 But one 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 1 Chapter 11 Of several new matters, not expected. It is an observation sometimes made that to indicate our idea of a simple fellow we say he is easily to be seen through. Nor do I believe it a more improper denotation of a simple book. Instead of applying this to any particular performance, we choose rather to remark the contrary in this history where the scene opens itself by small degrees and he is a sagacious reader who can see two chapters before him. For this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a matter which now seems necessary to be explained, since it may be wondered at, first, that Joseph made such extraordinary haste out of town, which hath been already shown, and secondly, which will be now shown, that instead of proceeding to the habitation of his father and mother, or to his beloved sister Pamela, he chose, rather, to set out full speed to the Lady Booby's country seat, which he had left on his journey to London. Be it known then that in the same parish where this seat stood, there lived a young girl who Joseph, though the best of sons and brothers, longed more impatiently to see than his parents or his sister. She was a poor girl who had formerly been bred up in Sir John's family. Once, a little before the journey to London, she had been discarded by Mrs. Slipslop on account of her extraordinary beauty, for I never could find any other reason. This young creature, who now lived with the farmer in the parish, had been always beloved by Joseph and returned his affection. She was two years only younger than our hero. They had been acquainted from their infancy, and had conceived a very early liking for each other, which had grown to such a degree of affection that Mr. Adams had, with much ado, prevented them from marrying, and persuaded them to wait, till a few years' service and thrift had a little improved their experience, and enabled them to live comfortably together. They followed this good man's advice, as indeed his word was little less than a law in his parish, for as he had shown his parishioners by an uniform behavior of thirty-five years' duration, that he had their good entirely at heart, so they consulted him on every occasion, and very seldom acted contrary to his opinion. Nothing can be imagined more tender than the parting between these two lovers. A thousand sighs heaved the bosom of Joseph, a thousand tears distilled from the lovely eyes of Fanny, for that was her name. Though her modesty would only suffer her to admit his eager kisses, her violent love made her more than passive in his embraces, and she often pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure which, though perhaps it would not have squeezed an insect to death, caused more emotion in the heart of Joseph than the closest Cornish hug could have done. The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a pair should, during a twelve-month absence, never converse with one another. Indeed, there was but one reason which did, or could, have prevented them. And this was that poor Fanny could neither write nor read, nor could she be prevailed upon to transmit the delicacies of her tender and chaste passion by the hands of an immanuensis. They contented themselves, therefore, with frequent inquiries after each other's health, with a mutual confidence in each other's fidelity, and the prospect of their future happiness. Having explained these matters to our reader, and as far as possible satisfied all his doubts, we return to honest Joseph whom we left just set out on his travels by the light of the moon. Those who have read any romance or poetry, ancient or modern, must have been informed that love hath wings, by which they are not to understand, as some young ladies by mistake have done, that a lover can fly. The writers, by this ingenious allegory intending to insinuate no more than that lovers do not march like horse guards, in short, that they put the best leg foremost, which our lusty youth, who could walk with any man, did so heartily on this occasion, that within four hours he reached a famous house of hospitality well known to the western traveler. It presents you a lion on the signpost, and the master who was christened, Timoteus, is commonly called Plain Tim. Some have conceived that he hath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he doth in countenance greatly resemble that magnanimous beast, though his disposition savers more of the sweetness of the lamb. He is a person well received among all sorts of men, being qualified to render himself agreeable to any, as he is well versed in history and politics, hath a smattering in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, and plays wonderfully well on the French horn. A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take shelter in this inn, where he remembered Sir Thomas had dined in his way to town. Joseph had no sooner seated himself by the kitchen fire, than Timoteus, observing his livery, began to condole the loss of his late master, who was, he said, his very particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he had cracked many a merry bottle, many a dozen in his time. He then remarked that all these things were over now, all past, and just as if they had never been, and concluded with an excellent observation on the certainty of death, which his wife said was indeed very true. A fellow now arrived at the same inn with two horses, one of which he was leading farther down into the country to meet his master. These he put into the stable, and came and took his place by Joseph's side, who immediately knew him to be the servant of a neighboring gentleman who used to visit at their house. This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm, for he had orders to go twenty miles farther that evening, and luckily on the same road, which Joseph himself intended to take, he therefore embraced this opportunity of complimenting his friend with his master's horse, notwithstanding he had received express commands to the contrary, which was readily accepted. And so, after they had drank a loving pot, and the storm was over, they set out together. Chapter 13. Containing many surprising adventures, which Joseph Andrews met with on the road, scarce credible to those who have never traveled in a stagecoach. Nothing remarkable happened on the road till their arrival at the inn to which the horses were ordered, whether they came about two in the morning. The moon then shone very bright, and Joseph, making his friend a present of a pint of wine, and thanking him for the favor of his horse, notwithstanding all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his journey on foot. He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hope of shortly seeing his beloved Fanny when he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and ordered to stand and deliver. He readily gave them all the money he had, which was somewhat less than two pounds, and told them he hoped they would be so generous as to return him a few shillings to defray his charges on his way home. One of the Ruffians answered with an oath, Yes, we'll give you something presently, but first strip and be de-blank into you. Strip, cried the other, or I'll blow your brains to the devil. Joseph, remembering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches of a friend, and that he should be ashamed of making any excuse for not returning them, replied he hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which were not worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. You are cold, are you, you rascal, said one of the robbers. I'll warm you with a vengeance, and damning his eyes snapped a pistol at his head, which he had no sooner done than the other level to blow at him with his stick, which Joseph, who was expert at cudgel playing, caught with his, and returned the favor so successfully on his adversary, that he laid him sprawling at his feet, and at the same time received a blow from behind, with the butt end of a pistol from the other villain, which