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As it is possible the mere English Reader may have a different Idea of Romance with the Author of these little Volumes; and may consequently expect a kind of Entertainment, not to be found, nor which was even intended, in the following Pages; it may not be improper to premise a few Words concerning this kind of Writing, which I do not remember to have seen hitherto attempted in our Language.
The Epic as well as the Drama is divided into Tragedy and Comedy. Homer, who was the Father of this Species of Poetry, gave us a Pattern of both these, tho' that of the latter kind is entirely lost; which Aristotle tells us, bore the same relation to Comedy which his Iliad bears to Tragedy. And perhaps, that we have no more Instances of it among the Writers of Antiquity, is owing to the Loss of this great Pattern, which, had it survived, would have found its Imitators equally with the other Poems of this great Original.
And farther, as this Poetry may be Tragic or Comic, I will not scruple to say it may be likewise either in Verse or Prose: for tho' it wants one particular, which the Critic enumerates in the constituent Parts of an Epic Poem, namely Metre; yet, when any kind of Writing contains all its other Parts, such as Fable, Action, Characters, Sentiments, and Diction, and is deficient in Metre only; it seems, I think, reasonable to refer it to the Epic; at least, as no Critic hath thought proper to range it under any other Head, nor to assign it a particular Name to itself.
Thus the Telemachus of the Arch-Bishop of Cambray appears to me of the Epic Kind, as well as the Odyssey of Homer; indeed, it is much fairer and more reasonable to give it a Name common with that Species from which it differs only in a single Instance, than to confound it with those which it resembles in no other. Such are those voluminous Works commonly called Romances, namely, Clelia, Cleopatra, Astræa, Cassandra, the Grand Cyrus, and innumerable others which contain, as I apprehend, very little Instruction or Entertainment.
Now a comic Romance is a comic Epic-Poem in Prose; differing from Comedy, as the serious Epic from Tragedy: its Action being more extended and comprehensive; containing a much larger Circle of Incidents, and introducing a greater Variety of Characters. It differs from the serious Romance in its Fable and Action, in this; that as in the one these are grave and solemn, so in the other they are light and ridiculous: it differs in its Characters, by introducing Persons of inferiour Rank, and consequently of inferiour Manners, whereas the grave Romance, sets the highest before us; lastly in its Sentiments and Diction; by preserving the Ludicrous instead of the Sublime. In the Diction I think, Burlesque itself may be sometimes admitted; of which many Instances will occur in this Work, as in the Descriptions of the Battles, and some other Places, not necessary to be pointed out to the Classical Reader; for whose Entertainment those Parodies or Burlesque Imitations are chiefly calculated.
But tho' we have sometimes admitted this in our Diction, we have carefully excluded it from our Sentiments and Characters: for there it is never properly introduced, unless in Writings of the Burlesque kind, which this is not intended to be. Indeed, no two Species of Writing can differ more widely than the Comic and the Burlesque: for as the latter is ever the Exhibition of what is monstrous and unnatural, and where our Delight, if we examine it, arises from the surprizing Absurdity, as in appropriating the Manners of the highest to the lowest, or è converso; so in the former, we should ever confine ourselves strictly to Nature from the just Imitation of which, will flow all the Pleasure we can this way convey to a sensible Reader. And perhaps, there is one Reason, why a Comic Writer should of all others be the least excused for deviating from Nature, since it may not be always so easy for a serious Poet to meet with the Great and the Admirable; but Life every where furnishes an accurate Observer with the Ridiculous.
I have hinted this little, concerning Burlesque; because, I have often heard that Name given to Performances, which have been truly of the Comic kind, from the Author's having sometimes admitted it in his Diction only; which as it is the Dress of Poetry, doth like the Dress of Men establish Characters, (the one of the whole Poem, and the other of the whole Man,) in vulgar Opinion, beyond any of their greater Excellencies: But surely, a certain Drollery in Style, where the Characters and Sentiments are perfectly natural, no more constitutes the Burlesque, than an empty Pomp and Dignity of Words, where every thing else is mean and low, can entitle any Performance to the Appellation of the true Sublime.
And I apprehend, my Lord Shaftesbury's Opinion of mere Burlesque agrees with mine, when he asserts, "There is no such Thing to be found in the Writings of the Antients." But perhaps, I have less Abhorrence than he professes for it: and that not because I have had some little Success on the Stage this way; but rather, as it contributes more to exquisite Mirth and Laughter than any other; and these are probably more wholesome Physic for the Mind, and conduce better to purge away Spleen, Melancholy and ill Affections, than is generally imagined. Nay, I will appeal to common Observation, whether the same Companies are not found more full of Good-Humour and Benevolence, after they have been sweeten'd for two or three Hours with Entertainments of this kind, than when soured by a Tragedy or a grave Lecture.
But to illustrate all this by another Science, in which, perhaps, we shall see the Distinction more clearly and plainly: Let us examine the Works of a Comic History Painter, with those Performances which the Italians call Caricatura; where we shall find the true Excellence of the former, to consist in the exactest Copy of Nature; insomuch, that a judicious Eye instantly rejects any thing outré; any Liberty which the Painter hath taken with the Features of that Alma Mater. —Whereas in the Caricatura we allow all Licence. Its Aim is to exhibit Monsters, not Men; and all Distortions and Exaggerations whatever are within its proper Province.
Now what Caricatura is in Painting, Burlesque is in Writing; and in the same manner the Comic Writer and Painter correlate to each other. And here I shall observe, that as in the former, the Painter seems to have the Advantage; so it is in the latter infinitely on the side of the Writer: for the Monstrous is much easier to paint than describe, and the ridiculous to describe than paint.
And tho' perhaps this latter Species doth not in either Science so strongly affect and agitate the Muscles as the other; yet it will be owned, I believe, that a more rational and useful Pleasure arises to us from it. He who should call the Ingenious Hogarth a Burlesque Painter, would, in my Opinion, do him very little Honour: for sure it is much easier, much less the Subject of Admiration, to paint a Man with a Nose, or any other Feature of a preposterous Size, or to expose him in some absurd or monstrous Attitude, than to express the Affections of Men on Canvas. It hath been thought a vast Commendation of a Painter, to say his Figures seem to breathe; but surely, it is a much greater and nobler Applause, that they appear to think.
But to return—The Ridiculous only, as I have before said, falls within my Province in the present Work. —Nor will some Explanation of this Word be thought impertinent by the Reader, if he considers how wonderfully it hath been mistaken, even by Writers who have profess'd it: for to what but such a Mistake, can we attribute the many Attempts to ridicule the blackest Villanies; and what is yet worse, the most dreadful Calamities? What could exceed the Absurdity of an Author, who should write the Comedy of Nero, with the merry Incident of ripping up his Mother's Belly; or what would give a greater Shock to Humanity, than an Attempt to expose the Miseries of Poverty and Distress to Ridicule? And yet, the Reader will not want much Learning to suggest such Instances to himself.
Besides, it may seem remarkable, that Aristotle, who is so fond and free of Definitions, hath not thought proper to define the Ridiculous. Indeed, where he tells us it is proper to Comedy, he hath remarked that Villany is not its Object: but he hath not, as I remember, positively asserted what is. Nor doth the Abbé Bellegarde, who hath writ a Treatise on this Subject, tho' he shews us many Species of it, once trace it to its Fountain.
The only Source of the true Ridiculous (as it appears to me) is Affectation. But tho' it arises from one Spring only, when we consider the infinite Streams into which this one branches, we shall presently cease to admire at the copious Field it affords to an Observer. Now Affectation proceeds from one of these two Causes, Vanity, or Hypocrisy: for as Vanity puts us on affecting false Characters, in order to purchase Applause; so Hypocrisy sets us on an Endeavour to avoid Censure by concealing our Vices under an Appearance of their opposite Virtues. And tho' these two Causes are often confounded, (for they require some Difficulty in distinguishing;) yet, as they proceed from very different Motives, so they are as clearly distinct in their Operations: for indeed, the Affectation which arises from Vanity is nearer to Truth than the other; as it hath not that violent Repugnancy of Nature to struggle with, which that of the Hypocrite hath. It may be likewise noted, that Affectation doth not imply an absolute Negation of those Qualities which are affected: and therefore, tho', when it proceeds from Hypocrisy, it be nearly allied to Deceit; yet when it comes from Vanity only, it partakes of the Nature of Ostentation: for instance, the Affectation of Liberality in a vain Man, differs visibly from the same Affectation in the Avaricious; for tho' the vain Man is not what he would appear, or hath not the Virtue he affects, to the degree he would be thought to have it; yet it sits less aukwardly on him than on the avaricious Man, who is the very Reverse of what he would seem to be.
From the Discovery of this Affectation arises the Ridiculous— which always strikes the Reader with Surprize and Pleasure; and that in a higher and stronger Degree when the Affectation arises from Hypocrisy, than when from Vanity: for to discover any one to be the exact Reverse of what he affects, is more surprizing, and consequently more ridiculous, than to find him a little deficient in the Quality he desires the Reputation of. I might observe that our Ben Johnson, who of all Men understood the Ridiculous the best, hath chiefly used the hypocritical Affectation.
