 Book two, chapters sixteen and seventeen, of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding Book two, chapter sixteen. A very curious adventure in which Mr. Adams gave a much greater instance of the honest simplicity of his art than of his experience in the ways of this world. Our travelers had walked about two miles from that inn, which they had more reason to have mistaken for a castle than Don Quixote ever had, any of those in which he sojourned seen they had met with such difficulty in escaping out of its walls. When they came to a parish, and beheld a sign of invitation hanging out, a gentleman sat smoking a pipe at the door of whom Adams inquired the road, and received so courteous and obliging an answer accompanied with so smiling accountants that the good person, whose heart was naturally disposed to love and affection, began to ask several other questions, particularly the name of the parish and who was the owner of a large house, whose front they then had in prospect. The gentleman answered as obligingly as before, and as to the house, acquainted him, it was his own. He then proceeded in the following manner. Sir, I presume by your habit you are a clergyman, and as you are traveling on foot, I suppose a glass of good beer will not be disagreeable to you, and I can recommend my landlords within as some of the best in all this country. What say you? Will you halt a little and let us take a pipe together? There is no better tobacco in the kingdom. This proposal was not displeasing to Adams, who had allayed his thirst that day with no better liquor than what Mrs. Trulibur's cellar had produced, and which was indeed little superior, either in richness or flavor to that which distilled from those grains her generous husband bestowed on his hogs. Having therefore abundantly thanked the gentleman for his kind invitation, and bid Joseph and Fanny follow him, he entered the ale house, where a large loaf and cheese and a pitcher of beer, which truly answered the character given of it, being set before them, the three travelers fell to eating with appetites infinitely more voracious than are to be found at the most exquisite eating houses in the parish of St. James. The gentleman expressed great delight in the hearty and cheerful behavior of Adams, and particularly in the familiarity with which he conversed with Joseph and Fanny, whom he often called his children, a term he explained to mean no more than his parishioners, saying, he looked on all those whom God had entrusted to his care to stand to him in that relation. The gentleman, shaking him by the hand, highly applauded those sentiments. They are indeed, says he, the true principles of a Christian divine, and I heartily wish they were universal. But, on the contrary, I am sorry to say the parson of our parish, instead of esteeming his poor parishioners as a part of his family, seems rather to consider them as not of the same species with himself. He seldom speaks to any, unless some few of the richest of us. Nay, indeed, he will not move his hat to the others. I often laugh when I behold him on Sundays, strutting along the churchyard like a turkey cock through rows of his parishioners, who bow to him with as much submission, and are as unregarded as a set of servile courtiers by the proudest prince in Christendom. But if such temporal pride is ridiculous, surely the spiritual is odious and detestable. If such a puffed up, empty human bladder, strutting in princely robes, justly moves one's derision, surely in the habit of a priest, it must raise our scorn. Doubtless, answered Adams, your opinion is right, but I hope such examples are rare. The clergy whom I have the honor to know maintain a different behavior, and you will allow me, sir, that the readiness which too many of the laity show to contend the order may be one reason of their avoiding too much humility. Very true indeed, says the gentleman. I find, sir, you are a man of excellent sense, and am happy in this opportunity of knowing you. Perhaps our accidental meeting may not be disadvantageous to you neither. At present, I shall only say to you that the incumbent of this living is old and infirm, and that it is my gift, doctor, give me your hand, and assure yourself of it at his decease. Adams told him he was never more confounded in his life than at his utter incapacity to make any return to such noble and unmerited generosity. Hey, mere trifle, sir, cries the gentleman, scarce worth your acceptance a little more than three hundred a year. I wish it was double the value for your sake. Adams bowed, and cried from the emotions of his gratitude when the other asked him if he was married, or had any children, besides those in the spiritual sense he had mentioned. Sir, replied the parson, I have a wife and six at your service. That is unlucky, says the gentleman, for I would otherwise have taken you into my own house as my chaplain. However, I have another in the parish, for the parsonage house is not good enough, which I will furnish for you. Pray, does your wife understand a dairy? I can't profess she does, says Adams. I am sorry for it, quote the gentleman, I would have given you half a dozen cows, and very good grounds to have maintained them. Sir, says Adams, in an ecstasy, you are too liberal indeed, you are. Not at all, cries the gentleman, I esteem riches only as they give me an opportunity of doing good, and I never saw one whom I had a greater inclination to serve. At which words he shook him heartily by the hand, and told him he had sufficient room in his house to entertain him and his friends. Adams begged he might give him no such trouble, that they could be very well accommodated in the house where they were, forgetting they had not a sixth penny among them. The gentleman would not be denied, and, informing himself how far they were traveling, he said it was too long a journey to take on foot, and begged that they would favor him by suffering him to lend them a servant and horses, adding, with all, that if they would do him the pleasure of their company, only two days he would furnish them with his coach and six. Adams, turning to Joseph, said, how lucky is this gentleman's goodness to you, who, I am afraid, would be scarce able to hold out on your lame leg. And then, addressing the person who made him these liberal promises, after much bowing, he cried out, blessed be the hour which first introduced me to a man of your charity. You are indeed a Christian of the true primitive kind, and an honor to the country wherein you live. I would willingly have taken a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to have beheld you, for the advantages which we draw from your goodness give me little pleasure in comparison of what I enjoy for your own sake, when I consider the treasures you are by these means laying up for yourself in a country that passeth not away. We will, therefore, most generous sir, accept your goodness, as well the entertainment you have so kindly offered us at your house this evening as the accommodation of your horses tomorrow morning. He then began to search for his hat, as did Joseph for his, and both they and Fanny were in order of departure when the gentleman, stopping short, and seeming to meditate by himself for the space of about a minute, exclaimed thus, Sure, never anything was so unlucky. I had forgot that my housekeeper was gone abroad, and hath locked up all my rooms. Indeed, I would break them open for you, but shall not be able to furnish you with the bed, for she has likewise put away all my linen. I am glad it entered into my head before I had given you the trouble of walking there. Besides, I believe