people that don't ſee all, often know nothing. Many things have been given away in our family, I do aſſure you, without her knowledge. I have heard you ſay in the pulpit we ought not to brag: but indeed I can't avoid ſaying, i • 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 controlled: but he loved a quiet life, heavens 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 miſtaken, if ſhe herſelf,' (for he remembered ſhe uſed to commend her miſtreſs and blame her maſter) 'had not formerly been of another opinion.' 'I don't know,' replied ſhe, what I might once think: but now I am confidious 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 people can carry all things with a grave face.

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

The 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.

CHAP. IV.

The hiſtory of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt.

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

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

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

'Pray, Madam,' ſays Adams, 'who was this ſquire Horatio?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had retired far out of the ſight of the company, both maintaining a ſtrict ſilence. At laſt Horatio made a full ſtop, and taking Leonora, who ſtood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he fetched a deep ſigh, and then looking on her eyes with all the tenderneſs imaginable, he cried out in a faltering accent; O Leonora! it is 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 any thing 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 of me—Oh it is that which you muſt part with, to beſtow all the reſt! Can Leonora, or rather will ſhe, doubt longer?—Let me then whiſper it in her ears,—It is your name, Madam. It is by parting with that, by your condeſcenſion to be for ever mine, which muſt at once prevent me from being the moſt miſerable, and will render me the happieſt of mankind.

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

More fool he, cried Slipſlop, it is a ſign he knew very little of our ſect. 'Truly, madam,' ſaid Adams, I think you are in the right, I ſhould have inſiſted to know a piece of her mind, when I had carried matters ſo far. But Mrs. Graveairs 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 paſs'd 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 every thing was in the utmoſt forwardneſs preparative to the putting Horatio in poſſeſſion of all his wiſhes. I will, if you pleaſe, repeat you a letter from each of them which I have got by heart, and which will give you no ſmall idea of their paſſion on both ſides.

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

HORATIO to LEONORA.

HOW vain, moſt adorable creature, is the purſuit of pleaſure in the abſence of an object to which the mind is entirely devoted, unleſs it have ſome relation to that object! I was laſt night condemned to the ſociety of men of wit and learning, which, however agreeable it might have formerly been to me, now only gave me a ſuſpicion that they imputed my abſence in converſation to the true cauſe. For which reaſon, when your engagements forbad me the extatic happineſs of ſeeing you, I am always deſirous to be alone; ſince my ſentiments for Leonora are ſo delicate, that I cannot 〈◊〉 the apprehenſion of another's prying into thoſe delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a lover will ſometimes indulge him, and which I ſuſpect my eyes then betray. To fear this diſcovery of our thoughts, may perhaps appear too ridiculous a nicety to minds not ſuſceptible of all the tenderneſſes of this delicate paſſion. And ſurely we ſhall ſuſpect there are few ſuch, when we conſider that it requires every human virtue, to exert itſelf in its full extent. Since the beloved, whoſe happineſs it ultimately reſpects, may give us charming opportunities of being brave in her defence, generous to her wants, compaſſionate to her afflictions, grateful to her kindneſs; and, in the ſame manner, of exerciſing every other virtue, which he who would not do to any degree, and that with the utmoſt rapture, can never deſerve the name of a lover: It is therefore with the view to the delicate modeſty of your mind that I cultivate is 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 falſhood of a common aſſertion, that the greateſt human happineſs conſiſts in hope? A doctrine which no perſon had ever ſtronger reaſon to believe than myſelf at preſent, ſince none ever taſted ſuch bliſs as fires my boſom with the thoughts of ſpending my future days with ſuch a companion, and that every action of my life will have the glorious ſatisfaction of conducing to your happineſs.

This letter was written by a young lady on reading the former. LEONORA to HORATIO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moſt divine creature,

THE wound which I fear you have heard I received from my rival, is not like to be ſo fatal as thoſe ſhot into my heart, which have been fired from your eyes, tout-brilliant. Thoſe are the only cannons by which I am to fall: for me ſurgeon gives me hopes of been ſoon able to attend your Ruelle; till when, unleſs you would do me an honour which I have ſcarce the Hardieſſe to think of, your abſence will be the greateſt anguiſh can be felt by,

Madam, Av •• t • ute le reſpecte in the world, Your moſt obedient, moſt abſolute Devote, BELLARMINE.

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

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

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

CHAP. V.

A dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn where the company dined; with its bloody conſequences to Mr. Adams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The traveller, addreſſing himſelf to Mrs. Graveairs, deſired her not to be frightened; for here had been only a little boxing, which he ſaid to their diſgracia the Engliſh were accuſtomata to: adding, it muſt be however a ſight ſomewhat ſtrange to him, who was juſt come from Italy, the Italians not being addicted to the cuffardo, but b • ſtonza, ſays he. He then went up to Adams, and telling him he looked like the ghoſt of Othello, bid him not ſhake his gory locks at him, for he could not ſay he did it. Adams very innocently anſwered, Sir, I am far from accuſing you. He then returned to the lady, and cried, I find the bloody gentleman is uno inſipido del nu • lo ſenſo Dammata di me, if I have ſeen ſuch a ſpectaculo in my way from Viterbo.

One of the gentlemen having learned from the hoſt the occaſion of this buſtle, and being aſſured by him that Adams had ſtruck the firſt blow, whiſpered in his ear: he'd warrant he would recover. 'Recover! maſter,' ſaid the hoſt ſmiling: Yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying with a blow or two neither; I am not ſuch a chicken as that. Pugh! ſaid the gentleman, I mean you will recover damages in that action which undoubtedly you intend to bring as ſoon as a writ can be returned from London; for you look like a man of too much ſpirit and courage to ſuffer any one to beat you without bringing your action againſt him: he muſt be a ſcandalous fellow indeed, who would put up a drubbing whilſt the law is open to revenge it; beſides he hath drawn blood from you and ſpoiled your coat; and the jury will give damages for that too. An excellent new coat upon my word, and now not worth a ſhilling!

I don't care, continued he, to intermeddle in theſe caſes: but you have a right to my evidence; and if I am ſworn, I muſt ſpeak the truth. I ſaw you ſprawling on the floor, and the blood guſhing from your noſtrils. You may take your own opinion; but was I in your circumſtances, every drop of my blood ſhould convey an ounce of gold into my pocket: remember I don't adviſe you to go to law; but if your jury were chriſtians, they muſt give ſwinging damages. That's all.' 'Maſter,' cry'd the hoſt, ſcratching his head, I have no ſtomach to law, I thank you. I have ſeen enough of that in the pariſh, where two of my neighbours have been at law about a houſe, till they have both lawed themſelves into a goal. At which word he turned about, and began to enquire again after his hog's puddings; nor would it probably have been a ſufficient excuſe for his wife, that ſhe ſpilt them in his defence, had not ſome awe of the company, eſpecially of the Italian traveller, who was a perſon of great dignity, withheld his rage. Whilſt one of the above mentioned gentlemen was employed, as we have ſeen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was no leſs hearty on the ſide of Mr. Adams, whom he adviſed to bring his action immediately. He ſaid the aſſault of the wi • e was in law the aſſault of the huſband; for they were but one perſon; and he was liable to pay damages, which he ſaid muſt be conſiderable, where ſo bloody a diſpoſition appeared. Adams anſwered, if it was true that they were but one perſon, he had aſſaulted the wife; for he was ſorry to own he had ſtruck the huſband the firſt blow. 'I am ſorry you own it too,' cries the gentleman; for it could not poſſibly appear to the court: for here was no evidence preſent but the lame man in the chair, whom I ſuppoſe to be your friend, and would conſequently ſay nothing but what made for you. 'How, Sir,' ſays Adams, do you take me for a villain, who would proſecute revenge in cold blood, and uſe unjuſtifiable means to obtain it? If you knew me and my order, I ſhould think you affronted both. At the word order, the gentleman ſtared, (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of knights) and turning haſtily about, ſaid, Every man knew his own buſineſs.

Matters being now compoſed, the company retired to their ſeveral apartments, the two gentlemen congratulating each other on the ſucceſs of their good offices in procuring a perfect reconciliation between the contending parties; and the traveller went to his repaſt, crying, as the Italian poet ſays, Je voi very well que tuta e • pace, So ſend up Dinner, good Bonifa • e.

The coachman began now to grow importunate with his paſſengers, whoſe entrance into the coach was retarded by Miſs Grave-airs, inſiſting againſt the remonſtrance of all the reſt, that ſhe would not admit a footman into the coach: for poor Joſeph was too lame to mount a horſe. A young lady, who was, as it ſeems, an earl's granddaughter, begged it with almoſt tears in her eyes. Mr. Adams prayed, and Mrs. Slipſlop ſcolded, but all to no purpoſe. She ſaid ſhe would not demean herſelf to ride with a footman: that there were waggons on the road: that if the maſter of the coach deſired it, ſhe would pay for two places: but would ſuffer no ſuch fellow to come in. 'Madam,' ſays Slipſlop, I am ſure no one can refuſe another coming into the ſtage-coach. 'I don't know, Madam,' ſays the lady, I am not much uſed to ſtage-coaches, I ſeldom travel in them. 'That may be, Madam,' replied Slipſlop, very good people do, and ſome people's betters, for aught I know. Miſs Grave-airs ſaid, ſome folks might ſometimes give their tongues a liberty, to ſome people that were their betters, which did not become them; for her part, ſhe was not uſed to converſe with ſervants. Slipſlop returned, Some people kept no ſervants to converſe with; for her part, ſhe thanked heaven ſhe lived in a family where there were great many; and had more under her own command, than any paltry little gentlewoman in the kingdom. Miſs Grave-airs cried, ſhe believed her miſtreſs would not encourage ſuch ſaucineſs to her betters. 'My betters,' ſays Slipſlop, who is my betters, pray? 'I am your betters,' anſwered Miſs Grave-airs, 'and I'll acquaint your miſtreſs.'—At which Mrs. Slipſlop laughed aloud, and told her, her lady was one of the great gentry, and ſuch little paltry 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 do? She preſently anſwered, O! papa, I am glad you have overtaken me. 'So am I,' anſwered he: for one of our coaches is juſt at hand: and there being room for you in it, you ſhall go no farther in the ſtage, unleſs you deſire it. How can you imagine I ſhould deſire it? ſays ſhe; ſo bidding Slipſlop ride with her fellow, if ſhe pleaſed, ſhe took her father by the hand, who was juſt alighted, and walked with him into a room.

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

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

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

CHAP. VI.

Concluſion of the unfortunate jilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

SIR,

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

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

To this gentleman came Bellarmine on the errand I have mentioned. His perſon, his equigage, his family, and his eſtate, ſeemed to the father to make him an advantageous match for his daughter; he therefore very readily accepted his propoſals: but when Bellarmine imagined the principal affair concluded, and began to open the accidental 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 〈◊〉 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 ſpareſt the rod, ſpoileth the child: but added he might likewiſe aſſerted, that he that ſpareſt the purſe ſaveth • he child. He then ran into a diſcourſe on the extravagance of the youth of the age; whence he launched into a diſſertation on horſes, and came at length to commend thoſe Bellarmine drove. That fine gentleman, who, at another ſeaſon would have been well enough pleaſed to dwell a little on that ſubject, was now very eager to reſume the circumſtance of fortune. He ſaid, he had a very high value for the young lady, and would receive her with leſs than he would any other whatever; but that even his love to her made ſome regard to worldly matters neceſſary; for it would be a moſt diſtracting ſight for him to ſee her, when he had the honour to be her huſband, in leſs than a coach and ſix. The old gentleman anſwered. Four will do, four will do; and then took a turn from horſes to extravagance, and from extravagance to horſes, till he came round to the equipage again, whither he was no ſooner arrived, than Bellarmine brought him back to the point; but all to no purpoſe; he made his eſcape from that ſubject in a minute; till at laſt the lover declared, that in the preſent ſituation of his affairs it was impoſſible for him, though he loved Leonora more than tout le monde, to marry her without any fortune. To which the father anſwered, he was ſorry then his daughter muſt loſe ſo valuable a match; that if he had an inclination at preſent, it was not in his power to advance a ſhilling; that he had had great loſſes, and been at great expences on projects; which, though he had great expectation from them, had yet produced him nothing: that he did not know what might happen hereafter, as on the birth of a ſon, or ſuch accident; but he would make no promiſe, or enter into any article: for he would not break his vow for all the daughters in the world.

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

But as ſoon as he arrived at his home, he preſently diſpatched a meſſenger with the following epiſtle to Leonora.

Adorable and Charmante,

I AM ſorry to have the honour to tell you I am not the heureux perſon deſtined for your divine arms. Your papa hath told me ſo with a politeſſe not often ſeen on this ſide Paris. You may perhaps gueſs hiſ manner of refuſing me—Ah mon dieu! You will certainly believe me, Madam, incapable myſelf of delivering th • s triſte meſſage, which I intend to try the French air to cure the conſequences of—A jamais! Coeur! Ange!—Au diable!—If your papa obliges you to a marriage, I hope we ſhall ſee you at Paris, till when the wind that blows from thence, will be the warmeſt dans le monde! for it will conſiſt almoſt entirely of my ſighs. Adieu, ma princeſſe! Ah l'amour!

BELLARMINE.

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

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

Why, I muſt own, ſays Slipſlop, the gentleman was a little falſe-hearted: but how ſumever it was hard to have two lovers, and get never a huſband at all—But pray Madam what became of Our-a • ho?

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

CHAP. VII.

A very ſhort chapter, in which parſon Adams 〈◊〉 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 two pence he hath left him behind at the inn. Indeed, true it is, the parſon had exhibited a freſh inſtance of his abſence of mind: for he was ſo pleaſed with having got Joſeph into the coach, that he never once thought of the beaſt in the ſtable; and finding his legs as nimble as he deſired, he ſallied out brandiſhing a crabſtick, and had kept on before the coach, mending and ſlackening his pace occaſionally, ſo that he had never been much more or leſs than a quarter of a mile diſtant from it.

Mrs. Slipſlop deſired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted, but in vain: for the faſte • 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 grey-hound; and giving the parſon two or three hearty curſes, he cry'd, ſoftly boys, to his horſes, which the civil beaſts immediately obeyed.

But we will be more courteous to our reader than he was to Mrs. Slipſlop; and leaving the coach and its company to purſue their journey, we will carry our reader on after parſon Adams, who ſtretched forwards without once looking behind him; till having left the coach full three miles in his rear, he came to a place, where by keeping the extreameſt tract 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 kind of bare poſſibilities; and travelling in it about three miles over the plain, he arriv ••• at the ſummit of a hill, whence, looking a great way backwards, and perceiving no coach in ſight he ſat himſelf down on the turf, and pulling out his AEſchylus, ▪determined to wait there for its arrival.

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps then the game is not very plenty hereabouts, cries Adams. 'No, Sir,' ſaid the gentleman; the ſoldiers, who are quartered in the neighbourhood, have killed it all. It is very probable, cries Adams, for ſhooting is their profeſſion. 'Ay, ſhooting th • 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 othergueſs 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 hang'd, d—n me. Which words he ſpoke with ſo violent a geſture, ſo loud a voice, ſo ſtrong an accent, and ſo fierce a countenance, that he might have frighten'd a captain of trained bands at the head of his company; but Mr. Adams was not greatly ſubject to fears: he told him intrepidly, that he very much approved his virtue, but diſliked his ſwearing, and begged him not to addict himſelf to ſo bad a cuſtom, without which he ſaid he might fight as bravely as Achilles did. Indeed he was charmed with this diſcourſe; he told the gentleman he would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generous way of thinking; that if he pleaſed to ſit down, he ſhould be greatly delighted to commune with him: for tho' he was a clergyman, he would himſelf be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his life for his country.

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

CHAP. VIII.

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

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

CHAP. IX.

In which the gentleman deſcants on bravery and heroic virtue, till an unlucky accident puts an end to the diſcourſe.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAP. X.

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

THE ſilence of Adams, added to the darkneſs of the night and lonelineſs of the place, ſtruck dreadful apprehenſions 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 ri •• er, in order to rifle her himſelf. Such were the ſuſpicions ſhe drew from his ſilence: but indeed, they were illgrounded. He ſtood over his vanquiſhed enemy, wiſely weighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of the two methods of proceeding mentioned in the laſt chapter, his judgment ſometimes inclining to the one, and ſometimes to the other; for both ſeemed to him ſo equally adviſeable, and ſo equally dangerous, that probably he would have ended his days, at leaſt two or three of them, on that very ſpot, before he had taken any reſolution: At length he lifted up his eyes, and ſpied a light at a diſtance, to which he inſtantly addreſſed himſelf with Heus tu, Traveller, hues tu! He preſently heard ſeveral voices, and perceived the light approaching toward him. The perſons who attended the light began ſome to laugh, others to ſing, and others to halloo, at which the woman teſtified ſome fear, (for ſhe had concealed her ſuſpicions of the parſon himſelf,) but Adams ſaid, Be of good cheer, damſel, and repoſe thy truſt in the ſame Providence which hath hitherto protected thee, and never will forſake the innocent. Theſe people who now approached were no other, reader, than a ſet of young fellows, who came to theſe buſhes in purſuit of a diverſion which they call Bird-batting. This, if thou art ignorant of it (as perhaps if thou haſt never travelled beyond Kenſington, Iſlington, Hackney, or the Borough, thou may'ſt be) I will inform thee, is performed by holding a large clap-net before a lanthorn, and at the ſame time beating the buſhes; for the birds, when they are diſturbed from their places of reſt, or rooſt, immediately make to the light, and ſo are inticed within the net. Adams immediately told them what happened, and deſired them to hold the lanthorn to the face of the man on the ground, for he feared he had ſmote him fatally. But, indeed his fears were frivolous; for the f • llow, tho' he had been ſtunned by the laſt blow he received, had long ſince recovered his ſenſes, and finding himſelf quit of Adams, had liſtened attentively to the diſcourſe between him and the young woman; for whoſe departure he had patiently waited, that he might likewiſe withdraw himſelf, having no longer hopes of ſucceeding in his deſires, which were moreover almoſt as well cooled by Mr. Adams, as they could have been by the young woman herſelf, had he obtained his utmoſt wiſh.

This fellow, who had a readineſs at improving any 〈◊〉 , thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man; and accordingly the moment the candle was held to his face, he leapt up, and laying hold on Adams, cried out, No, villain, I am not dead, though you and your wicked whore might well think me ſo, after the barbarous cruelties you have exerciſed on me. Gentlemen, ſaid he, you are luckily come to the aſſiſtance of a poor traveller, who would otherwiſe have been robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman, who led me hither out of my way from the highroad, and both falling on me have uſed me as you ſee. Adams was going to anſwer, when one of the young fellows cry'd, d—n them, let's carry them both before the juſtice. The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his voice, but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him, and one holding the lanthorn to his face, they all agreed, he had the moſt villainous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney's clerk who was one of the company declared, he was ſure he had remembered him at the bar. As to the woman, her hair was diſhevelled in the ſtruggle: and her noſe had bled, ſo that they could not perceive whether ſhe was handſome or ugly, but they ſaid her fright plainly diſcovered her guilt. And ſearching her pockets, as they did thoſe of Adams, for money, which the fellow ſaid he had loſt, they found in her pocket a purſe with ſome gold in it, which abundantly convinced them, eſpecially as the fellow offered to ſwear to it. Mr. Adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny about him. This the clerk ſaid, 'was a great piece of preſumption that he was an • ld offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman.' To which all the reſt readily aſſented.

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

Whilſt they were on their way, the clerk informed the reſt, that this adventure would prove, a very beneficial one: for that they would be all entitled to their proportions of 801. for apprehending the robbers. This occaſioned a contention concerning the parts which they had ſeverally borne in taking them; one inſiſting, he ought to have the greateſt ſhare; for he had firſt laid his hands on Adams; another claiming a ſuperior part, for having firſt held the lanthorn to the man's face on the ground, by which, he ſaid, the whole was diſcover'd. 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 ſeem'd 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 charge; but hoped they would allow him ſomething: he deſired them to conſider, that they had aſſigned their nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in laying hold of the robbers, (for ſo theſe innocent people were called;) that if he had not occupied the nets, ſome other muſt: concluding however, that he ſhould be contented with the ſmalleſt ſhare imaginable, and ſhould think that rather their bounty than his merit. But they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever, the clerk particularly ſwearing, if they gave him a ſhilling, they might do what they pleaſed with the reſt; for he would not concern himſelf with the affair. This contention was ſo hot, and ſo totally engaged the attention of all the parties, that a dextrous nimble thief, had he been in Mr. Adams's ſituation, would have taken care to have given the juſtice no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art of a Shepherd to eſcape, eſpecially as the darkneſs of the night would have ſo much befriended him: but Adams truſted rather to his innocence than his heels, and without thinking of flight, which was eaſy, or reſiſtance (which was impoſſible, as there were ſix luſty young fellows, beſides the villain himſelf, preſent) he walked with perfect reſignation the way they thought proper to conduct him.

