# The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and his Friend, Mr. Abraham Abrams/Book III, Chapter II

CHAPTER II.
_A night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befel Adams and his
fellow-travellers._
It was so late when our travellers left the inn or alehouse (for it
might be called either), that they had not travelled many miles before
night overtook them, or met them, which you please. The reader must
excuse me if I am not particular as to the way they took; for, as we are
now drawing near the seat of the Boobies, and as that is a ticklish
name, which malicious persons may apply, according to their evil
inclinations, to several worthy country squires, a race of men whom we
look upon as entirely inoffensive, and for whom we have an adequate
regard, we shall lend no assistance to any such malicious purposes.
Darkness had now overspread the hemisphere, when Fanny whispered Joseph
"that she begged to rest herself a little; for that she was so tired
she could walk no farther." Joseph immediately prevailed with parson
Adams, who was as brisk as a bee, to stop. He had no sooner seated
himself than he lamented the loss of his dear Aeschylus; but was a
little comforted when reminded that, if he had it in his possession, he
could not see to read.
The sky was so clouded, that not a star appeared. It was indeed,
according to Milton, darkness visible. This was a circumstance, however,
very favourable to Joseph; for Fanny, not suspicious of being overseen
by Adams, gave a loose to her passion which she had never done before,
and, reclining her head on his bosom, threw her arm carelessly round
him, and suffered him to lay his cheek close to hers. All this infused
such happiness into Joseph, that he would not have changed his turf for
the finest down in the finest palace in the universe.
Adams sat at some distance from the lovers, and, being unwilling to
disturb them, applied himself to meditation; in which he had not
spent much time before he discovered a light at some distance that
seemed approaching towards him. He immediately hailed it; but, to his
sorrow and surprize, it stopped for a moment, and then disappeared.
He then called to Joseph, asking him, "if he had not seen the light?"
Joseph answered, "he had."--"And did you not mark how it vanished?"
returned he: "though I am not afraid of ghosts, I do not absolutely
disbelieve them."
He then entered into a meditation on those unsubstantial beings; which
was soon interrupted by several voices, which he thought almost at his
elbow, though in fact they were not so extremely near. However, he could
distinctly hear them agree on the murder of any one they met; and a
little after heard one of them say, "he had killed a dozen since that
day fortnight."
Adams now fell on his knees, and committed himself to the care of
Providence; and poor Fanny, who likewise heard those terrible words,
embraced Joseph so closely, that had not he, whose ears were also open,
been apprehensive on her account, he would have thought no danger which
threatened only himself too dear a price for such embraces.
Joseph now drew forth his penknife, and Adams, having finished his
ejaculations, grasped his crab-stick, his only weapon, and, coming up to
Joseph, would have had him quit Fanny, and place her in the rear; but
his advice was fruitless; she clung closer to him, not at all regarding
the presence of Adams, and in a soothing voice declared, "she would die
in his arms." Joseph, clasping her with inexpressible eagerness,
whispered her, "that he preferred death in hers to life out of them."
Adams, brandishing his crabstick, said, "he despised death as much as
any man," and then repeated aloud--
Upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and then one of them called
out, "D--n you, who is there?" To which Adams was prudent enough to make
no reply; and of a sudden he observed half-a-dozen lights, which seemed
to rise all at once from the ground and advance briskly towards him.
This he immediately concluded to be an apparition; and now, beginning to
conceive that the voices were of the same kind, he called out, "In the
name of the L--d, what wouldst thou have?" He had no sooner spoke than
he heard one of the voices cry out, "D--n them, here they come;" and
soon after heard several hearty blows, as if a number of men had been
engaged at quarterstaff. He was just advancing towards the place of
combat, when Joseph, catching him by the skirts, begged him that they
might take the opportunity of the dark to convey away Fanny from the
danger which threatened her. He presently complied, and, Joseph lifting
up Fanny, they all three made the best of their way; and without looking
behind them, or being overtaken, they had travelled full two miles, poor
Fanny not once complaining of being tired, when they saw afar off
several lights scattered at a small distance from each other, and at the
same time found themselves on the descent of a very steep hill. Adams's
foot slipping, he instantly disappeared, which greatly frightened both
Joseph and Fanny: indeed, if the light had permitted them to see it,
they would scarce have refrained laughing to see the parson rolling down
the hill; which he did from top to bottom, without receiving any harm.
