Joseph Andrews Vol. 1
by
Henry Fielding
Part 2 out of 4
The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting-gentlewoman knew more
than she would willingly have had her acquainted with; and this she
imputed to Joseph's having discovered to her what passed at the first
interview. This, therefore, blew up her rage against him, and confirmed
her in a resolution of parting with him.
But the dismissing Mrs Slipslop was a point not so easily to be resolved
upon. She had the utmost tenderness for her reputation, as she knew on
that depended many of the most valuable blessings of life; particularly
cards, making curtsies in public places, and, above all, the pleasure of
demolishing the reputations of others, in which innocent amusement she
had an extraordinary delight. She therefore determined to submit to any
insult from a servant, rather than run a risque of losing the title to
so many great privileges.
She therefore sent for her steward, Mr Peter Pounce, and ordered him to
pay Joseph his wages, to strip off his livery, and to turn him out of
the house that evening.
She then called Slipslop up, and, after refreshing her spirits with a
small cordial, which she kept in her corset, 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 more footmen in the house, and some as stout
fellows, though not quite so handsome, as Joseph; besides, the reader
hath already seen her tender advances had not met with the encouragement
she might have reasonable expected. She thought she had thrown away a
great deal of sack and sweetmeats on an ungrateful rascal; and, being a
little inclined to the opinion of that female sect, who hold one lusty
young fellow to be nearly as good as another lusty young fellow, she at
last gave up Joseph and his cause, and, with a triumph over her passion
highly commendable, walked off with her present, and with great
tranquillity paid a visit to a stone-bottle, which is of sovereign use
to a 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
expressed anything to him; and as to Mrs Slipslop, she imagines she
could bribe her to secrecy.
But what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not so entirely
conquered her passion; the little god lay lurking in her heart, though
anger and distain so hood-winked 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 have I seen, in the hall of Westminster, where Serjeant Bramble hath
been retained on the right side, and Serjeant Puzzle on the left, the
balance of opinion (so equal were their fees) alternately incline to
either scale. Now Bramble throws in an argument, and Puzzle's scale
strikes the beam; again Bramble shares the like fate, overpowered by the
weight of Puzzle. Here Bramble hits, there Puzzle strikes; here one has
you, there 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 anything of
the matter; all things are so enveloped by the careful serjeants in
doubt and obscurity.
Or, as it happens in the conscience, where honour and honesty pull one
way, and a bribe and necessity another.--If it was our present
business only to make similes, we could produce many more to this
purpose; but a simile (as well as a word) to the wise.--We shall
therefore see a little after our hero, for whom the reader is doubtless
in some pain.
CHAPTER 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 an understanding sufficient
for the principal subject of such a book as this, if he had any longer
misunderstood the drift of his mistress; and indeed, that he did not
discern it sooner, the reader will be pleased to impute to an
unwillingness in him to discover what he must condemn in her as a fault.
Having therefore quitted her presence, he retired into his own garret,
and entered himself into an ejaculation on the 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 deathbed, since I may die in my
sleep? What fine things are good advice and good examples! But I am
glad she turned me out of the chamber as she did: for I had once almost
forgotten every word parson Adams had ever said to me.
"I don't doubt, dear sister, but you will have grace to preserve your
virtue against all trials; and I beg you earnestly to pray I may be
enabled to preserve mine; for truly it is very severely attacked by more
than one; but I hope I shall copy your example, and that of Joseph my
namesake, and maintain my virtue against all temptations."
Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned downstairs by
Mr Peter Pounce, to receive his wages; for, besides that out of eight
pounds a year he allowed his father and mother four, he had been
obliged, in order to furnish himself with musical instruments, to apply
to the generosity of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent occasions, used
to advance the servants their wages: not before they were due, but
before they were payable; that is, perhaps, half a year after they were
due; and this at the moderate premium of fifty per cent, or a little
more: by which charitable methods, together with lending money to other
people, and even to his own master and mistress, the honest man had,
from nothing, in a few years amassed a small sum of twenty thousand
pounds or thereabouts.
Joseph having received his little remainder of wages, and having stript
off his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and breeches of one of the
servants (for he was so beloved in the family, that they would all have
lent him anything): and, being told by Peter that he must not stay a
moment longer in the house than was necessary to pack up his linen,
which he easily did in a very narrow compass, he took a melancholy leave
of his fellow-servants, and set out at seven in the evening.
He had proceeded the length of two or three streets, before he
absolutely determined with 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.
CHAPTER XI.
_Of several new matters not expected._
It is an observation sometimes made, that to indicate our idea of a
simple fellow, we say, he is easily to be seen through: nor do I 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
sagacious reader who can see two chapters before him.
For this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a matter which now seems
necessary to be explained; since it may be wondered at, first, that
Joseph made such extraordinary haste out of town, which hath been
already shewn; and secondly, which will be now shewn, that, instead of
proceeding to the 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 (though the best of sons and brothers)
longed more impatiently to see than his parents or his sister. She was a
poor girl, who had formerly been bred up in Sir John's family; whence, a
little before the journey to London, she had been discarded by Mrs
Slipslop, on account of her extraordinary beauty: for I never could find
any other reason.
This young creature (who now lived with a farmer in the parish) had been
always beloved by Joseph, and returned his affection. She was two years
only younger than our hero. They had been acquainted from their infancy,
and had conceived a very early liking for each other; which had grown to
such a degree of affection, that Mr Adams had with much ado prevented
them from marrying, and persuaded them to wait till a few years' service
and thrift had a little improved their experience, and enabled them to
live comfortably together.
They followed this good man's advice, as indeed his word was little less
than a law in his parish; for as he had shown his parishioners, by an
uniform behaviour of thirty-five years' duration, that he had their good
entirely at heart, so they consulted him on every occasion, and very
seldom acted contrary to his opinion.
Nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting between these
two lovers. A thousand sighs heaved the bosom of Joseph, a thousand
tears distilled from the lovely eyes of Fanny (for that was her name).
Though her modesty would only suffer her to admit his eager kisses, her
violent love made her more than passive in his embraces; and she often
pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure, which though perhaps it
would not have squeezed an insect to death, caused more emotion in the
heart of Joseph than the closest Cornish hug could have done.
The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a pair should, during a
twelvemonth's absence, never converse with one another: indeed, there
was but one reason which did or could have prevented them; and this was,
that poor Fanny could neither write nor read: nor could she be prevailed
upon to transmit the delicacies of her tender and chaste passion by the
hands of an amanuensis.
