THE HISTORY OF THR ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS, AND HIS FRIEND MR ABRAHAM ADAMS. BY HENRY FIELDING, ESQ. WITH A SHORT BIOGRAPHY BY THOMAS ROSCOE, REVISED, AND FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY GBORGE CRUIKSHANK, LONDON GEORGE BELL AND SONS 1908THE HISTORY OF THE ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS, AND HIS FRIEND MR ABRAHAM ADAMS. PREFACE. As it is possible the mere English reader may have a dif- ferent idea of romance with the author of these little* volumes, and may consequently expect a kind of entertain- mont not to be found, nor which was even intended, in the following pages; it may not be improper to premise a few words concerning this kind of writing, which I do not re- member to have seen hitherto attempted in our language, The Epic, as well as the Drama, is divided into tragedy and comedy. Homer, who was the father of this species of poetry, gave us a pattern of both these, though that of the latter kind is entirely lost; which Aristotle tells us, bore the same relation to comedy which his Iliad bears to tragedy. And perhaps, that we have no more instances of it among the writers of antiquity, is owing to the loss of this great pattern, which, had it survived, would have found its imi- tators equally with the other poems of this great original. And farther, as this poetry may be tragic or comic, I will not scruple to say it may be likewise either in verse or prose: for though it wants one particular, which the critic enumer- ates in the constituent parts of an epic poem, namely metre ; © Joseph Andrews was originally published in 2 vols. 12mo, 12 PREFACE, . yet, when any kind of writing contains all its other parts, such as fable, action, characters, sentiments, and diction, and is deficient in metre only ; it seems, I think, reasonable to refer it to the epic; at least, as no critic hath thought proper to range it under any other head, or to assign it a particular name to itself. Thus the Telemachus of the archbishop of Cambray appears to me of the epic kind, as well as the Odyssey of Homer ; in- deed, it is much fairer and more reasonable to give it a name common with that species from which it differs only in a single instance, than to confound it with those which it resembles in no other. Such as those voluminous works, commonly called Romances, namely, Clelia, Cleopatra, Astrea, Cassandra, the Grand Cyrus, and innumerable others, which contain, as I apprehend, very little instruction or entertainment, Now, a comic romance is a comic epic poem in prose ; dif- fering from comedy, as the serious epic from tragedy: its action being more extended and comprehensive ; containing a much larger circle of incidents, and introducing a greater variety of characters. It differs from the serious romance in its fable_and_action, in this; that as in the one these are grave and solemn, so in the other they are light and ridicul- ous: it differs_in its characters by introducing persons of inferior rank, and consequently, of inferior manners, whereas the grave romance sets the highest before us: lastly, in its sentiments and diction ; by preserving the ludicrous instead of the sublime. In the diction, I think, burlesque itself may be sometimes admitted ; of which many instances will occur in this work, as in the description of the battles, and some other places, not necessary to be pointed out to the classical reader, for whose entertainment those parodies or burlesque imitations are chiefly calculated. But, though we have sometimes admitted this in our dic- tion, we have carefully excluded it from our sentiments and characters ; for there it is never properly introduced, unless in writings of the burlesque kind, which this is not intended be. Indeed, no two species of writing can differ more idely than the comic and the burlesque; for as the latter is ever the exhibition of what is monstrous and unnatural, and whers our delight, if we examine it, arises from the eur- o Wy¢ , PREFACE. 3 Covent prising absurdity, as in appropriating the manners of the highest to the lowest, or é converso ; so in the former we should ever confine ourselves strictly to nature, from the just imitation of which will flow all the pleasure we can this way convey to a sensible reader. And perhaps there is one reason why a comic writer should of all others be the leas excused for deviating from nature, since it may not be always so easy for a serious poet to meet with the great and the ad- i mirable ; but life everywhere furnishes an accurate observer with the ridiculous. I have hinted this little concerning burlesque, because I have often heard that name given to performances which | have been truly of the comic kind, fromthe author's having», |, sometimes admitted it in his diction only ; which, as it isd (1 a“ the dress of poetry, doth, like the dress of men, establish 4d ‘ar ‘ characters (the one of the whole poem, and the other of the 4+ol whole man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater Wear excellences: but surely, a certain drollery_i le, where / aL y—natural, no-more. constitntes the burlesque, than an-empty pomp and dignity of words, where everything else is mean and low, can entitle any performance to the appellation of the true sublime. And I apprehend my lord Shaftesbury’s opinion of mere burlesque agrees with mine, when he aéserts, There is no such thing to be found in the writings of the ancients. But per- haps I have less abhorrence than he professes for it ; and that, not because I have had some little success on the stage - this way, but rather as it contributes more to exquisite mirth and laughter than any other; and these are probably more wholesome physic for the mind, and conduce better to purge away spleen, melanchol; and ill affections, than is gencally, imagined. ‘ay, I will appeal to common observation, whether the same companies are not found more full of good- humour and benevolence, after they have been sweetened for two or three hours with entertainments of this kind, than, when soured by a tragedy or a grave lecture. But to illustrate all this by another science, in which, per- haps, we shall see the distinction more clearly and plainly, let us examine the works of a comic history painter, with those performances which the Italians call Caricatura, where we shall find the true excellence of the former to consist in4 PREFACE. the exactest copying of nature ; insomuch that a judicious eye instantly rejects anything owtré, any liberty which the painter hath taken with the features of that alma mater ; whereas in the Caricatura we allow all licence,—its aim is to exhibit monsters, not men ; and all distortions and exaggera- tions whatever are within its proper province. Now, what Caricatura is in painting, Burlesque is in writ- ing ; and in the same manner the comic _writer_and_painter correlate to each other. And here I shall bbsorve, that, as in the former the painter seems to have the advantage ; so itis in the latter infinitely on the side of the writer; for the Monstrous is much easier to paint than describe, and the Ridiculous to describe than paint. And though perhaps this latter species doth not in either science so strongly affect and agitate the muscles as the other ; yet it will be owned, I believe, that a more rational and use- ful pleasure arises to us from it. He who should call the ingenious Hogarth a burlesque painter, would, in my opinion, do him very little honour; for sure it is much easier, much less the subject of admiration, to paint a man with a nose, or any other feature, of a preposterous size, or to expose him in some absurd or monstrous attitude, than to express the affections of men on canvas. It hath been thought a vast commendation of a painter to say his figures seem to breathe ; but surely it is a much greater and nobler applause, that they appear to think. But to return. The Ridiculous only, as I have before said, falls within my province ‘inthe present work.. Nor will some explanation of this word be thought impertinent by the reader, if he considers how wonderfully it hath been mis- taken, even by writers who have professed it: for to what but such a mistake can we attribute the many attempts to ridicule the blackest villanies, and, what is yet worse, the most dreadful calamities? What could exceed the absurdity of an author, who should write the comedy of Nero, with the merry incident of ripping up his mother’s belly ? or what would give a greater shock to humanity than an attempt to expose the miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule?! And yet the reader will not want much learning to suggest such instances to himself. 