 Book 3 Chapter 6 of Joseph Andrews. Book 3 Chapter 5. Moral Reflections by Joseph Andrews. With the hunting adventure, and, parson Adams, miraculous escape. I have often wondered, sir, said Joseph, to observe so few instances of charity among mankind, for though the goodness of a man's heart did not incline him to relieve the distresses of his fellow creatures, methinks the desire of honor should move him to it. What inspires a man to build fine houses, to purchase fine furniture, pictures, clothes, and other things, at a great expense, but an ambition to be respected more than other people? Now, would not one great act of charity, one instance of redeeming a poor family from all the miseries of poverty, restoring an unfortunate tradesman by a sum of money, to the means of procuring a livelihood by his industry, discharging an undone debtor from his debts or a jail, or any such like example of goodness, create a man more honor and respect than he could acquire by the finest house, furniture, pictures, or clothes that were ever beheld. For not only the object himself, who was thus relieved, but all who heard the name of such a person must, I imagine, reverence him infinitely more than the possessor of all those other things, which, when we so admire, we rather praise the builder, the workman, the painter, the lace maker, the tailor, and the rest, by whose ingenuity they are produced, than the person who, by his money, makes them his own. For my part, when I have waited behind my lady in a room hung with fine pictures, while I have been looking at them, I have never once thought of their owner, nor hath anyone else, as I ever observed. For when it hath been asked whose picture that was, it was never once answered the masters of the house, but Amikoni, Paul Varnish, Hannibal Scratchy, or Hogarthy, which I suppose were the names of the painters, but if it was asked who redeemed such a one out of prison, who lent such a ruined tradesman money to set up, who clothed that family of poor small children, it is very plain what must be the answer. And besides, these great folks are mistaken if they imagine they get any honor at all by these means, for I do not remember I ever was with my lady at any house where she commended the house, or furniture, but I have heard her at her return home make sport and jeer at whatever she had before commended, and I have been told by other gentlemen in livery that it is the same in their families, but I defy the wisest man in the world to turn a true good action into ridicule. I defy him to do it. He who should endeavor it would be laughed at himself instead of making others laugh. Nobody scarfs doth any good, yet they all agree in praising those who do. Indeed it is strange that all men should consent in commending goodness, and no men endeavor to deserve that commendation, whilst, on the contrary, all rail at wickedness, and all are as eager to be what they abuse. This I know not the reason of, but it is as plain as daylight to those who converse in the world as I have done these three years. Are all the great folks wicked, then? says Fanny. To be sure there are some exceptions, answered Joseph. Some gentlemen of our cloth report charitable actions done by their lords and masters, and I have heard Squire Pope, the great poet, at my lady's table tell stories of a man that lived at a place called Ross, and another at the bath, one Al Blank. Al Blank, I forget his name, but it is in the book of verses. This gentleman hath built up a stately house, too, which the Squire likes very well, but his charity is seen farther than his house, though it stands on a hill, I, and brings him more honor, too. It was his charity that put him in the book where the Squire says he puts all those who deserve it, and to be sure, as he lives among all the great people, if there were any such, he would know them. This was all of Mr. Joseph Andrew's speech, which I could get him to recollect, which I have delivered as near as was possible in his own words, with a very small embellishment. But I believe the reader hath not been a little surprised at the long silence of parson Adams, especially as so many occasions offered themselves to exert his curiosity and observation. The truth is he was fast asleep, and had been so from the beginning of the preceding narrative. And indeed, if the reader considers that so many hours had passed since he had closed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repose, though even Henley himself, or as great an orator, if any such be, had been in his rostrum or a tub before him. Joseph, who whilst he was speaking, had continued in one attitude, with his head reclining on one side, and his eyes cast on the ground, no sooner perceived, on looking up, the position of Adams, who was stretched on his back, and snored louder than the usual brain of the animal with long ears. Then he turned towards Fanny, and taking her by the hand began a dalliance, which, though consistent with the purest innocence and decency, neither he would have attempted, nor she permitted before any witness. Whilst they amused themselves in this harmless and delightful manner, they heard a pack of hounds approaching in full cry towards them, and presently afterwards saw a hare pop forth from the wood, and, crossing the water, land within a few yards of them in the meadows. The hare was no sooner on shore than it seated itself on its hinder legs, and listened to the sound of the pursuers. Fanny was wonderfully pleased with the little wretch, and eagerly longed to have it in her arms, that she might preserve it from the dangers which seemed to threaten it, but the rational part of the creation do not always aptly distinguish their friends from their foes. What wonder, then, if this silly creature, the moment it beheld her, fled from the friend who would have protected it, and traversing the meadows again, passed the little rivulet on the opposite side. It was, however, so spent and weak, that it fell down twice or thrice in its way. This affected the tender heart of Fanny, who exclaimed with tears in her eyes against the barbarity of worrying a poor, innocent, defenseless animal out of its life, and putting it to the extremist torture for diversion. She had not much time to take reflections of this kind, for, on a sudden, the hounds rushed through the wood, which resounded with their throats, and the throats of their retinue, who attended on them on horseback. The dogs now passed the rivulet, and pursued the footsteps of the hare. Five horsemen attempted to leap over, three of whom succeeded, and two were in the attempt, thrown from their saddles into the water. Their companions, and their own horses, too, proceeded after their sport, and left their friends and riders to invoke the assistance of fortune, or employ the more active means of strength and agility for their deliverance. Joseph, however, was not so unconcerned on this occasion. He left Fanny for a moment to herself, and ran to the gentlemen who were immediately on their legs, shaking their ears, and easily, with the help of his hand, obtained the bank, for the rivulet was not at all deep, and, without staying to thank their kinder sister, ran gripping across the meadow, calling to their brother sportsmen to stop their horses, but they heard them not. The hounds were now very little behind their poor, reeling, staggering prey, which fainting almost at every step, crawled through the wood, and had almost got round to the place where Fanny stood, when it was overtaken by its enemies, and, being driven out of the covert, was caught, and instantly tore to pieces before Fanny's face, who was unable to assist it with any aid more powerful than pity. Nor could she prevail on Joseph, who had been himself a sportsman in his youth, to attempt anything contrary to the laws of hunting in favor of the hare, which, he said, was killed fairly. The hare was caught within a yard or two of Adams, who lay asleep at some distance from the lovers, and the hounds, in