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now a single halfpenny of it left. Sure the devil must have taken it from me!’—‘Sir," answered the priest smiling, ‘you need make no excuses: if you are not willing to lend me the money, I am contented.”—“Sir,’ cries Adams, ‘if I had the greatest sum in the world,—ay, if I had ten pounds about me, I would bestow it all to rescue any Christian from distress. I am more vexed at my loss on your account than my own. Was ever any thing so unlucky because I have no money in my pocket, I shall be suspected to be no Christian.’ ‘I am more unlucky,' quoth the other, “if you are as generous as you say; for really a crown would have made me happy, and conveyed me in plenty to the place I am going, which is not above twenty miles off, and where I can arrive by to-morrow night. I assure you I am not accustomed to travel pennyless. I am but just arrived in England; and we were forced by a storm in our passage to throw all we i. overboard. I don't suspect but this fellow will take my word for the trifle I owe him; but I hate to appear so mean as to confess myself without a shilling to such people; for these, and indeed too many others, know little difference in their estimation between a beggar and a thief.” However, he thought he should deal better with the host that evening than the next morning: he therefore resolved to set out immediately, notwithstanding the darkness; and accordingly, as soon as the host returned, he communicated to him the situation of his affair; upon which the host, scratching his head, answered, “Why, I do not know, master; if it be so, and you have no money, I must trust, I think, though I had rather always have ready money if I could ; but, marry, you look like so honest a gentleman, that I don't fear your paying me, if it was twenty times as much.” The priest made no reply, but taking leave of him and Adams as fast as he could, not without confusion, and perhaps with some distrust of Adams's sincerity, departed. e was no sooner gone than the host fell a shaking his head, and declared, if he had suspected the fellow had no money, he would not have drawn him a single drop of drink; saying, he despaired of ever seeing his face again, for that he looked like a confounded rogue. “Rabbit the fellow,’ cries he, “I thought by his talking so much about riches, that he had a hundred pounds at least in his pocket.” Adams chid him for his suspicions, which he said were not becoming a Christian ; and then, without reflecting on his loss, or considering how he himself should depart in the morning, he retired to a very homely bed, as his companions had before ; however health and fatigue gave them a sweeter repose than is

often in the power of velvet and down to bestow.


Containing as surprising and bloody adventures as can be found in this or perhaps any authentic history. It was almost morning, when Joseph Andrews, whose eyes the thoughts of his dear Fanny had opened, as he lay fondly meditating on that lovely creature, heard a violent knocking at the door, over which he lay. He presently jumped out of bed, and opening the window, was asked, If there were no travellers in the house? and presently by another voice, If two men and a young woman had taken up their lodgings there that night? Though he knew not the voices, he began to entertain a suspicion of the truth; for indeed he had received some information from one of the servants of the squire's house of his design; and answered in the negative. One of the servants, who knew the host well, called out to him by his name, just as he had opened another window, and asked him the same question; to which he answered in the affirmative. O ho! said another, have we found you? and ordered the host to come down and open his door. Fanny, who was as wakeful as Joseph, no sooner heard all this, than she leaped from her bed, and hastily putting on her gown and petticoats, ran as fast as possible to Joseph's room, who then was almost dressed. He immediately let her in, and embracing her with the most passionate tenderness, bid her fear nothing, for he would die in her defence. ‘Is that a reason why I should not fear,' says she, “when I should lose what is dearer to me than the whole world?” Joseph then kissing her hand, said, “He could almost thank the occasion which had extorted from her a tenderness she would never indulge him with before.’ He then ran and waked his bedfellow Adams, who was yet fast asleep, notwithstanding many from Joseph; but was no sooner made sensible of their danger, than he leaped from his bed, without considering the presence of Fanny, who hastily turned her face from him, and enjoyed a double benefit from the dark, which, as it would have prevented any offence to an innocence less pure, or a modesty less delicate, so it concealed even those blushes which were raised in her. Adams had soon put on all his clothes but his breeches, which in the hurry he to: however, they were pretty well supplied by the length of his other garments; and now the house-door being opened, the captain, the poet, the player, and three servants came in. The captain told the host, that two fellows who were in his house, had run away with a young woman, and desired to know in which room she lay. The host who presently believed the story, directed them, and instantly the captain and poet, jostling one another, ran up. The poet, who was the nimblest, entering the chamber first, searched the bed ands every other part, but to no purpose; the bird was flown, as the impatient reader, who might otherwise have been in pain for her, was before advertised. They then inquired where the men lay, and were approaching the chamber, when Joseph roared out in a loud voice, that he would shoot the first man who of— fered to attack the door. The captain inquired what fire-arms they had ; to which the host answered, He believed they had none; nay, he was almost convinced of it, for he had heard one ask the other in the evening what they should have done if they had been overtaken, when they had no arms; to which the other answered, They would have defended themselves with their sticks as long as they were able, and God would assist a just cause. This satisfied the captain, but not the poet, who prudently retreated down stairs, saying, It was his business to record great actions, and not to do them. The captain was no sooner well satisfied that there were no fire-arms, than bidding defiance to gunpowder, and swearing he loved the smell of it, he ordered the servants to follow him, and marching boldly up, immediately attempted to force the door, which the servants soon helped him to accomplish. When it was opened, they discovered the enemy drawn up three deep; Adams in the front, and Fanny in the rear. The captain told Adams, That if they would all back to the house again, they should civilly treated; but unless they consented, he had orders to carry the young lady with him, whom there was great reason to believe they had stolen from her parents; for notwithstanding her disguise, her air, which she could not conceal, sufficiently discovered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs. Fanny, bursting into tears, solemnly assured him he was mistaken; that she was a poor helpless foundling, and had no relation in the world which she knew of ; and throwing herself on her knees, begged that he would not attempt to take her from her friends, who she was convinced would die before they would lose her; which Adams confirmed with words not far from amounting to an oath. The captain swore he had no leisure to talk, and bidding them thank themselves for what happened, he ordered the servants to fall on, at the same time endeavouring to pass by Adams, in order to lay hold on Fanny; but the parson interrupting him received a blow from one of them which without considering whence it

