Preface to Joseph Andrews This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding Preface The Comic Epic in Pros As it is possible, the mere English reader may have a different idea of romance with the author of these little volumes, and may consequently expect a kind of entertainment 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 remember 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 the pattern of both of 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 imitators 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 enumerates in the constituent parts of an epic poem, namely Metre, 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 had thought proper, to range it under any other head, nor to assign it a particular name to itself. Thus the Telemachus of the Archbishop of Canberrae appears to me of the epic kind, as well as the Odyssey of Homer, indeed, 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 are those voluminous works commonly called romances, namely Clilia, 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, differing 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 ridiculous, 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 diction, 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 to be. Indeed, no two species of writing can differ more widely than the comic and the Burlesque, for as the latter is ever the exhibition of what is monstrous and unnatural, and where our delight, if we examine it, arises from the surprising absurdity, as in appropriating the manners of the highest to the lowest, or a 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 least excused for deviating from nature, since it may not be always so easy for a serious poet to meet with the great and the admirable, 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, from the authors having sometimes admitted it in his diction only, which, as it is the dress of poetry, doth, like the dress of men, establish characters, the one of the whole poem and the other of the whole man. In vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater excellences, but surely a certain grolery and style, where characters and sentiments are perfectly natural, no more constitutes 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 asserts, there is no such thing to be found in the writings of the ancients. But perhaps 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 can do better to purge away spleen, melancholy, and ill affections than is generally imagined. Nay, I will appeal to common observation whether the same companies are not found more full of good humor and benevolence after they have been sweetened for two or three hours with entertainments of this kind than soured by a tragedy or a grave lecture. But to illustrate all this by another science, in which perhaps 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 Caricattura, where we shall find the greatest excellence of the former to consist in the exactest copy of nature, in so much that a judicious eye instantly rejects anything au tré, any liberty which the painter hath taken with the features of that alma mater, whereas in the Caricattura we allow all license. Its aim is to exhibit monsters, not men, and all distortions and exaggerations, whatever, are within its proper province. Now what Caricattura is in painting, Berlesque is in writing, and in the same manner the comic writer and painter correlate to each other. And here I shall observe that as in the former the painter seems to have the advantage, so it is 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 so 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 useful picture arises to us from it. He who should call the ingenious Hogarth, a Berlesque painter would, in my opinion, do him very little honor. 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, and 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 in the present work, nor will some explanation of this word be thought impertinent by the reader if he considers how wonderfully it hath been mistaken even by writers who have professed it, for to what but such a mistake can we attribute the many attempts to ridicule the blackest villainies 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. Besides, it may seem remarkable, that Aristotle, who is so 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 villainy is not its object, but that he hath not, as I remember, positively asserted what is, nor doth the abbey Belgard, who hath written a treatise on this subject, though he shows us many species of it, once trace it to its fountain. The only source of the true ridiculous, as it appears to me, is affectation. But though it arises from one spring only, when we consider the infinite streams into which this one branches, we shall presently cease to admire at the copious field it affords to an absorber. Now, affectation proceeds from one of these two causes, vanity or hypocrisy. For as vanity puts us on affecting false characters in order to purchase applause, so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavor to avoid censure by concealing our vices under an appearance of their opposite virtues. And though these two causes are often confounded, for they require some distinguishing, yet as they proceed from very different motives, so they are as clearly distinct in their operations. For indeed, the affectation which arises from vanity is nearer to truth than the other, as it hath not that violent repugnancy of nature to struggle with, which that of the hypocrite 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 when it comes from vanity only, it partakes of the nature of ostentation. 