devouring it, and pulling it backwards and forwards, had drawn it so close to him that some of them, by mistake perhaps for the hare's skin, laid hold of the skirts of his hasik, others at the same time applying their teeth to his wig, which he had with a handkerchief fastened to his head, began to pull him about, and had not the motion of his body had more effect on him than seemed to be wrought by the noise, they must certainly have tasted his flesh, which delicious flavor might have been fatal to him. But being roused by these tuggings, he instantly awaked, and, with a jerk delivering his head from his wig, he, with most admirable dexterity, recovered his legs, which now seemed the only members he could entrust his safety to. Having, therefore, escaped likewise from at least a third part of his hasik, which he willingly left as his exuvie, or spoils to the enemy, he fled with the utmost speed he could summon to his assistants. Nor let this be any detraction from the bravery of his character. Let the number of the enemies and the surprise in which he was taken be considered, and if there be any modern, so outrageously brave, that he cannot admit a flight in any circumstance, whatever, I say, but I whisper that softly, and I solemnly declare without any intention of giving offense to any brave man in the nation. I say, or rather I whisper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and hath never read Homer, nor Virgil, nor knows he anything of Hector or Ternus. Nay, he is unacquainted with the history of some great men living, who, though as brave as lions, I, as tigers, have run away, the Lord knows how far, and the Lord knows why, to the surprise of their friends and the entertainment of their enemies. But if persons of such heroic disposition are a little offended at the behavior of Adams, we assure them they shall be as much pleased with what we shall immediately relate of Joseph Andrews. The master of the pack was just arrived, or as the sportsmen call it, come in, when Adams set out, as we have before mentioned. This gentleman was generally said to be a great lover of humor. But not to mince the matter, especially as we are upon this subject, he was a great hunter of men. Indeed, he had hitherto followed the sport only with dogs of his own species, for he kept two or three couple of barking currs for that use only. However, as he thought he had now found a man nimble enough, he was willing to indulge himself with other sport, and, accordingly, crying out, stole away. Encourage the hounds to pursue, Mr. Adams, swearing it was the largest jack-hair he ever saw, at the same time hallowing and hooping, as if a conquered foe was flying before him, in which he was imitated by these two or three couple of human, or rather, two-legged currs on horseback, which we have mentioned before. Now, thou, whoever thou art, whether amuse or by what other name, so ever, thou choosest to be called, who presidest over biography, and haste inspired all the writers of lives in these hour-times, thou who didst infuse such wonderful humor into the pen of immortal gulliver, who hast carefully guided the judgment, whilst thou hast exalted the nervous manly style of thy mallet, thou who hatst no hand in that dedication and preface or the translations which thou wist willingly have struck out of the life of Cicero. Lastly, thou who, without the assistance of the least spice of literature and even against his inclination, hast, in some pages of his book, forced Kali Sibir to write English. Do thou assist me in what I find myself unequal to? Do thou introduce, on the plain, the young, the gay, the brave Joseph Andrews, whilst men shall view him with admiration and envy, tender virgins with love and anxious concern for his safety. No sooner did Joseph Andrews perceive the distress of his friend, when first the quick-senting dogs attacked him, then he grasped his cudgel in his right hand, a cudgel which his father had of his grandfather, to whom a mighty strong man of Kent had given it for a present in that day, when he broke three heads on the stage. It was a cudgel of mighty strength and wonderful art, made by one of Mr. Durd's best workmen, whom no other artificer can equal, and who hath made all those sticks, which the bows have lately walked with, about the park in a morning. But this was far his masterpiece. On its head was engraved a nose and chin, which might have been mistaken for a pair of nutcrackers. The learned have imagined it designed to represent the gorgon. But it was in fact copied from the face of a certain long English baronet of infinite wit, humor, and gravity. He did intend to have engraved here many histories, as the first night of Captain B. Blank's play, where you would have seen critics in embroidery transplanted from the boxes to the pit, whose ancient inhabitants were exalted to the galleries, where they played on catcalls. He did intend to have painted an auction room, where Mr. Cock would have appeared aloft in his pulpit, trumpeting forth the praises of a china basin, and with astonishment, wondering that nobody bids more for that fine that superb. He did intend to have engraved many other things, but was forced to leave all out for want of room. No sooner had Joseph grasped his cudgel in his hand, than lightning darted from his eyes, and the heroic youth, swift of foot, ran with the utmost speed to his friend's assistance. He overtook him just as Rockwood had laid hold of the skirt of his cassock, which, being torn, hung to the ground. Reader, we would make a simile on this occasion, but for two reasons. The first is, it would interrupt the description, which should be rapid in this part, but that doth not weigh much, many precedents occurring for such an interruption. The second and much the greater reason is that we could find no simile adequate to our purpose. For indeed, what instance could we bring to set before our reader's eyes at once the idea of friendship, courage, youth, beauty, strength, and swiftness, all which blazed in the person of Joseph Andrews. Let those, therefore, that describe lions and tigers and heroes fiercer than both, raise their poems or plays with the simile of Joseph Andrews, who is himself above the reach of any simile. Now Rockwood had laid fast hold on the parson's skirts and stopped his flight, which Joseph no sooner perceived than he leveled his cudgel at his head and laid him sprawling. Jowler and Ringwood then fell on his great coat, and had, undoubtedly, brought him back to the ground, had not Joseph, collecting all his force, given Jowler such a wrap on the back that, quitting his hold, he ran howling over the plane. A harder fate remained for thee, O Ringwood, Ringwood, the best hound that ever pursued a hare, who never threw his tongue but where the scent was undoubtedly true, good at trailing and sure in a highway, no babbler, no overrunner, respected by the whole pack, who, whenever he opened, knew the game was at hand. He fell by the stroke of Joseph. Thunder and plunder and wonder and blunder were the next victims of his wrath, and measured their lengths on the ground. Then Fair Maid, a bitch which Mr. John Temple had bred up in his house and fed at his own table, and lately sent the squire fifty miles for a present, ran fiercely at Joseph and bit him on the leg. No dog was ever fiercer than she, being descended from an Amazonian breed, and had worried bulls in her own country, but now waged an unequal fight, and had shared the fate of those we have mentioned before, had not Diana, the reader may believe it, or not if he pleases, in that instant, interposed and in the shape of the huntsman, snatched her favorite up in her arms. The parson now faced about, and with his crab stick, felled many to the earth, and scattered others, till he was attacked by Caesar and pulled to the ground. Then Joseph flew to his rescue, and with such might fell on the victor, that, oh, eternal blot to his name, Caesar ran yelping away. The battle now raged with the most dreadful