Adams frequently vented himſelf in ejaculations during their journey; at laſt poor Joſeph Andrews occurring to his mind, he could not refrain ſighing forth his name, which being heard by his companion in affliction, ſhe cried, with ſome vehemence, Sure I ſhould know that voice; you cannot certainly, Sir, be Abraham Adams? Indeed, damſel, ſays he, that is my name; there is ſomething alſo in your voice, which perſuades me I have heard it before. La, Sir, ſays ſhe, don't you remember poor Fanny? 'How, Fanny!' anſwered Adams, indeed I very well remember you; what can have brought you hither? I have told you, Sir, replied ſhe, I was travelling towards London; but I thought you mentioned Joſeph Andrews, pray what is become of him? 'I left him, Child, this afternoon,' ſaid Adams, in the ſtage-coach, in his way towards our pariſh, whither he is going to ſee you. To ſee me! La, Sir, anſwered Fanny, ſure you jeer me; what ſhould he be going to ſee me for? 'Can you aſk that?' replied Adams. I hope Fanny you are not inconſtant; I aſſure you he deſerves much better of you. La! 'Mr. Adams,' ſaid ſhe, what is Mr. Joſeph to me? I am ſure I never had any thing to ſay to him, but as one fellow-ſervant might to another. I am ſorry to hear this, ſaid Adams; a virtuous paſſion for a young man, is what no woman need be aſhamed of. You either do not tell me truth, or you are falſe to a very worthy man. Adams then told her what had happened at the inn, to which ſhe liſtened very attentively; and a ſigh often eſcaped from her, notwithſtanding her utmoſt endeavours to the contrary, nor could ſhe prevent herſelf from aſking a thouſand queſtions, which would have aſſured any one but Adams, who never • aw farther into people than they deſired to let him, of the truth of 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 ſurpriſe ſuch of our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other ſex, we ſhall not give ourſelves any trouble to vindicate.

CHAP. XI.

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

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

The juſtice now being in the height of his mirth and his cups, bethought himſelf of the priſoners; and telling his company he believed they ſhould have good ſport in their examination, he ordered them into his preſence. They had no ſooner entered the room, than he began to revile them, ſaying, that robberies on the highway were now grown ſo frequent, that people could not ſleep ſafely in their beds, and aſſured them they both ſhould be made examples of at the enſuing aſſizes. After he had gone on ſome time in this manner, he was reminded by his clerk, that it would be proper to take the depoſition of the witneſſes againſt them: which he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the mean time. Whilſt the clerk was employed in writing down the depoſition of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the juſtice employed himſelf in cracking jeſts on poor Fanny, in which he was ſeconded by all the company at table. One aſked, whether ſhe was to be indicted for a highwayman? Another whiſpered in her ear, if ſhe had not provided herſelf a great belly, he was at her ſervice. A third ſaid, he warranted ſhe was a relation of Turpin. To which one of the company, a great wit, ſhaking his head, and then his ſides, anſwered, he believed ſhe was nearer related to Turpis; at which there was an univerſal laugh. They were proceeding thus with this poor girl, when ſomebody ſmoaking the caſſock peeping from under the coat of Adams, cried out, 'What have we here, a parſon?' 'How, ſirrah, ſays the juſtice, do you go robbing in the dreſs of a clergyman? let me tell you, your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy. 'Yes,' ſaid the witty fellow, he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be exalted above the heads of the people; at which there was a ſecond laugh. And now the witty ſpark, ſeeing his jokes take, began to riſe in ſpirits; and turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verſes, and provoking him by giving the firſt blow, he repeated, Molle meum levibus cord eſt vilebile telis. Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told him, he deſerved ſcourging for his pronunciation. The witty fellow anſwered, What do you deſerve, doctor, for not been able to anſwer the firſt time? Why I'll give you one, 〈◊〉 blockhead—with and▪ Si licet ut fulvum ſpectatur in ignibus haurum.

What can'ſt not with an M neither? Thou art a pretty fellow for a parſon.—Why did'ſt 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 freſh man: for nobody that knew you, would engage with you. I have forgot thoſe things now, cried the wit. I believe I could have done pretty well formerly. —Let's ſee, what did I end with—an M again—ay— 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 verſe runs thus: Ut ſunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo virorum. 'I'll hold thee a guinea of that,' ſaid the wit, throwing the money on the table.—And I'll go your halves, cries the other. 'Done.' anſwered Adams; but upon applying to his pocket, he was forced to retract, and own he had no money about him; which ſet them all a laughing, and confirmed the triumph of his adverſary, which was not moderate, any more than the approbation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he muſt go a little longer to ſchool, before he attempted to attack that 〈◊◊〉 Lati •

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

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

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

One of the company having looked ſtedfaſtly 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 ar • you there? I believe you will inform his worſhip I am innocent. 'I can indeed ſay,' replied the ſquire, that I am very much ſurprized to ſee you in this ſituation; and then addreſſing himſelf to the juſtice, he ſaid, Sir, I aſſure you, Mr. Adams is a clergyman as he appears, and a gentleman of a very good character. I wiſh you would enquire a little farther into this affair; for I am convinced of his innocence. 'Nay,' ſays the juſtice, if he is a gentleman, and you are ſure he is innocent, I don't deſire to commit him, not I; I will commit the woman by herſelf, and take your bail for the gentleman; look into the book, clerk, and ſee how it is to take bail; come—and make the mittimus for the woman as faſt as you can. 'Sir,' cries Adams, I aſſure you ſhe is as innocent as myſelf. 'Perhaps,' ſaid the ſquire, there may be ſome miſtake;—pray let us hear Mr. Adams's relation. With all my heart, anſwered the juſtice, and give the gentleman a glaſs to whet his whiſtle before he begins. I know how to behave myſelf to gentlemen as well as another. No body can ſay I have committed a gentleman, ſince I have been in the commiſſion. Adams then began the narrative, in which, though he was very prolix, he was uni • terrupted, unleſs by ſeveral hums and ha's of the juſtice, and his deſire to repeat thoſe parts which ſeemed to him moſt material. When he had finiſhed, the juſtice, who, on what the ſquire had ſaid, believed every ſyllable of his ſtory on his bare affirmation, notwithſtanding the depoſitions on oath to the contrary, began to let looſe ſeveral rogues and raſcals againſt the witneſs, whom he ordered to ſtand forth, but in vain: the ſaid witneſs, long ſin • finding what turn matters were like to take, 〈◊〉 privily withdrawn, without attending the iſſue. The juſtice now flew into a violent paſſion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocent fellows, who had been impoſed on as well as himſelf. He ſwore, they had beſt find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before him within two days, or he would bind them all over to their good behaviour. They all promiſed to uſe their beſt endeavours to that purpoſe, and were diſmiſſed. Then the juſtice inſiſted, that Mr. Adams ſhould ſit down and take a glaſs with him; and the parſon of the pariſh delivered him back the manuſcript without ſaying a word; nor would Adams, who plainly diſcerned his ignorance, expoſe it. As for Fanny, ſhe was, at her own requeſt, recommended to the care of a maid-ſervant of the houſe, who helped her to new dreſs, and clean herſelf.

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

Chap. XII.

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

ADAMS, Fanny, and the guide, ſet out together, about one in the morning, the moon being 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 ale-houſe; where Adams immediately procured himſelf a good fire, a toaſt and ale, and a pipe, and began to ſmoke with great content, utterly forgetting every thing that had happened.

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

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

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

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 ſentenc'd to die, May eſcape, and leave juſtice behind; From his country perhaps he may fly: But O can he fly from his mind! O rapture! unthought of before, To be thus of Chloe poſſeſt; 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 lov'd charms? Yet what he beheld, the fond boy More eagerly wiſh'd in his arms. How can it thy dear image be, Which fills thus my boſom with woe? Can aught bear reſemblance to thee, Which grief and not joy can beſtow? This counterfeit ſnatch from my heart, Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave, Tho' mortal▪ will prove the fell ſmart, I then ſhall find reſt in my grave. Ah! ſee the dear nymph o'er the plain Come ſmiling and tripping along, A thouſand loves dance in her train; The graces around her all throng. To meet her ſoft Zephyrus flies, And wafts all the ſweets from the flow'rs; Ah rogue! whilſt he kiſſes her eyes, More ſweets from her breath be devours. My ſoul, whilſt I gaze, is on fire, But her looks were ſo tender and kind; My hope almoſt reach'd my deſire, And left lame deſpair far behind. Tranſported with madneſs I flew, And eagerly ſeiz'd on my bliſs; Her boſom but half ſhe withdrew, But half ſhe refus'd my fond kiſs. Advances like theſe made me bold, I whiſper'd her, Love—we're alone, The reſt let immortals unfold, No language can tell but their own. Ah Chloe, expiring, I cry'd, How long I thy cruelty bore? Ah! Strephon, ſhe bluſhing reply'd. You ne'er were ſo preſſing before.

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

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

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

CHAP. XIII.

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

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

Be it known then, that the human ſpecies are divided into two ſorts of people, to wit, High people and Low people. As by high people I would not be underſtood to mean perſons literally born higher in their dimenſions than the reſt of the ſpecies, nor metaphorically thoſe of exalted characters or abilities; ſo by low people I cannot be conſtrued to intend the reverſe. High people ſignify no other than people of faſhion, and low people thoſe of no faſhion. Now this word Faſhion hath by long uſe loſt its original meaning, from which at preſent it gives us a very different idea; for I am deceived, if by perſons of faſhion, we do not generally include a conception of birth and accompliſhments ſuperior to the herd of mankind; whereas in reality, nothing more was originally meant by a perſon of faſhion, than a perſon who dreſt himſelf in the faſhion of the times; and the word really and truly ſignifies no more at this day. Now the world being thus divided into people of faſhion, and people of no faſhion, a fierce con • ention 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 conſtant poſſeſſion of all hops, fairs, revels, &c. Two places have been agreed to be divided between them, namely the church and the playhouſe; where they ſegregate themſelves from each other in a remarkable manner: for as the people of faſhion exalt themſelves at church over the heads of the people of no faſhion: ſo in the playhouſe they abaſe themſelves in the ſame degree under their feet. This diſtinction I have never met with any one able to account for: it is ſufficient, that ſo far from looking on each other as brethren in the Chriſtian language▪ they ſeem ſcarce to regard each other as of the ſame ſpecies. This the terms, ſtrange perſons, people one does not know, the creature, wretches, beaſts, brutes, and many other appellations evidently demonſtrate; which Mrs. Slipſlop having often heard her miſtreſs uſe, thought ſhe had alſo a right to uſe in her turn: and, perhaps, ſhe was not miſtaken; for theſe two parties eſpecially thoſe bordering nearly on each other, to wit, the loweſt of the high, and the higheſt of the low, often change their parties according to place and time; for thoſe who are people of faſhion in one place, are often people of no faſhion in another. And with regard to time, it may not be unpleaſant to ſurvey the picture of dependance like a kind of ladder: as for inſtance; early in the morning ariſes the poſtilion, or ſome other boy which great families, no more than great ſhips, are without, and falls to bruſhing the cloaths, and cleaning the ſhoes of John the footman, who being dreſt himſelf, applies his hand 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 afternoon. 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 • eemed to me neceſſary to vindicate the 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 tomorrow; all which it is difficult to account for, otherwiſe than I have here endeavoured: and perhaps, if the gods, according to the opinion of ſome, made 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, imagining Mrs. Slipſlop's memory had been much worſe than it really was, followed her into the next room, crying out, Madam Slipſlop, here is one of your old acquaintance: do but ſee what a fine woman ſhe is grown ſince ſhe left 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 the character of Fanny. He proteſted, • e believed 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 ſtrengthened. Adams ſaid, he was very far from being aſhamed of what he had done; ſhe replied, want of ſhame was not the currycuriſtic of a clergyman. This dialogue might have probably grown warmer, • ad not Joſeph opportunely entered the room, 〈◊〉 leave of Madam Slipſlop to introduce Fanny: but ſhe poſitively refuſed to admit any ſuch trollops; and told him, ſhe would have been burnt, before ſhe would have ſuffered him to get into a chaiſe with her, if ſhe had once reſpected him of having his ſluts waylaid on the road for him; adding, that Mr. Adams acted a very pretty part, and ſhe did not doubt but to ſee him a biſhop. He made the beſt bow he could, and cried out, I thank you, madam, for that right reverend appellation, which I ſhall take all honeſt means to deſerve. Very honeſt means, returned ſhe with a ſneer, to bring good people together. At which words Adams took two or three ſtrides acroſs the room, when the coachman came to inform Mrs. Slipſlop, that the ſtorm was over, and the moon ſhone very bright. She then ſent for Joſeph, who was ſitting without with his Fanny, and would have had him gone with her: but he peremptorily refuſed to leave Fanny behind; which threw the good woman into a violent rage. She ſaid, ſhe would inform her lady what doings were carrying on, and did not doubt but ſhe would rid the pariſh of all ſuch people; and concluded a long ſpeech full of bitterneſs and very hard words, with ſome reflections on the clergy, not decent to repeat: at laſt, finding Joſeph unmoveable, ſhe flung herſelf into the chaiſe, caſting a look at Fanny as ſhe went, not unlike that which Cleopatra gives Octavia in the play. To ſay the truth, ſhe was moſt diſagreeably diſappointed by the preſence of Fanny; ſhe had, from her firſt ſeeing Joſeph at the inn, conceived hopes of ſomething which might have been accompliſhed at an ale-houſe 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 Slipſlop; 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 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 employed 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, tho' we had as many tongues as Homer deſired to deſcribe it with, and which all true lovers will repreſent to their own minds without the leaſt aſſiſtance from us.

Let it ſuffice then to ſay, that Fanny, after a thouſand entreaties, at laſt gave up her whole ſoul to Joſeph, and almoſt fainting in his arms, with a ſigh infinitely ſofter and ſweeter too, than any Arabian breeze, ſhe whiſpered to his lips, which were then cloſe to hers, O Joſeph, you have won me; I will be yours for ever. Joſeph having thanked her on his knees, and embraced her with 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 together. Adams rebuked him for his requeſt, and told him, he would by no means conſent to any thing contrary to the forms of the church: that he had no licence, nor indeed would he adviſe him to obtain one. That the church had preſcribed a form, namely the publication of banns, with which all good chriſtians ought to comply, and to the omiſſion of which he attributed the many miſeries which befel great folks in marriage: concluding, As many as are joined together otherwiſe than G—'s word doth allow, are not joined together by G—, neither is their matrimony 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, propoſed to walk forward; 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 probability 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: Mr. Adams and company Dr. 0 7 0 In Mr. Adams's Pocket, 0 0 6½ In Mr. Joſeph's, 0 0 0 In Mrs. Fanny's, 0 0 0 Balance, 0 6 5½ 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 anſwered in the affirmative. Adams then ſnapping his fingers returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out, Heureka, Heureka; which not being underſtood, he told them in plain Engliſh, they need give themſelves no trouble; for he had a brother in the pariſh, who would defray the reckoning, and that he would juſt ſtep to his houſe and fetch the money, and return to them immediately.

CHAP. XIV.

An interview between parſon Adams and parſon Trulliber.

PARSON Adams came to the houſe of Parſon Trulliber, whom he found ſtript into his waiſtcoat, with an apron on, and a pale in his hand, juſt come from ſerving his hogs; for Mr. Trulliber was a parſon on Sundays, but all the other ſix might more properly be called a farmer. He occupied a ſmall piece of land of his own, beſides which he rented a conſiderable deal more. His wife milked his cows, managed his dairy, and followed the markets with butter and eggs. The hogs • ell chiefly to his care, which he carefully waited on at home, and attended to fairs; on which occaſion he was liable to many jokes, his own ſize being with much ale rendered little inferior to that of the beaſts he ſold. He was indeed one of the largeſt men you ſhould ſee, and could have acted the part of Sir John Falſtaff without ſtuffing. Add to this, that the rotundity of his belly was conſiderably increaſed by the ſhortneſs of his ſtature, his ſhadow aſcending very near as far in height when he lay on his back, as when he ſtood on his legs. His voice was loud and hoarſe, and his accent extremely broad; to complete the whole, he had a ſtatelineſs in his gait, when he walked, not unlike that of a gooſe, only he ſtalked ſlower.

Mr. Trulliber being informed that ſomebody wanted to ſpeak with him, immediately ſlipt off his apron, and cloathed himſelf in an old nightgown, being the dreſs in which he always ſaw his company at home. His wife, who informed of Mr. Adams's arrival, had made a ſmall miſtake; for ſhe had told her huſband, ſhe believed here was a man come for ſome of his hogs. This ſuppoſition made Mr. Trulliber haſten with the utmoſt expedition to attend his gueſt. He no ſooner ſaw Adams, than not in the leaſt doubting the cauſe of his errand to be what his wife had imagined, he told him, he was come in very good time; that he expected a dealer that very afternoon; and added, they were all pure and fat, and upwards of 20 ſcore a piece. Adams anſwered, 'he believed he did not know him.' Yes, yes,' cried Trulliber, I have ſeen you often at fair; why, we have dealt before now, mun, I warrant you; yes, yes, cries he, I remember thy face very well, but won't mention a word more till you have ſeen them, tho' I have never ſold thee a flitch of ſuch bacon as is now in the ſtye. Upon which he laid violent hands on Adams, and dragged him into the hogs-ſtye, which was indeed but two ſteps from his parlour-window. They were no ſooner arrived there than he cry'd out, Do but handle them; ſtep in, friend, art welcome to handle them, whether doſt buy or no. A • which words opening the gate, he puſhed Adams into the pig-ſtye, inſiſting on it, that he ſhould handle them before he would talk one word with him. Adams, whoſe natural complaiſance was beyond any artificial, was obliged to comply before he was ſuffered to explain himſelf; and laying hold on one of their tails, the unruly beaſt gave ſuch a ſudden ſpring, that he threw poor Adams all along in the mire. Trulliber, inſtead of aſſiſting him to get up, burſt into a laughter, and entering the ſtye, ſaid to Adams, with ſome contempt▪ Why, doſt not know how to handle a hog? and was going to lay hold of one himſelf; but Adams, who thought he had carried his complaiſance far enough, was no ſooner on his legs, than he eſcaped out of the reach of the animals, and cried out, Nihil habeo cum porcis: I am a clergyman, Sir, and am not come to buy hogs. Trulliber anſwered, he was ſorry for the miſtake; but that he muſt blame his wife; adding, ſhe was a fool, and always committed blunders. He then deſired him to walk in and clean himſelf; that he would only faſten up the ſtye and follow him. Adams deſired leave to dry his great coat, wig and hat, by the fire, which Trulliber granted. Mrs. Trulliber would have brought him a baſon of water to waſh his face; but her huſband bid her be quiet, like a fool, as ſhe was, or ſhe would commit more blunders, and then directed Adams to the pump. While Adams was thus employed, Trulliber perceiving no great reſpect for the appearance of his gueſt, faſtened the parlour-door, and now conducted him into the kitchen; telling him, he believed a cup of drink would do him no harm, and whiſpered his wife to draw a little of the worſt ale. After a ſhort ſilence, Adams ſaid, I fancy, Sir, you already perceive me to be a clergyman. 'Ay, ay,' cries Trulliber grinning; I perceive you have ſome caſſock; I will not venture to caale it a whole one. Adams anſwered, it was indeed none of the beſt; but he had the misfortune to tear it about ten years ago in paſſing over a ſtile. Mrs. Trulliber returning with the drink, told her huſband, ſhe fancied the gentleman was a traveller, and that he would be glad to eat a bit, Trulliber bid her hold her impertinent tongue; and aſked her, if parſons uſed to travel without horſes? adding, he ſuppoſed the gentleman had none by his having no boots on. Yes, Sir, yes, ſays Adams, I have a horſe, but I left him behind me. 'I am glad to hear you have one,' ſays Trulliber; for I aſſure you I don't love to ſee clergymen on foot; it is not ſeemly nor ſuiting the dignity of the cloth. Here Trulliber made a long oration on the dignity of the cloth, (or rather gown) not worth much relating, till his wife had ſpread the table and ſet a meſs of porridge on it for his breakfaſt. He then ſaid to Adams, I don't know, friend, how you came to caale on me; however, as you are here, if you think proper to eat a morſel, you may. Adams accepted the invitation, and the two parſons ſat down together, Mrs. Trulliber waiting behind her huſband's chair, as was, it ſeems, her cuſtom. Trulliber eat heartily, but ſcarce put any thing in his mouth without finding fault with his wife's cookery. All which the poor woman bore patiently. Indeed ſhe was ſo abſolute an admirer of her huſband's greatneſs and importance, of which ſhe had frequent hints from his own mouth, that ſhe almoſt carried her adoration to an opinion of infallibility. To ſay the truth, the parſon had exerciſed her more ways than one, and the pious woman had ſo well edified by her huſband's ſermons, that ſhe had reſolved to receive the bad things of the world together with the good. She had indeed been at firſt a little contentious; but he had long ſince got the better, partly by her love for this, partly by her fear for that, partly by her religion, partly by the reſpect he paid himſelf, and partly by that which ſhe received from the pariſh: She had, in ſhort, abſolutely ſubmitted, and now worſhipped her huſband as Sarah did Abraham, calling him (not lord but) maſter. Whilſt they were at the table, her huſband gave her a freſh example of his greatneſs; for as ſhe had juſt delivered a cup of ale to Adams, he ſnatched it out of his hand, and, crying out, I caal'd vurſt, ſwallowed down the ale. Adams deny'd it; as was referred to the wife, who, tho' her conſcience was on the ſide of Adams, durſt not give it againſt her huſband. Upon which he ſaid, No, Sir, no. I ſhould not have been ſo rude to have taken it from you, if you had caal'd vurſt; but I'd have you know I'm a better man than to ſuffer the beſt he in the kingdom to drink before me in my own houſe, when I caale vurſt.