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 have it, yet it sits less awkwardly on him than on the avaricious man, 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 surprise and pleasure, and that in a higher and stronger degree when the affectation arises from hypocrisy than when from vanity. Or to discover anyone to be the exact reverse of what he affects is more surprising and consequently more ridiculous than to find him a little deficient in the quality he desires the reputation of. I might observe that our Ben Johnson, who of all men understood the ridiculous the best, hath chiefly used the hypocritical affectation. Now, from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities of life, or the imperfections of nature, may become the objects of ridicule. Surely he hath a very ill-framed mind, who can look on ugliness, infirmity, or poverty, as ridiculous in themselves. 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 and 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 great, 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 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 endeavors 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 and fault, but for not being what they would be thought, where, if the meter would suffer the word ridiculous to close the first line, the thought would be 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 this 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 are rather the accidental consequences of some human frailty or foyable, then 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 of the scene. Lastly, they never produce the intended evil. End of the Preface to Joseph Andrews, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox. Book 1, chapters 1 and 2 of Joseph Andrews. This is a LibriVox recording on the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. The history of the adventures of Joseph Andrews and his friend, Mr. Abraham Adams. By Henry Fielding. Book 1, chapter 1 of Writing Lives, in general, and particularly of Pamela. With the word, by the by, of Kali Sibir and others. It is a trite but true observation that examples work more forcibly on the mind than precepts. And if this be just in what is odious and blamable, 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 Plutarch, Nepos, and others which I heard of in my youth. Our own language affords many of excellent use and instruction, 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 Argyllus and Parthenia, and above all the history of those seven worthy personages, the champions of Christendom. In all these, delight is mixed with instruction, and the reader is almost as much improved as entertained. 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 thought by many 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. Collie Sibber, 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, so 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 such great temptations, I shall only add that this character of male chastity, though doubtless as desirable and becoming in one part of the human species as 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. Book one, chapter two of Mr. Joseph Andrews' birth, parentage, education, and the great endowments with a word or two concerning ancestors. Mr. Joseph Andrews, 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, traveler, 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 waltz 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 S 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 waive, therefore, a circumstance which, though mentioned 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 suppose, 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 dung hill, as the Athenians pretended they themselves did from the earth, would not this auto-copros footnote in English sprung from a dung hill? Would not this auto-copros 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 acquiring honor, when we see so many who have no virtues, enjoying the honor 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 of the ancients assigned to the god Priapus, which deity the moderns call by the name of Jackolent. 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 sportsman term whipper in for this place likewise the sweetness of his voice disqualified him, the dogs preferring the melody of his jiding, to the alluring notes of the huntsman, who soon became so incensed at it that he desired Sir Thomas to provide otherwise for him, and constantly 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 surprised everyone. While he was in this station he rode several races for Sir Thomas, and this with such expertness and success, that the neighbouring gentleman frequently solicited the knight to permit little Joey, for so he was called, to ride their matches.  This extremely raised his character, and so pleased the lady booby, that she desired to have him be 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 distinguishing himself by singing sounds. He behaved likewise in every other respect so well at Divine Service that it recommended him to the notion of Mr. Abraham Adams, the curate who took an opportunity one day as he was drinking a cup of ale in Sir Thomas' kitchen, to ask the young man several questions concerning religion, with his answers to which he was wonderfully pleased. End of Book 1, Chapter 1 and 2, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book 1, Chapters 3 and 4 of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding. Book 1, Chapter 3 of Mr. Abraham Adams, the curate, Mrs. Slipslop, the chambermaid, and others. Mr. Abraham Adams 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 learning 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 simplicity was his characteristic. He did no more than Mr. Kali Cyber apprehend any such passions as malice and envy to exist in mankind, which was indeed less remarkable in a country person 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 encumbered with a wife and six children. It was this gentleman, who, having, as I have said, observed 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 were they? How many chapters they contained, and such like? To all which Mr. Adams privately said, he answered much better than