violence, when Lowe, the huntsman, a man of years and dignity, lifted his voice and called his hounds from the fight, telling them, in a language they understood, that it was in vain to contend longer, for that fate had decreed the victory to their enemies. Thus far the muse hath, with her usual dignity, related this prodigious battle, a battle we apprehend never equaled by any poet, romance, or life-writer, whatever, and having brought it to a conclusion, she ceased. We shall therefore proceed in our ordinary style with the continuation of this history. The squire and his companions, whom the figure of Adams and the gallantry of Joseph had at first thrown into a violent fit of laughter, and who had hitherto beheld the engagement with more delight than any chase, shooting match, race, cock-fighting, bull, or bear-baiting, had ever given them, began now to apprehend the danger of their hounds, many of which lay sprawling in the fields. The squire, therefore, having first called his friends about him as guards for safety to his person, rode manfully up to the combatants, and summoning all the terror he was master of into his countenance, demanded, with an authoritative voice, of Joseph what he meant by assaulting his dogs in that manner. Joseph answered with great intrepidity that they had first fallen on his friend, and if they had belonged to the greatest man in the kingdom, he would have treated them in the same way. For wouts his veins contained a single drop of blood he would not stand idle by and see that gentleman pointing to Adams abused either by man or beast, and having so said, both he and Adams brandished their wooden weapons, and put themselves into such a posture that the squire and his company thought proper to preponderate before they offered to revenge the cause of their forefooted allies. At this instant, Fanny, whom the apprehension of Joseph's danger had alarmed so much that forgetting her own, she had made the utmost expedition, came up. The squire and all the horsemen were so surprised with her beauty that they immediately fixed both their eyes and thoughts solely on her. Everyone declaring he had never seen so charming a creature. Neither mirth nor anger engaged them a moment longer, but all sat in silent amaze. The huntsman only was free from her attraction, who was busy in cutting the ears of the dogs and endeavoring to recover them to life, in which he succeeded so well that only two of no great note remained slaughtered on the field of action. Upon this the huntsman declared, twas well it was no worse. For his part he could not blame the gentleman and wondered his master would encourage the dogs to hunt Christians, that it was the surest way to spoil them, to make them follow vermin instead of sticking to a hare. The squire, being informed of the little mischief that had been done, and perhaps having more respect of another kind in his head, accosted Mr. Adams with a more favorable aspect than before. He told him he was sorry for what had happened, that he had endeavored all he could to prevent it the moment he was acquainted with his cloth, and greatly commended the courage of his servant, for so he imagined Joseph to be. He then invited Mr. Adams to dinner, and desired the young woman might come with him. Adams refused a long while, but the invitation was repeated with so much earnestness and courtesy that at length he was forced to accept it. His wig and hat and other spoils of the field, being gathered together by Joseph, for otherwise probably they would have been forgotten, he put himself into the best order he could, and then the horse and foot moved forward in the same pace towards the squire's house, which stood at very little distance. Whilst they were on the road, the lovely Fanny attracted the eyes of all. They endeavored to outvi one another in encomiums on her beauty, which the reader will pardon my not relating, as they had not anything new or uncommon in them. So must he likewise my not setting down the many curious jests which were made on Adams, some of them declaring that parson hunting was the best sport in the world, others commending his standing at bay, which they said he had done as well as any badger, with such like merriment, which though it would ill become the dignity of this history, afforded much laughter and diversion to the squire and his facetious companions. End of Book 3, Chapter 6, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for Librebox. Book 3, Chapter 7 and 8 of Joseph Andrews. This Librebox recording is in the public domain. Read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding. Book 3, Chapter 7, a scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste and times. They arrived at the squire's house just as his dinner was ready. A little dispute arose on the account of Fanny, whom the squire, who was a bachelor, was desirous to place at his own table, but she would not consent, nor would Mr. Adams permit her to be parted from Joseph, so that she was at length with him, consigned over to the kitchen, where the servants were ordered to make him drunk, a favor which was likewise intended for Adams, which, designed being executed, the squire thought he should easily accomplish what he had when he first saw her, intended to perpetrate with Fanny. It may not be improper, before we proceed further, to open a little the character of this gentleman, and that of his friends. The master of this house, then, was a man of a very considerable fortune, a bachelor, as we have said, and about 40 years of age. He had been educated, if we may use the expression, in the country, and at his own home under the care of his mother, and a tutor, who had orders never to correct him, nor to compel him to learn more than he liked, which it seems was very little, and that only in his childhood, for from the age of 15, he addicted himself entirely to hunting and other rural amusements, for which his mother took care to equip him with horses, hounds, and all other necessaries, and his tutor, endeavoring to ingratiate himself with his young pupil, who would, he knew, be able handsomely to provide for him, became his companion. Not only at these exercises, but likewise over a bottle, which the young squire had a very early relish for. At the age of 20 his mother began to think she had not fulfilled the duty of a parent. She therefore resolved to persuade her son, if possible, to that which she imagined would well supply all that he might have learned at a public school or university. This is what they commonly call traveling, which with the help of the tutor, who was fixed on to attend him, she easily succeeded in. He made, in three years, the tour of Europe, as they term it, and returned home, well furnished with French clothes, phrases, and servants, with a hearty contempt for his own country, especially what had any savor of the plain spirit and honesty of our ancestors. His mother greatly applauded herself at his return. And now, being master of his own fortune, he soon procured himself a seat in parliament, and was, in the common opinion, one of the finest gentlemen of his age. But what distinguished him chiefly was a strange delight, which he took in everything, which is ridiculous, odious, and absurd in his own species, so that he never chose a companion without one or more of these ingredients, and those who were marked by nature in the most imminent degree with them were most his favorites. If he ever found a man who either had not, or endeavored to conceal these imperfections, he took great pleasure in inventing methods of forcing him into absurdities which were not natural to him, or in drawing forth and exposing those that were, for which purpose he was always provided with a set of fellows, whom we have before called Curse, and who did, indeed, no great honor to the canine kind. Their business was to hunt out and display everything that had any savor of the above mentioned qualities, and especially in the gravest and best characters, but if they