you will find better accommodations here than you expected. Landlord, you can provide good beds for these people, can't you? Yes, and please your worship, cries the host, and such as no Lord or justice of the peace and the kingdom need be ashamed to lie in. I am heartily sorry, says the gentleman for this disappointment. I am resolved, I will never suffer her to carry away the keys again. Praise her. Let it not make you uneasy, cries Adams. We shall do very well here, and the loan of your horses is a favor we shall be incapable of making in a return to. I, said the squire, the horses shall attend you here at what hour in the morning you please. And now, after many civilities, too tedious to enumerate, many squeezes by the hand, with most affectionate looks and smiles at each other, and after appointing the horses at seven the next morning, the gentleman took his leave of them and departed to his own house. Adams and his companions returned to the table where the parson smoked another pipe, and then they all retired to rest. Mr. Adams rose very early and called Joseph out of his bed, between whom a very fierce dispute ensued, whether Fanny should ride behind Joseph or behind the gentleman's servant. Joseph insisting on it that he was perfectly recovered and was as capable of taking care of Fanny as any other person could be. But Adams would not agree to it, and declared he would not trust her behind him, for that he was weaker than he imagined himself to be. This dispute continued a long time, and had begun to be very hot when a servant arrived from their good friend to acquaint them that he was, unfortunately, prevented from lending them any horses, for that his groom had, unknown to him, put his whole stable under a course of physics. This advice presently struck the two disputants dumb. Adams cried out, Was ever anything so unlucky as this poor gentleman? I protest I am more sorry on his account than my own. You see, Joseph, how this good-natured man is treated by his servants. One locks up his linen, another physics his horses, and, I suppose, by his being at this house last night, the butler had locked up his cellar. Bless us, how good-natured is used in this world. I protest I am more concerned on his account than my own. So am not I, cries Joseph, not that I am much troubled about walking on foot. All my concern is how we shall get out of the house, unless God sends another peddler to redeem us. But certainly this gentleman has such an affection for you that he would lend you a larger sum than we owe here, which is not above four or five shillings. Very true, child. Answered Adams, I will write a letter to him, and will even venture to solicit him for three half-crowns. There will be no harm in having two or three shillings in our pockets, as we have full forty miles to travel. We may possibly have occasion for them. Fanny, being now risen, Joseph paid her a visit, and left Adams to write his letter, which, having finished, he dispatched a boy with it to the gentleman, and seated himself by the door, lighted his pipe, and betook himself to meditation. The boy, staying longer than seemed to be necessary, Joseph, who with Fanny was now returned to the parson, expressed some apprehensions that the gentleman's steward had locked up his purse, too, to which Adams answered, it might very possibly be, and he should wonder at no liberties which the devil might put into the head of a wicked servant to take with so worthy a master, but added that as the sum was so small, so noble a gentleman would be easily able to procure it in the parish, though he had it not in his own pocket. Indeed, says he, if it was four or five guineas, or any such large quantity of money, it might be a different matter. They were now sat down to breakfast over some toast and ale, when the boy returned, and informed them that the gentleman was not at home. Very well, cries Adams, but why, child, did you not stay till his return? Go back again, my good boy, and wait for his coming home. He cannot be gone far, as his horses are all sick, and besides, he had no intention to go abroad, for he invited us to spend this day and tomorrow at his house. Therefore go back, child, and tarry till his return home. The messenger departed, and was back again with great expedition, bringing an account that the gentleman was gone a long journey, and would not be at home again this month. At these words, Adams seemed greatly confounded, saying, Huh, this must be a sudden accident, as the sickness or death of a relation, or some such unforeseen misfortune. And then, turning to Joseph, cried, I wish you had reminded me to have borrowed this money last night. Joseph, smiling, answered, He was very much deceived if the gentleman would not have found some excuse to avoid lending it. I own, says he, I was never much pleased with his professing so much kindness for you at first sight, for I have heard the gentleman of our cloth in London tell many such stories of their masters, but when the boy brought the message back of his not being at home, I presently knew what would follow, for whenever a man of fashion doth not care to fulfill his promises, the custom is to order his servants that he will never be at home to the person so promised. In London they call it denying him. I have myself denied Sir Thomas Booby above a hundred times, and when the man hath danced attendance for about a month or sometimes longer, he is acquainted in the end that the gentleman is gone out of town and could do nothing in the business. Good Lord, says Adams, what wickedness is there in the Christian world? I profess almost equal to what I have read of the heathens, but surely Joseph, your suspicions of this gentleman must be unjust for what a silly fellow must he be who would do the devil's work for nothing, and canst thou tell me any interest he could possibly propose to himself by deceiving us in his professions? It is not for me, answered Joseph, to give reasons for what men do to a gentleman of your learning. You say right, quote Adams, knowledge of men is only to be learned from books. Plato and Seneca for that, and those are authors I am afraid child you never read. Not I, sir, truly, answered Joseph, all I know is it is a maxim among the gentleman of our cloth that those masters who promise the most perform the least, and I have often heard them say they have found the largest veils in those families where they were not promised any. But sir, instead of considering any farther these matters, it would be our wisest way to contrive some method of getting out of this house, for the generous gentleman, instead of doing us any service hath left us the whole reckoning to pay. Adams was going to answer when their host came in, and with a kind of jeering smile said, Well, masters, the squire hath not sent his horses for you yet. Lord help me, how easily some folks make promises. How, says Adams, have you ever known him to do anything of this kind before? I, Mary, have I, answered the host. It is no business of mine, you know, sir, to say anything to a gentleman to his face. But now he is not here, I will assure you, he hath not his fellow within the three next market towns. I own, I could not help laughing, when I heard him offer you the living, for thereby hangs a good jest. I thought he would have offered you my house next, for one is no more his to dispose of than the other. At these words, Adams, blessing himself, declared, He had never read of such a monster. But what vexes me most, says he, is that he hath decoyed us into running up a long debt with you, which we are not able to pay, for we have no money about us, and what is worse, live at