Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 13

  Aurora now began to shew her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten millions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes a thousand times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sung both the day and the song; when the master of the inn, Mr Tow-wouse, arose, and learning from his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of his poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, “good-lack-a-day!” and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his own shirts.

  Mrs Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched out her arms in vain to fold her departed husband, when the maid entered the room. “Who’s there? Betty?”— “Yes, madam.”— “Where’s your master?”— “He’s without, madam; he hath sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been robbed and murdered.”— “Touch one if you dare, you slut,” said Mrs Tow-wouse: “your master is a pretty sort of a man, to take in naked vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have no such doings. If you offer to touch anything, I’ll throw the chamber-pot at your head. Go, send your master to me.”— “Yes, madam,” answered Betty. As soon as he came in, she thus began: “What the devil do you mean by this, Mr Tow-wouse? Am I to buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby rascals?”— “My dear,” said Mr Tow-wouse, “this is a poor wretch.”— “Yes,” says she, “I know it is a poor wretch; but what the devil have we to do with poor wretches? The law makes us provide for too many already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red coats shortly.”— “My dear,” cries Tow-wouse, “this man hath been robbed of all he hath.”— “Well then,” said she, “where’s his money to pay his reckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go to an alehouse? I shall send him packing as soon as I am up, I assure you.”— “My dear,” said he, “common charity won’t suffer you to do that.”— “Common charity, a f — t!” says she, “common charity teaches us to provide for ourselves and our families; and I and mine won’t be ruined by your charity, I assure you.”— “Well,” says he, “my dear, do as you will, when you are up; you know I never contradict you.”— “No,” says she; “if the devil was to contradict me, I would make the house too hot to hold him.”

  With such like discourses they consumed near half-an-hour, whilst Betty provided a shirt from the hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and put it on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last visited him, and washed and drest his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr Tow-wouse that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he scarce saw any hopes of his recovery. “Here’s a pretty kettle of fish,” cries Mrs Tow-wouse, “you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeral at our own expense.” Tow-wouse (who, notwithstanding his charity, would have given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that any other house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his guest) answered, “My dear, I am not to blame; he was brought hither by the stage-coach, and Betty had put him to bed before I was stirring.”— “I’ll Betty her,” says she. — At which, with half her garments on, the other half under her arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate Betty, whilst Tow-wouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor Joseph, and inquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with the curious discourse between him and Mr Barnabas, the parson of the parish.

  As soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history of the robbery, together with a short account of himself, and his intended journey, he asked the surgeon if he apprehended him to be in any danger: to which the surgeon very honestly answered, “He feared he was; for that his pulse was very exalted and feverish, and, if his fever should prove more than symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him.” Joseph, fetching a deep sigh, cried, “Poor Fanny, I would I could have lived to see thee! but God’s will be done.”

  The surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly affairs to settle, that he would do it as soon as possible; for, though he hoped he might recover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he was in great danger; and if the malign concoction of his humours should cause a suscitation of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and incapable to make his will. Joseph answered, “That it was impossible for any creature in the universe to be in a poorer condition than himself; for since the robbery he had not one thing of any kind whatever which he could call his own.” “I had,” said he, “a poor little piece of gold, which they took away, that would have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions; but surely, Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I have thy dear image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence.”

  Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but they were refused him; and he was advised to use all his endeavours to compose himself. They then left him; and Mr Tow-wouse sent to a clergyman to come and administer his good offices to the soul of poor Joseph, since the surgeon despaired of making any successful applications to his body.

  Mr Barnabas (for that was the clergyman’s name) came as soon as sent for; and, having first drank a dish of tea with the landlady, and afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the room where Joseph lay; but, finding him asleep, returned to take the other sneaker; which when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the chamber-door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talking to himself in the following manner: —

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER XIV.

  Being very full of adventures which succeeded each other at the inn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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