failed in their search, they were to turn even virtue and wisdom themselves into ridicule for the diversion of their master and feeder. The gentlemen of Curlike disposition, who were now at his house, and whom he had brought with him from London, were an old half-pay officer, a player, a dull poet, a quack doctor, a scraping fiddler, and a lame German dancing master. As soon as dinner was served, while Mr. Adams was saying grace, the captain conveyed his chair from behind him, so that when he endeavored to seat himself, he fell down on the ground, and this completed joke the first, to the great entertainment of the whole company. The second joke was performed by the poet, who sat next to him on the other side, and took an opportunity, while poor Adams was respectfully drinking to the master of the house, to overturn a plate of soup into his breeches, which, with the many apologies he made, and the parson's gentle answers, caused much mirth in the company. Joke the third was served up by one of the waiting men, who had been ordered to convey a quantity of gin into Mr. Adams' ale, which he, declaring to be the best liquor he ever drank, but rather too rich of the malt, contributed again to their laughter. Mr. Adams, from whom we had most of this relation, could not recollect all the jests of this kind practice on him, which the inoffensive disposition of his own heart made him slow in discovering, and indeed had it not been for the information which we received from a servant of the family, this part of our history, which we take to be none of the least curious, must have been deplorably imperfect, though we must own it probable that some more jokes were, as they call it, cracked during their dinner, but we have by no means been able to come at the knowledge of them. When the dinner was removed, the poet began to repeat some verses, which, he said, were made extempore, the following is a copy of them, procured with the greatest difficulty. An extempore poem on Parson Adams. Did ever mortal such a Parson view? His cassock old, his wig not over new? Well, might the hounds have him for fox mistaken? In smell, more like to that than rusty bacon. Footnote. All hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will hunt a piece of rusty bacon trailed on the ground. End of footnote. But would it not make any mortal stare to see this Parson taken for a hair? Could Phoebus air thus grossly even he, for a good player, might have taken thee? At which words, the bard whipped off the player's wig, and received the approbation of the company, rather perhaps for the dexterity of his hand than his head. The player, instead of retorting the jest on the poet, began to display his talents on the same subject. He repeated many scraps of wit out of plays, reflecting on the whole body of the clergy which were received with great acclamations by all present. It was now the dancing master's turn to exhibit his talents. He, therefore, addressing himself to Adams in broken English, told him, he was a man very well made for the dance, and he supposed by his walk that he had learned of some great master. He said, it was very pretty quality in a clergyman to dance, and concluded with desiring him to dance a minuet, telling him his cassock would serve for petticoats, and that he would himself be his partner. At which words, without waiting for an answer, he pulled out his gloves, and the fiddler was preparing his fiddle. The company all offered the dancing master wagers that the Parson outdanced him, which he refused, saying, he believed so too, for he had never seen any man in his life who looked to dance so well as the gentleman. He then stepped forwards to take Adams by the hand, which the latter hastily withdrew, and at the same time clenching his fist advised him not to carry the jest too far, for he would not endure being put upon. The dancing master no sooner saw the fist than he prudently retired out of its reach, and stood aloof, mimicking Adams, whose eyes were fixed on him, not guessing what he was at, but to avoid his laying hold on him, which he had once attempted. In the meanwhile the captain, perceiving an opportunity, pinned a cracker, or devil, to the cassock, and then lighted it with their little smoking candle. Adams, being a stranger to this sport, and believing he had been blown up in reality, started from his chair, and jumped about the room to the infinite joy of the beholders, who declared he was the best dancer in the universe. As soon as the devil had done tormenting him, and he had a little recovered his confusion, he returned to the table, standing up in the posture of one who intended to make a speech. They all cried out, hear him, hear him! And he spoke in the following manner. Sir, I am sorry to see one to whom Providence hath been so bountiful in bestowing his favors, make so ill and ungrateful a return for them. For though you have not insulted me yourself, it is visible you have delighted in those that do it, nor have once discouraged the many rudenesses which have been shown towards me. Indeed, towards yourself, if you rightly understood them, for I am your guest, and by the laws of hospitality entitled to your protection. One gentleman had thought proper to produce some poetry upon me, of which I shall only say that I had rather be the subject than the composer. He hath pleased to treat me with disrespect as a person. I apprehend my order is not the subject of scorn, nor that I can become so, unless by being a disgrace to it, which I hope poverty will never be called. Another gentleman indeed hath repeated some sentences where the order itself is mentioned with contempt. He says they are taken from plays. I am sure such plays are a scandal to the government which permits them, and cursed will be the nation when they are represented. How others have treated me, I need not observe. They themselves, when they reflect, must allow the behavior to be as improper to my years as to my cloth. You found me, sir, traveling with two of my parishioners. I omit your hounds, falling on me, for I have quite forgiven it, whether it proceeded from the wantonness or negligence of the huntsman. My appearance might very well persuade you that your invitation was an act of charity, though in reality we were well provided. Yes, sir, if we had had an hundred miles to travel, we had sufficient to bear our expenses in a noble manner, at which words he produced the half-genny which was found in the basket. I do not show you this out of ostentation of riches, but to convince you I speak truth. Your seating me at your table was an honor which I did not ambitiously effect. When I was here I endeavored to behave towards you, with the utmost respect, if I have failed it was not with design, nor could I, certainly, so far be guilty as to deserve the insults I have suffered. If they were meant, therefore, either to my order or my poverty, and you see I am not very poor, the shame doth not lie at my door. And I heartily pray that the sin may be averted from yours. He thus finished, and received a general clap from the whole company. Then the gentleman of the house told him he was very sorry for what had happened that he could not accuse him of any share in it, that the verses were, as himself had well observed, so bad that he might easily answer them, and for the serpent it was undoubtedly a very great affront done him by the dancing master, for which, if he well thrashed him, as he deserved, he should be very much pleased to see it, in which probably he spoke truth. Adams answered, whoever had done it it was not his profession to punish him that way, for the person whom he had accused, I am a witness, says he, of his innocence, for I had my eye on him all the while. Whoever he was, God forgive him, and bestow on him a little more sense, as well as humanity. The captain answered with a surly look and accent, that he hoped he did not mean to reflect upon him. D blank in him, he had as much humanity as another, and if any man said he had