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turn to Leonora ; he proceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after a few days' stay, he returned to Paris, to the great delight of the French and the honour of the English nation.

#. as soon as he arrived at his home, he presently despatched a messenger with the following epistle to Leonora:

“Adorable and charmante,

“I AM sorry to have the honour to tell you I am not the heureur person destined for your divine arms. Your papa hath told me so, with a politesse not often seen on this side Paris. You may, perhaps, guess his manner of refusing me. J1h, mon Dieu ! You will certainly believe me, madam, incapable myself of delivering this triste message, which I intend to try the French air to cure the consequences of .7 jamais ! Caeur ! .olngel! .du diable ' If your papa obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall see you at Paris; till when, the wind that flows from thence will be the warmest dans le monde, for it will consist almost entirely of my sighs.

.ddieu, ma princesse ! ..]h l'amour !


I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's condition, when she received this letter. It is a picture of horror, which I should have as little pleasure in drawing, as you in beholding. She immediately left the place, where she was the subject of conversation and ridicule, and retired to that house I showed you, when I began the story; where she hath ever since led a disconsolatelise, and deserves, perhaps, pity for her misfortunes, more than our censure for a behaviour to which the artifices of her aunt, very probably contributed, and to which, very young women are often rendered too liable by that blameable levity in the education of our sex. “If I was inclined to pity her,” said a young lady in the coach, “it would be for the loss of Horatio; for I cannot discern any misfortune in her missing such a husband as Bellarmine.’ “Why, I must own,’ says Slipslop, “the ntleman was a little false-hearted; but lowsumever, it was hard to have two lovers, and get never a husband at all. But pray, madam, what became of Our-asho e remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath applied himself so strictly to his business, that he hath raised, I hear, a very considerable fortune. And what is remarkable, they say he never hears the name of . Leonora without, a sigh, nor hath ever uttered one syllable to charge her with her ill conduct towards him.


.1 very short chapter, in which Parson.sldams went a great way.

The lady having finished her story, received the thanks of the company, and now Joseph putting his head out of the coach, cried out, ‘Never believe me, if yonder be not our Parson Adams walking along without his horse.”—“On my word, and so He is,’ says Slipslop: “and as sure as two)ence he hath left him behind at the inn.’ ndeed, true it is, the parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind; for he was so pleased with having got Joseph into the coach, that he never once thought of the beast in the stable; and finding his legs as nimble as he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a crab-stick, and had kept on before the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally; so that he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile distant from it. Mrs. Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted, but in vain; for the faster he drove, the faster ran the parson, often crying out, ‘Ay, ay, catch me if you can ; till at length the coachman swore he would as soon attempt to drive after a greyhound; and giving the parson two or three hearty curses, he cried, “Sostly, softly, boys,' to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately obeyed. But we will be more courteous to our reader than he was to Mrs. Slipslop: and leaving the coach and its company to pursue their journey, we will carry our reader on after Parson Adams, who stretched forwards without once looking behind him; till, having left the coach full three miles in his rear, he came to a place, where, by keeping the extremest tract to the right, it was just barely possible for a human creature to miss his way. . This track however did he keep, as indeed he had a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare possibilities; and travelling in it about three miles over the plain, he arrived at the summit of a hill, whence, looking a great way backwards, and perceiving no coach in sight, he sat himself down on the turf, and pulling out his AFschylus, determined to wait here for its arrival. He had not sat long here, before a gun going off very near, a little startled him; he looked up, and saw a gentleman within a hundred paces taking up a partridge, which he had just shot. Adams stood up, and presented a figure to the gentleman, which would have moved laughter in many; for his cassock had just again fallen down below his great-coat; that is to say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts of his great-coat descended no lower than halfway down his thighs: but the gen