7 Besides, it may seem remarkable, that Aristotle, who is so eee, » PREFACE. 5 fond and free of definitions, hath not thought proper to define the Ridiculous. Indeed, where he tells us it is proper to comedy, he hath remarked that villany is not its object : but he hath-not, as I remember, positively asserted what is. Nor doth the Abbé Bellegarde, who hath written a treatige on this subject, though he shows us many, pee of it, once trace it to its fountain. © ; uw Le ee or eons a ae ‘as it appears to me) is ut though GArises from one gpring pnly, when we consider the infinite streams into which a fina branches, we shall presently cease to admire at the copious field it affords to an observer. Now, affectatio: one of these twe-eauses,, eapity or hypogrisy : for as vanity puts us on affecting false characters, in order to purchase pal - plause ; so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavour to avoid censure, ; [by concealing our vices under an appearance of their opposite ~ : virtues. | And though these two causes are often confounded (for there is some difficulty in distinguishing them), yet, as they proceed from very different motives, so they are as clearly distinct in their operations : for indeed, the affectation which arises from yanity is nearer to truth than the other, as it hath not that violent repugnancy of nature to struggla with, which that of the h aypocnite hath. It may be likewise noted, that. affectation doth not imply an absolute negation of those qualities which are affected ; and, therefore, though, when it proceeds from hypocrisy, it be nearly allied to deceit ; yet hen it comes from vanity only, it partakes of the nature of eeamtition: for instance, the affectation of liberality in a vain man differs visibly from the same affectation in the avaricious ; * for though the vain man is not what he would appear, or hath not the virtue he affects, to the degree he would be thought to haye it; yet it sits less awkwardly on him than on the avari¢i i fhan, who is the very reverse of what he would seem to be. From the discovery of this affectation arises the Ridiculous, which always strikes the reader.with surprize and pleasure ; and nd that ina higher and strangar degree when, the affectation afises from hypocrisy, than when, from vanity ; for to discover rae one to_be the exact reverse t he ‘affects, is moré ein, on ant , and consequently: more. tidiculous, than’ to find iar iim @ Tit deficient i in the quality he desires the reputation6 PREPACE. of, I might observe that our Ben.Jonson, who of all men Understood the Ridiculous the best, hath chiefly used the hypocritical affectation. Now, from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities f life, or the imperfections of nature, joets { ¥pf ridicule. Surely he hath a very ill-framed mind who can ; Sook on Wliness, infirmity, or poverty, as ridiculous in them- ’ selves: nor do I believe any man living, who meets a dirty fellow riding through the streets in a.cart, is struck with an idea of the Ridiculous from it ; but if he should see the same - figure descend from his coach and six, or bolt from his chair with his hat under his arm, he would then begin to laugh, with justice. In the same manner, were we to enter a. poor house and behold a wretched family shivering with cold and languishing with hunger, it would not incline us to laughter (at least we must have very diabolical natures if it would) ; but should we discover there a grate, instead of coals, adorned with flowers, empty plate or china dishes on the sideboard, or any other affectation of riches and finery, either on their persons or in their furniture, we might then .indeed be excused for ridiculing so fantastical an appearance. # Much less are natural imperfections the object of derision ; but when ugliness aims at the applause of beauty, or lameness endeavours to display agility, it is then that these unfortunate circumstances, which at first moved our compassion, tend only to raise our mirth. The poet carries this very far :— None are for being what they are in fault, But for not being what they would be thought. Where if the metre would suffer the word Ridiculous to close : the first line, the thought would he rather more proper. Great vices are the proper objects of our detestation, smaller | faults, of our pity ; but affectation appears to me the only true source of the Ridiculous. But perhaps it may be objected to me, that I have against my own rules introduced vices, and of a very black kind, into this work. To which I shall answer: first, that it is very difficult to pursue a series of human actions, and keep clear from them. Secondly, that the vices to be found here, aro rather the accidental consequences of some human frailty orbe PREFACE. 7 a peat x foible, than causes habitually existing in the mind, Thirdly, that they are never set forth as the objects of ridicule, but detestation, Fourthly, that they are never the principal figure at that time on the scene: and, lastly, they ne never pro- duce the intended evil. Having thus distinguished Joseph Andrews from the pro- ductions of romance writers on the one hand and burlesque writers on the other, and given some few very short hints (for I intended no more) of this species of writing, which : have affirmed to be hitherto unattempted in our language ; I 3 shall leave to my good-natured reader to apply my piece to my observations, and will detain him no longer than with a word concerning the characters in this work. And here I solemnly protest I have no intention to vilify or asperse any one ; for though everything is copied from the , \ book of nature, and scarce a character or action produced * which I have not taken from my own observations and ex- perience ; yet I have used the utmost care to obscure the persons by such different circumstances, degrees, and colours, ‘ that it will be impossible to guess at them with any degree ‘ of certainty ; and if it ever happens otherwise, it is only ; where the failure characterized is so minute, that it is a | foible only which the party himself may laugh at as well as } any other. As to the character of Adams, as it is the most glaring in the whole, so I conceive it is not to be found in any book now extant. It is designed a character of perfect simplicity ; . \ and as the goodness of his heart will recommend him to the good-natured, so I hope it will excuse me to the gentlemen of his cloth ; for whom, while they are worthy of their sacred order, no man can possibly have a greater respect. They will therefore excuse me, notwithstanding the low adventures in which he is engaged, that I have made him a clergyman ; since no other office could have given him so many oppor- tunities of displaying his worthy inclinations.BOOK I. CHAPTER I. OF WRITING LIVES IN GENERAL, AND PARTICULABLY OF PAMELA; WITH A WORD BY THE ‘BYE OF COLLEY CIBBER AND OTHERS. - Ir is a trite but true observation, that examples work more foreibly-on-tha-zind than precepts: and if this be just in what is odious and blameable, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and praiseworthy. Here emulation most ‘effectually operates upon us, and inspires our imitation in an irresistible manner. A good man therefore is a standing lesson to all his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrow circle than a good book. But as it often happens that the best men are but little known, and consequently cannot extend the usefulness of their examples a great way ; the writer may be called in aid to spread their history farther, and to present the amiable pictures to those who have not the happiness of knowing the originals ; and so, by communicating such valuable patterns to the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive service to mankind than the person whose life originally afforded the pattern, In this light I have always regarded those biographers who have recorded the actions of great and worthy persons of both sexes. Not to mention those ancient writers which of late days are little read, being written in obsolete, and as they are generally thought, unintelligible languages, such as we eG,cH. 1.] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 9 Plutarch, Nepos, and others which I heard of in my youth ; our own language affords many of excellent use and instruc- tion, finely calculated to sow the seeds of virtue in youth, and very easy to be comprehended by persons of moderate capacity. Such as the history of John the Great, who, by his brave and heroic actions against men of large and athletic bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the Giant-killer ; that of an earl of Warwick, whose Christian name was Guy ; the lives of Argalus and Parthenia; and above all, the his- tory of those seven worthy personages, the Champions ot Christendom. In all these delight is mixed with instruc- tion, and the reader is almost 2s much improved as enter- tained. But I pass by these and many others to mention two books lately published, which represent an admirable pattern of the amiable in either sex. The former of these, which deals in male virtue, was written by the great person himself, who lived the life he hath recorded, and is by many thought to have lived such a life only in order to write it. The other is communicated to us by an historian who borrows his lights, as the common method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, I believe, already conjectures, I mean the lives of Mr Colley Cibber and of Mrs Pamela Andrews, How artfully doth the former, by insinuating that he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in Church and State, teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcate an absolute submission to our superiors! Lastly, how completely doth he arm us against so uneasy, 80 wretched a passion as the fear of shame ! how clearly doth he expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom, reputation ! What the female readers are taught by the memoirs of Mrs Andrews is so well set forth in the excellent essays or letters prefixed to the second and subsequent editions of that work, that it would be here a needless repetition. The authentic history with which I now present the public is an, instance of the great good that book is likely to do, and of, the prevalence of example which I have just observed: since it will appear that it was by keeping the excellent pattern of his sister's virtues before his eyes, that Mr Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to preserve his purity in the midst of ee10 THE ADVENTURES OF [px 1. such great temptations. I shall only add that this cha- racter of male chastity, though doubtless as desirable and becoming in one part of the human species ag in the other, is almost the only virtue which the great apologist hath ‘ not given himself for the sake of giving the example to his \ readers, ye eeoa. 1] JOSEPH ANDREWS. Wu CHAPTER II. OF ME JOSEPH ANDREWS, IS BIRTH, PARENTAGE, EDUCA- TION, AND GREAT ENDOWNENTS; WITH A WORD OR TWO CONCERNING ANCESTORS, Mr JoserH Anprews, the hero of our ensuing history, was esteemed to be the only son of Gaffar and Gammer Andrews, and brother to the illustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so famous. As to his ancestors, we have searched with great diligence, but little success; being unable to trace them farther than his great-grandfather, who, as an elderly person in the parish remembers to have heard his father say, was an excellent cudgel-player. Whether he had any ancestors before this, we must leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding nothing of sufficient certainty to rely on. However, we cannot omit inserting an epitaph which an ingenious friend of ours hath communicated : Stay, traveller, for underneath this pew Lies fast asleep that merry man Andrew: When the last day’s great sun shall gild the skies, ‘Then he shall from his tomb get up and rise, Be merry while thou canst: for surely thou Shalt shortly be as sad as he is now. The words are almost out of the stone with antiquity. But it is needless to observe that Andrew here is writ without an 8,and is, besides, a Christian name. My friend moreover, conjectures this to have been the founder of that sect of laughing philosophers since called Merry-andrews. To wave, therefore, a circumstance, which, though men- tioned in conformity to the exact rules of biography, is not greatly material, I proceed to things of more consequence. Indeed, it is sufficiently certain that he had as many ancestors as the best man living, and, perhaps, if we look five or six hundred years backwards, might be related to some persons of very great figure at present, whose ancestors within half the last century are buried in as great obscurity. But sup-12 . THE ADVENTURES OF [pk 1 pose, for argument’s sake, we should admit that he had no ancestors at all, but had sprung up, according to the modern phrase, out of a dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they themselves did from the earth, would not this autokopros * have been justly entitled to all the praise arising from his own virtues? . Would it not be hard that a man who hath no ancestors should therefore be rendered incapable of ac- quiring honour; when we see so many who have no virtues enjoying the honour of their forefathers? At ten years old (by which time his education was advanced to writing and reading) he was bound an apprentice, according to the statute, to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr Booby’s by the father’s side. Sir Thomas having then an estate in his own hands, the young Andrews was at first employed in what in the country they call keeping birds. His office was to perform the part the ancients assigned to the god Priapus, which deity the moderns call by the name of Jack o’ Lent; but his voice being so extremely musical, that it rather allured the birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the fields into the dog-kennel, where he was placed under the huntsman, and made what the sportsmen term a whipper-in. For this place likewise the sweetness of his voice disqualified him; the dogs prefer- ring the melody of his chiding to all the alluring notes of the huntsman ; who soon became so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to provide otherwise for him, and con- stantly laid every fault the dogs were at to the account of the poor boy, who was now transplanted to the stable. Here he soon gave proofs of strength and agility beyond his years, and constantly rode the most spirited and vicious horses to water, with an intrepidity which surprized every one. While he was in this station, he’rode several races for Sir Thomas, and this with such expertness and success, that the neigh- bouring gentlemen frequently solicited.the knight to permit little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their matches, The best gamesters, before they laid their money, always inquired which horse little Joey was to ride; and the bets were rather proportioned by the rider than by the horse himself ; especi- ally after he had scornfully refused a considerable bribe to play booty on such an occasion. This extremely raised his * In English, sprung from a dunghill.cH, 11] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 13 character, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that she desired to have him (being now seventeen years of age) for her own footboy. Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend on his lady, to go on her errands, stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry her prayer-book to church; at which place his voice gave him an opportunity of distin- guishing himself by singing psalms : he behaved likewise in every other respect so well at Divine service, that it recom- mended him to the notice of Mr Abraham Adams, the curate ; who took an opportunity one day, as he was drinking a cup of ale in Sir Thomas’s kitchen, to ask the young man several questions concerning religion; with his answers to which he was wonderfully pleased.14 THE ADVENTURES OF (BK IL CHAPTER III. OF MR ABRAHAM ADAMS THE CURATE, MES SLIPSLOP THE CHAMBERMAID, AND OTHERS, Mr ApranaM Apams was an excellent scholar. He was a perfect master of the Greek and Latin languages ; to which. he added a great share of knowledge in the Oriental tongues ; and could read and translate French, Italian, and Spanish. He had applied many years to the most severe study, and had treasured up a fund of learnink rarely to be met with in a university. He was, besides, a man of good sense, good parts, and good nature; but was at the same time as entirely ignorant of the ways of this world as an infant just entered into it could possibly be. As he had never any intention to deceive, so he never suspected such a design in others. He was generous, friendly, and brave to an excess; but sim- plicity was his characteristic: he did no more than Mr Colley Cibber apprehend any such passions as malice and envy to exist in mankind ; which was indeed less remarkable in a. country parson than in a gentleman who hath passed his life behind the scenes,—a place which hath been seldom thought the school of innocence, and where a very little observation would have convinced the great apologist that those passions have a real existence in the human mind. His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered him equal to his office, so they made him an agreeable and valuable companion, and had so much endeared and well recommended him to a bishop, that at the age of fifty he was provided with a handsome income of twenty-three pounds a-year ; which, however, he could not make any great figure with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a little in- cumbered with a wife and six children. at was this; gentleman, who having, as I have said, ob- served the singular devotion of young Andrews, had found means to question him concerning several particulars; as,’ how many books there were in the New Testament ; whichou. 11] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 15 were they? how many chapters they contained? and such like: to all which Mr Adams privately said, he answered . much better thart Sir Thomas, or two other neighbouring jus- tices of the peace could probably have done, Mr Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what time, and by what opportunity, the youth became acquainted with these matters: Joey told him that he had very early learnt to read and write by the goodness of his father, who, though he had not interest enough to get him into a charity school, because a cousin of his father’s landlord did not vo' ‘on the right side for a churchwarden in a borough town, yet had been himself at the expense of sixpence a week for hii learning. He told him likewise, that ever since he was i Sir Thomas’s family he had employed all his hours of leisure in reading good books; that he had read the Bible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas 4 Kempis; and that as often as he could, without being perceived, he had studied a great book which lay open in the hall window, where he had read, ‘as how the devil carried away half a church in ser- mon-time, without hurting one of the congregation ; and as how a field of corn ran away down a hill with all the trees upon it, and covered another man’s meadow.’ This suf- ficiently assured Mr Adams that the good book meant could be no other than Baker’s Chronicle. -The curate, surprized to find such instances of industry and application in a young man who had never met with the least encouragement, asked him, If he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal education, and the not having been born of parents who might have indulged his talents and desire of knowledge? To which he answered, ‘He hoped he had profited somewhat better from the books he had read than to lament his condition in this world, That, for his part, he was perfectly content with the state to which he was called; that he should endeavour to imprové hig talent, which was all required of him ; but not repine at his own lot, nor envy those of his betters.’ ‘ Well said, my lad,’ replied the curate ; ‘and I wish some who have read many more good books, nay, and some who have written books themselves, had profited so much by them.’ Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady than through the waiting-gentlewoman ; for Sir Thomas was too16 THE ADVENTURES OF (px 1. ‘apt to estimate men merely by their dress or fortune; and =f ; my lady was a woman of gaiety, who had been blessed with | a town education, and never spoke of any of her country neighbours by any other appellation than that of the brutes. They both regarded the curate as a kind of domestic only, | belonging to the parson of the parish, who was at this time at variance with the knight; for the parson had for many years lived in a constant state of civil war, or, which is per- haps as bad, of civil law, with Sir Thomas himself and the’ tenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel was a 4 modus, by setting which aside an advantage of several shil- lings per annum would have accrued to the rector; but he had not yet been able to accomplish his purpose, ‘and had * reaped hitherto nothing better from the suits than the plea- { ‘. sure (which he used indeed frequently to say was no small : & one) of reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the © poor tenants, though he had at the same time greatly im- poverished himself. Mrs Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, being herself the daughter of a curate, preserved some respect for'Adams: she _ professed great regard for his learning, and would frequently ! , dispute with him on points of theology ; but always insisted . ' on a deference to be paid to her understanding, as she had ‘been frequently at London, and knew more of the world * than a country parson could pretend to. She had in these disputes a particular advantage over Adams: for she was a mighty affecter of hard words, which she used in such a manner that the parson, who durst not offend her by calling her words in question, was frequently at some loss to guess her meaning, and would have been much less puzzled by an Arabian manuscript. Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after pretty long discourse with her on the essence (or, as she pleased to term it, the incence) of matter, to mention the case of young Andrews ; desiring her to recommend him to her lady as a youth very susceptible of learning, and one whose instruction in Latin he would himself undertake ; by which means he might be qualified for a higher station than that of a footman ; and added, she knew it was in his mas- ter’s power easily to provide for him in a better manner, He SSca. 11] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 17 therefore desired that the boy might be left behind under his care. : ‘La! Mr Adams,’ said Mrs Slipslop, ‘do you think my lady will suffer any preambles about any such a is going to London very concisely, and I am confidous would not leave Joey behind her on any account ; for he is one of the genteelest young fellows you may see in a summer's day; and I am confidous she would as soon think of parting with ; a pair of her grey mares, If as much on dol, ) one as the other.’ lams would have interrupted, but she — | ‘proceeded : why is Latin more necessitous for a foot- man than a gentleman? It is very proper that you clergy- . men must learn it, because you can’t preach without it: but I have heard gentlemen say in London, that it is fit for *_ nobody else. I am confidous my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it; and I shall draw myself into no such delemy.’ At which words her lady’s bell rung, and Mr Adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a second opportunity with her before their London journey, which happened a few days afterwards. However, Andrews be- haved very thankfully and gratefully to him for his intended kindness, which he told him he never would forget, and at the same time received from the good man many admonitions concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and his per- severance in innocence and industry. { ae18 THE ADVENTURES OF © [Bx 1. CHAPTER IV. WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THEIR JOURNEY TO LONDON. ‘ No sooner was young Andrews arrived at London than he began to scrape an acquaintance with his party-coloured brethren, who endeavoured to make him despise his former course of life. His hair was cut after the newest fashion, | and became his chief care; he went abroad with it all the | morning in papers, and drest it out in the afternoon, They could not however teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any L ‘. other genteel vice the town abounded with. He applied most of his leisure hours to music, in which he greatly im- _proved himself ; and became so perfect a connoisseur in that art, that he led the opinion of all the other footmen at an opera, and they never condemned or applauded a single song contrary to his approbation or dislike. He wasa little too / forward in riots at the playhouses and assemblies ; and when he attended his lady at church (which was but seldom) he behaved with less seeming devotion than formerly : however, if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals remained entirely uncorrupted, though he was at the same time smarter and genteeler than any of the beaux in town, either in or out of livery, His lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the ; handsomest and genteelest footman in the kingdom, but that it was pity he wanted spirit, began now to find that fault no longer ; on the contrary, she was frequently heard to cry out, ‘ Aye, there is some life in this fellow.’ She plainly saw the effects which the town air hath on the soberest constitutions. She would now walk out with him into Hyde Park in a morning, and when tired, which happened almost every minute, would lean on his arm, and converse with him in i great familiarity. Whenever she stept out of her coach, she 7 would take him by the hand, and sometimes, for fear of stumbling, press it very hard; she admitted him to deliver messages at; her bedside in a morning, leered at him attable, |on. Tv.] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 19 and indulged him in all those innocent freedoms which { women of figure may permit without the least sully of their j virtue, But though their virtue remains unsullied, yet_now and - then some small arrows will glance on the shadow of it, their reputation ; and so it fell out to Lady Booby, who happened to be walking arm-in-arm with Joey one morning in Hyde Park, when Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentally by in their coach. ‘ Bless me,’ says Lady Tittle, ‘can I believe my eyes? Is that Lady Booby ?’—‘Surely,’ says Tattle. ‘But what makes you surprized ?’—‘ Why, is not that her footman ?’ replied Tittle. At which Tattle laughed, and cried, ‘An old business, I assure you: is it possible you should not have heard it? The whole town hath known it this half-year.’ The consequence of this interview was a whisper through a hundred visits, which were separately performed by the two ladies* the same afternoon, and might have had a mischievous effect, had it not been stopt by two fresh reputations which were published the day afterwards, and engrossed the whole talk of the town. But, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous inclina- tion of defamers might entertain of Lady Booby’s innocent freedoms, it is certain they made no impression on young Andrews, who never offered to encroach beyond the liberties which his lady allowed him,—a behaviour which she ini- puted to the violent respect he preserved for her, and which served only to heighten a something she began to conceive, and which the next chapter will open a little farther. * It may seem an abeurdit that Tattle should visit, as she actually did, to spread a known scandal < but the reader may reconcile this by supposing, with me, that, notwithstanding what she says, this was her first acquaintance with it,20 THE ADVENTURES OF (BK 1. CHAPTER V. THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS BOOBY, WITH THE AFFEOTION- ATE AND MOURNFUL BEHAVIOUR OF HIS WIDOW, AND THE GREAT PURITY OF JOSEPH ANDREWS. Ar this time an accident happened which put a stop to those agreeable walks; which probably would have soon puffed up the cheeks of Fame, and caused her to blow her brazen trumpet through the town; and this was no other than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who, departing this life, left his disconsolate lady confined to her house, as closely as if she herself had been attacked by some violent disease. During the first six days the poor lady admitted none but Mrs Slipslop, and three female friends, who made a party at cards: but on the seventh she ordered Joey, whom, for a good reason, we shall hereafter call JosePu, to bring up her tea-kettle. The lady being in bed, called Joseph to her, bade him sit down, and, having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked him if he had ever been in love. Joseph answered, with some confusion, it was time enough for one so young as himself to think on such things. ‘As young as you are,’ replied the lady, ‘I am convinced you are no stranger to that passion. Come, Joey,’ says she, ‘tell me truly, who is the happy girl whose eyes have made a con- quest of you?’ Joseph returned, that all the women he had ever seen were equally indifferent to him. ‘O. then,’ said the lady, ‘ you are a general lover. Indeed, you handsome fellows, like handsome women, are very long and difficult in fixing ; but yet you shall never persuade me that your heart is so insusceptible of affection ; I rather impute what you say to your secrecy, a very commendable quality, and what I am far from being angry with you for. Nothing can be more unworthy in a young man, than to betray any intimacies with the ladies.’ ‘Ladies! madam,’ said Joseph, ‘I am sure I never had the impudence to think of any that deserve that name.’ ‘Don’t pretend to too much modesty,’ said she,. on. v.] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 21 ‘for that sometimes may be impertinent: but pray answer me this question. Suppose a lady should happen to like you; suppose she should prefer you to all your sex, and admit you to the same familiarities as you might have hoped for if you had been born her equal, are you certain that no vanity could tempt you to discover her? Answer me hon- estly, Joseph ; have you so much more sense and so much more virtue than you handsome young fellows generally have, who make no scruple of sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride, without considering the great obligation we lay on you by-our condescension and confidence? Can you keep a secret, my Joey?’ ‘Madam,’ says he, ‘I hope your ladyship can’t tax me with ever betraying the secrets of the family ; and I hope, if you was to turn me away, I might have that character of you.’ ‘I don’t intend to turn you away, Joey,’ said she, and sighed ; ‘I am afraid it is not in my power.’ She then raised herself a little in her bed, and discovered one of the whitest necks that ever was seen ; at which Joseph blushed. ‘ La!’ says she, in an affected sur- Idoing? I haye trusted myself with a man lone, naked in bed ; suppose you should have any wicked | | intentions upon my honour, how should I defend myself’ Joseph protested that he never had. the least. evil design against her. ‘No,’ says she, ‘ perhaps you may not call your designs wicked ; and perhaps they are not so.'—He swore they were not. ‘You misunderstand me,’ says she; ‘I mean if they were against my honour, they may not be wicked ; but the world calls them so. But then, say you, the world will never know anything of the matter ; yet would not that be trusting to your secrecy? Must not my reputation be then in your power? Would you not then be my mas- ter?’ Joseph begged her ladyship to be comforted ; for that he would never imagine the least wicked thing against her, and that he had rather die a thousand deaths than give her any reason to suspect him. ‘Yes,’ said she, ‘I must have reason to suspect you. Are you not a man? and, with- out vanity, I may pretend to some charms. But perhaps you may fear I should prosecute you; indeed I hope you do; and yet Heaven knows I should never have the con- fidence to appear before a court of justice; and you know, Jooy, I am of a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don’t you22 THE ADVENTURES OF : [Bx Ie think I should forgive you 1’—‘ Indeed, madam,’ says Joseph, ‘I will never do anything to disoblige your ladyship.’ ‘How,’ says she, ‘do you think it would not disoblige me then? Do you think I would willingly suffer you ?’—‘I don’t understand you, madam,’ says Joseph.— Don’t you ?’ said she, ‘then you are either a fool, or pretend to be so; I find I was mistaken in you. So get you down-stairs, and never let me see your face again ; your pretended innocence cannot impose on me.’—‘ Madam,’ said Joseph, ‘ I would not have your ladyship think any evil of me. I have always endeavoured to be a dutiful servant both to you and my master.’—‘ O thou villain!’ answered my lady ; ‘ why didst thou mention the name of .that dear man, unless to torment me, to bring his precious memory to my mind?’ (and then she burst into a fit of tears.) ‘Get thee from my sight! I shall never endure thee more.’ At which words she turned away from him; and Joseph retreated from the room in a most disconsolate condition, and writ that letter which the reader will find in the next chapter.\ . Vy ON cH. VI} JOSEPH ANDREWS. . 23 CHAPTER VI. HOW JOSEPH ANDREWS WRIT A LETTER TO HIS SISTER “PAMELA. ‘To Mrs Pamela Andrews, living with Squire Booby. ‘Dear Sister,—Since I received your letter of your good lady’s death, we have had a misfortune of the same kind in our family. My worthy master Sir Thomas died about four days ago ; and, what is worse, my poor lady is certainly gone distracted. ‘None of the servants expected her to take it so to heart, because they quarrelled almost every day of their lives: but no more of that, because you know, Pamela, I never loved to tell the secrets of my master’s family ; but to be sure you must have known they never loved one another ; and I have heard her ladyship wish his honour dead above a thousand times; but nobody knows what it is to lose a friend till they have lost him. ‘Don’t tell anybody what I write, because I should not care to have folks say I discover what passes in our family ; but if it had not been so great a lady, I should have thought she had had a mind to me. Dear Pamela, don’t tell any- body ; but she ordered me to sit down by her bed-side, when she was naked in bed; and she held my hand, and talked exactly as a lady does to her sweetheart in_a stage-play, which I have seen in Covent Garden, while she wanted him to be no better than he should be. ‘If madam be mad, I shall not care for staying long in the family ; so I heartily wish you could get me a place, either at the squire’s, or some other neighbouring gentleman’s, unless it be true that you are going to be married to parson Williams, as folks talk, and then I should be very willing to be his clerk ; for which you know I am qualified, being able to read and to set a psalm. ‘TI fancy I shall be discharged very soon ; and the moment I am, unless I hear from you, I shall return to my old master’s country-seat, if it be only to see parson Adams, why24 : THE ADVENTURES OF . (BK 1. is the best man in the world. London is a bad place, and there is so little good fellowship, that the next-door neigh- bours don’t know one another. Pray give my service to all friends that enquire for me. So I rest ‘Your loving brother, JosgpH ANDREWS.’ As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this letter he walked down-stairs, where he met Mrs Slipslop, with whom we shall take this opportunity to bring the reader a little better acquainted. She was a maiden gentlewoman of about | forty-five years of age, who, having made a small slip in her youth, had continued a good maid ever since. She was not at this time remarkably handsome ; being very short, and <—<% rather too corpulent in body, and somewhat red, with the - a addition of pimples in the face. Her nose was likewise z= = rather too large, and her eyes too little ; nor did she resemble —~ >a cow so much in her breath as in two brown globes which > she carried before her; one of her legs was also a little ‘s shorter than the other, which oceasioned her to limp as she —z walked. . This fair creature had long cast the eyes of affection \ on Joseph, i in which she had not met with quite-so good ~ success as she probably wished, though, besides the allure- mente of hernative charms, che had given him tea, sweet- meats, wine, and many other delicacies, of which, by keeping the keys, she had the absolute command. Joseph, however, had not returned the least gratitude to all these favours, not even so much as a kiss; though I would not insinuate she was so easily to he satisfied ; for surely then he would have been highly blameable. The truth is, she was arrived at an age when she thought she might indulge herself in any liberties with a man, without the danger of bringing a third . person into the world to betray them. She imagined that by 80 long a self-denial she had not only made amends for the small slip of her youth above hinted at, but had likewise laid up a quantity of merit to excuse any future failings, In a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorous inclina- tions, and to pay off the debt of pleasure which she found she owed herself, as fast as possible. With these charms of person, and in this disposition of mind, she encountered poor Joseph at the bottom of the stairs, and asked him if he would drink a glass of something _——a eee ee double meaning + unc\er yleepnig CH. VI.J JOSEPH ANDRE’ 25 good this morning. Joseph, whose spirits were not a little cast down, very readily and thankfully accepted the offer ; and together they went into a closet, where, having delivered him a full glass of ratafia, and desired him to sit down, Mrs Slipslop thus began :— ‘Sure nothing can be a more simple contract in a woman ‘than to place her affectionson a boy. If I had ever thought it would have been my fate, I should have wished to die a thousand deaths rather than live to see that day. If we like a man, the lightest hint sophisticates, Whereas a boy proposes upon us to break through all the regulations of modesty, before we can make any oppression upon him.’ Joseph, who did not understand a word she said, answered, “Yes, madam.’—‘ Yes, madam !’ replied Mrs Slipslop with some warmth, ‘ Do you intend to result my passion? Is it not enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the favours. I have done you; but you must treat me with ironing? Barbarous monster! how have I deserved that my passion should be resulted and treated with ironing?’ ‘Madam,’ answered Joseph, ‘I don’t understand your hard words; but I am certain you have no occasion to call me ungrateful, for, so far from intending you any wrong, I have always loved you as well as if you had been my own mother.’ “How, sirrah 1” says Mrs Slipslop in a rage; ‘ your} own mother? Do you assinuate that I am old enough to bel your mother? I don’t know what a stripling may think, but I believe a man would refer me to any green-sickness silly girl whatsomdever : but I ought to despise you rather than be angry with you, for referring the conversation of girls to that of a woman of sense.’—‘ Madam,’ says Joseph, ‘I am sure I have always valued the honour you did me by your conversation, for I know you are a woman of learning.’— ‘Yes, but, Joseph,’ said she, a little softened by the compli- ment to her learning, ‘If you had a, value for me, you certainly would have found some method of showing it me ; for I am convicted you must see the value I have for you. Yes, Joseph, my eyes, whether I would or no, must have declared a passion I cannot conquer.—Oh ! Joseph !’ As when a hungry tigress, who long has traversed the woods in fruitless search, sees within the reach of her claws a lamb, she prepares to leap on her prey ; or as a voracious“96 THE ADVENTURES OF [px 1. pike of immense size, surveys through the liquid element a roach or gudgeon, which cannot escape her jaws, opens them wide to swallow the little fish ; so did Mrs Slipslop prepare to lay her violent amorous hands on the poor Joseph, when luckily her mistress’s bell rung, and delivered the intended martyr from_her es. She was obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer the execution of her purpose till some other time. We shall therefore return to the Lady Booby, and give our reader some account of her behaviour, after she was left by Joseph in a temper of mind not greatly different from that of the inflamed Slipslop.OW VIL] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 27 CHAPTER VII. AND HER MAID; AND A PANEGYRIC, OR RATHER SATIRE, b ! \ SAYINGS OF WISE MEN. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE LADY ( ON THE PASSION OF LOVE, IN THE SUBLIME STYLE, Ir is the observation of some ancient sage, whose name I ) have forgot, that passions operate differently on the human mind, as diseases on the body, in proportion to the strength or weakness, soundness or rottenness, of the one and the other, We hope, therefore, a judicious reader will give himself . some pains to observe, what we have so greatly laboured to describe, the different operations of this passion of love in the gentle and cultivated mind of the Lady Booby, from those which it effected in the less polished and coarser dis- position of Mrs Slipslop. Another philosopher, whose name also at present escapes my memory, hath somewhere said, that resolutions taken in the absence of the beloved object are very apt to vanish in its presence ; on both which wise sayings the following chapter may serve as a comment. No sooner had Joseph left the. room in the manner we have before related than the lady, enraged at her disappoint- ment, began to reflect with severity on her conduct. Her love was now changed to disdain, which pride assisted to torment her. She despised herself for the meanness of her passion, and Joseph for its ill success. However, she had now got the better of it in her own opinion, and determined immediately to dismiss the object. After much tossing and turning in her bed, and many soliloquies, which if we had | ; no better matter for our reader we would give him, she at last rung the bell as above mentioned, and was presently attended by Mrs Slipslop, who was not much better pleased - with Joseph than the lady herself. ‘Slipslop,’ said Lady Booby, ‘ when did you see Joseph v The poor woman wes so surprized at the unexpected sound28 THE ADVENTURES OF [BK 1. of his name at so critical a time, that she had the greatest difficulty to conceal the confusion she was under from her mistress ; whom she answered, nevertheless, with pretty good confidence, though not entirely void of fear of suspicion, that she had not seen him that morning. ‘I am afraid,’ said Lady Booby, ‘he is a wild young fellow.’—‘ That he is,’ said Slipslop, ‘and a wicked one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, and fights eternally ; besides, he is horribly indicted to wenching.’—‘ Ay !’ said the lady, ‘I never heard that of him.’.—‘ O madam !’ answered the other, ‘he is so lewd a rascal, that if your ladyship keeps him much longer, you will not have one virgin in your house except myself. And yet I can’t conceive what the wenches see in him, to be so foolishly fond as they are ; in my eyes, he is as ugly a scarecrow as I ever upheld.’—<‘ Nay,’ said the lady, ‘the boy is well enough.’-—‘ La! ma’am,’ cries Slipslep, ‘I think him the ragmaticallest fellow in the family.’— ‘Sure, Slipslop,’ says she, ‘you are mistaken: but which of the women do you most suspect t’—‘ Madam,’ says Slipslop, ‘there is Betty the chamber-maid, I am almost convicted, is with child by him.’—‘ Ay !’ says the lady, ‘then pray pay her her wages instantly. I will keep no such sluts in my family. And as for Joseph, you may discard him. too.’— ‘Would your ladyship have him paid off immediately?’ cries Slipslop, ‘for perhaps, when Betty is gone he may mend: and really the boy is a good servant, and a strong healthy luscious boy enough.’—‘ This morning,’ answered the lady with some vehemence. ‘I wish, madam,’ cries Slipslop, ‘ your ladyship would be so good as to try him a little longer. —‘I will not have my commands disputed,’ said the lady ; ‘sure you are not fond of him yourself.’— I, madam !’ cries Slipslop, reddening, if not blushing, ‘ I should be sorry to think your ladyship had any reason to respect me of fondness for a fellow; and if it be your pleasure, I shall fulfil it with as much reluctance as possible.’—‘ As little, I suppose you mean,’ said the lady ; ‘and so about it instant, ly.’ Mrs Slipslop went out, and the lady had scarce taken two turns before she fell to knocking and ringing with great violence. Slipslop, who did not travel post haste, soon re- turned, and was countermanded as to Joseph, but ordered to send Betty about her business without delay. She went out coH, vit.] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 29 a second time with much greater alacrity than before ; when the lady began immediately to accuse herself of want of resolution, and to apprehend the return of her affection, with its pernicious consequences ; she therefore applied herself again to the bell, and resummoned Mrs Slipslop into her presence ; who again returned, and was told by her mistress that she had considered better of the matter, and was abso- lutely resolved to turn away Joseph ; which she ordered her to do immediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of her lady’s temper, and would not venture her place for any Adonis or Hercules in the universe, left her a third time ; which she had no sooner done, than the little god Cupid, fearing he had not yet done the lady's business, took a fresh arrow with the sharpest point out of his quiver, and shot it directly into her heart ; in other and plainer language, the lady’s passion got the better of her reason. She called back Slipslop once more, and told her she had resolved to see the boy, and examine him herself; therefore bid her send him up. ‘This wavering in her mistress’s temper probably put something into the waiting-gentlewoman’s head not necessary to mention to the sagacious reader. Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could not prevail with herself. The next consideration therefore was, how she/should behave to Joseph when he came in. She resolved to preserve all the dignity of the woman of fashion to her servant, and to indulge herself in this last view of Joseph (for that she was most certainly resolved it should be) at his own expense, by first insulting and then discarding him. O Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play with thy votaries of both sexes! How dost thou deceive them, and make them deceive themselves! Their follies are thy de- light ! Their sighs make thee laugh, and their pangs are thy merriment ! . Not the great Rich, who turns men into monkeys, wheel- barrows, and whatever else best humours his fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed the human shape; nor the great Cibber, who confounds all number, gender, and breaks through every rule of grammar at his will, hath so distorted the English language as thou dost metamorphose and distort the human senses.30 THE ADVENTURES OF [px 1 Thou puttest out our eyes, stoppest up our ears, and takest away the power of our nostrils ; so that we can neither see the largest object, hear the loudest noise, nor smell the most poignant perfume. Again, when thou pleasest, thou canst make a molehill appear as a mountain, a Jew’s-harp sound like a trumpet, and a daisy smell like a violet. Thou canst make cowardice brave, avarice generous, pride humble, and cruelty tender-hearted. In short, thou turnest the heart of man inside out, as a juggler doth a petticoat, and bringest whatsoever pleaseth thee out from it. If there be any one who doubts all this, let him read the next chapter. hb + La.cu. vit] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 31 CHAPTER VIII. IN WHICH, AFTER SOME VERY FINE WRITING, THE HIS- TORY GOES ON, AND RELATES THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE LADY AND JOSEPH ; WHERE THE LATTER HATH SET AN EXAMPLE WHICH WE DESPAIR OF SEEING FOLLOWED BY HIS SEX IN THIS VICIOUS AGE. Now the rake Hesperus had called for his breeches, and, having well rubbedhis drowsy eyes, prepared to dress him- self for all night ; by whose example his brother rakes on earth likewise leave those beds in which they had slept away the day. Now Thetis, the good housewife, began to put on the pot, in order to regale the good man Pheebus after his daily labours were over. In vulgar language, it was in the evening when Joseph attended his lady’s orders. But as it becomes us to preserve the character of this lady, - who is the heroine of our tale ; and as we have naturally a wonderful tenderness for that beautiful part of the human a species called the fair sex; before. we discover too much of her frailty to our reader, it will be proper to give him a lively idea of the vast temptation, which overcame all the efforts of { a modest and virtuous mind ; and then we humbly hope his good nature will rather pity than condemn the imperfection * of human virtue. Nay, the ladies themselves will, we hope, be induced, by considering the uncommon variety of charms which united in this young man’s person, to bridle their rampant passion for chastity, and be at least as mild as their violent modesty and virtue will permit them, in censuring the conduct of a woman who, perhaps, was in her own disposition as chaste as those pure and sanctified virgins who, after a life inno- cently spent in the gaieties of the town, begin about fifty to attend twice per diem at the polite churches and