 Book 4, Chapter 7 and 8 of Joseph Andrews. Philosophical Reflections, the light not to be found in any light French romance, Mr. Booby's grave advice to Joseph, and Fanny's encounter with a bow. Habit, my good reader, hath so vast a prevalence over the human mind that there is scarce anything too strange or too strong to be asserted of it. The story of the miser, who from long a custom to cheat others, came at last to cheat himself, and with great delight and triumph picked his own pocket of a guinea to convey to his horde is not impossible or improbable. In like manner it fares with the practicers of deceit, who from having long deceived their acquaintance gain at last a power of deceiving themselves, and acquire that very opinion, however false, of their own abilities, excellencies, and virtues into which they have for years perhaps endeavored to betray their neighbors. Now reader, to apply this observation to my present purpose, thou must know that as the passion generally called love exercises most of the talents of the female or fair world, so in this they now and then discover a small inclination to deceit, for which thou wilt not be angry with the beautiful creatures, when thou hast considered that at the age of seven, or something earlier, miss is instructed by her mother that master is a very monstrous kind of animal, who will, if she suffers him to come too near her, infallibly eat her up and grind her to pieces, that so far from kissing or toying with him of her own accord, she must not admit him to kiss or toy with her, and lastly that she must never have any affection towards him, for if she should, all her friends in petticoats would esteem her a traitorous, point at her, and hunt her out of their society. These impressions, being first received, are farther and deeper inculcated by their schoolmistresses and companions, so that by the age of ten they have contracted such a dread end, abhorrence of the above-named monster, that whenever they see him they fly from him, as the innocent hare doth from the greyhound. Hence to the age of fourteen or fifteen they entertain a mighty antipathy to master. They resolve and frequently profess that they will never have any commerce with him, and entertain fond hopes of passing their lives out of his reach, of the possibility of which they have so visible an example in their good maiden ant. But when they arrive at this period, and have now passed their second climacteric, when their wisdom, grown riper, begins to see a little farther, and from almost daily falling in master's way, to apprehend the great difficulty of keeping out of it, and when they observe him look often at them, and sometimes very eagerly and earnestly too, for the monster seldom takes any notice of them till at this age, they then begin to think of their danger. And as they perceive they cannot easily avoid him, the wiser part to rethink themselves of providing by other means for their security. They endeavor by all methods they can invent to render themselves so amiable in his eyes that he may have no inclination to hurt them, in which they generally succeed so well, that his eyes, by frequent languishing, soon lessen their idea of his fierceness, and so far abate their fears that they venture to parley with him, and when they perceive him so different from what he hath been described, all gentleness, softness, kindness, tenderness, fondness. Their dreadful apprehensions vanish in a moment, and now, it being usual with the human mind to skip from one extreme to its opposite, as easily and almost as suddenly as a bird from one bow to another, love instantly succeeds to fear, but as it happens to persons who have in their infancy been thoroughly frightened with certain no-persons called ghosts, that they retain their dread of those things after they are convinced that there are no such things, so these young ladies, though they no longer apprehend devouring, cannot so entirely shake off all that hath been instilled into them. They still entertain the idea of that censure which was so strongly imprinted on their tender minds, to which the declarations of abhorrence they every day hear from their companions greatly contribute. To avoid this censure, therefore, is now their only care, for which purpose they still pretend the same aversion to the monster, and the more they love him, the more ardently they counterfeit the antipathy. By the continual and constant practice of which deceit on others, they at length impose on themselves and really believe they hate what they love. Thus indeed it happened to Lady Booby, who loved Joseph long before she knew it, and now loved him much more than she suspected. She had indeed from the time of his sister's arrival in the quality of her niece, and from the instant she viewed him in the dress and character of a gentleman began to conceive secretly a design which love had concealed from herself till a dream betrayed it to her. She had no sooner risen than she sent for her nephew. When he came to her, after many compliments on his choice, she told him he might perceive in her condescension to admit her own servant to her table that she looked on the family of Andrews as his relations, and indeed hers, that as he had married into such a family, it became him to endeavor by all methods to raise it as much as possible. At length she advised him to use all his heart to dissuade Joseph from his intended match, which would still enlarge their relation to meanness and poverty, concluding that by a commission in the army, or some other genteel employment, he might soon put young Mr. Andrews on the foot of a gentleman, and that being once done, his accomplishments might quickly gain him an alliance which would not be to their discredit. Her nephew heartily embraced this proposal, and finding Mr. Joseph with his wife at his return to her chamber, he immediately began thus, My love to my dear Pamela, brother, will extend to all her relations, nor shall I show them less respect than if I had married into the family of a duke. I hope I have given you some early testimonies of this, and shall continue to give you daily more. You will excuse me, therefore, brother, if my concern for your interest makes me mention what may be, perhaps disagreeable to you to hear. But I must insist upon it that if you have any value for my alliance or my friendship, you will decline any thoughts of engaging farther with a girl who is, as you are a relation of mine, so much beneath you. I know there may be at first some difficulty in your compliance, but that will daily diminish, and you will in the end sincerely thank me for my advice. I own indeed, the girl is, handsome, but beauty alone is a poor ingredient and will make but an uncomfortable marriage. Sir, said Joseph, I assure you her beauty is her least perfection, nor do I know a virtue which that young creature is not possessed of. As to her virtues, answered Mr. Booby, you can be yet but a slender judge of them, but if she had never so many you will find her equal in these among her superiors in birth and fortune, which now you are to esteem on a footing with yourself. At least I will take care they shall shortly be so, unless you prevent me by degrading yourself with such a match, a match I have hardly patience to think of, and which would break the hearts of your parents, who now rejoice in the expectation of seeing you make a figure in the world. I know not, replied Joseph, that my parents have any power over my inclinations, nor have I obliged to sacrifice my happiness to their whim or ambition. Besides, I shall be very sorry to see that the unexpected advancement of my sister should so suddenly