They contented themselves therefore with frequent inquiries after each
other's health, with a mutual confidence in each other's fidelity, and
the prospect of their future happiness.
Having explained these matters to our reader, and, as far as possible,
satisfied all his doubts, we return to honest Joseph, whom we left just
set out on his travels by the light of the moon.
Those who have read any romance or poetry, antient or modern, must have
been informed that love hath wings: by which they are not to understand,
as some young ladies by mistake have done, that a lover can fly; the
writers, by this ingenious allegory, intending to insinuate no more than
that lovers do not march like horse-guards; in short, that they put the
best leg foremost; which our lusty youth, who could walk with any man,
did so heartily on this occasion, that within four hours he reached a
famous house of hospitality well known to the western traveller. It
presents you a lion on the sign-post: and the master, who was christened
Timotheus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some have conceived that he
hath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he doth in
countenance greatly resemble that magnanimous beast, though his
disposition savours more of the sweetness of the lamb. He is a person
well received among all sorts of men, being qualified to render himself
agreeable to any; as he is well versed in history and politics, hath a
smattering in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, and plays
wonderfully well on the French horn.
A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take shelter in this inn, where
he remembered Sir Thomas had dined in his way to town. Joseph had no
sooner seated himself by the kitchen fire than Timotheus, observing his
livery, began to condole the loss of his late master; who was, he said,
his very particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he had cracked
many a merry bottle, ay many a dozen, in his time. He then remarked,
that all these things were over now, all passed, and just as if they had
never been; and concluded with an excellent observation on the certainty
of death, which his wife said was indeed very true. A fellow now arrived
at the same inn with two horses, one of which he was leading farther
down into the country to meet his master; these he put into the stable,
and came and took his place by Joseph's side, who immediately knew him
to be the servant of a neighbouring 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 horse
(notwithstanding he had received express commands to the contrary),
which was readily accepted; and so, after they had drank a loving pot,
and the storm was over, they set out together.
CHAPTER 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 hope of shortly seeing
his beloved Fanny, when he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and
ordered to stand and deliver. He readily gave them all the money he had,
which was somewhat less than two pounds; and told them he hoped they
would be so generous as to return him a few shillings, to defray his
charges on his way home.
One of the ruffians answered with an oath, "Yes, we'll give you
something presently: but first strip and be d---n'd to you."--"Strip,"
cried the other, "or I'll blow your brains to the devil." Joseph,
remembering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches of a friend, and
that he should be ashamed of making any excuse for not returning them,
replied, he hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which were not
worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. "You are cold, are
you, you rascal?" said one of the robbers: "I'll warm you with a
vengeance;" and, damning his eyes, snapped a pistol at his head; which
he had no sooner done than the other levelled a blow at him with his
stick, which Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with his,
and returned the favour so successfully on his adversary, that he laid
him sprawling at his feet, and at the same instant received a blow from
behind, with the butt end of a pistol, from the other villain, which
felled him to the ground, and totally deprived him of his senses.
The thief who had been knocked down had now recovered himself; and both
together fell to belabouring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they
were convinced they had put an end to his miserable being: they then
stripped him entirely naked, threw him into a ditch, and departed with
their booty.
The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began to recover
his senses as a stage-coach came by. The postillion, hearing a man's
groans, 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 postillion said, and
likewise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coachman to stop and see
what was the matter. Upon which he bid the postillion alight, and look
into the ditch. He did so, and returned, "that there was a man sitting
upright, as naked as ever he was born."--"O J--sus!" cried the lady; "a
naked man! Dear coachman, drive on and leave him." Upon this the
gentlemen got out of the coach; and Joseph begged them to have mercy
upon him: for that he had been robbed and almost beaten to death.
"Robbed!" cries an old gentleman: "let us make all the haste imaginable,
or we shall be robbed too." A young man who belonged to the law
answered, "He wished they had passed by without taking any notice; but
that now they might be proved to have been last in his company; if he
should die they might be called to some account for his murder. He
therefore thought it advisable to save the poor creature's life, for
their own sakes, if possible; at least, if he died, to prevent the
jury's 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 above mentioned, thinking the naked
man would afford him frequent opportunities of showing his wit to the
lady, offered to join with the company in giving a mug of beer for his
fare; till, partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the
promises of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with compassion
at the poor 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 greatcoats about the coach, it was not easy to
get over this difficulty which Joseph had started. The two gentlemen
complained they were cold, and could not spare a rag; the man of wit
saying, with a laugh, that charity began at home; and the coachman, who
had two greatcoats spread under him, refused to lend either, lest they
should be made bloody: the lady's footman desired to be excused for the
same reason, which the lady herself, notwithstanding her 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 postillion (a lad who hath been since transported for robbing a
hen-roost) had voluntarily stript off a greatcoat, his only garment, at
the same time 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 greatcoat, was lifted into the coach, which
now proceeded on its journey. He declared himself almost dead with the
cold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the lady if she could
not accommodate him with a dram. She answered, with some resentment,
"She wondered at his asking her such a question; but assured him she
never tasted any such thing."
The lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances of the robbery, when the
coach stopt, and one of the ruffians, putting a pistol in, demanded
their money of the passengers, who readily gave it them; and the lady,
in her fright, delivered up a little silver bottle, of about a
half-pint size, which the rogue, clapping it to his mouth, and drinking
her health, declared, held some of the best Nantes he had ever tasted:
this the lady afterwards assured the company was the mistake of her
maid, for that she had ordered her to fill the bottle with
Hungary-water.
As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, it seems, a
case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the company, that if
it had been daylight, and he could have come at his pistols, he would
not have submitted to the robbery: he 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 wit is generally observed to love to reside in empty pockets, so the
gentleman whose ingenuity we have above remarked, as soon as he had
parted with his money, began to grow wonderfully facetious. He made
frequent allusions to Adam and Eve, and said many excellent things on
figs and fig-leaves; which perhaps gave more offence to Joseph than to
any other in the company.
The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests without departing
from his profession. He said, "If Joseph and the lady were alone, he
would be more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his affairs were
not fettered with any incumbrance; he'd warrant he soon suffered a
recovery by a writ of entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in
tail; that, for his own part, he would engage to make so firm a
settlement in a coach, that there should be no danger of an ejectment,"
with an inundation of the like gibberish, which he continued to vent
till the coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid only was up, in
readiness to attend the coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and a
dram. Joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed prepared
for him, which the maid readily promised to perform; and, being a
good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapt
a large fagot on the fire, and, furnishing Joseph with a greatcoat
belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm
himself whilst she made his bed. The coachman, in the meantime, took an
opportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors; after
which, he reminded his passengers how late they were, and, after they
had taken leave of Joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could.