As ſoon as their breakfaſt was ended, Adams began in the following manner: I think, Sir, it is high time to inform you of the buſineſs of my embaſſy. I am a traveller, and am paſſing this way in company with two young people, a lad and a damſel, my pariſhoners, towards my own cure: we ſtopt at a houſe of hoſpitality in the pariſh, where they directed me to you, as having the cure.—Tho' I am but a curate, ſays Trulliber, I believe I am as warm as the vicar himſelf, or perhaps the rector of the next pariſh too; I believe I could buy them both. 'Sir,' cries Adams, I rejoice thereat. Now, Sir, my buſineſs is, that we are by various accidents ſtript of our money, and are not able to pay our reckoning, being ſeven ſhillings. I therefore requeſt you to aſſiſt me with the loan of thoſe ſeven ſhillings, and alſo ſeven ſhillings more, which peradventure I ſhall return to you; but if not, I am convinced you will joyfully embrace ſuch an opportunity of laying up a treaſure in a better place than any this world affords.

Suppoſe a ſtranger who entered the chambers of a lawyer, being imagined a client, when the lawyer was preparing his palm for the fee, ſhould pull out a writ againſt him. Suppoſe an apothecary, at the door of •• ariot containing ſome great doctor of eminent ſkill, ſhould inſtead of directions to a patient, preſent him with a potion for himſelf. Suppoſe a miniſter ſhould, inſtead of a good round ſum, treat my Lord—or Sir—or Eſq—with a good broom-ſtick. Suppoſe a civil companion, or a led captain ſhould, inſtead of virtue, and honour, and beauty, and parts, and admiration, thunder vice and infamy, and uglineſs, and folly, and contempt in his patron's ears. Suppoſe when a tradeſman firſt carries in his bill the man of faſhion ſhould pay it; or ſuppoſe, if he did ſo, the tradeſman ſhould abate what he had overcharged on the ſuppoſition of waiting. In ſhort,—ſuppoſe what you will, you never can, nor will ſuppoſe any thing equal to the aſtoniſhment which ſeized on Trulliber, as ſoon as Adams had ended his ſpeech. A while he rolled his eyes in ſilence, ſometimes ſurveying Adams, then his wife, then caſting them on the ground, then lifting them up to heaven. At laſt, he burſt forth in the following accents. Sir, I believe I know where to lay up my little treaſure as well as another; I thank G—if I am not ſo warm as ſome, I am content; that is a bleſſing greater than riches; and he to whom that is given need aſk no more. To be content with a little is greater than to poſſeſs the world, which man may poſſeſs without being ſo. Lay up my treaſures! what matters where a man's treaſure is, whoſe heart is in the ſcripture? there is the treaſure of a chriſtian. At theſe words the water ran from Adams's eyes; and catching Trulliber by the hand in a rapture, 'Brother,' ſays he, heavens bleſs the accident by which I came to ſee you; I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you, and believe me, I ſhall ſhortly pay you a ſecond viſit: but my friends, I fancy, by this time, wonder at my ſtay; ſo let me have the money immediately. Trulliber then put on a ſtern look, and cried out, 'Thou doſt not intend to rob me?' At which the wife burſting into tears, fell on her knees, and roared out, O dear Sir, for heaven's ſake don't rob my maſter, we are but poor people. Get up, for a fool as thou art, and go about thy buſineſs, ſaid Trulliber, doſt thou think the man will venture his life? he is a beggar, and no robber. 'Very true indeed,' anſwered Adams. I wiſh with all my heart, the tithing-man was here, cries Trulliber, I would have thee puniſhed as a vagabond for thy impudence. Fourteen ſhillings indeed! I won't give thee a farthing, I believe thou art no more a clergyman than the woman there, (pointing to his wife) but if thou art, doſt deſerve to have thy gown ſtript over thy ſhoulders, for running about the country in ſuch a manner. I forgive your ſuſpicions, ſays Adams; but ſuppoſe I'm not a clergyman, I am nevertheleſs thy brother; and thou, as a chriſtian, much more as a clergyman, art obliged to relieve my diſtreſs.—'Doſt preach to me?' replied Trulliber, doſt pretend to inſtruct me in my duty? Iſacks, a good ſtory, cries Mrs. Trulliber, to preach to my maſter. 'Silence, woman,' cries Trulliber, I would have thee know, friend, (addreſſing himſelf to Adams) I ſhall not learn my duty from ſuch as thee; I know what charity is, better than to give it to vagabonds. Beſides, if we were inclined, the poors rate obliges us to give ſo much charity, cries the wife.—'Pugh!' thou art a fool. Poors rate! hold thy nonſenſe, anſwered Trulliber: and then turning to Adams, he told him he would give him nothing. 'I am ſorry,' anſwered Adams, that you do know what charity is, ſince you practiſe it no better; I muſt tell you, if you truſt to your knowledge for your juſtification, you will find yourſelf deceived, though you ſhould add faith to it without good works. 'Fellow,' cries Trulliber, doſt thou ſpeak againſt faith in my houſe? Get out of my doors, I will no longer remain under the ſame roof with a wretch who ſpeaks wantonly of faith and the ſciptures, Name not the ſcriptures, ſays Adams. How, not name the ſcriptures! Do you diſbelieve the ſcriptures? cries Trulliber. 'No, but you do,' anſwered Adams, if I may reaſon from your practice: for their commands are ſo explicit, and their rewards and puniſhments ſo immenſe, that it is impoſſible a man ſhould ſtedfaſtly believe without obeying▪ Now there is no command more expreſs, no duty more frequently enjoined, than charity. Whoever therefore is void of charity, I make no ſcruple of pronouncing that he is no chriſtian. I would not adviſe thee, (ſays Trulliber) to ſay that I am no chriſtian; I won't take it of you: for I believe I am as good a man as thyſelf; (and indeed, though he was now rather too corpulent for athletic exerciſes, he had in his youth been one of the beſt boxers and cudgel-players in the country.) His wife, ſeeing him clench his fiſt, interpoſed and begged him not to fight, but ſhew himſelf a true chriſtian, and take the law of him. As nothing could provoke Adams to ſtrike, but an abſolute aſſault on himſelf or his friend, he ſmiled at the angry look and geſtures of Trulliber; and telling him, he was ſorry to ſee ſuch men in orders, departed without further ceremony.

CHAP. XV.

An adventure, the conſequence of a new inſtance which parſon Adams gave of his forgetfulneſs.

WHEN he came back to the inn, he found Joſeph and Fanny ſitting together. They were ſo far from thinking his abſence long, as he had feared they would, that they never once miſs'd or thought of him. Indeed I have been often aſſured by both, that they ſpent theſe hours in a moſt delightful converſation: But as I never could prevail on either to relate it; ſo I cannot communicate it to the reader.

Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill ſucceſs of his enterprize. They were all greatly confounded, none being able to propoſe any method of departing, till Joſeph at laſt adviſed calling in the hoſteſs, and deſiring her to truſt them: which Fanny faid ſhe deſpaired of her doing, as ſhe was one of the ſoureſt-fac'd women ſhe had ever beheld.

But ſhe was agreeably diſappointed; for the hoſteſs was no ſooner aſked the queſtion than ſhe readily agreed; and with a curt'ſy and ſmile wiſhed them a good journey. However, leſt Fanny's ſkill in phyſiognomy ſhould be called in queſtion, we will venture to aſſign one reaſon, which might probably incline her to this confidence and good-humour. When Adams ſaid he was going to viſit his brother, he had unwittingly impoſed on Joſeph and Fanny; who both believed he had meant his natural brother, and not his brother in divinity; and had ſo informed the hoſteſs on her enquiry after him. Now Mr. Trulliber had by his profeſſions of piety, by his gravity, auſterity, reſerve, and opinion of his great wealth, ſo great an authority in his pariſh, that they all lived in the utmoſt fear and apprehenſion of him. It was therefore no wonder that the hoſteſs, who knew it was in his option whether ſhe ſhould ever ſell another mug of drink, did not dare to affront his ſuppoſed brother by denying him credit.

They were now juſt on their departure, • hen Adams recollected he had left his great coat and h • t at Mr. Trulliber's. As he was not deſirous of renewing his viſit, the hoſteſs herſelf, having no ſervant at home, offered to fetch it.

This was an unfortunate expedient: for the hoſteſs was ſoon undeceived in the opinion ſhe had entertained of Adams, whom Trulliber abuſed in the groſſeſt terms, eſpecially when he heard he had the aſſurance to pretend to be his near relation.

At her return therefore, ſhe entirely changed her note. She ſaid, Folks might be aſhamed of travelling about, and pretending to be what they were not. That taxes were high, and for her part, ſhe was obliged to pay for what ſhe had: ſhe could not therefore poſſibly, nor would ſhe truſt any body, no not her own father. That money was never ſcarcer, and ſhe wanted to make up a ſum. That ſhe expected therefore they ſhould pay their reckoning before they left the houſe.

Adams was now greatly perplexed: but as he knew that he could eaſily have borrowed ſuch a ſum in his own pariſh, and as he knew he would have lent it himſelf to any mortal in diſtreſs; ſo he took freſh courage, and ſallied out all round the pariſh, but to no purpoſe; he returned as pennyleſs as he went, groaning and lamenting, that it was impoſſible, in a country profeſſing chriſtianity, for a wretch to ſtarve in the midſt of his fellow-creatures who abounded.

Whilſt he was gone, the hoſteſs, who ſtayed as a ſort of guard with Joſeph and Fanny, entertained them with the goodneſs of parſon Trulliber. And indeed he had not only a very good character, 〈◊〉 to other qualities, in the neighbourhood, but 〈◊〉 reputed a man of great charity: for tho' he never gave a farthing, he had always that word in his m •• th.

Adams was no ſooner returned the ſecond time, than the ſtorm grew exceeding high, the hoſteſs declaring among other things, that if they offered to ſtir without paying her, ſhe would ſoon overtake them with a warrant.

Plato and Ariſtotle, or ſomebody elſe hath ſaid, THAT WHEN THE MOST EXQUISITE CUNNING FAILS, CHANCE OFTEN HITS THE MARK, AND THAT BY MEANS THE LEAST EXPECTED. Virgil expreſſes this very boldly: Turne, quod optanti divum promittere nemo Auderet volvenda dies, en! attulit ultro. I would quote more great men if I could: but my memory not permitting me, I will proceed to exemplify theſe obſervations by the following inſtance.

There chanced (for Adams had not cunning enough to contrive it) to be at that time 〈◊〉 the alehouſe, a fellow, who had been formerly a drummer in an Iriſh regiment, and now travelled the country as a pedlar. This man having attentively liſtened to the diſcourſe of the hoſteſs, at laſt took Adams aſide, and aſked him what the ſum was for which they were detained. As ſoon as he was informed, he ſighed, and ſaid, he was ſorry it was ſo much: for that he had no more than ſix ſhillings and ſixpence in his pocket, which he would lend them with all his heart. Adams gave a caper, and cry'd out, It would do: for that he had ſixpence himſelf. And thus theſe poor people, who could not engage the compaſſion of riches and piety, were at length delivered out of their diſtreſs by the charity of a poor pedlar.

I ſhall refer it to my reader to make what obſervations he pleaſes on this incident: it is ſufficient for me to inform him, that after Adams and his companions had returned him a thouſand thanks, and told him where he might call to be repaid, they all ſallied out of the houſe without any compliments from their hoſteſs, or indeed without paying her any; Adams declaring, he would take particular care never to call there again, and ſhe on her ſide aſſuring them ſhe wanted no ſuch gueſts.

CHAP. XVI.

A very curious adventure, in which Mr. Adams gave a much greater inſtance of the honeſt ſimplicity of his heart •• an of his experience in the ways of this world.

OUR travellers had walked about two miles from that inn, which they had more reaſon to have miſtaken for a caſtle, that Don Quixote ever had any of thoſe in which he ſojourned; ſeeing they had met with much difficulty in eſcaping out of its walls; when they came to a pariſh, and beheld a ſign of invitation hanging out. A gentleman ſat ſmoaking a pipe at the door; of whom Adams enquired the road, and received ſo courteous and obliging an anſwer, accompanied with ſo ſmiling a countenace, that the good parſon, whoſe heart was naturally diſpoſed to love and affection, began to aſk ſeveral other queſtions; particularly the name of the pariſh, and who was the owner of a large houſe whoſe front they then had in proſpect. The gentleman anſwered as obligingly as before: and as to the houſe, acquainted him it was his own. He then proceeded in the following manner: Sir, I preſume by your habit you are a clergyman: and as you are travelling on foot, I ſuppoſe a glaſs of good beer will not be diſagreeable to you; and I can recommend my landlord's within, as ſome of the beſt in all this country. What ſay you, will you halt a little and let us take a pipe together? There is no better tobacco in the kingdom. This propoſal was not diſpleaſing to Adams, who had allayed his thirſt that day with no better liquor than what Mrs. Trulliber's cellar had produced; and which was indeed little ſuperior either in richneſs or flavour to that which diſtilled from thoſe grains her generous huſband beſtowed on his hogs. Having therefore abundantly thanked the gentleman for his kind invitation, and bid Joſeph and Fanny follow him, he entered the ale-houſe, 〈◊〉 a large loaf and cheeſe, and a pitcher of beer, 〈◊〉 truly anſwered the character given of it, being ſet before them, the three travellers fell to eating with appetites infinitely more voracious than are to be found at the moſt exquiſite eating-houſes in the pariſh of St. James's.

The gentleman expreſſed great delight in the hearty and chearful behaviour of Adams; and particularly in the familiarity with which he converſed with Joſeph and Fanny, whom he often called his children, a term he explained to mean no more than his pariſhioners; ſaying, he looked on all thoſe whom God had entruſted to his cure, to ſtand to him in that relation. The gentleman, ſhaking him by the hand, highly applauded thoſe ſentiments. 'They are indeed,' ſays he, the true principles of a chriſtian divine; and I heartily wiſh they were univerſal: but on the contrary, I am ſorry to ſay the parſon of our pariſh, inſtead of eſteeming his poor pariſhioners as a part of his family, ſeems rather to conſider them as not of the ſame ſpecies with himſelf. He ſeldom ſpeaks to any, unleſs ſome few of the richeſt of us; nay, indeed he will not move his hat to the others. I often laugh, when I behold him on Sundays ſtrutting along the church-yard like a turky-cock, through rows of his pariſhioners; who bow to him with as much ſubmiſſion, and are as unregarded as a ſet of ſervile courtiers by the proudeſt prince in Chriſtendom. But if ſuch temporal pride is ridiculous, ſurely the ſpiritual is odious and deteſtable: if ſuch a puffed-up empty human bladder, ſtrutting in princely robes, juſt moves one's deriſion; ſurely in the habit of a prieſt it muſt raiſe out ſcorn.

〈◊〉 anſwer'd Adams, your opinion is right 〈◊〉 I hope ſuch examples are rare. The clergy whom I have the honour to know, maintain a different behaviour; and you will allow me, Sir, that the readineſs which too many of the laity ſh • w to contemn the order, may be one reaſon of 〈◊〉 avoiding too much humility. Very true indeed, ſays the gentleman; I find, Sir, you are a man of excellent ſenſe, and am happy in this opportunity of knowing you: perhaps our accidental meeting may not be diſadvantageous to you neither. At preſent, I ſhall only ſay to you, that the incumbent of this living is old and infirm; and that it is in my gift. Doctor, give me your hand; and aſſure yourſelf of it at his deceaſe. Adams told him, he was never more confounded in his life, than at his utter incapacity to make any return to ſuch noble and unmerited generoſity. 'A mere trifle, Sir,' cries the gentleman, ſcarce worth your acceptance; a little more than three hundred a year. I wiſh it was double the value for your ſake. Adams bowed, and cried from the emotions of his gratitude; when the other aſked him, if he was married, or had any children, beſides thoſe in the ſpiritual ſenſe he had mentioned. 'Sir,' replied the parſon, I have a wife and ſix at your ſervice. That is unlucky, ſays the gentleman; for I would otherwiſe have taken you into my own houſe as my chaplain; however, I have another in the pariſh, (for the parſonage-houſe is not good enough) which I will furniſh for you. Pray does your wife underſtand a dairy? I can't profeſs ſhe does, ſays Adams, I am ſorry for it, quoth the gentleman; I would have given you half a dozen cows, and very good grounds to have maintained them. 'Sir', ſays Adams 〈◊〉 an ecſtacy, you are too liberal; indeed 〈◊〉 are. 'Not at all,' cries the gentleman, I eſteem riches only as they give me an opportunity of doing good; and I never ſaw one whom I had a greater inclination to ſerve. At which words he ſhook him heartily by the hand, and told him he had ſufficient room in his houſe to entertain him and his friends. Adams begged he might give him no ſuch trouble; that he could be very well accommodated in the houſe where they were; forgetting they had not a ſixpenny piece among them. The gentleman would not be denied; and informing himſelf how far they were travelling, he ſaid it was too long a journey to take on foot, and begged that they would favour him, by ſuffering him to lend them a ſervant and horſes; adding withal, that if they would do him the pleaſure of their company only two days, he would furniſh them with his coach and ſix. Adams turning to Joſeph ſaid, How lucky is this gentleman's goodneſs to you, who I am afraid would be ſcarce able to hold out on your lame leg: and then addreſſing the perſon who made him theſe liberal promiſes, after much bowing, he cried out, Bleſſed be the hour which firſt introduced me to a man of your charity: you are indeed a chriſtian of the true primitive kind, and an honour to the country wherein you live. I would willingly have taken a pilgrimage to the holy land to have beheld you: For the advantages which we draw from your goodneſs, give me little pleaſure, in compariſon of what I enjoy for your own ſake; when I conſider the treaſures you are by theſe means laying up for yourſelf in a country that paſſeth not away. We will therefore, moſt generous Sir, accept your goodneſs, as well the entertainment you have ſo kindly offered us at your houſe this evening, as the accommodation of your horſes to-morrow morning. He then began to ſearch for his hat, as did Joſeph for his; and both they and Fanny were in order of departure, when the gentleman ſtopping ſhort, and ſeeming to meditate by himſelf for the ſpace of about a minute, exclaimed thus: Sure never any thing was ſo unlucky; I had forgot that my houſe-keeper was gone abroad, and hath locked up all my rooms; indeed I would break them open for you, but ſhall not be able to furniſh you with a bed; for ſhe has likewiſe put away all my linen. I am glad it entered into my head, before I had given you the trouble of walking there; beſides, I believe you will find better accommodations here than you expected. Landlord, you can provide good beds for theſe people, can't you? 'Yes, and pleaſe your worſhip,' cries the hoſt, and ſuch as no lord or juſtice of the peace in the kingdom need be aſhamed to lie in. I am heartily ſorry, ſays the gentleman, for this diſappointment. I am reſolved I will never ſuffer her to carry away the keys again. Pray Sir, let it not make you uneaſy, cries Adams, we ſhall do very well here; and the loan of your horſes is a favour we ſhall be incapable of making any return to Ay! ſaid the ſquire, the horſes ſhall attend you here, at what hour in the morning you pleaſe. And now after many civilities too tedious to enumerate, many ſqueezes by the hand, with moſt affectionate looks and ſmiles at each other, and after appointing the horſes at ſeven the next morning, the gentleman took his leave of them, and departed to his own houſe. Adams and his companions returned to the table, where the parſon ſmoaked another pipe, and then they all retired to reſt.

Mr. Adams roſe very early, and called Joſeph out of his bed, between whom a very fierce diſpute enſued, whether Fanny ſhould ride behind Joſeph, or behind the gentleman's ſervant; Joſeph inſiſted on it that he was perfectly recovered, and was as capable of taking care of Fanny as any other perſon could be. But Adams would not agree to it, and declared he would not truſt her behind him; for that he was weaker than he imagined himſelf to be.

This diſpute continued a long time, and had begun to be very hot, when a ſervant arrived from their good friend to acquaint them, that he was unfortunately prevented from lending them any horſes; for that his groom had, unknown to him, put his whole ſtable under a courſe of phyſick.

This advice preſently ſtruck the two diſputants dumb; Adams cried out, was ever any thing ſo unlucky as this poor gentleman? I proteſt I am more ſorry on his account than my own. You ſee, Joſeph, how this good-natur'd man is treated by his ſervants; one lo • ks up his linen, another phyſicks his horſes; and I ſuppoſe by his being at this houſe laſt night, the butler had locked up his cellar. Bleſs us! how good-nature is uſed in this world! I proteſt I am more concerned on his account than my own. 'So am I,' cries Joſeph; not that I am much troubled about walking on foot; all my concern is, 〈◊〉 we ſhall get out of the houſe; unleſs God ſends another pedlar to redeem us. But certainly this gentleman has ſuch an affection for you, that he would lend you a larger ſum than we owe here; which is not above four or five ſhillings. 'Very true, child,' anſwered Adams; I will write a letter to him, and will even venture to ſollicit him for three hal • -crown • ; there will be no harm in having two or three ſhillings in our pockets; as we have full forty miles to travel, we may poſſibly have occaſion for them.

Fanny being now riſen, Joſeph paid her a viſit, and left Adams to write his letter, which having finiſhed, he diſpatched a boy with it to the gentleman, and then ſeated himſelf by the door, lighted his pipe, and betook himſelf to meditation.

The boy ſtaying longer than ſeemed to be neceſſary, Joſeph, who with Fanny was now returned to the parſon, expreſſed ſome apprehenſions, that the gentleman's ſteward had locked up his purſe too. To which Adams anſwered, It might very poſſibly be; and he ſhould wonder at no liberties which the devil might put into the head of a wicked ſervant to take with ſo worthy a maſter: but added, that as the ſum was ſo ſmall, ſo noble a gentleman would be eaſily able to procure it in the pariſh; though he had it not in his own pocket. Indeed, ſays he, if it was four or five guineas, or any ſuch large quantity of money, it might be a different matter.