such a distance that if you should trust us, I am afraid you would lose your money for want of our finding any convenience of sending it. Trust you, master, says the host, that I will with all my heart. I honor the clergy too much to deny trusting one of them for such a trifle. Besides, I like your fear of never paying me. I have lost many a debt in my lifetime, but was promised to be paid them all in a very short time. I will score this reckoning for the novelty of it. It is the first, I do assure you, of its kind. But what say you, master? Shall we have tether pot before we part? It will waste but a little chalk more, and if you never pay me a shilling, the loss will not ruin me. Adams liked the invitation very well, especially as it was delivered with so hearty an accent. He shook his host by the hand, and thanking him said, he would tarry another pot, rather for the pleasure of such worthy company than for the liquor. Adding, he was glad to find some Christians left in the kingdom, for that he almost began to suspect that he was so journeying in a country inhabited only by Jews and Turks. The kind host produced the liquor, and Joseph with Fanny retired into the garden, where, while they solaced themselves with amorous discourse, Adams sat down with his host, and both filling their glasses and lighting their pipes, they began that dialogue, which the reader will find in the next chapter. Chapter 17, a dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and his host, which, by the disagreement in their opinions, seemed to threaten an unlucky catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented by the return of the lovers. Sir, said the host, I assure you you are not the first to whom our squire hath promised more than he hath performed. He is so famous for this practice that his word will not be taken for much by those who know him. I remember a young fellow whom he promised his parents to make an excise man. The poor people, who could ill afford it, bred their son to writing and accounts, and other wanting to qualify him for the place, and the boy held up his head above his condition with these hopes. Nor would he go to plow, nor to any other kind of work, and went constantly dressed as fine as could be, with two clean Holland shirts a week, this for several years. Till at last he followed the squire up to London, thinking there to mind him of his promises, but he could never get sight of him. So that, being out of money and business, he fell into evil company and wicked courses. And in the end came to a sentence of transportation, the news of which broke the mother's heart. I will tell you another true story of him. There was a neighbor of mine, a farmer who had two sons whom he bred up to the business, pretty lads they were. Nothing would serve the squire, but that the youngest must be made a parson. Upon which he persuaded the father to send him to school, promising that he would afterwards maintain him at the university, and when he was of a proper age, give him a living. But after the lad had been seven years at school, and his father brought him to the squire with a letter from his master that he was fit for the university, the squire, instead of minding his promise, or sending him dither at his expense, only told his father that the young man was a fine scholar. And it was a pity he could not afford to keep him at Oxford for four or five years more, by which time, if he could get him a curacy, he might have him ordained. The farmer said he was not a man sufficient to do any such thing. Well then, answered the squire, I am very sorry you have given him so much learning, for if he cannot get his living by that, it will rather spoil him for anything else. And your other son, who can hardly write his name, will do more at plowing and sowing, and is in a better condition than he. And indeed, so it proved, for the poor lad not finding friends to maintain him in his learning, as he had expected, and being unwilling to work, fell to drinking, though he was a very sober lad before, and in a short time, partly with grief, and partly with good liquor, fell into a consumption, and died. Nay, I can tell you more still. There was another, a young woman, and the handsomest in all this neighborhood, whom he enticed up to London, promising to make her a gentle woman to one of your women of quality. But instead of keeping his word, we have since heard, after having a child by her himself, she became a common horror. Then kept a coffee house in Covent Garden, and, a little after, died of the French distemper in a jail. I could tell you many more stories, but how do you imagine he served me himself? You must know, sir, I was bred a sea-faring man, and have been many voyages, till at last I came to be master of a ship myself, and was in a fair way of making a fortune. When I was attacked by one of those cursed Guarda Costas, who took our ships before the beginning of the war, and, after a fight, wherein I lost the quarter part of my crew, my rigging being all demolished, and two shots received between wind and water, I was forced to strike. The villains carried off my ship, a brigantine of one hundred and fifty tons, a pretty creature she was, and put me, a man, and a boy, and a little bad pink, in which, with much ado, we at last made Falmouth, though I believe the Spaniards did not imagine she could possibly live a day at sea. Upon my return hither, where my wife, who was of this country, then lived, the squire told me he was so pleased with the defense I had made against the enemy, that he did not fear getting me promoted to a lieutenancy of a man of war. If I would accept of it, which I thankfully assured him, I would. Well, sir, two or three years passed, during which I had many repeated promises, not only from the squire, but, as he told me, from the lords of the admiralty. He never returned from London, but I was assured I might be satisfied now, for I was certain of the first vacancy. And what surprises me still, when I reflect on it, these assurances were given me with no less confidence, after so many disappointments, than at first. At last, sir, growing weary and somewhat suspicious, after so much delay, I wrote to a friend in London, who I knew had some acquaintance at the best house in the admiralty, and desired him to back the squire's interest, for indeed I feared he had solicited the affair with more coldness, than he pretended. And what answer do you think my friend sent me? Truly, sir, he had acquainted me that the squire had never mentioned my name at the admiralty in his life, and, unless I had much faithful interest, advised me to give over my pretensions, which I immediately did, and with the concurrence of my wife, resolved to set up an alehouse, where you are heartily welcome, and so my service to you, and may the squire and all such sneaking rascals go to the devil together. Oh, by, says Adams, oh, by, he is indeed a wicked man, but gee blank will, I hope, turn his heart to repentance. Nay, if he could but once see the meanness of this detestable vice, would he but once reflect that he is one of the most scandalous as well as pernicious liars? Sure, he must despise himself to so intolerable a degree that it would be impossible for him to continue a moment in such a course. And to confess the truth, not standing the baseness of this character which he hath too well deserved, he hath, in his countenance, sufficient symptoms of that bona indolesce, that sweetness of disposition which furnishes out a good Christian. Ah, master, master, says the host, if you had traveled as far as I have, and conversed with the many nations where I have traded, you