not, he would convince him of his mistake by cutting his throat. Adams, smiling, said, he believed he had spoke right by accident, to which the captain returned, what do you mean by my speaking right? If you was not a person, I would not take these words, but your gown protects you. If any man who wears a sword had said so much, I had pulled him by the nose before this. Adams replied, if he attempted any rudeness to his person, he would not find any protection for himself in his gown, and clenching his fist, declared he had thrashed many a stouter man. The gentleman did all he could to encourage this warlike disposition in Adams, and was in hopes to have it produced a battle, but he was disappointed, for the captain made no other answer than, it is very well you are a person. And so drinking off a bumper to Old Mother Church ended the dispute. Then the doctor, who had hitherto been silent, and who was the gravest, but most mischievous, dog of all, in a very pompous speech highly applauded what Adams had said, and as much discommended the behavior to him. He proceeded to encomiums on the church and poverty, and lastly recommended forgiveness of what had passed to Adams, who immediately answered that everything was forgiven, and in the warmth of his goodness, he filled a bumper of strong beer, a liquor he preferred to wine, and drank a health to the whole company, shaking the captain and the poet heartily by the hand, and addressing himself with great respect to the doctor, who indeed had not left outwardly at anything that passed, as he had a perfect command of his muscles, and could laugh inwardly without betraying the least symptoms in his countenance. The doctor now began a second formal speech, in which he declaimed against all levity of conversation, and what is usually called mirth. He said, There were amusements fitted for persons of all ages and degrees, from the rattle to the discussing a point of philosophy, and that men discovered themselves in nothing more than in the choice of their instruments. For, says he, as it must greatly, raise our expectation of the future conduct in life of boys, whom in their tender years we perceive, instead of ta, or balls, or other childish playthings, to choose at their leisure hours to exercise their genius in contentions of wit, learning, and such like. So must it inspire one with equal contempt of a man, if he should discover him playing at ta, or other childish play. Adams highly commended the doctor's opinion, and said he had often wondered at some passages in ancient authors, where Scipio, Leelius, and other great men were represented to have passed many hours in amusements of the most trifling kind. The doctor replied, he had by him an old Creek manuscript where a favorite diversion of Socrates was recorded. I, says the parson, eagerly, I should be most infinitely obliged to you for the favor of perusing it. The doctor promised to send it him, and father said that he believed he could describe it. I think, says he, as near as I can remember it was this, there was a throne erected on one side of which sat a king, and on the other a queen, with their guards and attendants ranged on both sides. To them was introduced an ambassador, which part Socrates always used to perform himself, and when he was led up to the footsteps of the throne, he addressed himself to the monarchs in some grave speech, full of virtue, and goodness, and morality, and such like, after which he was seated between the king and queen, and royally entertained. This, I think, was the chief part. Perhaps I may have forgotten some particulars, for it is long since I read it. Adam said, It was indeed a diversion worthy the relaxation of So great a man, and thought something resembling it should be instituted among our great men, instead of cards and other idle pastime, in which, he was informed, they trifled away too much of their lives. He added, The Christian religion was a nobler subject for these speeches than any Socrates could have invented. The gentleman of the house approved what Mr. Adam said, and declared he was resolved to perform this ceremony this very evening, to which the doctor objected, as no one was prepared with the speech. Unless, said he, turning to Adam's with a gravity of countenance, which would have deceived a more knowing man, you have a sermon about you, doctor. Sir, said Adam's, I never travel without one, for fear of what may happen. He was easily prevailed on by his worthy friend, as he now called the doctor, to undertake the part of the ambassador, so that the gentleman sent immediate orders to have the throne erected, which was performed before they had drank two bottles, and perhaps the reader will hereafter have no great reason to admire the nimbleness of the servants. Indeed, to confess the truth, the throne was no more than this. There was a great tub of water provided, on each side of which were placed two stools, raised higher than the surface of the tub, and over the hole was laid a blanket. On these stools were placed the king and queen, namely the master of the house and the captain. And now the ambassador was introduced between the poet and the doctor, who, having read his sermon to the great entertainment of all present, was led up to his place and seated between their majesties. They immediately rose up when the blanket, wanting its supports at either end, gave way, and sourced Adams overhead and ears in the water. The captain made his escape, but, unluckily, the gentleman himself, not being as nimble as he thought, Adams caught hold of him before he descended from his throne, and pulled him in with him to the entire secret satisfaction of all the company. Adams, after ducking the squire, twice, or thrice, leapt out of the tub and looked sharp for the doctor, whom he would certainly have conveyed to the same place of honor, but he had wisely withdrawn. He then searched for his crab-stick, and having found that, as well as his fellow travelers, he declared he would not stay a moment longer in such a house. He then departed, without taking leave of his host, whom he had exacted a more severe revenge on than he intended. For, as he did not use sufficient care to dry himself in time, he caught a cold by the accident which threw him into a fever that had like to have cost him his life, Chapter 8, which some readers will think too short, and others too long. Adams and Joseph, who was no less enraged than his friend at the treatment he met with, went out with their sticks in their hands, and carried off Fanny, notwithstanding the opposition of the servants, who did all, without proceeding to violence, in their power to detain them. They walked as fast as they could, not so much from any apprehension of being pursued, as that Mr. Adams might, by exercise, prevent any harm from the water. The gentleman, who had given such orders to his servants concerning Fanny, that he did not in the least fear her getting away, no sooner heard that she was gone, then he began to rave, and immediately dispatched several, with orders either to bring her back or never return. The poet, the player, and all but the dancing master and doctor, went on this errand. The night was very dark in which our friends began their journey. However, they made such expedition that they soon arrived at an inn, which was at seven miles distance. Here they unanimously consented to pass the evening, Mr. Adams being now as dry as he was before he had set out on his embassy. This inn, which indeed we might call an ale house, had not the words the new inn, been writ on the sign, afforded them no better provision than bread and cheese and ale, on which, however, they made a very comfortable meal, for hunger is better than a French cook. They had no sooner subbed than Adams, returning thanks to the Almighty for his food, declared he had eat his homely commons with much greater satisfaction than his splendid dinner, and expressed great contempt for the folly of mankind, who sacrificed their hopes of heaven to the