They were now ſat down to breakfaſt over ſome toaſt and ale, when the boy returned, and informed them, 'that the gentleman was not at home.' Very well! cries Adams; but why, child, did you not ſtay 'till his return? Go back again, my good boy, and 〈◊〉 for his coming home: he cannot be gone far, as his horſes are all ſick; and beſides he had 〈◊〉 intention to go abroad; for he invited us to ſpend this day and to-morrow at his houſe. Therefore go back, child, and tarry 'till his return home. The meſſenger departed, and was back again with great expedition; bringing an account, that the gentleman was gone a long journey, and would not be at home again this month. At theſe words Adams ſeemed greatly confounded, ſaying, This muſt be a ſudden accident, as the ſickneſs or death of a relation, or ſome ſuch unforeſeen misfortune; and then turning to Joſeph, cried, I wiſh you had reminded me to have borrowed this money laſt night. Joſeph ſmiling, anſwered, he was very much deceived, if the gentleman would not have found ſome excuſe to avoid lending it. I own, ſays he, I was never much pleaſed with his profeſſing ſo much kindneſs for you at firſt ſight: for I have heard the gentlemen of our cloth in London tell many ſuch ſtories of their maſters. But when the boy brought the meſſage back of his not being at home, I preſently knew what would follow; for whenever a man of faſhion doth not care to fulfil his promiſes, the cuſtom is, to order his ſervants that he will never be at home to the perſon ſo promiſed. In London they call it denying him. I have denyed Sir Thomas Booby above an hundred times; and when the man hath danced attendance for about a month, or ſometimes longer, he is acquainted in the end, that the gentleman is gone out of town, and could do nothing in the buſineſs. 'Good lord!' ſays Adams, what wickedneſs is there in the chriſtian world? I profeſs almoſt equal to what I have heard of the heathens. But ſurely, Joſeph, your ſuſpicions of this gentleman muſt 〈◊〉 unjuſt; for what a ſilly fellow muſt he be, who would do the devil's work for nothing; and can'ſt 〈◊〉 me any intereſt he could poſſibly propoſe to himſelf by deceiving us in his profeſſions? It is not for me, anſwered Joſeph, to give reaſons for what men do, to a gentleman of your learning. You ſay right, quoth Adams; knowledge of men is only to be learnt from books; Plato and Seneca for that; and thoſe are authors, I am afraid, child, you never read. 'Not I, Sir, truly,' anſwered Joſeph; all I know is, it is a maxim among the gentlemen of our cloth, that thoſe maſters who promiſe the moſt perform the leaſt; and I have often heard them ſay, they have found the largeſt vails in thoſe families where they were not promiſed any. But, Sir, inſtead of conſidering any farther theſe matters, it wou'd be our wiſeſt way to contrive ſome method of getting out of this houſe: for the generous gentleman, inſtead of doing us any ſervice hath left us the whole reckoning to pay. Adams was going to anſwer, when their hoſt came in, and, with a kind of jeering ſmile, ſaid, Well, maſters! the ſquire hath not ſent his horſes for you yet. Laud help me! how eaſily ſome folks make promiſes! How! ſays Adams, have you ever known him to do any thing of the kind before? Ay marry have I, anſwered the hoſt; it is no buſineſs of mine, you know, Sir, to ſay any thing to a gentleman to his face: but now he is not here, I will aſſure you, he hath not his fellow within the three next market towns. I own I could not help laughing, when I heard him offer you the living; for thereby hangs a good jeſt. I thought he would have offered you my houſe next; for one is no more his to diſpoſe of than the other. At theſe words, Adams bleſſing himſelf declared, he had never read of ſuch a monſter; but what vexes me moſt, ſays he, is, that he hath decoyed us into running up a long debt with you, which we are not able to pay; for we have no money about us; and, what is worſe, live at ſuch a diſtance, that if you ſhould truſt us, I am afraid you would loſe your money, for want of our finding any conveniency of ſending it. Truſt you, maſter, ſays the hoſt, that I will with all my heart; I honour the clergy too much to deny truſting one of them for ſuch a trifle; beſides, I like your fear of never paying me. I have loſt many a debt in my life-time; but was promiſed to be payed them all in a very ſhort time. I will ſcore this reckoning for the novelty of it. It is the firſt I do aſſure you of its kind. But what ſay you, maſter, ſhall we have t'other pot before we part? it will waſte but a little chalk more; and if you never pay me a ſhilling, the loſs will not ruin me. Adams liked the invitation very well; eſpecially as it was delivered with ſo hearty an accent.—He ſhook his hoſt by the hand, and, thanking him, ſaid, he would tarry another pot, rather for the pleaſure of ſuch worthy company, than for the liquor; adding, he was glad to find ſome chriſtians left in the kingdom; for that he almoſt began to ſuſpect that he was ſojourning in a country inhabited only by Jews and Turks.

The kind hoſt produced the liquor, and Joſeph with Fanny retired into the garden; where while they ſolaced themſelves with amorous diſcourſe, Adams ſat down with his hoſt; and both filling their glaſſes, and lighting their pipes, they began that dialogue which the reader will find in the next chapter.

CHAP. XVII.

A dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and his hoſt, which by the diſagreement in their opinions, ſeemed to threaten an unlucky cataſtrophe, had it not been timely prevented by the return of the lovers.

SIR, ſaid the hoſt, I aſſure you, you are not the firſt to whom our ſquire hath promiſed more than he hath performed. He is ſo famous for this practice, that his word will not be taken for much by thoſe who know him. I remember a young fellow whom he promiſed his parents to make an exciſeman. The poor people, who could ill afford it, bred their ſon to writing, accounts, and other learning, to qualify him for the place, and the boy held up his head above his condition with theſe hopes: nor would he go to plough, nor to any other kind of work; and went conſtantly dreſt as fine as could be, with two clean holland ſhirts a week, and this for ſeveral years; 'till at laſt he followed the ſquire up to London, thinking there to mind him of his promiſes: but he could never get ſight of him. So that being out of money and buſineſs, he fell into evil company, and wicked courſes: and in the end came to a ſentence of tranſportation, the news of which broke the mother's heart. I will tell you another true ſtory of him: There was a neighbour of mine, a farmer, who had two ſons whom he bred up to the buſineſs. Pretty lads they were; nothing would ſerve the ſquire, but that the youngeſt muſt be made a parſon. Upon which, he perſuaded the father to ſend him to ſchool, promiſing, that he would afterwards maintain him at the univerſity; and when he was of a proper age, give him a living. But after the lad had been ſeven years at ſchool, and his father brought him to the ſquire with a letter from his maſter, that he was fit for the univerſity; the ſquire inſtead of minding his promiſe, or ſending him thither at his expence, only told his father, that the young man was a fine ſcholar; and it was a pity he could not afford to keep him at Oxford for four or five years more, by which time, if he could get him a curacy, he might have him ordained. The farmer ſaid, he was not a man • ufficient to do any ſuch thing. 'Why then,' anſwered the ſquire, I am very ſorry you have given him ſo much learning; for if he cannot get his living by that, it will rather ſpoil him for any thing elſe; and your other ſon who can hardly write his name, will do more at ploughing and ſowing, and is in a better condition than he: and indeed ſo it proved; for the poor lad, not finding friends to maintain him in his learning as he had expected, and being unwilling to work, fell to drinking, though he was a very ſober lad before; and, in a ſhort time, partly with grief, and partly with good liquor, fell into a conſumption and died. Nay; I can tell you more ſtill: There was another, a young woman, and the handſomeſt in all this neighbourhood, whom he inticed up to London, promiſing to make her a gentlewoman to one of your women of quality: but inſtead of keeping his word, we have ſince heard, after having a child by her himſelf, ſhe became a common whore; then kept a coffee-houſe in Covent-garden; and a little after died of the French diſtemper in a goal. I could tell you many more ſtories; but how do you imagine he ſerved me myſelf? You muſt know, Sir, I was bred a ſea-faring man, and have been many voyages; 'till at laſt I came to be a maſter of a ſhip myſelf, and was in a fair way of making a fortune, when I was attacked by one of thoſe curſed Guarda-Coſtas, who took our ſhips before the beginning of the war; and after a fight, wherein I loſt the greater part of my crew, my rigging being all demoliſhed, and two ſhots received between wind and water, I was forced to ſtrike. The villains carried off my ſhip, a brigantine of an hundred and fifty tons, a pretty creature ſhe was, and put me, a man and a boy, into a little bad pink, in which, with much ado, we at laſt made Falmouth; tho' I believe the Spaniards did not imagine ſhe could poſſibly live a day at ſea. Upon my return hither, where my wife, who was of this country, then lived, the ſquire told me he was ſo pleaſed with the defence I had made againſt the enemy, that he did not fear getting me promoted to a lieutenancy of a man of war, if I would accept of it; which I thankfully aſſured him I would. Well, Sir, two or three years paſs'd, during which I had many repeated promiſes, not only from the ſquire, but (as he told me) from the lords of the admiralty. He never returned from London, but I was aſſured I might be ſatisfied now, for I was certain of the firſt vacancy; and what ſurpriſes me ſtill, when I reflect on it, theſe aſſurances were given me with no leſs confidence, after ſo many diſappointments, than at firſt. At laſt, Sir growing weary, and ſomewhat ſuſpicious, after ſo much delay, I wrote to a friend in London, who I knew had ſome acquaintance at the beſt houſe in the admiralty, and deſired him to back the ſquire's intereſt: for indeed, I feared he had ſolicited the affair with more coolneſs than he pretended.—And what anſwer do you think my friend ſent me?—Truly, Sir, he acquainted me, that the ſquire had never mentioned my name at the admiralty in his life; and unleſs I had much faithfuller intereſt, adviſed me to give over my pretenſions, which I immediately did; and, with the concurrence of my wife, reſolved to ſet up an ale-houſe, where you are heartily welcome: and ſo my ſervice to you; and may the ſquire, and all ſuch ſneaking raſcals, go to the devil together. 'O fie.' ſays Adams, O fie! He is indeed a wicked man; but G—will, I hope, turn his heart to repentance. Nay if he could but once ſee the meanneſs of this deteſtable vice; would he but once reflect that he is one of the moſt ſcandalous as well as pernicious liars; ſure he muſt deſpiſe himſelf to ſo intolerable a degree, that it would be impoſſible for him to continue a moment in ſuch a courſe. And, to confeſs the truth, notwithſtanding the baſeneſs of this character, which he hath too well deſerved, he hath in his countenance ſufficient ſymptoms of that bona indoles, that ſweetneſs of diſpoſition which furniſhes out a good chriſtian. Ah! maſter, maſter! ( • ays the hoſt) if you had travelled as far as I have, and converſed with the many nations where I have traded, you would not give any credit to a man's countenance. Symptoms in his countenance, quotha! I would look there, perhaps to ſee whether a man has had the ſmall-pox but for nothing elſe. He ſpoke this with ſo little regard to the parſon's obſervation that it a good deal nettled him; and, taking the pipe haſtily from his mouth, he thus anſwered: Maſter of mine, perhaps, I have travelled a great deal farther than you without the aſſiſtance of aſhip. Do you imagine failing by different cities or countries is travelling? No. Coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. I can go farther in an afternoon than you in a twelve month. What, I ſuppoſe, you have ſeen the pillars of Hercules, and perhaps the walls of Carthage. Nay, you may have heard Scylla, and ſeen Charybdis; you may have entered the cloſet where Archimedes was found at the taking Syracuſe. I ſuppoſe you have ſailed among the Cyclades, and paſſed the famous ſtraits which take their name from the unfortunate Helle, whoſe fate is ſweetly deſcribed by Apollonius Rhodius; you have paſſed the very ſpot, I conceive, where Daedalus fell into that ſea, his waxen wings being melted by the ſun; you have traverſed the Euxine ſea, I have no doubt; nay, you have been on the banks of the Caſpian, and called at Colchis, to ſee if there is ever another golden fleece.—'Not I truly, maſter,' anſwered the hoſt, I never touched at any of theſe places. But I have been at all theſe, replied Adams. Then I ſuppoſe, cries the hoſt, you have been at the Eaſt-Indies; for there are no ſuch, I will be ſworn, either in the Weſt or the Levant. Pray where's the Levant? quoth Adams, that ſhould be in the Eaſt-Indies by right.—Oho! you are a pretty traveller, cries the hoſt, and not know the Levant. My ſervice to you, maſter; you muſt not talk of theſe things with me! you muſt not tip us the traveller; it won't go here. Since thou art ſo dull to miſunderſtand me ſtill, quoth Adams, I will inform thee; the travelling I mean, is in books, the only way of travelling by which any knowledge is to be acquired. From them I learn what I aſſerted juſt now, that nature generally imprints ſuch a portraiture of the mind in the countenance, that a ſkilful phyſiognomiſt will rarely be deceived. I preſume you have never read the ſtory of Socrates, to this purpoſe, and therefore I will tell it you. A certain phyſiognomiſt aſſerted of Socrates that he plainly diſcovered by his features that he was a rogue in his nature. A character ſo contrary to the tenor of all this great man's actions and the generally received opinion concerning him, incenſed the boys of Athens, ſo that they threw ſtones at the phyſiognomiſt, and would have demoliſhed him for his ignorance, had not Socrates himſelf prevented them by confeſſing the truth of his obſervations, and acknowledging, that though he corrected his diſpoſition by philoſophy, he was indeed naturally as inclined to vice as had been predicated of him. Now, pray reſolve me,—How ſhould a man know this ſtory, if he had not read it? 'Well, maſter,' ſaid the hoſt, and what ſignifies it whether a man knows it or no? He who goes abroad as I have done, will always have opportunities enough of knowing the world without troubling his head with Socrates, or any ſuch fellows.—'Friend,' cries Adams, if a man ſhould ſail round the world, and anchor in every harbour of it, without learning, he would return home as ignorant as he went out. Lord help you, anſwered the hoſt, there was my boatſwain, poor fellow he could ſcarce either write or read, and yet he would navigate a ſhip with any maſter of a man of war; and a very pretty knowledge of trade he had too. 'Trade,' anſwered Adams. As Ariſtotle proves in his firſt chapter of politics, is below a philoſopher, and unnatural as it is managed now, The hoſt look'd ſtedfaſtly at Adams, and after a minute's ſilence aſked him, if he was one of the writers of the Gazetteers? for I have heard, ſays he, they are writ by parſons. 'Gazetteers!' ſaid Adams 'What is that?' 'It is a dirty news-paper,' replied the hoſt, which hath been given away all over the nation for theſe many years, to abuſe trade and honeſt men, which I would not ſuffer to lye on my table, though it hath been offered me for nothing. 'Not I truly,' ſaid Adams, I never write any thing but ſermons; and I aſſure you I am no enemy to trade, whilſt it is conſiſtent with honeſty; nay, I have always looked on the tradeſman as a very valuable member of ſociety, and perhaps, inferior to none but the man of learning. 'No, I believe he is not, nor to him neither,' anſwered the hoſt. Of what elſe would learning be in a country without trade! What would all you parſons do to clothe your backs and feed your bellies? Who fetches you your ſilks, and your linens, and your wines, and all the other neceſſaries of life; I ſpeak chiefly with regard to the ſailors. You ſhould ſay the extravagancies of life, replied the parſon; but admit they were the neceſſaries, there is ſomething more neceſſary than life itſelf, which is provided by learning; I mean the learning of the clergy. Who clothes you with piety, meekneſs, humility, charity, patience, and all the other chriſtian virtues? Who feeds your ſouls with the milk of brotherly love, and diets them with all the dainty food of holineſs, which at once cleanſes them of all impure carnal affections, and fattens them with the truly rich Spirit of grace?—Who doth this? 'Ay, who indeed!' cries the hoſt; for I do not remember ever to have ſeen any ſuch clothing, or ſuch feeding. And ſo in the mean time, maſter, my ſervice to you. Adams was going to anſwer with ſome ſeverity, when Joſeph and Fanny returned, and preſſed his departure ſo eagerly, that he would not refuſe them; and ſo, graſping his crabſtick, he took leave of his hoſt, (neither of them being ſo well pleaſed with each other as they had been at their firſt ſitting down together) and with Joſeph and Fanny, who both expreſſed much impatience, departed, and now all together renewed their journey.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

CHAP. I.

〈…〉

〈…〉 〈…〉 proof than thoſe eternal contradictions occurring 〈…〉 two 〈…〉 who undertake the history. 〈…〉 For inſtance, 〈…〉 and Mr. Whit ••• , 〈…〉 and Rapin, and many others; where 〈◊〉 being ſet forth in a different • ight, every- 〈◊〉 believes as he pleaſes; and indeed the more judicious 〈…〉 juſtly 〈◊〉 the whole us no 〈…〉 , in which the writer hath 〈◊〉 a happy and fertile invention. But tho' 〈…〉 it the 〈◊〉 of 〈…〉 victory to the 〈◊〉 others to the 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 rogue, 〈…〉 and honeſt character, 〈…〉 where 〈…〉 is ſuppoſed 〈…〉 perſon who is 〈…〉 lived. Now with 〈…〉 miſtake the 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 of critics, whether 〈…〉 hath really 〈…〉 as to 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 of 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 in the time and place 〈…〉 inſtance of 〈…〉 of Gil 〈◊〉 , where the 〈◊〉 hath made a notorious 〈…〉 of Dr. 〈◊〉 , who 〈…〉 〈…〉 , and filling them up with 〈…〉 one, who 〈◊〉 leaſt 〈…〉 doctor lived? The 〈…〉 in the country 〈…〉 were 〈…〉 officers. The 〈…〉 deſerved in Scation, the 〈…〉 of Marianne 〈…〉 ſome few 〈…〉 of 〈…〉 have not read, or 〈…〉 would by 〈…〉 perſons of 〈…〉 menſe 〈…〉 writers; who, without 〈…〉 or hiſtory, record 〈…〉 , and facts which 〈…〉 you: whole heroes 〈…〉 ſtains the 〈…〉 . Not that 〈…〉 ſo far otherwiſe, that 〈…〉 for what can be 〈…〉 of the wonderful 〈…〉 may apply to them 〈…〉 of 〈…〉 they are a 〈…〉 inferior 〈◊〉 who 〈…〉 of whom 〈…〉 of thoſe 〈…〉 in his Letters, 〈…〉 an irregular 〈…〉 of the 〈…〉 〈…〉

〈…〉 the 〈…〉 claſs who are 〈…〉 of 〈…〉 matter in 〈…〉 is not 〈…〉 that which 〈…〉 of the 〈…〉 and to a particular 〈…〉 the hiſtory of the world in 〈…〉 which 〈…〉 laws, 〈…〉 and of 〈…〉 the time it 〈…〉 applications. I decla •• 〈…〉 Are 〈…〉 To which I anſwer in the 〈…〉 that I 〈…〉 The 〈…〉 theſe 〈…〉 : and 〈…〉 will 〈◊〉 his 〈…〉 hath not 〈◊〉 confined himſelf to 〈…〉 〈…〉 when the 〈…〉 on the 〈…〉 who 〈…〉 would 〈…〉 perſon 〈…〉 ſhall upon it. 〈…〉 him 〈…〉 to mimick ſome little obſcure 〈…〉 happens to 〈…〉 perhaps in his 〈…〉 in the 〈…〉 to 〈…〉 in their 〈…〉 and ender 〈…〉 . This places 〈…〉 diſtinguiſhes the 〈…〉 former privately 〈…〉 of the perſon, like a 〈…〉 expoſes the perſon himſelf, as an 〈…〉 to others, like an executioner.

There are beſides, little circumſtances to be conſidered; as the drapery of a picture, which tho' faſhion varies at different times the 〈◊〉 of the countenance is not by thoſe means diminiſhed. 〈…〉 I believe, we may venture to ſay, 〈…〉 is coeval with 〈◊〉 lawyer; 〈…〉 during the changes 〈…〉 muſt have paſſed 〈…〉 have ſtood behind the 〈◊〉 at 〈…〉 not 〈◊〉 to affirm, ſhe hath likewiſe in the 〈◊〉 of ages ſat on a throne. In ſhort, 〈…〉 〈…〉 with to the 〈…〉 of his 〈…〉 of that 〈…〉 which they 〈…〉 entertained. Theſe are pictures which 〈◊〉 〈…〉 taken 〈…〉 not 〈◊〉 to 〈…〉 for ſuch 〈◊〉 is 〈…〉 inſolence to 〈…〉 with diſcovered. 〈…〉 to 〈…〉 of their 〈…〉 worthy of 〈…〉 who is 〈…〉 was ſo late 〈…〉 houſe, for 〈…〉 had not 〈…〉 them, or 〈…〉 if 〈…〉 they took 〈…〉 of the 〈…〉 which 〈…〉 to their evil 〈…〉 a race of 〈◊〉 whom 〈…〉 inoffenſive 〈…〉 we 〈…〉

CHAP. II.

〈…〉

〈…〉 beings; which was 〈…〉 which he thought almoſt at 〈…〉 〈…〉 .