inspire them with this wicked pride and make them despise their equals. I am resolved on no account to quit my dear Fanny, though I could raise her as high above her present station as you have raised my sister. Your sister, as well as myself, said Booby, are greatly obliged to you for the comparison. But, sir, she is not worthy to be compared in beauty to my Pamela, nor hath she half her merit. And besides, sir, as you civilly throw my marriage with your sister in my teeth, I must teach you the wide difference between us. My fortune enabled me to please myself, and it would have been as overgrown a folly in me to have omitted it as in you to do it. My fortune enables me to please myself likewise, said Joseph. For all my pleasure is centered in Fanny, and whilst I have health I shall be able to support her with my labour in that station to which she was born, and with which she is content. Brother, said Pamela, Mr. Booby advises you as a friend, and no doubt my papa and mama will be of his opinion, and will have great reason to be angry with you for destroying what his goodness hath done, and throwing down our family again after he hath raised it. It would become you better, brother, to pray for the assistance of grace against such a passion than to indulge it. Sure, sister, you are not in earnest. I am sure she is your equal at least. She was my equal, answered Pamela, but I am no longer Pamela, Andrews. I am now this gentleman's lady, and as such am above her. I hope I shall never behave within unbecoming pride, but at the same time I shall always endeavour to know myself, and to question not the assistance of grace to that purpose. They were now summoned to breakfast, and thus ended their discourse for the present very little to the satisfaction of any of the parties. Fanny was now walking in an avenue at some distance from the house where Joseph had promised to take the first opportunity of coming to her. We had not a shilling in the world, and had subsisted ever since her return entirely on the charity of Parson Adams. A young gentleman, attended by many servants, came up to her and asked her if that was not the lady Booby's house before him. This indeed he well knew, but had framed the question, for no other reason than to make her look up, and discover if her face was equal to the delicacy of her shape. He no sooner saw it than he was struck with amazement. He stopped his horse, and swore she was the most beautiful creature he ever beheld. Then instantly alighting and delivering his horse to his servant, he rapped out half a dozen oaths that he would kiss her, to which she at first submitted, begging he would not be rude. But he was not satisfied with the civility of a salute, nor even with the rudest attack he could make on her lips, but caught her in his arms, and endeavored to kiss her breasts, which with all her strength she resisted. And as our spark was not of the Herculean race, with some difficulty, prevented. The young gentleman, being soon out of breath in the struggle, quitted her, and remounting his horse called one of his servants to him, whom he ordered to stay behind with her, and make her any offers whatever, to prevail on her, to return home with him in the evening, and to assure her he would take her into keeping. He then rode on with his other servants, and arrived at the lady's house, to whom he was a distant relation, and was come to pay a visit. The trusty fellow, who was employed in an office he had been long accustomed to, discharged his part with all the fidelity and dexterity imaginable, but to no purpose. She was entirely deaf to his offers, and rejected them with the utmost disdain. At last the pimp, who had perhaps more warm blood about him than his master, began to solicit for himself. He told her, though he was a servant, he was a man of some fortune, which he would make her mistress of, and this without any insult on her virtue, for that he would marry her. She answered, if his master himself, or the greatest lord in the land, would marry her, she would refuse him. At last, being weary with persuasions, and on fire with charms, which would have almost kindled the flame in the bosom of an ancient philosopher, or modern divine, he fastened his horse to the ground, and attacked her with much more force than the gentleman had exerted. Poor Fanny would not have been able to resist his rudeness a short time, but the deity who presides over chaste love sent her Joseph to her assistance. He no sooner came with insight, and perceived her struggling with a man than like a cannonball, or like lightning, or anything that is swifter, if anything be, he ran towards her, and, coming up just as the ravisher had torn her handkerchief from her press, before his lips had touched that seat of innocence and bliss. He dealt him so lusty a blow in that part of his neck, which a rope would have become with the utmost propriety, that the fellow staggered backwards, and perceiving he had to do with something rougher than the little, tender, trembling hand of Fanny, he quitted her, and turning about, saw his rival with fire flashing from his eyes, again ready to assail him. And, indeed, before he could well defend himself, or return the first to blow, he received a second, which had it fallen on that part of the stomach to which it was directed, would have been probably the last he would have had any occasion for. But the ravisher, lifting up his hand, drove the blow upwards to his mouth, where it dislodged three of his teeth. And now, not conceiving any extraordinary affection for the beauty of Joseph's person, nor being extremely pleased with this method of salutation, he collected all his force and aimed a blow at Joseph's breast, which he artfully parried with one fist, so that it lost its force entirely in air. And stepping one foot backward, he darted his fist so fiercely at his enemy that had he not caught it in his hand, for he was a boxer of no inferior fame, it must have tumbled him on the ground. And now the ravisher meditated another blow, which he aimed at that part of the breast where the heart is lodged. Joseph did not catch it as before, yet so prevented its aim that it fell directly on his nose, but with abated force. Joseph then, moving both fist and foot forward at the same time, threw his head so dexterously into the stomach of the ravisher that he fell a lifeless lump on the field, where he lay many minutes, breathless and motionless. When Fanny saw her Joseph receive a blow in his face and blood running in a stream from him, she began to tear her hair and invoke all human and divine power to his assistance. She was not, however, long under this affliction, before Joseph having conquered his enemy, ran to her, and assured her he was not hurt. She then instantly fell on her knees, and thanked God that he had made Joseph the means of her rescue, and at the same time preserved him from being injured in attempting it. She offered, with her handkerchief, to wipe his blood from his face, but he, seeing his rival attempting to recover his legs, turned to him and asked him if he had had enough, to which the other man answered he had, for he believed he had fought with the devil instead of a man, and, loosening his horse, said he should not have attempted the winch if he had known she had been so well provided for. Fanny now begged Joseph to return with her to Parson Adams, and to promise that he would leave her no more. These were propositions so agreeable to Joseph that had he heard them, he would have given an immediate assent, but indeed his eyes were now his only sense. For you may remember, reader, that the ravisher had tore her handkerchief from Fanny's