would not give any credit to a man's countenance, symptoms in his countenance, quota. I would look there, perhaps, to see whether a man had the smallpox, but for nothing else. He spoke this with so little regard to the Parsons observation that it a good deal nettle-tin, and taking the pipe hastily from his mouth, he thus answered, Master of mine, perhaps I have traveled a great deal farther than you, without the assistance of a ship. Do you imagine sailing by different cities, or countries, is traveling? No. Keolam non-enimum mutant ki trans mare curant. I can go farther in an afternoon than you in a twelve month. What, I suppose you have seen the pillars of Hercules, and perhaps the walls of Carthage? Nay, you may have heard Skilla, and seen Chariptus. You may have entered the closet where Archimedes was found at the taking of Syracuse. I suppose you have traveled among the Cyclades, and passed the famous Straits which take their name from the unfortunate Helae, whose fate is sweetly described by Apollonius Rodeus. You have passed the very spot, I conceive, where Daedalus fell into that sea, his waxen wings being melted by the sun. You have traversed the Uxen Sea, I make no doubt. Nay, you may have been on the banks of the Caspian, and called at Colchis, to see if there is ever another golden fleece. Not I truly, Master, answered the host. I never touched at any of those places. But I have been at all these, replied Adams. Then I suppose, cries the host, you have been at the East Indies, for there are no such, I will be sworn, either in the West or the Levant. Pray, where's the Levant? Quote Adams. That should be in the East Indies, by right. Ho, ho, you are a pretty traveler, cries the host, and not know the Levant. My service to you, Master, you must not talk of these things with me. You must not tip us, the traveler. It won't go here. Since thou art so dull to misunderstand me still, quote Adams, I will inform thee. The traveling I mean is in books, the only way of traveling by which any knowledge is to be acquired. From them I learn what I asserted just now, that nature generally imprints such a portraiture of the mind in the countenance that a skillful physiognomist will rarely be deceived. I presume you have never read the story of Socrates to this purpose, and therefore I will tell it to you. A certain physiognomist asserted of Socrates, that he plainly discovered by his features that he was a rogue in his nature. A character so contrary to the tenor of all this great man's actions, and the generally received opinion concerning him, incensed the boys of Athens so that they threw stones at the physiognomist, and would have demolished him for his ignorance. Had not Socrates himself prevented them by confessing the truth of his observations, and acknowledging that, though he corrected his disposition by philosophy, he was indeed naturally as inclined to vice as had been predicated of him. Now, pray resolve me, how should a man know this story if he had not read it? Well, master, said the host, and what signifies it whether a man knows it or no? He who goes abroad, as I have done, will always have opportunities enough of knowing the world without troubling his head with Socrates, or any such fellows. Friend, cries Adams, if a man should sail round the world and anchor in every harbor of it, without learning, he would return home as ignorant as he went out. Lord, help you! answered the host. That was my bosom, poor fellow. He could scarce either write or read, and yet he would navigate a ship with any master of a man of war, and a very pretty knowledge of trade he had too. Trade, answered Adams, as Aristotle proves in his first chapter of politics, is below a philosopher and unnatural as it is managed now. The host looked steadfastly at Adams, and after a minute's silence asked him if he was one of the writers of the gazetteers, for I have heard, says he, they are writ by persons. Gazetteers, answered Adams, what is that? It is a dirty newspaper, replied the host, which hath been given away all over the nation for these many years to abuse trade and honest men, which I would not suffer to lie on my table, though it hath been offered me for nothing. Not I, truly, says Adams, I never write anything but sermons, and I assure you I am no enemy to trade, whilst it is consistent with honesty. Nay, I have always looked on the tradesmen as a very valuable member of society, and perhaps inferior to none but the man of learning. No, I believe he is not, nor to him neither, answered the host, of what use would learning be in a country without trade? What would all the persons do to clothe your backs and feed your bellies? Who fetches you your silks and your linens and your wines and all the other necessaries of life? I speak chiefly with regard to the sailors. You should say the extravagancies of life, replied the person, but admit they were the necessaries. There is something more necessary than life itself, which is provided by learning. I mean the learning of the clergy. Who closed you with piety, meekness, humility, charity, patience, and all the other Christian virtues? Who feeds your souls with the milk of brotherly love and diets them with all the dainty food of holiness, which at once cleanses them of all impure carnal affections, and fattens them with the truly rich spirit of grace? Who doth this? I, who indeed, cries the host, for I do not remember ever to have seen any such clothing or such feeding. And so, in the meantime, master, my service to you. Adams was going to answer, with some severity, when Joseph and Fanny returned and pressed his departure so eagerly that he would not refuse them. And so, grasping his crab-stick, he took leave of his host, neither of them being so well pleased with each other as they had been at their first sitting down together, and with Joseph and Fanny, who both expressed much impatience, departed, and now, all together, renewed their journey. End of book two, chapters sixteen and seventeen, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox. Book three, chapters one and two of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews, by Henry Fielding. Book three, chapter one, matter prefatory in praise of biography. Notwithstanding the preference which may be vulgarly given to the authority of those romance writers who entitled their books, quote, the history of England, the history of France, of Spain, etc., close quote, it is most certain that truth is to be found only in the works of those who celebrate the lives of great men, and are commonly called biographers, as the others should indeed be termed topographers or choreographers. Words which might well mark the distinction between them, it being the business of the latter chiefly to describe countries and cities, which with the assistance of maps they do pretty justly, and may be dependent upon, but as to the actions and characters of men, their writings are not quite so authentic, of which there needs no other proof than those eternal contradictions occurring between two topographers who undertake the history of the same country. For instance, between my lord Clarendon and Mr. Whitelock, between Mr. Chard and Rapin, and many others. Where facts being set forth in a different light, every reader believes as he pleases, and indeed the more judicious and suspicious, very justly esteemed the whole as no other than a romance, in which the writer hath indulged a happy and fertile invention. But though these widely differ in the narrative of facts, some ascribing victory to the one, and others to the other party, some representing the same man as a rogue, while others give him a great