came to be master of a ship myself, and was in a fair
way of making a fortune, when I was attacked by
one of those cursed guarda-costas who took our ships
before the beginning of the war; and after a fight,
wherein I lost the greater part of my crew, my
rigging being all demolished, and two shots received
between wind and water, I was forced to strike.
The villains carried off my ship, a brigantine of 150
tons,-a pretty creature she was,-and put me, a
man, and a boy, into a little bad pink, in which,
with much ado, we at last made Falmouth; though
I believe the Spaniards did not imagine she could
possibly live a day at sea. Upon my return hither,
where my wife, who was of this country, then lived,
the squire told me he was so pleased with the de-
fence I had made against the enemy, that he did not
fear getting me promoted to a lieutenancy of a man-
of-war, if I would accept of it; which I thankfully
assured him I would. Well, sir, two or three years
passed, during which I had many repeated promises,
not only from the squire, but (as he told me) from
the lords of the admiralty. He never returned from
London but I was assured I might be satisfied now,
for I was certain of the first vacancy; and, what sur-
prises me still, when I reflect on it, these assurances
were given me with no less confidence, after so many
disappointments, than at first. At last, sir, growing
weary, and somewhat suspicious, after so much delay,
I wrote to a friend in London, who I knew had some
acquaintance at the best house in the admiralty, and
desired him to back the squire's interest; for in-
deed I feared he had solicited the affair with more
coldness than he pretended. And what answer do
you think my friend sent me? Truly, sir, he ac-
quainted me that the squire had never mentioned
my name at the admiralty in his life; and, unless I
had much faithfuller interest, advised me to give
over my pretensions; which I immediately did, and,
with the concurrence of my wife, resolved to set up
an alehouse, where you are heartily welcome; and
so my service to you; and may the squire, and all
such sneaking rascals, go to the devil together."-
"O fie!" says Adams, "O fie! He is indeed a
wicked man; but G-will, I hope, turn his heart
to repentance. Nay, if he could but once see the
meanness of this detestable vice; would he but once
reflect that he is one of the most scandalous as well
as pernicious liars; sure he must despise himself to
so intolerable a degree, that it would be impossible
for him to continue a moment in such a course.
And to confess the truth, notwithstanding the base-
ness of this character, which he hath too well de-
served, he hath in his countenance sufficient symp-
toms of that bona indoles, that sweetness of disposi-
tion, which furnishes out a good christian."-" Ah,
master! master!" says the host, "if you had
travelled as far as I have, and conversed with the
many nations where I have traded, you would not
give any credit to a man's countenance. Symptoms
in his countenance, quotha! I would look there,
perhaps, to see whether a man had the smallpox, but
for nothing else." He spoke this with so little re-
gard to the parson's observation, that it a good deal
nettled him; and, taking the pipe hastily from his
mouth, he thus answered: "Master of mine, per-
haps I have travelled a great deal farther than you
without the assistance of a ship. Do you imagine
sailing by different cities or countries is travelling
No.

"Cælum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.
"I can go farther in an afternoon than you in a
twelvemonth. What, I suppose you have seen the
Pillars of Hercules, and perhaps the walls of Car-
thage. Nay, you may have heard Scylla, and seen