〈…〉 To which 〈…〉 〈…〉 〈…〉 my fair 〈…〉 •• akneſs, and 〈…〉 the ſtrength of a man may be 〈…〉 you; 〈◊〉 weighing 〈…〉 yourſelves with the 〈…〉 and petit maitres of the 〈◊〉 who, 〈…〉 like Joſeph, 〈◊〉 to carry you in 〈…〉 through the 〈…〉 will 〈◊〉 what ſtrength and 〈…〉 light 〈…〉 field, 〈…〉 to their 〈…〉 Fanny over; 〈…〉 of lights 〈…〉 think of 〈…〉 to a little 〈…〉 begged of 〈…〉 door 〈◊〉 him▪ ſhe was 〈…〉 ſhe 〈…〉 up her 〈…〉 this 〈…〉 with 〈…〉 that 〈…〉 ſuffer 〈…〉 hold in 〈…〉 〈…〉 aſked 〈…〉 they would of his 〈…〉 To 〈…〉 〈…〉 more afraid of men 〈…〉 began to ſuſpect her 〈…〉 thoſe without were 〈◊〉 belonging to 〈…〉 . At length 〈◊〉 maſter of 〈…〉 and laughing, told 〈…〉 ; that 〈…〉 with 〈…〉 who 〈◊〉 otherwiſe, 〈…〉 〈…〉 and ſervants of 〈…〉 unleſs, peradventure by 〈…〉 to the rich. 'Sir,' ſaid he 〈…〉 the gentleman, theſe two 〈◊〉 young people are my 〈◊〉 , and I look 〈…〉 them as 〈◊〉 children. There is 〈…〉 ſingular 〈…〉 but I 〈…〉 to recount it. The 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 Homer was 〈…〉 〈…〉 , continued he, what 〈…〉 orator, may well 〈◊〉 applied to a 〈…〉 ; "He ought to comprehend all 〈…〉 ." Homer did this in the moſt excellent degree; it is not without 〈◊〉 therefore, that the philoſopher, in the • nd chapter of his Poeticks mentions him by 〈◊〉 other 〈◊〉 than that of The 〈◊〉 . He was the 〈◊〉 of the 〈◊〉 , as well of the 〈◊〉 : Not of 〈…〉 of comedy 〈…〉 deplorably 〈…〉 . To him 〈…〉 . But 〈…〉 ourſelves (at leaſt 〈…〉 ) to 〈…〉 it the 〈…〉 more ſimple 〈…〉 He is right 〈…〉 he ſays 〈…〉 and end, would have 〈…〉 underſtanding to 〈…〉 view. I have 〈…〉 wondered why ſo correct a writer as Ho •• ce ſhould in his epiſtle 〈◊〉 Loll •• s, call him the 〈…〉 his action 〈…〉 ; is 〈…〉 ſame time ſo 〈…〉 I muſt obſerve what 〈…〉 noted by any, the 〈…〉 his action to 〈…〉 , how agreeable 〈…〉 〈…〉 from which every incident 〈◊〉 and to which every epiſode immediately relates. Thirdly, his manners, which Ariſtotle places ſecond in 〈◊〉 deſcription of the ſeveral parts of 〈…〉 which 〈◊〉 ſays are included in the 〈◊〉 ; I 〈◊〉 at a l • ſs 〈◊〉 I ſhould 〈…〉 of his 〈◊〉 in the 〈…〉 of theſe; 〈…〉 doth 〈…〉 If he hath 〈…〉 dry 〈…〉 obſerving 〈…〉 of the original, in 〈…〉 diſſuaſive •• eech of 〈…〉 put into the mouth 〈…〉 〈…〉 was the greateſt 〈…〉 , nor have any of his 〈…〉 that art, that is to ſay, neither 〈…〉 Seneca the tragedian, been able 〈…〉 . As to his ſentiments and diction; 〈…〉 thing; the former 〈…〉 for the utmoſt 〈…〉 on that 〈…〉 propriety; 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 doubtleſs you 〈…〉 . I ſhall 〈…〉 which the • great 〈…〉 , or the 〈…〉 which 〈…〉 epic as to 〈…〉 which divides on 〈…〉 and then 〈◊〉 himſelf 〈…〉 heavens 〈◊〉 and 〈…〉 their thrones. This is 〈◊〉 ! This is 〈◊〉 ! Adams then rapt out a 〈◊〉 Greek 〈◊〉 and with 〈◊〉 a voice, 〈…〉 and action 〈…〉 he 〈◊〉 ſo 〈…〉 of Adams, 〈…〉 had not a 〈…〉 extravagant 〈…〉 and 〈◊〉 • oodneſs of his 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 . He 〈…〉 who 〈…〉 〈…〉 ; and in truth 〈…〉 opinion of her quality 〈…〉 . He ſaid he was 〈…〉 with the 〈…〉 to work on the 〈…〉 〈…〉 in him a curioſity 〈…〉 ſingularity which Adams had 〈…〉 . This curioſity Adams 〈…〉 of, than, with Joſeph's 〈…〉 to gratify it, and accordingly 〈…〉 with as much 〈…〉 acter of lady 〈…〉 faithful, and 〈…〉 not 〈…〉 perſon of 〈…〉 〈…〉 did not 〈…〉 to find 〈…〉 and ever 〈…〉 too 〈…〉 .

CHAP. III.

〈…〉

〈…〉

〈…〉 I crave the 〈…〉 gentleman anſwered, 〈…〉 and then proceeded. 〈…〉 I ſtay'd a very little while at 〈…〉 ; for being a forward youth 〈…〉 impatient to be in the worſhip for which 〈…〉 my parts, 〈…〉 and 〈…〉 without 〈…〉 fortunes; for 〈…〉 which I apprehended 〈…〉 of the 〈…〉 〈…〉 great houſe and 〈…〉 into 〈…〉 in my 〈◊〉 and 〈…〉 as 〈…〉 I 〈…〉 as to the 〈…〉 of it a 〈…〉 allows a pretend, 〈…〉 ſhould 〈…〉 which I was 〈◊〉 to have 〈…〉 ſhewed their 〈…〉 〈…〉 were counterfeiter 〈…〉 myſelf. 〈…〉 to yourſelf! 〈…〉 O Sir; anſwered the gentleman 〈…〉 of the times. Half your 〈…〉 of theſe characters 〈…〉 replied, 〈…〉 'Ay, they 〈…〉 I do 〈…〉 —Your 〈…〉 I ſhould 〈…〉 ſaid 〈…〉 in the morning 〈…〉 in thy 〈…〉 from 〈…〉

〈…〉 to the auction; 〈…〉 〈…〉 at ſome 〈…〉 what; for 〈…〉 〈…〉 bowed to the 〈…〉 to bid for a ſnuff-box; 〈…〉 it.

〈…〉 poſſibly 〈…〉 〈…〉 reply, 〈…〉 company 〈…〉 within a work I 〈…〉 at St. 〈…〉 〈…〉 , where I 〈…〉 visited 〈…〉 play 〈…〉 by 〈◊〉 ſurgeon 〈…〉 〈…〉 ſeparation, 〈…〉 reaſon to be 〈…〉 which grant you 〈◊〉 ſincerely repent of this and many other things you have related.— 〈◊〉 continued the gentleman, as happy as the poſſeſſion of a fine 〈…〉 , who had a good educations and 〈…〉 with many agreeable qualities▪ could make 〈◊〉 . We lived ſome months with vaſt fondneſs, 〈◊〉 other, without any company or converſation 〈◊〉 than we found in one another: 〈◊〉 this could not continue always; and tho' I ſtill preſerves 〈◊〉 affection, I began more and more to want the relief of 〈◊〉 , and conſequently to 〈…〉 at laſt, whole days 〈…〉 and complained of the 〈…〉 which, I 〈…〉 of ſome other 〈…〉 to play at 〈…〉 herſelf all 〈…〉 eaſy but 〈…〉 my chambers. She was rapacious 〈…〉 to-exceſs, 〈◊〉 in her 〈…〉 oaths, 〈…〉 behaviour ſoon 〈…〉 ; I began to 〈…〉 my wife, and to 〈◊〉 an intention 〈…〉 with her 〈…〉 having given 〈…〉 ſhe took care to prevent 〈…〉 pains of 〈…〉 out of doors, and 〈…〉 , having firſt broke 〈…〉 〈…〉 with her all ſhe could find to 〈…〉 about 200l. In the firſt • eat of my 〈◊〉 reſolved to purſue her •• ith all the vengeance of the law: but as ſhe had the 〈◊〉 luck to eſcape me during that ferment, 〈…〉 afterwards cooled; and having 〈◊〉 that I 〈◊〉 been the firſt aggreſſor, and had done her an injury, for which I could make her 〈…〉 by robbing her of the innocence of her mind; and hearing at the ſame time, that the 〈…〉 her mother had 〈◊〉 her heart 〈…〉 elopement from her, 〈◊〉 concluding 〈…〉 murderer, ('as 〈…〉 with a groan;) was pleaſed 〈◊〉 God. 〈…〉 had taken this method of puniſhing me; 〈…〉 ſalved quietly to ſubmit to the 〈…〉 could wiſh I 〈…〉 turn, who became 〈…〉 and, after 〈…〉 , at laſt 〈◊〉 her 〈…〉 the gentleman 〈…〉 Mr. Adams echoed 〈…〉 ſilent, looking on each other, 〈…〉 At laſt the gentleman proceeded 〈…〉 I •• d been perfectly conſtant in this girl 〈…〉 whole time I kept her: but ſhe had 〈…〉 before I diſcovered more 〈…〉 than the 〈…〉 forced to make 〈…〉 my 〈…〉 whoſe hands 〈…〉 diſcharge 〈…〉 I now foreſwore 〈…〉 with 〈…〉 complained loudly that 〈◊〉 pleaſure did not 〈◊〉 the pain, and railed at the beautiful 〈◊〉 , in as groſs language 〈◊〉 himſelf 〈◊〉 reviled the •• in. 〈…〉 all the town 〈◊〉 with a deteſtation not 〈…〉 〈◊〉 perſons appeared to me as printed palaces; inhabited by 〈◊〉 and death: 〈…〉 beauty make them more deſirable objects in my eyes, 〈…〉 make me covet a pill, 〈…〉 . But tho' I was no longer 〈◊〉 abſolute •• ave, I found ſome reaſons to own myſelf ſtill the ſubject of love. My hatred for women decreaſed daily; and I am not poſitive but 〈◊〉 might have betrayed me again to ſome 〈…〉 , had 〈◊〉 not been ſecured by a paſſion for the ch • rming Sapphir • , which having 〈◊〉 entered upon, made a violent 〈◊〉 in my heart. Sapphira was wife 〈…〉 faſhion, and gallantry, and 〈◊〉 who 〈◊〉 . I own, every way worthy of 〈◊〉 affections, which however he 〈◊〉 not the reputation of 〈…〉 coquette 〈…〉 but as it is a 〈◊〉 kind of 〈…〉 to deſcribe it. Were all 〈◊〉 to be 〈◊〉 in the order of creation, 〈…〉 uſefulneſs, I know few animals that 〈…〉 of a coquette; 〈◊〉 indeed 〈…〉 pretence 〈◊〉 any 〈…〉 by the 〈◊〉 variety, yet 〈…〉 ſeveral abſurd 〈…〉 fooliſh than what 〈◊〉 obſerved in 〈…〉 ••• iculous birds and 〈◊〉 and which would 〈…〉 the beholders, that the ſilly wretch 〈…〉 at our contempt. 〈◊〉 its 〈…〉 , and this 〈…〉 〈…〉 : for as beauty, wiſdom, 〈…〉 , and health, are ſometimes 〈…〉 by 〈◊〉 creature; ſo are uglineſs, folly 〈…〉 ill-nature, ill-breeding, and ſickneſs, 〈◊〉 put on by it in their turn. Its life 〈◊◊〉 ••• ſtant lye; and the only rule by which you can 〈◊〉 any judgment of them is, that they are never what, they 〈◊〉 . If it was poſſible 〈◊〉 a coquette to love (as it is not, for if ever it attains this paſſion, the 〈◊〉 ceaſes inſtantly) it would 〈◊〉 the 〈…〉 indifference, if not of 〈…〉 the beloved object 〈…〉 therefore 〈…〉 , when they endeavour to 〈◊〉 you of their liking, that they 〈…〉 to you at 〈◊〉 . And 〈…〉 caſe with my 〈…〉 Theſe 〈…〉 and 〈…〉 the reſt of her 〈…〉 more directly to 〈…〉 affected the 〈…〉 and many other indications 〈…〉 which 〈◊〉 deceive thouſands. When 〈…〉 whiſt 〈…〉 me, and at the 〈…〉 then burſt 〈…〉 laugh, 〈…〉 I can't 〈…〉 what I was thinking 〈…〉 detain you no 〈…〉 I had 〈…〉 courſe of 〈…〉 , as I thought, 〈◊〉 thoroughly 〈◊〉 I had raiſed a violent 〈◊〉 in my miſtreſs; 〈◊〉 an opportunity of 〈…〉 with her. She avoid 〈…〉 〈…〉 preſented 〈…〉 I will 〈…〉 all 〈…〉 of this 〈◊◊〉 ſuffice, that 〈…〉 could 〈…〉 firſt affected 〈…〉 and immediately 〈…〉 what I 〈…〉 which could 〈…〉 breaking 〈…〉 firſt 〈…〉 me, I had no 〈…〉 . wiſer 〈…〉 I thought myſelf 〈◊〉 firſt 〈…〉 in the poſſeſſion 〈…〉 would have 〈…〉 forfeited 〈…〉 ; but it had a 〈…〉 effect 〈…〉 carried my 〈…〉 by 〈…〉 had been 〈…〉 〈…〉 continue 〈…〉 lay under from the 〈◊〉 of her 〈◊〉 , gave us great uneaſineſs. Poor wretch! ' 〈◊〉 pity him,' cried Adams. He did indeed 〈◊〉 it, ſaid the gentleman; for he 〈◊〉 his wife with great tenderneſs; and I aſſure you it 〈…〉 ſatisfaction to me, that I was not the 〈…〉 her affect 〈◊〉 from him. The • e apprehenſions appeared alſo too well grounded; for at the end he diſcovered us, and procured witneſſes of our careſſes: 〈…〉 at 〈◊〉 and recovered 3000l: damaged, which much 〈◊〉 my fortune to pay: and what 〈◊〉 worſe, his 〈◊◊〉 divorced, 〈…〉 a very uneaſy life with 〈◊〉 for 〈…〉 my 〈…〉 now much 〈…〉

〈◊〉 now bade adieu to love; and reſolved 〈…〉 leſs dangerous and 〈…〉 into the acquaintance of 〈◊〉 of jolly 〈…〉 , who •• ept all 〈…〉 all 〈…〉 who might rather be ſaid to 〈…〉 . Their 〈…〉 were the chief 〈…〉 of our 〈…〉 And yet • ad as 〈…〉 , they were 〈…〉 which were either 〈…〉 of dull common 〈…〉 about trifling 〈…〉 is a wager. This 〈…〉 period to; 〈…〉 〈◊〉 of a 〈…〉 by young 〈◊〉 of 〈…〉 . The 〈◊〉 was now only 〈◊〉 in 〈◊〉 aſſiſtance of our converſation, which rolled on 〈…〉 of philoſophy. Theſe gentleman were 〈…〉 ſearch after truth, in the purſuit 〈◊〉 which they threw aſide all the prejudices of education, and governed themſelves only by the infallible guide of human reaſon. This great guide, 〈◊〉 having ſhewn them the falſhood of that very ancient but ſimple tenet, that there is ſuch a being 〈◊〉 a Deity in the univerſe, helped them to eſtabliſh 〈…〉 a certain rule of right, by adhering to 〈◊〉 they all arrived at the utmoſt purity of 〈◊〉 . Reflections made me as much delighted with 〈…〉 , us it had taught me to deſpiſe and 〈…〉 . I began now to eſteem myſelf a being of a 〈…〉 than I and • ver 〈…〉 with this 〈…〉 other 〈…〉 to virtue 〈…〉 I 〈◊〉 have 〈…〉 philoſophers, 〈…〉 from us, taking 〈◊〉 him the wife of 〈◊〉 his moſt intimate friends. Secondly, 〈…〉 the ſame ſociety left the club without remembering to take leave of his 〈◊〉 . A third having bo • rowed a 〈◊〉 of 〈…〉 for which I received as ſecurity, 〈…〉 to repay it, 〈…〉 ſeveral practices, ſo 〈◊〉 〈…〉 golden rule, made me begin 〈…〉 ; but when I communicated my 〈◊〉 to one of the club, he ſaid, there was nothing abſolutely good or evil in itſelf; that actions were denominated good or bad by the circumſtances of the agent. That poſſibly the man who ran away with his neighbour a wife, might be one of very good inclinations, but over- 〈◊〉 on by the violence of an unruly paſſion, and, in other particulars, might be a very worthy member of ſociety: that if the beauty of any 〈◊〉 created 〈◊〉 him an uneaſineſs, he had a right from nature 〈◊〉 relieve himſelf; with many other things, which I then deteſted ſo much, that I took leave of the ſociety that very evening, and never 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 again. Being now reduced to a 〈◊〉 of ſolitude, which I did 〈◊〉 , I became a great frequenter of the play 〈◊〉 , which 〈◊〉 was always 〈◊〉 favourite 〈◊〉 , and moſt 〈…〉 two or three hours behind the 〈…〉 with ſeveral poets, 〈…〉 of the players 〈…〉 . A • 〈◊◊〉 we were generally entertained by the 〈◊〉 with rending their performances, and by the players with repeating their parts; upon which occaſions 〈…〉 the gentleman who 〈◊〉 our entertainment, was commonly the 〈…〉 company: who • 〈◊〉 they were 〈…〉 him to his face, 〈◊〉 failed to take 〈◊〉 opportunity of his 〈◊〉 to ridicule him. How I made ſome 〈◊〉 , which probably are 〈◊〉 obvious to be worth 〈◊〉 . 'Sir,' ſays Adams 'your remarks if you pleaſe.' Firſt then, ſays 〈◊〉 I concluded that 〈◊〉 general obſervation, that 〈…〉 , is not true. Men 〈…〉 vain of 〈…〉 ſtrength, 〈◊〉 , honour, 〈…〉 pear of themſelves to the eyes 〈…〉 whereas the poor • it is obliged to produce his 〈…〉 to ſhew you his perfection: and 〈…〉 readineſs to do this, that vulgar opinon I have before mentioned is grounded: but doth not the perſon who expends vaſt ſums in the furniture of his houſe, 〈◊〉 the ornament of his perſon, who conſumes much 〈◊〉 , and employs great pains in dreſſing himſelf, or who thinks himſelf paid for ſelf-denial, labour, or even villainy, by a title or a ribbon, ſacrifice as much to vanity, as the poor wit, who is deſirous to read you his poem or his play? My ſecond, remark, was, that vanity is the worſt of 〈…〉 apt to 〈◊〉 the mind 〈…〉 praiſe-worthy in another 〈…〉 antipathy, Adams 〈…〉 his pockets, and 〈…〉 I have it 'not about 〈◊〉 '—Upon th •• the gentleman 〈◊〉 him 〈◊〉 ſearching for, he ſaid 〈…〉 a ſermon, 〈…〉 vanity. 〈…〉 upon 〈…〉 why do I ever leave 〈◊〉 ſermon out of 〈…〉 I wiſh it was within five miles; I would willingly fetch it, to read it to you. 〈◊〉 gentleman anſwered, that there was no need, for he was cured of the paſſion. 'And for that very reaſon,' quoth Adams, I would read it, for I am confident you would 〈◊〉 it: Indeed I have never 〈…〉 〈…〉 that 〈…〉 gentleman 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 — 〈◊〉 this ſociety I eaſily paſs'd 〈◊〉 that of the 〈◊〉 , where nothing remarks 〈…〉 but the finiſhing of my fortune, which theſe gentleman ſoon, helped me to the end of. This opened ſcenes of life hitherto unknown • poverty and diſtreſs, 〈◊〉 their horrid train of • uns, attorneys, 〈…〉 me day and night. My clothes grew ſhabby, my credit bad, my friends and acquaintance of all kinds cold. In this 〈◊〉 , the ſtrangeſt thought imaginable came into my head; and what was this, but to write a pity? for I had ſufficient leiſured fear of bailiffs confined me every day to my room • and having always had a 〈◊〉 inclinations, and ſomething of a 〈◊〉 that way, I ſet myſelf 〈◊〉 work 〈…〉 produced a 〈…〉 at the 〈…〉 I remember 〈…〉 tickets 〈…〉 their 〈…〉 of their performances▪ and reſolving to 〈◊〉 a precedent which was ſo well 〈◊〉 my preſent circumſtances, I immediately provided myſelf with a large number of little 〈◊〉 . Happy, indeed would be the ſtate of 〈…〉 theſe tickets paſs current at the bake-houſe, the ale-houſe, and the chandler's ſhop: But alas! 〈◊〉 otherwiſe; 〈◊〉 will take them 〈…〉 ſtay-tape; 〈…〉 the civility 〈◊〉 . They are indeed 〈…〉 a paſſport to 〈◊〉 with, a certification 〈…〉 wants five ſhillings, which induces 〈…〉 chriſtians to charity. I now 〈…〉 is worſe than poverty, or rather what 〈…〉 conſequences of poverty, I mean attende •• 〈◊〉 dependance on the great. Many a morning 〈◊〉 I 〈◊〉 hours 〈◊〉 the 〈…〉 man of 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 in 〈◊〉 and 〈…〉 pimps and 〈…〉 in faſhion 〈…〉 I 〈◊〉 been ſometimes 〈◊〉 • ending in my 〈◊◊〉 my 〈◊〉 could not 〈…〉 this mornings 〈◊〉 ſufficient aſſurance that I ſhould never 〈…〉 into that houſe. 〈◊〉 I have been 〈◊◊〉 admitted; and the great 〈◊〉 hath thought proper to excuſe himſelf, by •• lling me he was tied up. 'Tied up,' ſays Adams, 'pray what's 〈◊〉 ' Sir, ſays 〈◊〉 gentleman, the profit which 〈…〉 authors for the beſt works, was ſo very ſmall, 〈◊〉 certain man of birth and 〈…〉 who were 〈…〉 of wit and 〈…〉 for what was not 〈…〉 in this 〈…〉 perſons 〈…〉 good from 〈◊〉 authors, 〈…〉 genius was 〈…〉 this was to 〈…〉 of money 〈…〉 of 〈…〉 if ever 〈…〉 ſcribed: 〈…〉 , and many more have 〈…〉 , in order to ſilence all ſolicitation. 〈…〉 method was likewiſe taken with 〈…〉 tickets, which w ••• no 〈◊〉 〈…〉 and this is what 〈…〉 being 〈…〉 is apt enough, and ſomewhat 〈…〉 Adams for a man of large fortune 〈…〉 himſelf up, as you call it, from the encouragement of men of merit, ought to 〈◊〉 tied up in ••• lity. 〈…〉 ſays the gentleman, to 〈◊〉 to my ſtory. 〈◊〉 I have received a guinea from a man of quality, given with as ill a grace, as alms are generally to the meaneſt beggar, and purchaſed too with as much time ſpent in attendance, as, if it had been 〈◊〉 in honeſt induſtry, might have brought me more profit with infinitely more ſatisfaction. After 〈◊〉 two months ſpent in this diſagreeable way with the utmoſt, mortification, when I was pluming 〈…〉 the proſpect of a plentiful harveſt from my play, upon 〈◊〉 to the prompter to know what 〈…〉 me he had, 〈…〉 ſeaſon; but if I would 〈◊〉 it and 〈…〉 the next they 〈…〉 for it again. I ſnatch'd it from, him with 〈…〉 and retired to my room, where I 〈◊〉 myſelf on the 〈◊〉 in a fit of deſpair—You ſhould rather 〈◊〉 thrown yourſelf on your 〈…〉 for deſpair is ſinful. As ſoon, continued the gentleman, as I had indulged the firſt 〈…〉 paſſion, I began to 〈…〉 ſhould take in a 〈…〉 credit, or reputation 〈…〉 After revolving any things in my 〈…〉 no other poſſibility of furniſhing my 〈…〉 miſerable neceſſaries of life than to 〈…〉 near the Temple, and commence 〈◊〉 writer to the 〈◊〉 ; for which I was well 〈◊〉 , being an 〈…〉 . This 〈…〉 who 〈…〉 me, and to him I applied. But 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉 me with any buſineſs, 〈…〉 at my undertaking and told me, 'he was 〈◊〉 I ſhould turn his 〈◊〉 into plays and 〈◊〉 ſhould expect to ſee them on the ſtage.'