felled him to the ground, and totally deprived him of his senses. The thief, who had been knocked down, had now recovered himself, and both together fell to belaboring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they were convinced they had put an end to his miserable being. They then stripped him entirely naked, threw him into a ditch, and departed with their booty. The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began to recover his senses, as a stagecoach came by. The postillion, hearing a man's groans, stopped his horses, and told the coachman he was certain there was a dead man lying in the ditch, for he heard him groan. Go on, sirrah! says the coachman. We are confounded late, and have no time to look after dead men. A lady, who heard what the postillion said, and likewise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coachman to stop and see what was the matter, upon which he bid the postillion a light, and look into the ditch. He did so, and returned, that there was a man sitting upright, as naked as ever he was born. Oh, Jay blanks us! cried the lady, a naked man! Dear coachman, drive on and leave him! Upon this the gentleman got out of the coach, and Joseph begged them to have mercy upon him, for that he had been robbed and almost beaten to death. Robbed, cries an old gentleman, let us make all haste imaginable, or we shall be robbed, too. A young man, who belonged to the law, answered, he wished they had passed by without taking any notice, but that now they might be proved to have been last in his company. If he should die, they might be called to some account for his murder. He therefore thought it advisable to save the poor creature's life, for their own sakes, if possible, at least if he died, to prevent the jury's finding that they fled for it. He was therefore of opinion to take the man into the coach and carry him to the next in. The lady insisted that he should not come into the coach, that if they lifted him in, she would herself alight, for she had rather stay in that place to all eternity than ride with a naked man. The coachman objected that he could not suffer him to be taken in, unless somebody would pay a shilling for his carriage the four miles, which the two gentlemen refused to do. But the lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief happening to himself, if the wretch was left behind in that condition, saying, no man could be too cautious in these matters, and that he remembered very extraordinary cases in the books threatened the coachman, and bid him denied taking him up at his peril. For that, if he died, he should be indicted for his murder, and if he lived and brought an action against him, he would willingly take a brief in it. These words had a sensible effect on the coachman, who was well acquainted with the person who spoke them. And the old gentleman above mentioned, thinking the naked man would afford him frequent opportunities of showing his wit to the lady, offered to join with the company in giving a mug of beer for his fare, till partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the promises of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with compassion at the poor creature's condition, who stood bleeding and shivering with the cold, he at length agreed. And Joseph was now advancing to the coach, where, seeing the lady, who held the sticks of her fan before her eyes, he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter unless he was furnished with sufficient covering to prevent giving the least offense to decency. So perfectly modest was this young man. Such mighty effects had the spotless example of the amiable Pamela and the excellent sermons of Mr. Adams wrought upon him. Though there were several great coats about the coach, it was not easy to get over this difficulty which Joseph had started. The two gentlemen complained they were cold and could not spare a rag. The man of Whitsane, with a laugh, ha-ha-ha, charity, began at home. And the coachman, and the coachman, who had two great coats spread under him, refused to lend either, lest they should be made bloody. The lady's footmen desired to be excused for the same reason, which the lady herself, notwithstanding her abhorrence of a naked man, approved. And it is more than probable. Poor Joseph, who obstinately adhered to his modest resolution, must have perished. Unless the postelian, a lad who hath been since transported for robbing a hen roost, had voluntarily stripped off a great coat, his only garment, at the same time swearing a great oath, for which he was rebuked by the passengers, that he would rather ride in his shirt all his life than suffer a fellow creature to lie in so miserable a condition. Joseph, having put on the great coat, was lifted into the coach, which now proceeded on its journey. He declared himself almost dead with the cold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the lady if she could not accommodate him with a dram. She answered with some resentment. She wondered at his asking her such a question, but assured him she never tasted any such thing. The lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances of the robbery when the coach stopped, and one of the ruffians, putting a pistol in, demanded their money of the passengers, who readily gave it them. And the lady, in her fright, delivered up a little silver bottle of about a half pint size, which the rogue, clapping it to his mouth and drinking her health, declared held some of the best nuns he had ever tasted. This the lady afterwards assured the company was the mistake of her maid, for that she had ordered her to fill the bottle with hungry water. As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, it seems, a case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the company that if it had been daylight, and he could have come at his pistols, he would not have submitted to the robbery. He likewise said forth that he had often met highwaymen when he traveled on horseback, but none ever durst attack him, concluding that if he had not been more afraid for the lady than for himself, he should not have now parted with his money so easily. As wit is generally observed to love to reside in empty pockets, so the gentleman whose ingenuity we have above remarked, as soon as he had parted with his money, began to grow wonderfully facetious. He made frequent allusions to Adam and Eve, and said many excellent things on figs and fig leaves, which perhaps gave more offense to Joseph than to any other in the company. The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests without departing from his profession. He said if Joseph and the lady were alone, he would be more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his affairs were not fettered with any encumbrance. He'd warrant he soon suffered a recovery by a writ of entry, which was the proper way to create errors in tale, that for his own part he would engage to make so firm a settlement in a coach that there should be no danger of any judgment. With an inundation of the like gibberish which he continued to vent till the coach arrived at an inn where one servant maid only was up in readiness to attend the coachman and furnish him with cold meat and a dram, Joseph desired to alight and that he might have a bed prepared for him, which the maid readily promised to perform. And being a good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapped a large faggot on the fire and furnishing Joseph with a great coat belonging to one of the hostilers, desired him to sit down and warm himself whilst she made his bed. The coachman, in the meantime, took an opportunity to call up a surgeon who lived within a few doors, after which he reminded his passengers how late they were, and after they had taken leave of Joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could. The wench soon got Joseph to bed and promised to use her interest to borrow him a shirt. But, imagining, as she afterward said by his being so bloody that he must be a dead man, she ran with all speed to hasten the surgeon, who was