neck, by which he had discovered such a sight that Joseph hath declared all the statues he ever beheld were so much inferior to it in beauty, that it was more capable of converting a man into a statue than of being imitated by the greatest master of that art. This modest creature, whom no warmth and summer could ever induce to expose her charms to the wanton son, a modesty to which perhaps they owed their inconceivable whiteness, had stood many minutes bare-necked in the presence of Joseph, before her apprehension of his danger, and the horror of seeing his blood would suffer her once to reflect on what concerned herself. Till at last, when the cause of her concern had vanished, an admiration at his silence, together with observing the fixed position of his eyes, produced an idea in the lovely maid, which brought more blood into her face, than had flowed from Joseph's nostrils. The snowy hue of her bosom was likewise changed to vermilion at the instant when she clapped her handkerchief round her neck. Joseph saw the uneasiness she suffered, and immediately removed his eyes from an object in surveying which he had felt the greatest delight, which the organs of sight were capable of conveying to his soul. So great was his fear of offending her, and so truly did his passion for her deserve the noble name of love. Fanny being recovered from her confusion, which was almost equal by what Joseph had felt from observing it, again mentioned her request. This was instantly and gladly complied with, and together they crossed two or three fields which brought them to the habitation of Mr. Adams. Chapter 8. A discourse which happened between Mr. Adams, Mrs. Adams, Joseph, and Fanny, with some behavior of Mr. Adams, which will be called by some few readers, very low, absurd, and unnatural. The parson and his wife had just ended a long dispute when the lovers came to the door. Indeed, this young couple had been the subject of the dispute, for Mrs. Adams was one of those prudent people who never do anything to injure their families, or perhaps one of those good mothers who would even stretch their conscience to serve their children. She had long entertained hopes of seeing her eldest daughter succeed Mrs. Slipslop and of making her second son an excise man by Lady Booby's interest. These were expectations she could not endure the thoughts of quitting, and was therefore very uneasy to see her husband, so resolute to oppose the lady's intention in Fanny's affair. She told him, it behoved every man to take the first care of his family, that he had a wife and six children, the maintaining and providing for whom would be business enough for him, without intermeddling in other folks affairs, that he had always preached up submission to superiors, and would do ill to give an example of the contrary behavior in his own conduct, that if Lady Booby did wrong she must answer for it herself, and the sin would not lie at their door, that Fanny had been a servant and bred up in the lady's own family, and consequently she must have known more of her than they did. And it was very improbable, if she had behaved herself well, that the lady would have been so bitterly her enemy, that perhaps he was too much inclined to think well of her because she was handsome, but handsome women were often no better than they should be, that G. Blank made ugly women as well as handsome ones, and that if a woman had virtue it signified nothing whether she had beauty or no. For all which reasons she concluded he should oblige the lady and stop the future publication of the bans, but all these excellent arguments had no effect on the person, who persisted in doing his duty without regarding the consequence it might have on his worldly interest. He endeavored to answer her as well as he could, to which she had just finished her reply, for she had always the last word everywhere but at church, when Joseph and Fanny entered their kitchen, where the person and his wife then sat at breakfast over some bacon and cabbage. There was a coldness in the civility of Mrs. Adams, which persons of accurate speculation might have observed, but escaped her present guests. Indeed, it was a good deal covered by the heartiness of Adams, who no sooner heard that Fanny had neither eat nor drank that morning, than he presented her a bone of bacon he had just been nying, being the only remains of his provision, and then ran nimbly to the tap and produced a mug of small beer, which he called ale. However, it was the best in his house. Joseph, addressing himself to the person, told him the discourse which had been passed between Squire Booby, his sister, and himself concerning Fanny. He then acquainted him with the dangers whence he had rescued her, and communicated some apprehensions on her account. He concluded that he should never have an easy moment, till Fanny was absolutely his, and begged that he might be suffered to fetch a license, saying he could easily borrow the money. The person answered that he had already given his sentiments, concerning a license, and that a very few days would make it unnecessary. Joseph says he, I wish this haste doth not arise rather from your impatience than your fear, but as it certainly springs from one of these causes, I will examine both of each of these, therefore, in their turn, and first, for the first of these, namely impatience. Now, child, I must inform you that, if in your proposed marriage with this young woman you have no intention but the indulgence of carnal appetites, you are guilty of a very heinous sin. Marriage was ordained for nobler purposes, as you will learn when you hear the service provided on that occasion read to you. Nay, perhaps if you are a good lad, I, child, shall give you a sermon gratis, wherein I shall demonstrate how little regard ought to be had to the flesh on such occasions. The text will be Matthew the Fifth, and part of the twenty-eighth verse. Whosoever looketh on a woman, so as to lust after her, the latter part I shall omit, as foreign to my purpose. Indeed, all such brutal lusts and affections are to be greatly subdued, if not totally eradicated, before the vessel can be said to be consecrated to honor. To marry with the view of gratifying those inclinations is a prostitution of that holy ceremony, and must entail a curse on all who so lightly undertake it. If, therefore, this haste arises from impatience, you are to correct and not give way to it. Now, as to the second head which I propose to speak to, namely fear, it argues a diffidence, highly criminal of that power in which alone we should put our trust, seeing we may be well assured that he is able not only to defeat the designs of our enemies, but even to turn their hearts. Instead of taking, therefore, any unjustifiable or desperate means to rid ourselves of fear, we should resort to prayer only on these occasions, and we may be then certain of obtaining what is best for us. When any accident threatens us, we are not to despair, nor when it overtakes us to grieve. We must submit in all things to the will of providence, and set our affections so much on nothing here that we cannot quit it without reluctance. You are a young man, and can know but little of this world. I am older and have seen a great deal. All passions are criminal in their excess, and even love itself, if it is not subservient to our duty, may render us blind to it. Had Abraham so loved his son Isaac as to refuse the sacrifice required, is there any of us who would not condemn him? Joseph, I know your many good qualities and value you for them, but as I am to render an account of your soul which is committed to my cure, I cannot see any fault without