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Adams accompanied him; and took this oprtunity to expatiate on the great mercies {. had lately shown him, of which he ought not only to have the deepest inward sense, but ... to express outward thankfulness for them. They therefore fell both on their knees, and spent a considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving. They had just finished, when Betty came in and told Mr. Adams, Mr. Barnabas desired to speak to him on some business of consequence below stairs. Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, he would let him know it, that he might go to bed, which Adams promised, and in that case they wished one another good night.


.d pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the bookseller, which was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn, which produced a dialogue between JMrs. Tow-wowse and her maid of no gentle kind.

As soon as Adams came into the room, Mr. Barnabas introduced him to the stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely to deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting the stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; that nothing could be more convenient, for he had no other business to the great city, and was heartily desirous of returning with the young man, who was just recovered of his misfortune. He then snapped his fingers, (as was usual with him,) and took two or three turns about the room in an ecstacy. And to induce the bookseller to be as expeditious as possible, as likewise to offer him a better price for his commodity, he assured them their meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for that he had the most pressing occasion for money at that time, his own being aliwost spent, and having a friend then, in the same inn, who was just recovered from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a most indigent condition.— So that nothing,’ says he, “could be so opportune, for the supplying both our necessities, as my making an immediate bargain with you.

As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in these words: “Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engaging in what my friend Mr. Barnabas recommends; but sermons are mere drugs. The trade is so vastly stocked with them, that really, unless they come out with the name of Whitefield or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or those sort of people, I don't care to touch; unless now it was a sermon preached on the 30th of January; or

we could say in the title- , Published at

the earnest request of the congregation, or the inhabitants; but, truly, for a dry piece of sermons, I had rather be excused; especially as my hands are so full at present. However, sir, as Mr. Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take the manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very short time.” “O !” said Adams, “if you desire it, I will read two or three discourses as a specimen.' This, Barnabas, who loved sermons no better than a grocer doth figs, immediately objected to, and advised Adams to let the Skseller have his sermons; telling him, “If he gave him a direction, he might be certain of a speedy answer:' adding, he need not scruple trusting them in his possession. ‘No,' said the bookseller, “if it was a play that had been acted twenty nights together, I believe it would be safe.’ Adams did not at all relish the last expression; he said, he was sorry to hear ser: mons compared to plays. “Not by me, I assure you, cried the bookseller, ‘though I don’t know whether the licensing act may not shortly bring them to the same footing: but I have formerly known a hundred guineas given for a play.”—“ More shame for those who gave it,' cried Barnabas. ‘Why so to said the bookseller, ‘for they got hundreds by it.”—“But is there no disference between conveying good or ill instruction to mankind?” said Adams: “Would not an honest mind rather lose money by the one than gain it by the other?”—“If you can find any such, drance,” answered the bookseller; “but I think those persons who get by preaching sermons, are the properest to lose by printing them: for my part, the copy that sells best, will be always the best copy in my opinion; I am no enemy to sermons, but because they don't sell: for I would as soon print one of Whitefield's, as any farce whatever.’ ‘Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hang'd,” says Barnabas. “Sir” said he, turning to Adams, ‘this fellow's writings, (I know not whether you have seen them.) are levelled at the clergy. He would reduce us to the example of the primitive ages, forsooth ! and would insinuate to the people, that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and praying. He pretends to understand the Scripture literally; and would make mankind believe, that the poverty and low estate, which was recommended to the church in its infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to her under persecution, was to be preserved in her flourishing and established state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all the free-thinkers, are not calculated to do half the mischies, as those professed by this fellow and his followers.”

will not be their hin- .