Not to 〈◊〉 you with 〈◊〉 of this kind from others, I found that Pla • e himſelf did not hold poets in greater abhorrence than theſe men of buſineſs do. Whenever I durſt venture to a coffee- 〈◊〉 , which was on Sundays only, a whiſper ran 〈◊〉 the room; which was conſtantly attended 〈…〉 — 〈…〉 Wilſon • for I know not whether you have obſerved it, but there 〈…〉 in the 〈…〉 out, or 〈…〉 in all 〈…〉 hath ſexes, whoſe births and 〈◊〉 place them juſt without the polite 〈◊〉 ; I 〈…〉 the lower 〈◊〉 of the 〈◊〉 , and the higher of 〈…〉 world, who are in reality the 〈…〉 part of mankind. Well, Sir, whilſt I 〈…〉 with 〈…〉 ſtarving the 〈…〉 of a 〈…〉 I accidentally became acquainted 〈…〉 , who told me, it was a pity a 〈…〉 learning and genius ſhould 〈…〉 a method of getting his livelihood; 〈◊〉 a compaſſion for me, and if I would 〈…〉 him, he would undertake to provide handſomely for me. A man in my 〈…〉 very well 〈…〉 acceptant his 〈…〉 actions, which were none of 〈…〉 and fell to tranſlating with all 〈…〉 longer reaſon 〈◊〉 lament 〈…〉 for he furniſhed me with ſo much, that in 〈…〉 year I almoſt 〈◊〉 myſelf blind. I likewiſe 〈◊〉 attracted a diſtemper by my ſedentary 〈…〉 no part of my body was exerciſed 〈…〉 right arm, which rendered me incapable of writing for a long time. This unluckily happened to delay the publication of a work, and my laſt 〈◊〉 not having ſold well, the bookſeller 〈…〉 further engagement, and aſperſed 〈…〉 as a careleſs, idle fellow. 〈…〉 by having half worked and half ſtarved myſelf 〈◊〉 death, during the time 〈◊〉 in his 〈◊〉 , 〈◊〉 a few guineas, with which 〈◊〉 a lottery 〈◊〉 reſolving to 〈◊〉 myſelf into 〈…〉 if ſhe 〈…〉 ſhe had done me at 〈…〉 purchaſe being made, 〈…〉 when, as if I had not been ſufficiently miſerable, a bailiff in woman's clothes 〈◊〉 admittance to 〈◊〉 chamber, where 〈◊〉 directed by the bookſeller. He arreſted me at my taylor's 〈◊◊〉 thirty-five 〈◊〉 ; a ſum for which I could not procure bail and was therefore 〈◊〉 to his 〈…〉 was locked up in 〈…〉 . I 〈◊〉 • either health (for 〈…〉 recovered 〈…〉 indiſpoſition) liberty, 〈…〉 friends; and 〈◊〉 •• andoned all hopes, 〈…〉 the deſire of 〈◊〉 . But this could not 〈…〉 Adams: for doubtleſs the taylor 〈…〉 moment he was truly acquainted with you 〈…〉 and knew that your circumſtances would 〈◊〉 permit you to 〈…〉 could prevent me 〈…〉 been his 〈…〉 with him, and 〈…〉 if he would not 〈◊〉 my 〈…〉 pay him all the money I could by 〈…〉 labour and induſtry procure, reſerving 〈◊〉 what was ſufficient to preſerve me alive; he 〈◊〉 , his 〈…〉 time to time; that 〈…〉 put it 〈…〉 expect no money. 〈…〉 is in the original 〈…〉 to pay them, ſo 〈…〉 ourſelves he forgiven when we are in 〈…〉 of paying. He 〈◊〉 and the gentleman 〈◊〉 While I was in this 〈…〉 former acquaintance, to 〈…〉 my 〈…〉 by the 〈…〉 wiſhed 〈…〉 fortune: 〈…〉 up a price of 3000l • Adams 〈…〉 did not 〈◊〉 long: for 〈…〉 . Alas, 〈◊〉 this was 〈…〉 to ſink me the 〈◊〉 For I 〈…〉 of this 〈…〉 ſhilling without it, in order 〈…〉 . As 〈…〉 friend was 〈◊〉 with my unfortunate 〈◊〉 he 〈…〉 and remind, 〈◊〉 of the 〈…〉 of my life. He ſaid, I was 〈…〉 without any hopes of retrieval, nor 〈◊〉 expect any pity from my friends; that it 〈…〉 extreme weakneſs to compaſſionate the 〈◊〉 of a man who ran 〈◊〉 to his own deſtruction. He then 〈◊〉 me, 〈…〉 as he was 〈◊〉 the happineſs I ſhould 〈…〉 , had I not 〈◊〉 of 〈…〉 the plan of 〈…〉 with whom I 〈…〉 of life, even that which 〈…〉 enjoy, wholeſome air, In theſe 〈◊〉 circumſtances I applied by letter is 〈…〉 and ſuch to whom I had 〈…〉 without any great proſpect of 〈…〉 , for their 〈…〉 of a denial was the 〈…〉 .—Whilſt I 〈◊〉 in a 〈◊〉 horrible to be 〈…〉 which 〈…〉 , and what 〈…〉 chriſtianity, 〈◊〉 a ſtrange puniſhment 〈…〉 and indiſcretion; whilſt I 〈…〉 condition 〈…〉 came into the priſon, 〈…〉 delivered me the 〈…〉 .

SIR,

〈…〉 , to whom you 〈◊〉 your ticket in 〈…〉 the ſame day in which is a 〈…〉 as you have poſſibly heard, and 〈…〉 of all his fortune. I am ſo 〈◊〉 much to 〈◊〉 with your 〈◊〉 circumſtances, 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 you muſt feel at having been 〈…〉 diſpoſe of what might have made you 〈…〉 I muſt deſire your acceptance of the 〈…〉 am.

Your Humble ſervant, HARRIET HEARTY.

And what do you think was incloſed? I don't 〈…〉 Adams: 'Not leſs than a 〈…〉 I had long had 〈…〉 diſcloſe to her. 〈…〉 thouſand times; my eyes 〈…〉 repeated—But 〈…〉 I immediately 〈…〉 liberty, and, having paid all my 〈…〉 She happened 〈…〉 out of 〈…〉 which 〈…〉 for by that means 〈…〉 before her in a 〈…〉 to town 〈…〉 could not oblige her more than by never mentioning, or, if poſſible, thinking on a circumſtance which muſt bring to my mind an •• cident that might be grievous to me to think on. She proceeded thus: What I have done is in my own eyes a trifle, and perhaps infinitely leſs than would have become me to do. And if you think of engaging in any buſineſs, where a larger ſum may be ſerviceable to you, I ſhall not be 〈◊〉 rigid, either as to the ſecurity or intereſt. I endeavoured to expreſs all the gratitude in my power to this profuſion of goodneſs, tho' perhaps it 〈◊〉 my enemy, and began to afflict my mind with 〈…〉 than all the miſeries I had 〈…〉 afflicted me with 〈…〉 poverty, diſtreſs, and priſons 〈◊〉 , had been able 〈…〉 me feel • , for, Sir, theſe 〈…〉 kindneſs, 〈…〉 have raiſed 〈◊〉 good heart the moſt 〈◊〉 paſſion, of friendſhip 〈…〉 of the ſame, 〈…〉 and 〈…〉 came to 〈◊〉 from 〈…〉 beautiful woman, one 〈…〉 known; and for whom I had 〈…〉 paſſion, though with a deſpair, which 〈◊〉 me endeavour rather to cur • and conceal, than to nouriſh or acquaint her with it. In ſhort, they came upon me united with beauty, ſoftneſs, and tenderneſs, ſuch be witching ſmiles— 〈…〉 , in that moment I loſt myſelf, and 〈◊〉 our different ſituations, and conſidering 〈…〉 I was making to her 〈◊〉 , by deſiring 〈◊〉 who had given me ſo 〈…〉 to beſtow has all, 〈◊〉 gently hold on her 〈…〉 it to my lips, I preſs'd it 〈…〉 overſpread 〈…〉 to withdraw her hand, yet not ſo as to 〈◊〉 it from mine though I held it with the gentleſt 〈◊〉 . We both 〈◊〉 trembling, her eyes caſt on the ground, and mine ſtedfaſtly fixed on her. 〈…〉 , what was then the condition of my 〈…〉 with love, deſire, admiration, gratitude, and every under paſſion, all 〈◊〉 on one charming object. Paſſion at laſt got the better of both reaſon and reſpect, and ſoftly letting go her hand, I offered madly to claſp her in my arms; when a little recovering herſelf, ſhe ſtarted from me, aſking me, with ſome ſhew of anger, 'If ſhe had any reaſon to 〈◊〉 this treatment from me.' I then fell 〈◊〉 before her, and told her, If I had offended, my life was abſolutely in her power, 〈…〉 in any manner 〈…〉 her 〈…〉 . ſaid I 〈◊〉 not 〈…〉 me, as 〈…〉 I have 〈◊〉 you long 〈…〉 and the 〈…〉 you have 〈…〉 mean, 〈◊〉 views; 〈…〉 I who 〈◊〉 leave of you for ever, 〈…〉 〈◊〉 you ſeem, my happineſs is in the 〈…〉 of fortune now. You have obliged me too 〈◊〉 already, if I have my wiſh, it is for 〈◊〉 loſt accident, by which I may contribute with my life to the leaſt augmentation of your felicity, 〈…〉 myſelf, the only happineſs I can ever 〈…〉 hearing of yours; and if fortune 〈◊〉 make that complete, I will forgive her all her 〈◊〉 to me. 'You may, indeed,' anſwered ſhe, ſmiling, for your own happineſs muſt be included in mine. I have long known your worth; may: I muſt confeſs, ſaid ſhe bluſhing, I have long diſcovered that paſſion for me you profeſs, notwithſtanding thoſe endeavours, which I am convinced were. 〈◊〉 , to 〈◊〉 it; and if all I can give with 〈…〉 what I will 〈…〉 through 〈…〉 ſilent; then flying to 〈…〉 arms, no longer reſiſting,—and 〈…〉 her, 〈◊〉 muſt give me then herſelf,—O Sir,— 〈…〉 her look? She remained Silent; 〈…〉 motionleſs, ſeveral minutes. At laſt, recovering herſelf a little, ſhe inſiſted 〈◊〉 my having 〈◊〉 in ſuch a 〈◊〉 that 〈…〉 however, I 〈…〉 her again.— 〈…〉 pardon, I have 〈◊〉 you too long 〈…〉 particulars of the former 〈…〉 otherwiſe, ſaid Adams, 〈…〉 willingly hear it 〈…〉 the gentleman 〈…〉 within a week 〈…〉 of 〈…〉 after; 〈…〉 I came to examine the circumſtances of my 〈◊〉 fortune, (which I do aſſure you 〈…〉 at leiſure enough to do) I found it accounted to about ſix thouſand pounds, moſt part of 〈◊〉 lay in effects; for her father had been 〈…〉 , and ſhe ſeemed willing, if I liked 〈◊〉 that I ſhould carry on the ſame trade. I readily, and 〈◊〉 inconſiderately, undertook it: for, not having been bred up to the ſecrets of the buſineſs, and endeavouring to deal with the utmoſt honeſty 〈◊〉 uprightneſs, I ſoon found our fortune in a 〈…〉 and my trade decreaſing by little and 〈…〉 my wines, which I never, ••• terated 〈…〉 and were 〈…〉 as they 〈…〉 of ſpending money, and 〈…〉 from envy in getting 〈…〉 in my 〈…〉 I loved 〈…〉 which was perfectly 〈…〉 were no other than 〈…〉 ; for ſhe was 〈…〉 which that 〈…〉 affection for it, ſhe readily 〈◊〉 . We 〈◊〉 put our ſmall fortune, now reduced under 〈◊〉 thouſand pounds, into money, with 〈◊〉 of which we purchaſed this little place, whither we retired ſoon after her delivery, from a world full of 〈◊〉 noiſe, hatred, envy and ingratitude, to 〈…〉 and love. We have here lived almoſt twenty years, with little other converſation than our own moſt of the neighbourhood taking us for very ſtrange people; the ſquire of the pariſh repreſent 〈◊〉 a madman, and the 〈…〉 cauſe I will not 〈◊〉 with the 〈…〉 other, 'Sir,' ſays Adams, 〈…〉 think, paid you all her debts in 〈…〉 Sir, replied the gentleman, 〈…〉 I have 〈…〉 whom 〈…〉 . Within three years of my 〈…〉 my eldeſt ſon. (Here he 〈…〉 ) ſays Adams, we muſt ſubmit to 〈…〉 conſider death is common to all. We 〈…〉 , indeed, anſwered the gentleman; and 〈…〉 died, I could have borne the loſs with patience 〈…〉 ! Sir, he was ſtolen away 〈…〉 wicked travelling people whom they call 〈…〉 ; not could I ever with the moſt diligent 〈…〉 him. 〈◊〉 child! he had the 〈…〉 the exact 〈◊〉 of his mother; at 〈…〉 tears unwittingly 〈◊〉 from his eyes, 〈…〉 likewiſe from thoſe of Adams, 〈…〉 with his friends 〈◊〉 thoſe 〈…〉 ſaid the gentleman 〈…〉 which, if I have been too particular 〈…〉 and now, 〈◊〉 pleaſe, I 〈…〉 you another bottle; which propoſal the parſon 〈◊〉 accepted.

CHAP. IV.

A deſcription of Mr. Wilſon's way of living. The 〈◊〉 adventure of the dog, and other grave matters.

THE gentleman returned with the bottle; and Adams and he ſat ſome time ſilent, when the 〈◊〉 ſtarted up, and cried, 'No, that won't do,' 〈◊〉 gentleman enquired into, his meaning; he 〈◊〉 He had been conſidering that it 〈…〉 famous king 〈…〉 ſon whom he had 〈…〉 his 〈◊〉 could not 〈…〉 for 〈◊〉 fruit.

〈…〉 had and with 〈…〉 ſoft dews 〈◊〉 on her 〈…〉 to take her 〈…〉 over the 〈…〉 and preſently after, that 〈…〉 from his wife's chamber to pay his 〈…〉 to her 〈…〉 gentleman 〈…〉 if he would 〈…〉 and ſurvey his 〈…〉 which he 〈…〉 Joſeph at 〈…〉 〈…〉 from aſleep in which 〈…〉 hours buried, went with them. No 〈…〉 fountains, no ſtatues, 〈…〉 Its only ornament was a ſhort walk, 〈…〉 each ſide by a filbert hedge, with a ſmall 〈…〉 one end, whither in hot weather the 〈◊〉 and his wife uſed to retire and 〈…〉 with their children, who played in the 〈…〉 them▪ but tho' vanity had no votary 〈…〉 ſpot, here was variety of fruit, and every 〈…〉 for the kitchen, which was 〈…〉 to catch the admiration of Adams 〈…〉 the gentleman he had certainly a good 〈…〉 anſwered he, that gardener is 〈…〉 whatever you ſee 〈◊〉 is the 〈…〉 ſelf while my 〈…〉 pares our 〈…〉 which 〈…〉 the 〈◊〉 of the 〈…〉 weather will not 〈…〉 here, I am uſually 〈…〉 with my 〈…〉 ſay the truth, 〈…〉 perceive that 〈…〉 underſtanding which 〈◊〉 levity of rakes, the 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉 of buſineſs 〈◊〉 the auſterity of the learned 〈…〉 in women. 〈…〉 found none of 〈◊〉 own 〈…〉 obſervations 〈…〉 them 〈…〉 not do I believe any 〈…〉 a faithfuller 〈…〉 friend. And 〈…〉 with more delicacy 〈…〉 ſo it is conſumed by dearer 〈…〉 can attend the cloſeſt male alliance 〈…〉 can be ſo faſt, as our common intereſt 〈…〉 of ou • embraced, Perhaps, Sir, you 〈◊〉 yourſelf a father; if you are not, 〈…〉 delight I have in my 〈…〉 Would you not deſpiſe me, if you 〈…〉 the 〈◊〉 and my children playing 〈…〉 I ſhould 〈…〉 the ſight 〈…〉 myſelf 〈◊〉 now the father of 〈…〉 and I am ſay, I 〈…〉 houſe 〈…〉 better; 〈…〉 occaſion 〈…〉 my 〈◊〉 (And) 〈…〉 Adams, as 〈…〉 a maid-ſervant, but 〈…〉 up, ſhe is unwilling 〈…〉 them 〈…〉 the fortunes I 〈…〉 very 〈…〉 intend not to 〈…〉 the rank they are likely to 〈…〉 hereafter, 〈◊〉 to teach them to • eſpiſe, 〈…〉 〈…〉 . Indeed I could wiſh a 〈◊〉 of 〈…〉 and a retired lift, might fall to their 〈◊〉 for I have experienced that circumſtance 〈…〉 which is ſeated in content, is inconſiſtent with the hurry and buſtle of the world. 〈…〉 proceeding 〈◊〉 , when the little things being laſt riſen, ran eagerly towards him, and aſked 〈…〉 ; they were 〈◊〉 to the ſtrange 〈◊〉 but the oldeſt acquainted her father; that her mother and the young gentlewoman 〈◊〉 up, and that 〈◊〉 faſt was ready. They all 〈◊〉 in, where the gentleman was ſurprized at the beauty of 〈…〉 had now recovered herſelf 〈…〉 was entirely clean 〈…〉 taken away her 〈◊〉 had 〈…〉 in the 〈…〉 children, and 〈…〉 of Adams 〈…〉 the reading which 〈…〉 their gueſts, and 〈◊〉 forwardneſs to 〈…〉 the beſt of every thing in their houſe; 〈…〉 delighted him ſtill 〈◊〉 , was an 〈…〉 of their charity: for whilſt 〈…〉 at 〈…〉 the good woman was 〈…〉 , which 〈…〉 ſome 〈…〉 for the public uſe; and the good man went into his garden as the ſame time, to ſupply another with ſomething which he wanted thence; for they 〈◊〉 nothing which thoſe who 〈◊〉 were not 〈…〉 to. Theſe good people went in the 〈…〉 , when they heard the 〈◊〉 of 〈…〉 immediately afterwards a 〈◊〉 the favourite of the eldeſt daughter, came 〈…〉 • loody, and laid himſelf at his miſtreſs • 〈◊〉 the poor girl, who was about eleven years old, burſt into tears at the ſight; and preſently one of the neighbours came in and informed them, that the 〈◊〉 ſquire the ſon of the lord of the manor, ha • 〈◊〉 him as he paſſ'd by, ſwearing at the ſame time he would proſecute the maſter of him for keeping a 〈◊〉 ; for that he had given notice; he would 〈◊〉 ſuffer one in the pariſh. The dog, whom his 〈◊〉 had taken into her lap, died in a few minutes, licking her hand. She expreſs'd great 〈◊〉 at his loſs▪ and the other children began to 〈◊〉 for their 〈◊〉 misfortune, nor could Fanny himſelf refrain. Whilſt the father and mother attempted to 〈◊〉 her, Adams glaſped his 〈…〉 , and would have 〈…〉 Joſeph with 〈◊〉 him. 〈…〉 bridle his 〈…〉 with great 〈◊〉 ; ſaid 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 lamenting and carrying the dead 〈◊〉 in 〈◊〉 , out of the room, when the gentleman ſaid, this was the ſecond 〈◊〉 this ſquire had endeavoured to kill the little 〈◊〉 , and ha • 〈◊〉 him 〈◊〉 once before, adding 〈…〉 motive but ill-nature; for the 〈…〉 which was not near 〈…〉 never 〈◊〉 twenty yards from 〈…〉 years his daughter had had it. He 〈…〉 nothing to deſerve this uſage: 〈…〉 too great a fortune to contend with. That 〈…〉 as abſolute 〈◊〉 any tyrant in the univerſe, 〈…〉 dogs, and taken away all the 〈…〉 and not only 〈…〉 〈…〉 hedges, and rode over corn and gardens, with no more regard than if they were the high way. I wiſh I could catch him in my garden, ſaid Adams; though I would rather forgive him riding through my houſe than ſuch an ill-natured act as this.