came, he returned to the captain, and gave him so dexterous a knock in that part of the stomach which is vulgarly called the pit, that he staggered some paces backwards. The captain, who was not accustomed to this kind of play, and who wisely apprehended the consequence of such another blow, two of them seeming to him equal to a thrust through the body, drew forth his hanger, as Adams approached him, and was levelling a blow at his head, which would probably have silenced the preacher for ever, had not Joseph in that instant lifted up a certain huge stone pot of the chamber with one hand, which six beaus could not have lifted with both, and discharged it, together with the contents, full in the captain's face. The uplifted hanger dropped from his hand, and he fell prostrated on the floor with a lumpish noise, and his halfpence rattled in his pocket; the red liquor which his veins contained, and the white liquor which the pot contained, ran in one stream down. his face and his clothes. Nor had Adams quite escaped, some of the water having in its passage shed its honours on his head, and began to trickle down the wrinkles or rather furrows of his cheeks, when one of the servants, snatching a mop out of a pail of water which had already done its duty in washing the house, pushed it in the parson's face; yet could not he bear him down, for the parson wresting the mop from the fellow with one hand, with his other brought the enemy as low as the earth, having given him a stroke over that part of the face where, in some men of pleasure, the natural and artificial noses are conjoined. Hitherto Fortune seemed to incline the victory on the traveller's side, when, according to her custom, she began to show the fickleness of her disposition; for now the host entering the field, or rather chamber, of battle, flew directly at Joseph, and darting his head into his stomach, (for he was a stout fellow and an expert boxer,) almost staggered him; but Joseph stepping one leg back, did with his left hand so chuck him under the chin that he reeled. The youth was pursuing his blow with his right hand, when he received from one of the servants such a stroke with a cudgel on his temples, that it instantly deprived him of sense, and he measured his length on the ground. Fanny rent the air with her cries; and Adams was coming to the assistance of Joseph; but the two serving-men and the host now fell on him, and soon subdued him, though he fought like a madman, and looked so black with the impressions he had received from the mop, that Don Quixote would certainly have taken him for an enchanted Moor. But now follows the most tragical part; for the captain Y;" risen

