 Book 2, chapters 9 and 10 of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding. Book 2, chapter 9, in which the gentleman descents on bravery and heroic virtue till an unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse. The gentleman highly commended Mr. Adams for his good resolutions, and told him he hoped his son would tread in his steps, adding that if he would not die for his country he would not be worthy to live in it. I'd make no more of shooting a man that would not die for his country than— Sir, said he, I have disinherited a nephew who is in the army, because he would not exchange his commission to go to the West Indies. I believe the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in love for sooth. I would have all such fellows hanged, sir. I would have them hanged. Adams answered, that would be too severe, that men did not make themselves, and if fear had too much ascendance in the mind, the man was rather to be pitied than abhorred, that reason and time might teach him to subdue it. He said, a man might be a coward at one time, and brave at another. Homer, says he, who so well understood and copied nature, hath taught us this lesson, for Paris fights and Hector runs away. Nay, we have a mighty instance of this in the history of later ages, no longer ago than the seven hundred and fifth year of Rome, when the great Pompey, who had won so many battles, and been honored with so many triumphs, and of whose valor several authors, especially Cicero and Patroculus, have formed such elogiums. This very Pompey left the battle of Farsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to his tent, where he sat like the most pusillanimous rascal in a fit of despair, and yielded a victory, which was to determine the empire of the world to Caesar. I am not much traveled in the history of modern times, that is to say, these last thousand years, but those who are can, I make no question, furnish you with parallel instances. He concluded therefore that, had he taken any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he would consider better and retract them. The gentleman answered with great warmth, and talked much of courage, and his country, till perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams what place he intended for that night. He told him he waited there for the stagecoach. The stagecoach, sir, said the gentleman, they are all passed by long ago. You may see the last yourself, almost three miles before us. I protest, and so they are, cries Adams, then I must make haste and follow them. The gentleman told him he would hardly be able to overtake them, and that if he did not know his way he would be in danger of losing himself on the downs, for it would be presently dark, and he might ramble about all night, and perhaps find himself farther from his journey's end in the morning than he was now. He advised him, therefore, to accompany him to his house, which was very little out of his way, assuring him that he would find some country fellow in his parish who would conduct him for six pence, to the city where he was going. Adams accepted this proposal, and on they traveled, the gentleman renewing his discourse on courage and the infamy of not being ready, at all times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night overtook them much about the same time as they arrived near some bushes, whence on a sudden they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a female voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his companion's hand. What are you doing? said he. Doing, said Adams, I am hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains are murdering. You are not mad enough, I hope, says the gentleman, trembling. Do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that the robbers are most probably furnished with pistols loaded with bullets? This is no business of ours. Let us make as much haste as possible out of the way, or we may fall into their hands ourselves. The shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but snapped his fingers and brandishing his crab stick, made directly to the place once the voice issued, and the man of courage made as much expedition towards his own home, whether he escaped in a very short time, without once looking behind him. Where we will leave him to contemplate his own bravery, and to censure the one of it in others, and return to the good Adams, who, on coming up to the place once the noise proceeded, found a woman struggling with a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almost overpowered her. The great abilities of Mr. Adams were not necessary to have formed a right judgment of this affair on the first sight. He did not, therefore, want the entreaties of the poor wretch to assist her, but lifting up his crab stick, he immediately leveled a blow at that part of the ravager's head, where, according to the opinion of the ancients, the brains of some persons are deposited, and which he had undoubtedly let forth, had not nature, who, as wise men have observed, drips all creatures with what is most expedient for them, taken a provident care, as she always doth with those she intends for encounters, to make this part of the head three times as thick as those of ordinary men who are designed to exercise talents which are vulgarly called rational, and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged to leave some room for them in the cavity of the skull, whereas those ingredients being entirely useless to persons of the heroic calling, she hath an opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it less subject to any impression, or liable to be cracked or broken, and indeed in some who are predestined to the command of armies and empires, she is supposed, sometimes, to make that part perfectly solid. As a game-cock, when engaged in amorous toying with a hen, if perchance he aspires another cock at hand, immediately quits his female, and opposes himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on the information of the crab-stick, immediately leaped from the woman and hastened to assail the man. He had no weapons, but what nature had furnished him with. However, he clenched his fist, and presently darted it at that part of Adam's breast where the heart is lodged. Adam's staggered at the violence of the blow, when, throwing away his staff, he likewise clenched that fist, which we have before commemorated, and would have discharged it, full in the breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it with his left hand at the same time darting his head, which some modern heroes of the lower class use, like the battering ram of the ancients for a weapon of offense. Another reason to admire the cunningness of nature in composing it of those impenetrable materials, dashing his head, I say, into the stomach of Adam's. He tumbled him on his back, and not having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have restrained him from any farther attack on his enemy, till he was again on his legs. He threw himself upon him, and, laying hold on the ground with his left hand, he, with his right, be labored at the body of Adam's till he was weary, and, indeed, till he concluded, to use the language of fighting, that he had done his business, or, in the language of poetry, that he had sent him to the shades below, in plain English, that he was dead. But Adam's, who was no chicken, and could bear a drubbing as well as any boxing champion in the universe, lay still only to watch his opportunity. And now, perceiving his antagonist to pant with his labors, he exerted his utmost force at once, and with such success that he overturned him and became his superior. When, fixing one of his knees and his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, it is my turn now, and, after a few minutes, constant application, he gave him so dexterous a blow, just under his chin, that the fellow no longer retained any motion, and Adam's began to fear he had struck him once too often. For he often asserted he should be concerned to have the blood of even the wicked upon him. Adam's got up and called aloud to the young woman, be of good cheer, damsel, said he, you are no longer in danger of your ravisher, who I am terribly afraid lies dead at my feet. But God forgive me what I have done in defense of innocence. The poor wretch who had been some time in recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, during the engagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear, even from running away. Hearing her champion was victorious, came up to him, but not without apprehensions, even of her deliverer, which, however, she was soon relieved from by his courteous behavior and gentle words. They were both standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, and which Adam's wished to see stir much more than the woman did, when he earnestly begged her to tell him by what misfortune she came at such a time of night and into so lonely a place. She acquainted him. She was traveling towards London, and had accidentally met with the person from whom he had delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his journey to the same place, and would keep her company, an offer which, suspecting no harm, she had accepted. That he told her they were at a small distance from an inn where she might take up her lodging that evening, and he would show her a nearer way