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

CHAP. V.

A diſputation as ſchools, hold on the road between Mr. Abraham Adams and Joſeph; 〈…〉 not unwelcome to them 〈◊〉 .

OUR travellers having well refreſhed 〈…〉 at the gentleman's houſe. Joſeph 〈…〉 with ſleep, and Mr. Abraham Adams 〈…〉 tobacco, renewed their journey with great 〈◊〉 ; and purſuing the road in which they were 〈◊〉 travelled many miles before they met with any adventure worth relating. In this interval, we ſhall 〈◊〉 our reader with a very curious diſcourſe, as 〈◊〉 apprehend it, concerning public ſchools, which 〈◊〉 between Mr. Joſeph Andrews and Mr. Abraham Adams.

They 〈◊〉 not gone far, before Adams calling to Joſeph, aſked him if he had attended to the gentleman's ſtory; he anſwered, to all the former part.' ' 〈◊〉 don't you think,' ſays he, 'he was a very 〈…〉 in his youth?' 'A very unhappy man 〈…〉 the other. 'Joſeph,' cries Adams, 〈…〉 , I have 〈…〉 diſcovered the 〈…〉 preſerved your virtue as you have. The firſt care I always 〈◊〉 is of a 〈…〉 . What is all 〈…〉 man take in exchange for his 〈…〉 ſchools trouble themſelves 〈…〉 . I have known 〈…〉 , who hath not been 〈…〉 his 〈◊〉 ; but for my own part, I always ſcourged a lad ſooner for miſſing that than any other 〈◊〉 . Believe me, child, all that gentleman's misfortunes aroſe from his being 〈◊〉 of a public ſchool.

'It doth not become me,' anſwered Joſeph, to diſpute any thing, Sir, with you eſpecially 〈◊〉 matter of this kind; for to be ſure you muſt be allowed by all the world to 〈…〉 teacher of a ſchool in all our county. 〈…〉 ſays Adams, I believe, is granted me; that I may without much vanity pretend to— • ay, I believe 〈◊〉 may go to the next county too— 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 non eſt moum—However, Sir a • you are 〈◊〉 to bid me ſpeak, ſays Joſeph, 〈◊〉 you know 〈…〉 , Sir, 〈…〉 was 〈…〉 ſchool, and 〈…〉 he had a hundred 〈…〉 at the ſomeplace. 〈…〉 heard him 〈…〉 a public ſchool, and 〈…〉 learn more in one year 〈…〉 education will in 〈◊〉 . He uſed to ſay 〈…〉 itſelf initiated him a great way, (I 〈◊〉 was his very expreſſion) 〈…〉 ſchools 〈…〉 ſocieties, where a Boy of any 〈…〉 in epitome what he will afterwards 〈…〉 in the world at large. 〈…〉 quoth Adams 〈◊〉 prefer a 〈◊〉 ſchool, where boys may 〈…〉 innocence and 〈…〉 fine paſſage is 〈◊〉 play of Cato, the only Engliſh tragedy I even 〈◊〉 .

If knowledge of the world 〈…〉 Juba ever live in 〈…〉 Who would not rather preſerve the purity of 〈◊〉 child, than wiſh him to attain the whole 〈◊〉 of arts and ſciences; which, by-the-bye, 〈…〉 learn in the claſſes of a private ſchool? 〈◊〉 I would not be vain, but I eſteem myſelf to be 〈◊〉 to none, 〈◊〉 ſecundum, in teaching theſe things; ſo that a lad may have 〈◊〉 much learning in a private as in a public education, And, with ſubmiſſion 〈…〉 Joſeph, 〈◊〉 may get 〈◊〉 much vice, 〈◊〉 ſeveral country gentlemen, who were educated within five miles of their own houſes, and are as wicked as if they had known the world from their infancy. I 〈…〉 I was in the ſtable, if a young horſe was 〈◊〉 in his nature, no correction would 〈…〉 otherwiſe; I take i • to be equally the 〈◊〉 men: 〈…〉 corrupted. 〈…〉 that the 〈…〉 in public ſchools was much 〈…〉 in private—You 〈…〉 ſays Adams, and ſo did 〈…〉 twenty or thirty boys more in a 〈…〉 preſume to 〈◊〉 in this 〈…〉 have taught from 〈…〉 maſter of ſix boys only, 〈…〉 diſcipline amongſt them as the 〈…〉 greateſt ſchool in the world. I ſay 〈…〉 I ſay nothing 〈…〉 himſelf had been educated 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 , and under the tuition of 〈…〉 I name nobody, it 〈◊〉 have been 〈…〉 him—but his father muſt inſtitute him 〈◊〉 knowledge of the 〈◊〉 . 〈…〉 horis 〈◊〉 . Joſeph ſeeing him run on in this manner, aſked pardon many times aſſuring him he had no intention to offend. I better you had not child, ſaid he, and I am not 〈…〉 but for maintaining 〈…〉 a ſchool; for this—And 〈…〉 named all the 〈…〉 old books, and preſented himſelf to 〈…〉 if this good 〈◊〉 had an enthuſiaſtic of 〈◊〉 the vulgar call a blind ſide, it was 〈…〉 a ſchool-maſter the 〈…〉 and himſelf the 〈…〉 the beautiful 〈…〉 . It was a kind of 〈…〉 formed by the winding of a 〈…〉 was planted with 〈◊〉 words, and the 〈…〉 gradually above each other by the natural aſcent 〈◊〉 ſhe ground they 〈◊〉 on; which aſcent as the hid with their 〈…〉 to have 〈◊〉 diſpoſed by the deſign of the moſt ſkilful planter. The ſoil was ſpread with 〈…〉 which no paint 〈◊〉 imitate; and the whole place might have raiſed romantic ideas in elder minds than thoſe of Joſeph and Fanny, without the aſſiſtance of love. Here they arrived about noon, and Joſeph propoſed to Adams that they ſhould reſt a while in 〈◊〉 delightful place, and refreſh themſelves with 〈…〉 which the good nature of Mrs. 〈…〉 provided them with. Adams made 〈◊〉 object 〈◊〉 to the 〈◊〉 ; ſo down they ſat, and pulling but a cold 〈◊〉 , and a 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉 , they 〈…〉 which might have 〈…〉 of more 〈◊〉 did 〈◊〉 . I 〈…〉 , that they found 〈◊〉 their proviſions a little paper, containing a piece of gold, which Adams 〈◊〉 had been put there by miſtake, would have returned back, to reſtore it: but he was at 〈…〉 that Mr. Wilſon had 〈…〉 furniſhing them with a 〈◊〉 for their 〈◊〉 , on his having 〈◊〉 the 〈…〉 were 〈…〉 of the 〈◊〉 . Adams 〈…〉 ſuch an 〈◊〉 of 〈…〉 which it 〈…〉 to call 〈◊〉 him; 〈…〉 too 〈…〉 which thoſe who have as great 〈…〉 as ourſelves, 〈…〉 hopes of ſeeing him again. Then Joſeph made a ſpeech on 〈◊〉 which the reader, if 〈◊〉 ſo diſpoſed, may 〈…〉 ; for we ſcorn to 〈…〉 ſuch reading, without firſt giving him warning.

CHAP. VI.

〈◊〉 reflections by Joſeph Andrews, with 〈…〉 , and perſon Adams's 〈◊〉 eſcape.

I HAVE often wondered, Sir, ſaid Joſeph to 〈◊〉 ſerve ſo few inſtances of charity among mankind; for tho' the goodneſs of a man's heart did not incline him to relieve the diſtreſſes of his fellow-creatures, methinks the deſire of honour 〈◊〉 move him to it. What inſpires a man to build 〈◊〉 houſes, or 〈…〉 clothes, and other things 〈…〉 ambition to be 〈…〉 would not 〈…〉 of poverty 〈…〉 a ſum of 〈…〉 livelihood 〈…〉 reſpect th •• 〈…〉 houſe, furniture, pictures, or 〈…〉 ever beheld? For not only the object himſelf 〈◊〉 was thus relieved, 〈◊〉 all who 〈…〉 ſuch a perſon, muſt, 〈…〉 infinitely more than 〈…〉 things: which when we 〈…〉 we 〈◊〉 praiſe the builder, the 〈◊〉 the painted, the 〈◊〉 the taylor, and the reſt, by whoſe ingenuity they are produced, than the perſon who by his money makes them his own. For my own part, 〈◊〉 I have waited behind my lady in a room 〈…〉 pictures, while I have 〈…〉 never once thought 〈…〉 any one elſe, as I ever obſerved; for when it 〈◊〉 been aſked whoſe picture that was, it was never once anſwered, the maſter's of the houſe; but 〈◊〉 , Paul Varniſh, Hannibal Scr • tchi,, 〈…〉 , which, I ſuppoſe were the 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉 painters: but if it was aſked who redeemed ſuch a 〈◊〉 out of 〈◊〉 who lent 〈◊〉 a ruined 〈◊〉 money to ſet up? who cloathed that family of 〈◊〉 ſmall children? it is very plain what muſt be the anſwer. And beſides, theſe great folks are miſtaken, if they imagine they get any honour at 〈…〉 means; for 〈…〉 where ſhe 〈…〉 houſe 〈◊〉 , but I 〈…〉 they all 〈…〉 who do, 〈◊〉 it is ſtrange that all men ſhould conſent in commending goodneſs, and 〈…〉 endeavour to deſerve 〈…〉 whilſt on the 〈◊〉 all 〈◊〉 wickedneſs, 〈…〉 to be what they abuſe. This I know not the reaſon of; but it is as 〈◊〉 as 〈◊〉 -light to thoſe who 〈◊〉 the world. As I have done theſe three years A • all the great folks wicked then? ſays Fanny. To be 〈◊〉 there are ſome exceptions, anſwered Joſeph. Some gentlemen of our cloth report 〈◊〉 actions done by their 〈◊〉 and 〈…〉 Pope, the great 〈…〉 of a man that lived 〈…〉 〈◊〉 Roſs, and another at the Bath, one Al—Al—I forget his name, but it is in the book of verſes, This gentleman hath built up a ſtately houſe too, which the ſquire likes very well: but his charity is ſeen farther than his houſe; though it ſtands on a hill, ay, and brings him more honour too. It was his charity that put him in the book, where • he • quire ſays he puts all thoſe who deſerve it; and to be ſure, as he lives among all the great people, if there were any ſuch, he would know them.—This was all of Mr. Joſeph Andrews's ſpeech which I could get him to recollect, which I have delivered as near as was poſſible in his own words, with a very ſmall embelliſhment. But I believe the 〈◊〉 hath not been a little ſurpriſed at the long 〈◊〉 of perſon Adams, eſpecially as ſo many occaſions offered themſelves to exert his curioſity and obſervation. The truth is, he was 〈◊〉 aſleep and 〈◊〉 been from the beginning of the preceding 〈◊〉 : and indeed if the reader conſiders that ſo many hours had paſt ſince he had cloſed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repoſe, though even Hen • ey himſelf, or as great an orator (if any ſuch he) had been in his roſtrum or tub before him.

Joſeph, who, whilſt he was ſpeaking, had continued in one attitude, with his head reclining on one ſide, and his eyes caſt on 〈◊〉 ground, no ſooner perceived, on looking up, the poſition of Adams, who was ſtretched on his back, and 〈◊〉 louder than the uſual braying of the animal with long ears; then he turned towards Fanny, and 〈◊〉 her by ſhe hand, began a dalliance, which, 〈◊〉 conſiſtent with the pureſt innocence and 〈◊〉 neither he would have attempted, 〈…〉 before 〈◊〉 witneſs. Whilſt 〈…〉 themſelves 〈◊〉 his harmleſs and delight 〈…〉 , they heard 〈◊〉 pack of 〈◊〉 approaching in fall cry towards them, and preſently afterwards ſaw a 〈◊〉 pop forth 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 , and, 〈…〉 the water, land within a few yards of them in the meadows. The 〈…〉 no ſooner on ſhore, than it ſeated itſelf on its 〈◊〉 legs, and liſtened to the ſound of the purſuers. Fanny was wonderfully pleaſed with the little wretch, and 〈◊〉 longed to have it in her 〈…〉 ſhe might preſerve it from the dangers that 〈◊〉 to threaten it: but the rational part of the creation do not always aptly diſtinguiſh their friends 〈◊〉 their foes; what wonder than if this filly 〈◊〉 the moment it beheld her, fled from the friend, who would 〈◊〉 protected it, and, traverſing 〈◊〉 meadows again, 〈◊〉 the little rivulet on the oppoſite ſide. It was, however, ſo ſpent and 〈…〉 down twice or 〈◊〉 in 〈◊〉 way. The 〈…〉 tender heart of Fanny, who 〈…〉 in her eyes, againſt the 〈…〉 poor 〈…〉 out of its 〈…〉 to the extreme •• 〈…〉 . She had not much time to make reflections of this kind; for on a 〈◊〉 the 〈…〉 the wood, which reſounded with their 〈◊〉 and the 〈◊〉 of their retinue who attended 〈…〉 . The dogs now paſt the rivulet, and 〈…〉 the 〈◊〉 of the hare; five Horſemen 〈…〉 to leap 〈◊〉 , three of whom 〈…〉 two were in the attempt throws 〈…〉 into the water; their companions 〈…〉 own horſes too, proceeded after their ſport, 〈◊〉 left, their friends and riders to invoke 〈…〉 of 〈◊〉 , or employ the more active 〈…〉 ſtrength 〈◊〉 for their delivera ••• . 〈◊〉 however, 〈◊〉 not ſo unconcerned on 〈…〉 ; he left Fanny for a moment to herſelf, and 〈◊〉 to the gentlemen, who were immediately on their legs, making their ears, and eaſily with the help of his hand attained the bank (for the rivulet was not at all deep;) and without ſtaying to thank their kind aſſiſter, ran dripping acroſs the meadow, calling to their brother ſportſmen to ſtop their horſes: but they heard them not.

The hounds were now very little behind their poor • eeling, ſtaggering prey, which, fainting almoſt at every 〈◊〉 crawled thro' the wood, and had almoſt got round to the place where Fanny ſtood, when it was overtaken by its enemies; and, being driven out of the covert, was caught and inſtantly tore to pieces before Fanny's face, who was unable to aſſiſt it with any 〈…〉 nor could • he prevail on Joſeph, who had been himſelf a 〈◊〉 in his youth, to 〈◊〉 any thing contrary to the laws of hunting, 〈…〉 of the hare, which he ſaid was killed 〈◊〉 .

The hare was caught within a yard of 〈◊〉 of Adams, who lay aſleep at ſome 〈…〉 the •• vers; and the hounds in devouring i • , 〈…〉 it backwards and 〈◊〉 , had drawn it ſo cloſe to him, that ſome of them (by 〈◊〉 perhaps for the hare's ſkin) laid hold of the 〈◊〉 of his caſſock; others at the ſame time applying their teeth to his wig, which he had with a handkerchief faſtened to his head, began to pull him about; and had not the motion of his body had more effect on him than ſeemed to be wrought by the 〈◊〉 , they muſt certainly have taſted his 〈◊〉 , which delicious flavour might have been fatal to him: but being rouſed by theſe tuggings, he inſtantly awaked, and with a jerk 〈◊〉 his 〈◊〉 from his wig, he with moſt 〈◊〉 dexterity 〈◊〉 his legs, which now ſeemed the only members he could entruſt his ſafety • o. Having therefore eſcaped likewiſe from a • leaſt a third part of his caſſock, which he willingly left as his 〈◊〉 or ſpoils to the enemy, he fled with the utmoſt ſpeed he could ſummon to his aſſiſtance. Nor let this be any detraction from the bravery of his character; let the number of the enemies, and the ſurprize in which he was taken, be conſidered; and if there be any modern ſo outrageouſly brave, that he cannot admit of •• ight in my circumſtance whatever, I ſay 〈◊〉 I whiſper that ſoftly, and I 〈◊〉 declare, without any intention of giving 〈…〉 any brave man in the •• tion) I ſay, or rather I whiſper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and hath 〈…〉 or Virgil, nor knows 〈…〉 of Hector or Turnus; nay, he is 〈◊〉 with the hiſtory of ſome great men living who, tho' as brave as 〈…〉 , have run away, the Lord knows how far, and the Lord knows 〈◊〉 to the ſurpriſe of their friends, and the entertainment of their enemies. But 〈◊〉 perſons of ſuch heroic diſpoſition are a little offended at the behaviour of Adams, we aſſure them they ſhall be as much pleaſed at what we ſhall immediately relate of Joſeph Andrews. The maſter of the pack was juſt arrived, or as the ſportſmen call it, come in, when Adams ſet out, as we have before mentioned. This gentleman was generally ſaid to be a great lover of humour; but not to mince the matter, eſpecially as we are upon this ſubject, he was a great Hunter of Men: Indeed he had hitherto followed the ſport only with dogs of his own ſpecies; for he kept two or three couple of barking curs 〈◊〉 that uſe only. However, as he 〈…〉 had now found 〈…〉 nimble enough, he was •• illing to indulge himſelf with other ſport, and accordingly crying 〈◊〉 , ſtole away, encouraged the hounds to purſue Mr. Adams, ſwearing it was the largeſt jack-hare he ever ſaw; at the ſame time hallooing and whooping as if a conquered 〈◊〉 was •• ying before him; in which he was imitated by by theſe two or three couple of human, or rather two legg'd curs on horſeback which we have mentioned before.

Now thou, whoever thou art, whether a 〈◊〉 or by what other name ſoever thou chuſeſt to be called, who preſideſt 〈◊〉 biography, and haſt inſpired all the writers of 〈…〉 who didſt infuſe ſuch wonderful 〈…〉 pen of immortal Gullive • ; who 〈…〉 guided the judgment, 〈…〉 nervous manly ſtyle of my 〈…〉 had'ſt no hand in that 〈…〉 the tranſlations which 〈…〉 willingly 〈◊〉 ſtruck out of the life of 〈◊〉 Laſtly, Thou who without the aſſiſtance 〈…〉 of 〈◊〉 and even againſt his 〈…〉 of his book, forced 〈…〉 ; do thou aſſiſt me in what I 〈…〉 equal to. Do thou 〈◊〉 on the 〈◊〉 the young, the gay, the brave Joſeph Andrews, whilſt men ſhall view him with 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 tender virgins with love and anxious 〈…〉 his ſafety.

No ſooner did Joſeph Andrews perceive 〈◊〉 diſtreſs of his friend, when firſt 〈◊〉 quick- 〈◊〉 dogs attacked him, than he graſped his 〈◊〉 in his right hand, a cudgel which his father had of his grandfather, to whom a mighty 〈◊〉 man of 〈◊〉 had given it for a preſent in that days when he 〈◊〉 three heads on 〈◊〉 . It was a 〈…〉 mighty ſtrength and wonderful 〈…〉 one of Mr. Deard's beſt 〈◊〉 , whom no other 〈◊〉 the equal; and who 〈◊〉 made all th • ſe 〈◊〉 which the 〈◊〉 have lately walked with about 〈◊〉 Park in a morning: But 〈◊〉 was far his 〈◊〉 -piece; 〈◊〉 its 〈◊〉 was engraved 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 , which might 〈…〉 for a 〈◊〉 of 〈…〉 deſigned to repreſent the 〈◊〉 ; but is 〈…〉 the face of a certain 〈…〉 of infinite 〈◊〉 , humour, and gravi •• . He 〈◊〉 intend 〈◊〉 have 〈…〉 many 〈◊〉 . 〈…〉 of the 〈…〉 to the 〈…〉 on this 〈…〉 reaſons: The 〈…〉 it would 〈…〉 which ſhould he 〈…〉 part; but 〈◊〉 doth not weigh much, many 〈…〉 for ſuch 〈…〉 to our 〈…〉 indeed, what 〈…〉 we bring to ſet 〈◊〉 our reader's 〈◊〉 at once the 〈◊〉 of friendſhip, 〈…〉 youth, beauty, 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 all which 〈◊〉 the perſon of Joſeph Andrews but thoſe therefore, that deſcribe 〈◊〉 and tigers, 〈…〉 than 〈◊〉 , raiſe their poems or plays 〈…〉 of Joſeph Andrews, who is himſelf 〈◊〉 the reach of any ſimile.