The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use her interest to
borrow him a shirt; but imagining, as she afterwards said, by his being
so bloody, that he must be a dead man, she ran with all speed to hasten
the surgeon, who was more than half drest, apprehending that the coach
had been overturned, and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as the
wench had informed him at his window that it was a poor foot-passenger
who had been stripped of all he had, and almost murdered, he chid her
for disturbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very
quietly returned to bed and to sleep.
Aurora now began to shew her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten
millions of feathered 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 anything, 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 Tow-wouse, "this is a poor
wretch."--"Yes," says she, "I know it is a poor wretch; but what the
devil have we to do with poor wretches? The law makes us provide for too
many already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red coats
shortly."--"My dear," cries Tow-wouse, "this man hath been robbed of all
he hath."--"Well then," said she, "where's his money to pay his
reckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go to an alehouse? I shall send
him packing as soon as I am up, I assure you."--"My dear," said he,
"common charity won't suffer you to do that."--"Common charity, a f--t!"
says she, "common charity teaches us to provide for ourselves and our
families; and I and mine won't be ruined by your charity, I assure
you."--"Well," says he, "my dear, do as you will, when you are up; you
know I never contradict you."--"No," says she; "if the devil was to
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 Tow-wouse, "you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeral
at our own expense." Tow-wouse (who, notwithstanding his charity, would
have given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that any
other house in the 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
inquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair.
CHAPTER XIII.
_What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with the
curious discourse between him and Mr Barnabas, the parson of
the parish._
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, though he hoped he might
recover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he was in great
danger; and if the malign concoction of his humours should cause a
suscitation of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and incapable to
make 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
sneaker; which when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the
chamber-door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talking to
himself in the following manner:--
"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
downstairs he went, and told Tow-wouse he could do his guest no service;
for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a
rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room.
The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his patient in a higher
fever, as he said, than when he left him, though not delirious; for,
notwithstanding Mr Barnabas's opinion, he had not been once out of his
senses since his arrival at the inn.
Mr Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty prevailed on to
make another visit. As soon as he entered the room he told Joseph "He
was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for another world: in the
first place, therefore, he hoped he had repented of all his sins."
Joseph 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 would suffer when she knew his
misfortune." Barnabas said, "That such fears argued a diffidence and
despondence very criminal; that he must divest himself of all human
passions, and fix his heart above." Joseph answered, "That was what he
desired to do, and should be obliged to him if he would enable him to
accomplish it." Barnabas replied, "That must be done by grace." Joseph
besought him to discover how he might attain it. Barnabas answered, "By
prayer and faith." He then questioned him concerning his forgiveness of
the thieves. Joseph answered, "He feared that was more than he could do;
for nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear they were
taken."--"That," cries Barnabas, "is for the sake of justice."--"Yes,"
said Joseph, "but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I should
attack them, and kill them too, if I could."--"Doubtless," answered
Barnabas, "it is lawful to kill a thief; but can you say 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 in the parlour, where the
ingredients for punch were all in readiness; but no one would squeeze
the oranges till he came.
Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little tea; which Barnabas
reported to Mrs Tow-wouse, who answered, "She had just done drinking it,
and could not be slopping all day;" but ordered Betty to carry him up
some small beer.
Betty obeyed her mistress's commands; but Joseph, as soon as he had
tasted it, said, he feared it would 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.
CHAPTER XIV.
_Being very full of adventures which succeeded each other at the inn._
It was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave person rode into the
inn, and, committing his horse to the hostler, went directly into the
kitchen, and, having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the
fireside, where several other 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 Tow-wouse said, "She
wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell meant by bringing such guests to
her house, when there were so many alehouses on the road proper for
their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the parish should be
at the expense of the funeral." She added, "Nothing would serve the
fellow's turn but tea, she would assure him." Betty, who was just
returned from her charitable office, answered, she believed he was a
gentleman, for she never saw a finer 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 the end of it. Her lips were two bits of skin, which,
whenever she spoke, she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked;
and at the upper end of that skin which composed her cheeks, stood two
bones, that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. Add to this a voice
most wonderfully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being both
loud and hoarse.
It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had conceived a greater
dislike for his landlady or compassion for her unhappy guest. He
inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, who was now come into the
kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery? He begged him to use
all possible means towards it, telling him, "it was I the duty of men of
all professions to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor
and necessitous." The surgeon answered, "He should take proper care; but
he defied all the surgeons in London to do him any good."--"Pray, sir,"
said the gentleman, "what are his wounds?"--"Why, do you know anything
of wounds?" says the surgeon (winking upon Mrs Tow-wouse).--"Sir, I have
a small smattering in surgery," answered the gentleman.--"A
smattering--ho, ho, ho!" said the surgeon; "I believe it is a
smattering indeed."
The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor, who was
what they call a dry fellow, expose the gentleman.
He began therefore with an air of triumph: "I I suppose, sir, you have
travelled?"--"No, really, sir," said the gentleman.--"Ho! then you have
practised in the hospitals perhaps?"--"No, sir."--"Hum! not that
neither? Whence, sir, then, if I may be so bold to inquire, have you got
your knowledge in surgery?"--"Sir," answered the gentleman, "I do not
pretend to much; but the little I know I have from books."--"Books!"
cries the doctor. "What, I suppose you have read Galen and
Hippocrates!"--"No, sir," said the gentleman.--"How! you understand
surgery," answers the doctor, "and not read Galen and Hippocrates?"--
"Sir," cries the other, "I 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
morbo_: that is my method. I suppose, brother, you understand
_Latin_?"--"A little," says the gentleman.--"Aye, and Greek now, I'll
warrant you: _Ton dapomibominos poluflosboio Thalasses_. But I have
almost forgot these things: I could have repeated Homer by heart
once."--"Ifags! the gentleman has caught a traytor," says Mrs Tow-wouse;
at which they all fell a laughing.
The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, very
contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, which he did with
no small satisfaction; and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, told
him, "He was thoroughly convinced of his great learning and abilities;
and that he would be obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion
of his patient's case above-stairs."--"Sir," says the doctor, "his case
is that of a dead man--the contusion on his head has perforated the
internal membrane of the occiput, and divelicated that radical small
minute invisible nerve which coheres to the pericranium; and this was
attended with a fever at first symptomatic, then pneumatic; and he is at
length grown deliriuus, or delirious, as the vulgar express it."