to it than by following the road. That if she had suspected him, which she did not, he spoke so kindly to her, being alone on these downs in the dark, she had no human means to avoid him. That, therefore, she put her whole trust in Providence, and walked on, expecting every moment to arrive at the inn, when, on a sudden, being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop, and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties, which she rejected, he laid violent hands on her, and was attempting to execute his wicked will, when she thanked Gee, blank, he timely came up and prevented him. Adams encouraged her for saying she had put her whole trust in Providence, and told her he doubted not, but Providence had sent him to her deliverance as a reward for that trust. He wished indeed he had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but Gee blanks will be done, said he hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse him in the next world, and he trusted in her evidence to acquit him in this. He was then silent, and began to consider with himself whether it would be properer to make his escape, or to deliver himself into the hands of justice, which meditation ended as the reader will see in the next chapter. After ten, giving an account of this strange catastrophe of the preceding adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities, and who the woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to his victorious arm. The silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night, and loneliness of the place, struck dreadful apprehension into the poor woman's mind. She began to fear as great an enemy in her deliverer as he had delivered her from, and as she had not light enough to discover the age of Adams, and the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspected he had used her as some very honest men have used their country, and had rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in order to rifle her himself. Such were the suspicions she drew from his silence, but indeed they were ill-grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely weighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of the two methods of preceding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgments sometimes inclining to one and sometimes to the other, for both seemed to him so equally advisable and so equally dangerous that probably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, on that very spot before he had taken any resolution. At length he lifted up his eyes and despised a light at a distance to which he instantly addressed himself with, Heus II, traveler, Heus II. He presently heard several voices and perceived the light approaching toward him. The persons who attended the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and others to hollow, at which the woman testified some fear, for she had concealed her suspicions of the person himself. But Adam said, Be of good cheer, Damsel, and repose thy trust in the same providence which hath hitherto protected thee, and never will forsake the innocent. These people, who now approached, were no other reader than a set of young fellows who came to these bushes in pursuit of a diversion which they called bird batting. This, if you are ignorant of it, as perhaps if thou hast never traveled beyond Kensington, Islington, Hackney, or the borough, thou mayst be, I will inform thee, is performed by holding a large clap net before a land thorn, and at the same time beating the bushes, for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places of rest, or roost, immediately make to the light, and so are enticed within the net. Adams immediately told them what happened, and desired them to hold the land thorn to the face of the man on the ground, for he feared he had smote him fatally. But, indeed, his fears were frivolous for the fellow, though he had been stunned by the last blow he received, had long since recovered his senses, and, finding himself quit of Adams, had listened attentively to the discourse between him and the young woman. For whose departure he had patiently waited that he might likewise withdraw himself, having no longer hopes of succeeding in his desires, which were, moreover, almost as well cooled by Mr. Adams, as they could have been by the young woman herself, had he obtained his utmost wish. This fellow, who had a readiness at improving any accident, thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man, and, accordingly, the moment the candle was held to his face, he leapt up and, laying hold on Adams, cried out, No, villain, I am not dead, though you and your wicked whore might well think me so. After the barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. Gentlemen, said he, you are luckily come to the assistance of a poor traveller who would otherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman who led me hither out of my way from the high road, and both falling on me have used me as you see. Adams was going to answer when one of the young fellows cried, D. Blank, end them. Let's carry them both before the justice. The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his voice, but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him, and, one holding the lanthorn to his face, they all agreed he had the most villainous countenance they ever be held. And an attorney's clerk, who was of the company, declared he was sure he had remembered him at the bar. As to the woman, her hair was disheveled in the struggle, and her nose had bled, so that they could not perceive whether she was handsome or ugly. But they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt, and searching her pockets, as they did those of Adams for money, which the fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a purse with some gold in it, which abundantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offered to swear to it. Mr. Adams was found to have no more than one half-penny about him. This, the clerk said, was a great presumption that he was an old offender by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman, to which all the rest readily assented. This accident, promising them better sport than what they had proposed, they quitted their intention of catching birds, and unanimously resolved to proceed to the justice with the offenders. Being informed what a desperate fellow Adams was, they tied his hands behind him, and having hid their nets among the bushes, and the lantern being carried before them, they placed the two prisoners in their front, and then began their march, Adams not only submitting patiently to his own fate, but comforting and encouraging his companion under her sufferings. Whilst they were on their way, the clerk informed the rest that this adventure would prove a very beneficial one, for that they would all be entitled to their proportions of eighty pounds for apprehending the robbers. This occasion they contention concerning the parts which they had severally borne in taking them, one insisting he ought to have the greatest share, for he had first laid his hands on Adams, another claiming a superior part for having first held the lantern to the man's face on the ground, by which he said the whole was discovered. The clerk claiming four-fifths of the reward for having proposed to search the prisoners, and likewise the carrying them before the justice. He said indeed in strict justice he ought to have the whole. These claims, however, they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed all to agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated what money should be allotted to the young fellow who had been employed only in holding the nets. He very modestly said that he did not apprehend any large proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would allow him something. He desired them to consider that they had assigned their nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in laying hold of the robbers. For so those innocent people were called, that if he had not occupied the nets some other must, concluding, however, that he should be contented with the smallest share imaginable, and should think that rather they're bounty than his merit. But they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever. The clerk particularly swearing if they gave him a shilling they might do what they pleased with the rest, for he would not concern himself with the affair. This contention was so hot and so totally engage the attention of all the parties that a dexterous nimble thief, had he been in Mr. Adams' situation, would have taken care to have given the justice no trouble that evening. Indeed it required not the art of a shepherd to escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so much befriended him. But Adams trusted rather to his innocence than his heels, and without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance, which wasn't possible, as there were six lusty young fellows besides the villain himself present, he walked with perfect resignation the way they thought proper to conduct him. Adams frequently ventured himself in ejaculations during their journey. At last, poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his mind, he could not refrain sighing forth his name, which, being heard by his companion in affliction, she cried with some vehemence, sure, I should know