He then hollowed as loud as he could, to inform them of his safety, and
relieve them from the fears which they had conceived for him. Joseph and
Fanny halted some time, considering what to do; at last they advanced a
few paces, where the declivity seemed least steep; and then Joseph,
taking his Fanny in his arms, walked firmly down the hill, without
making a false step, and at length landed her at the bottom, where Adams
soon came to them.
Learn hence, my fair countrywomen, to consider your own weakness, and
the many occasions on which the strength of a man may be useful to you;
and, duly weighing this, take care that you match not yourselves with
the spindle-shanked beaus and _petit-maitres_ of the age, who, instead
of being able, like Joseph Andrews, to carry you in lusty arms through
the rugged ways and downhill steeps of life, will rather want to support
their feeble limbs with your strength and assistance.
Our travellers now moved forwards where the nearest light presented
itself; and, having crossed a common field, they came to a meadow, where
they seemed to be at a very little distance from the light, when, to
their grief, they arrived at the banks of a river. Adams here made a
full stop, and declared he could swim, but doubted how it was possible
to get Fanny over: to which Joseph answered, "If they walked along its
banks, they might be certain of soon finding a bridge, especially as by
the number of lights they might be assured a parish was near." "Odso,
that's true indeed," said Adams; "I did not think of that."
Accordingly, Joseph's advice being taken, they passed over two meadows,
and came to a little orchard, which led them to a house. Fanny begged of
Joseph to knock at the door, assuring him "she was so weary that she
could hardly stand on her feet." Adams, who was foremost, performed this
ceremony; and, the door being immediately opened, a plain kind of man
appeared at it: Adams acquainted him "that they had a young woman with
them who was so tired with her journey that he should be much obliged to
him if he would suffer her to come in and rest herself." The man, who
saw Fanny by the light of the candle which he held in his hand,
perceiving her innocent and modest look, and having no apprehensions
from the civil behaviour of Adams, presently answered, "That the young
woman was very welcome to rest herself in his house, and so were her
company." He then ushered them into a very decent room, where his wife
was sitting at a table: she immediately rose up, and assisted them in
setting forth chairs, and desired them to sit down; which they had no
sooner done than the man of the house asked them if they would have
anything to refresh themselves with? Adams thanked him, and answered he
should be obliged to him for a cup of his ale, which was likewise chosen
by Joseph and Fanny. Whilst he was gone to fill a very large jug with
this liquor, his wife told Fanny she seemed greatly fatigued, and
desired her to take something stronger than ale; but she refused with
many thanks, saying it was true she was very much tired, but a little
rest she hoped would restore her. As soon as the company were all
seated, Mr Adams, who had filled himself with ale, and by public
permission had lighted his pipe, turned to the master of the house,
asking him, "If evil spirits did not use to walk in that neighbourhood?"
To which receiving no answer, he began to inform him of the adventure
which they met with on the downs; nor had he proceeded far in the story
when somebody knocked very hard at the door. The company expressed some
amazement, and Fanny and the good woman turned pale: her husband went
forth, and whilst he was absent, which was some time, they all remained
silent, looking at one another, and heard several voices discoursing
pretty loudly. Adams was fully persuaded that spirits were abroad, and
began to meditate some exorcisms; Joseph a little inclined to the same
opinion; Fanny was more afraid of men; and the good woman herself began
to suspect her guests, and imagined those without were rogues belonging
to their gang. At length the master of the house returned, and,
laughing, told Adams he had discovered his apparition; that the
murderers were sheep-stealers, and the twelve persons murdered were no
other than twelve sheep; adding, that the shepherds had got the better
of them, had secured two, and were proceeding with them to a justice of
peace. This account greatly relieved the fears of the whole company; but
Adams muttered to himself, "He was convinced of the truth of apparitions
for all that."
They now sat chearfully round the fire, till the master of the house,
having surveyed his guests, and conceiving that the cassock, which,
having fallen down, appeared under Adams's greatcoat, and the shabby
livery on Joseph Andrews, did not well suit with the familiarity
between them, began to entertain some suspicions not much to their
advantage: addressing himself therefore to Adams, he said, "He
perceived he was a clergyman by his dress, and supposed that honest man
was his footman." "Sir," answered Adams, "I am a clergyman at your
service; but as to that young man, whom you have rightly termed honest,
he is at present in nobody's service; he never lived in any other
family than that of Lady Booby, from whence he was discharged, I assure
you, for no crime." Joseph said, "He did not wonder the gentleman was
surprized to see one of Mr Adams's character condescend to so much
goodness with a poor man."--"Child," said Adams, "I should be ashamed
of my cloth if I thought a poor man, who is honest, below my notice or
my familiarity. I know not how those who think otherwise can profess
themselves followers and servants of Him who made no distinction,
unless, peradventure, by preferring the poor to the rich.--Sir," said
he, addressing himself to the gentleman, "these two poor young people
are my parishioners, and I look on them and love them as my children.