Now from Affectation only, the Misfortunes and Calamities of Life, or the Imperfections of Nature, may become the Objects of Ridicule. Surely he hath a very ill-framed Mind, who can look on Ugliness, Infirmity, or Poverty, as ridiculous in themselves: nor do I believe any Man living who meets a dirty Fellow riding through the Streets in a Cart, is struck with an Idea of the Ridiculous from it; but if he should see the same Figure descend from his Coach and Six, or bolt from his Chair with his Hat under his Arm, he would then begin to laugh, and with justice. In the same manner, were we to enter a poor House, and behold a wretched Family shivering with Cold and languishing with Hunger, it would not incline us to Laughter, (at least we must have very diabolical Natures, if it would:) but should we discover there a Grate, instead of Coals, adorned with Flowers, empty Plate or China Dishes on the Side-board, or any other Affectation of Riches and Finery either on their Persons or in their Furniture; we might then indeed be excused, for ridiculing so fantastical an Appearance. Much less are natural Imperfections the Objects of Derision: but when Ugliness aims at the Applause of Beauty, or Lameness endeavours to display Agility; it is then that these unfortunate Circumstances, which at first moved our Compassion, tend only to raise our Mirth.
The Poet carries this very far;
Where if the Metre would suffer the Word Ridiculous to close the first Line, the Thought would be rather more proper. Great Vices are the proper Objects of our Detestation, smaller Faults of our Pity: but Affectation appears to me the only true Source of the Ridiculous.
But perhaps it may be objected to me, that I have against my own Rules introduced Vices, and of a very black Kind into this Work. To which I shall answer: First, that it is very difficult to pursue a Series of human Actions and keep clear from them. Secondly, That the Vices to be found here, are rather the accidental Consequences of some human Frailty, or Foible, than Causes habitually existing in the Mind. Thirdly, That they are never set forth as the Objects of Ridicule but Detestation. Fourthly, That they are never the principal Figure at that Time on the Scene; and lastly, they never produce the intended Evil.
Having thus distinguished Joseph Andrews from the Productions of Romance Writers on the one hand, and Burlesque Writers on the other, and given some few very short Hints (for I intended no more) of this Species of writing, which I have affirmed to be hitherto unattempted in our Language; I shall leave to my good natur'd Reader to apply my Piece to my Observations, and will detain him no longer than with a Word concerning the Characters in this Work.
And here I solemnly protest, I have no Intention to vilify or asperse any one: for tho' every thing is copied from the Book of Nature, and scarce a Character or Action produced which I have not taken from my own Observations and Experience, yet I have used the utmost Care to obscure the Persons by such different Circumstances, Degrees, and Colours, that it will be impossible to guess at them with any degree of Certainty; and if it ever happens otherwise, it is only where the Failure characterized is so minute, that it is a Foible only which the Party himself may laugh at as well as any other.
As to the Character of Adams, as it is the most glaring in the whole, so I conceive it is not to be found in any Book now extant. It is designed a Character of perfect Simplicity; and as the Goodness of his Heart will recommend him to the Good-natur'd; so I hope it will excuse me to the Gentlemen of his Cloth; for whom, while they are worthy of their sacred Order, no Man can possibly have a greater Respect. They will therefore excuse me, notwithstanding the low Adventures in which he is engaged, that I have made him a Clergyman; since no other Office could have given him so many Opportunities of displaying his worthy Inclinations.
Of writing Lives in general, and particularly of Pamela; with a Word by the bye of Colley Cibber and others.
It is a trite but true Observation, that Examples work more forcibly on the Mind than Precepts: And if this be just in what is odious and blameable, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and praise-worthy. Here Emulation most effectually operates upon us, and inspires our Imitation in an irresistible manner. A good Man therefore is a standing Lesson to all his Acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrow Circle than a good Book.
But as it often happens that the best Men are but little known, and consequently cannot extend the Usefulness of their Examples a great way; the Writer may be called in aid to spread their History farther, to present the amiable Pictures to those who have not the Happiness of knowing the Originals; and by communicating such valuable Patterns to the World, may perhaps do a more extensive Service to Mankind than the Person whose Life originally afforded the Pattern.
In this Light I have always regarded those Biographers who have recorded the Actions of great and worthy Persons of both Sexes. Not to mention those antient Writers which of late days are little read being written in obsolete, and, as they are generally thought, unintelligible Languages; such as Plutarch, Nepos, and others which I heard of in my Youth, our own Language affords many of excellent Use and Instruction, finely calculated to sow the Seeds of Virtue in Youth, and very easy to be comprehended by Persons of moderate Capacity. Such are the History of John the Great, who, by his brave and heroic Actions against Men of large and athletic Bodies, obtained the glorious Appellation of the Giant-killer; that of an Earl of Warwick, whose Christian Name was Guy; the Lives of Argalus and Parthenia, and above all, the History of those seven worthy Personages, the Champions of Christendom. In all these, Delight is mixed with Instruction, and the Reader is almost as much improved as entertained.
But I pass by these and many others, to mention two Books lately published, which represent an admirable Pattern of the amiable in either Sex. The former of these which deals in Male-Virtue, was written by the great Person himself, who lived the Life he hath recorded, and is by many thought to have lived such a Life only in order to write it. The other is communicated to us by an Historian who borrows his Lights, as the common Method is, from authentic Papers and Records. The Reader, I believe, already conjectures, I mean, the Lives of Mr. Colley Cibber, and of Mrs. Pamela Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by insinuating that he escaped being promoted to the highest Stations in Church and State, teach us a Contempt of worldly Grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcate an absolute Submission to our Superiors! Lastly, how completely doth he arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a Passion as the Fear of Shame; how clearly doth he expose the Emptiness and Vanity of that Fantom, Reputation!
What the Female Readers are taught by the Memoirs of Mrs. Andrews, is so well set forth in the excellent Essays or Letters prefixed to the second and subsequent Editions of that Work, that it would be here a needless Repetition. The authentic History with which I now present the public, is an Instance of the great Good that Book is likely to do, and of the Prevalence of Example which I have just observed: since it will appear that it was by keeping the excellent Pattern of his Sister's Virtues before his Eyes, that Mr. Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to preserve his Purity in the midst of such great Temptations; I shall only add, that this Character of Male-Chastity, tho' doubtless as desirable, as becoming in one Part of the human Species, as in the other, is almost the only Virtue which the great Apologist hath not given himself for the sake of giving the Example to his Readers.
Of Mr. Joseph Andrews his Birth, Parentage, Education, and great Endowments, with a Word or two concerning Ancestors.
Mr. Joseph Andrews, the Hero of our ensuing History, was esteemed to be the only Son of Gaffar and Gammer Andrews, and Brother to the illustrious Pamela, whose Virtue is at present so famous. As to his Ancestors, we have searched with great Diligence, but little Success: being unable to trace them farther than his Great Grandfather, who, as an elderly Person in the Parish remembers to have heard his Father say, was an excellent Cudgel-player. Whether he had any Ancestors before this, we must leave to the Opinion of our curious Reader, finding nothing of sufficient Certainty to relie on. However, we cannot omit inserting an Epitaph which an ingenious Friend of ours hath communicated.
The Words are almost out of the Stone with Antiquity. But it is needless to observe, that Andrew here is writ without an s, and is besides a Christian Name. My Friend moreover conjectures this to have been the Founder of that Sect of laughing Philosophers, since called Merry Andrews.
To wave therefore a Circumstance, which, tho' mentioned in conformity to the exact Rules of Biography, is not greatly material; I proceed to things of more consequence. Indeed it is sufficiently certain, that he had as many Ancestors, as the best Man living; and perhaps, if we look five or six hundred Years backwards, might be related to some Persons of very great Figure at present, whose Ancestors within half the last Century are buried in as great Obscurity. But suppose for Argument's sake we should admit that he had no Ancestors at all, but had sprung up, according to the modern Phrase, out of a Dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they themselves did from the Earth, would not this Autokopros have been justly entitled to all the Praise arising from his own Virtues? Would it not be hard, that a Man who hath no Ancestors should therefore be render'd incapable of acquiring Honour, when we see so many who have no Virtues, enjoying the Honour of their Forefathers? At ten Years old (by which Time his Education was advanced to Writing and Reading) he was bound an Apprentice, according to the Statute, to Sir Thomas Booby, an Uncle of Mr. Booby's by the Father's side. Sir Thomas having then an Estate in his own hands, the young Andrews was at first employed in what in the Country they call keeping Birds. His Office was to perform the Part the Antients assigned to the God Priapus, which Deity the Moderns call by the Name of Jack-o'-Lent: but his Voice being so extremely musical, that it rather allured the Birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the Fields into the Dog-kennel, where he was placed under the Huntsman, and made what Sportsmen term a Whipper-in. For this Place likewise the Sweetness of his Voice disqualified him: the Dogs preferring the Melody of his chiding to all the alluring Notes of the Huntsman, who soon became so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to provide otherwise for him; and constantly laid every Fault the Dogs were at, to the Account of the poor Boy, who was now transplanted to the Stable. Here he soon gave Proofs of Strength and Agility, beyond his Years, and constantly rode the most spirited and vicious Horses to water with an Intrepidity which surprized every one. While he was in this Station, he rode several Races for Sir Thomas, and this with such Expertness and Success, that the neighbouring Gentlemen frequently solicited the Knight, to permit little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their Matches. The best Gamesters, before they laid their Money, always enquired which Horse little Joey was to ride, and the Betts were rather proportioned by the Rider than by the Horse himself; especially after he had scornfully refused a considerable Bribe to play booty on such an Occasion. This extremely raised his Character, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that she desired to have him (being now seventeen Years of Age) for her own Foot-boy.
Joey was now preferred from the Stable to attend on his Lady; to go on her Errands, stand behind her Chair, wait at her Tea-table, and carry her Prayer-Book to Church; at which Place, his Voice gave him an Opportunity of distinguishing himself by singing Psalms: he behaved likewise in every other respect so well a divine Service, that it recommended him to the Notice of Mr. Abraham Adams the Curate; who took an Opportunity one Day, as he was drinking a Cup of Ale in Sir Thomas's Kitchin, to ask the young Man several Questions concerning Religion; with his Answers to which he was wonderfully pleased.
Of Mr. Abraham Adams the Curate, Mrs. Slipslop the Chambermaid, and others.
Mr. Abraham Adams was an excellent Scholar. He was a perfect Master of the Greek and Latin Languages; to which he added a great Share of Knowledge in the Oriental Tongues, and could read and translate French, Italian and Spanish. He had applied many Years to the most severe Study, and had treasured up a Fund of Learning rarely to be met with in a University. He was besides a Man of good Sense, good Parts, and good Nature; but was at the same time as entirely ignorant of the Ways of this World, as an Infant just entered into it could possibly be. As he had never any Intention to deceive, so he never suspected such a Design in others. He was generous, friendly and brave to an Excess; but Simplicity was his Characteristic: he did, no more than Mr. Colley Cibber, apprehend any such Passions as Malice and Envy to exist in Mankind, which was indeed less remarkable in a Country Parson than in a Gentleman who hath past his Life behind the Scenes, a Place which hath been seldom thought the School of Innocence; and where a very little Observation would have convinced the great Apologist, that those Passions have a real Existence in the human Mind.
His Virtue and his other Qualifications, as they rendered him equal to his Office, so they made him an agreeable and valuable Companion, and had so much endeared and well recommended him to a Bishop, that at the Age of Fifty, he was provided with a handsome Income of twenty-three Pounds a Year; which however, he could not make any great Figure with: because he lived in a dear Country, and was a little incumbered with a Wife and six Children.
It was this Gentleman, who, having, as I have said, observed the singular Devotion of young Andrews, had found means to question him, concerning several Particulars; as how many Books there were in the New Testament? which were they? how many Chapters they contained? and such like; to all which Mr. Adams said, he answer'd much better than Sir Thomas, or two other neighbouring Justices of the Peace could probably have done.
Mr. Adams was wonderfully sollicitous to know at what Time, and by what Opportunity the Youth became acquainted with these Matters: who told him, that he had very early learnt to read and write by the Goodness of his Father, who, though he had not Interest enough to get him into a Charity School, because a Cousin of his Father's Landlord did not vote on the right side for a Church-warden in a Borough Town, yet had been himself at the Expence of Sixpence a Week for his Learning. That he had ever since he was in Sir Thomas's Family, employed all his Hours of Leisure in reading good Books; that he had read the Bible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas à Kempis ; and that as often as he could, without being perceived, he had studied a great good Book which lay open in the Hall Window, where he had read, as how the Devil carried away half a Church in Sermon-time, without hurting one of the Congregation; and as how a Field of Corn ran away down a Hill with all the Trees upon it, and covered another Man's Meadow. This sufficiently assured Mr. Adams, that the good Book meant could be no other than Baker's Chronicle.
The Curate, surprized to find such Instances of Industry and Application in a young Man, who had never met with the least Encouragement, asked him, if he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal Education, and the not having been born of Parents, who might have indulged his Talents and Desire of Knowledge? To which he answered, "He hoped he had profited somewhat better from the Books he had read, than to lament his Condition in this World. That for his part, he was perfectly content with the State to which he was called, that he should endeavour to improve his Talent, which was all required of him, but not repine at his own Lot, nor envy those of his Betters." "Well said, my Lad, reply'd the Curate, and I wish some who have read many more Books, had profited so much by them."
Adams had no nearer Access to Sir Thomas, or my Lady, than by the waiting Gentlewoman: For Sir Thomas was too apt to estimate Men merely by their Dress, or Fortune; and my Lady was a Woman of Gaiety, who had been bless'd with a Town-Education, and never spoke of any of her Country Neighbours, by any other Appellation than that of Brutes. They both regarded the Curate as a kind of Domestic only belonging to the Parson of the Parish, who was at this time at variance with the Knight on Suits, which he then had for Tithes with seven Tenants of his Manor, in order to set aside a Modus, by which the Parson proposed an Advantage of several Shillings per annum, and by these Suits had greatly impoverished himself, and utterly undone the poor Tenants.
Mrs. Slipslop the Waiting-Gentlewoman, being herself the Daughter of a Curate, preserved some Respect for Adams; she professed great Regard for his Learning, and would frequently dispute with him on Points of Theology; but always insisted on a Deference to be paid to her Understanding, as she had been frequently at London, and knew more of the World than a Country Parson could pretend to.
She had in these Disputes a particular Advantage over Adams: for she was a mighty Affecter of hard Words, which she used in such a manner, that the Parson, who durst not offend her, by calling her Words in question, was frequently at some loss to guess her meaning, and would have been much less puzzled by an Arabian Manuscript.
To her therefore, Adams mentioned the Case of young Andrews, and desired her to recommend him to her Lady as a Youth very susceptible of Learning, and one, whose Instruction in Latin he would himself undertake; by which means he might be qualified for a higher Station than that of a Footman: and added, she knew it was in his Master's power easily to provide for him in a better manner. He therefore desired, that the Boy might be left behind under his Care.
"La Mr. Adams, said Mrs. Slipslop, do you think my Lady will suffer any Preambles about such a Matter? She he is going to London very concisely, and I am confidous would not leave Joey behind her on any account; for he is one of the genteelest young Fellows you may see in a Summer's Day, and I am confidous she would as soon think of parting with a Pair of her Grey-Mares: for she values herself as much on one as the other." Adams would have interrupted, but she proceeded: "And why is Latin more necessitous for a Footman than a Gentleman? It is very proper that you Clargymen must learn it, because you can't preach without it: but I have heard Gentlemen say in London, that it is fit for no body else. I am confidous my Lady would be angry with me for mentioning it, and I shall draw myself into no such Delemy." At which words her Lady's Bell rung, and Mr. Adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a second Opportunity with her before their London Journey, which happened a few Days afterwards. However, Andrews behaved very thankfully and gratefully to him for his intended Kindness, which he told him he never would forget, and at the same time received from the good Man many Admonitions concerning the Regulation of his future Conduct, and his Perseverance in Innocence and Industry.
What happened after their Journey to London.
No sooner was young Andrews arrived at London, than he began to scrape an Acquaintance with his party-colour'd Brethren, who endeavour'd to make him despise his former Course of Life. His Hair was cut after the newest Fashion, and became his chief Care. He went abroad with it all the Morning in Papers, and drest it out in the Afternoon; they could not however teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel Vice the Town abounded with. He applied most of his leisure Hours to Music, in which he greatly improved himself, and became so perfect a Connoisseur in that Art, that he led the Opinion of all the other Footmen at an Opera, and they never condemned or applauded a single Song contrary to his Approbation or Dislike. He was a little too forward in Riots at the Play-Houses and Assemblies; and when he attended his Lady at Church (which was but seldom) he behaved with less seeming Devotion than formerly: however, if he was outwardly a pretty Fellow, his Morals remained entirely uncorrupted, tho' he was at the same time smarter and genteeler, than any of the Beaus in Town, either in or out of Livery.
His Lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the handsomest and genteelest Footman in the Kingdom, but that it was pity he wanted Spirit, began now to find that Fault no longer; on the contrary, she was frequently heard to cry out, Aye, there is some Life in this Fellow. She plainly saw the Effects which Town-Air hath on the soberest Constitutions. She would now walk out with him into Hyde-Park in a Morning, and when tired, which happened almost every Minute, would lean on his Arm, and converse with him in great Familiarity. Whenever she stept out of her Coach she would take him by the Hand, and sometimes, for fear of stumbling, press it very hard; she admitted him to deliver Messages at her Bed-side in a Morning, leered at him at Table, and indulged him in all those innocent Freedoms which Women of Figure may permit without the least sully of their Virtue.
But tho' their Virtue remains unsullied, yet now and then some small Arrows will glance at the Shadow of it, their Reputation; and so it fell out to Lady Booby, who happened to be walking Arm in Arm with Joey one Morning in Hyde-Park, when Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentally by in their Coach. Bless me, says Lady Tittle, can I believe my, Eyes? Is that Lady, Booby? Surely, says Tattle. But what makes you surprized? Why is not that her Footman, reply'd Tittle? At which Tattle laughed and cryed, An old Business, I assure you, is it possible you should not have heard it ? The whole Town hath known it this half Year. The Consequence of this Interview was a Whisper through a hundred Visits, which were separately performed by the two Ladies the same Afternoon, and might have had a mischievous Effect, had it not been stopt by two fresh Reputations which were published the Day afterwards, and engrossed the whole Talk of the Town.
But whatever Opinion or Suspicion the scandalous Inclination of Defamers might entertain of Lady Booby's innocent Freedoms, it is certain they made no Impression on young Andrews, who never offered to encroach beyond the Liberties which his Lady allowed him. A Behaviour which she imputed to the violent Respect he preserved for her, and which served only to heighten a something she began to conceive, and which the next Chapter will open a little farther.
The Death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and mournful Behaviour of his Widow, and the great Purity of Joseph Andrews.