reminding you of it. You are too much inclined to passion, child, and have set your affections so absolutely on this young woman that if, gee, required her at your hands, I fear you would reluctantly part with her. Now, believe me, no Christian ought so to set his heart on any person or thing in this world, but that whenever it shall be required or taken from him in any manner by divine providence, he may be able peaceably, quietly, and contentedly to resign it. At which words, one came hastily in and acquainted Mr. Adams that his youngest son was drowned. He stood silent a moment and soon began to stamp about the room and deplore his loss with the bitterest agony. Joseph who was overwhelmed with concern likewise recovered himself sufficiently to endeavor to comfort the person, in which attempt he used many arguments that he had at several times remembered out of his own discourses, both in private and public, for he was a great enemy to the passions and preached nothing more than the conquest of them by reason and grace. But he was not at leisure now to hearken to his advice. Child, child said he do not go about impossibilities. Had it been any other of my children, I could have borne it with patience, but my little Prattler, the darling in comfort of my old age, the little wretch to be snatched out of life just at his entrance into it, the sweetest, best tempered boy who never did a thing to offend me. It was putt. This morning I gave him his first lesson in Cajenas. He would have made the best scholar, and have been an ornament to the church. Such parts and such goodness never met in one so young. And the handsome lad too, says Mrs. Adams, recovering from a swoon in Fanny's arms. My poor Jackie, shall I never see thee more? cries the person. Yes, surely, says Joseph, and in a better place, you will meet again never to part more. I believe the person did not hear these words, for he paid little regard to them, but went on lamenting, whilst the tears trickled down into his bosom. At last he cried out, Where is my little darling? and was sallying out when to his great surprise and joy, in which I hope the reader will sympathize. He met his son in a wet condition indeed, but alive and running towards him. The person who brought the news of his misfortune had been a little too eager, as people sometimes are, from, I believe, no very good principle, to relate ill news. And, seeing him fall into the river, instead of running to his assistance, directly ran to acquaint his father of a fate which he had concluded to be inevitable. But, once the child was relieved, by the same poor peddler who had relieved his father before from a less distress. The person's joy was now as extravagant as his grief had been before. He kissed and embraced his son a thousand times, and danced about the room like one frantic. But, as soon as he discovered the face of his old friend the peddler, and heard the fresh obligation he had to him, what were his sensations, not those which two courtiers feel in one another's embraces, not those with which a great man receives the vile treacherous engines of his wicked purposes, not those with which a worthless younger brother wishes his elder joy of a son, or a man congratulates his rival on the obtaining a mistress, a place or an honor. No, reader, he felt the ebullition, the overflowings of a full, unfulfilled honest, open heart, towards the person who had conferred a real obligation, and of which, if thou canst not conceive an idea within, I will not vainly endeavor to assist thee. When these tumults were over, the person, taking Joseph aside, proceeded thus. No, Joseph, do not give too much way to thy passions, if thou dost expect happiness. The patience of Joseph, nor perhaps of Job, could bear no longer. He interrupted the person saying, it was easier to give advice than take it, nor did he perceive he could so entirely conquer himself, when he apprehended he had lost his son, or when he found him recovered. Boy, replied Adams, raising his voice, it doth not become green heads to advise gray hairs. Thou art ignorant of the tenderness of fatherly affection. When thou art a father, thou wilt be capable then only of knowing what a father can feel. No man is obliged to impossibilities, and the loss of a child is one of those great trials where our grief may be allowed to become immoderate. Well, sir, cries Joseph, and if I love a mistress as well as you your child, surely her loss would grieve me equally. Yes, but such love is foolishness and wrong in itself, and ought to be conquered, answered Adams, it savers too much of the flesh. Sure, sir, says Joseph, it is not sinful to love my wife. No, not even to dot on her to distraction. Indeed, but it is, says Adams. Every man ought to love his wife, no doubt. We are commanded so to do, but we ought to love her with moderation and discretion. I am afraid I shall be guilty of some sin in spite of all my endeavors, says Joseph, for I shall love without any moderation, I am sure. You talk foolishly, and childishly, cries Adams. Indeed, says Mrs. Adams, who had listened to the latter part of their conversation, you talk more foolishly yourself. I hope my dear, you will never preach any such doctrine, as that husbands can love their wives too well. If I knew you had such a sermon in the house, I am sure I would burn it, and I declare, if I had not been convinced you had loved me as well as you could, I can answer for myself I should have hated and despised you. Mary, come up! Find doctrine indeed a wife. If hath a right to insist on her husband's loving her as much as ever he can, and he is a sinful villain who doth not. Doth he not promise to love her, and to comfort her, and to cherish her, and all that? I am sure I remember it all as well as if I had repeated it over but yesterday, and shall never forget it. Besides, I am certain you do not preach as you practice, for you have been a loving and a cherishing husband to me. That's the truth on it, and why you should endeavor to put such wicked nonsense into this young man's head I cannot devise. Don't harken to him, Mr. Joseph. Be as good a husband as you are able, and love your wife with all your body and soul too. Here a violent rap at the door put an end to their discourse, and produced a scene which the reader will find in the next chapter. End of book four chapters seven and eight, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox. Four chapters nine and ten of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding. Book four chapter nine, a visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite friend pay to the parson. The Lady Booby had no sooner had an account from the gentleman of his meeting a wonderful beauty near her house, and perceived the raptures with which he spoke of her. Then immediately, concluding it must be fanny, she began to meditate a design of bringing them better acquainted, and to entertain hopes that the fine clothes, presents and promises of this youth would prevail upon her to abandon Joseph. She therefore proposed to her company a walk in the fields before dinner when she led them towards Mr. Adams House, and as she approached it, told them, if they pleased, she would divert them with one of the most ridiculous sights they had ever seen, which was an old foolish parson, who she said laughing, kept awake with her wife and six brats on a salary of about twenty pounds a year, adding that there was not such another ragged family in the parish. They all readily agreed to this visit, and arrived whilst Mrs. Adams was declaiming, as in the last chapter. Bo Didapper, which was the name of the young gentleman we have seen writing towards