| Charybdis; you may have entered the closet where
Archimedes was found at the taking of Syracuse.
I suppose you have sailed among the Cyclades,
and passed the famous straits which take their name
from the unfortunate Helle, whose fate is sweetly
described by Apollonius Rhodius; you have passed
the very spot, I conceive, where Dædalus fell into
that sea, his waxen wings being melted by the sun;
you have traversed the Euxine sea, I make no doubt;
nay, you may have been on the banks of the Caspian,
and called at Colchis, to see if there is ever another
golden fleece." "Not I, truly, master," answered the
host: "I never touched at any of these places."—
"But I have been at all these," replied Adams. "Then,
I suppose," cries the host, "you have been at the East
Indies; for there are no such, I will be sworn, either
in the West or the Levant."-" Pray where is the
Levant?" quoth Adams; "that should be in the
East Indies by right." "Oho! you are a pretty
traveller," cries the host, "and not know the Le-
vant! My service to you, master; you must not
talk of these things with me! you must not tip us
the traveller; it won't go here." "Since thou art
so dull to misunderstand me still," quoth Adams,
"I will inform thee the travelling I mean is in
books, the only way of travelling by which any
knowledge is to be acquired. From them I learn
what I asserted just now, that nature generally im-
prints such a portraiture of the mind in the coun-
tenance, that a skilful physiognomist will rarely be
deceived. I presume you have never read the story
of Socrates to this purpose, and therefore I will tell
it you. A certain physiognomist asserted of Socrates,
that he plainly discovered by his features that he
was a rogue in his nature. A character so contrary
to the tenor of all this great man's actions, and the
generally received opinion concerning him, incensed
the boys of Athens so that they threw stones at the
physiognomist, and would have demolished him for
his ignorance, had not Socrates himself prevented
them by confessing the truth of his observations,
and acknowledging that, though he corrected his
disposition by philosophy, he was indeed naturally
as inclined to vice as had been predicted of him.
Now, pray resolve me,-How should a man know
this story if he had not read it?" "Well, master,"
said the host, "and what signifies it whether a man
knows it or no? He who goes abroad, as I have
done, will always have opportunities enough of
knowing the world without troubling his head with
Socrates, or any such fellows." "Friend," cries
Adams, "if a man should sail round the world, and
anchor in every harbour of it, without learning, he
would return home as ignorant as he went out."
"Lord help you!" answered the host; "there was
my boatswain, poor fellow! he could scarce either
write or read, and yet he would navigate a ship
with any master of a man of war; and a very pretty
knowledge of trade he had too." "Trade," an-
swered Adams, "as Aristotle proves in his first
chapter of Politics, is below a philosopher, and un-
natural as it is managed now." The host looked
steadfastly at Adams, and after a minute's silence
asked him, "If he was one of the writers of the
Gazetteers for I have heard," says he, "they are
writ by parsons." "Gazetteers!" answered Adams;
"What is that?" "It is a dirty newspaper," replied
the host," which hath been given away all over the
nation for these many years, to abuse trade and ho-
nost men, which I would not suffer to lie on my
table, though it hath been offered me for nothing."
"Not I truly," said Adams; "I never write any-
thing but sermons; and I assure you I am no enemy
to trade, whilst it is consistent with honesty; nay

I have always looked on the tradesman as a very valuable member of society, and, perhaps, inferior to none but the man of learning." "No, I believe he is not, nor to him neither," answered the host. "Of what use would learning be in a country with-isted? Is there in the world such a sceptic as to out trade? What would all you parsons do to clothe your backs and feed your bellies? Who fetches you your silks, and your linens, and your wines, and all the other necessaries of life? I speak chiefly with regard to the sailors." "You should say the extravagancies of life," replied the parson; "but admit they were the necessaries, there is something more necessary than life itself, which is provided by learning; I mean the learning of the clergy. Who clothes you with piety, meekness, humility, charity, patience, and all the other christian virtues? Who feeds your souls with the milk of brotherly love, and diets them with all the dainty food of holiness, which at once cleanses them of all impure carnal affections, and fattens them with the truly rich spirit of grace? Who doth this?" "Ay, who, indeed?" cries the host; "for I do not remember ever to have seen any such clothing or such feeding. And so, in the mean time, master, my service to you.” Adams was going to answer with some severity, when Joseph and Fanny returned and pressed his departure so eagerly that he would not refuse them; and so, grasping his crabstick, he took leave of his host (neither of them being so well pleased with each other as they had been at their first sitting down together), and with Joseph and Fanny, who both expressed much impatience, departed, and now all together renewed their journey.

Matter prefatory in praise of biography. NOTWITHSTANDING the preference which may be vulgarly given to the authority of those romancewriters who entitle their books "the History of England, the History of France, of Spain, &c.," it is most certain that truth is to be found only in the works of those who celebrate the lives of great men, and are commonly called biographers, as the others should indeed be termed topographers, or chorographers; words which might well mark the distinction between them; it being the business of the latter chiefly to describe countries and cities, which, with the assistance of maps, they do pretty justly, and may be depended upon; but as to the actions and characters of men, their writings are not quite so authentic, of which there needs no other proof than those eternal contradictions occurring between two topographers who undertake the history of the same country: for instance, between my lord Clarendon and Mr. Whitlock, between Mr. Echard and Rapin, and many others; where, facts being set forth in a different light, every reader believes as he pleases; and, indeed, the more judicious and suspicious very justly esteem the whole as no other than a romance, in which the writer hath indulged a happy and fertile invention. But though these widely differ in the narrative of facts; some ascribing victory to the one, and others to the other party; some representing the same man as a rogue, while others give him a great and honest character; yet all agree in the scene where the fact is supposed to have happened, and where the person, who is both a rogue and an honest man, lived. Now with us biographers the case is different; the facts we deliver may be relied on, though we often mistake the age and country wherein they happened: for, though it may be worth the examination of