acquisition of vast wealth, since so much comfort was to be found in the humblest state and the lowest provision. Very true, sir, says a grave man who sat smoking his pipe by the fire, and who was a traveler as well as himself. I have often been as much surprised as you are, when I consider the value which mankind in general set on riches, since every day's experience shows us how little is in their power. For what indeed truly desirable can they bestow on us? Can they give beauty to the deformed, strength to the weak, or health to the infirm? Surely, if they could, we should not see so many ill-favored faces haunting the assemblies of the great, nor would such numbers of feeble wretches languish in their coaches and palaces. No, not the wealth of a kingdom can purchase any paint to dress pale ugliness in the bloom of that young maiden, nor any drugs to equip disease with the vigor of that young man. Do not riches bring us to solicitude instead of rest, envy instead of affection, and danger instead of safety? Can they prolong their own possession, or lengthen his days, who enjoys them? So far otherwise, that the sloth, the luxury, the care which attend them, shorten the lives of millions, and bring them with pain and misery to an untimely grave. Where, then, is there value if they can neither embellish nor strengthen our forms, sweeten nor prolong our lives? Again, can they adorn the mind more than the body? Do they not rather swell the heart with vanity, puff up the cheeks with pride, shut our ears to every call of virtue and our bowels to every motive of compassion? Give me your hand, brother, said Adams in a rapture, for I suppose you are a clergyman. No, truly, answered the other. Indeed, he was a priest of the Church of Rome, but those who understand our laws will not wonder he was not over-ready to own it. Whatever you are, cries Adams, you have spoken my sentiments. I believe I have preached every syllable of your speech twenty times over, for Ed Hath always appeared to me easier for a cable rope, which, by the way, is the true rendering of that word we have translated camel, to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven. That, sir, said the other, will be easily granted you by divines, and is deplorably true. But as the prospect of our good at a distance doth not so forcibly affect us, it might be of some service to mankind to be made thoroughly sensible, which I think they might be with very little serious attention, that even the blessings of this world are not to be purchased with riches. A doctrine, in my opinion, not only metaphysically, but, if I may say so, mathematically demonstrable, and which I have been always so perfectly convinced of, that I have a contempt for nothing so much as for gold. Adams now began a long discourse, but as most which he said occurs among many authors who have treated this subject, I shall omit inserting it. During its continuance, Joseph and Fanny retired to rest, and the host likewise left the room. When the English parson had concluded, the Romish resumed the discourse which he continued with great bitterness and invective, and at last ended by desiring Adams to lend him eighteen pence to pay his reckoning, promising if he never paid him he might be assured of his prayers. The good man answered that eighteen pence would be too little to carry him any very long journey, that he had half a guinea in his pocket which he would divide with him. He then fell to searching his pockets, but could find no money, for indeed the company with whom he dined had passed one jest upon him which we did not then enumerate, and had picked his pocket of all that treasure which he had so ostentatiously produced. Bless me! cried Adams, I have certainly lost it. I can never have spent it. Sir, as I am a Christian, I had a whole half guinea in my pocket this morning, and have not now a single hay-penny of it left. Sure the devil must have taken it from me. Sir, answered the priest, smiling, you need make no excuses. If you are not willing to lend me the money, I am contented. Sir, cries Adams, if I had the greatest sum in the world, I, if I had ten pounds about me, I would bestow it all to rescue any Christian from distress. I am more vexed at my loss on your account than my own. Was ever anything so unlucky? Because I have no money in my pocket, I shall be suspected to be no Christian. I am more unlucky, quoth the other. If you are as generous as you say, for really a crown would have made me happy, and conveyed me in plenty to the place I am going, which is not above twenty miles off, and where I can arrive by tomorrow night, I assure you I am not accustomed to travel penniless. I am but just arrived in England, and we were forced by a storm in our passage to throw all we had overboard. I don't suspect, but this fellow will take my word for the trifle I owe him. But I hate to appear so mean as to confess myself without a shilling to such people. For these, and indeed too many others, know little difference in their estimation between a beggar and a thief. However, he thought he should deal better with the host that evening than the next morning. He therefore resolved to set out immediately, notwithstanding the darkness. And, accordingly, as soon as the host returned, he communicated to him the situation of his affairs, upon which the host, scratching his head, answered, Why, I do not know, Master, if it be so, and you have no money, I must trust, I think, though I had rather always have ready money if I could. But, Mary, you look, like so honest, a gentleman, that I don't fear you're paying me if it was twenty times as much. The priest made no reply, but taking leave of him and Adams as fast as he could, not without confusion, and perhaps with some distrust of Adams' sincerity, departed. He was no sooner gone than the host fell, shaking his head, and declared, If he had suspected the fellow had no money, he would not have drawn him a single drop of drink, saying he'd spared of ever seeing him again, for that he looked like a confounded rogue. Rabbit, the fellow cries he, I thought by his talking so much about riches, that he had a hundred pounds, at least, in his pocket. Adams chid him for his suspicions, which he said were not becoming a Christian, and then, without reflecting on his loss, or considering how he himself should depart in the morning, he retired to a very homely bed, as his companions had before. However, health and fatigue gave them a sweeter repose than is often in the power of velvet and down to bestow. End of book 3, chapters 7 and 8, read by Dennis Sayers in Bedesto, California, for LibriVox. Chapters 9 and 10 of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding. Chapter 9. Containing as surprising and bloody adventures as can be found in this, or perhaps any other authentic history. It was almost morning when Joseph Andrews, whose eyes, the thoughts of his dear fanny, had opened, as he lay fondly meditating on that lovely creature, heard a violent knocking at the door over which he lay. He presently jumped out of bed, and opening the window was asked if there were no travelers in the house, and presently, by another voice, if two men and a woman had not taken up their lodging that night. Though he knew not the voices, he began to entertain a suspicion of the truth, for indeed he had received some information from one of the servants of the Squire's house of his design, and answered in the negative. One of the servants, who knew the host well, called out to him by his name, just as he had opened another window, and asked him the same question, to which he answered in the affirmative. Oh-ho! said another. Have we found you? And ordered the host to come down and open his door. Fanny, who was as waitful as Joseph, no sooner heard all this than she leaped from her bed, and hastily, putting on her gown and her petticoats, ran as fast as possible to Joseph's room, who then was almost dressed. He immediately let her in, and embracing her with the most