Lady Booby's, with his cane, mimicked the rap of a London footman at the door. The people within, namely Adams, his wife and three children, Joseph, Fanny, and the peddler, were all thrown into confusion by his knock, but Adams went directly to the door, which, being opened, the Lady Booby and her company walked in, and were received by the parson with about two hundred bows, and by his wife with as many curtsies, the latter telling the lady she was ashamed to be seen in such a pickle, and that her house was in such a litter, but that if she had expected such an honour from her ladyship, she should have found her in a better manner. The parson made no apologies, though he was in his half-cassak and a flannel nightcap. He said, they were hardly welcome to his poor cottage, and, turning to Mr. Didapper, cried out, non maya re-needed it in Domo lacunar. The Bo answered that he did not understand Welsh, at which the parson stared, and made no reply. Mr. Didapper, or Bo Didapper, was a young gentleman of about four-foot-five inches in height. He wore his own hair, though the scarcity of it might have given him sufficient excuse for a periwig. His face was thin and pale, the shape of his body and legs. None of the best, for he had very narrow shoulders and no calf, and his gait might more properly be called hopping than walking. The qualifications of his mind were well adapted to his parson. We shall handle them first negatively. He was not entirely ignorant, for he could talk a little French, and sing two or three Italian songs. He had lived too much in the world to be bashful, and too much at court to be proud. He seemed not much inclined to avarice, for he was profuse in his expenses. Nor had he all the features of prodigality, for he never gave a shilling. No hater of women, for he always dangled after them, yet so little subject to lust that he had, among those who knew him best, the character of great moderation in his pleasures, no drinker of wine, nor so addicted to passion, but that a hot word or two from an adversary made him immediately cool. Now, to give him only a dash or two on the affirmative side. Though he was born to an immense fortune, he chose for the pitiful and dirty consideration of a place of little consequence, to depend entirely on the will of a fellow whom they call a great man, who treated him with the utmost disrespect, and exacted of him a plenary obedience to his commands, which he implicitly submitted to at the expense of his conscience, his honor and of his country, in which he had himself so very large a share. And, to finish his character, as he was entirely well satisfied with his own person and parts, so he was very apt to ridicule and laugh at any imperfection in another. Such was the little person, or rather thing, that hopped after Lady Booby into Mr. Adams' kitchen. The parson and his company retreated from the chimney side, where they had been seated, to give room to the lady and hers. Instead of returning any of the curtsies, or extraordinary civility, of Mrs. Adams, the lady, turning to Mr. Booby, cried out, Kel bet, Kel animal. And, presently, after discovering Fanny, for she did not need the circumstance of her standing by Joseph to assure the identity of her person, she asked the beau whether he did not think her a pretty girl. Beg ad madam, answered he, tis the very same I met. I did not imagine, replied the lady, you had so good a taste. Because I never liked you, I warn't, cries the beau. Ridiculous, said she, you know you was always my aversion. I would never mention aversion, answered the beau. With that face, footnote, lest this should appear unnatural to some readers, we think proper to acquaint them that it is taken verbatim from very polite conversation. Dear Lady Booby, wash your face before you mention aversion. I beseech you. He then laughed, and turned about to coquettet with Fanny. Mrs. Adams had been all this time begging and praying the ladies to sit down, a favor which she at last obtained. The little boy to whom the accident had happened, still keeping his place by the fire, was chid by his mother for not being more mannerly. But Lady Booby took his part and commended his beauty, told the parson he was his very picture. She then, seeing a book in his hand, asked if he could read. Yes, cried Adams, a little Latin, Madam, he is just got into quay genus. A fig for quayre genus, answered she, let me hear him read a little English. Leger Dick Leger, said Adams, but the boy made no answer, till he saw the parson knit his brows and then cried, I don't understand you, Father, how, boy, says Adams, what doth Lego make in the imperative mood? Legito doth it not? Yes, answered Dick, and what besides, asked the father, leke, quote the son, after some hesitation, a good boy, says the father, and now, child, what is the English of Lego? To which the boy, after long puzzling, answered he could not tell. How, cries Adams in a passion, what hath the water washed away your learning? Why, what is Latin for the English verb read? Consider before you speak, the child considered some time, and then the parson cried twice, or thrice, leg, leg, Dick, answered, Lego, very well, and then what is the English, says the parson, of the verb, Lego. To read, cried Dick, very well, said the parson, a good boy, you can do well if you will take pains. I assure your ladyship, he is not much above eight years old, and is out of his propria quay, Maribus, already. Come, Dick, read to her ladyship, which she, again desiring, in order to give the bow time and opportunity with Fanny, Dick began as in the following chapter, chapter 10, the history of two friends, which may afford an useful lesson to all those persons who happened to take up their residence in married families. Leonard and Paul were two friends. Pronounce it, Leonard, child, cried the parson. Bray, Mr. Adams, says Lady Booby, let your son read without interruption. Dick then proceeded. Leonard and Paul were two friends, who, having been educated together at the same school, since they friendship, which they preserved a long time for each other, it was so deeply fixed in both their minds that a long absence, during which they had maintained no correspondence, did not eradicate nor lessen it. But it revived in all its force at their first meeting, which was not till after fifteen years' absence, most of which time Leonard had spent in the East, in the Indies. Pronounce it short, Indies, says Adams. Bray, sir, be quiet, says the lady. The boy repeated, in the East, Indies, whilst Paul had served his king and country in the army, in which different services they had found such different success that Leonard was now married, and retired with a fortune of thirty thousand pounds, and Paul was arrived to the degree of a lieutenant of foot, and was not worth a single shilling. The regiment in which Paul was stationed happened to be ordered into quarters within a small distance from the estate which Leonard had purchased, and where he was settled. This latter, who was now become a country gentleman, and a justice of peace, came to attend the quarter sessions in the town where his old friend was quartered, soon after his arrival. Some affair in which a soldier was concerned occasioned Paul to attend the justices. Manhood and time, and the change of climate, had so much altered Leonard that Paul did not immediately recollect the features of his old acquaintance, but it was otherwise with Leonard he knew Paul the moment he saw him, nor could he contain himself from quitting the bench and running hastily to embrace him. Paul stood at first a little surprised, but had soon sufficient information from his