He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty noise
interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighbourhood had taken one
of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty ran upstairs
with this news to Joseph, who begged they might search for a little
piece of broken gold, which had a ribband tied to it, and which he could
swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in the universe.
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, though the
mob were very well satisfied with that proof, yet, as the surgeon
observed, they could not convict him, because they were not found in his
custody; to which Barnabas agreed, and added that these were _bona
waviata_, and belonged to the lord of the manor.
"How," says the surgeon, "do you say these 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
Wise-one say, that, if every man had his right, whatever is found
belongs to the king of London."--"That may be true," says Barnabas, "in
some sense; for the law makes a difference 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 an universal laugh, being first begun by himself.
While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had almost (as there
was no evidence against him) brought over Barnabas, the surgeon,
Tow-wouse, and several others to his side, Betty informed them that they
had overlooked a little piece of gold, which she had carried up to the
man in bed, and which he offered to swear to amongst a million, aye,
amongst ten thousand. This immediately turned the scale against the
prisoner, and every one now concluded him guilty. It was resolved,
therefore, to keep him secured that night, and early in the morning to
carry him before a justice.
CHAPTER XV.
_Showing how Mrs Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how officious Mr
Barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the thief: with a
dissertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other 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 Tow-wouse's countenance. She
said, "God forbid she should not discharge the duty of a Christian,
since the poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had a natural
antipathy to vagabonds; but could pity the misfortunes of a Christian
as soon as another." Tow-wouse said, "If the traveller be a gentleman,
though he hath no money about him now, we shall 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
anything in my house."
Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to satisfy themselves
concerning the piece of gold; Joseph was with difficulty prevailed upon
to show it them, but would by no entreaties be brought to deliver it out
of his own possession. He however attested this to be the same which had
been taken from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the finding it on
the thief.
The only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this gold before
the justice; for as to carrying Joseph himself, it seemed impossible;
nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him, for he had
fastened it with a ribband to his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing
but irresistible force should ever separate them; in which resolution,
Mr Adams, clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle of an ox,
declared he would support him.
A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence not very necessary
to be related here; after which the surgeon dressed Mr Joseph's head,
still persisting in the imminent danger in which his patient lay, but
concluding, with a very important look, "That he began to have some
hopes; that he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and
would see him in the morning." After which Barnabas and he departed, and
left Mr Joseph and Mr Adams together.
Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey which he was
making to London, namely, to publish three volumes of sermons; being
encouraged, as he said, by an advertisement lately set forth by the
society of booksellers, who proposed to purchase any copies offered to
them, at a price to be settled by two persons; but though he imagined he
should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his
family were in urgent need of, he protested he would not leave Joseph in
his present condition: finally, he told him, "He had nine shillings and
threepence halfpenny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as
he pleased."
This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into Joseph's eyes; he
declared, "He had now a second reason to desire life, that he might show
his gratitude to such a friend." Adams bade him "be cheerful; for that
he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his ignorance, desired to make a
merit of curing him, though the wounds in his head, he perceived, were
by no means dangerous; that he was convinced he had no fever, and
doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day or two."
These words infused a spirit into Joseph; he said, "He found himself
very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to think any of his bones
injured, or that he had received any harm in his inside, unless that he
felt something very odd in his stomach; but he knew not whether that
might not arise from not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four
hours." Being then asked if he had any inclination to eat, he answered
in the affirmative. Then parson Adams desired him to "name what he had
the greatest fancy for; whether a poached egg, or chicken-broth." He
answered, "He could eat both very well; but that he seemed to have the
greatest appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage."
Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he had not the
least fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for that evening. He
accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl, I never could with any
tolerable certainty discover which; after this he was, by Mrs
Tow-wouse's order, conveyed into a better bed and equipped with one of
her husband's shirts.
In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to the inn, in order
to see the thief conveyed before the justice. They had consumed the
whole night in debating what measures they should take to produce the
piece of gold in evidence against him; for they were both extremely
zealous in the business, though neither of them were in the least
interested in the prosecution; neither of them had ever 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 physic for nothing.
To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible to account for this
zeal, we must inform him that, as this parish was so unfortunate as to
have no lawyer in it, there had been a constant contention between the
two doctors, spiritual and physical, concerning their abilities in a
science, in which, as neither of them professed it, they had equal
pretensions to dispute each other's opinions. These disputes were
carried on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided the
parish; Mr Tow-wouse and one half of the neighbours inclining to the
surgeon, and Mrs Tow-wouse with the other half to the parson. The
surgeon drew his knowledge from those 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,
_é 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 heroic virtue. Thou odious, deformed
monster! whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, and poets
ridiculed; is there a wretch so abandoned as to own thee for an
acquaintance in public?--yet, how few will refuse to enjoy thee in
private? nay, thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. The
greatest villainies are daily practised to please thee; nor is the
meanest thief below, or the greatest hero above, thy notice. Thy
embraces are often the sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery
and the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, that
we attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to withhold
from them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves. Avarice itself
is often no more than thy handmaid, and even Lust thy pimp. The bully
Fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and Joy and Grief hide their
heads in thy presence.
I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee I court thee, and that
thy love hath inspired me to write this sarcastical panegyric on thee;
but thou art deceived: I value thee not of a farthing; nor will it give
me any pain if thou shouldst prevail on the reader to censure this
digression as arrant nonsense; for know, to thy confusion, that I have
introduced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a short
chapter, and so I return to my history.
CHAPTER XVI.
_The escape of the thief. Mr Adams'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 expense of
being pointed at.
When the company had retired the evening before, the thief was detained
in a room where the constable, and one of the young fellows who took
him, were planted as his guard. About the second watch a general
complaint of drought was made, both by the prisoner and his keepers.
Among whom it was at last agreed that the constable should remain on
duty, and the young fellow call up the tapster; in which 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 surprize, and,
thereby preventing him of the use of his weapons, especially the long
staff in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the success of a
struggle to a 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
anything to the constable except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt
out of the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, being very
unwilling to lose the reward which he had assured himself of.
The constable hath not been discharged of 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 Tow-wouse was in some tribulation; the surgeon having
declared that by law he was liable to be indicted for the thief's
escape, as it was out of his house; he was a little comforted, however,
by Mr Barnabas's opinion, that as the escape was by night the indictment
would not lie.