There is something singular enough in their history, but I have not now
time to recount it." The master of the house, notwithstanding the
simplicity which discovered itself in Adams, knew too much of the world
to give a hasty belief to professions. He was not yet quite certain
that Adams had any more of the clergyman in him than his cassock. To
try him therefore further, he asked him, "If Mr Pope had lately
published anything new?" Adams answered, "He had heard great
commendations of that poet, but that he had never read nor knew any of
his works."--"Ho! ho!" says the gentleman to himself, "have I caught
you? What!" said he, "have you never seen his Homer?" Adams answered,
"he had never read any translation of the classicks." "Why, truly,"
reply'd the gentleman, "there is a dignity in the Greek language which
I think no modern tongue can reach."--"Do you understand Greek, sir?"
said Adams hastily. "A little, sir," answered the gentleman. "Do you
know, sir," cry'd Adams, "where I can buy an Aeschylus? an unlucky
misfortune lately happened to mine." Aeschylus was beyond the
gentleman, though he knew him very well by name; he therefore,
returning back to Homer, asked Adams, "What part of the Iliad he
thought most excellent?" Adams returned, "His question would be
properer, What kind of beauty was the chief in poetry? for that Homer
was equally excellent in them all. And, indeed," continued he, "what
Cicero says of a complete orator may well be applied to a great poet:
'He ought to comprehend all perfections.' Homer did this in the most
excellent degree; it is not without reason, therefore, that the
philosopher, in the twenty-second chapter of his Poeticks, mentions him
by no other appellation than that of the Poet. He was the father of the
drama as well as the epic; not of tragedy only, but of comedy also; for
his Margites, which is deplorably lost, bore, says Aristotle, the same
analogy to comedy as his Odyssey and Iliad to tragedy. To him,
therefore, we owe Aristophanes as well as Euripides, Sophocles, and my
poor Aeschylus. But if you please we will confine ourselves (at least
for the present) to the Iliad, his noblest work; though neither
Aristotle nor Horace give it the preference, as I remember, to the
Odyssey. First, then, as to his subject, can anything be more simple,
and at the same time more noble? He is rightly praised by the first of
those judicious critics for not chusing the whole war, which, though he
says it hath a complete beginning and end, would have been too great
for the understanding to comprehend at one view. I have, therefore,
often wondered why so correct a writer as Horace should, in his epistle
to Lollius, call him the Trojani Belli Scriptorem. Secondly, his
action, termed by Aristotle, Pragmaton Systasis; is it possible for the
mind of man to conceive an idea of such perfect unity, and at the same
time so replete with greatness? And here I must observe, what I do not
remember to have seen noted by any, the Harmotton, that agreement of
his action to his subject: for, as the subject is anger, how agreeable
is his action, which is war; from which every incident arises and to
which every episode immediately relates. Thirdly, his manners, which
Aristotle places second in his description of the several parts of
tragedy, and which he says are included in the action; I am at a loss
whether I should rather admire the exactness of his judgment in the
nice distinction or the immensity of his imagination in their variety.
For, as to the former of these, how accurately is the sedate, injured
resentment of Achilles, distinguished from the hot, insulting passion
of Agamemnon! How widely doth the brutal courage of Ajax differ from
the amiable bravery of Diomedes; and the wisdom of Nestor, which is the
result of long reflection and experience, from the cunning of Ulysses,
the effect of art and subtlety only! If we consider their variety, we
may cry out, with Aristotle in his 24th chapter, that no part of this
divine poem is destitute of manners. Indeed, I might affirm that there
is scarce a character in human nature untouched in some part or other.