friend, whom he no sooner remembered than he returned his embrace with a passion which made many of the spectators laugh, and gave to some few a much higher and more agreeable sensation. Not to detain the reader with minute circumstances, Leonard insisted on his friends returning with him to his house that evening, which request was complied with, and leave for a month's absence for Paul obtained of the commanding officer. If it was possible for any circumstance to give any addition to the happiness which Paul proposed in this visit, he received that additional pleasure by finding on his arrival at his friend's house that his lady was an old acquaintance which he had formally contracted at his quarters, and who had always appeared to be of a most agreeable temper, a character she had ever maintained among her intimates, being of that number every individual of which is called quite the best sort of woman in the world. But good as this lady was, she was still a woman, that is to say an angel, and not an angel. You must mistake, child, cries the parson, for you read nonsense. It is so in the book, answered the son. Mr. Adams was then silenced by authority, and Dick proceeded. For though her person was of that kind to which men attribute the name of angel, yet in her mind she was perfectly woman, of which a great deal of obstinacy gave the most remarkable, and perhaps most pernicious, instance, a day or two past after Paul's arrival before any instances of this appeared. But it was impossible to conceal it long. Both she and her husband soon lost all apprehension from their friend's presence, and fell to their disputes with as much vigor as ever. These were still pursued with the utmost ardor and eagerness, however trifling the causes were once they first arose. Nay, however incredible it may seem, the little consequence of the matter in debate was frequently given as a reason for the fierceness of decontention, as thus, if you loved me, sure you would never dispute with me such a trifle as this. The answer to which is very obvious, for the argument would hold equally on both sides, and was constantly retorted with some addition as, I am sure I have much more reason to say so, who am in the right? During all these disputes Paul always kept strict silence, and preserved and even countenance without showing the least visible inclination to either party. One day, however, when madam had left the room in a violent fury, Leonard could not refrain from referring his cause to his friend. Was ever anything so unreasonable, says he, as this woman, what shall I do with her? I do not on her to distraction, nor have I any cause to complain of more than this obstinacy in her temper. Whatever she asserts she will maintain against all the reason and conviction in the world. Pray, give me your advice. First, says Paul, I will give my opinion, which is, flatly, that you are in the wrong. For supposing she is in the wrong, was the subject of your contention any ways material? What signified it whether you was married in a red or yellow wesket? For that was your dispute. Now, suppose she was mistaken? As you love her, you say so tenderly, and I believe she deserves it, would it not have been wiser to have yielded, though you certainly knew yourself in the right, than to give either her or yourself any uneasiness? For my own part, if ever I marry, I am resolved to enter into an agreement with my wife that, in all disputes, especially about trifles, that party who is most convinced they are right shall always surrender the victory, by which means we shall both be forward to give up the cause. I own, said Leonard, my dear friend, shaking him by the hand, there is great truth and reason in what you say, and I will, for the future, endeavor to follow your advice. They soon after broke up the conversation, and Leonard going to his wife and asked her pardon, and told her his friend had convinced him he had been in the wrong. She immediately began a vast encomium on Paul, in which he seconded her, and both agreed he was the worthiest and wisest man on earth. When next they met, which was at supper, though she had promised not to mention what her husband told her, she could not forbear casting the kindest and most affectionate looks on Paul, and asked him, with the sweetest voice, whether she should help him to some potted woodcock. Potted partridge, my dear, you mean, says the husband. My dear, says she, I asked your friend if he will eat any potted woodcock, and I am sure I must know who potted it. I think I should know, too, who shot them, replied the husband, and I am convinced that I have not seen a woodcock this year. However, though I know I am in the right, I submit, and the potted partridge is potted woodcock, if you desire to have it so. Hmm, it is equal to me, says she, whether it is one or the other, but you would persuade one out of one's senses. To be sure, you are always in the right, in your own opinion, but your friend, I believe, knows which he is eating. Paul answered nothing, and the dispute continued, as usual, the greatest part of the evening. The next morning the lady, accidentally meeting Paul, and being convinced he was her friend, and on her side, accosted him thus, I am certain, sir, you have long since wondered at the unreasonableness of my husband. He is indeed, in other respects, a good sort of man, but so positive that no woman but one of my complying temper could possibly live with him. Why, last night, now, was ever any creature so unreasonable? I am certain you must condemn him. Pray, answer me, was he not in the wrong? Paul, after a short silence, spoke as follows. I am sorry, madam, that as good manners obliges me to answer against my will, so an adherence to truth forces me to declare myself of a different opinion. To be plain and honest, you was entirely in the wrong, the cause I own not worth disputing, but the bird was, undoubtedly, a partridge. Oh, sir, replied the lady, I cannot possibly help your taste. Madam, returned Paul, that is very little material, for had it been otherwise a husband might have expected submission. Indeed, sir, says she, I assure you. Yes, madam, cried he, he might, from a person of your excellent understanding, and, pardon me for saying, such a condescension would have shown a superiority of sense, even to your husband himself. But, dear sir, said she, why should I submit when I am in the right? For that very reason, answered he, it would be the greatest instance of affection imaginable, for can anything be a greater object of our compassion than a person we love in the wrong? I, but I should endeavor, said she, to set him right. Pardon me, madam, answered Paul, I will apply to your own experience, if you ever found your arguments had that effect. The more our judgments err, the less we are willing to own it. For my own part, I have always observed the persons who maintain the worst side in any contest are the warmest. Why, says she, I must confess there is truth in what you say, and I will endeavor to practice it. The husband, then coming in, Paul departed, and Leonard, approaching his wife with an error of good humor, told her he was sorry for their foolish dispute last night. But he was now convinced of his error. She answered, smiling, she believed she owed his condescension to his complacence, that she was ashamed to think a word had passed on so silly an occasion, especially as she was satisfied she had been mistaken. A little contention followed, but with the utmost goodwill to each other, and was concluded by her asserting that Paul had thoroughly convinced her she had been in the wrong, upon which they both united in the praises of their