again, and seeing Joseph on the floor, and Adams secured, he instantly laid hold on Fanny, and, with the assistance of the poet and player, who, hearing the battle was over, were now come up, dragged her, crying and tearing her hair, from the sight of her Joseph, and with a perfect deafness to all her intreaties, carried her down stairs b violence, and fastened her on the player's horse; and the captain mounting his own, and leading that on which this poor miserable wretch was, departed, without any more consideration of her cries than a butcher hath of those of a lamb; for indeed his thoughts were entertained only with the degree of favour which he promised himself from the squire on the suceess of this adventure. The servants, who were ordered to secure Adams and Joseph as safe as possible, that the squire might receive no interruption to his design on poor Fanny, immediately, by the poet's advice, tied Adams to one of the bed-posts, as they did Joseph on the other side, as soon as they could bring him to himself; and then leaving them together, back to back, and desiring the host not to set them at liberty, nor to go near them till he had further orders, they departed towards their master; but happened to take a different road from that which the captain had fallen into.


.A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this history but to divert the reader.

Before we proceed any farther in this tragedy, we shall leave Mr. Joseph and Mr. Adams to themselves, and imitate the wise conductors of the stage, who, in the midst of a grave action, entertain you with some excellent piece of satire or humour, called a dance. W. piece, indeed, is therefore danced, and not spoke, as it is delivered to the audience by persons, whose thinking faculty is, by most people, held to lie in their heels; and to whom, as well as heroes, who think with their hands, Nature hath only given heads for the sake of conformity, and as they are of use in dancing, to hang their hats on.

The poet, addressing the player, proceeded J. ‘As I was saying,” (for they had been at this discourse all the time of the engagement above stairs,) ‘the reason you have no good new plays is evident; it is from your discouragement of authors. Gentlemen will not write, sir, they will not write, without the expectation of same or profit, or perhaps both. Plays are like trees, which will not grow without nourishment; but, like mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneously, as it were, in a rich soil. The muses,

like vines, may be pruned, but not with a hatchet. The town, like a peevish child, knows not what it desires, and is always best pleased with a rattle. A farce-writer hath indeed some chance for success; but they have lost all taste for the sublime. Though I believe one reason of their depravity is the badness of the actors. If a man writes like an angrel, sir, those fellows know not how to give a sentiment utterance.”—“Not so fast,” says the player: “the modern actors are as good at least as their authors; nay, they come nearer their illustrious predecessors; and I expect a Booth on the stage again, sooner than a Shakspeare or an Otway; and indeed I may turn your observation against you, and with truth say, that the reason no actors are encouraged, is because we have no good new plays.”—“I have not affirmed the contrary,” said the poet; but I am surprised you grow so warm ; you cannot but imagine yourself interested in this dispute; I hope you have a better opinion of my taste, than to apprehend I squinted at yourself. No, sir, if we had six such actors as you, we should soon rival the Bettertons and Sandfords of former times; for, without a compliment to you, I think it impossible for any one to have excelled you in most of your parts. Nay, it is solemn truth, and I have heard many, and all great judges, express as much; and you will pardon me, if I tell you, I think, every time I have seen you lately, you have constantly acquired some new excellence, like a snowball. You have deceived me in my estimation of perfection, and have outdone what I thought inimitable.”—“You are as little interested,” answered the player, “in what I have said of other poets; for d-n me if there are not many strokes, ay, whole scenes, in your last tragedy, which at least equal Shakspeare. There is a delicacy of sentiment, a dignity of expression in it, which, I will own, many of our gentlemen did not do adequate justice to. To confess the truth, they are bad enough; and I pity an author who is present at the murder of his works.”—“Nay, it is but seldom that it can happen,” returned the poet; ‘the works of most modern authors, like dead-born children, cannot be murdered. It is such wretched, half-begotten, half-writ, lifeless, spiritless, low, grovelling stuff, that I almost pity the actor who is obliged to get it by heart, which must be almost as difficult to remember, as words in a language you do not understand.”—“I am sure,' said the player, “if the sentences have little meaning when they are writ, when they are spoken, they have less. I know scarce one who ever lays an emphasis right, and much less adapts his action to his character. I have seen a tender lover in an attitude of fighting with his mistress, and a

brave hero suing to his enemy with his sword in his hand. I don't care to abuse my profession, but rot me if, in my heart, I am not inclined to the poet's side. “It is rather generous in you than just,’ said the poet; and though I hate to speak ill of any person's production,-nay, I never do it, nor will,—but yet, to do justice to the actors, what could Booth or Betterton have made of such horrible stuff as Fenton's Mariamne, Frowd's Philotas, or Mallet's Eurydice; or those low, dirty, last-dying speeches, which a fellow in the city of Wapping, your Dillo or Lillo, what was his name, called tragedies?”—“Very well,” says the player: “and pray what do you think of such fellows as Quin and Delane, or that face-making puppy, young Cibber, that illHook'd dog Macklin, or that saucy slut, Mrs. Clive : What work would they make with your Shakspeares, Otways, and Lees? How would those harmonious lines of the last come from their tongues?