and honest character, yet all agree in the scene where the fact is supposed to have happened, and where the person, who is both a rogue and an honest man, lived. Now, with us biographers the case is different. The facts we deliver may be relied on, though we often mistake the age and country wherein they happened, for though it may be worth the examination of critics, whether the shepherd, Chris System, who, as Cervantes informs us, died for love of the fair Marcella, who hated him, was ever in Spain, will anyone doubt but that such a silly fellow hath really existed? Is there in the world such a skeptic as to disbelieve the madness of Cardeno, the perfidy of Ferdinand, the impertinent curiosity of Anselmo, the weakness of Camilla, the irresolute friendship of Lothario? Though perhaps as to the time and place where those several persons lived, that good historian may be deplorably deficient. But the most known instance of this kind is in the true history of Gil Blas, where the inimitable biographer hath made a notorious blunder in the country of Dr. San Grado, who used his patients as a vetiner doth his wine vessels by letting out their blood and filling them up with water. Doth not everyone who is the least versed in physical history know that Spain was not the country in which this doctor lived. The same writer hath likewise aired in the country of his archbishop, as well as that of those great personages whose understandings were too sublime to taste anything but tragedy, and in many others. The same mistakes may likewise be observed in Scaran, the Arabian Nights, the history of Marianne and Lupizan Parvenu, and perhaps some few other writers of this class whom I have not read or do not present recollect. For I would by no means be thought to comprehend those persons of surprising genius, the authors of immense romances or the modern novel and Atlantis writers, who without any assistance from nature or history record persons who never were or will be in facts which never did nor possibly can happen, whose heroes are of their own creation and their brains the chaos whence all their materials are selected. Not that such writers deserve no honor, so far otherwise, that perhaps they merit the highest. For what can be nobler than to be as an example of the wonderful extent of human genius? One may apply to them what Balzac says of Aristotle, that they are a second nature, for they have no communication with the first, by which authors of an inferior class who cannot stand alone are obliged to support themselves as with crutches, but these of whom I am now speaking seemed to be possessed of those stilts which the excellent Voltaire tells us in his letters, quote, carry the genius far off, but with an regular pace, close quote. Indeed far out of the sight of the reader, beyond the realm of chaos and old knight, but to return to the former class who are contented to copy nature instead of forming originals from the confused heap of matter in their own brains is not such a book as that which records the achievements of the renowned Don Quixote, more worthy the name of a history than even Marianas. For whereas the latter is confined to a particular period of time and to a particular nation, the former is the history of the world in general, at least that part which is polished by laws, arts, and sciences, and of that from the time it was first polished to this day. Nay, and forwards as long as it shall so remain. I shall now proceed to apply these observations to the work before us, for indeed I have set them down principally to aviate some constructions which the good nature of mankind, who are always forward to see their friends virtues recorded, may put to particular parts. I question not, but several of my readers will know the lawyer in the stagecoach the moment they hear his voice. It is likewise odds but the wit and the prude meet with some of their acquaintance as well as all the rest of my characters. To prevent, therefore, any such malicious applications, I declare here once, for all, I describe not men, not manners, not an individual, but a species, perhaps it will be answered, are not the characters then taken from life, to which I answer in the affirmative. Nay, I believe I might aver that I have writ little more than I have seen. The lawyer is not only alive, but hath been so these four thousand years, and I hope G. Blank will indulge his life as many yet to come. He hath not indeed confined himself to one profession, one religion, or one country, but when the first mean selfish creature appeared on the human stage, who made self the center of the whole creation, would give himself no pain, incur no danger, advance no money, to assist or preserve his fellow creatures, then was our lawyer born, and whilst such a person, as I have described, exists on earth, so long shall he remain upon it. It is, therefore, doing him little honor to imagine he endeavors to mimic some little obscure fellow, because he happens to resemble him in one particular feature, or perhaps in his profession. Whereas his appearance in the world is calculated for much more general and noble purposes, not to expose one pitiful wretch to the small and contemptible circle of his acquaintance, but to hold the glass to thousands in their closets, that they may contemplate their deformity and endeavor to reduce it, and thus by suffering private mortification may avoid public shame. This places the boundary between and distinguishes the satirist from the libeler, for the former privately corrects the fault for the benefit of the person, like a parent. The latter publicly exposes the person himself as an example to others, like an executioner. There are, besides little circumstances, to be considered, as the drapery of a picture, which though fashion varies at different times, the resemblance of the countenance is not by those means diminished. Thus, I believe, we may venture to say Mrs. Toaus is co-evil with our lawyer, and though perhaps during the changes which so long an existence must have passed through, she may in her turn have stood behind the bar at an inn, I will not scruple to affirm she hath likewise in the revolution of ages sat on a throne. In short, where extreme turbulency of temper, avarice, and an insensibility of human misery, with a degree of hypocrisy, have united in a female composition, Mrs. Toaus was that woman, and where a good inclination eclipsed by a poverty of spirit and understanding hath glimmered forth in a man, that man hath been no other than her sneaking husband. I shall detain my reader no longer than to give him one caution more of an opposite kind. For as in most of our particular characters, we mean not to lash individuals, but all of the like sort. So in our general descriptions, we mean not universals, but would be understood with many exceptions. For instance, in our description of high people, we cannot be intended to include such as, whilst they are an honor to their high rank, by a well-guided condescension, make their superiority as easy as possible to those whom fortune chiefly hath placed below them. Of this number, I could name a peer no less elevated by nature than by fortune, who, whilst he wears the noblest incense of honor on his person, bears the truest stamp of dignity on his mind, adorned with greatness, enriched with knowledge, and embellished with genius. I have seen this man relieve with generosity, while he hath conversed with freedom, and be to the same person a patron and a companion. I could name a commoner, raised higher above the multitude by superior talents, than is in the power of his prince to exalt him, whose behavior to those he