common friend. Paul now passed his time with great satisfaction, these disputes being much less frequent, as well as shorter than usual. But the devil, or some unlucky accident in which perhaps the devil had no hand, shortly put an end to his happiness. He was now eternally the private referee of every difference, in which, after having perfectly, as he thought, established the doctrine of submission, he never scrupled to assure both privately that they were in the right, in every argument, as before he had followed the contrary method. One day a violent litigation happened in his absence, and both parties agreed to refer it to his decision. The husband, professing himself sure the decision would be in his favor, the wife answered he might be mistaken, for she believed his friend was convinced how seldom she was to blame, and that if he knew all, the husband replied, my dear, I have no desire of any retrospect, but I believe if you knew all too, you would not imagine my friend so entirely on your side. Nay, says she, since you provoke me, I will mention one instance. You may remember our dispute about sending Jackie to school in cold weather, which point I gave up to you from mere compassion, knowing myself to be in the right, and Paul himself told me afterwards he thought me so. My dear, replied the husband, I will not scruple your veracity, but I assure you solemnly, on my applying to him, he gave it absolutely on my side, and said he would have acted in the same manner. They then proceeded to produce numberless other instances, in all which Paul had, on vows of secrecy, given his opinion on both sides. In the conclusion, both believing each other, they fell severely on the treachery of Paul, and agreed that he had been the occasion of almost every dispute which had fallen out between them. They then became extremely loving, and so full of condescension on both sides, that they vied with each other in censoring their own conduct, and jointly vented their indignation on Paul, whom the wife, fearing a bloody consequence, earnestly entreated her husband to suffer quietly to depart the next day, which was the time fixed for his return to quarters, and then drop his acquaintance. However ungenerous this behavior in Leonard may be esteemed, his wife obtained a promise from him, though with difficulty, to follow her advice. But they both expressed such unusual coldness that day to Paul that he, who was quick of apprehension, taking Leonard aside, pressed him so home that he at last discovered the secret. Paul acknowledged the truth, but told him the design with which he had done it, to which the other answered he would have acted more friendly to have let him into the whole design, for that he might have assured himself of his secrecy. Paul replied with some indignation he had given him a sufficient proof how capable he was of concealing a secret from his wife. Leonard returned with some warmth. He had more reason to upgrade him for that he had caused most of the quarrels between them by his strange conduct, and might, if they had not discovered the affair to each other, had been the occasion of their separation. Paul then said, but something now happened which put a stop to Dick's reading and of which we shall treat in the next chapter, in the Book Four chapters nine and ten, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book Four Chapters 11 and 12 of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding. Book Four Chapter 11, in which the history is continued. Joseph Andrews had borne with great uneasiness the impertinence of Beau Didepper to Fanny, who had been talking pretty freely to her and offering her settlements, but the respect to the company had restrained him from interfering whilst the Beau confined himself to the use of his tongue only. But the said Beau, watching an opportunity whilst the ladies' eyes were disposed, another way offered a rudeness to her with his hands, which Joseph no sooner perceived than he presented him with so sound a box on the ear that it conveyed him several paces from where he stood. The ladies immediately screamed out, rose from their chairs, and the Beau, as soon as he recovered himself, drew his hangar, which Adams observing snatched up the lid of a pot in his left hand and covering himself with it as with a shield, without any weapon of offense in his other hand, stepped in before Joseph and exposed himself to the enraged Beau, who threatened such perdition and destruction that it frighted the women, who were all got in a huddle together, out of their wits, even to hear his denunciations of vengeance. Joseph was of a different complexion, and begged Adams to let his rival come on, for he had a good cudgel in his hand and did not fear him. Fanny now fainted into Mrs. Adams' arms, and the whole room was in confusion when Mr. Booby, passing by Adams, who lay snug under the pot lid, came up to Didepper and insisted on his sheathing the hangar, promising he should have satisfaction, which Joseph declared he would give him, and fight him at any weapon whatever. The Beau now sheathed his hangar, and taking out a pocket-glass and vowing vengeance all the time, readjusted his hair. The parson deposited his shield, and Joseph, running to Fanny, soon brought her back to life. Lady Booby chid Joseph for his insult on Didepper, but he answered he would have attacked an army in the same cause. What cause, said the lady? Madam, answered Joseph, he was rude to that young woman. What, says the lady, I suppose he would have kissed the wench, and is a gentleman to be struck for such an offer? I must tell you, Joseph, these heirs do not become you. Madam, said Mr. Booby, I saw the whole affair, and I do not commend my brother, for I cannot perceive why he should take upon him to be this girl's champion. I can commend him, says Adams. He is a brave lad, and it becomes any man to be the champion of the innocent, and he must be the basest coward who would not vindicate a woman with whom he is on the brink of marriage. Sir, says Mr. Booby, my brother is not a proper match for such a woman as this. No, says Lady Booby, nor do you, Mr. Adams, act in your proper character, by encouraging any such doings, and I am very much surprised you should concern yourself in it. I think your wife and family your properer care. Indeed, Madam, your ladyship says very true, answered Mrs. Adams. He talks a pack of nonsense, that the whole parish are his children. I am sure I don't understand what he means by it. It would make some women suspect he had gone astray, but I acquit him of that. I can read scripture as well as he, and I never found that the parson was obliged to provide for other folks children. And besides, he is but a poor curate, and hath little enough, as your ladyship knows, for me and mine. You say very well, Mrs. Adams, quote the Lady Booby, who had not spoke a word to her before. You seem to be a very sensible woman, and I assure you, your husband is acting a very foolish part, and opposing his own interest, seeing my nephew is violently set against this match. And indeed I can't blame him. It is by no means one suitable to our family. In this manner the Lady proceeded with Mrs. Adams, whilst the Bo hopped about the room, shaking his head partly from pain and partly from anger, and Pamela was chiding Fanny for her assurance in aiming at such a match as her brother. Poor Fanny answered only with her tears, which had long since begun to wet her handkerchief, which Joseph perceiving took her by the arm, and wrapping it in his carried her off, swearing he would own no relation to anyone who was an enemy to her he loved more than all the world. He went out with