that voice. You cannot certainly, sir, be Mr. Abraham Adams. Indeed, damsel, says he, that is my name. There is something also in your voice, which persuades me, I have heard it before. La, sir, says she, don't you remember poor Fanny? How Fanny? answered Adams. Indeed, I very well remember you. What can have brought you hither? I have told you, sir, replied she. I was traveling towards London, but I thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews. Pray, what is become of him? I left him child this afternoon, said Adams, in the stage-coach, in his way towards our parish, whither he is going to see you. To see me? La, sir, answered Fanny. Sure, you cheer me. What should he be going to see me for? Can you ask that? replied Adams. I hope, Fanny, you are not in constant. I assure you he deserves much better of you. La, Mr. Adams, said she. What is Mr. Joseph to me? I am sure I never had anything to say to him, but as one fellow servant might to another. I am sorry to hear this, said Adams. A virtuous passion for a young man is what no woman need to be ashamed of. You either do not tell me the truth, or you are false to a very worthy man. Adams then told her what had happened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively, and a sigh often escaped from her, notwithstanding her utmost endeavors to the contrary. Nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousand questions, which would have assured anyone but Adams, who never saw farther into people, than they desired to let him, of the truth of a passion she endeavored to conceal. Indeed, the fact was that this poor girl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune by some of the servants belonging to the coach, which we have formerly mentioned, to have stopped at the inn while the poor youth was confined to his bed. That instant abandoned the cow she was milking, and taking with her a little bundle of clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth in her own purse, without consulting anyone, immediately set forward in pursuit of one whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved with inexpressible violence, though with the purest and most delicate passion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend her character to all our female readers, and not greatly surprised such of our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex, we shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindicate. And of Book 2, chapters 9 and 10, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 2, chapters 11 and 12 of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews, by Henry Fielding. Book 2, chapter 11. What happened to them while they were before the Justice? A chapter very full of learning. Their fellow travelers were so engaged in the hot dispute concerning the division of the reward for apprehending these innocent people that they attended very little to their discourse. They were now arrived at the Justice's house and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint his worship that they had taken two robbers and brought them before him. The Justice, who was just returned from a fox chase and had not yet finished his dinner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into the stable, whether they were attended by all the servants in the house, and all the people in the neighborhood, who flocked together to see them with as much curiosity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, or that a rogue did not look like other people. The Justice, now being in the height of his mirth and his cups, bethought himself of the prisoners, and telling his company he believed they should have good sport in their examination, he ordered them into his presence. They had no sooner entered the room than he began to revile them, saying that robberies on the highway were now grown so frequent that people could not sleep safely in their beds and assured them they both should be made examples of at the ensuing assizes. After he had gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded, by his clerk, that it would be proper to take the dispositions of the witnesses against them, which he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the meantime. Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the deposition of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the Justice employed himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by all the company at table. One asked whether she was to be indicted for a highwayman. Another whispered in her ear, if she had not provided herself a great belly, he was at her service. A third said, he warranted she was a relation of Turpin, to which one of the company, a great wit, shaking his head and then his sides, answered, believe she was narrower related to Turpis, at which there was an universal laugh. They were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when somebody, smoking the cassock, peeping forth from under the great coat of atoms, cried out, What have we here, a parson? How, sirah, says the Justice, do you go robbing in the dress of a clergyman? Let me tell you, your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy. Yes, said the witty fellow, he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be exalted above the heads of the people, at which there was a second laugh. And now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in spirits, and turning to atoms, challenged him to cap verses, and provoking him by giving the first blow, he repeated, Molae meum levibus cord est vilabeli talis. Upon which, atoms, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told him he deserved scouring for his pronunciation. The witty fellow answered, What do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer the first time? What, I'll give one, you blockhead, with an S. See, lisit ut vulvum spectatar in ignibus haurum. What, can't'st not with an M neither? Thou art a pretty fellow for a parson. Why, did'st not steal some of the parson's Latin, as well as his gown? Another at the table then answered, If he had, you would have been too hard for him. I remember you at the college, a very devil at this sport. I have seen you catch a freshman, for nobody that knew you would engage with you. I have forgotten those things now, cried the wit. I believe I could have done pretty well, formally. Let's see, what did I end with? An M. I. Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, Vvorum. I could have done it once. Ah, evil be tied you, and so you can now, said the other. Nobody in this country will undertake you. Atoms could hold no longer. Friend, said he, I have a boy not above eight years old who would instruct thee that the last verse runs thus. Udsunt divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, Vvorum. I'll hold thee againny of that, said the wit, throwing the money on the table. And I'll go, your haves, cries the other. Done, answered Adams, but upon applying to his pocket he was forced to retract, and, own, he had no money about him, which said them all a laughing, and confirmed the triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more than the approbation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he must go a little longer to school before he attempted to attack that gentleman in Latin. The clerk, having finished the depositions as well of the fellow himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered them to the justice, who, having sworn the several witnesses, without reading the syllable, ordered his clerk to make thee minimus. Adams then said he hoped he should not be condemned, unheard. No, no, cries the justice. You will be asked what you have to say for yourself when you come on your trial. We are not trying you now. I shall only commit you to jail. If you can prove your innocence at size, you will be found enduramus, and so no harm done. Is it no punishment, sir, for an innocent man to lie several months in jail? cries Adams. I beg you, would at least hear me before you sign the minimus. What signifies all you can say, says the justice. Is it not here in black and white against you? I must tell you. You are a very impertinent fellow to take up so much of my time. So make haste with his minimus. The clerk now acquainted the justice that, among other suspicious things, as a pen knife, et cetera, found in Adams' pocket, they had discovered a book written, as he apprehended, in ciphers, for no one could read a word of it. I, says the justice, the fellow may be more than a common robber. He may be in a plot against the government, produced the book upon which the poor manuscript of Escalus, which Adams had transcribed with his own hand, was brought forth, and the justice, looking at it, shook his head, and, turning to the prisoner, asked the meaning of those ciphers. Ciphers, answered Adams, it is a manuscript of Escalus. Who? Who? said the justice. Adams repeated. Escalus. That is an outlandish name, cried the clerk. A fictitious name, rather, I believe, said the justice. One of the company declared it looked very much like Greek. Greek? said the justice. Why, it is all writing. No, says the other. I don't positively say it is so, for it is a very long time, since I have seen any Greek. There's one, says he, turning to the parson of the parish, who was present. Will tell us immediately. The parson, taking up the book, and putting on his