—— No more; for I disdain
All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise
Of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls
Our kinder fates have steer'd another way.
Free as the forest birds we'll pair together,
Without remembering who our fathers were:
Fly to the arbours, grots, and flow'ry meads;
There in soft murmurs interchange our souls;
Together drink the crystal of the stream,
Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields;
And when the golden evening calls us home,
Wing to our downy nests . sleep till morn.

“Or how would this disdain of Otway— Who'd be that foolish sordid thing call'd man?

‘Hold' hold hold!” said the poet: “Do repeat that tender speech in the third act of my play, which you made such a figure in.”— I would willingly,” said the player, “but I have forgot it.”—“Ay, you was not quite perfect enough in it when you played it, cries the poet, “ or you would have had such an applause as was never given on the stage; an applause I was extremely concerned for your losing.”—“Sure,’ says the player, “if I remember, that was hissed more than any passage in the whole play.”— “Ay, your speaking it was hissed,” said the poet. “My speaking it!” said the player. – I mean your not speaking it,” said the poet. “You was out, and then they hissed.’ - They hissed, and then I was out, if I remember,' answered the player; and I must say this for myself, that the whole audience allowed I did your part justice; so don't lay the damnation of your play to ony account.”—“I don't know what you mean

y damnation,’ replied the poet.—“Why, you know it was acted but one night,’ cried the player.—“No,' said the poet, “you and the whole town were enemies: the pit were all my enemies, fellows that would cut my throat, if the fear of hanging did not

restrain them. All tailors, sir, all tailors.” —‘Why should the tailors be so angry with you?' cries the player. “I suppose you don’t employ so many in making your clothes.”—“I admit your jest,’ answered the poet; ‘but you remember the affair as well as myself; you know there was a party in the pit and upper gallery would not suffer it to be given out again; though much, ay, infinitely the majority, all the boxes in particular, were desirous of it; nay, most of the ladies swore they never would come to the house till it was acted again. Indeed, I must own their policy was good, in not letting it be given out a second time; for the rascals knew if it had gone a second night, it would have run fifty; for if ever there was distress in a tragedy, I am not fond of my own performance; but if I should tell you what the best judges said of it. Nor was it entirely owing to my enemies neither, that it did not succeed on the stage as well as it hath since among the polite readers; for you can't say it had justice done it by the performers.”—“I think,’ answered the player, “the performers did the distress of it justice; for I am sure we were in distress enough, who were pelted with oranges all the last act; we all imagined it would have been the last act of our lives. The poet, whose fury was now raised, had just attempted to answer, when they were interrupted and an end put to their discourse by an accident; which if the reader is impatient to know, he must skip over the next chapter, which is a sort of counterpart to this, and contains some of the best and gravest matters in the whole book, being a discourse between Parson Abraham Adams and Mr. Joseph Andrews.



Containing the erhortations of Parson.'ldams to his friend in affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of the reader.

Joseph no sooner came perfectly to himself, than, perceiving his mistress gone, he bewailed her loss with groans which would have pierced any heart but those which are possessed by some people, and are made of a certain composition, not unlike flint in its hardness and other properties; for you may strike fire from them, which will dart through the eyes, but they can never distil one drop of water the same way. His own, poor youth, was of a softer composition; and at those words, O my dear Fanny! O my love! shall I never never see thee more ? his eyes overflowed with tears, which would have become any thing but a hero. In a word, his despair was more easy to be conceived than related.