〈◊〉 Rockwood 〈…〉 and 〈…〉 than fell on his 〈…〉 brought him to 〈…〉 all 〈…〉 trailing; and 〈…〉 whenever 〈…〉 He fell by the 〈…〉 Plunder, and 〈…〉 victims of his 〈…〉 on the ground. Then 〈…〉 Mr. John Temple had 〈◊〉 up in 〈◊〉 houſe, and 〈◊〉 at his own table, and lately ſent the 〈…〉 for a preſent, can 〈◊〉 at Joſeph, 〈…〉 by the leg; no dog was • over fiercer 〈…〉 b • ing deſcended from 〈…〉 worried bulls in 〈…〉 country, but now 〈◊〉 an unequal 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 we have 〈…〉 may believe 〈…〉 〈◊〉 interpoſed, and in the ſhape of the 〈…〉 her 〈◊〉 up in 〈◊〉 .

〈…〉 with his 〈…〉 to the 〈…〉 Then Joſeph 〈◊〉 to his 〈◊〉 , and with 〈◊〉 might fell on the victor, 〈…〉 to his 〈◊〉 ! Caeſar ran yel • ing away.

The 〈…〉 with the moſt 〈…〉 man of 〈…〉 a language 〈…〉 vain to contend longer; for 〈…〉 their 〈…〉 with her 〈…〉 battle, a battle we 〈…〉 poet, 〈…〉 ſhall 〈…〉 with the 〈…〉 and his companions, 〈…〉 and the 〈…〉 ſit of laughter, 〈◊〉 who had 〈…〉 delight 〈…〉 many of which lay, 〈◊〉 in the 〈◊〉 . The 〈◊〉 therefore having firſt called his friends 〈…〉 guards, for the ſafety of his perſon, 〈…〉 up to the combatants, and 〈◊〉 all 〈◊〉 he was maſter of into his 〈◊〉 demanded with an authoritative voice of 〈◊〉 what he 〈◊〉 by aſſaulting his dogs in 〈◊〉 . Joſeph 〈◊〉 with great 〈…〉 they had firſt 〈◊〉 on his friend; and of 〈◊〉 had belonged to the greateſt man in the kingdom, 〈◊〉 would have treated there in the ſame way; 〈◊〉 whilſt his veins contained a ſingle drop of 〈◊〉 he would not ſtand idle by, and ſee 〈◊〉 gentleman (pointing to Adams) abuſed either by ma • 〈…〉 having ſo ſaid, both he and 〈…〉 their wooden weapons, and put themſelves 〈◊〉 ſuch a poſture, that the ſquire and his company thought proper to preponderate, before they 〈◊〉 to revenge the 〈◊〉 of their four-footed 〈◊〉 . At this inſtant 〈◊〉 , whom the 〈◊〉 of Joſeph's danger had 〈◊〉 ſo which that, 〈◊〉 getting her own, ſhe had made the 〈…〉 , came up. The 〈…〉 ſo ſurprized with 〈…〉 immediately fixed both 〈…〉 on 〈◊〉 , every one 〈…〉 charming a creature. 〈…〉 engaged them a moment 〈◊〉 ; but all 〈…〉 amaze. The 〈◊〉 only 〈…〉 her attraction, who was 〈◊〉 he cutting 〈…〉 the dogs, and 〈…〉 in which he ſucceed ••• ſo 〈◊〉 , that only 〈◊〉 no great note remained 〈◊〉 on the 〈◊〉 of action. Upon this the 〈…〉 well it was 〈◊〉 worſe; 〈◊〉 his part, he could not blame the gentleman, and wondered his maſter would encourage the dogs to 〈◊〉 chriſtians; that it was the ſureſt way to ſpoil them, to make them follow vermin inſtead of ſticking to a hare.

The ſquire being informed of the little miſchief that had been done, and perhaps having more miſchief of another kind in his head, accoſted Mr. 〈◊〉 with a more favourable aſpect than before 〈…〉 told him he was 〈◊〉 for what had happened 〈◊〉 that he had endeavoured all he could to 〈…〉 with his 〈…〉 commanded the courage of his 〈◊〉 ; for ſo he imagined Joſeph to be. He 〈◊〉 Mr. Adams to dinner, and deſired the 〈…〉 might come with him. Adams 〈…〉 ; but the invitation was we 〈…〉 at length he 〈…〉 accept it. His wig and 〈…〉 of the field, being 〈…〉 Joſeph 〈◊〉 otherwiſe probably they 〈…〉 himſelf into the 〈…〉 the houſe and 〈…〉 towards the 〈…〉 a very little diſtance, 〈…〉 which they 〈…〉 which, the 〈…〉 laughter and 〈◊〉 to the ſquire and his facetious 〈…〉 .

CHAP. VII.

A ſcene of roaſting very nicely adapted to the preſent 〈◊〉 and times.

TH •• 〈◊〉 at the ſquire's 〈…〉 . A little 〈…〉 the account of Fanny, whom the ſquire who 〈◊〉 •• tchelor, was 〈◊〉 to place at his own 〈◊〉 but ſhe would not conſent, nor 〈◊〉 Mr. Adams permit her to be parted from Joſeph: ſo their ſhe was at length with him conſigned over to the 〈◊〉 then, where the ſervants were 〈…〉 ; a favour which was 〈…〉 Adams: which deſign being 〈◊〉 the ſquire thought he ſhould 〈…〉 when he 〈◊〉 her, 〈…〉 Fanny.

It may not be 〈…〉 , to open a little 〈…〉 , and that of his 〈…〉 houſe then was a 〈…〉 (if we 〈…〉 ) 〈…〉 under 〈…〉 had orders 〈…〉 very 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 in hunting 〈…〉 his mother 〈…〉 horſes, hounds, and 〈…〉 endeavouring 〈…〉 with his young 〈◊〉 who would, he 〈…〉 able handſomely to provide for him, 〈◊〉 his companion, not 〈◊〉 at theſe exerciſes, but likewiſe 〈…〉 the young ſquire had a very 〈…〉 the age of twenty, his mother began to 〈…〉 not fulfilled the duty of a parent; ſhe 〈…〉 to perſuade her 〈◊〉 , if poſſible, 〈…〉 ſhe imagined would will 〈…〉 have learned at a 〈…〉 This is what they commonly call travelling; which with the help of the tutor who was fixed on to 〈◊〉 him, ſhe eaſily ſucceeded in. He made in 〈◊〉 years the tour of Europe, as they term it, and 〈◊〉 home well furniſhed with French clothes, 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 , with a hearty contempt for 〈◊〉 own 〈◊〉 eſpecially what had any favour of the plain ſpirit and honeſty of our Anceſtors. His 〈…〉 applauded herſelf at his return; and 〈◊〉 being maſter of his own fortune, he ſoon 〈◊〉 himſelf a ſent in parliament; and was in the 〈…〉 of the 〈◊〉 gentlemen of his 〈◊〉 but what 〈…〉 chiefly, was a ſtrange delight 〈…〉 thing which is rediculous, 〈…〉 in his own ſpecies; 〈…〉 without one or 〈…〉 theſe 〈◊〉 and thoſe who were 〈◊〉 by nature 〈…〉 moſt his 〈…〉 pleaſure in 〈…〉 methods 〈…〉 he was always 〈…〉 indeed no 〈◊〉 honour to the 〈…〉 buſineſs was to bunt out and diſplay every thing that had any 〈◊〉 of the above mentioned qualities, and eſpecially in the gr •• eſt and beſt characters: But if they 〈◊〉 in their ſearch, they were to turn even virtue and wiſdom themſelves into ridicule for the 〈◊〉 of their maſter and 〈◊〉 . The gentlemen of our-like diſpoſition, who were now 〈◊〉 houſe, and whom he had brought with 〈…〉 London, were an old half-pay officer, a 〈◊〉 , a 〈◊〉 -poet, a quack-doctor, a ſcraping- 〈◊〉 , and a lame German dancing-maſter.

As ſoon as dinner was ſerved, while Mr. Adams was ſaying grace, the captain 〈◊〉 his 〈◊〉 from behind him; ſo that when he endeavoured • o ſeat himſelf, he 〈◊〉 down on the 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 compleated joke the 〈◊〉 to the great-entertainment of the whole company. The ſecond joke was performed by the poet, who ſat next him on the other ſide, and took an opportunity, while poor Adams was reſpectfully drinking to the maſter of the houſe, to overturn a plate of 〈…〉 which, with the many apologies 〈…〉 perſon's gentle anſwers; 〈…〉 company. Joke the third 〈…〉 up by one of the waiting-men, who 〈…〉 ordered to 〈◊〉 a quantity of gin into Mr. Adams's ale, which 〈…〉 to be the 〈…〉 ever drunk, 〈◊〉 rather too rich of 〈…〉 contributed 〈◊〉 to their laughter. Mr. Adams 〈…〉 we had moſt of this relation, 〈…〉 all the 〈◊〉 of this kind practiſed 〈◊◊〉 which the 〈◊〉 diſpoſition of his own heart 〈◊〉 him 〈◊〉 in diſcovering; and indeed, 〈…〉 not been for the information which we received from a ſervant of the family, this part of our hiſtory, which 〈…〉 none of the leaſt curious, muſt have been deplorably imperfect; tho' we muſt own it probable, that ſome more jokes were (as they call it) cracked during their dinner; but we have by no means been able to come at the knowledge of them. When dinner was removed, the poet began to 〈◊〉 •• rſes, which he 〈◊〉 were made extempore. The following is a copy of them procured with the 〈◊〉 difficulty.

〈…〉 poem on parſon Adams. Did 〈◊〉 ſuch a parſon 〈◊〉 : His 〈…〉 , not 〈◊◊〉 〈…〉 have him for ſon miſtaken. 〈…〉 to that than 〈…〉 ? But 〈…〉 not make any mortal 〈◊〉 , To ſee this parſon taken for a 〈◊〉 ? Could 〈◊〉 err thus 〈◊〉 , even he For a good player might have 〈◊〉 that.

At 〈…〉 the hard 〈◊〉 off the player's 〈…〉 of the company, 〈…〉 of his hand than his 〈◊〉 . The player 〈…〉 the jeſt on the 〈◊〉 began to 〈◊〉 his 〈…〉 the ſame 〈◊〉 : He 〈…〉 reflecting 〈…〉 received 〈…〉 in broken Engliſh 〈…〉 man very 〈…〉 for 〈…〉 ſuppoſe by his walk dat he had learn of ſome great maſter. He ſaid it was 〈◊〉 pretty 〈◊〉 in clergymen to 〈◊〉 ; and 〈…〉 deſiring him to dance a 〈◊〉 telling him. 〈◊〉 caſſock would ſerve for pettico •• ; and that he would himſelf he his partner. At which words, without waiting for an anſwer, he pulled out his gloves, and the 〈◊〉 was preparing his fiddle. The company all 〈◊〉 the dancing-maſter wagers that the parſon 〈◊〉 him, which he refuſed, ſaying, 〈◊〉 All hounds that will hunt fox 〈…〉 • unt a piece of ruſty 〈◊〉 tr • iled on the group. 〈◊〉 ſo too; for he had 〈…〉 his life who looked de dance 〈…〉 man: He than ſtopped forwards to take Adams by the hand, which the letter 〈…〉 at the 〈…〉 his 〈…〉 to carry the j • ſt too far, for 〈…〉 put upon. The dancing maſter no ſooner 〈◊〉 the fiſt then he prudently retired out of its 〈◊〉 and ſtood aloof mimicking Adams, whoſe eyes were fixed on him, not 〈◊〉 what he was at, 〈◊〉 avoid laying hold on him, which he had once attempted. In the 〈◊〉 while, the captain perceiving an opportunity 〈…〉 or 〈◊〉 to the caſſock, and then 〈…〉 their little ſmo • king-candle. Adams 〈…〉 to this 〈◊〉 and believing he had 〈◊〉 blown up 〈…〉 from his 〈…〉 about the 〈◊〉 to the infinite joy of 〈…〉 , who 〈◊〉 he 〈◊〉 the beſt 〈…〉 . As 〈…〉 the devil had done 〈…〉 him, and he ha • a little recovered his 〈◊〉 he returned to the table, ſtanding up in the 〈◊〉 of one who 〈◊〉 to make a ſpeech. They all cried out, Hear him, hear him; and he them 〈◊〉 in the following manner: Sir, I am 〈…〉 one to 〈◊〉 Providence hath been ſo 〈◊〉 in 〈◊〉 his favours, make ſo 〈…〉 a return for them; for tho' you have not inſulted me yourſelf, it is viſible you have delighted in thoſe that do it, • or have once diſcouraged the many rudeneſſes which have been ſhewn towards me; indeed towards yourſelf, if you rightly underſtood 〈…〉 I am your 〈◊〉 , and by the laws of hoſpitals▪ 〈◊〉 to your protection. One gentleman 〈◊〉 thought proper 〈◊〉 produce ſame poetry upon 〈◊〉 of which I ſhall 〈…〉 that I had rather be the 〈…〉 compoſer. He hath 〈…〉 • reat me with diſreſpect as a perſon. I 〈…〉 my order is not the object of 〈…〉 ſo, unleſs by being a disgrace to 〈…〉 I hope poverty will 〈…〉 gentleman indeed hath repeated ſome ſentence where the order itſelf in mention 〈◊〉 with contempt. He ſays they are taken from plays. I am ſure ſuch plays are a ſcandal to the government which permits them, and curſed will be the nation where they are repreſented. How others have 〈…〉 me, I 〈…〉 . You 〈…〉 with two of 〈…〉 your 〈◊〉 • alling 〈…〉 whether it 〈…〉 of 〈…〉 very well 〈…〉 , of 〈…〉 you, Sir, 〈…〉 which words to 〈…〉 the half guinea which was found in the baſket) I do not 〈◊〉 you this 〈…〉 of riches, 〈…〉 truth. Your 〈◊〉 , me 〈◊〉 table 〈…〉 honour which I did not ambition 〈◊〉 affect: 〈…〉 endeavoured to behave towards you 〈…〉 moſt reſpect; if I have failed, it was 〈…〉 ſign; nor could I, certainly, ſo far 〈…〉 to deſerve the inſults I have 〈…〉 meant therefore either to my 〈…〉 (and you ſee I am not very poor) the 〈…〉 not lie at my door, and I heartily pray 〈…〉 may be averted 〈◊〉 .

He thus, finiſhed and received a 〈…〉 the whole company. Then the 〈…〉 of the houſe told him, he was forty 〈…〉 happened; that he could not 〈…〉 any ſhare in it: That the verſes 〈◊〉 as himſelf 〈◊〉 well obſerved, ſo had, that he might eaſily anſwer them; and for the ſerpent 〈◊◊〉 a very great affront done him 〈◊〉 the dancing maſter, for which, if he 〈◊〉 threſhed 〈◊〉 , as he deſerved, he ſhould be very much pleaſed 〈…〉 in which probably he ſpoke with.) Adams anſwered. Whoever had done it, 〈◊〉 was not his 〈◊〉 to puniſh him that way; but 〈◊〉 parſon whom he had accuſed Law a witneſs 〈◊〉 he, of his innocence; for I had my eye on himſelf the while. Whoever 〈…〉 and beſtow on him a 〈…〉 humanity. The captain anſwer'd with a 〈◊〉 look and accent, That he 〈◊〉 he did 〈…〉 reflect on him; 〈…〉 imanity as another, and 〈◊〉 man 〈…〉 not, he would convince 〈◊〉 of his 〈◊〉 cutting his throat. Adams 〈◊〉 ſaid 〈◊〉 believed he had ſpoke tight 〈◊〉 account. 〈◊〉 which the captain returned What 〈◊〉 you 〈◊〉 by my ſpeaking right 〈◊〉 you 〈…〉 I would not take them 〈◊〉 ; but your gown protects, you. If any man who wears a ſword had ſaid ſo much, I had pulled him by the noſe before this. Adams replied, if he attempted any rudeneſs to his perſon, he would not find any protection for himſelf in his gown; and 〈◊〉 his fiſt, declared, he had threſhed many a 〈◊〉 man. The gentleman did all he could to 〈◊〉 this warlike diſpoſition in Adams, and was 〈◊〉 hopes to have produced a battle: But he was 〈…〉 made no other 〈…〉 very well you are a perſon 〈…〉 ſo old mother church, 〈…〉 .

〈…〉 , who had hitherto been 〈…〉 who 〈…〉 graveſt, but moſt 〈…〉 all, in a 〈…〉 ſpeech highly 〈…〉 Adams had ſaid; and as much 〈…〉 the behaviour to 〈◊〉 . He proceeded to who 〈…〉 who immediately 〈…〉 in 〈…〉 to 〈…〉 a health to the 〈…〉 the captain and the 〈…〉 and what is 〈…〉 There were amusements 〈…〉 and degrees, from the 〈…〉 a point of philoſophy, and that 〈◊〉 diſcovered themſelves in nothing more than in the choice of their 〈◊〉 ; for, ſays he, as it muſt 〈…〉 of the future conduct in 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉 , whom in their tender years we perceive 〈◊〉 of taw or balls, or other 〈◊〉 play- 〈◊〉 chuſe, at their leiſure-hours, to exerciſe 〈…〉 in contentions of wit, learning, 〈…〉 like; ſo muſt it inſpire one with equal 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 man, if we ſhould diſcount him 〈…〉 or other childiſh play. Adams 〈…〉 the doctor's opinion, and ſaid, 〈◊〉 had 〈◊〉 wondered at ſome paſſages in 〈◊〉 authors, where Scipio. Laeli •• , and other 〈◊〉 men were repreſented to have paſſed many 〈…〉 amuſements, of the moſt 〈…〉 . The doctor replied, He had by him 〈…〉 manuſcript where a favourite diverſion of Socrates was recorded. 'Ay,' ſays the perſon 〈◊〉 I ſhould be moſt infinitely obliged to you for the favour of peruſing it. The doctor promiſed to ſend it him, and farther ſaid, that he 〈…〉 could deſcribe it. 'I think,' ſays 〈…〉 as I can remember, it was 〈…〉 throne erected, on one 〈◊〉 of which 〈…〉 and on the other, a queen with their 〈…〉 attendants ranged on, both ſides; to them 〈◊〉 introduced an ambaſſador which part 〈◊〉 always, uſed to 〈…〉 was led up to the 〈…〉 the 〈…〉 addreſſed himſelf to the 〈◊〉 in 〈…〉 ſpeech, full of virtue, and goodneſs, and 〈◊〉 and ſuch like. After which 〈◊〉 was 〈…〉 between the king and queen and 〈◊〉 entertained. This I think was 〈◊〉 chief 〈◊〉 — 〈◊〉 I may have forgot 〈…〉 ; for it is long ſince I read it. Adams ſaid, It was indeed a diverſion worthy the relaxation of, ſo great a man; and thought ſomething reſembling it ſhould be inſtituted among our great men, inſtead of cards and other idle paſtime, in which he 〈◊〉 informed they trifled away too much of their 〈◊〉 . He added, The chriſtian religion was a 〈◊〉 ſubject for theſe ſpeeches than any 〈…〉 have invented. The 〈◊〉 of the 〈…〉 Adams ſaid, 〈…〉 to perform the 〈…〉 .' To which the doctor 〈…〉 prepared with a ſpeech, 〈…〉 Adams with a gravity of 〈…〉 which would have deceived a more 〈…〉 Sir,' ſays Adams, I never travel without 〈◊〉 for 〈…〉 happen. He was eaſily 〈…〉 his worthy friend, as he now called for doctor. 〈…〉 of the 〈…〉 ſo that the gentleman ſent immediate 〈◊〉 have the 〈…〉 ; which was perfor ••• 〈…〉 had drunk two 〈◊〉 : and perhaps the 〈…〉 will hereafter 〈…〉 great reaſon to 〈…〉 of the ſervants. 〈…〉 the truth, the throne was 〈◊〉 more than this; 〈…〉 a great 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉 provided, on each 〈◊〉 of which 〈…〉 and queen; namely, the maſter of his houſe, and the captain. And now the 〈…〉 the poet and the doctor, who 〈…〉 his 〈◊〉 to the great entertainment 〈◊〉 all preſent 〈◊〉 led up to his place, and ſeated between their majeſties. They 〈◊〉 roſe up, when the blanket, 〈◊〉 its 〈◊〉 at either end, gave way, and 〈◊〉 Adams over head and ears in the water; the captain 〈◊〉 his eſcape, but unluckily the gentleman himſelf not being as nimble as he ought, Adams caught hold of him before he deſcended from his 〈◊〉 and pulled him in with him, to 〈…〉 ſatisfaction of all the company. 〈…〉 the ſquire twice or 〈…〉 of the tub, and looked-ſharp for the doctor, whom he would certainly have conveyed to the ſame place of honour; but he had wiſely withdrawn: he then ſearched for his crabſtick, and having found that, as well as his fellow-travellers, he declared he would not ſtay a moment longer, in ſuch a houſe. He then departed, without taking leave of his haſt, whom he had exacted a more ſevere revenge on than he intended: for as he did not uſe ſufficient care to dry himſelf in time, he caught a cold by the accident, which threw him into a fever, that had like to have coſt him his life.