At this Time, an Accident happened which put a stop to these agreeable Walks, which probably would have soon puffed up the Cheeks of Fame, and caused her to blow her brazen Trumpet through the Town, and this was no other than the Death of Sir Thomas Booby, who departing this Life, left his disconsolate Lady confined to her House as closely as if she herself had been attacked by some violent Disease. During the first six Days the poor Lady admitted none but Mrs. Slipslop and three Female Friends who made a Party at Cards: but on the seventh she ordered Joey, whom for a good Reason we shall hereafter call Joseph, to bring up her Tea-kettle. The Lady being in Bed, called Joseph to her, bad him sit down, and having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked him, if he had never been in Love? Joseph answered, with some Confusion, "it was time enough for one so young as himself to think on such things." As young as you are, reply'd the Lady, I am convinced you are no Stranger to that Passion; "Come Joey," says she, "tell me truly, who is the happy Girl whose Eyes have made a Conquest of you?" Joseph returned, "that all Women he had ever seen were equally indifferent to him." "O then," said the Lady, "you are a general Lover. Indeed you handsome Fellows, like handsome Women, are very long and difficult in fixing: but yet you shall never persuade me that your Heart is so insusceptible of Affection; I rather impute what you say to your Secrecy, a very commendable Quality, and what I I am far from being angry with you for. Nothing can be more unworthy in a young Man than to betray any Intimacies with the Ladies." Ladies! Madam, said Joseph, I am sure I never had the Impudence to think of any that deserve that Name . "Don't pretend to too much Modesty, said she, for that sometimes may be impertinent: but pray, answer me this Question, Suppose a Lady should happen to like you, suppose she should prefer you to all your Sex, and admit you to the same Familiarities as you might have hoped for, if you had been born her equal, are you certain that no Vanity could tempt you to discover her? Answer me honestly, Joseph, Have you so much more Sense and so much more Virtue than you handsome young Fellows generally have, who make no scruple of sacrificing our dear Reputation to your Pride, without considering the great Obligation we lay on you, by our Condescension and Confidence? Can you keep a Secret, my Joey." Madam says he, "I hope your Ladyship can't tax me with ever betraying the Secrets of the Family, and I hope, if you was to turn me away, I might have that Character of you." "I don't intend to turn you away, Joey," said she, and sighed, "I am afraid it is not in my power." She then raised herself a little in her Bed, and discovered one of the whitest Necks that ever was seen; at which Joseph blushed, La! says she, in an affected Surprize, "what am I doing? I have trusted myself with a Man alone, naked in Bed; suppose you should have any wicked Intentions upon my Honour, how should I defend myself?" Joseph protested that he never had the least evil Design again her. "No, says she, perhaps you may not call your Designs wicked, and perhaps they are not so." —He swore they were not. "You misunderstand me, says she, I mean if they were against my Honour, they may not be wicked, but the World calls them so. But then, say you, the World will never know any thing of the Matter, yet would not that be trusting to your Secrecy? Must not my Reputation be then in your power? Would you not then be my Master?" Joseph begged her Ladyship to be comforted, for that he would never imagine the least wicked thing against her, and that he had rather die a thousand Deaths than give her any reason to suspect him. "Yes, said she, I must have Reason to suspect you. Are you not a Man? and without Vanity I may pretend to some Charms. But perhaps you may fear I should prosecute you; indeed I hope you do, and yet Heaven knows I should never have the Confidence to appear before a Court of Justice, and you know, Joey, I am of a forgiving Temper. Tell me Joey, don't you think I should forgive you?" "Indeed Madam, says Joseph, I will never do any thing to disoblige your Ladyship." "How, says she, do you think it would not disoblige me then? Do you think I would willingly suffer you?" "I don't understand you, Madam," says Joseph . "Don't you, said she, then you are either a Fool or pretend to be so, I find I was mistaken in you, so get you down Stairs, and never let me see your Face again: your pretended Innocence cannot impose on me." "Madam, said Joseph, I would not have your Ladyship think any Evil of me. I have always endeavoured to be a dutiful Servant both to you and my Master." "O thou Villain, answered my Lady, Why did'st thou mention the Name of that dear Man, unless to torment me, to bring his precious Memory to my Mind, (and then she burst into a Fit of Tears)" "Get thee from my Sight, I shall never endure thee more." At which Words she turned away from him, and Joseph retreated from the Room in a most disconsolate Condition, and writ the Letter which the Reader will find in the next Chapter.
How Joseph Andrews writ a Letter to his Sister Pamela.
"Dear Sister,
Since I received your Letter of your good Lady's Death, we have
had a Misfortune of the same kind in our Family. My worthy Master,
Sir Thomas, died about four Days ago, and what is worse, my
poor Lady is certainly gone distracted. None of the Servants expected
her to take it so to heart, because they quarrelled almost every day
of their Lives: but no more of that, because you know, Pamela,
I never loved to tell the Secrets of my Master's Family; but to be
sure you must have known they never loved one another, and I have
heard her Ladyship wish his Honour dead above a thousand times: but
no body knows what it is to lose a Friend till they have lost him.
"Don't tell any body what I write, because I should not care to have Folks say I discover what passes in our Family: but if it had not been so great a Lady, I should have thought she had had a mind to me. Dear Pamela, don't tell any body: but she ordered me to sit down by her Bed-side, when she was in naked Bed; and she held my Hand, and talked exactly as a Lady does to her Sweetheart in a Stage-Play, which I have seen in Covent-Garden, while she wanted him to be no better than he should be.
"If Madam be mad, I shall not care for staying long in the Family; so I heartily wish you could get me a Place either at the Squire's, or some other neighbouring Gentleman's, unless it be true that you are going to be married to Parson Williams, as Folks talk, and then I should be very willing to be his Clerk: for which you know I am qualified, being able to read, and to set a Psalm.
"I fancy, I shall be discharged very soon; and the Moment I am, unless I hear from you, I shall return to my old Master's Country Seat, if it be only to see Parson Adams, who is the best Man in the World. London is a bad Place, and there is so little good Fellowship, that next-door Neighbours don't know one another. Pray give my Service to all Friends that enquire for me; so I rest
Your Loving Brother,
Joseph Andrews."
As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this Letter, he walked down Stairs, where he met Mrs. Slipslop, with whom we shall take this Opportunity to bring the Reader a little better acquainted. She was an antient Maiden Gentlewoman of about Forty-five Years of Age, who having made a small Slip in her Youth had continued a good Maid ever since. She was not at this time remarkably handsome; being very short, and rather too corpulent in Body, and somewhat red, with the Addition of Pimples in the Face. Her Nose was likewise rather too large, and her Eyes too little; nor did she resemble a Cow so much in her Breath, as in two brown Globes which she carried before her; one of her Legs was also a little shorter than the other, which occasioned her to limp as she walked. This fair Creature had long cast the Eyes of Affection on Joseph, in which she had not met with quite so good Success as she probably wished, tho' besides the Allurements of her native Charms, she had given him Tea, Sweetmeats, Wine, and many other Delicacies, of which by keeping the Keys, she had the absolute Command. Joseph however, had not returned the least Gratitude to all these Favours, not even so much as a Kiss; tho' I would not insinuate she was so easily to be satisfied: for surely then he would have been highly blameable. The truth is, she was arrived at an Age when she thought she might indulge herself in any Liberties with a Man, without the danger of bringing a third Person into the World to betray them. She imagined, that by so long a Self-denial, she had not only made amends for the small Slip of her Youth above hinted at: but had likewise laid up a Quantity of Merit to excuse any future Failings. In a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorous Inclinations, and pay off the Debt of Pleasure which she found she owed herself, as fast as possible.
With these Charms of Person; and in this Disposition of Mind, she encountered poor Joseph at the Bottom of the Stairs, and asked him if he would drink a Glass of something good this Morning. Joseph, whose Spirits were not a little cast down, very readily and thankfully accepted the Offer; and together they went into a Closet, where having delivered him a full Glass of Ratifia, Ratisia and desired him to sit down, Mrs. Slipslop thus began:
"Sure nothing can be a more simple Contract in a Woman, than to place her Affections on a Boy. If I had ever thought it would have been my Fate, I should have wished to die a thousand Deaths rather than live to see that Day. If we like a Man, the lightest Hint sophisticates. Whereas a Boy proposes upon us to break through all the Regulations of Modesty, before we can make any Oppression upon him." Joseph, who did not understand a Word she said, answered, "yes Madam;—" "Yes Madam!" reply'd Mrs. Slipslop with some Warmth, "Do you intend to result my Passion? Is it not enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no Return to all the Favours I have done you: but you must treat me with Ironing? Barbarous Monster! how have I deserved that my Passion should be resulted and treated with Ironing?" "Madam," answered Joseph, "I don't understand your hard Words: but I am certain, you have no Occasion to call me ungrateful: for so far from intending you any Wrong. I have always loved you as well as if you had been my own Mother." "How, Sirrah!" says Mrs. Slipslop in a Rage: "Your own Mother! Do you assinuate that I am old enough to be your Mother? I don't know what a Stripling may think: but I believe a Man would refer me to any Green-Sickness silly Girl whatsomdever: but I ought to despise you rather than be angry with you, for referring the Conversation of Girls to that of a Woman of Sense." "Madam," says Joseph, "I am sure I have always valued the Honour you did me by your Conversation; for I know you are a Woman of Learning." "Yes but, Joseph," said she a little softened by the Compliment to her Learning, "If you had a Value for me, you certainly would have found some Method of shewing it me; for I am convicted you must see the Value I have for you. Yes, Joseph, my Eyes whether I would or no, must have declared a Passion I cannot conquer. —Oh! Joseph!—"
As when a hungry Tygress, who long had traversed the Woods in fruitless search, sees within the Reach of her Claws a Lamb, she prepares to leap on her Prey; or as a voracious Pike, of immense Size, surveys through the liquid Element a Roach or Gudgeon which cannot escape her Jaws, opens them wide to swallow the little Fish: so did Mrs. Slipslop prepare to lay her violent amorous Hands on the poor Joseph, when luckily her Mistress's Bell rung, and delivered the intended Martyr from her Clutches. She was obliged to break off abruptly, and defer the Execution of her Purpose to some other Time. We shall therefore return to the Lady Booby, and give our Reader some Account of her Behaviour, after she was left by Joseph in a Temper of Mind not greatly different from that of the inflamed Slipslop.