critics, whether the shepherd Chrysostom, who, as
Cervantes informs us, died for love of the fair Mar-
cella, who hated him, was ever in Spain, will any
one doubt but that such a silly fellow hath really ex-
disbelieve the madness of Cardenio, the perfidy of
Ferdinand, the impertinent curiosity of Anselmo,
the weakness of Camilla, the irresolute friendship of
Lothario? though perhaps, as to the time and place
where those several persons lived, that good histo-
rian may be deplorably deficient. But the most
known instance of this kind is in the true history of
Gil Blas, where the inimitable biographer hath made
a notorious blunder in the country of Dr. Sangrado,
who used his patients as a vintner doth his wine-
vessels, by letting out their blood, and filling them
up with water. Doth not every one, who is the
least versed in physical history, know that Spain
was not the country in which this doctor lived?
The same writer hath likewise erred in the country
of his archbishop, as well as that of those great per-
sonages whose understandings were too sublime to
taste anything but tragedy, and in many others.
The same mistakes may likewise be observed in
Scarron, the Arabian Nights, the History of Mari-
anne and le Paisan Parvenu, and perhaps some few
other writers of this class, whom I have not read,
or do not at present recollect; for I would by no
means be thought to comprehend those persons of
surprising genius, the authors of immense romances,
or the modern novel and Atalantis writers; who,
without any assistance from nature or history, record
persons who never were, or will be, and facts which
never did, nor possibly can, happen; whose heroes
are of their own creation, and their brains the chaos
whence all the materials are selected. Not that
such writers deserve no honour; so far otherwise,
that perhaps they merit the highest: for what can be
nobler than to be as an example of the wonderful
extent of human genius? One may apply to them
what Balzac says of Aristotle, that they are a second
nature (for they have no communication with the
first; by which, authors of an inferior class, who
cannot stand alone, are obliged to support themselves
as with crutches); but these of whom I am now
speaking seem to be possessed of those stilts, which
the excellent Voltaire tells us, in his letters, "carry
the genius far off, but with an irregular pace."
Indeed, far out of the sight of the reader,

Beyond the realms of Chaos and old Night.
But to return to the former class, who are con-
tented to copy nature, instead of forming originals
from the confused heap of matter in their own
brains; is not such a book as that which records the
achievements of the renowned Don Quixotte more
worthy the name of a history than even Mariana's:
for, whereas the latter is confined to a particular
period of time, and to a particular nation, the former
is the history of the world in general, at least that
part which is polished by laws, arts, and sciences;
and of that from the time it was first polished to this
day; nay, and forwards as long as it shall so remain?

I shall now proceed to apply these observations to the work before us; for indeed I have set them down principally to obviate some constructions which the good-nature of mankind, who are always forward to see their friends' virtues recorded, may put to particular parts. I question not but several of my readers will know the lawyer in the stagecoach the moment they hear his voice. It is likewise odds but the wit and the prude meet with some of their acquaintance, as well as all the rest of my characters. To prevent therefore any such malicious applications, I declare here, once for all, I

|

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.'
s." 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,

Est hic, est animus lucis contemptor et illum,
Qui vita bene credat emi quo tendis, honorem.

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
This
the ground and advance briskly towards him.
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 with-
out looking behind them, or being overtaken, they
had travelled full two miles, poor Fanny not once
complaining of being tired, when they saw far 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 per-
mitted them to see it, they would scarce have re-
frained laughing to see the parson rolling down the
hill; which he did from top to bottom, without
receiving any harm. He then holloed 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, consi-
dering 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 beaux and petit-maîtres 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 had met with on the downs; nor had he proceeded far in his 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 opiand the nion; Fanny was more afraid of men ; good woman herself began to suspect her guests, and imagined those without were rogues belonging