more than half-dressed, apprehending that the coach had been overturned, and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as the wench had informed him, at his window, that it was a poor foot-passenger who had been stripped of all he had, and almost murdered, he chid her for disturbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very quietly returned to bed and to sleep. Aurora now began to show her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten millions of feathered song-sters in jock and chorus repeated odes a thousand times sweeter than those of our allureate, and sung both the day and the song. When the master of the inn, Mr. Toe-ouse, arose and, learning from his maid an account of the robbery and the situation of his poor, naked guest, he shook his head and cried, Good, lack a day, and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his own shirts. Mrs. Toe-ouse was just awake, and had stretched out her arms in vain to fold her departed husband when the maid entered the room. Who's there? Betty? Yes, madame. Where's your master? He's without madame. He had sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked man who had been robbed and murdered. Touch one if you dare, you slut! said Mrs. Toe-ouse. Your master is a pretty sort of man to take in naked vagabonds and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have no such doings. If you offer to touch anything, I'll throw the chamber pot at your head. Go, send your master to me. Yes, madame, answered Betty. As soon as he came in, she thus began. What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Toe-ouse? Am I to buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby rascals? My dear, said Mr. Toe-ouse, this is a poor wretch. Yes, says she. I know it is a poor wretch, but what the devil have we to do with poor wretches? The law makes us provide for too many already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red coats shortly. My dear, cries Toe-ouse, this man hath been robbed of all he hath. Well then, said she, where's his money to pay his reckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go to an ale house? I shall send him packing as soon as I am up. I assure you. My dear, says he, common charity won't suffer you to do that. Common charity, AF blank T, says she. Common charity teaches us to provide for ourselves and our families, and I and mine won't be ruined by your charity. I assure you. Well, says he, my dear, do as you will when you are up. You know I never contradict you. No, says she, if the devil was to contradict me, I would make the house too hot to hold him. With such light discourses, they consumed near half an hour, whilst Betty provided a shirt from the hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and put it on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last visited him, and washed and dressed his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr. Toe-ouse that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life that he scarce saw any hopes of his recovery. Here's a pretty kettle of fish, cries Mrs. Toe-ouse. You have brought upon us. We are like to have a funeral at our own expense. Toe-ouse, who, notwithstanding his charity, would have given his vote as freely as ever he did, and an election that any other house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his guest, answered, My dear, I am not to blame. He was brought hither by the stagecoach, and Betty had put him to bed before I was stirring. I'll betty her, says she, at which, with half her garments on, the other half under her arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate Betty. Whilst Toe-ouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor Joseph, and inquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair. Chapter 13 What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the Inn, with the curious discourse between him and Mr. Barnabas, the parson of the parish? As soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history of the robbery, together with a short account of himself, and his intended journey, he asked the surgeon if he apprehended him to be in any danger to which the surgeon very honestly answered. He feared he was, for that his pulse was very exalted and feverish, and if his fever should prove more than symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him. Joseph, fetching a deep sigh, cried, poor Fanny, I could have lived to see thee, but gods will be done. The surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly affairs to settle, that he would do it as soon as possible. For though he hoped he might recover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him. He was in great danger, and if the malign concoction of his humors should cause a cessation of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and incapable to make his will. Joseph answered that it was impossible for any creature in the universe to be in a poorer condition than himself. For since the robbery he had not one thing of any kind, whatever, which he could call his own. I had, said he, a poor little piece of gold, which they took away. That would have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions, but surely, Fanny, I wanted nothing to remind me of thee. I have thy dear image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence. Joseph desired paper and pens to write a letter, but they were refused him, and he was advised to use all his endeavors to compose himself. They then left him, and Mr. Towouse sent to a clergyman to come and administer his good offices to the soul of poor Joseph, since the surgeon despaired of making any successful applications to his body. Mr. Barnabas, for that was the clergyman's name, came as soon as sent for, and having first drank a dish of tea with the landlady, and afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the room where Joseph lay, but, finding him asleep, returned to take the other sneaker, which when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the chamber door, and having opened it, heard the sick man talking to himself in the following manner. Oh, most adorable Pamela, most virtuous sister, whose example could alone enable me to withstand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to preserve my virtue pure and chaste for the arms of my dear Fanny. If it had pleased heaven, that I should ever have come unto them. What riches or honors or pleasures can make us amends for the loss of emissence? Doth not that alone afford us more consolation than all worldly acquisitions? What but innocence and virtue could give any comfort to such a miserable wretch as I am. Yet these can make me prefer this sick and painful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in my ladies. These can make me face death without fear, and though I love my Fanny more than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me to resign myself to the divine will without repining. Oh, thou delightful, charming creature, if heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest state would have been a paradise. I could have lived with thee and the lowest cottage without envying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any man breathing, but I must leave thee forever, my dearest angel. I must think of another world, and I heartily pray thou mist meet comfort in this. Barnabas thought he had heard enough, so downstairs he went, and told Toaus he would do his guest no service, for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room. The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his patient in a higher fever, as he said, than when he left him, though not delirious for, notwithstanding Mr. Barnabas's opinion, he had not been once out of his senses since his arrival at the inn. Mr. Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty, prevailed on to make another visit. As soon as he entered the room, he told Joseph, he was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for another world. In the first place, therefore, he hoped he had repented of all his sins. Joseph answered, he hoped he had, but there was one thing which he knew not whether he should call a sin. If it was, he feared he should die in the commission of it, and that was the regret of parting with a young woman whom he loved as tenderly as he did his heartstrings. Barnabas, bad him, be assured that any repining at the divine will was one of the greatest sins he could commit, that he ought to forget all carnal affections and think of better things. Joseph said, that neither in this world nor the next he could forget his famy, and that the thought, however grievous, of parting from her, for ever, was not half so tormenting as the fear of what she would suffer when she knew his misfortune. Barnabas said, that such fears argued a diffidence and despondence, very criminal, that he must divest himself of all human passions, and fix his heart above. Joseph answered, that was what he desired to do, and should be obliged to him if he would enable him to accomplish it. Barnabas replied, that must be done by grace. Joseph besought him to discover how he might attain it. Barnabas answered, by prayer and faith. He then questioned him concerning his forgiveness of the thieves. Joseph answered, he feared that was more than he could do, for nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear they were taken. That, cries Barnabas, is for the sake of justice. Yes, said Joseph, but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I should attack them, and kill them too, if I could. Doubtless, answered Barnabas, it is lawful to kill a thief, but can you say you forgive them? As a Christian ought. Joseph desired to know what that forgiveness was. That is, answered Barnabas, to forgive them as it is to forgive them as, in short, it is to forgive them as a Christian. The Joseph replied, he forgave them as much as he could. Well, said Barnabas, that will do. He then demanded of him if he remembered any more sins unrepentant of, and if he did he desired him to make haste and repent of them as fast as he could, that they might repeat over a few prayers together. Joseph answered, he could not recollect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he had committed, he was sincerely sorry for. Barnabas said, that was enough, and then proceeded to prayer with all the expedition he was master of, some company then waiting for him below in the parlor, where the ingredients for punch were all in readiness, but no one would squeeze the oranges till he came. Joseph complained he was dry and desired a little tea, which Barnabas reported to Mrs. Towouse, who answered she had just done drinking it, and could not be slopping all day, but ordered Betty to carry him up some small beer. Betty obeyed her mistress's commands, but Joseph, as soon as he had tasted it, said he feared it would increase his fever, and that he longed very much for tea, to which the good-natured Betty answered he should have tea. If there was any in the land, she accordingly went and bought him some herself, and attended him with it, where we will leave her and Joseph together for some time, to entertain the reader with other matters. Chapter 14. Being very full of adventures, which succeeded each other at the inn. It was now the dusk of the evening when a grave person rode into the inn, and committed his horse to the hustler, went directly into the kitchen, and having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the fireside, where several other persons were likewise assembled. The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was committed the night before, and on the poor wretch who lay above in the dreadful condition in which we have already seen him. Mrs. Toauss said, she wondered what the devil-tum whipwell meant by bringing such guests to her house, when there were so many alehouses on the road proper for their reception. But she assured him, if he died the parish should be at the expense of the funeral. She added, nothing would serve the fellow's turn but tea. She would assure him. Betty, who was just returned from her charitable office, answered, she believed he was a gentleman, for she never saw a finer skin in her life. Pax on his skin! replied Mrs. Toauss. I suppose that is all we are like to have for the reckoning. I desire no such gentleman should ever call at the dragon, which it seems was the sign on the inn. The gentleman, lately arrived, discovered a great deal of emotion at the distress of this poor creature, whom he observed to be fallen not into the most compassionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs. Toauss had given no utterance to the sweetness of her temper, nature had taken such pains in her countenance that Hogarth himself never gave more expression to a picture. Her person was short, thin, and crooked. Her forehead projected in the middle, and thence descended in a declivity to the top of her nose, which was sharp and red, and would have hung over her lips had not nature turned up the end of it. Her lips were two bits of skin, which, whenever she spoke, she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked, and at the upper end of that skin, which composed her cheeks, stood two bones that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. Add to this a voice most wonderfully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being both loud and hoarse. It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had conceived a greater dislike for his landlady, or compassion for her unhappy guest. He inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, who was now coming to the kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery. He begged him to use all possible means towards it, telling him it was the duty of men of all professions to apply their skills gratis for the relief of the poor and necessitous. The surgeon answered he should take proper care, but he defied all the surgeons in London to do him any good. Pray, sir, said the gentleman. What are his wounds? Why, do you know anything of wounds? says the surgeon, winking upon Mrs. Towouse. Sir, I have a small smattering in surgery. Answered the gentleman. A smattering. Said the surgeon. I believe it is a smattering indeed. The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor, who was what they call a dry fellow, expose the gentleman. He began therefore with an air of triumph. I suppose, sir, you have traveled. No, really, sir, says the gentleman. Oh, then you have practiced in the hospitals, perhaps? No, sir. Hmm, not that neither. Once, sir, then, if I may be so bold to inquire, have you got your knowledge in surgery? Sir, answered the gentleman, I do not pretend too much, but the little I know I have from books. Books, cries the doctor. What, I suppose, you have read Galand and Hippocrates. No, sir, said the gentleman. How? You understand surgery. Answers the doctor, and not read Galand and Hippocrates. Sir, cries the other. I believe there are many surgeons who have never read these authors. I believe so too, says the doctor. More shame for them. But thanks to my education, I have them by heart. And very seldom go without them both in my pocket. They are pretty large books, said the gentleman. I, says the doctor, I believe I know how large they are. Better than you, at which he fell a-winking, and the whole company burst into a laugh. The doctor, pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman if he did not understand physics as well as surgery. Rather, better, answered the gentleman. I, like enough, cries the doctor with a wink. Why, I know a little of physics too. I wish I knew half so much, said Mrs. Toauss. I'd never wear an apron again. Why, I believe, landlord, cries the doctor, there are few men, though I say it, within twelve miles of the place that handle a fever better. That is my method. I suppose, brother, you understand Latin? A little, says the gentleman. I, and Greek now, I'll warrant you ton da pomibonimos poluflos boyo da lassis. But I have almost forgot these things. I could have repeated Homer by heart once. He fags, the gentleman was caught a traitor, says Mrs. Toauss, at