Fanny under his arm, brandishing a cudgel in his right, and neither Mr. Booby nor the Bo thought proper to oppose him. Lady Booby and her company made a very short stay behind him, for the Lady's bell now summoned them to dress, for which they had just time before dinner. Adams seemed now very much dejected, which his wife perceiving began to apply some matrimonial balsam. She told him he had no reason to be concerned for that he had probably ruined his family with his tricks almost, but perhaps he was grieved for the loss of his two children, Joseph and Fanny. His eldest daughter went on, indeed, Father, it is very hard to bring strangers here to eat your children's bread out of their mouths. You have kept them ever since they came home, and for anything I see to the contrary may keep them a month longer. Are you obliged to give her meat, though if she was never so handsome? But I don't see she is so much handsomer than other people. If people were to be kept for their beauty she would scarce fair better than her neighbors, I believe. As for Mr. Joseph, I have nothing to say. He is a young man of honest principles and will pay some time or other for what he hath. But for the girl, why does she not return to her place she ran away from? I would not give such a vagabond slut a hipony, though I had a million of money. No, though she was starving. Indeed, but I would, cries little Dick, and Father, rather than poor Fanny shall be starved, I will give her all this bread and cheese, offering what he held in his hand. Adam smiled on the boy and told him he rejoiced to see he was a Christian, and that if he had a hipony in his pocket he would have given it him, telling him it was his duty to look upon all his neighbors as his brothers and sisters, and love them accordingly. Yes, Papa, says he, I love her better than my sister's for she is handsomer than any of them. Is she so sauce box? says the sister, giving him a box on the ear which the father would probably have resented, had not Joseph, Fanny, and the peddler at that instant return together. Adams bid his wife prepare some food for their dinner. She said, truly, she could not. She had something else to do. Adams rebuked her for disputing his commands, and quoted many texts of scripture to prove that the husband is the head of the wife, and she is to submit and obey. The wife answered, it was blasphemy to talk scripture out of church, that such things were very proper to be said in the pulpit, but that it was profane to talk them in common discourse. Joseph told Mr. Adams he was not come with any design to give him or Mrs. Adams any trouble, but to desire the favor of all their company, to the George, an ale house in the parish, where he had bespoke a piece of bacon and greens for their dinner. Mrs. Adams, who was a very good sort of woman, only rather strict in o' economies, readily accepted this invitation, as did the parson himself by her example, and a way they all walked together, not omitting little dick to whom Joseph gave a shilling when he heard of his intended liberality to Fanny. CHAPTER XII. Where the good-natured reader will see something which will give him no great pleasure. The peddler had been very inquisitive from the time he had first heard that the great house in this parish belonged to the Lady Booby, and had learnt that she was the widow of Sir Thomas, and that Sir Thomas had bought Fanny, at about the age of three or four years, of a traveling woman. And now there are only but hearty meal was ended. He told Fanny he believed he could acquaint her with her parents. The whole company, especially she herself, started at this offer of the peddlers. He then proceeded thus, while they all lent their strictest attention. Though I am now contented with this humble way of getting my livelihood, I was formerly a gentleman, for so all those of my profession are called. In a word I was a drummer in an Irish regiment of foot. Whilst I was in this honourable station, I attended an officer of our regiment into England, a recruiting. In our march from Bristol to Froome, for since the decay of the woollen trade, the clothing towns have furnished the army with a great number of recruits. We overtook on the road a woman, who seemed to be about thirty years old or thereabouts. Not very handsome, but well enough for a soldier. As we came up to her, she mended her pace, and falling into discourse with our ladies for every man of the party, namely a sergeant, two private men, and a drum, were provided with their woman, except myself. She continued to travel on with us. I, perceiving she must fall to my lot, advanced presently to her, made love to her in our military way, and quickly succeeded to my wishes. We struck a bargain within a mile, and lived together as man and wife to her dying day. I suppose, says Adams, interrupting him, you were married with a license, for I don't see how you could contrive to have the bands published while you were marching from place to place. No, sir, said the peddler. We took a license to go to bed together, without any bands. I, I, said the parson, ex necessitate. A license may be allowable enough, but surely, surely the other is the more regular and eligible way. The peddler proceeded thus. She returned with me to our regiment, and removed with us from quarters to quarters, till at last, whilst we lay at Galloway, she fell ill of a fever, and died. When she was on her deathbed, she called me to her, and, crying bitterly, declared she could not depart this world without discovering a secret to me, which, she said, was the only sin which sat heavy on her heart. She said she had formally traveled in a company of gypsies, who had made a practice of stealing away children, that for her own part she had been only once guilty of the crime, which, she said, she lamented more than all the rest of her sins, since, probably, it might have occasioned the death of the parents. For, added she, it is almost impossible to describe the beauty of the young creature, which was about a year and a half old when I kidnapped it. We kept her, for she was a girl, above two years in our company, when I sold her myself for three guineas, to Sir Thomas Booby in Somersetshire. Now, you know whether there are any more of that name in this county. Yes, says Adams, there are several boobies who are squires, but I believe no baronet now alive. Besides, it answers so exactly in every point there is no room for doubt, but you have forgot to tell us the parents from whom the child was stolen. Their name, answered the peddler, was Andrews. They lived about thirty miles from the squire, and she told me that I might be sure to find them out by one circumstance, for that they had a daughter of a very strange name. Pamela, or Pamela, some pronounced it one way and some the other. Fanny, who had changed color at the first mention of the name, now fainted away. Joseph turned pale, and poor Dicky began to roar. The parson fell on his knees and ejaculated many thanksgivings that this discovery had been made before the dreadful sin of incest was committed, and the peddler was struck with amazement, not being able to account for all this confusion, the cause of which was presently opened by the parson's daughter, who was the only unconcerned person, for the mother was chafing Fanny's temples and taking the utmost care of her. And indeed, Fanny was the only creature whom the daughter would not have pitied in her situation. Wherein, though we compassionate her ourselves, we shall leave her for a little while, and pay a short visit to Lady Booby. End of book 4, chapters 11 and 12, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for Librabox.