hath obliged is more amiable than the obligation itself. And who is so great a master of affability that, if he could divest himself of an inherent greatness in his manner, would often make the lowest of his acquaintance forget who was the master of that palace in which they are so courteously entertained? These are pictures which must be, I believe, known. I declare they are taken from the life, and not intended to exceed it. By those high people, therefore, whom I have described, I mean a set of wretches who, while they are a disgrace to their ancestors, whose honors and fortunes they inherit, or perhaps a greater to their mother, for such degeneracy is scarce credible, have the insolence to treat those with disregard who are at least equal to the founders of their own splendor. It is, I fancy, impossible to conceive a spectacle more worthy of our indignation than that of a fellow who is not only a blot in the escutcheon of a great family, but a scandal to the human species. Maintaining a supercilious behavior to men who are an honor to their nature and a disgrace to their fortune. And now, reader, taking these hints along with you, you may, if you please, proceed to the sequel of this Our True History. Chapter 2 A night scene wherein several wonderful adventures befell Adams and his fellow travelers. It was so late when our travelers left the inn, or alehouse, for it might be called either, that they had not traveled many miles before night overtook them, or met them, which you please. The reader must excuse me if I am not particular as to the way they took, for as we are now drawing near the seat of the boobies, and as that is a ticklish name which malicious persons may apply, according to their evil inclinations to several worthy country squires, a race of men whom we look upon as entirely inoffensive, and for whom we have an adequate regard. We shall lend no assistance to any such malicious purposes. Darkness had now overspread the hemisphere when Fanny whispered, Joseph, that she begged to rest herself a little, for that she was so tired she could walk no farther. Joseph immediately prevailed with parson Adams, who was as brisk as a bee, to stop. He had no sooner seated himself than he lamented the loss of his dear escholus, but was a little comforted when reminded that if he had it in his possession, he could not see to read. The sky was so clouded that not a star appeared. It was, indeed, according to Milton, darkness visible. This was a circumstance, however, very favorable to Joseph, for Fanny, not suspicious of being overseen by Adams, gave a loose to her passion which she had never done before, and reclining her head on his bosom, threw her arm carelessly round him, and suffered him to lay his cheek close to hers. All this infused such happiness into Joseph that he would not have changed his turf for the finest down in the finest palace in the universe. Adams sat at some distance from the lovers, and, being unwilling to disturb them, applied himself to meditation, in which he had not spent much time before he discovered a light at some distance that seemed approaching towards them. He immediately hailed it, but to his sorrow and surprise, it stopped for a moment and then disappeared. He then called to Joseph, asking him if he had not seen the light. Joseph answered, he had. And did you not mark how it vanished, returned he, though I am not afraid of ghosts, I do not absolutely disbelieve them. He then entered into a meditation on those unsubstantial beings, which was soon interrupted by several voices, which he thought almost at his elbow, though in fact they were not so extremely near. However, he could distinctly hear them agree on the murder of anyone they met, and a little after heard one of them say, he had killed a dozen since that day fortnight. Adams now fell on his knees and committed himself to the care of Providence and poor Fanny, who likewise heard those terrible words, embraced Joseph so closely that had not he, whose ears were also open, been apprehensive on her account, he would have thought no danger which threatened only himself to dear a price for such embraces. Joseph now drew forth his pen knife and Adams, having finished his ejaculations, grasped his crab stick, his only weapon, and coming up to Joseph would have had him quit Fanny and place her in the rear, but his advice was fruitless. She clung closer to him, not at all regarding the presence of Adams, and in a soothing voice declared, she would die in his arms. Joseph, clasping her with inexpressible eagerness, whispered her that he preferred death in hers to life out of them. Adams, brandishing his crab stick, said, he despised death as much as any man, and then repeated aloud, est hick, est animus, lucis contentor ed ilum, quivita bene credat, emi quo tendis onorum. Upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and then one of them called out, de blank innu, who is there? To which Adams was prudent enough to make no reply, and of a sudden he observed half a dozen lights, which seemed to rise all at once from the ground, and advance briskly towards him. This he immediately concluded to be an apparition, and now, beginning to conceive that the voices were of the same kind, he called out, in the name of the L blank D, what wouldst thou have? He had no sooner spoke than he heard one of the voices cry out, de blank innum, here they come! And soon after heard several hearty blows, as if a number of men had been engaged at quarterstaff. He was just advancing towards the place of combat, when Joseph, catching him by the skirts, begged him that they might take the opportunity of the dark to convey away Fanny from the danger which threatened her. He presently complied, and Joseph, lifting up Fanny, they all three made the best of their way, and without looking behind them or being overtaken, they had traveled full two miles. Poor Fanny, not once complaining of being tired, when they saw a far off, several lights scattered at a small distance from each other, and at the same time found themselves on the descent of a very steep hill. Adams' foot slipping, he instantly disappeared, which greatly frightened both Joseph and Fanny. Indeed, if the light had permitted them to see it, they would scarce have refrained, laughing to see the parson rolling down the hill, which he did from top to bottom, without receiving any harm. He then hollowed as loud as he could, to inform them of his safety, and relieve them from the fears which they had conceived for him. Joseph and Fanny halted some time, considering what to do. At last they advanced a few paces, where the declivity seemed least steep, and then Joseph, taking his Fanny in his arms, walked firmly down the hill, without making a false step, and at length landed her at the bottom, where Adams soon came to them. Learn hence, my fair country women, to consider your own weakness and the many occasions on which the strength of a man may be useful to you, and duly weighing this, take care that you match not yourselves with the spindle-shanked bows and petty maître of the age, who, instead of being able, like Joseph Andrews, to carry you in lusty arms through the rugged ways and down hill steeps of life, will rather want to support their feeble limbs with your strength and assistance. Our travelers now moved forwards, where the nearest light presented itself, and having crossed a common field, they came to a meadow, where they seemed to be at a very little distance from the light, when, to their grief, they arrived at the banks of a river. Adams here made a full stop, and declared he could swim, but doubted how it was possible to get Fanny over, to