And, as there is no passion which he is not able to describe, so is
there none in his reader which he cannot raise. If he hath any superior
excellence to the rest, I have been inclined to fancy it is in the
pathetic. I am sure I never read with dry eyes the two episodes where
Andromache is introduced in the former lamenting the danger, and in the
latter the death, of Hector. The images are so extremely tender in
these, that I am convinced the poet had the worthiest and best heart
imaginable. Nor can I help observing how Sophocles falls short of the
beauties of the original, in that imitation of the dissuasive speech of
Andromache which he hath put into the mouth of Tecmessa. And yet
Sophocles was the greatest genius who ever wrote tragedy; nor have any
of his successors in that art, that is to say, neither Euripides nor
Seneca the tragedian, been able to come near him. As to his sentiments
and diction, I need say nothing; the former are particularly remarkable
for the utmost perfection on that head, namely, propriety; and as to
the latter, Aristotle, whom doubtless you have read over and over, is
very diffuse. I shall mention but one thing more, which that great
critic in his division of tragedy calls Opsis, or the scenery; and
which is as proper to the epic as to the drama, with this difference,
that in the former it falls to the share of the poet, and in the latter
to that of the painter. But did ever painter imagine a scene like that
in the 13th and 14th Iliads? where the reader sees at one view the
prospect of Troy, with the army drawn up before it; the Grecian army,
camp, and fleet; Jupiter sitting on Mount Ida, with his head wrapt in a
cloud, and a thunderbolt in his hand, looking towards Thrace; Neptune
driving through the sea, which divides on each side to permit his
passage, and then seating himself on Mount Samos; the heavens opened,
and the deities all seated on their thrones. This is sublime! This is
poetry!" Adams then rapt out a hundred Greek verses, and with such a
voice, emphasis, and action, that he almost frightened the women; and
as for the gentleman, he was so far from entertaining any further
suspicion of Adams, that he now doubted whether he had not a bishop in
his house. He ran into the most extravagant encomiums on his learning;
and the goodness of his heart began to dilate to all the strangers. He
said he had great compassion for the poor young woman, who looked pale
and faint with her journey; and in truth he conceived a much higher
opinion of her quality than it deserved. He said he was sorry he could
not accommodate them all; but if they were contented with his fireside,
he would sit up with the men; and the young woman might, if she
pleased, partake his wife's bed, which he advised her to; for that they
must walk upwards of a mile to any house of entertainment, and that not
very good neither. Adams, who liked his seat, his ale, his tobacco, and
his company, persuaded Fanny to accept this kind proposal, in which
sollicitation he was seconded by Joseph. Nor was she very difficultly
prevailed on; for she had slept little the last night and not at all
the preceding; so that love itself was scarce able to keep her eyes
open any longer. The offer, therefore, being kindly accepted, the good
woman produced everything eatable in her house on the table, and the
guests, being heartily invited, as heartily regaled themselves,
especially parson Adams. As to the other two, they were examples of the
truth of that physical observation, that love, like other sweet things,
is no whetter of the stomach.
Supper was no sooner ended, than Fanny at her own request retired, and
the good woman bore her company. The man of the house, Adams, and
Joseph, who would modestly have withdrawn, had not the gentleman
insisted on the contrary, drew round the fireside, where Adams (to use
his own words) replenished his pipe, and the gentleman produced a bottle
of excellent beer, being the best liquor in his house.
The modest behaviour of Joseph, with the gracefulness of his person, the
character which Adams gave of him, and the friendship he seemed to
entertain for him, began to work on the gentleman's affections, and
raised in him a curiosity to know the singularity which Adams had
mentioned in his history. This curiosity Adams was no sooner informed of
than, with Joseph's consent, he agreed to gratify it; and accordingly
related all he knew, with as much tenderness as was possible for the
character of Lady Booby; and concluded with the long, faithful, and
mutual passion between him and Fanny, not concealing the meanness of her
birth and education. These latter circumstances entirely cured a
jealousy which had lately risen in the gentleman's mind, that Fanny was
the daughter of some person of fashion, and that Joseph had run away
with her, and Adams was concerned in the plot. He was now enamoured of
his guests, drank their healths with great chearfulness, and returned
many thanks to Adams, who had spent much breath, for he was a
circumstantial teller of a story.
Adams told him it was now in his power to return that favour; for his
extraordinary goodness, as well as that fund of literature he was master
of,[A] which he did not expect to find under such a roof, had raised in
him more curiosity than he had ever known. "Therefore," said he, "if it
be not too troublesome, sir, your history, if you please."
[A] The author hath by some been represented to have made a blunder
The gentleman answered, he could not refuse him what he had so much
right to insist on; and after some of the common apologies, which are
the usual preface to a story, he thus began.