Mrs Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following words: "Sure never was
such a fool as my husband; would any other person living have left a man
in the custody of such a drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom Suckbribe?"
(which was the constable's name); "and if he could be indicted without
any harm to his wife and children, I should be glad of it." (Then the
bell rung in Joseph's room.) "Why Betty, John, Chamberlain, where the
devil are you all? Have you no ears, or no conscience, not to tend the
sick better? See what the gentleman wants. Why don't you go yourself, Mr
Tow-wouse? But any one may die for you; you have no more feeling than a
deal board. If a man lived a fortnight in your house without spending a
penny, you would never put him in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea
or coffee for 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 rose pretty early this morning; but, though his wounds were far
from threatening any danger, he was so sore with the bruises, that it
was impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey yet; Mr Adams,
therefore, whose stock was visibly decreased with the expenses of supper
and breakfast, and which could not survive that day's scoring, began to
consider how it was possible to recruit it. At last he cried, "He had
luckily hit on a sure method, and, though it would oblige him to return
himself home together with Joseph, it mattered not much." He then sent
for Tow-wouse, and, taking him into another room, told him "he wanted to
borrow three guineas, for which he would put ample security into his
hands." Tow-wouse, who expected a watch, or ring, or something of double
the value, answered, "He believed he could furnish him." Upon which
Adams, pointing to his saddle-bag, told him, with a face and voice full
of solemnity, "that there were in that bag no less than nine volumes of
manuscript sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds as a shilling was
worth twelve pence, and that he would deposit one of the volumes in his
hands by way of pledge; not doubting but that he would have the honesty
to return it on his repayment of the money; for otherwise he must be a
very great loser, seeing that every volume would at least bring him ten
pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in the
country; for," said he, "as to my own part, having never yet dealt in
printing, I do not pretend to ascertain the exact value of such things."
Tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, said (and not without
some truth), "That he was no judge of the price of such kind of goods;
and as for money, he really was very short." Adams answered, "Certainly
he would not scruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedly
worth at least ten." The landlord replied, "He did not believe he had
so much money in the house, and besides, he was to make up a sum. He was
very confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily sorry
it did not suit him." He then cried out, "Coming sir!" though nobody
called; and ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his neck.
Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this disappointment, nor knew he
what further stratagem to try. He immediately applied to his pipe, his
constant friend and comfort in his afflictions; and, leaning over the
rails, he devoted himself to meditation, assisted by the inspiring fumes
of tobacco.
He had on a nightcap drawn over his wig, and a short greatcoat, which
half covered his cassock--a dress which, added to something comical
enough in his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract the eyes
of those who were not over given to observation.
Whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this posture, a coach and six, with a
numerous attendance, drove into the inn. There alighted from the coach a
young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which another young fellow
leapt from the box, and shook the former by the hand; and both, together
with the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr Tow-wouse into an
apartment; whither as they passed, they entertained themselves with the
following short facetious dialogue:--
"You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack!" says he from the coach;
"you had almost overturned us just now."--"Pox take you!" says the
coachman; "if I had only broke your neck, it would have been saving
somebody else the trouble; but I should have been sorry for the
pointers."--"Why, you son of a b--," answered the other, "if nobody
could shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no use."--"D--n
me," says the coachman, "I will shoot with you five guineas a
shot."--"You be hanged," says the other; "for five guineas you shall
shoot at my a--."--"Done," says the coachman; "I'll pepper you better
than ever you was peppered by Jenny Bouncer."--"Pepper your
grandmother," says the other: "Here's Tow-wouse will let you shoot at
him for a shilling a time."--"I know his honour better," cries
Tow-wouse; "I never saw a surer shot at a partridge. Every man misses
now and then; but if I could shoot half as well as his honour, I would
desire no better livelihood than I could get by my gun."--"Pox on you,"
said the coachman, "you demolish more game now than your head's worth.
There's a bitch, Tow-wouse: by G-- she never blinked[A] 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."
[Footnote A:
To blink is a term used to signify the dog's passing by a bird without
pointing at it.]
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 cyder-and; and where the
servants, who attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen alight,
were now arrived.
"Tom," cries one of the footmen, "there's parson Adams smoaking his
pipe in the gallery."--"Yes," says Tom; "I pulled off my hat to him, and
the parson spoke to me."
"Is the gentleman a clergyman, then?" says Barnabas (for his cassock had
been tied up when he arrived). "Yes, sir," answered the footman; "and
one there be but few like."--"Aye," said Barnabas; "if I had known it
sooner, I should have desired his company; I would always shew a proper
respect for the cloth: but what say you, doctor, shall we adjourn into a
room, and invite him to take part of a bowl of punch?"
This proposal was immediately agreed to and 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 or
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 anything against the cloth. So you may guess, Mr Adams,
what you are to expect; for if sermons would have gone down, I
believe--I will not be vain; but to be concise with you, three bishops
said they were the best that ever were writ: but indeed there are a
pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold yet."--"Pray,
sir," said Adams, "to what do you think the numbers may amount?"--"Sir,"
answered Barnabas, "a bookseller told me, he believed five thousand
volumes at least."--"Five thousand?" quoth the surgeon: "What can they
be writ upon? I remember when I was a boy, I used to read one
Tillotson's sermons; and, I am sure, if a man practised half so much as
is in one of those sermons, he will go to heaven."--"Doctor," cried
Barnabas, "you have a prophane way of talking, for which I must reprove
you. A man can never have his duty too frequently inculcated into him.
And as for Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and said things
very well; but comparisons are odious; another man may write as well as
he--I believe there are some of my sermons,"--and then he applied the
candle to his pipe.--"And I believe there are some of my discourses,"
cries Adams, "which the bishops would not think totally unworthy of
being printed; and I have been informed I might procure a very large sum
(indeed an immense one) on them."--"I doubt that," answered Barnabas:
"however, if you desire to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell
them by advertising the manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately
deceased, all warranted originals, and never printed. And now I think of
it, I should be obliged to you, if 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 alehouse nor lewd woman in
the parish where he lived."--"No," replied 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, and trust to my memory
to introduce something handsome on him."--"To your invention rather,"
said the doctor: "your memory will be apter to put you out; for no man
living remembers anything good of him."
With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied the bowl of punch,
paid their reckoning, and 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 its 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 conceived 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 shown him, of which he ought not only
to have the deepest inward sense, but likewise to express outward
thankfulness for them. They therefore fell both on their knees, and
spent a considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving.