which Joseph answered, if they walked along its banks, they might be certain of soon finding a bridge, especially as by the number of lights they might be assured a parish was near. Odd so, that's true indeed, said Adams. I did not think of that. Accordingly, Joseph's advice being taken, they passed over two meadows and came to a little orchard, which led them to a house. Fanny begged of Joseph to knock at the door, assuring him she was so weary that she could hardly stand on her feet. Adams, who was foremost, performed the ceremony, and the door being immediately opened, a plain kind of man appeared at it. Adams acquainted him that they had a young woman with them, who was so tired with her journey, that he should be much obliged to him, if he would suffer her to come in and rest herself. The man who saw Fanny by the light of the candle, which he held in his hand, perceiving her innocent and modest look, and having no apprehensions from the civil behavior of Adams, presently answered that the young woman was very welcome to rest herself in his house, and so were her company. He then ushered them into a very decent room, where his wife was sitting at a table. She immediately rose up and assisted them in setting forth chairs, and desired them to sit down, which they had no sooner done than the man of the house asked them if they would have anything to refresh themselves with. Adams thanked him, and answered he should be obliged to him for a cup of his ale, which was likewise chosen by Joseph and Fanny. Whilst he was gone to fill a very large jug with this liquor, his wife told Fanny she seemed greatly fatigued, and desired her to take something stronger than ale. But she refused, with many thanks, saying it was true she was very much tired, but a little rest, she hoped, would restore her. As soon as the company were all seated, Mr. Adams, who had filled himself with ale, and by permission had lighted his pipe, turned to the master of the house, asking him if evil spirits did not use to walk in that neighborhood. To which, receiving no answer, he began to inform him of the adventure which they met with on the downs, nor had he proceeded far in the story when somebody knocked very hard at the door. The company expressed some amazement, and Fanny and the good woman turned pale. Her husband went forth, and whilst he was absent, which was some time, they all remained silent, looking at one another, and heard several voices discoursing pretty loudly. Adams was fully persuaded that spirits were abroad, and began to meditate some exorcisms. Joseph a little inclined to the same opinion. Fanny was more afraid of men, and the good woman herself began to suspect her guests, and imagined those without were rogues belonging to their gang. At length the master of the house returned, and laughing, told Adams he had discovered his apparition that the murderers were sheep-stealers, and the twelve persons murdered were no other than twelve sheep, adding that the shepherds had got the better of them, had secured to, and were proceeding with them to a justice of peace. This account greatly relieved the fears of the whole company, but Adams muttered to himself he was convinced of the truth of apparitions for all that. They now sat cheerfully around the fire, till the master of the house surveyed his guests, and conceiving that the cassock, which, having fallen down, appeared under Adams's great coat, and the shabby livery on Joseph Andrews, did not well suit with the familiarity between them, began to entertain some suspicions, not much to their advantage. Addressing himself therefore to Adams, he said he perceived he was a clergyman by his dress, and supposed that honest man was his footman. Sir, answered Adams, I am a clergyman at your service, but as to that young man whom you have rightly termed honest, he is at present in nobody's service. He never lived in any other family than that of Lady Booby, from whence he was discharged, I assure you, for no crime. Joseph said he did not wonder the gentleman was surprised to see one of Mr. Adams' character condescend to so much goodness with a poor man. Child, said Adams, I should be ashamed of my cloth if I thought a poor man, who is honest, below my notice or my familiarity. I know not how those who think otherwise can profess themselves followers and servants of him who made no distinction, unless, per adventure, by preferring the poor to the rich. Sir, said he, addressing himself to the gentleman, these two poor children are my parishioners, and I look on them and love them as my children. There is something singular enough in their history, but I have not now time to recount it. The master of the house, notwithstanding the simplicity which discovered itself in Adams, knew too much of the world to give a hasty belief to professions. He was not yet quite certain that Adams had any more of the clergyman in him than his cassock. To try him therefore further, he asked him if Mr. Pope had lately published anything new. Adams answered he had heard great commendations of that poet, but that he had never read nor knew any of his works. Oh, says the gentleman to himself, have I caught you. What, said he, have you never seen his Homer? Adams answered he had never read any translation of the classics. Why, truly, replied the gentleman, there is a dignity in the Greek language which I think no modern tongue can reach. Do you understand Greek, sir? said Adams hastily. A little, sir, answered the gentleman. Do you know, sir? cried Adams, where I can buy an Escalus, an unlucky misfortune, lately happened to mine. Escalus was beyond the gentleman, though he knew him very well by name. He therefore, returning back to Homer, asked Adams what part of the Iliad he thought most excellent. Adams returned his question would be properer, what kind of beauty was the chief in poetry, for that Homer was equally excellent in them all, and indeed, continued he, what Cicero says of a complete orator may well be applied to a great poet. He ought to comprehend all perfections. Homer did this in the most excellent degree. It is not without reason, therefore, that the philosopher in the 22nd chapter of his poetics mentions him by no other appellation than that of the poet. He was the father of the drama, as well as the epic, not of tragedy only, but of comedy also. For his Margites, which is deplorably lost, Bohr says Aristotle the same analogy to comedy as his Odyssey and Iliad to tragedy. To him, therefore, we owe Aristophanes, as well as Euripides, Sophocles, and my poor Escalus. But, if you please, we will confine ourselves, at least for the moment, to the Iliad, his noblest work, though neither Aristotle nor Horace give it the preference, as I remember to the Odyssey. First, then, as to a subject, can anything be more simple and at the same time more noble? He is rightly praised by the first of those judicious critics for not choosing the whole war, which, though he says it hath a complete beginning and end, would have been too great for the understanding to comprehend at one view. I have, therefore, often wondered why so correct a writer as Horace should, in his epistle to Lallius, call him the Trojani Belli Scriptorum. Secondly, his action, termed by Aristotle, pragmaton synstasis. Is it possible for the mind of man to conceive an idea of such perfect unity and, at the same time, so replete with greatness? And here I must observe what I do not remember to have seen noted by any, the harmaton, that agreement of his action to his subject, for as the subject is anger, how agreeable is his action, which is war, from which every incident arises and to which every episode