chapels, to return thanks for the grace which preserved them formerly amongst beaux from temptations perhaps less powerful than what now attacked the Lady Booby. iv32 : THE ADVENTURES OF [ex 3. Mr Joseph Andrews was now in the one-and-twentieth N year of his age. He was of the highest degree of middle stature; his limbs were put together with great elegance, d and no less strength ; his legs and thighs were formed in the exactest proportion ; his shoulders were broad and brawny, but yet his arms hung so easily, that he had all the symp- toms of strength without the least clumsiness, His hair was of a nut-brown colour, and was displayed in wanton ringlets down his back ; his forehead was high, his eyes dark, and as full of sweetness as of fire; his nose a little inclined to the = > Roman ; his teeth white and even; his lips full, red, and soft ; his beard was only rough on his chin and upper lip; but his cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread with a thick down ; his countenance had a tenderness joined with a sensibility inexpressible. Add to this the most per- fect neatness in his dress, and an air which, to those who } have not seen many noblemen, would give an idea of nobility. Such was the person who now appeared before the lady. She viewed him some time in silence, and twice or thrice before she spoke changed her mind as to the manner in which she should begin. At length she said to him, ‘ Joseph, I am sorry to hear such complaints against you: I am told you behave so rudely to the maids, that they cannot do their business. in quiet ; I mean those who are not wicked enough to hearken to your solicitations. As to others, they may, perhaps, not call you rude; for there are wicked sluts who make one ashamed of one’s own sex, and are as ready to admit any nauseous familiarity as fellows to offer it: nay, there aré such in my family, but they shall not stay in it; that imprudent trollop who is with child by you is dis- : charged by this time.’ As a person who is struck through the heart with a thun- d derbolt looks extremely surprized, nay, and perhaps is so too——thus the poor Joseph received the false accusation of 4, his mistress ; he blushed and looked confounded, which she misinterpreted to be symptoms of his guilt, and thus went on: ‘Come hither, Joseph: another mistress might discard you for these offences; but I have a compassion for your youth, and if I could be certain you would be no more guilty —Consider, child,’ laying her hand carelessly upon his, ‘you are a handsome young fellow, and might do better ;oa, vitt.] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 33 rN ~ you might make your fortune.” ‘Madam,’ said Joseph, ‘1 ~¢ do assure your ladyship I, don’t know whether any maid in a J. the house is man or woman.’ ‘O fie! Joseph,’ answered the —- ~ “lady, ‘don’t commit another crime in denying the truth, I eee could pardon the first ; but I hate a liar.’ ‘ Madam,’ cries “> Joseph, ‘I hope your ladyship will not be offended at my asserting my innocence ; for, by all that is sacred, I have wy never offered more than Kissing’ ‘ Kissing !’ said the lady 7 with great discomposure of countenance, and more redness in 7 , her cheeks than anger in her eyes; ‘do you call that no — crime 4 ing, Joseph, is as a prologue to a play. y believe a young fellow ©: fxion will be content with kissing? No, Joseph, there is no woman who grants that but will grant more; and I am deceived greatly in you if you would not put her closely to it. What would you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to kiss me?’ Joseph , replied he would sooner die than have any such thought. ‘ And yet, Joseph,’ returned she, ‘ ladies have admitted their footmen to such familiarities ; and footmen, I confess to you, much less deserving them ; fellows without half your charms, : —for such might almost excuse the crime. Tell me there- ‘ fore, Joseph, if I should admit you to such freedom, what : would you think of me {—tell me freely.’ ‘Madam,’ said Joseph, ‘I should think your ladyship condescended a great ? deal below yourself.’ ‘Pugh!’ said she; ‘that I am to answer to myself: but would not you insist on more % Would you be contented with a kiss? Would not your in- ~ clinations be all on fire rather by sucha favour 9’ ‘Madam,’ ee 1 joseph, 3 ‘ 7" they were, I hope I oa be oe eae Nn trol tl 1em, without suffer them to get the better of my irk? Eve have head sender posts Gane ot the aavue BY ~ Surprize ; you have heard likewise, or else you have heard very little, how surprize made one of the sons of Croesus ‘ speak, though he was dumb. You have seen the faces, in the eighteen-penny gallery, when, through the trap-door, to soft or no music, Mr Bridgewater, Mr William Mills, or some other of ghostly appearance, hath ascended, with a face all pale with powder, and a shirt all bloody with ribbons ;— but from none of these, nor from Phidias or Praxiteles, if they should return to life—no, not from the inimitable pencil of my friend Hogarth, could you receive such an idea of 334 THE ADVENTURES OF [BE 1. surprize as would have entered in at your eyes had they be- held the Lady Booby when those last words issued out from the lips of Joseph. ‘Your virtue!’ said the lady, recover- ing after a silence of two minutes ; ‘I shall never survive it. Your virtue !—intolerable confidence! Have you the assur- ance to pretend, that when a lady demeans herself to throw aside the rules of decency, in order to honour you with the highest favour ih her power, your virtue should resist her inclination ? that, when she had conquered her own virtue, . she should find an obstruction in yours?’ ‘ Madam,’ said Joseph, ‘I can’t see why her having no virtue should be a reason against my having any ; or why, because Iam a man, -or because I am poor, my virtue must be subservient to her pleasures.’ ‘I am out of patience,’ cries the lady: ‘ did ever mortal hear of a man’s virtue? Did ever the greatest or the gravest men pretend to any of this kind? Will magistrates who punish lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make any scruple of committing it? And can a boy, a stripling, have the confidence to talk of his virtue?’ ‘Madam,’ says Joseph, ‘that boy is the brother of Pamela, and would be ashamed that the chastity of his family, which is preserved in her, should be stained in him. If there are such men as your ladyship mentions, I am sorry for it; and I wish they had an opportunity of reading over those letters which my father has sent me of my sister Pamela’s; nor do I doubt but such an example would amend them.’ ‘ You impudent villain !’ cries the lady in a rage; ‘do you insult me with the follies of my relation, who hath exposed himself all over the country upon your sister’s account? a little vixen, whom I have always wondered my late Lady John Booby ever kept in her house, Sirrah! get out of my sight, and prepare to set out this night; for I will order you your wages imme- diately, and you shall be stripped and turned away.’ ‘Madam,’ says Joseph, ‘I am sorry I have offended your ladyship, I am sure I never intended it.’ ‘ Yes, sirrah,’ cries she, ‘ you have had the vanity to misconstrue the little innocent freedom I took, in order to try whether what I had heard was true. O’ my conscience, you have had the assurance to imagine I was fond of you myself.’ Joseph answered, he had only spoke out of tenderness for his virtue; at whichVa, er ew on. vitt.] JOSEPH ANDREWS. 35 words she flew into a violent passion, and refusing to hear more, ordered him instantly to leave the room. He was no sooner gone than she burst forth into the fol- lowing exclamation :—‘ Whither doth this violent passion hurry us? What meannesses do we submit to from its im- pulse! Wisely we resist its first and least approaches ; for it is then only we can assure ourselves the victory. No woman could ever safely say, so far only will I go. Have T not exposed myself to the refusal of my footman? I cannot bear the reflection.’ Upon which she applied herself to the bell, and rung it with infinitely more violence than was necessary,—the faithful Slipslop attending near at hand: to say the truth, she had conceived a suspicion at her last in- terview with her mistress, and had waited ever since in the antechamber, having carefully applied her ears to the keyhole during the whole time that the preceding conversation passed between Joseph and the lady.