Sayings of wise Men. A Dialogue between the Lady and her Maid, and a Panegyric or rather Satire on the Passion of Love, in the sublime Style.
It is the Observation of some antient Sage, whose Name I have forgot, that Passions operate differently on the human Mind, as Diseases on the Body, in proportion to the Strength or Weakness, Soundness or Rottenness of the one and the other.
We hope therefore, a judicious Reader will give himself some Pains to observe, what we have so greatly laboured to describe, the different Operations of this Passion of Love in the gentle and cultivated Mind of the Lady Booby, from those which it effected in the less polished and coarser Disposition of Mrs. Slipslop.
One other Philosopher, whose Name also at present escapes my Memory, hath somewhere said, that Resolutions taken in the Absence of the beloved Object are very apt to vanish in its Presence; on both which wise Sayings the following Chapter may serve as a Comment.
No sooner had Joseph left the Room in the Manner we have before related, than the Lady, enraged at her Disappointment, began to reflect with Severity on her Conduct. Her Love was now changed to Disdain, which Pride assisted to torment her. She despised herself for the Meanness of her Passion, and Joseph for its ill Success. However, she had now got the better of it in her own Opinion, and determined immediately to dismiss the Object. After much tossing and turning in her Bed, and many Soliloquies, which, if we had no better Matter for our Reader, we would give him; she at last rung the Bell as above-mentioned, and was presently attended by Mrs. Slipslop, who was not much better pleased with Joseph, than the Lady herself.
Slipslop, said Lady Booby, when did you see Joseph? The poor Woman was so surprized at the unexpected Sound of his Name, at so critical a time, that she had the greatest Difficulty to conceal the Confusion she was under from her Mistress, whom she answered nevertheless, with pretty good Confidence, though not entirely void of Fear of Suspicion, that she had not seen him that Morning. "I am afraid," said Lady Booby, "he is a wild young Fellow." "That he is," said Slipslop, "and a wicked one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears and fights eternally: besides he is horribly indicted to Wenching." "Ay!" said the Lady! "I never heard that of him." "O Madam," answered the other, "he is so lewd a Rascal that if your Ladyship keeps him much longer, you will not have one Virgin in your House except myself. And yet I can't conceive what the Wenches see in him, so be so foolishly fond as they are; in my Eyes he is as ugly a Scarecrow as I ever upheld." "Nay," said the Lady, the Boy is well enough. —"La Ma'am," cries Slipslop, "I think him the ragmaticallest Fellow in the Family." "Sure, Slipslop, " says she, "you are mistaken: but which of the Women do you most suspect?" "Madam," says Slipslop, "there is Betty the Chamber-Maid, I am almost convicted, is with Child by him." "Ay!" says the Lady, "then pray pay her her Wages instantly. I will keep no such Sluts in my Family. And as for Joseph, you may discard him too." "Would your Ladyship have him paid off immediately?" cries Slipslop, "for perhaps, when Betty is gone, he may mend; and really the Boy is a good Servant, and a strong healthy luscious Boy enough." "This Morning," answered the Lady with some Vehemence. "I wish Madam," cries Slipslop, "your Ladyship would be so good as to try him a little longer." "I will not have my Commands disputed," said the Lady, "sure you are not fond of him yourself." "I Madam?" cries Slipslop, reddening, if not blushing, "I should be sorry to think your Ladyship had any reason to respect me of Fondness for a Fellow; and if it be your Pleasure, I shall fulfill it with as much reluctance as possible." "As little, I suppose you mean," said the Lady; "and so about it instantly." Mrs. Slipslop went out, and the Lady had scarce taken two turns before she fell to knocking and ringing with great Violence. Slipslop, who did not travel post-haste, soon returned, and was countermanded as to Joseph, but ordered to send Betty about her Business without delay. She went out a second time with much greater alacrity than before; when the Lady began immediately to accuse herself of Want of Resolution, and to apprehend the Return of her Affection with its pernicious Consequences: she therefore applied herself again to the Bell, and resummoned Mrs. Slipslop into her Presence; who again returned, and was told by her Mistress, that she had consider'd better of the Matter, and was absolutely resolved to turn away Joseph; which she ordered her to do immediately. Slipslop, who knew the Violence of her Lady's Temper, and would not venture her Place for any Adonis or Hercules in the Universe, left her a third time; which she had no sooner done, than the little God Cupid, fearing he had not yet done the Lady's Business, took a fresh Arrow with the sharpest Point out of his Quiver, and shot it directly into her Heart: in other and plainer Language, the Lady's Passion got the better of her Reason. She called back Slipslop once more, and told her, she had resolved to see the Boy, and examine him herself; therefore bid her send him up. This wavering in her Mistress's Temper probably put something into the Waiting-Gentlewoman's Head, not necessary to mention to the sagacious Reader.
Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could not prevail with herself. The next Consideration therefore was, how she should behave to Joseph when he came in. She resolved to preserve all the Dignity of the Woman of Fashion to her Servant, and to indulge herself in this last View of Joseph (for that she was most certainly resolved it should be) at his own Expence, by first insulting, and then discarding him.
O Love, what monstrous Tricks dost thou play with thy Votaries of both Sexes! How dost thou deceive them, and make them deceive themselves! Their Follies are thy Delight. Their Sighs make thee laugh, and their Pangs are thy Merriment!
Not the Great Rich, who turns Men into Monkeys, Wheelbarrows, and whatever else best humours his Fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed the human Shape; nor the Great Cibber, who confounds all Number, Gender, and breaks through every Rule of Grammar at his Will, hath so distorted the English Language, as thou dost metamorphose and distort the human Senses.
Thou puttest out our Eyes, stoppest up our Ears, and takest away the power of our Nostrils; so that we can neither see the largest Object, hear the loudest Noise, nor smell the most poignant Perfume. Again, when thou pleasest, thou can'st make a Mole-hill appear as a Mountain; a Jew's-Harp sound like a Trumpet; and a Dazy smell like a Violet. Thou can'st make Cowardice brave, Avarice generous, Pride humble, and Cruelty tender-hearted. It short, thou turnest the Heart of Man inside-out, as a Juggler doth a Petticoat, and bringest whatsoever pleaseth thee out from it. If there be any one who doubts all this, let him read the next Chapter.
In which, after some very fine Writing, the History goes on, and relates the Interview between the Lady and Joseph; where the latter hath set an Example, which we despair of seeing followed by his Sex, in this vicious Age.
Now the Rake Hesperus had called for his Breeches, and having well rubbed his drowsy Eyes, prepared to dress himself for all Night; by whose Example his Brother Rakes on Earth likewise leave those Beds, in which they had slept away the Day. Now Thetis the good Housewife began to put on the Pot in order to regale the good Man Phoebus, after his daily Labours were over. In vulgar Language, it was in the Evening when Joseph attended his Lady's Orders.
But as it becomes us to preserve the Character of this Lady, who is the Heroine of our Tale; and as we have naturally a wonderful Tenderness for that beautiful Part of the human Species, called the Fair Sex; before we discover too much of her Frailty to our Reader, it will be proper to give him a lively Idea of that vast Temptation, which overcame all the Efforts of a modest and virtuous Mind; and then we humbly hope his Good-nature will rather pity than condemn the Imperfection of human Virtue.
Nay, the Ladies themselves will, we hope, be induced, by considering the uncommon Variety of Charms, which united in this young Man's Person, to bridle their rampant Passion for Chastity, and be at least, as mild as their violent Modesty and Virtue will permit them, in censuring the Conduct of a Woman, who, perhaps, was in her own Disposition as chaste as those pure and sanctified Virgins, who, after a Life innocently spent in the Gaieties of the Town, begin about Fifty to attend twice per diem, at the polite Churches and Chapels, to return Thanks for the Grace which preserved them formerly amongst Beaus from Temptations, perhaps less powerful than what now attacked the Lady Booby.
Mr. Joseph Andrews was now in the one and twentieth Year of his Age. He was of the highest Degree of middle Stature. His Limbs were put together with great Elegance and no less Strength. His Legs and Thighs were formed in the exactest Proportion. His Shoulders were broad and brawny, but yet his Arms hung so easily, that he had all the Symptoms of Strength without the least clumsiness. His Hair was of a nut-brown Colour, and was displayed in wanton Ringlets down his Back. His Forehead was high, his Eyes dark, and as full of Sweetness as of Fire. His Nose a little inclined to the Roman. His Teeth white and even. His Lips full red, and soft. His Beard was only rough on his Chin and upper Lip; but his Cheeks, in which his Blood glowed, were overspread with a thick Down. His Countenance had a Tenderness joined with a Sensibility inexpressible. Add to this the most perfect Neatness in his Dress, and an Air, which to those who have not seen many Noblemen, would give an Idea of Nobility.
