 Book 1 Chapter 17 and 18 of Joseph Andrews. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding Book 1 Chapter 17 A pleasant discourse between the two Parsons and the bookseller, which was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn, which produced a dialogue between Mrs. Toeaus and her maid of no gentle kind. As soon as Adams came into the room, Mr. Barnabas introduced him to the stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely to deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting the stranger, answered Barnabas that he was very much obliged to him, that nothing could be more convenient, for he had no other business to the great city, and was heartily desirous of returning with the young man, who was just recovered of his misfortune. He then snapped his fingers, as was usual with him, and took two or three turns about the room in an ecstasy. And to induce the bookseller to be as expeditious as possible, as likewise to offer him a better price for his commodity, he assured them their meeting was extremely lucky to himself, for that he had the most pressing occasion for money at that time, his own being almost spent, and having a friend then, in the same end, who was just recovered from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a most indigent condition. So that nothing, says he, could be so opportune for the supplying both our necessities as making an immediate bargain with you. As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in these words. Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engaging in what my friend Mr. Barnabas recommends, but sermons are mere drugs. The trade is so vastly stocked with them, that really, unless they come out with the name of Whitefield, or Ur, Wesley, or some other such great man as a bishop, or those sorts of people, I don't dare to touch. Unless now it was a sermon preached on the thirteenth of January, or we could say in the title page, published at the earnest request of the congregation, or the inhabitants. But truly, for a dry piece of sermons, I had rather be excused, especially as my hands are so full at present. However, as Mr. Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take the manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very short time. Oh, said Adams, if you desire it, I will read two or three discourses as a specimen. This Barnabas, who loved sermons no better than a grosser doth figs, immediately objected to and advised Adams to let the bookseller have his sermons, telling him, if he gave him a direction, he might be certain of a speedy answer, adding, he need not scruple, trusting them in his possession. No, said the bookseller, if it was a play that had been acted twenty nights together, I believe it would be safe. Adams did not at all relish the last expression. He said, he was sorry to hear sermons compared to plays. Not by me, I assure you, cried the bookseller, though I don't know whether the Licensing Act may not shortly bring them to the same footing, but I have formally known a hundred guineas given for a play. For shame for those who gave it, cried Barnabas. Why, so, said the bookseller, for they got hundreds by it. But is there no difference between conveying good or ill instructions to mankind? said Adams, would not an honest mind rather lose money by the one, than game it by the other. If you can find any such, I will not be their hindrance, answered the bookseller. But I think those persons who get by preaching sermons are the properest to lose by printing them. For my part, the copy that sells best will be always the best copy, in my opinion. I am no enemy to sermons, but because they don't sell. Therefore I would assume print one of Whitefield's as any farce, whatever. Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged, says Barnabas. Sir, said he, turning to Adams, this fellow's writings, I know not whether you have seen them, are leveled at the clergy. He would reduce us to the example of the primitive ages for sooth, and would insinuate to the people that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and praying. He pretends to understand the scripture, literally, and would make mankind believe that the poverty and low estate which was recommended to the church in its infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to her under persecution, was to be preserved in her flourishing and established state. Sir, the principles of Taulin, Wilston, and all the free thinkers are not calculated to do half the mischief as those professed by this fellow and his followers. Sir, answered Adams, if Mr. Whitefield had carried his doctrine no farther than you mention, I should have remained, as I once was, his well-wisher. I am myself as great an enemy to the luxury and splendor of the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing state of the church, understand the palaces and equipages, dress, furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes of her ministers. Surely those things which savor so strongly of this world become not the servants of one who professed his kingdom was not of it. But when he began to call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid and set up the detestable doctrine of faith against good works, I was his friend no longer. For surely that doctrine was coined in hell, and one would think none but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach it. For can anything be more derogatory to the honor of God than for men to imagine that the all-wise being will hereafter say to the good and virtuous, notwithstanding the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that constant rule of virtue and goodness in which you walked upon