spectacles, and gravity, together, muttered some words to himself, and then pronounced aloud, I, indeed, it is a Greek manuscript, a very fine piece of antiquity. I make no doubt, but it was stolen from the same clergyman, from whom the rogue took the cassock. What did the rascal mean by his Escalus? says the justice. Poo! answered the doctor, with a contemptuous grin. Do you think that fellow knows anything of this book? Escalus. I see now what it is, a manuscript of one of the fathers. I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of money for such a piece of antiquity. I, I question and answer. The beginning is the catechism, in Greek. I, I, pola ki toy. What's your name? I, what's your name? says the justice to Adams, who answered, It is Escalus, and I will maintain it. Oh, it is, says the justice. Make Mr. Escalus his metimus. I will teach you to banter me with a false name. One of the company, having looked steadfastly at Adams, asked him if he did not know Lady Booby, upon which Adams, presently calling him to mind, answered in a rapture. Oh, squire, are you here? I believe you will inform his worship. I am innocent. I can indeed say, replied the squire, that I am very much surprised to see you in this situation, and then addressing himself to the justice, he said, Sir, I assure you Mr. Adams is a clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very good character. I wish you would inquire a little farther into this affair, for I am convinced of his innocence. Nay, says the justice, if he is a gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don't desire to commit him, not I. I will commit the woman by herself, and take your bail for the gentleman. Look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to take bail. Come, and make the metimus for the woman as fast as you can. Sir, cries Adams, I assure you she is as innocent as myself. Perhaps, said the squire, there may be some mistake. Pray, let us hear Mr. Adams' relation. With all my heart, answered the justice, and give the gentleman a glass to wet his whistle before he begins. I know how to behave myself to gentleman as well as any other. Nobody can say I have committed a gentleman since I have been in the commission. Adams then began the narrative, in which, though he was very prolix, he was not interrupted, unless by several hums and hares of the justice, and his desire to repeat those parts, which seemed to him most material. When he had finished, the justice, who, on what the squire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his bare affirmation, notwithstanding the depositions on oath to the contrary, began to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, whom he ordered to stand forth, but in vain. The said witness, long since finding what turn matters were likely to take, had privily withdrawn, without attending the issue. The justice now flew into a violent passion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocent fellows who had been imposed on, as well as himself. He swore they had best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before him within two days, or he would bind them over to their good behavior. They all promised to use their best endeavors to that purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice insisted that Mr. Adams should sit down and take a glass with him, and the parson of the parish, delivered him back the manuscript without saying a word. Nor would Adams, who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she was, at her own request, recommended to the care of a maid servant of the house who helped her to new dress and clean herself. The company in the parlor had not been long seated before they were alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the persons who had apprehended Adams and Fanny had been regaling, according to the custom of the house, with the justice's strong beer. These were all fallen together by their ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. The justice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his presence soon put an end to the fray. On his return into the parlor he reported that the occasion of the quarrel was no other than a dispute to whom, if Adams had been convicted, the greater share of the reward for apprehending him had belonged. All the company laughed at this, except Adams, who was taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and said, He was concerned to see so litigious a temper in men, that he remembered a story something like it in one of his parishes where his cure lay. There was, continued he, a competition between three young fellows for the place of the clerk, which I disposed of to the best of my abilities, according to merit. That is, I gave it to him who had the happiest knack at setting a sound. The clerk was no sooner established in his place than a contention began between the two disappointed candidates concerning their excellence, each contending on whom, had they, too, been the only competitors, my election would have fallen. This dispute frequently disturbed the congregation, and introduced a discord into the salmody, till I was forced to silence them both. But, alas, the litigious spirit could not be stifled, and, being no longer able to vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fighting. It produced many battles, for they were very near a match, and I believe would have ended fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity to promote one of them to his place, which presently put an end to the dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties. Adams then proceeded to make some philosophical observations on the folly of growing warm and disputes in which neither party is interested. He then applied himself vigorously to smoking, and a long silence ensued, which was at length broke by the justice, who began to sing forth his own praises, and to value himself exceedingly on his nice discernment, in the cause which had lately been before him. He was quickly interrupted by Mr. Adams, between whom, and his worship, a dispute now arose, whether he ought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said Adams, in which the latter maintained, he ought to have been committed, and the justice as vehemently held he ought not. This had most probably produced a quarrel, for both were very violent and positive in their opinions, had not fanny accidentally heard that a young fellow was going from the justice's house to the very inn, where the stagecoach, in which Joseph was, put up. Upon this news she immediately sent for the parson out of the parlor. Adams, when he found her resolute to go, though she would not own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces of those who had suspected her of such a crime, was as fully determined to go with her. He, accordingly, took leave of the justice and company, and so ended a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a magistrate and a divine together by the ears Chapter 12, a very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to the good-natured reader. Adams, fanny, and the guide, set out together about one in the morning, the moon being then just risen. They had not gone above a mile before a most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or rather alehouse, where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content, utterly forgetting everything that had happened. Fanny sat likewise down by the fire, but was much more impatient at the storm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of the house, and the young fellow who was their guide. They all conceived they had never seen anything half so handsome. And indeed, reader, if thou art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the next paragraph, which to render our history perfect we are obliged to set down, humbly hoping that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion. For, if it should happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, we should be perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say to ourselves, quod petis est nusquem. Or, if the finest features in it should set Lady Blank's image before your eyes, we should be still in as bad a situation, and might say to our desires, colum ipsum petimus stul titia. Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age. She was tall and delicately shaped, but not one of those slender young women who seemed rather intended to hang up in the hall of an atomist than for any other purpose. On the contrary, she was so plump that she seemed bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confined her swelling breasts, nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to extend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbs which she concealed, and though they were a little reddened by her labor, yet if her sleeve slipped above her elbow or her handkerchief discovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest Italian paint would be unable to reach. Her hair was of a chestnut brown, and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut and on Sundays used to curl around her neck in the modern fashion. Her forehead was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise, her eyes black and sparkling, her nose just inclining to the Roman, her lips red and moist, and her underlip, according to the opinion of the ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The smallpox had left one mark on her chin, which was so large it might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced one so near a neighbor to it that the former served only for a foil to the latter. Her complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, but overspread was such a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged all their white for it. Add to these a countenance in which, though she was extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible, and a sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or description. To conclude all, she had a natural gentility superior to the acquisition of art and which surprised all who beheld her. This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams when her attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room which sung the following song. The song. Say, Chloe, where must the swan stray who is by thy beauties undone? To wash their remembrance away? To what distant lethy must run? The wretch who is sentenced to die may escape and leave justice behind. From his country perhaps he may fly, but, oh, can he fly from his mind? Oh, rapture, unthought of before, to be thus of Chloe possessed. Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power her image can tear from my breast. But felt not Narcissus more joy? With his eyes he beheld his loved charms. Yet what he beheld the fond boy most eagerly wished in his arms. How can it thy dear image be which fills thus my bosom with woe? Can ought bear resemblance to thee which grief and not joy can bestow? This counterfeit snatch from my heart ye powers, though with torment I rave. Though mortal will prove the fell smart, I then shall find rest in my grave. Ah, see the dear nymph or the plain come, Smiling and tripping along. A thousand loves dance in her train, The graces around her all throng. To meet her soft zephyrus flies, And wafts all the sweets from the flowers. Ah, rogue eye, wout'st he kisses her eyes, More sweets from her breath he devours. My soul, wout'st I gaze, is on fire, But her looks were so tender and kind, My hope almost reached my desire, And left lame despair far behind. Transported with madness I flew, And eagerly seized on my bliss Her bosom but half she withdrew, But half she refused my fond kiss. Advances like these made me bold, I whispered her, Love, we're alone. The rest let immortals unfold, No language can tell but their own. Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried, How long I thy cruelty bore! Ah, Strefane, she blushing replied, Unair was so pressing before. Adams had been ruminating all this time On a passage in Escalus, Without attending, in the least, To the voice, though one of the most melodious That ever was heard, When, casting his eyes on Fanny, he cried out, Bless us, you look extremely pale. Pale, Mr. Adams said she, Oh, Jesus, and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung his Escalus into the fire, And fell, a-roaring, To the people of the house for help. He soon summoned everyone into the room, And the songster among the rest. But, oh, reader, when this nightingale, Who was no other than Joseph Andrews himself, Saw his beloved Fanny in the situation we have described her, Can't thou conceive the agitations Of his mind? If thou canst not wave that meditation To behold his happiness, When, clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood Returning into her cheeks. When he saw her open her beloved eyes, And heard her with the softest accent whisper, Are you Joseph Andrews? Art thou my Fanny? he answered eagerly, And pulling her to his heart, He imprinted numberless kisses on her lips, Without considering who were present. If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, They may take their eyes off from it, And survey Parton Adams, Dancing about the room in a rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps doubt Whether he was not the happiest of the three, For the goodness of his heart enjoyed the blessings Which were exalting in the breasts Of both the other two, together with his own. But we shall leave such disquisitions As too deep for us, To those who are building some favorite hypothesis, Which they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish To erect and support. For our part we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, Whose happiness was not only greater than the Parsons, But of longer duration. For as soon as the first two months Of Adams' rapture were over, He cast his eyes towards the fire, Where escholus lay expiring, And immediately rescued the poor remains To wit the sheepskin covering Of his dear friend, which was the work of his own hands, And had been his inseparable companion For upwards of thirty years. Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself, Than she began to restrain the impetuosity Of her transports. And reflecting on what she had done, And suffered in the presence of so many, She was immediately covered with confusion, And, pushing Joseph gently from her, She begged him to be quiet, Nor would admit of either kiss Or embrace any longer. Then, seeing Mrs. Slipslop, she curtsied And offered to advance to her. But that high woman would not return her curtsies, But casting her eyes another way, Immediately withdrew into another room, muttering as she went, She wondered who the creature was. End of Book Two, Chapters 11 and 12, Read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book Two, Chapters 13, 14, and 15 of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding. Book Two, Chapter 13, a dissertation concerning high people and low people, With Mrs. Slipslop's departure in no very good temper of mind, And the evil plight in which she left Adams and his company. It will doubtless seem extremely odd to many readers That Mrs. Slipslop, who had lived several years in the same house with Fanny, Should, in a short separation, utterly forget her. And, indeed, the truth is that she remembered her very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, That anything should appear unnatural in this our history, We will endeavor to explain the reasons of her conduct, Nor do we doubt being able to satisfy the most curious reader That Mrs. Slipslop did not, in the least, deviate from the common road in this behavior. And, indeed, had she done otherwise, She must have descended below herself, And would have very justly been liable to censure. Be it known, then, that the human species are divided into two sorts of people, To it, high people and low people. As by high people I would not be understood to mean persons Literally born higher in their dimensions than the rest of the species, Nor metaphorically those of exalted characters or abilities. So, by low people, I cannot be construed to intend the reverse. High people signify no other than people of fashion, And low people, those of no fashion. Now, this word fashion, hath by long use, lost its original meaning, From which, at present, it gives us a very different idea. For I am deceived, if by persons of fashion, We do not generally include a conception of birth And accomplishments superior to the herd of mankind. Whereas, in reality, nothing more was originally meant by a person of fashion Than a person who dressed himself in the fashion of the times. And the word really and truly satisfies no more at this day. Now, the world being thus divided into people of fashion, And people of no fashion, a fierce contention arose between them. Nor would those of one party, to avoid suspicion, Be seen publicly to speak to those of the other. Though they often held a very good correspondence in private. In this contention, it is difficult to say which party succeeded. For whilst the people of fashion seized several places to their own use, Such as courts, assemblies, operas, balls, etc. The people of no fashion, besides one royal place called his majesty's bear garden, Have been in constant possession of all hops, fairs, revels, etc. Two places have been agreed to be divided between them. Namely, the church and the playhouse, Where they segregate themselves from each other in order to make them Where they segregate themselves from each other in a remarkable manner. For, as the people of fashion exalt themselves at church, Over the heads of people of no fashion, So, in the playhouse, they abase themselves In the same degree under their feet. This distinction I have never met with anyone able to account for. It is sufficient that, so far from looking on each other as brethren In the Christian language, they seem scarce to regard each other As of the same species. This, the terms, strange persons, people one does not know, The creature, wretches, beasts, brutes, and many other appellations Evidently demonstrate. Which Mrs. Slipslopp, having often heard her mistress use, Thought she had also a right to use in her turn. And, perhaps, she was not mistaken. For these two parties, especially those bordering nearly on each other, To it, the lowest of the high, and the highest of the low, Often change their parties according to place and time. For those who are people of fashion in one place, Are often people of no fashion in another. And, with regard to time, it may not be unpleasant to survey the picture of Dependence, like a ladder, as, for instance, Early in the morning arises the postillion, Or some other boy, which great families, no more than great ships, Are without, and falls to brushing the clothes, And cleaning the shoes of John the Footman, Who, being dressed himself, applies his hands To the same labors for Mr. Second Hand, the squire's gentleman. The gentleman, in the like manner, a little later in the day, Attends the squire. The squire is no sooner equipped than he attends The levy of my lord, which is no sooner over, Than my lord himself is seen at the levy of the favorite, Who, after the hour of homage is at an end, Appears himself to pay homage to the levy of his sovereign. Nor is there, perhaps, in this whole ladder Of Dependence, any one step at a greater distance From the other than the first, from the second, So that, to a philosopher, the question might only seem Whether you would choose to be a great man At six in the morning, or at two in the afternoon. And yet there are scarce two of these, who do not think The least familiarity with the persons below them A condescension, and, if they were to go one step farther, A degradation. And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon This long digression, which seemed to me necessary To vindicate the great character of Mrs. Slipslopp From what low people, who have never seen high people, Might think an absurdity. But we who know them Must have daily found very high persons Know us in one place, and not in another. Today, and not tomorrow. All which it is difficult To account for, otherwise, then I have here endeavored. And, perhaps, if the gods, according to the opinion Of some made men only to laugh at them, There is no part of our behavior which answers The end of our creation better than this. But to return to our history, Adams, who knew no more of this Than the cat which sat on the table, imagining Mrs. Slipslopp's Memory had been much worse than it really was, Followed her into the next room, crying out, Madam Slipslopp, here is one of your old acquaintance. Do but see what a fine woman she has grown Since she left Lady Booby's service. I think I reflect something of her, answered she, With great dignity. But I can't remember all the Inferior servants in our family. She then proceeded to satisfy Adams' curiosity by telling him, when she arrived at the inn, She found a chase ready for her, that her Lady Bean Expected very shortly in the country, she was obliged to make The utmost haste, and, in commensuration of Joseph's Lame-ness, she had taken him with her. And, lastly, that the Excessive virulence of the storm had driven them into The house where he found them. After which she acquainted Adams with his having left his Horse, and expressed some wonder at his having strayed so far Out of his way, and at meeting him, as she said, in the Company of that wench whom she feared was no better than She should be. The horse was no sooner put into Adams' Head, but he was immediately driven out by this reflection on The character of Fanny. He protested. He believed there was not a chastre, damsel in the universe. I heartily wish, I heartily wish, cried he, snapping his Fingers, that all her betters were as good. He then proceeded to inform her of the accident of their Meeting. But when he came to these circumstance of Delivering her from the rape, she said she thought him Properer for the army than the clergy, that it did not Become a clergyman to lay violent hands on anyone That he should have rather prayed that she might be Strengthened. Adams said he was very far from being Ashamed of what he had done, and she replied, Want of shame was not the curatoristic of a clergyman. This dialogue might have probably grown warmer, had not Joseph, opportunity entered the room to ask leave of Madam Slipslop to introduce Fanny, but she positively Refused to admit any such trellops and told him She would have been burnt before she would have suffered Him to get into a chase with her if she had once respected Him of having his sluts waylaid on the road for him. Adding that Mr. Adams acted a very pretty part, and she Did not doubt but to see him a bishop. He made the best bow he could, and cried out, I thank you, madam, for that right reverent appellation, Which I shall take all honest means to deserve. Very honest means, returned she, this near, to bring People together. At these words Adams took two or Three strides across the room when the coachman Came to inform Mrs. Slipslop that the storm was over, And the moon shone very bright. She then sent for Joseph, Who was sitting without with his Fanny, and would have had Him gone with her, but he preemptorily refused to Leave Fanny behind, which threw the good woman Into a violent rage. She said she would inform Her lady what doings were carrying on, and did not Doubt, but she would rid the parish of all such People, and concluded a long speech, full of Bitterness, and very hard words, with some reflections on The clergy not decent to repeat. At last, finding Joseph unmovable, she flung herself into the Shays, casting a look at Fanny as she went, not Unlike that which Cleopatra gives Octavia in the Play. To say the truth, she was most Disagreeably disappointed by the presence of Fanny. She had from her first seeing Joseph at the Inn Conceived hopes of something which might have been Accomplished. At an alehouse, as well as a Palace. Indeed, it is probable Mr. Adams had Rescued more than Fanny from the clanger of a Rape that evening. When the Shays had carried Off the enraged slip-slop, Adams, Joseph, and Fanny assembled over the fire, where they had A great deal of innocent chat, pretty enough. But as possibly it would not be very entertaining To the reader, we shall hasten to the morning, Only observing that none of them went to bed That night. Adams, when he had smoked three pipes, Took a comfortable nap in a great chair, and left The lovers whose eyes were too well employed to Permit any desire of shutting them to enjoy By themselves during some hours, and happiness Which none of my readers, who have never been in Love, are capable of the least conception of. Though we had as many tongues as Homer desired To describe it with, and which all true lovers Will represent to their own minds without the Least assistance from us. Let it suffice then to Say that Fanny, after a thousand entreaties At last gave up her whole soul to Joseph, and Almost fainting in his arms, with a sigh Infinitely softer and sweeter, too, than any Arabian breeze She whispered to his lips, which were then Close to hers, oh, Joseph, you have won me, I will be yours forever. Joseph, having thanked her On his knees, and embraced her with an eagerness Which she now, almost returned, leapt up in a rapture And awakened the parson, earnestly begging him That he would that instant join their hands together. Adams rebuked him for his request, and told him He would, by no means, consent to anything Contrary to the forms of the church, that he had no Licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one That the church had prescribed a form, namely the Publication of bans, with which all good Christians Ought to comply, and to the emission of which He attributed the many miseries which befell Great folks in marriage, concluding, as many as Are joined together, otherwise than G. Blank's Word, doth allow, are not joined together by G. Blank. Neither is their matrimony lawful. Fanny agreed with the parson, Saying to Joseph, with a blush, she assured him She would not consent to any such thing, and that She wondered at his offering it. In which resolution She was comforted and commended by Adams, and Joseph Was obliged to wait patiently till after the third Publication of the bans, which, however, he obtained The consent of Fanny in the presence of Adams To put in at their arrival. The son had been now Risen some hours when Joseph, finding his leg Surprisingly recovered, proposed to walk forwards, but When they were all ready to set out, an accident A little retarded them. This was no other than the Reckoning, which amounted to seven shillings. No, great Some, if we consider the immense quantity of Ale, which Mr. Adams poured in. Indeed, they had No objection to the reasonableness of the bill, But many to the probability of paying it, for the Fellow who had taken poor Fanny's purse had, Unluckily, forgot to return it, so that the account Stood thus. Mr. Adams and Company, doctor, seven Shillings. In Mr. Adams' pocket, six and a half Pens. In Mr. Joseph's? Nothing. In Mrs. Fanny's? Nothing. Balance. Six Shillings, five and a half Pens. They stood silent some few minutes, staring at Each other, when Adams whipped out on his toes And asked the hostess if there was no clergyman In that parish. She answered, there was. Is he wealthy? replied he, to which she likewise Answered in the affirmative. Adams then, snapping his fingers, Returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out Heureka, Heureka, which not being understood, he told them in plain English, they need give themselves no trouble, For he had a brother in the parish who would defray the Reckoning And that he would just step to his house, and fetch the money, And return to them instantly. Chapter 14 An Interview Between Parson Adams and Parson Truliber Parson Adams came to the house of Parson Truliber, Whom he found stripped into his waistcoat with an apron on, And a pail in his hand, just come from serving his hogs. For Mr. Truliber was a parson on Sundays, But all the other six might more properly be called a farmer. He occupied a small piece of land of his own, Besides which he rented a considerable deal more. His wife milked his cows, managed his dairy, And followed the markets with butter and eggs. The hogs fell chiefly to his care, Which he carefully waited on at home, and attended to fares, On which occasion he was liable to many jokes, His own size being, with much ale, rendered little inferior to that of the beasts he sold. He was indeed one of the largest men you should see, And could have acted the part of Sir John Falstaff without stuffing. And to this that the rotundity of his belly was considerably increased By the shortness of his stature, His shadow ascending very near as far in height, When he lay on his back as when he stood on his legs. His voice was loud and hoarse, And his accents extremely broad. To complete the whole, he had a statelyness in his gait when he walked, Not unlike that of a goose, only he stalked slower. Mr. Trulliber, being informed that somebody wanted to speak with him, Immediately slipped off his apron and clothed himself in an old nightgown, Being the dress in which he always saw his company at home. His wife, who informed him of Mr. Adams' arrival, Had made a small mistake, for she had told her husband, She believed there was a man come for some of his hogs. This supposition made Mr. Trulliber hasten, With the utmost expedition to attend his guest. He no sooner saw Adams than, not in the least, Doubting the cause of his errand, To be what his wife had imagined. He told him he had come in very good time, That he expected a dealer that afternoon, And added they were all pure and fat, And upwards of twenty score apiece. Adams answered he believed he did not know him. Yes, yes, cried Trulliber. I have seen you often at the fair. Why, we have dealt before now, Mutton. I warrant you. Yes, yes, cried he. I remember thy face very well, But won't mention a word more till you have seen them, Though I have never sold thee A flitch of such bacon as is now in the style. Upon which he laid violent hands on Adams, And dragged him into the hogsty, Which was indeed but two steps from his parlor window. They were no sooner arrived there, Then he cried out, Do but handle them, step in, friend, Art, welcome to handle them, Whether dust by or no. At which words, opening the gate, He pushed Adams into the pigsty, Insisting on it that he should handle them Before he would talk one word with him. Adams, whose natural complacence Was beyond anything artificial, Was obliged to comply before he was suffered To explain himself. And laying hold on one of their tails, The unruly beast gave such a sudden spring That he threw poor Adams all along in the mire. Trulliver, instead of assisting him to get up, Burst into a laughter, and entering the sty, Said to Adams with some contempt, Why, dust thou not know how to handle a hog, And was going to lay hold of one himself, But Adams, who thought he had carried his complacence far enough, Was no sooner on his legs, Then he escaped out of the reach of the animals, And cried out, Nahill, habio, come porcus, I am a clergyman, sir, and am not come to buy hogs. Trulliver answered, He was sorry for the mistake, But that he must blame his wife, Adding, she was a fool and always committed blunders. He then desired him to walk in and clean himself, That he would only fasten up the sty and follow him. Adams desired leave to dry his great coat, Wig and hat by the fire, which Trulliver granted. Mrs. Trulliver would have brought him a basin of water to wash his face, But her husband bid her be quiet like a fool as she was, Or she would commit more blunders, And then directed Adams to the pump. While Adams was thus employed, Trulliver, conceiving no great respect for the appearance of his guest, Fastened the parlor door, And now conducted him into the kitchen, Telling him he believed a cup of drink would do him no harm, And whispered his wife to draw a little of the worst ale. After a short silence, Adams said, I fancy, sir, you already perceive me to be a clergyman. I, I, cries Trulliver, grinning, I perceive you have some cassock. I will not venture to call it a whole one. Adams answered, It was indeed none of the best, But he had the misfortune to tear it about ten years ago, In passing over a style. Mrs. Trulliver, returning with the drink, told her husband, She fancied the gentleman was a traveler, And that he would be glad to eat a bit. Trulliver bid her hold her impertinent tongue, And asked her if Parsons used to travel without horses. Adding, He supposed, The gentleman had none by his having no boots on. Yes, sir, yes, says Adams, I have a horse, But I left him behind me. I'm glad to hear you have one, says Trulliver, For I assure you that I don't love to see clergymen on foot. It is not seemingly nor suiting the dignity of the cloth. Here Trulliver made a long oration on the dignity of the cloth, Or rather gown, not much worth relating, till his wife had spread the table And set a mess of porridge on it for his breakfast. He then said to Adams, I don't know, friend, How you came to Kale on me. However, as you are here, if you think proper to eat a morsel, you may. Adams accepted the invitation, and the two Parsons sat down together, Mrs. Trulliver waiting behind her husband's chair. As was, it seems, her custom. Trulliver ate heartily, but scarce put anything in his mouth Without finding fault with his wife's cookery, All which the poor woman bore patiently. Indeed, she was so absolute an admirer of her husband's greatness And importance, of which she had frequent hints from his own mouth, That she almost carried her adoration to an opinion of his infallibility. To say the truth, the parson had exercised her more ways than one, And the pious woman had so well edified by her husband's sermons, That she had resolved to receive the bad things of this world together with the good. She had indeed been, at first, a little contentious, But he had long since got the better, partly by her love for this, Partly by her fear of that, partly by her religion, Partly by the respect he paid himself, And partly by that which he received from the parish. She had, in short, absolutely submitted, and now worshiped her husband, As Sarah did Abraham, calling him not Lord, but Master. While they were at table, her husband gave her a fresh example of his greatness, For as she had just delivered a cup of ale to Adam's, He snatched it out of his hand and, crying out, I killed first, swallowed down the ale. Adam's denied it. It was referred to the wife, Who, though her conscience was on the side of Adam's, Durced not give it against her husband, upon which he said, No, sir, no, I should not have been so rude To have taken it from you if you had killed first. But I'd have you know I'm a better man than to suffer the best, He and the kingdom, to drink before me, In my own house when I killed first. As soon as their breakfast was ended, Adam's began in the following manner. I think, sir, it is high time to inform you of the business of my embassy. I am a traveler, and am passing this way, In company with two young people, a lad and a damsel, My parishioners, towards my own cure. We stopped at a house of hospitality in the parish, Where they directed me to you as having the cure. Though I am but a curate, says Truliber, I believe I am as warm as the vicar himself, Or perhaps the rector of the next parish, too. I believe I could buy them both. Sir, cries Adam's, I rejoice they're at. Now, sir, my business is that we are by various accidents Stripped of our money, and are not able to pay Our reckoning being seven shillings. I therefore request you to assist me with the loan of those seven shillings, And also seven shillings more, Which, per adventure, I shall return to you. But, if not, I am convinced you will joyfully embrace such an opportunity Of laying up a treasure in a better place than any this world affords. Suppose a stranger who entered the chambers of a lawyer, Being imagined a client, when the lawyer was preparing his palm for the fee, Should pull out a wret against him. Suppose an apothecary at the door of a chariot, Containing some great doctor of imminent skill, Should, instead of directions to a patient, Present him with a potion for himself. Suppose a minister should, instead of a good round sum, Treat my lord blank blank, or sir blank blank, Or esquire blank blank, with a good broomstick. Suppose a civil companion, or a lead captain, Should, instead of virtue and honor and beauty and parts, And admiration, thunder, vice and infamy and ugliness, And folly and contempt in his patron's ears. Suppose when a tradesman first carries in his bill, The man of fashion should pay it. Or suppose, if he did so, the tradesman should abate what he had overcharged On the supposition of waiting. In short, suppose what you will, you never can, Nor will suppose anything equal to the astonishment Which seized on Trulliber, as soon as Adams had ended his speech. A while he rolled his eyes in silence, Sometimes surveying Adams, then his wife, Then casting them on the ground, then lifting them up to heaven. At last he burst forth in the following accents. Sir, I believe I know where to lay up my little treasure, As well as another. I thank gee blank, if I am not so warm as some, I am content. That is a blessing greater than riches, And he to whom that is given, need ask no more. To be content with the little is greater than to possess the world, Which a man may possess without being so. Lay up my treasure. What matters where a man's treasure is, Whose heart is in the scriptures. That is the treasure of a Christian. At these words the water ran from Adams' eyes, And catching Trulliber by the hand in a rapture. Brother, says he, heavens bless the accident By which I came to see you. I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you, And believe me, I will shortly pay you a second visit. But my friends, I fancy, by this time wonder at my stay. So let me have the money immediately. Trulliber then put on a stern looking cried out, Thou dost not intend to rob me. At which the wife, bursting into tears, Fell on her knees and roared out, Oh, dear sir, for heaven's sake, Don't rob my master. We are but poorer people. Get up, for a fool as thou art, And go about thy business, said Trulliber. Dusting the man will venture his life. He is a beggar and no robber. Very true indeed, answered Adams. I wish with all my heart the tiding man was here, Christ Trulliber. I would have thee punished as a vagabond, For thy impudence. Fourteen shillings indeed. I won't give thee a farthing. I believe thou art no more a clergyman Than the woman there, pointing to his wife. But if thou art, dost deserve To have thy gown stripped over thy shoulders For running about the country in such a manner. I forgive your suspicions, says Adams, But suppose I am not a clergyman. I am nevertheless thy brother. And thou, as a Christian, much more as a clergyman, Art obliged to relieve my distress. Dest preach to me, replied Trulliber. Dest pretend to instruct me in my duty. If, Hacks, a good story cries Mrs. Trulliber To preach to my master. Silence, woman, cries Trulliber. I would have thee know, friend, addressing himself to Adams. I shall not learn my duty from such as thee. I know what charity is, better than to give to vagabonds. Besides, if we were inclined, the poor's rate Obliges us to give so much charity, cries the wife. Pfft, thou art a fool. Poor's, re-eight. Hold thy nonsense, answered Trulliber. And then, turning to Adams, he told him He would give him nothing. I am sorry, answered Adams, that you do know What charity is, since you practice it no better. I must tell you, if you trust to your knowledge For your justification, you will find yourself deceived. Though you should add faith to it, without good works. Fellow, cries Trulliber. Dest, thou speak against faith in my house? Get out of my doors. I will no longer remain under the same roof With a wretch who speaks wantonly of faith and the scriptures. Name not the scriptures, says Adams. How? Not name the scriptures. Do you disbelieve the scriptures? Cries Trulliber. No, but you do, answered Adams, if I may reason From your practice, for their commands are so explicit And their rewards and punishments so immense That it is impossible a man should stead Fastly believe without obeying. Now, there is no command more express, No duty more frequently enjoined than charity. Whoever, therefore, is void of charity, I make no scruple of pronouncing that he is no Christian. I would not advise thee, says Trulliber, To say that I am no Christian. I won't take it of you, for I believe I am as good A man as thyself. And though, indeed, Though he was now rather too corpulent for athletic exercises, He had, in his youth, been one of the best boxers And cudgel players in the county. His wife, seeing him clinch his fist, Interposed and begged him not to fight, But show himself a true Christian and take the law of him As nothing could provoke Adams to strike, But an absolute assault on himself or his friend, He smiled at the angry look and gestures of Trulliber, And telling him he was sorry to see such men In orders departed without further ceremony. Chapter 15, an adventure, the consequence of a new instance Which Parson Adams gave of his forgetfulness. When he came back to the inn, He found Joseph and Fanny sitting together. They were so far from thinking his absence long, As he had feared they would, That they never once missed, or thought of him. Indeed, I have been often assured, by both, That they spent these hours in a most delightful conversation. But, as I never could prevail on either to relate it, So I cannot communicate it to the reader. Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success of his enterprise. They were all greatly confounded, None being able to propose any method of departing, Till Joseph at last advised Collinian, the hostess, In desiring her to trust them, Which Fanny said she despaired of her doing, As she was one of the sourest, faced women she had ever beheld. But she was agreeably disappointed, for the hostess was, No sooner asked the question, that she readily agreed, And, with a curtsy, and smile, wish them a good journey. However, lest Fanny's skill and physiognomy Should be called in question, We will venture to assign one reason, Which might probably incline her to this confidence and good humor. When Adams said he was going to visit his brother, He had unwittingly imposed on Joseph and Fanny, Who both believed he had meant his natural brother, And not his brother in divinity, And had so informed the hostess on her inquiry after him. Now Mr. Truliber had, by his professions of piety, By his gravity, austerity, reserve, And the opinion of his great wealth, So great an authority in his parish, That they all lived in the utmost fear and apprehension of him. It was, therefore, no wonder that the hostess, Who knew it was in his option, Whether she should ever sell another mug of drink, Did not dare to affront his supposed brother, By denying him credit. They were now just on their departure, When Adams recollected he had left his great coat, And had at Mr. Truliber's. As he was not desirous of renewing his visit, The hostess herself, having no servant at home, Offered to fetch it. And this was an unfortunate expedient, For the hostess was soon undeceived in the opinion She had entertained of Adams, Whom Truliber abused in the grossest terms, Especially when he heard he had had the assurance To pretend to be his near relation. At her return, therefore, She entirely changed her note. She said, Folks might be ashamed of traveling about, And pretending to be what they are not. The taxes were high, and for her part, She was obliged to pay for what she had. She could not, therefore, possibly, Nor would she trust anybody. No, not her own father. That money was never scarcer, And she wanted to make up a sum. That she expected, therefore, They should pay their reckoning Before they left the house. Adams was now greatly perplexed, But as he knew that he could easily have borrowed Such a sum in his own parish, And as he knew he would have lent it himself To any mortal in distress, So he took fresh courage, And sallied out all round the parish, But to no purpose. He returned as penniless as he went, Growning and lamenting that it was possible In a country professing Christianity For a wretch to starve In the midst of his fellow creatures Who abounded. Whilst he was gone, The hostess, who stayed as a sort of guard With Joseph and Fanny, Entertained them with the goodness Of Parson Trulliber. And indeed he had not only a very good character As to other qualities in the neighborhood, But was reputed a man of great charity, For though he never gave a farthing, He had always that word in his mouth. Adams was no sooner returned the second time Than the storm grew exceedingly high, The hostess declaring, among other things, That if they offered to stir without paying her, She would soon overtake them with a warrant. Plato and Aristotle, or somebody else, Had said that when the most exquisite cunning fails, Chance often hits the mark, And that by means the least expected. Virgil expresses this very boldly. Turne, quod obtante divum primitere nemo, Audrit, volvenda dies en atulit ultra. I would quote more great men, if I could, But my memory not permitting me, I will proceed to exemplify these observations By the following instance. Their chance, for Adams had not cunning enough To contrive it, to be at that time In the alehouse, a fellow who had been formerly A drummer in an Irish regiment, And now traveled across the country as a peddler. This man, having attentively listened To the discourse of the hostess, at last took Adams aside And asked him what the sum was for which they were detained. As soon as he was informed, he sighed and said, He was sorry it was so much, For that he had no more than six shillings and six pence In his pocket, which he would lend them with all his heart. Adams gave a caper and cried out, It would do, for that he had six pence himself. And thus these poor people, who could not engage The compassion of riches and piety, Were at length delivered out of their distress By the charity of a poor peddler. I shall refer to my reader to make what observations He pleases on this incident. It is sufficient for me to inform him that, After Adams and his companions had returned him A thousand thanks, and told him where he might call To be repaid, they all sallied out of the house Without any compliments from their hostess, Or indeed without paying her any. Adams, declaring he would take particular care, Never to call there again. And she on her side, assuring them, She wanted no such guests.