Such was the Person who now appeared before the Lady. She viewed him some time in Silence, and twice or thrice before she spake, changed her Mind as to the manner in which she should begin. At length, she said to him, "Joseph, I am sorry to hear such Complaints against you; I am told you behave so rudely to the Maids, that they cannot do their Business in quiet; I mean those who are not wicked enough to hearken to your Solicitations. As to others, they may not, perhaps call you rude: for there are wicked Sluts who make one ashamed of one's own Sex; and are as ready to admit any nauseous Familiarity as Fellows to offer it; nay, there are such in my Family: but they shall not stay in it; that impudent Trollop, who is with Child by you, is discharged by this time."
As a Person who is struck through the Heart with a Thunderbolt, looks extremely surprised, nay, and perhaps, is so too. —Thus the poor Joseph received the false Accusation of his Mistress; he blushed and looked confounded, which she misinterpreted to be Symptoms of his Guilt, and thus went on.
"Come hither, Joseph: another Mistress might discard you for these Offences; But I have a Compassion for your Youth, if I could be certain you would be no more guilty. And consider, Child, (laying her Hand carelessly upon his) you are a handsome young Fellow, and might do better; you might make your Fortune—." "Madam," said Joseph, "I do assure your Ladyship, I don't know whether any Maid in the House is Man or Woman—". "Oh fie! Joseph," answer'd the Lady, "don't commit another Crime in denying the Truth. I could pardon the first; but I hate a Lyar." "Madam," cries Joseph, "I hope your Ladyship will not be offended at my asserting my Innocence: and by all that is Sacred, I have never offered more than Kissing." "Kissing!" said the Lady, "do you call that no Crime? Kissing, Joseph, is but a Prologue to a Play. Can I believe a young Fellow of your Age and Complexion will be content with Kissing? No, Joseph, there is no Woman who grants that but will grant more, and I am deceived greatly in you, if you would not put her closely to it. What would you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to kiss me?" Joseph reply'd, "He would sooner die than have any such Thought." "And yet, Joseph," returned she, "Ladies have admitted their Footmen to such Familiarities; and Footmen, I confess to you, much less deserving them; Fellows without half your Charms: for such might almost excuse the Crime. Tell me, therefore, Joseph, if I should admit you to such Freedom, what would you think of me?—tell me freely." "Madam," said Joseph, "I should think your Ladyship condescended a great deal below yourself." "Pugh!" said she, "that I am to answer to myself: but would not you insist on more? Would you be contented with a Kiss? Would not your Inclinations be all on fire rather by such a Favour?" "Madam," said Joseph, "if they were, I hope I should be able to control them, without suffering them to get the better of my Virtue." —You have heard, Reader, Poets talk of the Statue of Surprize; you have heard likewise, or else you have heard very little, how Surprize made one of the Sons of Cræsus speak tho' he was dumb. You have seen the Faces, in the Eighteen-penny Gallery, when through the Trap-Door, to soft or no Musick, Mr. Bridgewater, Mr. William Mills, or some other of ghostly Appearance, hath ascended with a Face all pale with Powder, and a Shirt all bloody with Ribbons; but from none of these, nor from Phidias, or Praxiteles, if they should return to Life—no, not from the inimitable Pencil of my Friend Hogarth, could you receive such an Idea of Surprize, as would have entered in at your Eyes, had they beheld the Lady Booby, when those last Words issued out from the Lips of Joseph. —"Your Virtue! (said the Lady recovering after a Silence of two Minutes) I shall never survive it. Your Virtue! Intolerable Confidence! Have you the Assurance to pretend, that when a Lady demeans herself to throw aside the Rules of Decency, in order to honour you with the highest Favour in her Power, your Virtue should resist her Inclination? That when she had conquer'd her own Virtue, she should find an Obstruction in yours?" "Madam," said Joseph "I can't see why her having no Virtue should be a Reason against my having any. Or why, because I am a Man, or because I am poor, my Virtue must be subservient to her Pleasures." "I am out of patience," cries the Lady: "Did ever Mortal hear of a Man's Virtue! Did ever the greatest, or the gravest Men pretend to any of this Kind! Will Magistrates who punish Lewdness, or Parsons, who preach against it, make any scruple of committing it? And can a Boy, a Stripling, have the Confidence to talk of his Virtue?" "Madam," says Joseph, "that Boy is the Brother of Pamela, and would be ashamed, that the Chastity of his Family, which is preserved in her, should be stained in him. If there are such Men as your Ladyship mentions, I am sorry for it, and I wish they had an Opportunity of reading over those Letters, which my Father hath sent me of my Sister Pamela's, nor do I doubt but such an Example would amend them." You impudent Villain, cries the Lady in a Rage, "Do you insult me with the Follies of my Relation, who hath exposed himself all over the Country upon your Sister's account? a little Vixen, whom I have always wondered my late Lady John Booby ever kept in her House. Sirrah! get out of my sight, and prepare to set out this Night, for I will order you your Wages immediately, and you shall be stripped and turned away.—" "Madam," says Joseph, "I am sorry I have offended your Ladyship, I am sure I never intended it." "Yes, Sirrah," cries she, "you have had the Vanity to misconstrue the little innocent Freedom I took in order to try, whether what I had heard was true. O' my Conscience, you have had the Assurance to imagine, I was fond of you myself." Joseph was going to speak, when she refused to hear him, and ordered him instantly to leave the Room.
He was no sooner gone, than she burst forth into the following Exclamation: "Whither doth this violent Passion hurry us? What Meannesses do we submit to from its Impulse? Wisely we resist its first and least Approaches; for it is then only we can assure ourselves the Victory. No Woman could ever safely say, so far only will I go. Have I not exposed myself to the Refusal of my Footman? I cannot bear the Reflection." Upon which she applied herself to the Bell, and rung it with infinite more Violence than was necessary; the faithful Slipslop attending near at hand: To say the truth, she had conceived a Suspicion at her last Interview with her Mistress; and had waited ever since in the Antichamber, having carefully applied her Ears to the Key-Hole during the whole time, that the preceeding Conversation passed between Joseph and the Lady.
What passed between the Lady and Mrs. Slipslop, in which we prophesy there are some Strokes which every one will not truly comprehend at the first Reading.
"Slipslop," said the Lady, "I find too much Reason to believe all thou hast told me of this wicked Joseph; I have determined to part with him instantly; so go you to the Steward, and bid him pay him his Wages." Slipslop, who had preserved hitherto a Distance to her Lady, rather out of Necessity than Inclination, and who thought the Knowledge of this Secret had thrown down all Distinction between them, answered her Mistress very pertly, "She wished she knew her own Mind; and that she was certain she would call her back again, before she was got half way down stairs." The Lady replied, "she had taken a Resolution, and was resolved to keep it." "I am sorry for it," cries Slipslop; "and if I had known you would have punished the poor Lad so severely, you should never have heard a Particle of the Matter. Here's a Fuss indeed, about nothing." "Nothing!" returned my Lady; "Do you think I will countenance Lewdness in my House?" "If you will turn away every Footman," said Slipslop, "that is a lover of the Sport, you must soon open the Coach-Door yourself, or get a Sett of Mophrodites to wait upon you; and I am sure I hated the Sight of them even singing in an Opera." "Do as I bid you," says my Lady, "and don't shock my Ears with with your beastly Language." "Marry-come-up," cries Slipslop, "People's Ears are sometimes the nicest Part about them."
The Lady, who began to admire the new Style in which her Waiting-Gentlewoman delivered herself, and by the Conclusion of her Speech, suspected somewhat of the Truth, called her back, and desired to know what she meant by that extraordinary degree of Freedom which she thought proper to indulge to her Tongue. "Freedom!" says Slipslop, "I don't know what you call Freedom, Madam; Servants have Tongues as well as their Mistresses." "Yes, and saucy ones too," answered the Lady; "but I assure you I shall bear no such Impertinence." "Impertinence! I don't know that I am impertinent," says Slipslop. "Yes indeed you are," cries my Lady; "and unless you mend your Manners, this House is no Place for you." "Manners!" cries Slipslop, "I never was thought to want Manners nor Modesty neither; and for Places, there are more Places than one; and I know what I know." "What do you know, Mistress," answered the Lady? "I am not obliged to tell that to every body," says Slipslop, "any more than I am obliged to keep it a Secret." "I desire you would provide yourself," answered the Lady. "With all my heart," replied the Waiting-Gentlewoman; and so departed in a Passion, and slapped the Door after her.
The Lady too plainly perceived that her Waiting-Gentlewoman knew more than she would willingly have had her acquainted with; and this she imputed to Joseph's having discovered to her what past 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 Court'sies in public Places, and above all, the Pleasure of demolishing the Reputations of others, in which innocent Amusement she had an extraordinary Delight. She therefore determined to submit to any Insult from a Servant, rather than run a 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 turn him out of the House that Evening.
She then called Slipslop up, and after refreshing her Spirits with a small Cordial which she kept in her Closet, she began in the following manner:
"Slipslop, why will you, who know my passionate Temper, attempt to provoke me by your Answers? I am convinced you are an honest Servant, and should be very unwilling to part with you. I believe likewise, you have found me an indulgent Mistress on many Occasions, and have as little Reason on your side to desire a change. I can't help being surprized therefore, that you will take the surest Method to offend me. I mean repeating my Words, which you know I have always detested."