Sir Thomas, for two other neighboring justices 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 learned 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 vote on the right side for a church warden in a borough town, yet had been himself at the expense of six pence a week for his learning. He told him, likewise, that ever since he was in 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, in Thomas a compass, and that as often as he could, without being perceived, he had studied a great good book, which lay open in the hall window, where he had read, quote, as how the devil carried away half a church in sermon 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. Close, quote. This sufficiently assured Mr. Adams that the good book meant could be no other than Baker's Chronicle. The curate, surprised 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 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 endeavor to improve his 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 good books themselves, had profited so much by them. Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas, or my lady, than through the weighting gentlewoman, for Sir Thomas was too apt to estimate men merely by their dress or fortune. And my lady was a woman of gaiety, who had been blessed with a town education, and never spoke of any of her country neighbors 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 perhaps as bad of civil law, with Sir Thomas himself and the tenants of his manner. The foundation of this quarrel was a modus by setting which aside an advantage of several shillings 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 these suits than the pleasure, which he used, indeed, frequently to say, was no small one, reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the poor tenants, though he had, at the same time, greatly impoverished himself. Mrs. Slipslap, 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 effector 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 their meaning, and would have been much less puzzled by an Arabian manuscript. Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after a pretty long discourse with her on the essence, or as she used to term it, the incense 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 that she knew it was in his master's power easily to provide for him in a better manner. He 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 matter? She is going to London very concisely, and I am confident would not leave Joey behind her on any account, for he is one of the genteelist young fellows you may see in a summer's day, and I am confident she would as soon think of parting with a pair of her grey mares, for she values herself as much on one as the other. Adams would have interrupted, but she proceeded, and why is Latin more necessitous for a footman than a gentleman? It is very proper that you clergymen 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 confident my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it, and I shall draw myself into no such dilemma. 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 behaved 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 perseverance in innocence and industry. 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-colored brethren, who endeavored 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 mornings in papers, and dressed it out in the afternoon. They could not, however, teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the town abounded with. He applied most of his leisure hours to music, in which he greatly improved 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 was a 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 gentler than any of the bows in town, either in or out of livery. His lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the handsomest and gentlest footman in the kingdom, but that it was a pity he wanted spirit, began now to find that fault no longer. On the contrary, she was frequently heard to cry out, I, there is some life in this fellow. She plainly saw the effects which the town heir 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 great familiarity. Whenever she stepped out of her coach, she 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 at table, and indulged him in all those innocent freedoms which women of figure may permit without the least sully of their virtue. But, though their virtue remains uncellied, 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 would make you surprised. Why, is not that her footmen? replied Tittle, at which Tattle laughed and cried, and owed 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. It may seem an absurdity 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. 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 stopped 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 inclination of defamers, might entertain of Lady Booby's innocent freedoms, it is certain that they made no impression on young Andrews, who never offered to encroach beyond the liberties which his lady allowed him. A behavior which she imputed 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. End of book one, chapters three and four, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Book one, chapters five and six of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews, by Henry Fielding. Book one, chapter five, the death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and mournful behavior of his widow, and the great purity of Joseph Andrews. At this time, an actual incident 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. Slipslopp 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 Joseph to bring up her tea kettle, the lady being in bed, call Joseph to her, bade him sit down, and accidentally having 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 conquest of you? Joseph returned that all the women he had ever seen were equally indifferent to him. Oh, 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 deserved that name. Don't pretend too much modesty, said she. For that sometimes may be impertinent, but pray, answer me this question.  