 Book Two, Chapter Four of Joseph Andrews. Book Two, Chapter Four. The History of Leonora, or the Unfortunate Jilt. Leonora was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune. She was tall and well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance, which often attracts beyond more regular features, joined with an insipid air. Nor is this kind of beauty less apt to deceive than allure, the good humor which it indicates being often mistaken for good nature, and the vivacity for true understanding Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with an aunt of hers in a town in the north of England. She was an extreme lover of gaiety, and very rarely missed a ball or any other public assembly, where she had frequent opportunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity with the preference which was given her by the men to almost every other woman present. Among many young fellows who were particular in their gallantries towards her, Horatio soon distinguished himself in her eyes beyond all his competitors. She danced with more than ordinary gaiety when he happened to be her partner. After the fairness of the evening, Nor the music of the nightingale could lengthen her walk like his company. She effected no longer to understand the civilities of others, whilst she inclined so attentive in ear to every compliment of Horatio that she often smiled even when it was too delicate for her comprehension. Pray, madam, says Adams, who was this squire Horatio? Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of a good family, bred to the law, and had been some few years called to the degree of a barrister. His face and person were such as the generality allowed handsome, but he had a dignity in his air very rarely to be seen. His temper was of the Saturnine complexion, and without the least taint of moroseness. He had wit and humor with an inclination to satire which he indulged rather too much. This gentleman, who had contracted the most violent passion for Leonora, was the last person who perceived the probability of its success. The whole town had made the match for him before he himself had drawn a confidence from her actions sufficient to mention his passion to her. For it was his opinion, and perhaps he was there in the right, that it is highly impolitic to talk seriously of love to a woman before you have made such a progress in her affections that she herself expects and desires to hear it. But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may create, which are apt to magnify every favor conferred on a rival, and to see the little advances towards themselves through the other end of the perspective, it was impossible that Horatio's passion should so blind his discernment as to prevent his conceiving hopes from the behavior of Leonora, whose fondness for him was now as visible to an indifferent person in their company as his for her. I never knew any of these forward sluts come to good, says the lady who refused Joseph's entrance into the coach, nor shall I wonder at any thing she doth in the sequel. The lady proceeded in her story thus. It was in the midst of a gay conversation in the walks one evening when Horatio whispered, Leonora, that he was desirous to take a turn or two with her in private, for that he had something to communicate to her of great consequence. Are you sure it is of consequence? said she, smiling. I hope, answered he, you will think so too, since the whole future happiness of my life must depend on the event. Leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, would have deferred it till another time, but Horatio, who had more than half conquered the difficulty of speaking by the first motion, was so very importunate that she at last yielded, and leaving the rest of the company they turned aside into an unfrequented walk. They had retired far out of the sight of the company, both maintaining a strict silence. At last Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leonora, who stood pale and trembling gently by the hand, he fetched a deep sigh, and then, looking on her eyes with all the tenderness imaginable, he cried out in a faltering accent, oh Leonora, is it necessary for me to declare to you on what the future happiness of my life must be founded? Must I say there is something belonging to you, which is a bar to my happiness, and which, unless you will part with it, I must be miserable? What can that be? replied Leonora. No wonder, said he, you are surprised that I should make an objection to anything which is yours, yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the riches of the world, if they were mine, should purchase for me. Oh, it is that which you must part with to bestow all the rest. Can Leonora, or rather, will she doubt longer? Let me then whisper it in her ears. It is your name, madam. It is, by parting with that, by your condescension to be for ever mine, which must at once prevent me from being the most miserable, and will render me the happiest of mankind. Leonora, covered with blushes and with as angry a look as she could possibly put on, told him that had she suspected what his declaration would have been, he should not have decoyed her from her company, that he had so surprised and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her back as quick as possible, which he, trembling very near as much as herself, did. More fool, he cried slip-slop. It is a sign he knew very little of our sect. Truly, madam, said Adams, I think you are in the right. I should have insisted to know a piece of her mind when I had carried matters so far. But Mrs. Grave Ayres desired the lady to omit all such fulsome stuff in her story, for that it made her sick. Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, said the lady, many weeks had not passed after this interview, before Horatio and Leonora were what they call on a good footing together. All ceremonies except the last were now over, the writings were now drawn, and everything was in the utmost forwardness, preparative to the putting Horatio in possession of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a letter from each of them, which I have got by heart, and which will give you no small idea of their passion on both sides. Mrs. Grave Ayres objected to hearing these letters, but being put to the vote it was carried against her by all the rest in the coach, parson Adams contending for it with the utmost vehemence. Horatio to Leonora. How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of pleasure in the absence of an object to which the mind is entirely devoted, unless it have some relation to that object. I was last night condemned to the society of men of wit and learning, which, however agreeable it might have formally been to me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputed my absence in conversation to the true cause. For which reason, when your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of seeing you, I am always desirous to be alone, since my sentiments for Leonora are so delicate, that I cannot bear the apprehension of another's prying into those delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a lover will sometimes indulge him, and which I suspect my eyes then betray. To fear this discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too ridiculous a nicety to minds not susceptible of all the tendernesses of this delicate passion, and surely we shall suspect there are few such when we consider that it requires every human virtue to exert itself in its full extent. Since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, may give us charming opportunities of being brave in her defense, generous to her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grateful to her kindness, and in the same manner of exercising every other virtue which he who would not do to any degree, and that with the utmost rapture, can never deserve the name of a lover, it is, therefore, with a view to the delicate modesty of your mind that I cultivated so purely in my own, and it is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the uneasiness I bear from these liberties, which men to whom the world allow politeness will sometimes give themselves on these occasions. Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival of that blessed day, when I shall experience the falsehood of a common assertion that the greatest human happiness consists in hope? A doctrine which no person had ever stronger reason to believe than myself at present, since none ever tasted such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts of spending my future days with such a companion, and that every action of my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conducing to your happiness. The Enora to Horatio. Footnote, this letter was written by a young lady on reading the former. The refinement of your mind has been so evidently proved by every word and action, ever since I had the first pleasure of knowing you, that I thought it impossible my good opinion of Horatio could have been heightened to any additional proof of merit. This very thought was my amusement when I received your last letter, which when I opened I confess I was surprised to find the delicate sentiments expressed there so far exceeding what I thought could come even from you, although I know all the generous principles human nature is capable of are centered in your breast. That words cannot paint what I feel on the reflection that my happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your actions. Oh Horatio, what a life must that be, where the meanest domestic cares are sweetened by the pleasing consideration that the man on earth who best deserves and to whom you are most inclined to give your affections is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do. In such a case, toils must be turned into diversions, and nothing but the unavoidable inconveniences of life can make us remember that we are mortal. If the solitary turn of your thoughts and the desire of keeping them undiscovered makes even the conversation of men of wit and learning tedious to you, what anxious hours must I spend who am condemned by custom to the conversation of women whose natural curiosity leads them to pry into all my thoughts and whose envy can never suffer Horatio's heart to be possessed by anyone without forcing them into malicious designs against the person who is so happy as to possess it. But indeed, if ever envy can possibly have any excuse or even alleviation, it is in this case where the good is so great and it must be equally natural to all to wish it for themselves, nor am I ashamed to own it and to your merit Horatio, I am obliged, that prevents my being in that most uneasy of all the situations I can figure in my imagination of being led by inclination to love the person whom my own judgment forces me to condemn. Matters were in so great forwardness between this fond couple that the day was fixed for their marriage and was now within a fortnight, when the sessions, the chance to be held for that county in a town about twenty miles distance from that which is the scene of our story. It seems it is usual for the young gentleman of the bar to repair to these sessions not so much for the sake of profit as to show their parts and learn the law of the justices of peace, for which purpose one of the wisest and gravest of all the justices is appointed speaker or chairman, as they modestly call it, and he reads them a lecture and instructs them in the true knowledge of the law. You are guilty here of a little mistake, says Adams, which if you please I will correct. I have attended at one of these quarter sessions where I observe the counsel taught the justices, instead of learning anything of them. It is not very material, said the lady. Hither repaired Horatio, who as he hoped by his profession to advance his fortune, which was not at present very large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, he resolved to spare no pains nor lose any opportunity of improving or advancing himself in it. The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora stood at her window, a coach and six passed by, which she declared to be the completest, genteelist, prettiest echipage she ever saw. Adding these remarkable words, oh, I am in love with that echipage, which, though her friend Florella at that time did not greatly regard, she had since remembered. In the evening an assembly was held, which Leonora honored with her company, but intended to pay her dear Horatio the compliment of refusing to dance in his absence. Oh, why have not women as good resolution to maintain their vows as they have often good inclinations in making them? The gentleman who owned the coach and six came to the assembly. His clothes were as remarkably fine as his echipage could be. He soon attracted the eyes of the company. All the smarts, all the silk whiskets with silver and gold edgings were eclipsed in an instant. Madam, said Adams, if it be not impertinent, I should be glad to know how this gentleman was dressed. Sir, answered the lady, I had been told he had on a cut velvet coat of a cinnamon color lined with a pink satine embroidered all over with gold. His waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was embroidered with gold likewise. I cannot be particular as to the rest of his dress, but it was all in the French fashion, for Bellarmine, that was his name, was just arrived from Paris. This fine figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of every lady in the assembly than Leonora did his. He had scarce beheld her, but he stood motionless and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done so good if good breeding had permitted him. However, he carried it so far before he had power to correct himself that every person in the room easily discovered where his admiration was settled. The other ladies began to single out their former partners, all perceiving who would be Bellarmine's choice, which they, however, endeavored by all possible means to prevent. Many of them saying to Leonora, Oh, madam, I suppose we shan't have the pleasure of seeing you dance tonight, and then crying out in Bellarmine's hearing, Oh, Leonora will not dance, I assure you. Her partner is not here. One maliciously attempted to prevent her by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her that so she might be obliged either to dance with him or sit down. But this game proved abortive. Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger and envied by every woman present. Her little heart began to flutter within her, and her head was agitated with a convulsive motion. She seemed as if she would speak to several of her acquaintance, but had nothing to say. For, as she would not mention, her present triumph, so she could not disengage her thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. She had never tasted anything like this happiness. She had before known what it was to torment a single woman, but to be hated and secretly cursed by her, a whole assembly was a joy reserved for this blessed moment. As this vast profusion of ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there was nothing so foolish as her behavior, she played a thousand childish tricks, distorted her person into several shapes, and her face into several laughs, without any reason. In a word, her carriage was as absurd as her desires, which were to affect an insensibility of the stranger's admiration, and at the same time a triumph from that admiration over every woman in the room. In this temper of mine, Bellarmine, who inquired who she was, advanced to her, and with a low bow, begged the honour of dancing with her, which she, with as low a curtsy, immediately granted. She danced with him all night, and enjoyed, perhaps, the highest pleasure that she was capable of feeling. At these words Adams fetched a deep groan, which frightened the ladies, who told him, they hoped he was not ill. He answered, he groaned only for the folly of Leonora. Leonora retired, continued the lady, about six in the morning, but not to rest. She tumbled and tossed in her bed, with very short intervals of sleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage and fine clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas and ridotos, which had been the subject of their conversation. In the afternoon a Bellarmine, in the dear coach and six, came to wait on her. He was indeed charmed with her person, and was, on inquiry, so well pleased with the circumstances of her father, for he himself, notwithstanding all his finery, was not quite so rich as a croce or an atollus. A tollus, says Mr. Adams, but pray, how came you acquainted with these names? The lady smiled at his suggestion and proceeded. He was so pleased, I say, that he resolved to make his addresses to her directly. He did so, accordingly, and that with so much warmth and bristness, that he quickly baffled her weak impulses, and obliged the lady to refer him to her father, who she knew would quickly declare in favor of a coach and six. Thus, what Horatio had by size, and tears, love and tenderness, been so long obtaining the French-English Bellarmine, with gaiety and gallantry possessed himself of, in an instant. In other words, what modesty had employed a full year in raising impudence demolished in twenty-four hours. Here Adams groaned a second time, but the ladies, who began to smoke him, took no notice. From the opening of the assembly, till the end of Bellarmine's visit, Leonora had scarce once thought of Horatio, but he now began, though an unwelcome guest, to enter into her mind. She wished she had seen the charming Bellarmine and his charming equipage before matters had gone so far. Yet why, says she, should I wish to have seen him before, or what signifies it that I have seen him now? Is not Horatio my lover, almost my husband? Is he not as handsome, nay, handsomer than Bellarmine? Aye, but Bellarmine is the gentler and the finer man. Yes, that must be allowed. Yes, yes, he is that, certainly. But did not I, no longer ago than