*Sir,” answered Adams, “if Mr. Whitefield had carried his doctrine no further than you mention, I should have remained, as I once was, his well-wisher. I am myself as great an enemy to the luxury and splendor of the clergy, as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing state of the church, understand the palaces, equipages, dress, furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. Surely those things, which savour so strongly of this world, become not the servants of one who professed his kingdom was not of it; but when he began to call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the detestable doctrine of faith against good works, I was his friend no longer; for surely that doctrine was coined in hell; and one would think none but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach it. For can anythin be more derogatory to the honour of God, than for men to imagine that the all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good and virtuous, ‘Notwithstanding the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that constant rule of virtue and goodness, in which thou walkedst upon earth, still as thou didst not believe every thing in the true orthodox manner, thy want of faith shall condemn thee * Or, on the other side, can any doctrine have a more pernicious influence on society, than a persuasion, that it will be a good plea for the villain, at the last day:- Lord, it is true, I never obeyed one of thy commandments, yet punish me not, for I believe them all?”—“I suppose, sir,’ said the bookseller, “your sermons are of a different kind. ‘Ay, sir,’ said Adams; “the contrary, I thank Heaven, is inculcated in almost every page, or I should belie my own opinion, which hath always been, that a virtuous and good Turk or Heathen, are more acceptable in the sight of their Creator, than a vicious and wicked Christian, though his faith was as perfectly orthodox as St. Paul's himself.” —“I wish you success,’ says the bookseller, “but must beg to be excused, as my hands are so very full at present; and, indeed, I am afraid you will find a backwardness in the trade to engage in a book which the clergy would be certain to cry down.”—“God forbid,” says Adams, ‘any books should be propagated which the clergy would cry down; but if you mean by the clergy some few designing factious men, who have it at heart to establish some favourite schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence of religion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any book they please; witness that excellent book called, “A Plain Account of the Nature and End of the Sacrament;” a book written, (if I may venture on the expression,) with the pen of an angel, and calculated, to restore the true use of Christianity, and of

that sacred institution; for what could tend more to the noble purposes of religion, than frequent cheerful meetings among the members of a society, in which they should, in the presence of one another, and in the service of the Supreme Being, make promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each other? Now, this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully.” At these words Barnabas fell aringing with all the violence imaginable; upon which a servant attending, he bid him bring a bill immediately; for that he was in company, for aught he knew, with the devil himself; and he expected to hear the Alcoran, the Leviathan, or Woolston commended, if he staid a few minutes longer.’ Adams desired, “as he was so much moved at his mentioning a book, which he did without apprehending any possibility of of. fence, that he would be so kind to propose any objections he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer.”—“I propose objections !” said Barnabas, ‘I never read a syllable in any such wicked book; I never saw it in my life, I assure you.’—Adams was going to answer, when a most hideous \!." began in the inn. Mrs. Tow-wouse, r. Tow-wouse, and Betty, all lifting up their voices together; but Mrs. Towwouse's voice, like a bass-viol in a concert, was clearly and distinctly distinguished among the rest, and was heard to articulate the following sounds:—“O you damned villain' is this the return to all the care I have taken of your family 2 This the reward of my virtue? Is this the manner in which you behave to one who brought you a fortune, and preferred you to so many matches, all your betters? To abuse my bed, my own bed, with my own servant? but I'll maul the slut, I'll tear her nasty eyes out; was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such a mean trollop 2 If she had been agentlewoman, like myself, it had been some excuse; but a beggarly, saucy, dirty servant maid! Get you out of my house, you whore.’ To which she added another name, which we do not care to stain our paper with. It was a monosyllable beginnin with a b–, and indeed was the same, as if she had pronounced the words, she-dog. Which term we shall, to avoid offence, use on this occasion, though indeed both the mistress and maid uttered the above mentioned b—, a word extremely disgustful to females of the lower sort. Betty had borne all hitherto with patience, and had uttered only lamentations; but the last appellation stung her to the quick. “I am a woman as well as yourself,' she roar'd out, ‘and no shedog; and if I have been a little naughty, I am not the first; if I have been no better than I should be,” cries she, sobbing, ‘that's no reason you should call me out of my name; my be-betters are wo--rse than me.’ —‘Huzzy, huzzy,' says Mrs. Tow-wouse, have you the impudence to answer me? Did I not catch you, you saucy'—and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to female ears. “I can't bear that name,’ answered Betty: “if I have been wicked, I am to answer for it myself in the other world; but I have done nothing that's unnatural; and I will go out of your house this moment; for I will never be called “she dog” by any mistress in England.’ Mrs. Tow-wouse then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from executing any dreadful purpose by Mr. Adams, who confined her arms with the strength of a wrist which Hercules would not have been ashamed of. Mr. Tow-wouse being caught, as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no defence to make, very prudently withdrew himself; and Betty committed herself to the protection of the hostler, who, though she could not conceive him pleased with what had happened, was in her opinion, rather a gentler beast than her mistress. Mrs. Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr. Adams, and finding the enemy vanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usual serenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to the reader the steps which led to a catastrophe, common enough, and comical enough too perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and well-being of families, and the subject of many tragedies both in life and on the stage.