Are you certain that no vanity could tempt you to discover her? Answer me honestly, 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 widest necks that ever was seen, at which Joseph blushed. La, says she, in an affected surprise, what am I doing? I have trusted myself with a man, alone, naked in bed. Suppose you should have any wicked intentions upon my honor. 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. Perhaps they are not so. He swore they were not. You misunderstand me, says she. I mean, if they were against my honor 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 that not be trusting to your secrecy? Must not my reputation be then in your power? Would you not then be my master? 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 without vanity I may pretend to some charms. But perhaps you may fear I should prosecute you, and indeed I hope you will do. And yet, heaven knows, I should never have the confidence to appear before a court of justice. And you know, Joey, I am of a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don't you think I should forgive you? Indeed, madam, says Joseph, I will never do anything to disablige your ladyship. How, says she, do you think it would not disablige me then? Do you think I would willingly suffer you? I don't understand you, madam, says Joseph.  I find I was mistaken in you, so get you downstairs, 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 endeavored to be a dutiful servant, both to you and my master. Oh, thou villain, answered my lady. Why did 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. Book 1, Chapter 6. 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 quarreled 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 honor 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 that she had had a mind to me. Dear Pamela, don't tell anybody, but she ordered me to sit down by her bedside, when she was in naked 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 David 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 hardly wish you could get me a place, either at the Squires or some other neighboring gentlemen'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 sound. I 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, who is the best man in the world. London is a bad place, and there is so little good fellowship that the next door neighbors don't know one another. Pray give my service to all friends that inquire for me, so I rest your loving brother, Joseph Andrews. As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this letter, he walked downstairs, where he met Mrs. Slipslop, with whom we shall take this opportunity to bring the reader a little better acquainted. She was a maiden, gentle woman, 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 addition of pimples in the face. Her nose was likewise 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 shorter than the other, which occasioned her to limp as she walked. This fair creature had long cast the eyes of affection on Joseph, in which she had not met with quite so good success as she probably wished. Though, besides the allurements of her native charms, she 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 favors, not even so much as a kiss, though I would not insinuate she was so easily to be 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 so 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.  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 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 rataphia, and desired him to sit down, Mrs. Slipslop thus began.  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 favors I have done you, but you must treat me with ironing? Barbers, 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, says Mrs. Slipslop, in a rage.  I don't know what a stripling may think, but I believe a man would refer me to any green, sickness, silly girl, what some debor. 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 honor 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 compliment 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 Tigris who long has traversed the woods in a fruitless search, sees within the reach of her claws a lamb she prepares to leap on her prey, or as a voracious 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 mistresses bell rung and delivered the intended martyr from her clutches. 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 behavior, after she was left by Joseph in a temper of mind not greatly different from that of the inflamed Slipslop. End of book one, chapters five and six, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox. Book one, chapters seven and eight of Joseph Andrews. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dennis Sayers. Joseph Andrews, by Henry Fielding. Book one, chapters seven, sayings of wise men, a dialogue between the Lady and her maid, and a panagyric, or rather satire on the passion of love in the sublime style. It 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 labored to describe the different operations of this passion of love in the gentle and cultivated mind of the Lady Booby, from those which it affected in the less polished and coarser disposition 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 disappointment, 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? The poor woman was so surprised at the unexpected sound 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, in a wicked one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, and fights. Fairly. Besides, he is horribly indicted to wenching. I, said the Lady, I never heard that of him.  And yet I can't conceive what the wenches see in him to be so foolishly fond as they are.  