The prudent Waiting-Gentlewoman, had duly weighed the whole Matter, and found on mature Deliberation, that a good Place in Possession was better than one in Expectation; as she found her Mistress therefore inclined to relent, she thought proper also to put on some small Condescension; which was as readily accepted: and so the Affair was reconciled, all Offences forgiven, and a Present of a Gown and Petticoat made her as an Instance of her Lady's future Favour.
She offered once or twice to speak in favour of Joseph: but found her Lady's Heart so obdurate, that she prudently dropt all such Efforts. She considered there were more Footmen in the House, and some as stout Fellows, tho' not quite so handsome as Joseph: besides, the Reader hath already seen her tender Advances had not met with the Encouragement she might have reasonably expected. She thought she had thrown away a great deal of Sack and Sweet-meats on an ungrateful Rascal; and being a little inclined to the Opinion of that female Sect, who hold one lusty young Fellow to be near as good as another lusty young Fellow, she at last gave up Joseph and his Cause, and with a Triumph over her Passion highly commendable, walked off with her Present, and with great Tranquility paid a visit to a Stone-Bottle, which is of sovereign Use to a Philosophical Temper.
She left not her Mistress so easy. The poor Lady could not reflect, without Agony, that her dear Reputation was in the power of her Servants. All her Comfort, as to Joey, was that she hoped he did not understand her Meaning; at least, she could say for herself, she had not plainly express'd any thing to him; and as to Mrs. Slipslop, she imagined she could bribe her to Secrecy.
But what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not so entirely conquered her Passion; the little God lay lurking in her Heart, tho' Anger and Disdain so hoodwinked her, that she could not see him. She was a thousand times on the very Brink of revoking the Sentence she had passed against the poor Youth. Love became his Advocate, and whispered many things in his favour. Honour likewise endeavoured to vindicate his Crime, and Pity to mitigate his Punishment; on the other side, Pride and Revenge spoke as loudly against him: and thus the poor Lady was tortured with Perplexity; opposite Passions distracting and tearing her Mind different ways.
So 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 any thing of the Matter; all Things are so enveloped by the careful Serjeants in Doubts 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 only our present Business to make Similies, we could produce many more to this Purpose: but a Similie (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.
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 apply to an Unwillingless 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 Misfortunes 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 has 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 Examples. Indeed, it is owing entirely to his excellent Sermons and Advice, together with your Letters, that I have been able to resist a Temptation, which he says no Man complies with, but he repents in this World, or is damned for it in the next; and why should I trust to Repentance on my Death-bed, since I may die in my sleep? What fine things are good Advice and good Examples! But I am glad she turned me out of the Chamber as she did: for I had once almost forgotten every word Parson Adams had ever said to me.
I don't doubt, dear Sister, but you will have Grace to preserve your Virtue against all Trials; and I beg you earnestly to pray, I may be enabled to preserve mine: for truly, it is very severely attacked by more than one: but, I hope I shall copy your Example, and that of Joseph, my Name's-sake; and maintain my Virtue against all Temptations."
Joseph had not finished his Letter, when he was summoned down stairs by Mr. Peter Pounce, to receive his Wages: for, besides that out of eight Pounds a Year, he allowed his Father and Mother four, he had been obliged, in order to furnish himself with musical Instruments, to apply to the Generosity of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent Occasions, used to advance the Servants their Wages: not before they were due, but before they were payable; that is, perhaps, half a Year after they were due, and this at the moderate Premiums of fifty per Cent. or a little more; by which charitable Methods, together with lending Money to other People, and even to his own Master and Mistress, the honest Man had, from nothing, in a few Years amassed a small Sum of twenty thousand Pounds or thereabouts.
Joseph having received his little Remainder of Wages, and having stript off his Livery, was forced to borrow a Frock and Breeches of one of the Servants: (for he was so beloved in the Family, that they would all have lent him any thing) and being told by Peter, that he must nor stay a Moment longer in the House, than was necessary to pack up his Linnen, 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 this 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.
Of several new Matters not expected.
It is an Observation sometimes made, to indicate our Idea of a simple Fellow, That 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 (tho' the best of Sons and Brothers) longed more impatiently to see than his Parents or his Sister. She was a poor Girl, who had been formerly bred up in Sir John's Family; whence a little before the Journey to London, she had been discarded by Mrs. Slipslop on account of her extraordinary Beauty: for I never could find any other reason.
This young Creature (who now lived with a Farmer in the Parish) had been always beloved by Joseph, and returned his Affection. She was two Years only younger than our Hero. They had been acquainted from their Infancy, and had conceived a very early liking for each other, which had grown to such a degree of Affection, that Mr. Adams had with much ado prevented them from marrying; and persuaded them to wait, 'till a few Years Service and Thrift had a little improved their Experience, and enabled them to live comfortably together.
They followed this good Man's Advice; as indeed his Word was little less than a Law in his Parish: for as he had shewn his Parishioners by a uniform Behaviour of thirty-five Years duration, that he had their Good entirely at heart; so they consulted him on every Occasion, and very seldom acted contrary to his Opinion.
Nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting between these two Lovers. A thousand Sighs heaved the Bosom of Joseph; a thousand Tears distilled from the lovely Eyes of Fanny, (for that was her Name.) Tho' her Modesty would only suffer her to admit his eager Kisses, her violent Love made her more than passive in his Embraces; and she often pulled him to her Breast with a soft Pressure, which, tho' perhaps it would not have squeezed an Insect to death, caused more Emotion in the Heart of Joseph, than the closest Cornish Hug could have done.
The Reader may perhaps wonder, that so fond a Pair should during a Twelve-month's Absence never converse with one another; indeed there was but one Reason which did, or could have prevented them; and that was, that poor Fanny could neither write nor read, nor could she be prevailed upon to transmit the Delicacies of her tender and chaste Passion, by the Hands of an Amanuensis.
They contented themselves therefore with frequent Enquiries after each other's Health, with a mutual Confidence in each other's Fidelity, and the Prospect of their future Happiness.
Having explained these Matters to our Reader, and, as far as possible, satisfied all his Doubts, we return to honest Joseph, whom we left just set out on his Travels by the Light of the Moon.
Those who have read any Romance or Poetry antient or modern, must have been informed, that Love hath Wings; by which they are not to understand, as some young Ladies by mistake have done, that a Lover can fly: the Writers, by this ingenious Allegory, 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 the 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, tho' his Disposition favours more of the Sweetness of the Lamb. He is a Person well received among all forts of Men, being qualified to render himself agreeable to any; as he is well versed in History and Politicks, hath a smattering in Law and Divinity, cracks a good Jest, and plays wonderfully well on the French Horn.
A violent Storm of Hail forced Joseph to take Shelter in this Inn, where he remembered Sir John had dined in his way to Town. Joseph had no sooner seated himself by the Kitchin-Fire, than Timotheus, observing his Livery began to condole the loss of his late Master; who was, he said, his very particular and intimate Acquaintance, with whom he had cracked many a merry Bottle, aye many a dozen in his Time. He then remarked that all those Things were over now, all past, and just as if they had never been; and concluded with an excellent Observation on the Certainty of Death, which his Wife said was indeed very true. A Fellow now arrived at the same Inn with two Horses, one of which he was leading farther down into the Country to meet his Master; these he put into the Stable, and came and took his Place by Joseph's Side, who immediately knew him to be the Servant of a neighbouring Gentleman, who used to visit at their House.
This Fellow was likewise forced in by the Storm; for he had Orders to go twenty Miles farther that Evening, and luckily on the same Road which Joseph himself intended to take. He therefore embraced this Opportunity of complimenting his Friend with his Master's Horses, (notwithstanding he had received express commands to the contrary) which was readily accepted: and so after they had drank a loving Pot, and the Storm was over, they set out together.
Containing many surprizing Adventures, which Joseph Andrews met with on the Road, scarce credible by those who have never travelled in a Stage-Coach.
Nothing remarkable happened on the Road, 'till their arrival at the Inn, whither the Horses were ordered; where they came about two in the Morning. The Moon then shone very bright, and Joseph making his Friend a present of a Pint of Wine, and thanking him for the favour of his Horse, notwithstanding all Entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his Journey on foot.
He had not gone above two Miles, charmed with the hopes of shortly seeing his beloved Fanny, when he was met by two Fellows in a narrow Lane, and ordered to stand and deliver. He readily gave them all the Money he had, which was somewhat less than two Pounds; and told them he hoped they would be so generous as to return him a few Shillings, to defray his Charges on his way home.
One of the Ruffians answered with an Oath, Yes, we'll give you something presently: but first strip and be d—n'd to you. — Strip, cry'd the other, or I'll blow your Brains to the Devil . Joseph, remembring 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, reply'd, 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! says one of the Robbers, I'll warm you with a Vengeance; and damning his Eyes, snapt a Pistol at his Head: which he had no sooner done, than the other levelled a Blow at him with his Stick, which Joseph, who was expert at Cudgel-playing, caught with his, and returned the Favour so successfully on his Adversary, that he laid him sprawling at his Feet, and at the same Instant received a Blow from behind, with the 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 be-labouring poor Joseph with their Sticks, till they were convinced they had put an end to his miserable Being: They then stript him entirely naked, threw him into a Ditch, and departed with their Booty.