The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of what occasioned the violent scene in the preceding chapter.

BETTY, who was the occasion of all this hurry, had some good qualities. She had o nature, generosity, and compassion,

ut unfortunately her constitution was composed of those warm ingredients, which, though the purity of courts or nunneries might have o, controlled them, were by no means able to endure the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at an inn, who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers of all complexions; to the dangerous addresses of fine gentlemen of the army, who sometimes are obliged to reside with them a whole year together; and, above all, are exposed to the caresses of footmen, stagecoachmen, and drawers; all of whom employ, the whole artillery of kissing, flattering, bribing, and every other weapon which is to be found in the whole armoury of love, against them.

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Betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now lived three years in this dangerous situation, during which she had escaped pretty well. An ensign of foot was the first person who made an impression on her heart; he did indeed raise a flame in her, which required the care of a surgeon to cool. While she burnt for him, several others burnt for her. Officers of the army, young gentlemen travelling the western circuit, inosiensive squires, and some of graver character, were set afire by her charms! At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappy passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual chastity. She was long deaf to all the susserings of her lovers, till one day, at a neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hostler, with a new straw hat, and a pint of wine, made a second conquest over her. She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this occasion, which had been the consequence of her former amour; nor indeed those other ill effects, which prudent young women very justly apprehend from too absolute an indulgence to the pressing endearments of their lovers. This latter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being

entirely constant to John, with whom she

permitted Tom Whipwell the stage-coachman, and now and then a handsome young traveller, to share her favours. Mr. Tow-wouse had for some time cast the languishing eyes of affection on this young maiden. He had laid hold on every opportunity of saying tender things to her, squeezing her by the hand, and sometimes kissing her lips: for as the violence of his passion had considerably abated to Mrs. Tow-wouse, so, like water which is stopped from its usual current in one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs. Tow-wouse is thought to have perceived this abatement, and probably it added very little to the natural sweetness of her temper; for though she was as true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous of being shone on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth. Ever since Joseph's arrival, Betty had conceived an extraordinary liking to him, which discovered itself more and more, as he grew better and better; till that fatal evening, when, as she was warming his bed, her passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly mastered both her modesty and her reason, that, after many fruitless hints and sly insinuations, she at last threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him with great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature she had ever seen. Joseph in great confusion leapt from her, and told her, he was sorry to see a young woman cast off all regard to modesty; but she had gone too far to recede, and grew so very indecent that Joseph was obliged, contrary to his inclination, to use some violence to her; and, taking her in his arms, he shut her out of the room, and locked the door. How ought man to rejoice, that his chastity is always in his own power; that if he hath sufficient strength of mind, he hath always a competent strength of body to defend himself, and cannot, like a poor weak woman, be ravished against his will. Betty was in the most violent agitation at this disappointment. Rage and lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different ways; one moment she thought of stabbing Joseph ; the next, of taking him in her arms, and devouring him with kisses; but the latter passion was far more prevalent. Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself; but whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death presented himself to her in so many shapes of drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c. that her distracted mind could resolve on none. In this perturbation of spirit, it accidentally occurred to her memory, that her master's bed was not made; she therefore went directly to his room; where he happened at that time to be engaged at his bureau. As soon as she saw him, she attempted to re

tire; but he called her back, and, taking her by the hand, squeezed her so tenderly, at the same time whispering so many soft things into her ears, and then pressed her so closely with kisses, that the vanquished fair one, whose passions were already raised, and which were not so whimsically capricious that one man only could lay them, though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that one; the vanquished fair one quietly submitted, I say, to her masters will, who had just attained the accomplishment of his bliss, when Mrs. Tow-wouse unexpectedly entered the room, and caused all that confusion which we have before seen, and which is not necessary, at present to take any farther notice of; since without the assistance of a single hint from us, every reader of any speculation, or experience, though not married himself, may easily conjecture, that it concluded with the discharge of Betty, the submission of Mr. Tow-wouse, with some things to be performed on his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness in being reconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any more in the like manner; and lastly, his quietly and contentedly bearing to be reminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a day, during the residue of his life.

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THERE are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades, from the highest to the lowest; from that of prime ministering, to this of authoring, which are seldom discovered, unless to members of the same calling. Among those used by us, gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of dividing our works into Books and Chapters, to be none of the least considerable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this secret, common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing, we mean only to swell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwise be extended to. These several places therefore in our paper, which are filled with our books and chapters, are understood as so much buckram, stays, and staytape in a tailor's bill, serving only to mo up the sum total, commonly found at the bottom of our first page, and of his last.