immediately relates. Thirdly, his manners, whose Aristotle places second in his description of the several parts of tragedy, and which he says are included in the action. I am at a loss whether I should rather admire the exactness of his judgment in the nice distinction, or the immensity of his imagination, in their variety. For as to the former of these, how accurately is the sedate, injured resentment of Achilles, distinguished from the hot, insulting passion of Agamemnon. How widely doth the brutal courage of Ajax differ from the amiable bravery of Diomedes, and the wisdom of Nestor, which is the result of long reflection and experience, from the cunning of Ulysses, the effect of art and subtlety only. If we consider their variety, we may cry out with Aristotle in his 24th chapter that no part of this divine poem is destitute of manners. Indeed, I might affirm that there is scarce a character in human nature untouched in some part or other, and as there is no passion which he is not able to describe, so there is none in his reader which he cannot raise. If he hath any superior excellence to the rest, I have been inclined to fancy it, is in the pathetic. I am sure I never read with dry eyes the two episodes where Andromache is introduced in the former lamenting the danger, and in the latter the death of Hector. The images are so extremely tender, and these that I am convinced the poet had the worthiest and best heart imaginable. Nor can I help observing how Sophocles falls short of the beauties of the original, in that imitation of the dissuasive speech of Andromache, which he hath put into the mouth of Tecmesa. And yet Sophocles was the greatest genius who ever wrote tragedy, nor have any of his successors in that art, that is to say, neither Euripides nor Seneca, the Tragedian, been able to come near him. As to his sentiments and diction, I need say nothing. The former are particularly remarkable for the utmost perfection on that head, namely propriety, and as to the latter, Aristotle, whom doubtless you have read over and over, is very diffuse. I shall mention but one more thing here, which that great critic in his division of tragedy calls Opsis, or the scenery, and which is as proper to the epic as to the drama, with this difference, that in the former it falls to the share of the poet, and in the latter to that of the painter. But did ever painter imagine a scene like that in the 13th and 14th Iliads, where the reader sees at one view the prospect of Troy, with the army drawn up before it, the Grecian army camp and fleet, Jupiter sitting on Mount Ida with his head wrapped in a cloud, and a thunderbolt in his hand looking towards Thrace, Neptune driving through the sea, which divides on each side to permit his passage, and then seeding himself on Mount Samus. The heavens opened, and the deities all seated on their thrones. This is sublime. This is poetry. Adams then wrapped out a hundred Greek verses, and with such a voice, emphasis, and action, that he almost frightened the women. And as for the gentleman, he was so far from entertaining any further suspicion of Adams, that he now doubted whether he had not a bishop in his house. He ran into the most extravagant encomiums on his learning, and the goodness of his heart began to dilate to all the strangers. He said he had great compassion for the poor young woman who looked pale and faint with her journey, and in truth he conceived a much higher opinion of her quality than it deserved. He said he was sorry he could not accommodate them all, but if they were contented with his fireside he would sit up with the men, and the young woman might, if she pleased, partake his wife's bed, which he advised her to, for that they must walk upwards of a mile to any house of entertainment, and that not very good neither. Adams, who liked to seat his ale, his tobacco, and his company, persuaded Fanny to accept this kind proposal, in which solicitation he was seconded by Joseph. Nor was she very difficultly prevailed on, for she had slept little the last night, and not at all the proceeding, so that love itself was scarce able to keep her eyes open any longer. The offer, therefore, being kindly accepted, the good woman produced everything eatable in her house on the table, and the guests being heartily invited, as heartily regaled themselves, especially Parson Adams. As to the other two, they were examples of the truth of that physical observation that love, like other sweet things, is no wetter of the stomach. Supper was no sooner ended than Fanny at her own request retired, and the good woman bore her company. The man of the house, Adams and Joseph, who would have withdrawn, had not the gentleman insisted on the contrary, drew round the fireside, where Adams, to use his own words, replenished his pipe, and the gentleman produced a bottle of excellent beer, being the best liquor in his house. The modest behavior of Joseph, with the gracefulness of his person, the character which Adams gave of him, and the friendship he seemed to entertain for him, began to work on the gentleman's affections, and raised in him a curiosity to know the singularity which Adams had mentioned in his history. This curiosity Adams was no sooner informed of than, with Joseph's consent, he agreed to gratify it, and, accordingly, related all he knew, with as much tenderness as was possible for the character of Lady Booby, and concluded with the long, faithful, and mutual passion between him and Fanny, not concealing the meanness of her birth and education. These latter circumstances entirely cured a jealousy which had lately risen in the gentleman's mind, that Fanny was the daughter of some person of fashion, and that Joseph had run away with her, and Adams was concerned in the plot. He was now enamored of his guests, drank their healths with great cheerfulness, and returned many thanks to Adams, who had spent much breath for he was a circumstantial teller of a story. Adams told him it was now in his power to return that favor for his extraordinary goodness, as well as that fund of literature he was master of. Footnote one. The author hath by some been represented to have made a blunder here, for Adams had indeed shown some learning, say they, perhaps all the author had, but the gentleman hath shown none, unless his approbation of Mr. Adams be such. But surely it would be preposterous in him to call it so. I have, however, notwithstanding this criticism, which I am told came from the mouth of a great orator in a public coffee house, left this blunder as it stood in the first edition. I will not have the vanity to apply to anything in this work the observation which Madame Darcié makes in her preface to her Aristophanes. Je tiens pour une maxine constante, qu'une beauté médiocre, plaît plus généralement, qu'une beauté sans défaut. Mr. Congrive hath made such another blunder in his love for love, where Tatle tells Miss Prue, quote, she should admire him as much for the beauty he commends in her as if he himself was possessed of it. Close quote. Adams told him it was now in his power to return that favor for his extraordinary goodness, as well as that fund of literature he was master of, which he did not expect to find under such a roof, had raised in him more curiosity than he had ever known. Therefore, said he, if it be not too troublesome, sir, your history if you please. The gentleman answered he could not refuse him what he had so much right to insist on, and after some of the common apologies, which are the usual preface to a story, he thus began. End of book three, chapters one and two, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for Librebox.