passionate tenderness, bid her fear nothing, for he would die in her defense. Is that a reason why I should not fear, says she, when I would lose what is dearer to me than the whole world? Joseph, then kissing her hand, said, he could almost thank the occasion which had extorted from her a tenderness she would never indulge him with before. He then ran and wait his bedfellow, Adams, who was yet fast asleep, notwithstanding many calls from Joseph, but he was no sooner made sensible of their danger, than he leaped from his bed, without considering the presence of Fanny, who hastily turned her face from him, and enjoyed a double benefit from the dark, which, as it would have prevented any offense to an innocence less pure, or a modesty less delicate, so it concealed even those plushes which were raised in her. Adams had soon put on all his clothes, but his britches, which in the hurry he forgot. However, they were pretty well supplied by the length of his other garments, and now the house door being opened, the captain, the poet, the player, and three servants came in. The captain told the host that two fellows who were in his house had run away with a young woman, and desired to know in which room she lay. The host, who presently believed the story, directed them, and instantly the captain and poet, jostling one another, ran up. The poet, who was the nimblest, entering the chamber first, searched the bed, and every other part but to no purpose. The bird was flown, as the impatient reader, who might otherwise have been in pain for her, was before advertised. They then inquired where the men lay, and were approaching the chamber when Joseph roared out, in a loud voice, that he would shoot the first man who offered to attack the door. The captain inquired what firearms they had, to which the host answered he believed they had none. Nay, he was almost convinced of it, for he had heard one ask the other in the evening what they should have done, if they had been overtaken, when they had no arms. To which the other answered they would have defended themselves with their sticks, as long as they were able, and God would assist a just cause. This satisfied the captain, but not the poet, who prudently retreated downstairs, saying it was his business to record great actions, and not to do them. The captain was no sooner well satisfied that there were no firearms, than bidding defiance to gunpowder, and swearing he loved the smell of it. He ordered the servants to follow him, and marching boldly up, immediately attempted to force the door, which the servants soon helped him to accomplish. When it was opened, they discovered the enemy drawn up three deep, Adams in the front and Fanny in the rear. The captain told Adams that if they would go all back to the house again, they should be civilly treated, but unless they consented he had orders to carry the young lady with him, whom there was great reason to believe they had stolen from her parents, for notwithstanding her disguise, her error, which she could not conceal, sufficiently discovered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs. Fanny, bursting into tears, solemnly assured him he was mistaken that she was a poor, helpless, foundling, and had no relation in the world which she knew of, and throwing herself on her knees begged that he would not attempt to take her from her friends, whom she was convinced would die before they would lose her, which Adams confirmed with words not far from amounting to an oath. The captain swore he had no leisure to talk, and bidding them thank themselves for what happened. He ordered the servants to fall on, at the same time endeavoring to pass by Adams in order to lay hold on Fanny, but the parson, interrupting him, received a blow from one of them, which, without considering whence it came, he returned to the captain, and gave him so dexterous a knock in that part of the stomach, which is vulgarly called the pit, that he staggered some paces backwards. The captain, who was not accustomed to this kind of play, and who wisely apprehended the consequence of such another blow, two of them seeming to him, equal to a thrust through the body, drew forth his hangar, as Adams approached him, and was leveling a blow at his head, which would probably have silenced the preacher for ever. Had not Joseph in that instant lifted up a certain huge stone pot of the chamber with one hand, which six bows could not have lifted with both, and discharged it, together with the contents, full in the captain's face. The uplifted hangar dropped from his hand, and he fell prostrated on the floor with a lumpish noise, and his haypence rattled in his bucket. The red liquor, which his veins contained, and the white liquor which the pot contained, ran in one stream down his face and his clothes. Nor had Adams quite escaped. Some of the water having in its passage shed its honors on his head, and began to trickle down the wrinkles, or rather furrows, of his cheeks, when one of the servants snatching a mop out of a pail of water, which had already done its duty in washing the house, pushed it in the parson's face. Yet could not he bear him down, for the parson, resting the mop from the fellow with one hand, with the other, brought his enemy as low as the earth, having given him a stroke over that part of the face where, in some men of pleasure, the natural and artificial noses are conjoined. Hitherto, fortune seemed to incline the victory on the traveler's side, when, according to her custom, she began to show the fickleness of her disposition. For now, the host, entering the field, or rather chamber of battle, flew directly at Joseph, and darting his head into his stomach, for he was a stout fellow, and an expert boxer, almost staggered him. But Joseph, stepping one leg back, did with his left hand, so chuck him under the chin that he reeled. The youth was pursuing his blow with his right hand, when he received from one of the servants such a stroke with a cudgel on his temples, that it instantly deprived him of sense, and he measured his length on the ground. Fanny rent the air with her cries, and Adams was coming to the assistance of Joseph, but the two serving men and the host now fell on him, and soon subdued him, though he fought like a madman, and looked so black with the impressions he had received from the mop that Don Quixote would certainly have taken him for an enchanted moor. But now follows the most tragical part, for the captain was risen again, and seeing Joseph on the floor, and Adams secured, he instantly laid hold on Fanny, and with the assistance of the poet and player, who hearing the battle was over, were now come up, dragged her, crying and tearing her hair from the sight of her Joseph, and with the perfect deafness to all her entreaties, carried her downstairs by violence, and fastened her on the player's horse, and the captain, mounting his own, and leading that, on which this poor miserable wretch was, departed, without any more consideration of her cries, than a butcher hath of those of a lamb. For indeed his thoughts were entertained only with the degree of favor, which he promised himself from the squire on the success of this adventure. The servants, who were ordered to secure Adams and Joseph as safe as possible, that the squire might receive no interruption to his design on poor Fanny, immediately, by the poet's advice, tied Adams to one of the bedposts, as they did Joseph on the other side, as soon as they could bring him to himself, and then, leaving them together, back to back, desiring the host not to set them at liberty, nor to go near them, till he had further orders, they departed towards their master, but happened to take a different road from that which the captain had fallen into. Chapter 10. A discourse between the poet and the player, of no other use in this history, but to divert the reader. Before we proceed any farther in this tragedy, we shall leave Mr. Joseph and Mr. Adams to themselves, and imitate the wise conductors of the stage, who, in the midst of a grave action, entertain you with some excellent piece of satire or humor called a dance. Which piece, indeed, is therefore danced, and not spoke, as it is delivered to the audience by persons whose thinking faculty is, by most people, held to lie in their heels, and to whom, as well as heroes who think with their hands, nature hath only given heads for the sake of conformity, and as they are of use in dancing to hang their hats on. The poet, addressing the player, proceeded thus, as I was saying, for they had been at this discourse all the time, of the engagement above stairs. The reason you have no good new plays is evident. It is from your discouragement of authors. Gentlemen will not write, sir. They will not write without the expectation of fame, or profit, or perhaps both. Plays are like trees, which will not grow without nourishment. But, like mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneously, as it were, in a rich soil. The muses, like vines, may be pruned, but not with a hatchet. The town, like a peevish child, knows not what it desires, and is always best pleased with a rattle. A farce writer hath indeed some chance for success, but they have lost all taste for the sublime. Though I believe one reason of their depravity is the badness of the actors, if a man writes like an angel, sir, those fellows know not how to give a sentiment utterance. Not so fast, says the player. The modern actors are as good at least as their authors. Nay, they come nearer their illustrious predecessors, and I expect a booth on the stage again, sooner than a Shakespeare or an at-way. And indeed I may turn your observation against you, and with truth say that the reason no authors are encouraged is because we have no good new plays. I have not affirmed the contrary, said the poet, but I am surprised you grow so warm. You cannot imagine yourself interested in this dispute. I hope you have a better opinion of my taste than to apprehend I squinted at yourself. No, sir, if we had six such actors as you, we should soon rival the bettertons and sandfords of former times. For without a compliment to you, I think it impossible for anyone to have excelled you in most of your parts. Nay, it is solemn truth, and I have heard many and all great judges express as much. And you will pardon me if I tell you. I think every time I have seen you lately, you have constantly acquired some new excellence, like a snowball. You have deceived me in my estimation of perfection and have outdone what I thought inimitable. You are as little interested, answered the player, in what I have said of other poets, for de-blank ennemy if there are not many strokes. I, whole scenes and your last tragedy, which at least equal Shakespeare. There is a delicacy of sentiment, a dignity of expression in it, which I will own many of our gentlemen did not do adequate justice to. To confess the truth, they are bad enough, and I pity an author who is present at the murder of his works. Nay, it is but seldom that it can happen, returned the poet. The works of most modern authors, like dead-born children, cannot be murdered. It is such wretched, half-begotten, half-rit, lifeless, spiritless, low-groveling stuff that I almost pity the actor who is obliged to get it by heart, which must be almost as difficult to remember as words in a language you don't understand. I am sure, said the player, if the sentences had little meaning when they are writ, when they are spoken, they have less. I know scarce one who ever lays an emphasis right, and much less adapts his action to his character. I have seen a tender lover in an attitude of fighting with his mistress, and a brave hero suing to his enemy with his sword in his hand. I don't care to abuse my profession, but rot me if in my heart I am not inclined to the poet's side. It is rather generous in you than just, said the poet, and though I hate to speak ill of any person's production, nay, I never do it, nor will. But yet to do justice to the actors, what could Booth or Betterton have made of such horrible stuff as fentons, mariamny, frowds, phyltus, or malaise, your riddacy, or those low, dirty, last dying speeches which a fellow in the city of Wapping, your dillo, or lillo, what was his name, called tragedies? Very well, says the player, and pray, what do you think of such fellows as Quinn and Delayne, or that face-making puppy-young cyber, that ill-looking dog Macklin, or that saucy slut Mrs. Clive? What would they make with your Shakespeare's Otway's and Lee's? How would those harmonious lines of the last come from their tongues? No more, for I disdain all pomp when thou art by. Far be the noise of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls our kinder fates have steered another way. Free as the forest, birds will pair together. Without remembering who our fathers were, fly to the arbors, grots and flowery meads, there in soft murmurs interchange our souls. Together drink the crystal of the stream, or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields, and when the golden evening calls us home, wing to our downy nests and sleep till morn. Or how would this disdain of Otway, who'd be that foolish sordid thing called man? Hold, hold, hold, said the poet. Do repeat that tender speech in the third act of my play, which you made such a figure in. I would willingly, said the player, but I have forgot it. I, you, was not quite perfect in it when you played it, cries the poet, or you would have had such an applause, as was never given on the stage, an applause I was extremely concerned for your losing. Sure, says the player, if I remember that, that was hissed more than any passage in the whole play. I, you're speaking it, was hissed, said the poet. My, speaking it, said the player, I mean, you're not speaking it, said the poet. You was out, and then they hissed. They hissed, and then I was out, if I remember, answered the player, and I must say this for myself, that the whole audience allowed I did your part justice. So don't lay the damnation of your play to my account. I don't know what you mean, by damnation, replied the poet. Why, you know it was acted, but one night, cried the player. No, said the poet, you and the whole town were enemies. The pit were all my enemies, fellows that would cut my throat, if the fear of hanging did not restrain them. Oh, tailors, sir, oh, tailors. Why should the tailors be so angry with you, cries the player? I suppose you don't employ so many in making your clothes. I admit your jest, answered the poet, but you remember the affair as well as myself. You know there was a party in the pit and upper gallery that would not suffer it to be given out again. Though much I infinitely, the majority, all the boxes in particular, were desirous of it. Nay, most of the ladies swore they would never come to the house till it was acted again. Indeed, I must own their policy was good in not letting it be given out a second time, for the rascals knew if it had gone a second night, it would have run fifty. For if ever there was distress in a tragedy, I am not fond of my own performance, but if I should tell you what the best judges said of it, nor was it entirely owing to my enemies neither that it did not succeed on the stage as well as it hath since among the polite readers, for you can't say it had just as done it by the performers. I think, answered the player, the performers did the distress of it justice, for I am sure we were in distress enough who were pelted with oranges all the last act. We all imagined it would have been the last act of our lives. The poet, whose fury was now raised, had just attempted to answer when they were interrupted, and an end put to their discourse by an accident, which, if the reader is impatient to know, he must skip over the next chapter, which is a sort of counterpart to this, and contains some of the best and gravest matters in the whole book, being a discourse between Parson, Abraham Adams, and Mr. Joseph Andrews.