They had just finished when Betty came in and told Mr Adams Mr Barnabas
desired to speak to him on some business of consequence below-stairs.
Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, he would let him
know it, that he might go to bed, which Adams promised, and in that case
they wished one another good-night.
CHAPTER 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 to the
stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely to
deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting the
stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; that
nothing could be more convenient, for he had no other business to 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
them 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
Whitefield or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or
those sort of people, I don't care to touch; unless now it was a sermon
preached on the 30th of January; or we could say in the title-page,
published at the earnest request of the congregation, or the
inhabitants; but, truly, for a dry piece of sermons, I had rather be
excused; especially as my hands are so full at present. However, sir, as
Mr Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take the
manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very
short time."
"Oh!" said Adams, "if you desire it, I will read two or three discourses
as a specimen." This Barnabas, who loved sermons no better than a 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, "though I don't know whether the licensing act may not
shortly bring them to the same footing; but I have formerly known a
hundred guineas given for a play."--"More shame for those who gave it,"
cried Barnabas.--"Why so?" said the bookseller, "for they got hundreds
by it."--"But is there no difference between conveying good or ill
instructions to mankind?" said Adams: "Would not an honest mind rather
lose money by the one, than gain it by the other?"--"If you can find any
such, I will not be their hindrance," answered the bookseller; "but I
think those persons who get by preaching sermons are the properest to
lose by printing them: for my part, the copy that sells best will be
always the best copy in my opinion; I am no enemy to sermons, but
because they don't sell: for I would as soon print one of Whitefield's
as any farce whatever."
"Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged," says Barnabas.
"Sir," said he, turning to Adams, "this fellow's writings (I know not
whether you have seen them) are levelled at the clergy. He would reduce
us to the example of the primitive ages, forsooth! and would insinuate
to the people that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and praying.
He pretends to understand the Scripture literally; and would make
mankind believe that the poverty and low estate which was recommended to
the Church in its infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to
her under persecution, was to be preserved in her flourishing and
established state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all the
freethinkers, are not calculated to do half the 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
well-wisher. I am, myself, as great an enemy to the luxury and splendour
of the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing
estate of the Church, understand the palaces, equipages, dress,
furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. Surely
those things, which savour so strongly of this world, become not the
servants of one who professed His kingdom was not of it. But when he
began to call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the
detestable doctrine of faith against good works, I was his friend no
longer; for surely that doctrine was coined in hell; and one would think
none but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach it. For
can anything be more derogatory to the honour of God than for men to
imagine that the all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good and
virtuous, 'Notwithstanding the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that
constant rule of virtue and goodness in which you walked upon earth,
still, as thou didst not believe everything in the true 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 commandments, yet punish me not, for I
believe them all?'"--"I suppose, sir," said the bookseller, "your
sermons are of a different kind."--"Aye, sir," said Adams; "the
contrary, I thank Heaven, is inculcated in almost every page, or I
should belye my own opinion, which hath always been, that a virtuous and
good Turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the sight of their Creator
than a vicious and wicked Christian, though 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 be propagated which
the clergy would cry down; but if you mean by the clergy, some few
designing factious men, who have it at heart to establish some favourite
schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence of
religion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any book they
please; witness that excellent book called, 'A Plain Account of the
Nature and End of the Sacrament;' a book written (if I may venture on
the expression) with the pen of an angel, and calculated to restore the
true use of Christianity, and of that sacred institution; for what could
tend more to the noble purposes of religion than frequent chearful
meetings among the members of a society, in which they should, in the
presence of one another, and in the service of the Supreme Being, make
promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each other? Now,
this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully." At
these words Barnabas fell a-ringing with all the violence imaginable;
upon which a servant 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 above-mentioned b--, a word
extremely disgustful to females of the lower sort. Betty had borne all
hitherto with patience, and had uttered only lamentations; but the last
appellation stung her to the quick. "I am a woman as well as yourself,"
she roared out, "and no she-dog; and if I have been a little naughty, I
am not the first; if I have been no better than I should be," cries she,
sobbing, "that's no reason you should call me out of my name; my
be-betters are wo-rse than me."--"Huzzy, huzzy," says Mrs Tow-wouse,
"have you the impudence to answer me? Did I not catch you, you
saucy"--and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to female
ears. "I can't bear that name," answered Betty: "if I have been wicked,
I am to answer for it myself in the other world; but I have done nothing
that's unnatural; and I will go out of your house this moment, for I
will never be called she-dog by any mistress in England." Mrs Tow-wouse
then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from executing any
dreadful purpose by Mr Adams, who confined her arms with the strength
of a wrist which Hercules would not have been ashamed of. Mr Tow-wouse,
being caught, as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no
defence to make, very prudently withdrew himself; and Betty committed
herself to the protection of the hostler, who, though she could not
conceive him pleased with what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather
a gentler beast than her mistress.
Mrs Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr Adams, and finding the enemy
vanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usual
serenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to the
reader the steps which led to a catastrophe, common enough, and comical
enough too perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and
well-being of families, and the subject of many tragedies, both in life
and on the stage.
CHAPTER 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 good-nature, 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 a-fire by her charms!
At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappy
passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual chastity. She was
long deaf to all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a
neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hostler, with a new straw
hat and a pint of wine, made a second conquest over her.
She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this occasion which
had been the consequence of her former amour; nor, indeed, those other
ill effects which prudent young women very justly apprehend from too
absolute an indulgence to the pressing 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 Tow-wouse, so, like water, which is stopt from its usual current in
one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs Tow-wouse is
thought to have perceived this abatement, and, probably, it added very
little to the natural sweetness of her temper; for though she was as
true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous
of being shone on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth.
Ever since Joseph's arrival, Betty had conceived an extraordinary liking
to him, which discovered itself more and more as he grew better and
better; till that fatal evening, when, as she was warming his bed, her
passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly mastered both her
modesty and her reason, that, after many fruitless hints and sly
insinuations, she at last threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him
with great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature she had
ever seen.
Joseph, in great confusion, leapt from her, and told her he was sorry to
see a young woman cast off all regard to modesty; but she had gone too
far to recede, and grew so very indecent, that Joseph was obliged,
contrary to his inclination, to use some violence to her; and, taking
her in his arms, he shut her out of the room, and locked the door.