| tieman's mirth gave way to his surprise

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at beholding such a personage in such a place. Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he had good sport; to which the other answered, ‘very little.”—“I see, sir,’ says Adams, ‘you have smote one partridge; to which the sportsman made no reply, but proceeded to charge his piece. hilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in silence, which he at last broke, by observing, that it was a delightful evening. The gentleman, who had at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of the so." began on perceiving a book in his and, and smoking likewise the information of the cassock, to change his thoughts, and made a small advance to conversation on his side, by saying, “Sir, I suppose you are not one of these parts?' Adams immediately told him, ‘No; that he was a traveller, and invited by the beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little, and amuse himself with reading.”—“I may as well repose myself too,” said the sportsman, “for I have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil a bird have I seen till I came hither.” “Perhaps then the game is not very plenty io. cries Å. ‘No, .P. the gentleman: “the soldiers, who are quartered in the neighbourhood, have killed it all.”—“It is very probable, cries Adams; “for shooting is their profession.”—“Ay, shooting the game,” answered the other; * but I don’t see they are so forward to shoot Our enemies. I don't like that affair of Carthagena: if I had been there, I believe I should have done otherguess things, d-n me: what's a man's life when his country demands it? a man who won't sacrifice his life for his country, deserves to be hang'd, d—n me.” Which words he spoke with so violent a gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so fierce a countenance, that he might have frightened a captain of trainbands at the head of his company; but Mr. Adams was not greatly subject to fear: he told him intrepidly, that he very much approved his virtue, but disliked his swearing, and begged him not to addict himself to so bad a custom, without which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did. Indeed he was charmed with this discourse: he told the gentleman, he would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generous way of thinking: that if he pleased to sit down, he should be greatly delighted to commune with him; for though he was a clergyman, he would himself he ready, if thereto called, to lay down his life for his country. The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; and then the latter began, as in the following chapter, a discourse which we

have placed by itself, as it is not only the

most curious in this but perhaps in any other book.


.1 notable dissertation by Mr. Abraham Adams;

wherein that gentleman appears in a political


‘I do assure you, sir,” (says he, taking the gentleman by the hand,) : I am heartily glad to meet with a man of your kidney; for though I am a r parson, I will be bold to say I am an honest man, and would not do an ill thing to be made a bishop; nay, though it hath not fallen in my way to offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not been without opportunities of suffering for the sake of m conscience, I thank Heaven for them; for have had relations, though I say it, who made some figure in the world; particularly a nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a corporation. He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy; and I believe would do what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like extreme vanity in me, to affect being a man of such consequence as to have so great an interest in an alderman ; but others have thought so, too, as manifestly appeared by the rector, whose curate I formerly was, sending for me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if I expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephew to vote for one Colonel Courtly, a gentleman whom I had never heard tidings of till that instant. I told the rector I had no power over my nephew's vote, (God forgive me for such prevarication,) that I supposed he would give it according to his conscience; that I would by no means endeavour to influence him to give it otherwise. He teld me it was in vain to equivocate; that he knew I had already spoke to him in favour of Esquire Fickle, my neighbour; and, indeed, it was true I had ; for it was at a season when the church was in danger, and when all good men expected they knew not what would happen to us all. I then answered boldly, If he thought I had given my promise, he affronted me in proposing any breach of it. Not to be too ... I persevered, and so did my nephew, in the esquire's interest, who was chose chiefly through his means; and so I lost my curacy. Well, sir; but do you think the esquire ever mentioned a word of the church; .Ne verbum quidem ut ita dicam ; within two years he got a place, and hath ever since lived in London; where, I have been informed, (but God forbid I should believe that,) that he never so much as goeth to church. I remained, sir, a considerable time without any cure, and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which I preached on the indisposition of a clergyman: but this by-the-bye. At last, when Mr. Fickle got his place, colonel Courtly stood again; and who should make interest for him but Mr. Fickle himself! that very identical Mr. Fickle who had formerly told me the colonel was an enemy to both the church and state, had the confidence to solicit my nephew for him ; and the colonel himself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, which I refused in favour of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us he would sacrifice every thing to his country; and I believe he would, except his hunting, which he stuck so close to, that in five years together he went but twice up to parliament; and one of those times, I have been told, never was within sight of the house. However, he was a worthy man, and the best friend I ever had ; for, by his interest with a bishop, he got me replaced into my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. He had our interest while he lived, which was not many years. On his death I had fresh applications made to me; for all the world knew the interest I had with my good nephew, who now was a leading man in the corporation: and Sir Thomas Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir Oliver's, proposed himself a candidate. He was then a young gentleman just come from his travels; and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs. which, for my part, I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a thousand votes, he should have had them all. I engaged my nephew in his interest, and he was elected; and a very fine parliament man he was. They tell me he made speeches of an hour long; and, I have been told, very fine ones ; but he could never persuade the parliament to be of his opinion. .Non omnia possumus onnes. He promised me a living, poor man; and I believe I should have had it, but an accident happened, which was, that my lady had promised it before, unknown to him. This, indeed, I never heard till asterwards; for my nephew, who died about a month before the incumbent, always told me I might be assured of it. Since that time, Sir Thomas, poor man, had always so much business, that he never could find leisure to see me. I believe it was partly my lady’s fault too, who did not think my dress good enough for the gentry at her table. However, I must do him the justice to say he never was ungrateful; and I have always found his kitchen, and his cellar too, open to me: many a time after service on a Sunday—for I preach at four churches—have I recruited my spirits with a glass of his ale. Since my nephew's death, the corporation is in other hands, and I am not a man of that consequence I was formerly. I have now no longer any talents to lay out in the service of my country: and to whom nothing

