Joseph Andrews

by Henry Fielding

  These words infused a spirit into Joseph; he said, he found himself very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to think any of his bones injured, or that he had received any harm in his inside, unless that he felt something very odd in his stomach; but he knew not whether that might not arise from not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four hours. Being then asked if he had any inclination to eat, he answered in the affirmative. Then parson Adams desired him to name what he had the greatest fancy for; whether a poached egg, or chicken-broth. He answered, he could eat both very well; but that he seemed to have the greatest appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage.

  Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he had not the least fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for that evening. He accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl, I never could with any tolerable certainty discover which; after this he was, by Mrs Tow-wouse’s order, conveyed into a better bed and equipped with one of her husband’s shirts.

  In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to the inn, in order to see the thief conveyed before the justice. They had consumed the whole night in debating what measures they should take to produce the piece of gold in evidence against him; for they were both extremely zealous in the business, though neither of them were in the least interested in the prosecution; neither of them had ever received any private injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever been suspected of loving the public well enough to give them a sermon or a dose of physic for nothing.

  To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible to account for this zeal, we must inform him that, as this parish was so unfortunate as to have no lawyer in it, there had been a constant contention between the two doctors, spiritual and physical, concerning their abilities in a science, in which, as neither of them professed it, they had equal pretensions to dispute each other’s opinions. These disputes were carried on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided the parish; Mr Tow-wouse and one half of the neighbours inclining to the surgeon, and Mrs Tow-wouse with the other half to the parson. The surgeon drew his knowledge from those inestimable fountains, called The Attorney’s Pocket Companion, and Mr Jacob’s Law-Tables; Barnabas trusted entirely to Wood’s Institutes. It happened on this occasion, as was pretty frequently the case, that these two learned men differed about the sufficiency of evidence; the doctor being of opinion that the maid’s oath would convict the prisoner without producing the gold; the parson, è contra, totis viribus. To display their parts, therefore, before the justice and the parish, was the sole motive which we can discover to this zeal which both of them pretended to have for public justice.

  O Vanity! how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy operations discerned! How wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under different disguises! Sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity, sometimes of generosity: nay, thou hast the assurance even to put on those glorious ornaments which belong only to heroic virtue. Thou odious, deformed monster! whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, and poets ridiculed; is there a wretch so abandoned as to own thee for an acquaintance in public?—yet, how few will refuse to enjoy thee in private? nay, thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. The greatest villainies are daily practised to please thee; nor is the meanest thief below, or the greatest hero above, thy notice. Thy embraces are often the sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery and the plundered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, that we attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to withhold from them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves. Avarice itself is often no more than thy handmaid, and even Lust thy pimp. The bully Fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and Joy and Grief hide their heads in thy presence.

  I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee I court thee, and that thy love hath inspired me to write this sarcastical panegyric on thee; but thou art deceived: I value thee not of a farthing; nor will it give me any pain if thou shouldst prevail on the reader to censure this digression as arrant nonsense; for know, to thy confusion, that I have introduced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a short chapter, and so I return to my history.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE ESCAPE OF THE THIEF. MR ADAMS’S DISAPPOINTMENT. THE ARRIVAL OF TWO VERY EXTRAORDINARY PERSONAGES, AND THE INTRODUCTION OF PARSON ADAMS TO PARSON BARNABAS.

  BARNABAS AND THE surgeon, being returned, as we have said, to the inn, in order to convey the thief before the justice, were greatly concerned to find a small accident had happened, which somewhat disconcerted them; and this was no other than the thief’s escape, who had modestly withdrawn himself by night, declining all ostentation, and not choosing, in imitation of some great men, to distinguish himself at the expense of being pointed at.

  When the company had retired the evening before, the thief was detained in a room where the constable, and one of the young fellows who took him, were planted as his guard. About the second watch a general complaint of drought was made, both by the prisoner and his keepers. Among whom it was at last agreed that the constable should remain on duty, and the young fellow call up the tapster; in which disposition the latter apprehended not the least danger, as the constable was well armed, and could besides easily summon him back to his assistance, if the prisoner made the least attempt to gain his liberty.

  The young fellow had not long left the room before it came into the constable’s head that the prisoner might leap on him by surprise, and, thereby preventing him of the use of his weapons, especially the long staff in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the success of a struggle to an equal chance. He wisely, therefore, to prevent this inconvenience, slipt out of the room himself, and locked the door, waiting without with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the unhappy prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt to break out.

  But human life, as hath been discovered by some great man or other (for I would by no means be understood to affect the honour of making any such discovery), very much resembles a game of chess; for as in the latter, while a gamester is too attentive to secure himself very strongly on one side the board, he is apt to leave an unguarded opening on the other; so doth it often happen in life, and so did it happen on this occasion; for whilst the cautious constable with such wonderful sagacity had possessed himself of the door, he most unhappily forgot the window.

  The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner perceived this opening than he began to move that way; and, finding the passage easy, he took with him the young fellow’s hat, and without any ceremony stepped into the street and made the best of his way.

  The young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong beer, was a little surprised to find the constable at the door; but much more so when, the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made his escape, and which way. He threw down the beer, and without uttering anything to the constable except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt out of the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, being very unwilling to lose the reward which he had assured himself of.

  The constable hath not been discharged of suspicion on this account; it hath been said that, not being concerned in the taking the thief, he could not have been entitled to any part of the reward if he had been convicted; that the thief had several guineas in his pocket; that it was very unlikely he should have been guilty of such an oversight; that his pretence for leaving the room was absurd; that it was his constant maxim, that a wise man never refused money on any conditions; that at every election he always had sold his vote to both parties, &c.

  But, notwithstanding these and many other such allegations, I am sufficiently convinced of his innocence; having been positively assured of it by those who received their informations from his own mouth; which, in the opinion of some moderns, is the best and indeed only evidence.

  All the family were now up, and with many others assembled in the kitchen, where Mr Tow-wouse was in some tribulation; the surgeon having declared that by law he was liable to be indicted for the thief’s escap
e, as it was out of his house; he was a little comforted, however, by Mr Barnabas’s opinion, that as the escape was by night the indictment would not lie.

  Mrs Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following words: “Sure never was such a fool as my husband; would any other person living have left a man in the custody of such a drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom Suckbribe?” (which was the constable’s name); “and if he could be indicted without any harm to his wife and children, I should be glad of it.” (Then the bell rung in Joseph’s room.) “Why Betty, John, chamberlain, where the devil are you all? Have you no ears, or no conscience, not to tend the sick better? See what the gentleman wants. Why don’t you go yourself, Mr Tow-wouse? But any one may die for you; you have no more feeling than a deal board. If a man lived a fortnight in your house without spending a penny, you would never put him in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea or coffee for breakfast.” “Yes, my dear,” cried Tow-wouse. She then asked the doctor and Mr Barnabas what morning’s draught they chose, who answered, they had a pot of cider, and at the fire; which we will leave them merry over, and return to Joseph.

  He had rose pretty early this morning; but, though his wounds were far from threatening any danger, he was so sore with the bruises, that it was impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey yet; Mr Adams, therefore, whose stock was visibly decreased with the expenses of supper and breakfast, and which could not survive that day’s scoring, began to consider how it was possible to recruit it. At last he cried, he had luckily hit on a sure method, and, though it would oblige him to return himself home together with Joseph, it mattered not much. He then sent for Tow-wouse, and, taking him into another room, told him he wanted to borrow three guineas, for which he would put ample security into his hands. Tow-wouse, who expected a watch, or ring, or something of double the value, answered, he believed he could furnish him. Upon which Adams, pointing to his saddle-bag, told him with a face and voice full of solemnity, that there were in that bag no less than nine volumes of manuscript sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds as a shilling was worth twelve pence, and that he would deposit one of the volumes in his hands by way of pledge; not doubting but that he would have the honesty to return it on his payment of the money; for otherwise he must be a very great loser, seeing that every volume would at least bring him ten pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in the country; for, said he, as to my own part, having never yet dealt in printing, I do not pretend to ascertain the exact value of such things.

  Two-wouse, who was a little surprised at the pawn, said (and not without some truth), that he was no judge of the price of such kind of goods; and as for money, he really was very short. Adams answered, certainly he would not scruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedly worth at least ten. The landlord replied, he did not believe he had so much money in the house, and besides, he was to make up a sum. He was very confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily sorry it did not suit him. He then cried out, “Coming, sir!” though nobody called; and ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his neck.

  Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this disappointment, nor knew he what further stratagem to try. He immediately applied to his pipe, his constant friend and comfort in his afflictions; and, leaning over the rails, he devoted himself to meditation, assisted by the inspiring fumes of tobacco.

  He had on a nightcap drawn over his wig, and a short great coat, which half covered his cassock,—a dress which, added to something comical enough in his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract the eyes of those who were not over given to observation.

  Whilst he was smoking his pipe in this posture, a coach and six, with a numerous attendance, drove into the inn. There alighted from the coach a young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which another young fellow leapt from the box, and shook the former by the hand; and both, together with the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr Tow-wouse into an apartment; whither as they passed, they entertained themselves with the following short facetious dialogue:—

  “You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack!” says he from the coach; “you had almost overturned us just now.”—“Pox take you!” says the coachman; “if I had only broke your neck, it would have been saving somebody else the trouble; but I should have been sorry for the pointers.”—“Why, you son of a b—,” answered the other, “if nobody could shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no use.”—“D—n me,” says the coachman, “I will shoot with you five guineas a shot.”—“You be hanged,” says the other; “for five guineas you shall shoot at my a—.” “Done,” says the coachman; “I’ll pepper you better than ever you was peppered by Jenny Bouncer.”—“Pepper your grandmother,” says the other: “Here’s Tow-wouse will let you shoot at him for a shilling a-time.” —“I know his honour better,” cries Tow-wouse; “I never saw a surer shot at a partridge. Every man misses now and then; but if I could shoot half as well as his honour, I would desire no better livelihood than I could get by my gun.”—“Pox on you,” said the coachman, “you demolish more game now than your head’s worth. There’s a bitch, Tow-wouse: by G—she never blinked3 a bird in her life.”—“I have a puppy, not a year old, shall hunt with her for a hundred,” cries the other gentleman.—“Done,” says the coachman: “but you will be pox’d before you make the bet.” “If you have a mind for a bet,” cries the coachman, “I will match my spotted dog with your white bitch for a hundred, play or pay.” “Done,” says the other: “and I’ll run Baldface against Slouch with you for another.”—“No,” cries he from the box; “but I’ll venture Miss Jenny against Baldface, or Hannibal either.”—“Go to the devil,” cries he from the coach: “I will make every bet your own way, to be sure! I will match Hannibal with Slouch for a thousand, if you dare; and I say done first.”

  They were now arrived; and the reader will be very contented to leave them, and repair to the kitchen; where Barnabas, the surgeon, and an exciseman were smoking their pipes over some cider-and; and where the servants, who attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen alight, were now arrived.

  “Tom,” cries one of the footmen, “there’s parson Adams smoking his pipe in the gallery.” “Yes,” says Tom; “I pulled off my hat to him, and the parson spoke to me.”

  “Is the gentleman a clergyman, then?” says Barnabas (for his cassock had been tied up when he first arrived). “Yes, sir,” answered the footman; “and one there be but few like.”—“Aye,” said Barnabas: “if I had known it sooner, I should have desired his company; I would always show a proper respect for the cloth: but what say you, doctor, shall we adjourn into a room, and invite him to take part of a bowl of punch?”

  This proposal was immediately agreed to and executed; and parson Adams accepting the invitation, much civility passed between the two clergymen, who both declared the great honour they had for the cloth. They had not been long together before they entered into a discourse on small tithes, which continued a full hour, without the doctor or exciseman’s having one opportunity to offer a word.

  It was then proposed to begin a general conversation, and the exciseman opened on foreign affairs; but a word unluckily dropping from one of them introduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered by the inferior clergy; which, after a long duration, concluded with bringing the nine volumes of sermons on the carpet.

  Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams; he said, the age was so wicked, that nobody read sermons. “Would you think it, Mr Adams?” said he, “I once intended to print a volume of sermons myself, and they had the approbation of two or three bishops; but what do you think a bookseller offered me?”—“Twelve guineas perhaps,” cried Adams. “Not twelve pence, I assure you,” answered Barnabas: “nay, the dog refused me a concordance in exchange. At last I offered to give him the printing them, for the sake of dedicating them to that very gentleman who just now drove his own coach into the inn; and, I assure you, he had the impudence to refuse my offer; by which means I lost a good living, that wa
s afterward given away in exchange for a pointer, to one who—but I will not say anything against the cloth. So you may guess, Mr Adams, what you are to expect; for if sermons would have gone down, I believe—I will not be vain; but to be concise with you, three bishops said they were the best that ever were writ: but indeed there are a pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold yet.”—“Pray, sir,” said Adams, “to what do you think the numbers may amount?”—“Sir,” answered Barnabas, “a bookseller told me, he believed five thousand volumes at least.”—“Five thousand!” quoth the surgeon: “What can they be writ upon? I remember, when I was a boy, I used to read one of Tillotson’s sermons; and, I am sure, if a man practised half so much as is in one of those sermons, he will go to heaven.”—“Doctor,” cried Barnabas, “you have a profane way of talking, for which I must reprove you. A man can never have his duty too frequently inculcated in him. And as for Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and said things very well; but comparisons are odious; another man may write as well as he——I believe there are some of my sermons,”——and then he applied the candle to his pipe.—“And I believe there are some of my discourses,” cries Adams, “which the bishops would not think totally unworthy of being printed; and I have been informed I might procure a very large sum (indeed an immense one) on them.”—“I doubt that,” answered Barnabas: “however, if you desire to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell them by advertising the manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately deceased, all warranted originals, and never printed. And now I think of it, I should be obliged to you, if there be ever a funeral one among them, to lend it me; for I am this very day to preach a funeral sermon, for which I have not penned a line, though I am to have a double price.” Adams answered he had but one, which he feared would not serve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magistrate, who had exerted himself very singularly in the preservation of the morality of his neighbours, insomuch that he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman in the parish where he lived.—“No,” replied Barnabas, “that will not do quite so well; for the deceased, upon whose virtues I am to harangue, was a little too much addicted to liquor, and publicly kept a mistress.——I believe I must take a common sermon, and trust to my memory to introduce something handsome on him.”—“To your invention rather,” said the doctor: “your memory will be apter to put you out; for no man living remembers anything good of him.”