Nay, said the Lady, the boy is well enough. La, ma'am! Tries Slipslop. I think him the rag-medicolest fellow in the family. Sure, Slipslop, says she, you are mistaken, but which of the women do you most suspect? Madam, says Slipslop, there is Betty the Chambermaid. I am almost convicted is with child by him. I, 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 fulfill it with as much reluctance as possible.  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 returned and was countermanded as to Joseph but ordered to send Betty about her business without delay. She went out a second time with much greater alacrity than before, when the Lady began immediately to accuse herself of want of resolution and to apprehension. 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 absolutely resolved to turn away Joseph, which she ordered to do. And, as the Lady said, and was absolutely 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 bearing 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.  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. Oh, love, what monstrous tricks does thou play with thy votaries of both sexes? How dost thou deceive them and make them deceive themselves? Their follies are thy delight, their sighs make thee laugh, and their pangs are thy merriment. Not the great rich, who turns men into monkeys, wheelbarrows, and whatever else best humors his fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed the human shape. Nor the great cyber, 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. 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.  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. Chapter 8. In which, after some very fine writing, the history 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 rubbed his drowsy eyes, prepared to dress himself 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 Phoebus 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 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 innocently spent in the gayities of the town, began, about fifty, to attend twice per diem at the polite churches and chapels to return thanks for the grace which preserved them formally amongst bows from temptations perhaps less powerful than what now attacked the Lady Booby. Mr. Joseph Andrews was now in the one and twentieth year of his age. He was of the highest degree of middle stature. His limbs were put together with great elegance and no less strength, and his legs and thighs were formed in the exactest proportion. His shoulders were broad and brawny, but yet his arm hung so easily that he had all the symptoms of strength without the least clumsiness. His hair was of a nut-brown color and was displayed in wanton ringlets down his back.  His nose a little inclined to the Roman, his teeth were 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 perfect 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 spake, 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 are such in my family, but they shall not stay in it. That impudent trollop, who is with child by you, is discharged by this time. As a person who is struck through the heart with a thunderbolt looks extremely surprised, nay, and perhaps is so too, thus the poor Joseph receive the false accusation of his mistress. He blushed and looked confounded, which she misinterpreted to be symptoms of his guilt, and thus went on. Come here, there, Joseph. Another mistress might discard you for these offenses, 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. You might make your fortune. Madam, said Joseph, I do assure your ladyship. I don't know whether any maid in the house is man or woman. Oh, thy, Joseph, answered the lady, don't commit another crime in denying the truth.  Madam, cries Joseph, I hope your ladyship will not be offended at my asserting my innocence, for, by all that is sacred, I have never offered more than kissing. Kissing, said the lady, with great discomposure of countenance, and more redness in her cheeks than anger in her eyes. Do you call that no crime? Kissing, Joseph, is a prologue to a play. Can I believe a young fellow of your age and complexion 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, therefore, Joseph, if I should admit you to such freedom, but would you think of me? Tell me freely. Madam, said Joseph, I should think your ladyship condescended a great deal below yourself. Pew, says 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 inclinations be all on fire, rather, by such a favour? Madam, said Joseph, if they were, I hope I should be able to control them without suffering them to get the better of my virtue. You have heard, reader, poet's talk of the Statue of Surprise, and you have heard likewise, or else you have. You have heard very little. How surprise made one of the sons of Croceus speak, though he was done.  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 surprise as would have entered in at your eyes had they beheld the Lady Booby when those last words issued out from the lips of Joseph? Your virtue, said the Lady, recovering after a silence of two minutes, I shall never survive it. Your virtue, intolerable confidence, hath you the assurance to pretend that when a Lady demeans herself to throw aside the rules of decency in order to honor you with the highest favor in her power your virtue should resist her inclination that when she had conquered her own virtue you 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 I am 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 parson's who preach against it make any scruple of committing it, and can a boy, hey, 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 hath sent me of my sister Pamela's, nor do I doubt but such an example would amend them.  A little vixen, whom I have always wondered my late Lady Booby ever kept in her house.  Madam, says Joseph, I am sorry I have offended your Ladyship. I am sure I never intended it. Yes, Sarah, 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 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 following exclamation. Wither dust this violent passion, hurry us. What meannesses do we submit to from its impulse? 