yesterday, love Horatio more than all the world? Aye, but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine, but doth not Horatio doubt on me, and may he not in despair break his heart if I abandon him? Well, and hath not Bellarmine a heart to break too? Yes, but I promised Horatio first, but that was poor Bellarmine's misfortune. If I had seen him first, I should certainly have preferred him. Did not the dear creature prefer me to every woman in the assembly when every she was laying out for him? When was it in Horatio's power to give me such an instance of affection? Can he give me an equipage, or any of those things which Bellarmine will make me mistress of? How vast is the difference between being the wife of a poor counselor and the wife of one of Bellarmine's fortune? If I marry Horatio, I shall triumph over no more than one rival, but by marrying Bellarmine I shall be the envy of all my acquaintance. What happiness! But can I suffer Horatio to die, for he has sworn he cannot survive my loss? But perhaps he may not die. If he should, can I prevent it? Must I sacrifice myself to him? Besides, Bellarmine may be as miserable for me too. She was thus arguing with herself when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a little relieved her anxiety for the present. The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in presence of her aunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his passion for Leonora. He was no sooner withdrawn than the old lady began to advise her niece on this occasion. You see, child, says she, what fortune hath thrown in your way, and I hope you will not withstand your own preferment. Leonora, sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing when she knew her engagements to her ratio. Engagements to a fig! cried the aunt. You should thank heaven on your knees that you have it yet in your power to break them. Will any woman hesitate a moment, whether she shall ride in a coach, or walk on foot all the days of her life? But Bellarmine drives six, and Horatio not even a pair. Yes, but, madam, what will the world say? answered Leonora. Will not they condemn me? The world is always on the side of prudence, prized the aunt, and would surely condemn you if you sacrificed your entrance to any motive whatever. Oh, I know the world very well, and you show your ignorance, my dear, by your objection. Oh, my conscience, the world is wiser. I have lived longer in it than you, and I assure you there is not anything worth our regard besides money. Nor did I ever know one person who married from other considerations who did not afterwards heartily repentant. Besides, if we examine the two men, can you prefer a sneaking fellow who has been bred at the university to a fine gentleman just come from his travels? All the world must allow Bellarmine to be a fine gentleman, positively a fine gentleman, and a handsome man. Perhaps, madam, I should not doubt if I knew how to be handsomely off with the other. Oh, leave that to me, says the aunt. You know your father has not been acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for my part, I thought it might do well enough, not dreaming of such an offer, but I'll disengage you. Leave me to give the fellow an answer. I warrant it, and you shall have no farther trouble. Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's reason. And Bellarmine, supping with her that evening, it was agreed he should, the next morning, go to her father and propose the match, which she consented should be consummated at his return. The aunt retired soon after supper, and the lovers being left together, Bellarmine began in the following manner. Yes, madam, this coat, I assure you, was made at Paris, and I defy the best English tailor even to imitate it. There is not one of them can cut, madam. They can't cut. If you observe how this skirt is turned and this sleeve, a clumsy English rascal, can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you like my liveries? Leonora answered. She thought them very pretty. All French, says he. I assure you, except the great coats. I never trust anything more than a great coat to an Englishman. You know, one must encourage our own people what one can, especially as, before I had a place, I was in the country interest. But for myself, I would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear a single rag of English work about me. And I am sure after you have made one tour to Paris, you will be of the same opinion with regard to your own clothes. You can't conceive what an addition a French dress would be to your beauty. I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chamber maids. He he he he. With such sort of polite discourse did the gay Bellarmine entertain his beloved Leonora when the door opened on a sudden and Horatio entered the room. Here it is impossible to express the surprise of Leonora. Bore woman, says Mrs. Slipslop. What a quandary she must be in. Not at all, says Mrs. Grave-Ares. Such sluts can never be confounded. She must have then more than Corinthian assurance, said Adams. I, more than Laos herself. A long silence continued the lady, prevailed in the whole company. If the familiar entrance of Horatio struck the greatest astonishment into Bellarmine, the unexpected presence of Bellarmine no less surprised Horatio. At length Leonora, collecting all the spirit she was mistress of, addressed herself to the latter and pretended to wonder at the reason of so late a visit. I should indeed, answered he, have made some apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not my finding you in company assured me I do not break in upon your repose. Bellarmine rose from his chair, traversed the room in a minuet, step and hummed and opera-tuned, while Horatio, advancing to Leonora, asked her in a whisper if that gentleman was not a relation of hers, to which she answered with a smile, or rather sneer, no, he is no relation of mind yet, adding she could not guess the meaning of his question. Horatio told her softly, it did not arise from jealousy. Jealousy, I assured you, it would be very strange in a common acquaintance to give himself any of those errors. These words a little surprised Horatio, but before he had time to answer Bellarmine danced up to the lady and told her, he feared he interrupted some business between her and the gentleman, I can have no business, said she, with the gentleman nor any other which need be any secret to you. You'll pardon me, said Horatio, if I desire to know who this gentleman is, who is to be entrusted with all our secrets. You'll know soon enough, cries Leonora, but I can't guess what secrets can ever pass between us of such mighty consequence. No, madam, cries Horatio, I am sure you would not have me understand you in earnest. It is indifferent to me, says she, how you understand me, but I think so unseasonable of visit is difficult to be understood at all, at least when people find one engaged, though one's servants do not deny one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon take the hint. Madam, said Horatio, I did not imagine any engagement with a stranger, as it seems this gentleman is, would have made my visit impertinent, or that any such ceremonies were to be preserved between persons in our situation. Sure, you are in a dream, says she, or would persuade me that I am in one. I know, no pretensions, a common acquaintance can have to lay aside these ceremonies of good breeding. Sure, said he, I am in a dream for, it is impossible I should be really esteemed a common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has passed between us. Pass it between us, do you intend to affront me before this gentleman? D. Blank and me, affront the lady, says Bellarmine, cocking his hat and strutting up to Horatio. Does any man dare affront this lady before me, D. Blank and me? Harty, sir, says Horatio, I would advise you to lay aside that fierce air, for I am mightily deceived if this lady has not a violent desire to get your worship a good drubbing. Sir, said Bellarmine, I have the honor to be her protector, and D. Blank and me, if I understand your meaning. Sir, answered Horatio, she is rather your protectress, but give yourself no more errors, for you see, I am prepared for you, shaking his whip at him. Oh, servitude tray ombre, says Bellarmine, je vous entends parfaitement. At which time the aunt, who had heard of Horatio's visit, entered the room, and soon satisfied all his doubts, she convinced him that he was never more awake in his life, and that nothing more extraordinary had happened in his three days absence than a small alteration in the affections of Leonora, who now burst into tears and wondered what reason she had given him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desired Bellarmine to withdraw with him, but the ladies prevented it by laying violent hands on the latter, upon which the former took his leave, without any ceremony, and departed, leaving the lady with his rival to consult for his safety, which Leonora feared her in discretion might