which they all fell a-laffing. The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, very contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, which he did with no small satisfaction, and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, told him he was thoroughly convinced of his great learning and abilities, and that he would be obliged to him, if he would let him know his opinion of his patient's case above stairs. Sir, says the doctor, his case is that of a dead man. The contusion on his head has perforated the internal membrane of the occiput, and developed that radical, small, minute, invisible nerve, which coheres to the paratranian, and this was attended with a fever at first, symptomatic, then pneumatic, and he is at length grown deliruous, or delirious, as the vulgar express it. He was proceeding in this learned manner when a mighty voice interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighborhood had taken one of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty ran upstairs with this news to Joseph, who begged they might search for a little piece of broken gold, which had a ribbon tied to it, and which he could swear to amongst all the hordes of the richest men in the universe. Notwithstanding the fellows persisting in his innocence, the mob were very busy in searching him, and presently, among other things, pulled out the piece of gold just mentioned, which Betty no sooner saw than she laid violent hands on it, and conveyed it up to Joseph, who received it with raptures of joy, and hugging it in his bosom, declared he could now die contented. Within a few minutes afterwards came in some other fellows with a bundle which they had found in a ditch, and which was indeed the clothes which had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other things they had taken from him. The gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he declared he knew the livery, and if it had been taken from the poor creature above stairs desired he knew he might see him, for that he was very well acquainted with the family to whom that livery belonged. He was accordingly conducted up by Betty, but what reader was the surprise on both sides when he saw Joseph was the person in bed, and when Joseph discovered the face of his good friend, Mr. Abraham Adams? It would be impertinent to insert a discourse, which chiefly turned on the relation of matters already well known to the reader, for as soon as the curate had satisfied Joseph concerning the perfect health of his fanny, he was on his side very inquisitive into all the particulars which had produced this unfortunate accident. To return, therefore, to the kitchen, where a great variety of company were now assembled from all the rooms of the house as well as the neighborhood, so much delight to men take in contemplating the countenance of a thief. Mr. Toaus began to rub his hands with pleasure at seeing so large an assembly who would, he hoped, shortly adjourned into several apartments in order to discourse over the robbery and drink a health to all honest men. But Mrs. Toaus, whose misfortune it was commonly to see things a little perversely, began to rail at those who brought the fellow into her house, telling her husband they were very likely to thrive, who kept a house of entertainment for beggars and thieves. The mob had now finished their search and could find nothing about the captive likely to prove any evidence for as to the clothes, though the mob were very well satisfied with that proof, yet as the surgeon observed they could not convict him because they were not found in his custody. To which Barnabas agreed and added that these were bona wavieta and belonged to the Lord of the Manor. How, says the surgeon, do you say these goods belong to the Lord of the Manor? I do, cried Barnabas. Then I deny it, says the surgeon. What can the Lord of the Manor have to do in the case? Will anyone attempt to persuade me that what a man finds is not his own? I have heard, says an old fellow in the corner, just as wise one say that if every man had his right, whatever is found belongs to the king of London. That may be true, says Barnabas in some sense, for the law makes a difference between things stolen and things found, for a thing may be stolen that never is found and a thing may be found that never was stolen. Now goods that are both stolen and found are wavieta, and they belong to the Lord of the Manor. So the Lord of the Manor is the receiver of stolen goods, says the doctor, at which there was an universal laugh being first begun by himself. While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had almost, as there was no evidence against him, brought over Barnabas the surgeon. Towouse and several others to his side, Betty informed them that they had overlooked a little piece of gold, which she had carried up to the man in bed, and which he offered to swear to amongst a million, I, amongst 10,000. This immediately turned the scale against the prisoner, and everyone now concluded him guilty. It was resolved therefore to keep him secured that night, and early in the morning, to carry him before a justice. End of Book 1, chapters 13 and 14, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 1, chapters 15 and 16 of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox reporting is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding. Book 1, chapter 15, showing how Mrs. Towouse was a little mollified, and how officious Mr. Barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the thief, with a dissertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other persons not mentioned in this history. Betty told her mistress she believed the man in bed was a greater man than they took him for. For, besides the extreme whiteness of his skin, and the softness of his hands, she observed a very great familiarity between the gentleman and him, and added she was certain they were intimate acquaintance, if not relations. This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs. Towouse's countenance. She said, God forbid, she should not discharge the duty of a Christian, since the poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had a natural antipathy to vagabonds, but could pity the misfortunes of a Christian as soon as another. Towouse said, if the traveler be a gentleman, though he hath no money about him now, we shall most likely be paid hereafter, so you may begin to score whenever you will. Mrs. Towouse answered, hold your simple tongue, and don't instruct me in my business. I am sure I am sorry for the gentleman's misfortune with all my heart, and I hope the villain who hath used him so barbarously will be hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. God forbid he should want anything in my house. Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to satisfy themselves concerning the piece of gold. Joseph was with difficulty prevailed upon to show it them, but would by no in treaties be brought to deliver it out of his own possession. He, however, attested this to be the same which had been taken from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the finding it on the thief. The only difficulty that remained was how to produce this gold before the justice, for as to carrying Joseph himself it seemed possible. Nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him, for he had fastened it with a ribbon to his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing but irresistible force should ever separate them, in which resolution Mr. Adams, clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle of an ox, declared he would support him. A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence not very necessary to be related here, after which the surgeon dressed Mr. Joseph's head, still persisting in the imminent danger in which his patient lay, but concluding, with a very important look, that he began to have some hopes that he should send him a sedative, superiferous draft, and would see him in the morning, after which Barnabas and he departed, and left Mr. Joseph and Mr. Adams together. Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey, which he was making to London, namely to publish three volumes of sermons, being encouraged, as he said, by an advertisement lately set forth by the Society of Booksellers, who proposed to purchase any copies offered to them, at a price to be settled by two persons. But though he imagined he should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his family were in urgent need of, he protested he would not leave Joseph in his present condition. Finally he told him he had nine shillings and threepence halfpony in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as he pleased. This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into Joseph's eyes. He declared he had now a second reason to desire life, that he might show his gratitude to such a friend. Adams bade him be cheerful, for that he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his ignorance, desired to make a merit of curing him, though the wounds in his head he perceived were by no means dangerous. That he was convinced he had no fever, and doubted not, but he would be able to travel in a day or two. These words infused a spirit into Joseph. He said he found himself very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to think any of his bones injured, or that he had received any harm in his inside, unless that he felt something very odd in his stomach. But he knew not whether that might not arise from not having eaten one morsel for above 24 hours. Being then asked if he had any inclination to eat, he answered in the affirmative. Then parson Adams desired him to name what he had the greatest fancy for, whether a poached egg or chicken broth. He answered he could eat both very well, but that he seemed to have the greatest appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage. Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he had not the least fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for that evening. He accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl. I never could with any tolerable certainty discover which. After this he was by Mrs. Towows's order, conveyed into a better bed, and equipped with one of her husband's shirts. In the morning early Barnabas and the surgeon came to the inn, in order to see the thief conveyed before the justice. They had consumed the whole night in debating what measures they should take to produce the piece of gold in evidence against him. For they were both extremely zealous in the business, though neither of them were, in the least, interested in the prosecution. Neither of them had ever received any private injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever been suspected of loving the public well enough to give them a sermon or a dose of physics for nothing. To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible to account for this zeal, we must inform him that, as this parish was so unfortunate as to have no lawyer in it, there had been a constant contention between the two doctors, spiritual and physical, concerning their abilities in a science in which, as neither of them professed it, they had equal pretensions to dispute each other's opinions. These disputes were carried on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided the parish. Mr. Toaus and one half of the neighbors inclining to the surgeon, and Mrs. Toaus, with the other half, to the parson. The surgeon drew his knowledge from those inestimable fountains called the attorney's pocket companion, and Mr. Jacobs' law tables Barnabas trusted entirely to Wood's institutes. It happened on this occasion, as was pretty frequently the case, that these two learned men differed about the sufficiency of evidence. The doctor being of opinion that the maid's oath would convict the prisoner without producing the gold. The parson, a contra totis virubis. To display their parts, therefore, before the justice and the parish was the sole motive, which we can discover, to this zeal which both of them pretended to have for public justice. O vanity, how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy operations discerned. How wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under different disguises. Sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity, sometimes of generosity. Nay, thou hast the assurance even to put on those glorious ornaments which belong only to heroic virtue. Thou odious deformed monster, whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, and poets ridiculed. Is there a wretch so abandoned as to own thee for an acquaintance in public? Yet how few will refuse to enjoy thee in private. Nay, thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. The greatest villainies are daily practiced to please thee, nor is the meanest thief below, or the greatest hero above thy notice. Thy embraces are often the sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery and the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, that we attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to withhold from them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves. Avarice itself is often no more than thy handmaid, and even lust thy pimp. The bully, fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and joy and grief hide their heads in thy presence. I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee, I court thee, and that thy love hath inspired me to write this sarcastical panagiric on thee. But thou art deceived. I value thee not a farthing, nor will it give me any pain if thou shouldst prevail on the reader to censure this digression as errant nonsense. For know to thy confusion that I have introduced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a short chapter, and so I return to my history. Chapter 16 The Escape of the Thief Mr. Adams' Disappointment The arrival of two very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of Parson Adams to Parson Barnabas. Barnabas and the surgeon being returned, as we have said, to the inn in order to convey the thief before the justice were greatly concerned to find a small accident had happened which somewhat disconcerted them, and this was no other than the thief's escape, who had modestly withdrawn himself by night, declining all ostentation, and not choosing in imitation of some great men to distinguish himself at the expense of being pointed at. When the company had retired the evening before, the thief was detained in a room where the constable and one of the young fellows who took him were planted as his guard. About the second watch a general complaint of grout was made, both by the prisoner and his keepers, among whom it was at last agreed that the constable should remain on duty, and the young fellow call up the tapster, in which disposition the latter apprehended not the least danger as the constable was well armed, and could besides easily summon him back to his assistance if the prisoner made the least attempt to gain his liberty. The young fellow had not long left the room before it came into the constable's head that the prisoner might leap on him by surprise, and thereby preventing him of the use of his weapons, especially the long staff in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the success of a struggle to an equal chance. He wisely therefore, to prevent this inconvenience, slipped out of the room himself, and locked the door, waiting without, with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the unhappy prisoner if by ill fortune he should attempt to break out. But human life, as hath been discovered by some great man or other, for I would by no means be understood to effect the honor of making any such discovery, very much resembles a game at chess. For as, in the latter, while a game-ster is too attentive to secure himself very strongly on one side of the board, he is apt to leave an unguarded opening on the other. So doth it often happen in life, and so did it happen on this occasion, for whilst the cautious constable had possessed himself of the door, he, most unhappily, forgot the window. The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner perceived this opening than he began to move that way, and finding the passage easy, he took with him the young fellow's hat, and without any ceremony, stepped into the street, and made the best of his way. The young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong beer, was a little surprised to find the constable at the door, but much more so when, the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made his escape, and which way he threw down the beer, and without uttering anything to the constable, except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt out of the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, being very unwilling to lose the reward, which he had assured himself of. The constable hath not been discharged of suspicion on this account, it hath been said that, not being concerned in the taking of the thief, he could not have been entitled to any part of the reward if he had been convicted, that the thief had several guineas in his pocket, that it was very likely he should have been guilty of such an oversight, that his pretense for leaving the room was absurd, that it was his constant maxim, that a wise man never refused money on any occasions, that at every election he always had sold his vote to both parties, etc. But notwithstanding these, and many other such allegations, I am sufficiently convinced of his innocence, having been positively assured of it by those who received their informations from his own mouth, which, in the opinion of some moderns, is the best and indeed only evidence. All the family were now up, and with many others assembled in the kitchen, where Mr. Toowhouse was in some tribulation. The surgeon having declared that by law he was liable to be indicted for the thief's escape, as it was out of his house. He was a little comforted, however, by Mr. Barnabas's opinion, that as the escape was by night, the indictment would not lie. Mrs. Toowhouse delivered herself in the following words, Sure, never was such a fool as my husband. Would any other person living have left a man in the custody of such a drunken drowsy blackhead as Tom Suckbribe, which was the constable's name, and if he could be indicted without any harm to his wife and children, I should be glad of it. Then the bell rung in Joseph's room. Why, Betty, John, Chamberlain, where the devil are you all? Have you no ears or no conscience, not to tend the sick better? See what the gentleman wants. Why don't you go yourself, Mr. Toowhouse? But anyone may die for you. You have no more feeling than a dealboard. If a man lived a fortnight in your house without spending the penny, you would never put him in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea or coffee for breakfast. Yes, my dear, cried Toowhouse. She then asked the doctor and Mr. Barnabas what mornings draught they chose, who answered they had a pot of cider and at the fire, which we will leave them merry over, and return to Joseph. He had rose pretty early this morning, but though his wounds were far from threatening any danger, he was so sore with the bruises that it was impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey yet. Mr. Adams, therefore, whose stock was visibly decreased with the expenses of supper and breakfast, and which could not survive that day's scoring, began to consider how it was possible to recruit it. At last he cried, he had luckily hit on a sure method, and though it would oblige him to return himself home together with Joseph, it mattered not much. He then sent for Toowhouse, and taking him into the other room, told him he wanted to borrow three guineas for which he would put ample security into his hands. Toowhouse, who expected a watch or ring or something of double the value, answered he believed he could furnish him upon which Adams, pointing to his saddlebag, told him with a face and voice full of solemnity that there were in that bag no less than nine volumes of manuscript sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds as a shilling was worth twelve pence, and that he would deposit one of the volumes in his hands by way of pledge, not doubting but that he would have the honesty to return it on his repayment of the money. For otherwise he must be a very great loser, seeing that every volume would at least bring him ten pounds, as he had been informed by a neighboring clergyman in the country. For, said he, as to my own part, having never yet dealt in printing, I do not pretend to ascertain the exact value of such things. Toowhouse, who was a little surprised at the pawn, said, and not without some truth, that he was no judge of the price of such kind of goods, and as for the money he really was very short. Adams answered, certainly he could not scruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedly worth at least ten. The landlord replied, he did not believe he had so much money in the house, and besides he was to make up some. He was very confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily sorry it did not suit him. He then cried out, coming sir, though nobody called, and ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his neck. Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this disappointment, nor knew he what further strategy to try. He immediately applied to his pipe, his constant friend and comfort in his afflictions, and, leaning over the rails, he devoted himself to meditation, assisted by the inspiring fumes of tobacco. He had on a nightcap drawn over his wig, and a short gray coat which half covered his cassock, a dress which, added to something comical enough in his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract the eyes of those who were not over-given to observation. While he was smoking his pipe in this posture, a coach and six, with a numerous attendance, drove into the inn. There, alighted from the coach, a young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which another young fellow leapt from the box, and shook the former by the hand, and both, together with the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr. Towows into an apartment. Wither, as they passed, they entertained themselves with the following short, facetious dialogue. You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack, says he from the coach. You had almost overturned us just now. Fox, take you, says the coachman. If I had only broke your neck, it would have been saving somebody else the trouble. But I should have been sorry for the pointers. Why, you son of a B blank, answered the other. If nobody could shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no use. D blank in me, says the coachman. I will shoot with you five guineas a shot. You be hanged, says the other. For five guineas, you shall shoot at my A blank. Done, says the coachman. I'll pepper you better than ever you was peppered by Jenny Bouncer. Pepper your grandmother, says the other. Here's Toe-Wouse will let you shoot at him for a shilling at a time. I know his honor better, cries Toe-Wouse. I never saw a sureer shot at a partridge. Every man misses now and then, but if I could shoot half as well as his honor, I would desire no better livelihood than I could get by my gun. Pox of you, says the coachman. You demolish more game now than your heads worth. There's a bitch, Toe-Wouse. By G blank, she never blinked. Footnote to blink is a term used to signify the dog's passing by a bird without pointing at it. She never blinked a bird in her life. I have a puppy, not a year old. She'll hunt with her for a hundred, cries the other gentleman. Done, says the coachman. But you will be poxed before you make the bet. If you have a mind for a bet, cries the coachman. I will match my spotted dog with your white. Bitch for a hundred. Play or pay. Done, says the other. And I'll run bald face against slouch with you for another. No, cries he from the box. But I'll venture Miss Jenny against bald face or Hannibal either. Go to the devil, cries he from the coach. I will make every bet your own way. To be sure, I