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 I will go. Have I not exposed myself to the refusal of my footman? I cannot bear the reflection upon which she applied herself to the bell and wrung it with infinite more violence than was necessary. The faithful slip-slop attending near at hand to say the truth she had conceived a suspicion at her last interview with her mistress and had waited ever since in the anti-chamber having carefully applied her ears to the keyhole during the whole time that the preceding conversation passed between Joseph and the lady. End of book one chapter seven and eight read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox. Book one chapters nine and ten of Joseph Andrews. Recording is in the public domain recording by Dennis Sayers Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding Chapter nine what passed between the lady and Mrs. Slipslop in which we prophesy there are some strokes which everyone will not truly comprehend at the first reading. Slipslop said the lady I find too much reason to believe all thou hast told me of this wicked Joseph I have determined to part with him instantly so go you to the steward and bid him pay his wages Slipslop who had preserved hitherto a distance to her lady rather out of necessity than inclination and who thought the knowledge of this secret had thrown down all distinction between them answered her mistress very pertly she wished she knew her own mind and that she was certain she would call her back again before she got halfway downstairs the lady replied she had taken a resolution and was resolved to keep it sorry for it cried Slipslop for if I had known you would have punished the poor lad so severely you should never have heard a particle of the matter here's a fuss indeed about nothing nothing returned my lady do you think I will countenance lewdness in my house if you will turn away again said Slipslop that is a lover of the sport you must soon open the coach door yourself or get a set of moffredites to wait upon you and I am sure I hated the sight of them even singing in an opera do as I bid you says my lady and don't shock my ears with your beastly language Mary come up cries Slipslop people's ears are sometimes the nicest part about them the lady who began to admire the new style in which her waiting gentle woman delivered herself and by the conclusion of her speech suspected somewhat of the truth called her back and desired to know what she meant in her ordinary degree of freedom in which she thought proper to indulge her tongue freedom says Slipslop I don't know what you call freedom madam servants have tongues as well as their mistresses yes and saucy ones too answered the lady but I assure you I shall bear no such impertinence I don't know that I am impertinent says Slipslop yes indeed you are cries my lady and unless you mend your manners this house is no place for you manners cries Slipslop I never was thought to want manners nor modesty neither and for places than one and I know what I know what do you know mistress answered the lady I am not obliged to tell that to everybody says Slipslop any more than I am obliged to keep it a secret I desire you would provide yourself answered the lady with all my heart replied the waiting gentlewoman and so departed in a passion and slapped the door after her the lady too plainly perceived that her waiting gentlewoman knew more than she would willingly have had her acquainted with and this she imputed to Joseph's having discovered to her what passed at the first interview this therefore blew up her rage against him and confirmed her in a resolution of parting with him but the dismissing Mrs. Slipslop was a point not so easily to be resolved upon she had the utmost tenderness for her reputation as she knew on that depended many of the most valuable blessings of life particularly cards making curtsies in public places and above all the pleasure of demolishing the reputations of others in which innocent amusement she had an extraordinary delight she therefore determined to submit to any insult from a servant rather than run a risk of losing the title to so many great privileges so therefore for her Stuart Mr. Peter Pounce and ordered him to pay Joseph his wages to strip off his livery and to turn him out of the house that evening she then called Slipslop up and after refreshing her spirits with the small cordial which she kept in her corset she began in the following manner Slipslop to you who know my passionate temper attempt to provoke me by your answers I am convinced you are an honest servant and should be very unwilling to part with you I believe likewise you have found me an indulgent mistress on many occasions and have as little reason on your side to desire a change I can't help being surprised that you will take the surest method to offend me I mean repeating my words which you know I have always detested the prudent waiting gentlewoman had duly weighed the whole matter and found on mature deliberation that a good place in possession was better than one in expectation as she found her mistress inclined to relent she thought proper also to put on some small condescension which was as readily accepted and so the affair was reconciled all offenses forgiven and a present of a gown and a petticoat made her as an instance of her lady's future favor she offered once or twice to speak in favor of Joseph but found her lady's heart so obdurate that she prudently dropped all such efforts she considered there were more footmen in the house and some as stout fellows though not quite so handsome as Joseph besides the reader hath already seen her tender advances had not met with the encouragement she might have reasonably expected she thought she had thrown away a great deal of sack and sweet meats on an ungrateful rascal and being a little inclined to the opinion