have endangered. But the aunt comforted her with assurances that Horatio would not venture his person against so accomplished a cavalier as Bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge in his own way, and the most they had to apprehend from him was an action. They, at length, therefore, agreed to permit Bellarmine to retire to his lodgings, having first settled all matters relating to the journey which he was to undertake in the morning, and their preparations for the nuptials at his return. But, alas, as wise men have observed, the seat of Valor is not the countenance, and many aggrave and plain men will, on a just provocation, be take himself to that mischievous metal cold iron, while men of a fiercer brow, and sometimes, with that emblem of courage, a cockade, will more prudently decline it. Leonora was waked in the morning from a visionary coach and six, with the dismal account that Bellarmine was run through the body by Horatio, that he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had declared the wound mortal. She immediately leapt out of the bed, danced about the room in a frantic manner, tore her hair, and beat her breast in all the agonies of despair, in which sad condition her aunt, who likewise arose at the news, found her. The good old lady applied her utmost art to comfort her niece. She told her, while there was life, there was hope, but that if he should die, her affliction would be of no service to Bellarmine, and would only expose herself, which might probably keep her some time without any future offer. That, as matters had happened, her wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, but to endeavor to regain the affections of Horatio. Speak not to me, cried the desolate Leonora. Is it not owing to me that poor Bellarmine has lost his life? Have not these cursed charms at which words she looked steadfastly in the glass? Been the ruin of the most charming man of this age, can I ever bear to contemplate my own face again, with her eyes still fixed on the glass? Am I not the murderous of the finest gentleman? No other woman in the town could have made any impression on him. Never think of things past, cries the ant. Think of regaining the affections of Horatio. What reason, said the niece, have I hope he would forgive me? No, I have lost him as well as the other, and it was your wicked advice which was the occasion of all. You seduced me, contrary to my inclinations, to abandon poor Horatio, at which words she burst into tears. You prevailed upon me, whether I would or know, to give up my affections for him. Had it not been for you, Bellarmine never would have entered into my thoughts. Had not his addresses been backed by your persuasions, they never would have made any impression on me. I should have defied all the fortune and equipage in the world, but it was you, it was you who got the better of my youth, and simplicity, and forced me to lose my dear Horatio, for ever. The ant was almost born down with this torrent of words. She, however, rallied all the strength she could, and, drawing her mouth up in a purse, began, I am not surprised niece at this ingratitude. Those who advise young women for their interest must always expect such a return. I am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off your match with Horatio at any rate. That may not be in your power yet, answered Leonora, though it is very ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it, after the presence you have received from him. For indeed, true it is that many presents and some pretty valuable ones had passed from Horatio to the old lady. But as true it is that Bellarmine, when he breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented her with a brilliant from his finger of much greater value than all she had touched of the other. The aunt's gall was unfloat to reply when a servant brought a letter into the room, which Leonora, hearing it came from Bellarmine, with great eagerness opened, and read as follows, Most divine creature, the wound which I fear you have heard I received from my rival, is not like to be so fatal as those shot into my heart which have been fired from your eyes to Leonora. Those are the only cannons by which I am to fall, for my surgeon gives me hopes of being soon able to tend your rel. Till when, unless you would do me an honor, which I have scarce the arduous to think of, your absence will be the greatest anguish which can be felt by madam. Avet tout le respect in the world, your most obedient, most absolute devotee, Bellarmine, as soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of Bellarmine's recovery and that the gossip fame had, according to custom, so enlarged his danger, she presently abandoned all further thoughts of her ratio, and was soon reconciled to her aunt, who received her again into favor with a more Christian forgiveness than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is possible she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her niece had given her concerning the presence. She might apprehend such rumors, should they get abroad, might injure a reputation which, by frequenting church twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigor and strictness in her countenance and behavior for many years as she had established. Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine with greater force after its small relaxation than ever. She proposed to her aunt to make him a visit in his confinement, which the old lady with great and commendable prudence advised her to decline. For, says she, should an accident intervene to prevent your intended match, too forward a behavior with this lover may injure you in the eyes of others. Every woman, till she is married, ought to consider of and provide against the possibility of the affairs breaking off. Leonora said, she should be indifferent to whatever might happen in such a case, for she had now so absolutely placed her affections on this dear man. So she called him that if it were her misfortune to lose him, she should forever abandon all thoughts of mankind. She, therefore, resigned to visit him, notwithstanding all the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very afternoon executed her resolution. The lady was proceeding in her story when the coach drove into the inn where the company were to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of Mr. Adams, whose ears were the most hungry part about him, he being as the reader may perhaps guess, of an insatiable curiosity and heartily desirous of hearing the end of this amor, though he professed he could scarce wish success to a lady of so in constant a disposition. End of book two, chapter four, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox, two chapters five and six of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding, book two, chapter five, a dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn where the company dined, with its bloody consequences to Mr. Adams. As soon as the passengers had alighted from the coach, Mr. Adams, as was his custom, made directly to the kitchen, where he found Joseph sitting by the fire, and the hostess anointing his leg. For the horse, which Mr. Adams had borrowed of his clerk, had so violent a propensity to kneeling that one would have thought it had been his trade as well as his master's, nor would he always give any notice of such his intention. He was often found on his knees when the rider least expected it. This foible, however, was of no great inconvenience to the parson, who was accustomed to it, and as his legs almost touched the ground when he bestowed the beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himself forward on such occasions with so much dexterity that he never received any mischief. The horse and he frequently rolling many paces distance, and afterwards both getting up and meeting as good friends as ever. Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle, though an excellent horseman did not so happily disengage himself, but falling with his leg under the beast received a violent contusion to which the good woman was, as we have said, applying a warm hand with some camphorated spirits just at the time when the parson entered the kitchen. He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph's misfortune before the host likewise entered. He was by no means of Mr. Toehouse's gentle disposition, and was indeed perfect master of his house and everything in it but his guests. This surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to the appearance of a traveller, from God bless your honour down to plain coming presently. Observing his wife on her knees to a footman, cried out without considering his circumstances, what a pox is this woman about! Why don't you mind the company and the coach? Go and ask them what they will have for dinner. My dear, says she, you know they can have nothing but what is at the fire, which will be ready presently, and really the poor young man's leg is very much bruised, at which words she fell to chafing more violently than before. The bell then happening to ring, he damned his wife and bid her go in to the company, and not stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe the young fellow's leg was so bad as he pretended, and if it was within twenty miles he would find a surgeon to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams fetched two strides across the room, and snapping his fingers over his head, muttered aloud, he would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for he believed the devil had more humanity. These words occasioned a dialogue between Adams and the host, in which there were two or three sharp replies, till Joseph, bad the latter, know how to behave himself to his betters, at which the host, having first strictly surveyed Adams, scornfully repeating the word, betters, flew into a rage, and telling Joseph he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been to walk into it, offered to lay violent hands on him, which, perceiving Adams dealt him so sound a compliment over his face with his fist that the blood immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. The host, being unwilling to be outdone in courtesy, especially by a person of Adams' figure, returned the favor with so much gratitude that the Parsons nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. Upon which he again assailed his antagonist, and with another stroke, laid him sprawling on the floor. The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband deserved, seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along, hastened presently to his assistance, or rather to revenge the blow, which to all appearance was the last he would ever receive. When low, a pan full of hugs blood, which unluckily stood on the dresser, presented itself first to her hands. She seized it in her fury, and without any reflection discharged it into the Parsons face, and with so good an aim that much the greater part first saluted his countenance, and trickled thence in so large a current down to his beard, and over his garments, that a more horrible spectacle was hardly to be seen, or even imagined. All which was perceived by Mrs. Slipslopp, who entered the kitchen at that instant. This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool, and patient, as perhaps was required to ask many questions on this occasion, flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, together with some of her hair, she plucked from her head in a moment, giving her, at the same time, several hearty cuffs in the face, which by frequent practice on the inferior servants, she had learned an excellent knack of delivering with a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise from his chair, the Parsons was so employed in wiping the blood from his eyes, which had entirely blinded him, and the landlord was but just beginning to stir, whilst Mrs. Slipslopp, holding down the landlady's face with her left hand, made so dexterous and use of her right that the poor woman began to roar in a key which alarmed all the company in the inn. There happened to be in the inn, at this time, besides the ladies who arrived in the stagecoach, the two gentlemen who were present at Mr. Towouses, when Joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and whom we have before mentioned to have stopped at the alehouse with Adams. There was likewise a gentleman just returned from his travels to Italy, all whom the horrid outcry of murder presently brought into the kitchen, where the several combatants were found in the postures already described. It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the conquerors being satisfied with the vengeance they had taken, and the conquerors having no appetite to renew the fight. The principal figure, and which engaged the eyes of all, was Adams, who was all over covered with blood, which the whole company concluded to be his own, and consequently imagine him no longer for this world. But the host, who had now recovered from his blow, and was risen from the ground, soon delivered them from this apprehension, by damning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings, and by telling her all would have been very well if she had not intermeddled like a bee blank as she was, adding he was very glad the gentlewoman had paid her, though not half, what she deserved. The poor woman had indeed fared much the worst, having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a quantity of hair, which Mrs. Slipslop, in triumph, held in her left hand. The traveler, addressing himself to Mrs. Grave Ayres, desired her not to be frightened, for here had been only a little boxing, which he said to their distracia the English were accustomata to, adding it must be, however, a sight somewhat strange to him, who was just come from Italy, the Italians not being addicted to the Cuffardo, but Bastanza, says he. He then went up to Adams, and telling him he looked like the ghost of Othello, bid him not to shake his gory locks at him, for he could not say he did it. Adams very innocently answered, Sir, I am far from accusing you. He then returned to the lady and cried, I find the bloody gentleman is uno incipito del nullo senso, da mato di me, if I had seen such a spectacolo in my way from Viterbo. One of the gentlemen, having learnt from the host the occasion of this bustle, and being assured by him that Adams had struck the first blow, whispered in his ear, he warrant he would recover. Recover, master, said the host, smiling, yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying with a blow or two, neither. I am not such a chicken as that. Pfft, said the gentleman, I mean you will recover damages in that action, which undoubtedly you intend to bring, as soon as a writ can be returned from London, for you look like a man of too much spirit and courage to suffer anyone to beat you without bringing your action against him. He must be a scandalous fellow indeed, who would put up with a drumming whilst the law is open to revenge it. Besides, he hath drawn blood from you, and spoiled your coat, and the jury will give damages for that too, and excellent new coat upon my word, and now not worth a shilling. I don't care, continuity, to inter-medal in these cases, but you have a right to my evidence, and if I am sworn, I must speak the truth. I saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing from your nostrils. You may take your own opinion, but was I in your circumstances every drop of my blood should convey and ounce of gold into my pocket. Remember, I don't advise you to go to law, but if your jury were Christians, they must give swinging damages. That's all. Master, cried the host, scratching his head, I have no stomach to law. I thank you. I have seen enough of that in the parish, where two of my neighbors have been at law about a house, till they have both lawed themselves into a jail. At which words he turned about and began to inquire again after his hog's puddings, nor would it probably have been a sufficient excuse for his wife that she spilt them in his defense, had not some awe of the company, especially of the Italian traveler, who was a person of great dignity, withheld his rage. Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was employed, as we have seen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was no less hearty on the side of Mr. Adams, whom he advised to bring his action immediately. He said the assault of the wife was in law the assault of the husband, for they were but one person, and he was liable to pay damages, which he said must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition appeared. Adams answered, if it was true that they were but one person, he had assaulted the wife, for he was sorry to own, he had struck the husband the first blow. I am sorry you own it too, cries the gentleman, for it could not possibly appear to the court. For here was no evidence present, but the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be your friend, and would consequently say nothing but what made for you. How, sir, says Adams, do you take me for a villain who would prosecute revenge and cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to obtain it? If you knew me and my order, I should think you affronted both. At the word order the gentleman stared, for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of knights, and turning hastily about said every man knew his own business. Matters being now composed, the company retired to their several apartments. The two gentlemen congratulating each other on the success of their good offices in procuring a perfect reconciliation between the contending parties, and the traveler went to his repest, saying, as the Italian poet says, je vois très bien que tout est passé, so send up dinner, good boniface. The coachman began now to grow importunate with his passengers, whose entrance into the coach was retarded by Miss Grave Ayres insisting against the remonstrance of all the rest that she would not admit a footman into the coach, for poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. A young lady, who was, as it seems, an earl's granddaughter, begged it with almost tears in her eyes. Mr. Adams prayed, and Mrs. Slipslop scolded, but all to no purpose. She said, she would not demean herself to ride with a footman. That there were wagons on the road, that if the master of the coach desired it, she would pay for two places, but would suffer no such fellow to come in. Madam says, Slipslop, I am sure no one can refuse another, coming into a stagecoach. I don't know, Madam, says the lady, I am not much used to stagecoaches. I seldom travel in them. That may be, Madam, replied Slipslop. Very good people do, and some peoples' betters, for ought I know. Miss Grave Ayres said, some folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty to some people that were their betters, which did not become them. For her part she was not used to converse with servants. Slipslop returned. Some people kept no servants to converse with. For her part she thanked Heaven, she lived in a family where there were a great many, and had more under her own command than any paltry little gentlewoman in the kingdom. Miss Grave Ayres cried. She believed her mistress would not encourage such sassiness to her betters. My betters, says Slipslop, who is my betters-prey? I am your betters, answered Miss Grave Ayres, and I'll acquaint your mistress. At which Mrs. Slipslop laughed aloud and told her, ha-ha-ha, her lady was one of the great gentry, and such little paltry gentlewoman, as some folks who traveled in stagecoaches, would not easily converse with them. This smart dialogue between some people and some folks was going on at the coach door when a solemn person, writing into the inn, and seeing Miss Grave Ayres, immediately accosted her with, Dear Child, how do you do? She presently answered, Oh, Papa, I am glad you have overtaken me. So am I, answered he, for one of our coaches is just at hand, and there being room for you in it, you shall go no farther in the stage unless you desire it. How can you imagine, how can you imagine, how can you imagine, how can you imagine in the stage unless you desire it? How can you imagine, I should desire it, says she, so bidding Slipslop ride with her fellow, if she pleased, she took her father by the hand, who was just alighted, and walked with him into a room. Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, if he knew who the gentleman was. The coachman answered, He was now a gentleman and kept his horse and man, but times are altered, sir, said he, I remember when he was no better born than myself. I, I, says Adams, my father, drove the squire's coach, answered he, when that very man rode his dillion, but he is now his steward and a great gentleman. Adams then snapped his fingers and cried, he thought she was some such trollop. Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs. Slipslop with this good news as he imagined it, but it found a reception different from what he expected. The prudent, gentle woman who despised the anger of Miss Gravares whilst she conceived her the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune, now, she heard her alliance with the upper servants of a great family in her neighborhood, began to fear her interest with the mistress. She wished she had not carried the dispute so far, and began to think of endeavoring to reconcile herself to the young lady before she left the inn, when, luckily, the scene at London, which the reader can scarce have forgotten, presented itself to her mind, and confident her with such assurance that she no longer apprehended any enemy with her mistress. Everything being now adjusted, the company entered the coach, which was just on its departure, when one lady recollected she had left her fan, a second her gloves, a third a snuffbox, and a fourth a smelling bottle behind her, to find all which occasioned some delay and much swearing to the coachman. As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women altogether fell to the character of Miss Grave-Ares, whom one of them declared she had suspected to be some low creature from the beginning of their journey, and another affirmed she had not even the looks of a gentlewoman. A third warranted she was no better than she should be, and turning to the lady, who had related the story in the coach, said, Did you ever hear, madam, anything so prudish as her remarks? Well, deliver me from the sensoriousness of such a prude. The fourth added, Oh, madam, all these creatures are sensorious, but for my part I wonder where the wretch was bred. Indeed, I must own I have seldom conversed with these mean kind of people so that it may appear stranger to me, but to refuse the general desire of a whole company had something in it so astonishing that, for my part, I own I should hardly believe it if my own ears had not been witnesses to it. Yes, and so handsome a young fellow, cries Slipslop, the woman must have no compulsion in her. I believe she is more of a Turk than a Christian. I am certain if she had any Christian woman's blood in her veins, the sight of such a young fellow must have warmed it. Indeed, there are some wretched, miserable old objects that turn one's stomach. I should not wonder if she had refused such a one. I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no more than herself for the company of stinking old fellows. But hold up thy head, Joseph, thou art none of these, and she who has not compulsion for thee is a my who met men, and I will maintain it. This conversation made Joseph uneasy, as well as the ladies who, receiving the spirits, which Mrs. Slipslop was in, for indeed she was not a cup too low, began to fear the consequence. One of them, therefore, desired the lady to conclude the story. I, madam, said Slipslop, I beg your ladieship to give us that story you compensated in the morning. Which request that well-bred woman immediately complied with. CHAPTER VI. CONCLUSION OF THE UNFORTUNATE JILT. Leonora, having once broke through the bounds which custom and modesty imposed on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indulgence to her passion. Her visits to Bellarming were more constant as well as longer than his surgeons. In a word she became absolutely his nurse, made his water gruel, administered him his medicines, and notwithstanding the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost entirely resided in her wounded lover's apartment. The ladies of the town began to take her conduct under consideration. It was the chief topic of discourse at their tea-tables, and was very severely censured by the most part, especially by Linda Mira, a lady whose discreet and starch carriage, together with a constant attendance at church three times a day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks on her own reputation. For such was the envy that Linda Mira's virtue had attracted that notwithstanding her own strict behavior and strict inquiry into the lives of others, she had not been able to escape being the mark of some arrows herself, which, however, did her no injury, a blessing perhaps owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief male companions, and with two, or three of whom, she had been barbarously and unjustly cologneated. Not so unjustly, neither, perhaps, says Slipslop, for the clergy are men as well as other folks. The extreme delicacy of Linda Mira's virtue was cruelly hurt by those freedoms which Leonora allowed herself. She said it was enough front to her sex that she did not imagine it consistent with any woman's honor to speak to the creature, or to be seen in her company, and that for her part she should always refuse to dance at any assembly with her for fear of contamination by taking her by the hand. But to return to much story, as soon as Bellarmine was recovered, which was somewhat within a month from his receiving the wound, he set out, according to agreement, for Leonora's fathers in order to propose the match, and settle all matters with him, touching settlements, and the like. A little before his arrival, the old gentleman had received an intimation of the affair by the following letter, which I can repeat verbatim, in which they say was written neither by Leonora nor her aunt, though it was in a woman's hand. The letter was in these words. Sir, I am sorry to acquaint you that your daughter, Leonora, hath acted one of the basest as well as most simple parts with a young gentleman to whom she had engaged herself, and whom she hath, pardon the word, jilted for another of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his superior figure. You may take what measures you please on this occasion. I have performed what I thought was my duty, as I have, though unknown to you, of very great respect for your family. The old gentleman did not give himself the trouble to answer this kind epistle, and nor did he take any notice of it after he had read it, till he saw Bellarmine. He was, to say the truth, one of those fathers who look on children as an unhappy