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 whispering so many soft
things into her ears, and then pressed her so closely with his kisses,
that the vanquished fair one, whose passions were already raised, and
which were not so whimsically capricious that one man only could lay
them, though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that one--the
vanquished fair one quietly submitted, I say, to her master's will, who
had just attained the accomplishment of his bliss when Mrs Tow-wouse
unexpectedly entered the room, and caused all that confusion which we
have before seen, and which it is not necessary, at present, to take any
farther notice of; since, without the assistance of a single hint from
us, every reader of any speculation or experience, though not married
himself, may easily conjecture that it concluded with the discharge of
Betty, the submission of Mr Tow-wouse, with some things to be performed
on his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness in being
reconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any more in
the like manner; and, lastly, his quietly and contentedly bearing to be
reminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a
day during the residue of his life.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.
_Of Divisions in Authors_.
There are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades, from the highest
to the lowest, from that of prime-ministering to this of authoring,
which are seldom discovered unless to members of the same calling. Among
those used by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of
dividing our works into books and chapters to be none of the least
considerable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this secret,
common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing we mean only to
swell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwise be
extended to. These several places therefore in our paper, which are
filled with our books and chapters, are understood as so much buckram,
stays, and stay-tape in a taylor's bill, serving only to make up the sum
total, commonly found at the bottom of our first page and of his last.
But in reality the case is otherwise, and in this as well as all other
instances we consult the 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 passed through; a consideration which I take the liberty
to recommend a little to the reader; for, however swift his capacity may
be, I would not advise him to travel through these pages too fast; for
if he doth, he may probably miss the seeing some curious productions of
nature, which will be observed by the slower and more 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 promises you one thing and gives you another; nor some
title-page authors, who promise a great deal and produce nothing at all.
There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several others which our
readers enjoy from this art of dividing; though perhaps most of them too
mysterious to be presently understood by any who are not initiated into
the science of authoring. To mention, therefore, but one which is most
obvious, it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning down its
leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those readers who (though they
read with great improvement and advantage) are apt, 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 critics, 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 piecemeal
to the public; nay, one bookseller hath (to encourage learning and ease
the public) contrived to give them a dictionary in this divided manner
for only fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire.
Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an argument of his
modesty; for by that, doubtless, he would insinuate that he pretends to
no more than half the merit of the Greek; for the same reason, our
Milton went originally no farther than ten; till, being puffed up by the
praise of his friends, he put himself on the same footing with the
Roman poet.
I shall not, however, enter so deep into this matter as some very
learned criticks have done; who have with infinite labour and acute
discernment discovered what books are proper for embellishment, and what
require simplicity only, particularly with regard to similes, which I
think are now generally agreed to become any book but the first.
I will dismiss this chapter with the following observation: that it
becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it does a butcher to
joint his meat, for such assistance is of great help to both the reader
and the carver. And now, having indulged myself a little, I will
endeavour to indulge the curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt
impatient to know what he will find in the subsequent chapters of
this book.
CHAPTER II.
_A surprizing instance of Mr Adams's short memory, with the unfortunate
consequences which it brought on Joseph._
Mr Adams and Joseph were now ready to depart different ways, when an
accident determined the former to return with his friend, which
Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been able to do. This
accident was, that those sermons, which the parson was travelling to
London to publish, were, O my good reader! left behind; what he had
mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other than three shirts, a
pair of shoes, and some 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 saddlebags; who, having heard his friend say he carried with
him nine volumes of sermons, and not being of that sect of philosophers
who can reduce all the matter of the world into a nutshell, seeing there
was no room for 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 answered, "There, there, child; there they are,
under my shirts." Now it happened that he had taken forth his last
shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty. "Sure, sir," says
Joseph, "there is nothing in the bags." Upon which Adams, starting, and
testifying some surprize, cried, "Hey! fie, fie upon it! they are not
here sure enough. Ay, they are certainly left behind."
Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he apprehended his
friend must feel from this disappointment; he begged him to pursue his
journey, and promised he would himself return 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 dicam_, the sole cause, the
_aitia monotate_ 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.
[Illustration]
Mr Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting out, having
agreed to ride and tie; a method of travelling much used by persons who
have but one horse between them, and is thus performed. The two
travellers set out together, one on horseback, the other on foot: now,
as it generally happens that he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the
custom is, that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is to
dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other thing, and
then proceed on foot; when the other comes up to the horse he unties
him, mounts, and gallops on, till, having passed by his
fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place of 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 expense of suffering the beasts
themselves to use the former. This was the method in use in those days
when, instead of a coach and six, a member of 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 horse-meat was twelve shillings (for Adams, who had borrowed the
beast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as well as they could
feed him), and the cash in his pocket amounted to sixpence (for Adams
had divided the last shilling with him). Now, though there have been
some ingenious 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, pulled out
that little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. This caused
Mrs Tow-wouse's eyes to water; she told Joseph she did not conceive a
man could want money whilst he had gold in his pocket. Joseph answered
he had such a value for that little piece of gold, that he would not
part with it for a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquire
in the county was worth. "A pretty way, indeed," said Mrs Tow-wouse, "to
run in debt, and then refuse to part with your money, because you have a
value for it! I never knew any piece of gold of more value than as many
shillings as it would change for."--"Not to preserve my life from
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 see any
sign of Joseph. As he left him ready to mount the horse, he could not
apprehend any mischief had happened, neither could he suspect that he
missed his way, it being so broad and plain; the only reason which
presented itself to him was, that he had met with an acquaintance who
had prevailed with him to delay some time in discourse.
He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, 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 to the other side than he perceived, if he had looked over the
hedge, he would have found a footpath capable of conducting him without
wetting his shoes.
His surprize at Joseph's not coming up grew now very troublesome: he
began to fear he knew not what; and as he determined to move no farther,
and, if he did not shortly overtake him, to return back, he wished to
find a house of public entertainment where he might dry his clothes and
refresh himself with a pint; but, seeing no such (for no other reason
than because he did not cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards), he sat
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 alehouse. The fellow, who had just left it, and perceived the
house and sign to be within sight, thinking he had jeered him, and being
of a morose temper, bade him follow his nose and be d---n'd. Adams told
him he was a saucy jackanapes; upon which the fellow turned about
angrily; but, perceiving Adams clench his fist, he thought proper to go
on without taking any farther notice.
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.
CHAPTER III.
_The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, with Mr
Adams's inquiry into the religion of his host._
He had just entered the house, and called for his pint, and seated
himself, when two horsemen came to the door, and, fastening their horses
to the rails, alighted. They said there was a violent shower of rain
coming on, which they intended to weather there, and went into a little
room by themselves, not perceiving Mr Adams.
One of these immediately asked the other, "If he had seen a more comical
adventure a 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, though he was, as the reader may suspect, a little inclined
to forgetfulness, never wanted more than a hint to remind him,
overhearing their discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this
was his own horse, and that he had forgot to pay for him, which, upon
inquiry, he was certified of by the gentlemen; who added, that the horse
was likely to have more rest than food, unless he was paid for.
The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, though he knew
no more than Joseph how to procure his horse his liberty; he was,
however, prevailed on to stay under covert, till the shower, which was
now very violent, was over.
The three travellers then sat down together over a mug of good beer;
when Adams, who had observed a gentleman's house as he passed along the
road, inquired to whom it belonged; one of the horsemen had no sooner
mentioned the owner's name, than the other began to revile him in the
most opprobrious terms. The English language scarce affords a single
reproachful word, which he did not vent on this occasion. He charged him
likewise with many particular facts. He said, "He no more regarded a
field of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he had
injured several poor farmers by trampling their corn under his horse's
heels; and if any of them begged him with the utmost submission to
refrain, his horsewhip was always ready to do them justice." He said,
"That he was the greatest tyrant to the neighbours in every other
instance, and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though he might
justify it by law; and in his own family so 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 the law."
The reviler, a little after, retiring into the yard, the gentleman who
had first mentioned his name to Adams began to assure him "that his
companion was a prejudiced person. It is true," says he, "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 tyrannising
over his neighbours, or taking away their guns, he himself knew several
farmers not qualified, who not only kept guns, but killed game with
them; that he was the best of masters to his servants, and several of
them had grown old in his service; that he was the best justice of peace
in the kingdom, and, to his certain knowledge, had decided many
difficult points, which were referred to him, with the greatest equity
and the highest wisdom; and he verily believed, several persons would
give a year's purchase more for an estate near him, than under the wings
of any other great man." He had just finished his encomium when his
companion returned and acquainted him the storm was over. Upon which
they presently mounted their horses and departed.
Adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those different characters of
the same person, asked his host if he knew the gentleman: for he began
to imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two several gentlemen.
"No, no, master," answered the host (a shrewd, cunning fellow); "I know
the gentleman very well of whom they have been speaking, as I do the
gentlemen who spoke of him. As for riding over other men's corn, to my
knowledge he hath not been on horseback these two years. I never heard
he did any injury of that kind; and as to making reparation, he is not
so free of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear of
his taking away any man's gun; nay, I know several who have guns in
their houses; but as for killing game with them, no man is stricter; and
I believe he would ruin any who did. You heard one of the gentlemen say
he was the worst master in the world, and the other that he is the best;
but for my own part, I know all his servants, and never heard from any
of them that he was either one or the other."--"Aye! aye!" says Adams;
"and how doth he behave as a 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 oneself, one must
speak better of a friend than an enemy."--"Out of love to yourself, you
should confine yourself to truth," says Adams, "for by doing otherwise
you injure the noblest part of yourself, your immortal soul. I can
hardly believe any man such an idiot to risque the loss of that by any
trifling gain, and the greatest gain in this world is but dirt in
comparison of what shall be revealed hereafter." Upon which the host,
taking up the cup, with a smile, drank a health to hereafter; adding,
"He was for something present."--"Why," says Adams very gravely, "do not
you believe another world?" To which the host 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
dost not thou then tremble," cries Adams, "at the thought of eternal
punishment?"--"As for that, master," said he, "I never once thought
about it; but what signifies talking about matters so far off? The mug
is out, shall I draw another?"
Whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage-coach drove up to the
door. The coachman coming into the house was asked by the mistress what
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 anything, I assure you." Adams asked him, "If he had not seen a
young man on horseback on the road" (describing Joseph). "Aye," said
the coachman, "a gentlewoman in my coach that is his acquaintance
redeemed him and his horse; he would have been here before this time,
had not the storm driven him to shelter." "God bless her!" said Adams,
in a rapture; nor could he delay walking out to satisfy himself who this
charitable woman was; but what was his surprize when he saw his old
acquaintance, Madam Slipslop? Hers indeed was not so great, because she
had been informed by Joseph that he was on the road. Very civil were the
salutations on both sides; and Mrs Slipslop rebuked the hostess for
denying the gentleman to be there when she asked for him; but indeed the
poor woman had not erred designedly; for Mrs Slipslop asked for a
clergyman, and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a person travelling
to a neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or some other such
operation; for he marched in a swinging great but short white coat with
black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, so far from having a black
hatband, had nothing black about it.
Joseph was now come up, and Mrs Slipslop would have had him quit his
horse to the parson, and come himself into the coach; but he absolutely
refused, saying, he thanked Heaven he was well enough recovered to be
very able to ride; and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to
ride in a coach while Mr Adams was on horseback.
Mrs Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a lady in the coach
put a short end to the dispute, by refusing to suffer a fellow in a
livery to ride in the same coach with herself; so it was at length
agreed that Adams should fill the vacant place in the coach, and Joseph
should proceed on horseback.
They had not proceeded far before Mrs Slipslop, addressing herself to
the parson, spoke thus:--"There hath been a strange alteration in our
family, Mr Adams, since Sir Thomas's death." "A strange alteration
indeed," says Adams, "as I gather from some hints which have dropped
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 anything. I am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behave
in so unbecoming a manner. I always thought her in the main a good lady,
and should never have suspected her of thoughts so unworthy a Christian,
and with a young lad her own servant." "These things are no secrets to
me, I assure you," cries Slipslop, "and I believe they will be none
anywhere shortly; for ever since the boy's departure, she hath behaved
more like a mad woman than anything else." "Truly, I am heartily
concerned," says Adams, "for she was a good sort of a lady. Indeed, I
have often wished she had attended a little more constantly at the
service, but she hath done a great deal of good in the parish." "O Mr
Adams," says Slipslop, "people that don't see all, often know nothing.
Many things have been given away in our family, I do assure you, without
her knowledge. I have heard you say in the pulpit we ought not to brag;
but indeed I can't avoid saying, if she had kept the keys herself, the
poor would have wanted many a cordial which I have let them have. As for
my late master, he was as worthy a man as ever lived, and would have
done infinite good if he had not been controlled; but he loved a quiet
life, Heaven rest his soul! I am confident he is there, and enjoys a
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