earth, still, as thou didst not believe everything in the true orthodox manner, thy want of faith shall condemn thee, or, on the other side, can any doctrine have a more pernicious influence on society than a persuasion that it will be a good plea for the villain at the last day? Lord, it is true I never obeyed one of thy commandments, yet punish me not, for I believe them all. I suppose, sir, said the bookseller, your sermons are of a different kind. I, sir, says Adams, the contrary. I thank heaven is implicated in almost every page, or I should be lie my own opinion, which hath always been that a virtuous and good Turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the sight of their creator than a vicious and wicked Christian, though his faith was as perfectly orthodox as St. Paul's himself. I wish you success, says the bookseller, but must beg to be excused, as my hands are so very full at present, and indeed I am afraid you will find a backwardness in the trade to engage in a book with the clergy would be certain to cry down. God forbid, says Adams, any book should be propagated, which the clergy would cry down. But if you mean by the clergy some few, designing, factious men who have it at heart to establish some favorite schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence of religion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any book they please. Witness that excellent book called a plain account of the nature and end of the sacrament. A book written, if I may venture on the expression, with the pen of an angel, and calculated to restore the true use of Christianity, and of that sacred institution. For what could tend more to the noble purposes of religion than frequent, cheerful meetings among the members of a society in which they should, in the presence of one another, and in the service of the supreme being, make promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each other? Now this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully. At these words Barnabas fell a ringing with all the violence imaginable upon which a servant attending he bid him bring a bill immediately for that he was in company for ought he knew with the devil himself, and he expected to hear the hour can the Leviathan or Woolston commended if he stayed a few minutes longer. Adams desired as he was so much moved at his mentioning a book which he did without apprehending any possibility of offense that he would be so kind to propose any objections he had to it, which he would endeavor to answer. I propose objections, said Barnabas, I never read a syllable in any such wicked book. I never saw it in my life, I assure you. Adams was going to answer when a most hideous uproar began in the inn. Mrs. Toehouse, Mr. Toehouse, and Betty all lifting up their voices together, but Mrs. Toehouse's voice, like a bass vial in a concert, was clearly and distinctly distinguished among the rest, and was heard to articulate the following sounds. Oh, you damned villain! Is this the return to all the care I have taken to your family? This the reward of my virtue! Is this the manner in which you behave to one who brought you a fortune and preferred you to so many matches? All your betters! To abuse my bed, my own bed with my own servant! But I'll maul the slut, I'll tear her nasty eyes out! Was ever such a pitiful dog to take up such a mean trellop. If she had been a gentle woman, like myself, it had been some excuse, but a beggarly, saucy, dirty servant maid, get you out of my house, you whore! To which she added another name, which we do not care to stain our paper with. It was a monosyllable, beginning with a B. And indeed was the same as if she had pronounced the words she dog, which term we shall to avoid offense use on this occasion, though indeed both the mistress and the maid uttered the above mentioned B, a word extremely disgustful to females of the lower sort. Betty had borne all hitherto with patience, and had uttered only lamentations, but the last appellation stung her to the quick. I am a woman as well as yourself, she roared out, and no, she dog, and if I have been a little naughty I am not the first. If I had been no better than I should be, cries she sobbing, that's no reason you should call me out of my name. My B. are worse than me. Huzzay, huzzay, says Mrs. Tawouse, have you the impudence to answer me? Did I not catch you, you sassy, and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to female ears? I can't bear that name, answered Betty. If I had been wicked, I am to answer for it myself in the other world, but I have done nothing that's unnatural, and I will go out of your house this moment, for I will never be called she dog by any mistress in England. Mrs. Tawouse then armed herself with the spit, which was prevented from executing in a dreadful purpose by Mr. Adams, who confined her arms with the strength of a wrist, which Hercules would not have been ashamed of. Mr. Tawouse being caught, as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no defense to make, very prudently withdrew himself, and Betty committed herself to the protection of the hostler, who, though she could not conceive him pleased with what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather a gentler beast than her mistress. Mrs. Tawouse, at the intercession of Mr. Adams, and finding the enemy vanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usual serenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to the reader the steps which led to a catastrophe common enough and comical enough to, perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and well-being of families, and the subject of many tragedies, both in life and on the stage. The