consequence of their youthful pleasures, which, as he would have been delighted, not to have had attended them, so was he no less pleased with any opportunity to rid himself of the encumbrance. He passed, in the world's language, as an exceeding good father, being not only so rapacious as to rob and plunder all mankind to the utmost of his power, but even to deny himself the conveniences and almost necessaries of life, which his neighbors attributed to a desire of raising immense fortunes for his children. But, in fact, it was not so. He heaped up money for its own sake only, and looked on his children as his rivals, who were to enjoy his beloved mistress when he was incapable of possessing her, and which he would have been much more charmed with the power of carrying along with him. Nor had his children any other security of being his heirs than that the law that would constitute them such without a will, and that he had not affection enough for anyone living to take the trouble of writing one. To this gentleman came Bellarmine on the errand I have mentioned. His person, his equipage, his family, and his estate seemed, to the father, to make him an advantageous match for his daughter. He therefore very readily accepted his proposals, but when Bellarmine imagined the principal affair concluded, and began to open the incidental matters of fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his countenance, saying he resolved never to marry his daughter on a Smithfield match, that whoever had love for her to take her would, when he died, find her share of his fortunes in his coffers. But he had seen such examples of undutifulness happen from the too early generosity of parents that he had made a vow never to part with the shilling wouts he lived. He commended the saying of Solomon, he that spareth the rod spoileth the child. But added he might have likewise asserted that he that spareth the purse saveth the child. He then ran into a discourse on the extravagance of the youth of the age whence he launched into a dissertation on horses, and came at length to commend those Bellarmine drove. That fine gentleman, who at another season would have been well enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very eager to resume the circumstance of fortune. He said he had a very high value for the young lady, and would receive her with less than he would any other whatever. But that even his love to her made some regard to worldly matters necessary. For it would be a most distracting sight for him to see her when he had the honor to be her husband in less than a coach and six. The old gentleman answered, for will do, for will do, and then took a turn from horses to extravagance, and from extravagance to horses till he came round to the Quipage again. Whether he was no sooner arrived, then Bellarmine brought him back to the point, but all to no purpose. He made his escape from that subject in a minute, till at last the lover declared that, in the present situation of his affairs, it was impossible for him, though he loved Leonora more than to Le Monde, to marry her without any fortune. To which the father answered, he was sorry that his daughter must lose so valuable a match that, if he had an inclination, at present it was not in his power to advance a shilling, that he had had great losses and been at great expenses on projects, which, though he had great expectation from them, had yet produced him nothing, that he did not know what might happen hereafter, as on the birth of a son or such accident, but he would make no promise or enter into any article, for he would not break his vow for all the daughters in the world. In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense Bellarmine, having tried every argument and persuasion which he could invent in finding them all ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order to return to Leonora. He proceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after a few days stay, he returned to Paris to the great delight of the French and the honour of the English nation. But as soon as he arrived at his home, he presently dispatched a messenger with the following epistle to Leonora, Adorable and charmant. I am sorry to have the honour to tell you I am not the aroused person destined for your divine arms. Your papa hath told me so, with a politesce not often seen on this side, Paris. You may perhaps guess his manner of refusing me. Ah, mon Dieu, you will certainly believe me, madame, incapable myself of delivering this trist message, which I intend to try the French air to cure the consequences of. Ah, jamais, coeur, ange au diable. If your papa obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall see you at Paris. Until then, the wind that flows from dense will be the warmest d'allemande, for it will consist almost entirely of my size. Adieu, ma princesse, ah, l'amour, bellamine. I shall not tempt ladies to describe Leonora's condition when she received this letter. It is a picture of horror which I should have as little pleasure in drawing as you in beholding. She immediately left the place where she was the subject of conversation and ridicule, and retired to that house I showed you when I began the story, where she hath ever since led a disconsolate life and deserves, perhaps pity for her misfortunes, more than our censure for a behavior to which the artifices of her aunt very probably contributed, and to which very young women are often rendered too liable by that blamable levity in the education of our sex. If I was inclined to pity her, says a young woman in the coach, it would be for the loss of her ratio, for I cannot discern any misfortune in her missing such a husband as bellamine. Why, I must own, says Slipslop. The gentleman was a little false-hearted, but how some ever it was hard to have two lovers and get never a husband at all, but pray, madam, what became of our ashow? He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath applied herself so strictly to his business that he hath raised, I hear, a very considerable fortune. And, what is remarkable, they say he never hears the name of Fleanora without a sigh, nor hath ever uttered one syllable to charge her with her ill-conduct towards him. End of book two chapters five and six, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book two, chapters seven and eight of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding. Book two, chapter seven, a very short chapter in which Parson Adams went a great way. The lady, having finished her story, received the thanks of the company, and now Joseph, putting his head out of the coach, cried out, Never believe me if yonder be not our Parson Adams walking along without his horse. On my word, and so he is, says Slipslop, and as sure as tupence he had left him behind at the inn. Indeed, true it is, the Parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind, for he was so pleased with having got Joseph into the coach that he never once thought of the beast in the stable, and finding his legs as nimble as he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a crab stick, and had kept on before the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so that he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile distant from it. Mrs. Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted, but in vain. For the faster he drove, the faster ran the Parson, often crying out, I, I, catch me if you can, till at length the coachman swore he would as soon attempt to drive after a greyhound, and giving the Parson two or three hearty curses, he cried softly, softly, boys, to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately obeyed, but we will be more courteous to our reader than he was to Mrs. Slipslop, and leaving the coach and its company to pursue their journey, we will carry our reader on after Parson Adams, who stretched forwards without once looking behind him, till having left the coach full three miles in his rear, he came to a place where, by keeping the extremist track to the right, it was just barely possible for a human creature to miss his way. This track, however, did he keep, as indeed he had a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare possibilities, and traveling in it about three miles over the plane, he arrived at the summit of a hill, wence looking a great way backwards and perceiving no coach in sight, he sat himself down on the turf and, pulling out his escalus, determined to wait here for its arrival. He had not sat long here before a gun going off very near a little startled him. He looked up and saw a gentleman within a hundred paces taking up a partridge, which he had just shot. Adams stood up and presented a figure to the gentleman which would have moved laughter in many. For his cassock had just again fallen down below his greatcoat, that is to say it reached his knees, whereas the skirts of his greatcoat descended no lower than halfway down his thighs, but the gentleman's mirth gave way to his surprise at beholding such a personage in such a place. Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he had good sport to which the other answered, very little. I see, sir, says Adams, you have smote one partridge to which the sportsman made no reply, but proceeded to charge his peace. Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in silence, which he at last broke by observing that it was a delightful evening. The gentleman who, at first sight, conceived a very distasteful opinion of the person, began on perceiving a book in his hand, and smoking likewise the information of the cassock to change his thoughts, and made a small advance to conversation on his side, by saying, sir, I suppose you are not one of these parts. Adams immediately told him, know that he was a traveler and invited by the beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little and amuse himself with reading. I may as well repose myself too, said the sportsman, for I have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil a bird have I seen till I came hither. Perhaps, then, the game is not very plenty here abouts, cries Adams. No, sir, said the gentleman, the soldiers who were quartered in the neighborhood have killed it all. It is very probable, cries Adams, for shooting is their profession. I, shooting the game, do not see they are so forward to shoot our enemies. I don't like that affair of Carthagena. If I had been there, I believe I should have done other guess things, de-blank and me. What's a man's life when his country demands it? A man who won't sacrifice his life for his country deserves to be hanged de-blank in me. Which words he spoke with silent, a gesture so loud, a voice so strong an accent and so fierce a countenance that he might have frightened a captain of trained bands at the head of his company. But Mr. Adams was not greatly subject to fear. He told him intrepidly that he very much approved his virtue but disliked his swearing and begged him not to himself to so bad a custom without which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did. Indeed, he was charmed with this discourse. He told the gentleman he would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generous way of thinking that if he pleased to sit down, he should be greatly delighted to commune with him. For though he was clergyman, he would himself be ready, if there too called, to lay down his life for his country. The gentleman sat down and Adams by him. And then the latter began as in the following chapter, a discourse which we have placed by itself, as it is not only the most curious in this, but perhaps in any other book. Chapter 8 A noble dissertation by Mr. Abraham Adams wherein that gentleman appears in a political light. I do assure you, sir, says he, taking the gentleman by the hand, I am heartily glad to meet with the man of your kidney for though I am a poor person, I will be bold to say I am an honest man, and would not do an ill thing to be made a bishop, nay, though it hath not fallen in my way to offer so noble a sacrifice. I have not been without opportunities of suffering for the sake of my conscience, I thank heaven for them, for I have had relations though I say it, who made some figure in the world, particularly a nephew who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a corporation. He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy, and I believe would do what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like extreme vanity in me to effect being a man of such consequence as to have so great an interest in an alderman, but others have thought so too, as manifestly appeared by the rector whose curate I formerly was, sending for me on the approach of an election, and telling me if I expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephew to vote for one Colonel Courtley, a gentleman whom I had never heard tidings of till that instance. I told the rector I had no power over my nephew's vote. God forbid me for such perverication that I supposed he would give it according to his conscience, that I would by no means endeavour to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it was in vain to equivocate that he knew I had already spoke to him in favour of Esquire Fickle, my neighbour, and indeed it was true I had, for it was at a season when the church was in danger and when all good men expected they knew not what would happen to us all. I then answered boldly, if he thought I had given my promise he affronted me in proposing any breach of it. Not to be too prolex. I persevered and so did my nephew and the Esquire's interest who was chose chiefly through his means and so I lost my curacy. Well, sir, but do you think the Esquire ever mentioned a word of the church? Niverben Kiedem Uk'ita Deeson Within two years he got a place and hath ever since lived in London where I have been informed but God forbid I should believe that, that he never so much as goeth to church. I remained, sir, a considerable time without any cure and lived a full month on one funeral sermon which I preached on the in disposition of a clergyman but this by the by. At last when Mr. Fickle got his place, Colonel Courtley stood again and who should make interest for him but Mr. Fickle himself. That very identical Mr. Fickle who had formally told me the Colonel was an enemy to both the church and state had the confidence to solicit my nephew for him and the Colonel himself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment which I refused in favor of Sir Oliver Hartie who told us he would sacrifice everything to his country and I believe he would except his hunting which he stuck so close to that in five years together he went but twice up to Parliament and one of those times I've been told never was within sight of the house however he was a worthy man and the best friend I ever had for by his interest with the bishop he got me replaced into my curacy and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket to buy me a gown and cassock and furnish my house he had our interest while he lived which was not many years on his death I had applications made to me for all the world knew the interest I had with my good nephew who now was a leading man in the corporation and Sir Thomas Booby buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver's proposed himself a candidate he was then a young gentleman just come from his travels and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs for my part I knew nothing of if I had been master of a thousand votes he should have had them all I engaged my nephew in his interest and he was elected and a very fine Parliament man he was they tell me he made speeches of an hour long and I have been told very fine ones but he could never persuade the Parliament to be of his opinion non omnia posumus omnis he promised me a living poor man and I believe I should have had it but an accident happened which was that my lady had promised it before unknown to him this indeed I never heard till afterwards for my nephew who died about a month before the incumbent he just told me I might be assured of it since that time Sir Thomas poor man had always so much business that he never could find leisure to see me I believe it was partly my lady's fault too who did not think my dress good enough for the gentry at her table however I must do him the justice to say he never was and I have always found his kitchen and his cellar too open to me many a time after service on a Sunday for I preach at four churches have I recruited my spirits with a glass of his ale since my nephew's death the corporation is in other hands and I am not a man of that consequence I was formally I have now no longer any place to lay out in the service of my country and to whom nothing is given of him can nothing be required however on all proper seasons such as the approach of an election I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons which I have the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas and the other honest gentlemen my neighbors promised me these five years to procure an ordination for a son of mine who is now near thirty hath an infinite stock of learning and is I think heaven of an unexceptionable life though as he was never at a university the bishop refuses to ordain him too much care cannot indeed be taken admitting any to the sacred office though I hope he will never act so as to be a disgrace to any order but will serve his God and his country to the utmost of his power as I have endeavored to do before him may and will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose I am sure I had educated him in those principles I have acquitted my duty and shall have nothing to answer for on that account but I do not distrust him for he is a good boy and if providence should throw it in his way to be of as much consequence in a public light as his father once was I can answer for him he will use his talents as honestly as I have done in the book two chapters seven and eight read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox