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remarked, as soon as he had parted with his money, hegan to grow wonderfully facetious. He made frequent allusions to Adam and Eve, and said many excellent things on figs and fig-leaves; which perhaps gave more offence to Joseph than to any other in the company.

The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests, without departing from his profession. He said, 'If Joseph and the lady were alone, he would be more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his affairs were not fettered with any incumbrance; he'd warrant he soon suffered a recovery by a writ of entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in tail; that for his own part, he would engage to make so firm a settlement in a coach, that there should be no danger of an ejectment;' with an inundation of the like gibberish, which he continued to vent till the coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid only was up, in readiness to attend the coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and a dram. Joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed prepared for him, which the maid readily promised to perform; and being a good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapped a large faggot on the fire, and furnishing Joseph with a great-coat belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to sit down, and warm himself while she made his bed. The coachman, in the mean time, took an opportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors; after which he reminded his passengers how late they were, and, after they had taken leave of Joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could.

The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use her interest to borrow him a shirt; but imagined, as she afterwards said, by his being so bloody, that he must he a dead man; she ran with all speed to hasten the rgeon, who was more than half dressed, apprehending Vol. v. F

that the coach had been overturned and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as the wench had informed him at his window, that it was a poor foot-passenger who had been stripped of all he had, and almost murdered, he chid her for disturbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very quietly returned to bed and to sleep.

Aurora now began to show her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten millions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes a thousand times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sung both the day and the song; when the master of the inn, Mr. Tow-wouse, arose, and learning from his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of his poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, 'good-lack-a-day!' and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his own shirts.

Mrs. Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched out her arms in vain to fold her departed husband, when the maid entered the room. 'Who's there? Betty!'—' Yes, 'Madam.'—'Where's your master?'—'He's without, 'Madam ; he hath sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked 'man, who hath been robbed and murdered.'—' Touch 'one, if you dare, you slut,' said Mrs. Tow-wouse: 'your 'master is a pretty sort of a man, to take in naked 'vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. I 'shall have no such doings. If you offer to touch any 'thing, I'll throw the chamberpot at your head. Go, 'send your master to me.'—' Yes, Madam,' answered Betty. As soon as he came in, she thus began: 'What 'the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Tow-wouse? Am 'I to buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby rascals?'—' My 'dear,' said Mr. Tow-wouse, 'this is a poor wretch.'— 'Yes,' says she, 'I know it is a poor wretch; but what 'the devil have we to do with poor wretches? The law 'makes us provide for too many already. We shall have ,' thirty or forty poor wretches in red coats shortly.'—' My 'dear,' cries Tow-wouse, ' this man hath been robbed of 'all he hath.'—' Well then,' says she,' where's his money 'to pay his reckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go 'to an alehouse? I shall send him packing as soon as I 'am up, I assure you.'—' My dear,' said he, 'common 'charity won't suffer you to do that.' 'Common charity, 'a f—t!' says she,' common charity teaches us to provide 'for ourselves, and our families; and I and mine won't be 'ruin'd by your charity, I assure you.'—' Well,' says he, 'my dear, do as you will, when you are up; you know I 'never contradict you.'—' No,' says she, 'if the devil was 'to contradict me, I would make the house too hot to 'hold him.'

With such like discourses they consumed near half an hour, whilst Betty provided a shirt from the hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and put it on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last visited him, and washed and dressed his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr. Tow-wouse, that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he scarce saw any hopes of his recovery. 'Here's a pretty kettle of fish,' cries Mrs. Tow-wouse, 'you have brought upon us!' 'We are like 'to have a funeral at our own expense.' Tow-wouse (who, notwithstanding his charity, would have given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that any other house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his guest) answered, 'My dear, I am not to blame: he 'was brought hither by the stage-coach; and Betty had 'put him to bed, before I was stirring.'—' I'll Betty her,' says she.—At which, with half her garments on, the other half under her arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate Betty, whilst Tow-wouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor Joseph, and inquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair.

CHAPTER XIII.

What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, vrith the curious discourse between him and Mr. Barnabas, the parson of the parish.

As soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history of the robbery, together with a short account of himself, and his intended journey, he asked the surgeon, if he apprehended him to be in any danger: To which the surgeon very honestly answered, 'He feared he was; for 'that his pulse was very exalted and feverish, and if his 'fever should prove more than symptomatic, it would be 'impossible to save him.' Joseph, fetching a deep sigh, cried, 'Poor Fanny, I would I could have lived to see 'thee! but God's will be done.'

The surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly

affairs to settle, that he would do it as soon as possible;

for though he hoped he might recover, yet he thought

himself obliged to acquaint him he was in great danger;

and if the malign concoction of his humours should cause

a suscitation of his fever, he might soon grow delirious,

and incapable to make his will. Joseph answered, ' That

it was impossible for any creature in the universe to be

in a poorer condition than himself; for since the robbery,

he had not one thing of any kind whatever which he

could call his own.' 'I had,' said he, 'a poor little

piece of gold, which they took away, that would have

been a comfort to me in all my afflictions; but surely,

Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I have

thy dear image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear

it thence.'

Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but they were refused him; and he was advised to use all his endeavours to compose himself. They then left him; and Mr. Tow-wouse sent-to a clergyman to come and administer his good offices to the soul of poor Joseph, since the surgeon despaired of making any successful applications to his body.

Mr. Barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) came as soon as sent for; and having first drank a dish of tea with the landlady, and afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the room where Joseph lay; but finding him asleep, returned to take the other sneaker; which when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the chamber-door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talking to himself in the following manner:

'O most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sister! whose example could alone enable me to withstand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to preserve my virtue pure and chaste, for the arms of my dear Fanny, if it had pleased heaven that I should ever have come unto them. What riches, or honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the loss of innocence? Doth not that alone afford us more consolation, than all worldly acquisitions? What but innocence and virtue could give any comfort to such a miserable wretch as I am? Yet these can make me prefer this sick and painful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in my lady's. These can make me face death without fear; and though I love my Fanny more than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me to resign myself to the divine will without repining. O, thou delightful charming creature I if Heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest state, would have been a paradise; I could have liv'd with thee in the lowest cottage, without envying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any man breathing. But I must leave thee, leave thee for

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