Mr. Adams, after many groans, sitting with his back to Joseph, began thus in a sorrowful tone; ‘You cannot imagine, my good child, that I entirely blame these first agonies of your grief; for when misfortunes attack us by surprise, it must require infinitely more learning than you are master of to resist them; but it is the business of a man and a Christian, to summon reason as quickly as he can to his aid; and she will presently teach him patience and submission. Be comforted, therefore, child; I say be comforted. It is true, you have lost the prettiest, kindest, loveliest, sweetest young woman, one with whom you might have expected to have lived in happiness, virtue, and innocence; by whom you might have promised yourself many little darlings, who would have been the delight of your youth, and the comfort of your age. You have not only lost her, but have reason to fear the utmost violence which lust and power can inflict upon her. Now, indeed, you may easily raise ideas of horror, which might drive you to despair.”—“O I shall run mad!” cries Joseph. ‘O that I could but command my hands to tear my eyes out, and my flesh off!”—“If you would use them to such purposes, I am glad you can't,' answered Adams. “I have stated your misfortunes as strong as I possibly can ; but, on the other side, you are to consider you are a Christian; that no accident happens to us without the divine permission, and that it is the duty of a man and a Christian to submit. We did not make ourselves; but the same power which made us, rules over us, and we are absolutely at his disposal; he may do with us what he pleases, nor have we any right to complain. A second reason against our complaint is our ignorance; for as we know not future events, so neither can we tell to what purpose any accident tends; and that which at first threatensus with evil, may in the end produce our good. I should indeed have said our ignorance is twofold, (but I have not at resent time to divide properly,) for as we o not to what purpose any event is ultimately directed; so neither can we affirm from what cause it originally sprung. You are a man, and consequently a sinner; and this may be a punishment to you for your sins: indeed in this sense it may be esteemed as a good, yea, as the greatest good, which satisfies the anger of Heaven, and averts that wrath which cannot continue without our destruction. Thirdly, our impotency in relieving ourselves, demonstrates the folly and absurdity of our complaints: for whom do we resist, or against whom do we complain, but a power from whose shafts no armour can guard us, no speed can fly?—a power which leaves us no hope but in submission.’ *

‘O, sir!” cried Joseph, “all this is very true, and very fine, and I could hear you all day, if I was not so grieved at heart as now I am.”—“Would you take physic,’ says Adams, “when you are well, and refuse it when you are sick? Is not comfort to be administered to the afflicted, and not to those who rejoice, or those who are at ease?'— ‘O ! you have not spoken one word of comfort to me yet!' returned Joseph. “No!' cries Adams; “What am I then doing? what can I say to comfort you?”—“O! tell me, cries Joseph, “that Fanny will escape back to my arms; that they shall again enclose that lovely creature, with all Ther sweetness, all her untainted innocence about her'—“Why, perhaps you may, cries Adams; “but I can’t promise you what's to come. You must, with perfect resignation, wait the event: if she be restored to you again, it is your duty to be thankful, and so it is if she be not. Joseph, if you are wise, and truly know your own interest, you will peaceably and quietly submit to all the dispensations of Providence, being thoroughly assured, that all the misfortunes, how great soever, which happen to the righteous, happen to them for their own good. Nay, it is not your interest only, but your duty, to abstain from immoderate grief, which, if you indulge, you are not worthy the name of a Christian.” He spoke these last words with an accent a little severer than usual: upon which, Joseph begged him not to be angry, saying, he mistook him if he thought he denied it was his duty, for he had known that long ago. ‘What signifies knowing your duty, if you do not perform it?” answered Adams. “Your knowledge increases your guilt. Q. Joseph! I never thought you had this stubbornness in your mind.’ Joseph replied, “he fancied he misunderstood him; which I assure you,' says he, “you do, if you imagine I endeavour to grieve; upon my soul I don't.' Adams rebuked him for swearing; and then proceeded to enlarge on the folly of ; : telling him, all the wise men and philosophers, even among the heathens, had written againstit, quoting several passages from Seneca, and the consolation, which, though it was not Cicero's, was, he said, as good almost as any of his works; and concluded all by hinting, that immoderate grief in this case, might incense that power which alone could restore him his Fanny. This reason, or, indeed, rather the idea which it raised of the restoration of his mistress, had more effect than all which the parson had said before, and for a moment abated his agonies; but when his fears sufficiently set before his eyes the danger that poor creature was in, his grief returned again with repeated viclence, nor could Adams in the least o: it; though it may be doubted, in his behalf,

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