history of Betty, the chambermaid, and an account of what occasioned the violent scene in the preceding chapter. Betty, who was the occasion of all this hurry, had some good qualities. She had good nature, generosity, and compassion, but unfortunately her constitution was composed of those warm ingredients, which, though the purity of courts or nunneries might have happily controlled them, were by no means able to endure the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at an inn, who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers of all complexions, to the dangerous addresses of fine gentlemen of the army, who sometimes are obliged to reside with them a whole year together, and above all are exposed to the caresses of footmen, stagecoachmen, and drawers, all of which employ the whole artillery of kissing, flattering, bribing, and every other weapon, which is to be found in the whole armory of love against them. Betty, who was but one in twenty, had now lived three years in this dangerous situation, during which she had escaped pretty well. An ensign of foot was the first person who made an impression on her heart. He did indeed raise a flame in her, which required the care of a surgeon to cool. While she burnt for him, several others burnt for her. Officers of the army, young gentlemen traveling the western circuit, in offensive squires, and some of graver character, were set afire by her charms, at length having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappy passion. She seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual chastity. She was long deaf to all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a neighboring fair, the rhetoric of John the Hossler, with a new straw hat and a pint of wine, made a second conquest over her. She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this occasion which had been the consequence of her former amoror. Nor indeed those other ill effects which prudent young women very justly apprehend from to absolute an indulgement to the pressing endearments of their lovers. This latter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being entirely constant to John, with whom she permitted Tom Whipwell, the stagecoachman, and now and then a handsome young traveler, to share her favors. Mr. Toaus had for some time cast the languishing eyes of affection on this young maiden. He had laid hold on every opportunity of saying tender things to her, squeezing her by the hand, and sometimes kissing her lips. For as the violence of his passion had considerably abated to Mrs. Toaus, so like water, which is stopped from its usual current in one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs. Toaus is thought to have perceived this abatement, and probably it added very little to the natural sweetness of her temper. For though she was as true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous of being shone on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth. Ever since Joseph's arrival, Betty had conceived an extraordinary liking to him, which discovered itself more and more as he grew better and better, till that fatal evening when, as she was warming his bed, her passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly mastered both her modesty and her reason that, after many fruitless hints and sly insinuations, she at last threw down the warming pan, and embracing him with such eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature she had ever seen. Joseph in great confusion leapt from her, and told her he was sorry to see a young woman cast off all regard to modesty, but she had gone too far to recede, and grew so very indecent that Joseph was obliged, contrary to his inclination to use some violence to her, and taking her in his arms, he shut her out of the room, and locked the door. How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is always in his own power, that if he hath sufficient strength of mind, he hath always a competent strength of body to defend himself, and cannot, like a poor, weak woman, be ravished against his will? Bet he was in the most violent agitation at this disappointment. Rage and lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different ways. One moment she thought of stabbing Joseph, the next of taking him in her arms and devouring him with kisses, but the latter passion was far more prevalent. Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself, but whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death presented himself to her in so many shapes of drowning, hanging, poisoning, etc., that her distracted mind could resolve on none. In this perturbation of spirit it accidentally occurred to her memory that her master's bed was not made. She therefore went directly to his room, where he happened at that time, to be engaged at his bureau. As soon as she saw him, she attempted to retire. But he called her back, and taking her by the hand, squeezed her so tenderly, at the same time whispering so many soft things into her ears, and then pressed her so closely with his kisses that the vanquished fair one, whose passions were already raised, which were not so whimsically capricious that one man only could lay them, though perhaps she would have preferred that one, the vanquished fair one quietly submitted, I say, to her master's will, who had just attained the accomplishment of his bliss when Mrs. Toaus unexpectedly entered the room, and caused all that confusion which we have before seen, and which it is not necessary at present to take any farther notice of. Since without the assistance of a single hint from us, every reader of any speculation or experience, though not married himself, may easily conjecture that it concluded with the discharge of Betty, the submission of Mr. Toaus with some things to be performed on his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness in being reconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any more in the like manner, and lastly, his quietly and contentedly bearing to be reminded of his transgressions as a kind of penance once or twice a day during the residue of his life. End of chapters 17 and 18, and end of book 1, read by denis airs in Modesto, California for LibriVox. Book 2, chapters 1, 2, and 3 of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by denis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding. Book 2, chapter 1 of divisions in authors. There are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades, from the highest to the lowest, from that of prime ministering to this of authoring, which are seldom discovered unless to members of the same calling. Among those used by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of dividing our works into books and chapters to be none of the least considerable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this secret, common readers imagine that by this art of dividing, we mean only to swell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwise be extended to. These several places, therefore, in our paper, which are filled with our books and chapters, are understood as so much buckram stays and stay tape in a tailor's bill, serving only to make up the sum total, commonly found at the bottom of our first page and of his last. But in reality, the case is otherwise, and in this as well as all other instances, we consult the advantage of our reader, not our own. And indeed, many notable uses arise to him from this method. For first, those little spaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn, or resting place, where he may stop and take a glass, or any other refreshment as it pleases him. Nay, our fine readers will, perhaps, be scarce able to travel farther than through one of them in a day. As to those vacant pages, which are placed between our books, they are to be regarded as those stages where, in long journeys, the traveler stays some time to repose himself. And consider of what he hath seen in the parts he hath already passed through. A consideration which I take the liberty to recommend a little to the reader, for however swift his capacity may be, I would not advise him to travel through these pages too fast, for if he doth, he may probably miss the scene some curious productions of nature, which will be observed by the slower and more accurate reader. A volume without any such places of rest resembles the opening of wilds, or seas, which tires the eye, and fatigues the spirit when entered upon. Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter, but so many inscriptions over the gates of inns, to continue the same metaphor, informing the reader what entertainment he is to expect, which, if he likes not, he may travel on to the next, for in biography, as we are not tied down to an exact concatenation equally with other historians. So a chapter or two, for instance, this I am now writing, may be often passed over without any injury to the whole. And in these inscriptions I have been as faithful, as possible, not imitating the celebrated Montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives you another, nor some title page authors who promise a great deal and produce nothing at all. There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several others which our readers enjoy from this art of dividing, though perhaps most of them too mysterious to be presently understood, by any who are not initiated into the science of authoring. To mention, therefore, but one which is most obvious, it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning down its leaves. A method otherwise necessary to those readers who, though they read with great improvement and advantage, are apt when they return to their study after half an hour's absence to forget where they left off. These divisions have the sanction of great antiquity. Homer not only divided his great work into twenty-four books, in complement perhaps to the twenty-four letters to which he had very particular obligations, but, according to the opinion of some very sagacious critics, hawked them all separately, delivering only one book at a time, probably by subscription. He was the first inventor of the art which hath so long lain dormant of publishing by numbers. An art now brought to such perfection that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited piecemeal to the public. Nay, one bookseller hath to encourage learning and ease the public, can thrive to give them a dictionary in this divided manner for only fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire. Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books an argument of his modesty, for by that doubtless he would insinuate that he pretends to know more than half the merit of the Greek. For the same reason, our Milton went originally no farther than ten till being puffed up by the praise of his friends he put himself on the same footing with the Roman poet. I shall not, however, enter so deep into this matter as some very learned critics have done who have with infinite labor and acute discernment discovered what books are proper for embellishment and what require simplicity only, particularly with regard to similes which I think are now generally agreed to become any book but the first. I will dismiss this chapter with the following observation that it becomes an author generally to divide a book as it does a butcher to joint his meat. For such assistance is of great help to both the reader and the carver. And now, having indulged myself a little, I will endeavor to indulge the curiosity of my reader who is no doubt impatient to know what he will find in the subsequent chapters of this book. Chapter 2 A surprising instance of Mr. Adams' short memory with the unfortunate consequences which it brought on Joseph. Mr. Adams and Joseph were now ready to depart different ways when an accident determined the former to return with his friend, which Toe-Wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been able to do. This accident was that those sermons which the parson was traveling to London to publish were, oh my good reader, left behind. What he had mistaken for them in the saddlebags being, no other than three shirts, a pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, which Mrs. Adams, who thought her husband would want shirts more than sermons on his journey, had carefully provided him. This discovery was now, luckily, owing to the presence of Joseph at the opening the saddlebags, who, having heard his friend say he carried with him nine volumes of sermons and not being of that sect of philosophers who can reduce all the matter of the world into a nutshell, seeing there was no room for them in the bags where the parson had said they were deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, Bless me, sir, where are your sermons? The parson answered, there they are, child, there they are under my shirts. Now it happened that he had taken forth his last shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty. Sure, sir, says Joseph, there is nothing in the bags, upon which Adams, starting, and testifying some surprise, cried, hey, thigh, thigh upon it, they are not here, sure enough, I, they are certainly left behind. Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he apprehended. His friend must feel from this disappointment. He begged him to pursue his journey, and promised he would himself return with the books to him with the utmost expedition. No, thank you, child, answered Adams, it shall not be so. What would it avail me to tarry in the great city, unless I had my discourses with me? Which are, at itadikim, the sole cause, the aitie monotate of my peregrination. No, child, as this accident hath happened, I am resolved to return back to my cure, together with you, which indeed my inclination sufficiently leads me to. This disappointment may perhaps be intended for my good, he concluded with a verse out of theocratis, which signifies no more than that sometimes it rains, and sometimes the sun shines. Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the inclination which the parson expressed of returning with him. And now the bill was called for, which, on examination, amounted within a shilling to the sum Mr. Adams had in his pocket. Perhaps the reader may wonder how he was able to produce a sufficient sum for so many days that he may not be surprised, therefore it cannot be unnecessary to acquaint him that he had borrowed a guinea of a servant belonging to the coach and six, which had been formerly one of his parishioners, and whose master, the owner of the coach, then lived within three miles of him. For so good was the credit of Mr. Adams that even Mr. Peter, the lady boobies steward, would have lent him a guinea with very little security. Mr. Adams discharged the bill and they were both setting out, having agreed to ride and tie, a method of traveling much used by persons who have but one horse between them, and is thus performed. The two travelers set out together, one on horseback, the other on foot. Now, as it generally happens, that he on horseback out goes him on foot. The custom is that when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is to dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other thing, and then proceed on foot. When the other comes up to the horse, he unties him, mounts, and gallops on, till having passed by his fellow traveler, he likewise arrives at the place of tying. And this is that method of traveling so much in use among our prudent ancestors, who knew that horses had mouths as well as legs, and that they could not use the latter without being at the expense of suffering the beast themselves to use the former. This was the method in use in those days when, instead of a coach and six, a member of parliament's lady used to mount a pillion behind her husband, and a grave sergeant at law condescended to amble to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk kicking his heels behind him. Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted on Joseph's beginning the journey on horseback, and Joseph had his foot in the stirrup when the hustler presented him a bill for the horse's board during his residence at the inn. Joseph said Mr. Adams had paid all, but this matter, being referred to Mr. Towouse, was by him decided in favour of the hustler, and indeed with truth and justice, for this was a fresh instance of that shortness of memory which did not arise from want of parts, but that continual hurry in which parson Adams was always involved. Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely puzzled him. The sum due for the horse-meat was twelve shillings, for Adams, who had borrowed the beast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as well as they could feed him, and the cash in his pocket amounted to six pints, for Adams had divided the last shilling with him. Now though there have been some ingenious persons who have contrived to pay twelve shillings with six pints, Joseph was not one of them. He had never contracted a debt in his life, and was, consequently, the less ready, at an expedient, to extricate himself. Towouse was willing to give him credit till next time, to which Mrs. Towouse would probably have consented, for such was Joseph's beauty that it had made some impression even on that piece of flint which that good woman wore in her bosom by way of heart. Joseph would have found, therefore, very likely the passage free, had he not, when he honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out that little piece of gold which we had mentioned before. This caused Mrs. Towouse's eyes to water. He told Joseph she did not conceive a man could want money while he had gold in his pocket. Joseph answered he had such a value for that little piece of gold that he would not part with it for a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquire in the country was worth. The pretty way, indeed, said Mrs. Towouse, to run in debt and then refuse to part with your money, because you have a value for it. I never knew any piece of gold of more value than as many shillings as it would change for, not to preserve my life from starving, nor to redeem it from a robber would I part with this dear piece. Answered Joseph. What, says Mrs. Towouse, I suppose it was given you by some vile trellop, some miss or other. If it had been the present of a virtuous woman you would not have had such a value for it. My husband is a fool if he parts with the horse without being paid for him. No, no, I can't part with the horse, indeed, till I have the money, cried Towouse. A resolution highly commended by a lawyer then in the yard who declared Mr. Towouse might justify the detainer. As we cannot therefore at present get Mr. Joseph out of the inn, we shall leave him in it and carry our reader on after person Adams, who, his mind being perfectly at ease, fell into a contemplation on a passage in Escalus, which entertained him for three miles together without suffering him once to reflect on his fellow traveler. At length, having spun out his thread and being now at the summit of a hill, he cast his eyes backwards and wondered that he could not see any sign of Joseph. As he left him ready to mount the horse, he could not apprehend any mischief had happened. Neither could he suspect that he missed his way, it being so broad and plain. The only reason which presented itself to him was that he had met with an acquaintance who had prevailed with him to delay some time in discourse. He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not doubting but that he would be shortly overtaken, and soon came to a large water, which, filling the whole road, he saw no method of passing unless by wading through, which he accordingly did, up to his middle, but was no sooner got to the other side than he perceived if he had looked over the hedge he would have found a footpath capable of conducting him without wetting his shoes. His surprise at Joseph's not coming up grew now very troublesome. He began to fear he knew not what, and as he determined to move no farther, and if he did not shortly overtake him to return back, he wished to find a house of public entertainment where he might dry his clothes and refresh himself with a pint. But seeing no such, for no other reason than because he did not cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards, he sat himself down on a stile and pulled out his escalus. A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him if he could direct him to an ale house. The fellow who had just left it, and perceived the house and signed to be within sight, making he had jeered him, and being of a morose temper, bade him follow his nose, and be de-blank end. Adams told him he was a saucy jack-a-n-ape's, upon which the fellow turned about angrily, but perceiving Adams clenched his fist, he thought proper to go on, without taking any farther notice. A horseman, following immediately after, and being asked the same question, answered, Friend, there is one within a stone's throw. I believe you may see it before you. Adams, lifting up his eyes, cried, I protest, and so there is, and thanking his informer, proceeded directly to it. The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, with Mr. Adams' inquiry into the religion of his host. He had just entered the house, and called for his pint, and seated himself, when two horsemen came to the door, and, fascinating their horses to the rails, alighted. They said there was a violent shower of rain coming on, which they intended to weather there, and went into a little room by themselves, not perceiving Mr. Adams. One of these immediately asked the other if he had seen a more comical adventure, a great while. On which the other said, he doubted whether, by law, the landlord could justify detaining the horse for his corn and hay, but the former answered, Undoubtedly he can. It is in a judged case, and I have known it tried. Adams, who, though he was, as the reader may suspect, a little inclined to forgetfulness, ever wanted more than a hint to remind him, overhearing their discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this was his own horse, and that he had forgot to pay for him, which upon inquiry he was certified of by the gentleman, who added that the horse was likely to have more rest than food, unless he was paid for. The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, though he knew no more than Joseph how to procure his horse his liberty. He was, however, prevailed on to stay under cover, till the shower, which was now very violent, was over. The three travelers then sat down together over a mug of good beer. Then Adams, who had observed a gentleman's house as he passed along the road, inquired to whom it belonged. One of the horsemen had no sooner mentioned the owner's name than the other began to revile him in the most appropriate terms. The English language scarce affords a single reproachful word which he did not vent on this occasion. He charged him likewise with many particular facts. He said, he no more regarded a field of wheat when he was hunting than he did the highway, that he had injured several poor farmers by trampling their corn under his horse's heels, and if any of them begged him with the utmost submission to refrain, his horse whip was always ready to do them justice. He said, that he was the greatest tyrant to the neighbors in every other instance, and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though he might justify it by law, and in his own family so cruel a master that he never kept a servant a twelve month. In his capacity as a justice, continued he, he behaves so partially that he commits or acquits just as he is in the humor without any regard to truth or evidence. The devil may carry anyone before him for me. I would rather be tried before some judges than be a prosecutor before him. If I had an estate in the neighborhood, I would sell it for half the value, rather than live near him. Adams shook his head and said, he was sorry such men were suffered to proceed with impunity, and that riches could set any man above the law. The reviler, a little after, retiring into the yard, the gentleman who had first mentioned his name to Adams, began to assure him that his companion was a prejudiced person. It is true, says he, perhaps that he may have sometimes pursued his game over a field of corn, but he hath always made the party ample satisfaction. That so far from tyrannizing over his neighbors or taking away their guns, he himself knew several farmers not qualified, who not only kept guns, but killed game with them. That he was the best of masters to his servants, and several of them had grown old in his service, that he was the best justice of peace in the kingdom, and to his certain knowledge had decided many difficult points, which were referred to him with the greatest equity and the highest wisdom, and he verily believed several persons would give a year's purchase more for an estate near him, than under the wings of any other great man. He had just finished his encomium, when his companion returned, and acquainted him the storm was over, upon which they presently mounted their horses, and departed. Once who was in the utmost anxiety at those different characters of the same person asked his host if he knew the gentleman, for he began to imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two several gentlemen. No, no, master answered the host a shrewd cunning fellow. I know the gentleman very well of whom they have been speaking, as I do the gentleman who spoke of him. As for riding over other men's corn, to my knowledge he hath not been on horseback these two years. I never heard he did any injury of that kind, and as to making reparation he is not so free of his money, as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear of his taking away any man's gun. Nay, I know several who have guns in their houses, but as for killing game with them, no man is stricter, and I believe he would ruin any who did. You heard one of the gentlemen say he was the worst master in the world, and the other that he is the best. But for my own part I know all his servants, and never heard from any of them that he was either one or the other. I, I, says Adams, and how doth he behave as a justice, pray. Faith, friend, answered the host, I questioned whether he is in the commission. The only cause I have heard he hath decided a great while, was one between those very two persons who just went out of this house, and I am sure he determined that justly, for I heard the whole matter. Which did he decide in favor of, quote Adams? I think I need not answer that question, cried the host. Under the different characters you have heard of him. It is not my business to contradict gentlemen while they are drinking in my house. But I knew neither of them spoke a syllable of truth. God forbid, said Adams, that men should arrive at such a pitch of wickedness to belie the character of their neighbor from a little private affection, or what is infinitely worse, a private spite. I rather believe we have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons, for there are many houses on the road. Why, pretty friend, cries the host, doth thou pretend never to have told a lie in thy life? Never, a malicious one, I am certain, answered Adams, nor with a design to injure the reputation of any man living. Puh, malicious, no, no, replied the host, not malicious, with a design to hang a man, or bring him into trouble, but surely out of love to oneself one must speak better of a friend than an enemy. Out of love to yourself, you should confine yourself to truth, says Adams, for by doing otherwise you injure the noblest part of yourself, your immortal soul. I can hardly believe any man such an idiot to risk the loss of that by any trifling gain. And the greatest gain in this world is but dirt in comparison of what shall be revealed hereafter. Upon which the host, taking up the cup with a smile, drank a health to hereafter, adding, he was for something present. Why, says Adams very gravely, do you not believe another world? To which the host answered, yes, he was no atheist. And you believe you have an immortal soul, cries Adams. He answered, God forbid he should not. And heaven and hell, said the person. The host then bid him not to profane, for those were things not to be mentioned, nor thought of, but in church. Adams asked him why he went to church if what he learned there had no influence on his conduct in life. I go to church, answered the host, to say my prayers and behave godly. And dost not thou, cried Adams, believe what thou hearst at church, most part of it, master, returned the host. And dost thou not then tremble, cries Adams, at the thought of eternal punishment. As for that, master, said he, I never once thought about it. But what signifies talking about matters so far off? The mug is out, shall I draw another? Once he was going for that purpose, a stagecoach drove up to the door. The coachman, coming into the house, was asked by the mistress what passengers he had in his coach. A parcel of squinny, gut, be blanks, says he. I have a good mind to overturn them. You won't prevail upon them to drink anything, I assure you. Adams asked him if he had not seen a young man on horseback on the road, describing Joseph. I, said the coachman, a gentle woman in my coach that is his acquaintance, redeemed him and his horse. He would have been here before this time had not the storm driven him to shelter. God bless her, said Adams, in a rapture. Nor could he delay walking out to satisfy himself who this charitable woman was. But what was his surprise? When he saw his old acquaintance, madam, slip-slop. Hers, indeed, was not so great, because she had been informed by Joseph that he was on the road. Very civil were these salutations on both sides. And Mrs. Slipslop rebuked the hostess for denying the gentleman to be there when she asked for him. But indeed the poor woman had not erred designedly. For Mrs. Slipslop asked for a clergyman, and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a person traveling to a neighboring fair with the thimble and button, or some other such operation. For he marched in a swinging great but short white coat with black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, so far from having a black hat band, had nothing black about it. Joseph was now come up, and Mrs. Slipslop would have had him quit his horse to the parson and come himself into the coach. But he absolutely refused, saying he thanked heaven, he was well enough recovered to be very able to ride, and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to ride in a coach while Mr. Adams was on horseback. Mrs. Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a lady in the coach put a short end to the dispute by refusing to suffer a fellow in a livery to ride in the same coach with herself. So it was at length agreed that Adams should fill the vacant place in the coach, and Joseph should proceed on horseback. They had not proceeded far before Mrs. Slipslop, addressing herself to the parson, spoke thus. There hath been a strange alteration in our family, Mr. Adams, since Sir Thomas's death. A strange alteration indeed, says Adams, as I gather from some hints which have dropped from Joseph. I, says she, I could never hath believed it, but the longer one lives in the world, the more one sees. So Joseph hath given you hints, but of what nature will always remain a perfect secret with me, cries the parson. He forced me to promise before he would communicate anything. I am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behave in so unbecoming a manner. I always thought her, in the main, a good lady, and should never have suspected her, of thoughts so unworthy a Christian, and with a young lad her own servant. These things are no secrets to me, I assure you, cries Slipslop. And I believe they will be none anywhere shortly, for ever since the boy's departure she hath behaved more like a mad woman than anything else. Truly I am heartily concerned, says Adams, for she was a good sort of a lady. Indeed I have often wished she had attended a little more constantly at the service, but she hath done a great deal of good in the parish. Oh, Mr. Adams, says Slipslop, people that don't see all often know nothing. Many things have been given away in our family, I do assure you, without her knowledge. I have heard you say, in the pulpit, we ought not to brag. But indeed I can't avoid saying, if she had kept the keys herself, the poor would have wanted many a cordial, which I have let them have. As for my late master, he was as worthy a man as ever lived, and would have done infinite good if he had not been controlled. But he loved a quiet life, heaven rest his soul. I am confident he is there, and enjoys a quiet life, which some folks would not allow him here. Adams answered, he had never heard this before, and was mistaken if she herself, for he remembered she used to commend her mistress, and blame her master, had not formerly been of another opinion. I don't know, replied she, what I might once think. But now I am confidence. Matters are, as I tell you, the world will shortly see who hath been deceived. For my part I say nothing, but that it is wondrous how some people can carry all things with a grave face. Thus Mr. Adams and she discoursed, till they came opposite to a great house, which stood at some distance from the road. A lady and the coach, spying it, cried, yonder lives the unfortunate Leonora, if one can justly call a woman unfortunate, whom we must own, at the same time guilty, and the author of her own calamity. This was abundantly sufficient to awaken the curiosity of Mr. Adams, as indeed it did that of the whole company, who jointly solicited the lady to acquaint them with Leonora's history, since, it seemed, by what she had said to contain something remarkable. The lady, who was perfectly well bred, did not require many entreaties, and having only wished their entertainment might make amends for the company's attention, she began in the following manner. End of book two, chapters one, two, and three. Read by Dennis Sares in Modesto, California for LibriVox.