will match Hannibal with slouch for a thousand, if you dare. And I say, done first. They were now arrived, and the reader will be very contented to leave them, and repair to the kitchen, where Barnabas, the surgeon, and an excise man were smoking their pipes over some cider, and and where the servants, who attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen light, were now arrived. Tom, cries one of the footmen, there is Parson Adams smoking his pipe in the gallery. Yes, says Tom, I pulled off my hat to him, and the Parson spoke to me. Is the gentleman a clergyman, then, says Barnabas, for his cassock had been tied up when he arrived. Yes, sir, answered the footmen, and one there be but few like. I, says Barnabas, if I had known it sooner, I should have desired his company. I would always show a proper respect for the cloth. But what say you, doctor, shall we adjourn into a room, and invite him to take part of a bowl of punch? This proposal was immediately agreed to and executed, and Parson Adams, accepting the invitation, much civility passed between the two clergymen, who both declared the great honor they had for the cloth. They had not been long together before they entered into a discourse on small tides, which continued a full hour, without the doctor or excise man's having one opportunity to offer a word. It was then proposed to begin a general conversation, and the excise man opened on foreign affairs, but a word, unluckily dropping from one of them, introduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered by the inferior clergy, which after a long duration concluded with bringing the nine volumes of sermons on the carpet. Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams. He said, the age was so wicked that nobody read sermons. Would you think it, Mr. Adams? Said he. I once intended to print a volume of sermons myself, and they had the approbation of two or three bishops. But what do you think a bookseller offered me? Twelve guineas, perhaps? cried Adams. Not twelve pence. I assure you, answered Barnabas, nay, the dog refused me a concordance in exchange. At last I offered to give him the printing them, for the sake of dedicating them to that very gentleman who just now drove his own coach into the inn. And I assure you, he had the impudence to refuse my offer, by which means I lost a good living that was afterwards given away in exchange for a pointer to one who, but I will not say anything against the cloth. So you may guess, Mr. Adams, what you are to expect for, if sermons would have gone down, I believe, I will not be vain. But to be concise with you, three bishops said they were the best that ever were writ. But indeed there are a pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold yet. Pray, sir, says Adams, to what do you think the numbers may amount? Sir, answered Barnabas, a bookseller told me he believed five thousand volumes at least. Five thousand, quote the surgeon, what can they be writ upon? I remember when I was a boy, I used to read one Tillitson's sermons, and I am sure if a man practiced half so much as in one of those sermons he will go to heaven. Doctor, cried Barnabas, you have a profane way of talking, for which I must reprove you. A man can never have his duty too frequently inculcated into him. And as for Tillitson, to be sure, he was a good writer and said things very well. But comparisons are odious. Another man may writ as well as he, I believe there are some of my sermons, and then he applied the candle to his pipe. And I believe there are some of my discourses, cries Adams, which the bishops would not think totally unworthy of being printed. And I had been informed I might procure a very large sum, indeed, an immense one on them. I doubt that, answered Barnabas. However, if you desire to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell them by advertising the manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately deceased, all warranted originals and never printed. And now I think of it, I should be obliged to you, if there be ever a funeral one among them, to lend it me. For I am this very day to preach a funeral sermon, for which I have not penned a line, though I am to have a double price. Adams answered he had but one, which he feared would not serve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magistrate who had exerted himself very singularly in the preservation of the morality of his neighbors, in so much that he had neither alehouse nor lewd women in the parish where he lived. No, replied Barnabas, that will not do quite so well. For the deceased, upon whose virtues I am, to harangue, was a little too much addicted to liquor, and publicly kept a mistress. I believe I must take a common sermon, and trust to my memory, to introduce something handsome on him. To your invention, rather, said the doctor, your memory will be after to put you out, for no man living remembers anything good of him. With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied the bowl of punch, paid their reckoning, and separated. Adams and the doctor, who went up to Joseph, parson Barnabas departed to celebrate the aforesaid deceased, and the excise man descended into the cellar to gauge the vessels. Joseph was now ready to sit down to a loin of mutton, and waited for Mr. Adams, when he and the doctor came in. The doctor, having felt his pulse and examined his wounds, declared him much better, which he imputed to that sanative, soporific straft, a medicine whose virtues, he said, were never to be sufficiently extolled. And great indeed they must be, if Joseph was so indebted to them, as the doctor imagined, since nothing more than those of Fluvia, which escaped the cork, could have contributed to his recovery for the medicine had stood untouched in the window ever since its arrival. Joseph passed that day, and the three following, with his friend Adams, in which nothing so remarkable happened as the swift progress of his recovery. As he had an excellent habit of body, his wounds were now almost healed, and his bruises gave him so little uneasiness that he pressed Mr. Adams to let him depart. Told him he should never be able to return sufficient thanks for all his favours, but begged that he might no longer delay his journey to London. Adams, not withstanding the ignorance, as he conceived it, of Mr. Toaus, and the envy, for such he thought it, of Mr. Barnabas had great expectations from his sermons. Seeing, therefore, Joseph in so good a way, he told him he would agree to his setting out the next morning in the stagecoach, that he believed he should have sufficient, after the reckoning paid, to procure him one day's conveyance in it, and afterwards he would be able to get on, on foot, or might be favoured with a lift in some neighbor's wagon, especially as there was to be a fair in the town whether the coach would carry him, to which great numbers from his parish resorted, and, as to himself, he agreed to proceed to the great city. They were now walking in the in-yard, when a fact fair short person rode in, and a lighting from his horse went directly up to Barnabas, who was smoking his pipe on a bench. The parson, and the stranger, shook one another very lovingly by the hand, and went into a room together. The evening, now coming on, Joseph retired to his chamber, whither the good Adams accompanied him, and took this opportunity to expatiate on the great mercy's godhead, lately shown him, of which he ought not only to have the deepest inward sense, but likewise to express outward thankfulness for them. They therefore fell both on their knees, and spent a considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving. They had just finished when Betty came in, and told Mr. Adams Mr. Barnabas desire to speak to him on some business of consequence, below stairs. Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, he would let him know it, that he might go to bed, which Adams promised, and, in that case, they wished one another good night. In the Book 1, chapters 15 and 16, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox.