Joseph Andrews

by Henry Fielding

  “O most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sister! whose example could alone enable me to withstand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to preserve my virtue pure and chaste for the arms of my dear Fanny, if it had pleased Heaven that I should ever have come unto them. What riches, or honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the loss of innocence? Doth not that alone afford us more consolation than all worldly acquisitions? What but innocence and virtue could give any comfort to such a miserable wretch as I am? Yet these can make me prefer this sick and painful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in my lady’s. These can make me face death without fear; and though I love my Fanny more than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me to resign myself to the Divine will without repining. O, thou delightful charming creature! if Heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest state would have been a paradise; I could have lived with thee in the lowest cottage without envying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any man breathing. But I must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest angel! I must think of another world; and I heartily pray thou may’st meet comfort in this.”—Barnabas thought he had heard enough, so downstairs he went, and told Tow-wouse he could do his guest no service; for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room.

  The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his patient in a higher fever, as he said, than when he left him, though not delirious; for, notwithstanding Mr Barnabas’s opinion, he had not been once out of his senses since his arrival at the inn.

  Mr Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty prevailed on to make another visit. As soon as he entered the room he told Joseph he was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for another world: in the first place, therefore, he hoped he had repented of all his sins. Joseph answered he hoped he had; but there was one thing which he knew not whether he should call a sin; if it was, he feared he should die in the commission of it; and that was, the regret of parting with a young woman whom he loved as tenderly as he did his heart-strings. Barnabas bade him be assured that any repining at the Divine will was one of the greatest sins he could commit; that he ought to forget all carnal affections, and think of better things. Joseph said, that neither in this world nor the next he could forget his Fanny; and that the thought, however grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not half so tormenting as the fear of what she would suffer when she knew his misfortune. Barnabas said, that such fears argued a diffidence and despondence very criminal; that he must divest himself of all human passions, and fix his heart above. Joseph answered, that was what he desired to do, and should be obliged to him if he would enable him to accomplish it. Barnabas replied, that must be done by grace. Joseph besought him to discover how he might attain it. Barnabas answered, by prayer and faith. He then questioned him concerning his forgiveness of the thieves. Joseph answered, he feared that was more than he could do; for nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear they were taken. “That,” cries Barnabas, “is for the sake of justice.”—“Yes,” said Joseph, “but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I should attack them, and kill them too, if I could.”—“Doubtless,” answered Barnabas, “it is lawful to kill a thief; but can you say you forgive them as a Christian ought?” Joseph desired to know what that forgiveness was. “That is,” answered Barnabas, “to forgive them as—as—it is to forgive them as—in short, it is to forgive them as a Christian.” Joseph replied, he forgave them as much as he could.—“Well, well,” said Barnabas., “that will do.” He then demanded of him, if he remembered any more sins unrepented of; and if he did, he desired him to make haste and repent of them as fast as he could, that they might repeat over a few prayers together. Joseph answered, he could not recollect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he had committed he was sincerely sorry for. Barnabas said that was enough, and then proceeded to prayer with all the expedition he was master of, some company then waiting for him below in the parlour, where the ingredients of punch were all in readiness; but no one would squeeze the oranges till he came.

  Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little tea; which Barnabas reported to Mrs Tow-wouse, who answered, she had just done drinking it, and could not be slopping all day; but ordered Betty to carry him up some small beer.

  Betty obeyed her mistress’s commands; but Joseph, as soon as he had tasted it, said, he feared it would increase his fever, and that he longed very much for tea; to which the good-natured Betty answered, he should have tea, if there was any in the land; she accordingly went and bought him some herself, and attended him with it; where we will leave her and Joseph together for some time, to entertain the reader with other matters.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  BEING VERY FULL OF ADVENTURES WHICH SUCCEEDED EACH OTHER AT THE END.

  IT WAS NOW the dusk of the evening, when a grave person rode into the inn, and, committing his horse to the hostler, went directly into the kitchen, and, having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the fireside, where several other persons were likewise assembled.

  The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was committed the night before, and on the poor wretch who lay above in the dreadful condition in which we have already seen him. Mrs Tow-wouse said, she wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell meant by bringing such guests to her house, when there were so many alehouses on the road proper for their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the parish should be at the expense of the funeral. She added, nothing would serve the fellow’s turn but tea, she would assure him. Betty, who was just returned from her charitable office, answered, she believed he was a gentleman, for she never saw a finer skin in her life. “Pox on his skin!” replied Mrs Tow-wouse, “I suppose that is all we are like to have for the reckoning. I desire no such gentlemen should ever call at the Dragon” (which it seems was the sign of the inn).

  The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of emotion at the distress of this poor creature, whom he observed to be fallen not into the most compassionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs Tow-wouse had given no utterance to the sweetness of her temper, nature had taken such pains in her countenance, that Hogarth himself never gave more expression to a picture.

  Her person was short, thin, and crooked. Her forehead projected in the middle, and thence descended in a declivity to the top of her nose, which was sharp and red, and would have hung over her lips, had not nature turned up the end of it. Her lips were two bits of skin, which, whenever she spoke, she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked; and at the upper end of that skin which composed her cheeks, stood two bones, that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. Add to this a voice most wonderfully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being both loud and hoarse.

  It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had conceived a greater dislike for his landlady or compassion for her unhappy guest. He inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, who was now come into the kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery? He begged him to use all possible means towards it, telling him, it was the duty of men of all professions to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor and necessitous. The surgeon answered, he should take proper care; but he defied all the surgeons in London to do him any good.—“Pray, sir,” said the gentleman, “what are his wounds?”—“Why, do you know anything of wounds?” says the surgeon (winking upon Mrs Tow-wouse). “Sir, I have a small smattering in surgery,” answered the gentleman. “A smattering,—ho, ho, ho!” said the surgeon; “I believe it is a smattering indeed.”

  The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor, who was what they call a dry fellow, expose the gentleman.

  He began therefore with an air of triumph: “I suppose, sir, you have travelled?”—“No, really, sir,” said the gentleman. “Ho! then you have practised in the hospitals perhaps?”—“No, sir.”—“Hum! not that neither? Whence, sir, then, if I may be so bold to inquire, have you got your knowledge in surgery?”—“Sir,”
answered the gentleman, “I do not pretend to much; but the little I know I have from books.”—“Books!” cried the doctor. “What, I suppose you have read Galen and Hippocrates!”—“No, sir,” said the gentleman. “How! you understand surgery,” answers the doctor, “and not read Galen and Hippocrates?”—“Sir,” cries the other, “I believe there are many surgeons who have never read these authors.”—“I believe so too,” says the doctor, “more shame for them; but, thanks to my education, I have them by heart, and very seldom go without them both in my pocket.”—“They are pretty large books,” said the gentleman. “Aye,” said the doctor, “I believe I know how large they are better than you.” (At which he fell a winking, and the whole company burst into a laugh.)

  The doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman, if he did not understand physic as well as surgery. “Rather better,” answered the gentleman. “Aye, like enough,” cries the doctor with a wink. “Why, I know a little of physic too.”—“I wish I knew half so much,” said Tow-wouse, “I’d never wear an apron again.”—“Why, I believe, landlord,” cries the doctor, “there are few men, though I say it, within twelve miles of the place, that handle a fever better.—Veniente accurrite morbo: that is my method. I suppose, brother, you understand Latin?”—“A little,” says the gentleman. “Ay, and Greek now, I’ll warrant you: Ton dapomibominos poluflosboio thalasses. But I have almost forgot these things: I could have repeated Homer by heart once.”——“I fags! the gentleman has caught a traitor,” says Mrs Tow-wouse; at which they all fell a laughing.

  The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, very contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, which he did with no small satisfaction; and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, told him, he was thoroughly convinced of his great learning and abilities; and that he would be obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion of his patient’s case above-stairs. “Sir,” says the doctor, “his case is that of a dead man. The contusion on his head has perforated the internal membrane of the occiput, and divellicated that radical small minute invisible nerve which coheres to the pericranium; and this was attended with a fever at first symptomatic, then pneumatic; and he is at length grown deliruus, or delirious, as the vulgar express it.”

  He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty noise interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighbourhood had taken one of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty ran up-stairs with this news to Joseph, who begged they might search for a little piece of broken gold, which had a ribbon tied to it, and which he could swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in the universe.

  Notwithstanding the fellow’s persisting in his innocence, the mob were very busy in searching him, and presently, among other things, pulled out the piece of gold just mentioned; which Betty no sooner saw than she laid violent hands on it, and conveyed it up to Joseph, who received it with raptures of joy, and, hugging it in his bosom, declared he could now die contented.

  Within a few minutes afterwards came in some other fellows, with a bundle which they had found in a ditch, and which was indeed the clothes which had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other things they had taken from him.

  The gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he declared he knew the livery; and, if it had been taken from the poor creature above-stairs, desired he might see him; for that he was very well acquainted with the family to whom that livery belonged.

  He was accordingly conducted up by Betty; but what, reader, was the surprise on both sides, when he saw Joseph was the person in bed, and when Joseph discovered the face of his good friend Mr Abraham Adams!

  It would be impertinent to insert a discourse which chiefly turned on the relation of matters already well known to the reader; for, as soon as the curate had satisfied Joseph concerning the perfect health of his Fanny, he was on his side very inquisitive into all the particulars which had produced this unfortunate accident.

  To return therefore to the kitchen, where a great variety of company were now assembled from all the rooms of the house, as well as the neighbourhood: so much delight do men take in contemplating the countenance of a thief.

  Mr Tow-wouse began to rub his hands with pleasure at seeing so large an assembly; who would, he hoped, shortly adjourn into several apartments, in order to discourse over the robbery, and drink a health to all honest men. But Mrs Tow-wouse, whose misfortune it was commonly to see things a little perversely, began to rail at those who brought the fellow into her house; telling her husband, they were very likely to thrive who kept a house of entertainment for beggars and thieves.

  The mob had now finished their search, and could find nothing about the captive likely to prove any evidence; for as to the clothes, though the mob were very well satisfied with that proof, yet, as the surgeon observed, they could not convict him, because they were not found in his custody; to which Barnabas agreed, and added that these were bona waviata, and belonged to the lord of the manor.

  “How,” says the surgeon, “do you say these goods belong to the lord of the manor?”—“I do,” cried Barnabas. “Then I deny it,” says the surgeon: “what can the lord of the manor have to do in the case? Will any one attempt to persuade me that what a man finds is not his own?”—“I have heard,” says an old fellow in the corner, “justice Wise-one say, that, if every man had his right, whatever is found belongs to the king of London.”—“That may be true,” says Barnabas, “in some sense; for the law makes a difference between things stolen and things found; for a thing may be stolen that never is found, and a thing may be found that never was stolen. Now, goods that are both stolen and found are waviata; and they belong to the lord of the manor.”—“So the lord of the manor is the receiver of stolen goods,” says the doctor; at which there was an universal laugh, being first begun by himself.

  While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had almost (as there was no evidence against him) brought over Barnabas, the surgeon, Tow-wouse, and several others to his side, Betty informed them that they had overlooked a little piece of gold, which she had carried up to the man in bed, and which he offered to swear to amongst a million, aye, amongst ten thousand. This immediately turned the scale against the prisoner, and every one now concluded him guilty. It was resolved, therefore, to keep him secured that night, and early in the morning to carry him before a justice.

  CHAPTER XV.

  SHOWING HOW MRS TOW-WOUSE WAS A LITTLE MOLLIFIED; AND HOW OFFICIOUS MR BARNABAS AND THE SURGEON WERE TO PROSECUTE THE THIEF: WITH A DISSERTATION ACCOUNTING FOR THEIR ZEAL, AND THAT OF MANY OTHER PERSONS NOT MENTIONED IN THIS HISTORY.

  BETTY TOLD HER mistress she believed the man in bed was a greater man than they took him for; for, besides the extreme whiteness of his skin, and the softness of his hands, she observed a very great familiarity between the gentleman and him; and added, she was certain they were intimate acquaintance, if not relations.

  This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs Tow-wouse’s countenance. She said, God forbid she should not discharge the duty of a Christian, since the poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had a natural antipathy to vagabonds; but could pity the misfortunes of a Christian as soon as another. Tow-wouse said, “If the traveller be a gentleman, though he hath no money about him now, we shall most likely be paid hereafter; so you may begin to score whenever you will.” Mrs Tow-wouse answered, “Hold your simple tongue, and don’t instruct me in my business. I am sure I am sorry for the gentleman’s misfortune with all my heart; and I hope the villain who hath used him so barbarously will be hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. God forbid he should want any thing in my house.”

  Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to satisfy themselves concerning the piece of gold; Joseph was with difficulty prevailed upon to show it them, but would by no entreaties be brought to deliver it out of his own possession. He however attested this to be the same which had been taken from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the finding it on the thief.

&n
bsp; The only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this gold before the justice; for as to carrying Joseph himself, it seemed impossible; nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him, for he had fastened it with a ribband to his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing but irresistible force should ever separate them; in which resolution, Mr Adams, clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle of an ox, declared he would support him.

  A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence not very necessary to be related here; after which the surgeon dressed Mr Joseph’s head, still persisting in the imminent danger in which his patient lay, but concluding, with a very important look, that he began to have some hopes; that he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and would see him in the morning. After which Barnabas and he departed, and left Mr Joseph and Mr Adams together.

  Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey which he was making to London, namely, to publish three volumes of sermons; being encouraged, as he said, by an advertisement lately set forth by a society of booksellers, who proposed to purchase any copies offered to them, at a price to be settled by two persons; but though he imagined he should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his family were in urgent need of, he protested he would not leave Joseph in his present condition: finally, he told him, he had nine shillings and three pence halfpenny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as he pleased.

  This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into Joseph’s eyes; he declared, he had now a second reason to desire life, that he might show his gratitude to such a friend. Adams bade him be cheerful; for that he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his ignorance, desired to make a merit of curing him, though the wounds in his head, he perceived, were by no means dangerous; that he was convinced he had no fever, and doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day or two.