of that female sect who hold one lusty young fellow to be nearly as good as another lusty young fellow she at last gave up Joseph and his cause and with a triumph over her passion highly commendable walked off with her present and with great tranquility paid a visit to a stone bottle which is of sovereign use to a philosophical temper she left not her mistress so easy the poor lady could not reflect without agony that her dear reputation was in the power of her servants all her comfort as to Joseph was that she hoped he did not understand her meaning at least she could say for herself she had not plainly expressed anything to him and as to Mrs. Slipslop she imagines she could bribe her to secrecy but what her most was that in reality she had not so entirely conquered her passion the little god lay lurking in her heart and disdain so hoodwinter that she could not see him she was a thousand times on the very brink of revoking the sentence she had passed against the poor youth love became his advocate and whispered many things in his favor honor likewise endeavored to vindicate his crime and pity to mitigate his punishment and the other side pride and revenge spoke as loudly against him and thus the poor lady was tortured with perplexity opposite passions distracting and tearing her mind different ways so have I seen in the hall of Westminster where Sergeant Bramble had been retained on the right side and Sergeant Puzzle on the left had been repaid for his fees alternately inclined to either scale now Bramble throws in an argument and Puzzle scale strikes the beam again Bramble shares the like fate overpowered by the weight of Puzzle here Bramble hits their Puzzle strikes here one has you there Tother has you till at last the confusion in the tortured minds of the hearers equal wagers are laid on the success and neither judge nor jury can possibly make anything of the matter all things are so enveloped by the careful sergeants in doubt and obscurity or as it happens in the conscience where honor and honesty pull one way and a bribe if it was our present business only to make similes we could produce many more to this purpose but a simile as well as a word to the wise we shall therefore see a little after our hero for whom the reader is doubtless in some pain Chapter 10 Joseph writes another letter with questions with Mr. Peter Pounce etc. with his departure from Lady Booby the disconsulent Joseph would not have had an understanding sufficient for the principal subject of such a book as this if he had any longer misunderstood the drift of his mistress and indeed that he did not discern it sooner than him to discover what he must condemn her as a fault having therefore quitted her presence he retired into his own garret and entered himself into an ejaculation on the numberless calamities which attended beauty and the misfortune it was to be handsomer than one's neighbors he then sat down and addressed himself in the following words Dear sister Pamela hoping you are well what news have I to tell you oh Pamela my mistress is fallen in love with me that is what great folks call falling in love she has a mind to ruin me but I hope I shall have more resolution and more grace than to part with my virtue Mr. Adams hath often told me that chastity is as great a virtue in a man as in a woman he says he never knew any more than his wife and I shall endeavor to follow his example indeed it is owing entirely to his excellent sermons and advice together with your letters that I have been able to resist a temptation he says no man complies with but he repents in this world or is damned for it in the next and why should I trust to repentance on my deathbed since I may die in my sleep what fine things are good advice and good examples but I am glad she turned me out of the chamber as she did for I had once almost forgotten every word she said to me I don't doubt your sister but you will have grace to preserve your virtue against all trials and I beg you earnestly to pray I may be enabled to preserve mine for truly it is very severely attacked by more than one but I hope I shall copy your example and that of Joseph my namesake and maintain my virtue and my conscience Joseph had not finished his letter when he was summoned downstairs by Mr. Peter Pounce to receive his wages for besides that of eight pounds a year he allowed his father and mother for he had been obliged in order to furnish himself with musical instruments to apply to the generosity of the aforesaid Peter who on urgent occasions used to advance the servants their wages not before they were due but before they were payable that is perhaps half a year after they were due and this at the moderate premium of 50% or a little more by which charitable methods together with lending to other people and even to his own master and mistress from nothing in a few years amassed a small sum of 20,000 pounds or thereabouts Joseph having received his little remainder of wages and having stripped off his livery was forced to borrow a frock and breaches of one of the servants for he was so beloved in the family that they would all have lent him anything being told by Peter that he must not stay a moment longer in the house than was necessary to pack up his linen which he easily did in a very narrow compass he took a melancholy leave of his fellow servants and set out at seven in the evening he had proceeded the length of two or three streets before he absolutely determined whether he should leave the town that night or procuring a lodging wait till the morning at last the moon shining very bright helped him to come to a resolution of beginning his journey immediately to which likewise he had some other inducements which the reader without being a conjurer cannot possibly guess till we have given him may be now proper to open in the book one chapters nine and ten read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for Librebox


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