The poor Wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began to recover his Senses as a 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," cry'd the Lady, "A naked Man! Dear Coachman, drive on and leave him." Upon this the Gentlemen got out of the Coach; and Joseph begged them, "to have Mercy upon him: For that he had been robbed, and almost beaten to death." "Robbed," cries an old Gentleman; "Let us make all the haste imaginable, or we shall be robbed too." A young Man, who belonged to the Law answered, "He wished they had past 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 Murther. He therefore thought it adviseable 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 some body 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 remembred very extraordinary Cases in the Books, threatned the Coachman, and bid him deny taking him up at his Peril; for that if he died, he should be indicted for his Murther, and if he lived, and brought an Action against him, he would willingly take a Brief in it." These Words had a sensible Effect on the Coachman, who was well acquainted with the Person who spoke them; and the old Gentleman abovementioned, thinking the naked Man would afford him frequent Opportunities of shewing his Wit to the Lady, offered to join with the Company in giving a Mug of Beer for his Fare; till partly alarmed by the Threats of the one, and partly by the Promises of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with Compassion at the poor Creature's Condition, who stood bleeding and shivering with the Cold, he at length agreed; and Joseph was now advancing to the Coach, where seeing the Lady, who held the Sticks of her Fan before her Eyes, he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, unless he was furnished with sufficient Covering, to prevent giving the least Offence to Decency. So perfectly modest was this young Man; such mighty Effects had the spotless Example of the amiable Pamela, and the excellent Sermons of Mr. Adams wrought upon him.
Though there were several great Coats about the Coach, it was not easy to get over 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 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 Abhorence 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 great Coat, his only Garment, at the same time swearing a great Oath, (for which he was rebuked by the Passengers) "That he would rather ride in his Shirt all his Life, than suffer a Fellow-Creature to lie in so miserable a Condition."
Joseph, having put on the great Coat, was lifted into the Coach, which now proceeded on its Journey. He declared himself almost dead with the Cold, which gave the Man of Wit an occasion to ask the Lady, if she could not accommodate him with a Dram. She answered with some Resentment, "She wondered at his asking her such a Question; but assured him, She never tasted any such thing."
The Lawyer was enquiring into the Circumstances of the Robbery, when the Coach stopt, and one of the Ruffians, putting a Pistol in, demanded their Money of the Passengers; who readily gave it them; and the Lady, in her Fright, delivered up a little silver Bottle, of about a half-pint Size, which, the Rogue clapping it to his Mouth, and drinking her Health, declared held some of the best Nantes he had ever tasted: this the Lady afterwards assured the Company was the Mistake of her Maid, for that she had ordered her to fill the Bottle with Hungary Water.
As soon as the Fellows were departed, the Lawyer, who had, it seems, a Case of Pistols in the Seat of the Coach, informed the Company, that if it had been Day-light, and he could have come at his Pistols, he would not have submitted to the Robbery; he likewise set forth, that he had often met Highwaymen when he travelled on horseback, but none ever durst attack him; concluding, that if he had not been more afraid for the Lady than for himself, he should not have now parted with his Money so easily.
As Wit is generally observed to love to reside in empty Pockets; so the Gentleman, whose Ingenuity we have above remark'd, 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 the 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 Gibbrish, 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-natur'd Wench, and not so squeamish as the Lady had been, she clapt a large Faggot on the Fire, and furnishing Joseph with a great Coat belonging to one of the Hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm himself, whilst she made his Bed. The Coachman, in the mean time, took an Opportunity to call up a Surgeon, who lived within a few Doors: after which, he reminded his Passengers how late they were, and after they had taken Leave of Joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could.
The Wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use her Interest to borrow him a Shirt; but imagined, as she afterwards said, by his being so bloody, that he must be a dead Man: she ran with all speed to hasten the Surgeon, who was more than half drest, apprehending that the Coach had been overturned and some Gentleman or Lady hurt. As soon as the Wench had informed him at his Window, that it was a poor foot Passenger who had been 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, repeat Odes a thousand times sweeter than those of our Laureate, and sing 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 to a poor naked Man, who hath been robbed and murdered." "Touch one, if you dare, you Slut," said Mrs. Tow-wouse, "your Master is a pretty sort of a Man to take in naked Vagabonds, and clothe them with his own Clothes. I shall have no such Doings.— If you offer to touch any thing, I will 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 sett 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 has." "Well then," says she, "where's his Money to pay his Reckoning? Why does not such a Fellow go to an Ale-house? I shall send him packing as soon as I am up, I assure you." "My Dear," said he, "common Charity won't suffer you to do that." "Common 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, had 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 expence." Tow-wouse, (who notwithstanding his Charity, would have given his Vote as freely as he ever did at an Election, that any other House in the Kingdom, should have had quiet Possession of his Guest) answered, "My Dear, I am not to blame: he was brought hither by the Stage-Coach; and Betty had put him to bed before I was stirring." "I'll Betty her," says she— At which, with half her Garments on, the other half under her Arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate Betty, whilst Tow-wouse and the Surgeon went to pay a Visit to poor Joseph, and enquire into the Circumstance of this melancholy Affair.
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 honesty answered, "He feared he was; for that his Pulse was very exalted and feverish, and if his Fever should prove more than Symptomatick, 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 G—'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 a poor little Piece of Gold which they-took away, that would be 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, would Heaven have indulged thee to my Arms, the poorest, humblest State would have been a Paradise; I could have lived with thee in the lowest Cottage, without envying the Palaces, the Dainties, or the Riches of any Man breathing. But I must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest Angel, I must think of another World, and I heartily pray thou may'st meet Comfort in this." —Barnabas thought he had heard enough; so down stairs he went, and told Tow-wouse he could do his Guest no Service: for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a Rhapsody of Nonsense all the time he stayed in the Room.
The Surgeon returned in the Afternoon, and found his Patient in a higher Fever 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 Heartstrings?" Barnabas bid 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 Passion, 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 reply'd, "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 Prayere 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 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 encrease 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.
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 Kitchin, and having called for a Pipe of Tobacco, he took his place by the Fire-side; 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 Ale-houses on the Road proper for their Reception? But she assured him, if he died, the Parish should be at the Expence of the Funeral." She added, "Nothing would serve the Fellow's Turn but Tea, she would assure him." Betty, who was just returned from her charitable Office, answered, she believed he was a Gentleman: for she never saw a finer Skin in her Life. "Pox on his Skin," replied Mrs. Tow-wouse, "I suppose, that is all we are like to have for the Reckoning. I desire no such Gentlemen should ever call at the Dragon;" (which it seems was the Sign of the Inn.)
The Gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of Emotion at the Distress of this poor Creature, whom he observed not to be fallen 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 pecked, and at the upper end of that Skin, which composed her Cheeks, stood two Bones, that almost hid a Pair of small red eyes. Add to this, a Voice most wonderfully adapted to the Sentiments it was to convey, being both loud and hoarse.
It is not easy to say, whether the Gentleman had conceived a greater Dislike for his Landlady, or Compassion for her unhappy Guest. He enquired very earnestly of the Surgeon, who was now come into the Kitchin, "Whether he had any hopes of his Recovery?" he begged him, to use all possible means towards it, telling him, "it was the duty of Men of all Professions, to apply their Skill gratis for the Relief of the Poor and Necessitous." The Surgeon answered, "he should take proper care: but he defied all the Surgeons in London to do him any good." "Pray, Sir," said the Gentleman, "What are his Wounds?" — "Why, do you know any thing of Wounds," says the Surgeon, (winking upon Mrs. Tow-wouse?) "Sir, I have a small smattering in Surgery," answered the Gentleman, "a smattering,—ho, ho, ho!" said the Surgeon, "I believe it is a smattering indeed."
The Company were all attentive, expecting to hear the Doctor, who was what they call a dry Fellow, expose the Gentleman.
He began therefore with an Air of Triumph: "I suppose, Sir, you have travelled." "No really, Sir," said the Gentleman. "Ho! then you have practised in the Hospitals, perhaps." —"No, Sir," "Hum! not that neither?" "Whence, Sir, then, if I may be so bold to enquire, 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 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 Physick as well as Surgery." "Rather better," answered the Gentleman." "Aye, like enough," cries the Doctor, with a wink. "Why, I know a little of Physick 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, tho' I say it, within twelve Miles of the Place, that handle a Fever better. — Veniente occurrite 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." — Efags! the Gentleman has got 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, he 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 divellicated that radical small minute invisible Nerve, which coheres to the Pericranium ; and this was attended with a Fever at first symptomatick, then pneumatick, and is at length grown deliruus, or delirious, as the Vulgar express it."
He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty Noise interrupted him. Some young Fellows in the Neighbourhood had taken one of the Thieves, and were bringing him into the Inn. Betty ran up Stairs with this News to Joseph; who begged they might search for a little piece of broken Gold, which had a Ribband tied on it, and which he could swear to amongst all the Hoards of the richest Man 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 Clothes which had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other things they had taken from him.
The Gentleman no sooner saw the Coat, than he declared he knew the Livery; and that if it had been taken from the poor Creature above stairs, he 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 Kitchin, 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 perversly, began to rail at those who brought the Fellow into her House; telling her Husband, "they were very likely to thrive, who kept a House of entertainment for Beggars and Thieves."
The Mob had now finished their search; and could find nothing about the Captive likely to prove any Evidence: for as to the Clothes, tho' 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