But in reality the case is otherwise, and in this, as well as in all other instances, we


consult the advantage of our reader, not our own ; and indeed many notable uses arise to him from this method: for, first, those little spaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn or resting-place where he may stop and take a glass, or any other refreshment, as it pleases him. Nay, our fine readers will, perhaps, be scarce able to travel farther than through one of them in a day. As to those vacant pages which are placed between our books, they are to be regarded as those stages, where, in long journeys, the traveller stays some time to repose himself, and consider of what he hath seen in the parts he hath .# passed through: a consideration which

take the liberty to recommend a little to the reader; for however swift his capacity ma

be, I would not advise him to travel throug

these pages too fast: for if he doth, he may jo miss the seeing some curious productions of nature which will be observed by the slower and more accurate reader. A volume without any such places of rest, resembles the opening of wilds or seas, which tires the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon. Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter, but so many inscriptions over the gates of inns, (to continue the same metaphor,) informing the reader what entertainment he is to expect, which, if he like not, he may travel on to the next: for, in biography, as we are not tied down to an exact concatenation equally with other historians; so a chapter or two, (for instance, this I am now writing,) may be often passed over without any injury to the whole. And in these inscriptions I have been as faithful as possible, not imitating the celebrated Montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives you another: nor some title-page authors, who promise a great deal and produce nothing at all. There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several others which our readers en|. from this art of dividing; though perhaps most of them too mysterious to be resently understood by any who are not initiated into the science of authoring. To mention therefore but one which is most obvious, it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning down its leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those readers, who, (though they read with great improvement and advantage,) are apt, when they return to their study, after half an hour's absence, to forget where they left off. These divisions have the sanction of great antiquity. Homer not only divided his great work into twenty-four books, (in compliment perhaps to the twenty-four letters, to which he had very particular obligations.) but, according to the opinion of some very sagacious critics, hawked them all separately, delivering only one book at a time, (probably by subscription.) He was the first inventor of the art which hath so long lain dormant, of publishing by numbers; an art now brought to such perfection, that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited piecemeal to the public; nay, one bookseller hath; (to encourage learning and ease the public,) contrived to give them a dictionary in this divided manner, for only fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire. Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an argument of his modesty; for by that, doubtless, he would insinuate that he pretends to no more than half the merit of the Greeks; for the same reason, our Milton went originally no sarther than ten; till being puffed up by the praise of his friends, he put himself on the same footing with the Roman poet. I shall not however enter so deep into this matter as some very learned critics have done; who have, with infinite labour and acute discernment, discovered what books are proper for embellishment, and what

require simplicity only, particularly with regard to similes, which I think are now generally agreed to become any book but the first. I will dismiss this chapter with the following observation; that it becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it does a butcher to joint his meat, for such assistance is of great help to both the reader and the carver. And now, having indulged myself a little, I will endeavour to indulge the curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt impatient to know what he will find in the subsequent chapters of this book.


.1 surprising instance of JMr. .1dams's short me. mory, with the unfortunate consequences which it brought on Joseph.

MR. Adams and Joseph were now ready to depart different ways, when an accident determined the former to return with his friend, which Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been able to do. This accident was, that those sermons, which the parson was travelling to London to publish, were, O my good reader! left behind; what he had mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other than three shirts, a pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, which Mrs. Adams, who thought her husband would want shirts more than sermons on his journey, had carefully provided him. his discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of Joseph at the opening the saddlebags; who having heard his friend say he carried with him nine volumes of sermons, and not being of that sect of philosophers who can reduce all the matter of the world into a nut-shell, seeing there was no room for them in the bags, where the parson had said they were deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, ‘Bless me, sir, where are your sermons?” The parson answered, “There, there, child: there they are, under my shirts.” Now it happened that he had taken forth his last shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty. “Sure, sir,’ says Joseph, “there is nothing in the bags. Upon which Adams starting, and testifying some surprise, cried, “Hey! fie, fie upon it! they are not here, sure enough. Ay, they are certainly left behind.” Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he apprehended his friend must feel from this disappointment; he begged him to pursue his journey, and promised he would himself return with the books to him with the utmost expedition. ‘No, thank you, child,’ answered Adams, “it shall not be so. What would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, unless I had

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