is given, of him can nothing be required. However, on all proper seasons, such as the approach of an election, I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I have the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas, and the other honest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me these five years to procure an ordination for a son of mine, who is now near thirty, hath an infinite stock of learning, and is, I thank Heaven, of an unexceptionable life; though, as he was never at a university, the bishop refuses to ordain him. Too much care cannot indeed be taken in admitting any to the sacred office; though I hope he will never act so as to be a disgrace to any order; but will serve his God and his country to the utmost of his power, as I have endeavoured to do before him; nay, and will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose. I am sure. I have educated him in those principles; so that I have acquitted my duty, and shall have nothing to answer for on that account. But I do not distrust him, for he is a good boy; and if Providence should throw it in his way to be of as much consequence in a public light as his father once was, I can answer for him he will use his talents as honestly as I have done.’


In which the gentleman descants on bravery and heroic rirtue, 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, and go to the West Indies. I believe the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in love forsooth. I would have all such fellows hang'd, sir; I would have them hang'd.’ 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 migrht 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 historv of latter ages, no longer ago than the 705th year of Rome, when the great Pompey, who had won so many battles, and been honoured with so many triumphs, and of whose valour several authors, especially Cicero and Paterculus, have formed such eulogiums; this very Pompey left the battle of Pharsalia 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 travelled in the history of modern times, that is to say, these last i. years: but those wi, 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 gentlemananswered with great warmth, and talked Inuch 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 stage-coach.”—“The stage-coach' sir,’ said the gentleman; ‘they are all past 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 wav, 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 sixpence to the city where he was going.” Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, 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!' says Adams; “I am hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains are murdering.’— ‘You are not mad 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 snapt his fingers, and brandishing his crabstick, made directly to the place whence

the voice issued; and the man of courage made as much expedition towards his own home, whither 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 want of it in others; and return to the good Adams, who, on coming up to the place whence the noise proceeded, found a woman struggling with a man, who had thrown her on the #. and had almost overpowered her. he 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 crabstick, he immediately levelled a blow at that rt of the ravisher'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 Na-, ture, (who, as wise men have observed, equips 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 . 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, is by perchance he espies another cock at hand, immediately quits his female, and opposes himself to his rival; so did the o: on the information of the crabstick, immediately leap from the woman, and hasten 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 Adams's breast where the heart is lodged. Adams 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 offence; another reason to admire the cunningness of Nature, in composing it of those impenetrable materials;) dashing his head, I say, into the stomach of Adams, he * him


on his back; and not having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have restrained him from any further 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, belaboured the body of Adams 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 Adams, 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 perceivi his anta . to . with his labours, o: exerted his utmost force at once, and with such success, that he overturned him, and became his superior; when fixing one of his knees in his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, ‘It is my turn now;’ and after a few minutes' constant application, he ve him so dexterous a blow just under his chin, that the fellow no longer retained any motion, and Adams 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.” Adams 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 defence 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 behaviour, and gentle words. They were both standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, and which Adams 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 . into so lonely a place. She acquainted him, “She was travelling towards London, and had accidently met with the person from whom he had ğ. 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 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 G–, 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 G–’s will be done. He 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.


Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding adventure, which drew poor .ddams into fresh calamities; and who the woman was who owed the preservation of her chastily to his victorious arm. THE silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night and loneliness of the place, struck dreadful apprehensions into the poor woman's mind: she began to fear as eat an enemy in her deliverer, as he had elivered 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 proceeding, me ter, his judgment one, and sometim seemed to him equally dangero

y advisable, and so ...that probably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, on that o spot, before he had taken any resolution: At length he lifted up his eyes, and spied a light at nce, to which he instantly addressed with Heus tu, Traveller, heus tu ! He presently heard several voices, and perceived the light approaching toward him. The persons

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