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

CHAPTER I.

_Matter prefatory in praise of biography._

Notwithstanding the preference which may be vulgarly given to the

authority of those romance writers 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 Whitelocke, 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

Marcella, who hated him, was ever in Spain, will any one doubt but that

such a silly fellow hath really existed? Is there in the world such a

sceptic as to 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

historian 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

personages 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 Marianne 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 surprizing 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 their 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 regular pace." Indeed, far out of the sight of the reader,

   Beyond the realm of Chaos and old Night.

But to return to the former class, who are contented 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 Quixote 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

stage-coach 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 describe not men, but

manners; not an individual, but a species. Perhaps it will be answered,

Are not the characters then taken from life? To which I answer in the

affirmative; nay, I believe I might aver that I have writ little more

than I have seen. The lawyer is not only alive, but hath been so these

four thousand years; and I hope G-- will indulge his life as many yet to

come. He hath not indeed confined himself to one profession, one

religion, or one country; but when the first mean selfish creature

appeared on the human stage, who made self the centre of the whole

creation, would give himself no pain, incur no danger, advance no money,

to assist or preserve his fellow-creatures; then was our lawyer born;

and, whilst such a person as I have described exists on earth, so long

shall he remain upon it. It is, therefore, doing him little honour to

imagine he endeavours to mimick some little obscure fellow, because he

happens to resemble him in one particular feature, or perhaps in his

profession; whereas his appearance in the world is calculated for much

more general and noble purposes; not to expose one pitiful wretch to the

small and contemptible circle of his acquaintance; but to hold the glass

to thousands in their closets, that they may contemplate their

deformity, and endeavour to reduce it, and thus by suffering private

mortification may avoid public shame. This places the boundary between,

and distinguishes the satirist from the libeller: for the former

privately corrects the fault for the benefit of the person, like a

parent; the latter publickly exposes the person himself, as an example

to others, like an executioner.

There are besides little circumstances to be considered; as the drapery

of a picture, which though fashion varies at different times, the

resemblance of the countenance is not by those means diminished. Thus I

believe we may venture to say Mrs Tow-wouse is coeval with our lawyer:

and, though perhaps, during the changes which so long an existence must

have passed through, she may in her turn have stood behind the bar at an

inn, I will not scruple to affirm she hath likewise in the revolution of

ages sat on a throne. In short, where extreme turbulency of temper,

avarice, and an insensibility of human misery, with a degree of

hypocrisy, have united in a female composition, Mrs Tow-wouse was that

woman; and where a good inclination, eclipsed by a poverty of spirit and

understanding, hath glimmered forth in a man, that man hath been no

other than her sneaking husband.

I shall detain my reader no longer than to give him one caution more of

an opposite kind: for, as in most of our particular characters we mean

not to lash individuals, but all of the like sort, so, in our general

descriptions, we mean not universals, but would be understood with many

exceptions: for instance, in our description of high people, we cannot

be intended to include such as, whilst they are an honour to their high

rank, by a well-guided condescension make their superiority as easy as

possible to those whom fortune chiefly hath placed below them. Of this

number I could name a peer no less elevated by nature than by fortune;

who, whilst he wears the noblest ensigns of honour on his person, bears

the truest stamp of dignity on his mind, adorned with greatness,

enriched with knowledge, and embellished with genius. I have seen this

man relieve with generosity, while he hath conversed with freedom, and

be to the same person a patron and a companion. I could name a commoner,

raised higher above the multitude by superior talents than is in the

power of his prince to exalt him, whose behaviour to those he hath

obliged is more amiable than the obligation itself; and who is so great

a master of affability, that, if he could divest himself of an inherent

greatness in his manner, would often make the lowest of his acquaintance

forget who was the master of that palace in which they are so

courteously entertained. These are pictures which must be, I believe,

known: I declare they are taken from the life, and not intended to

exceed it. By those high people, therefore, whom I have described, I

mean a set of wretches, who, while they are a disgrace to their

ancestors, whose honours and fortunes they inherit (or perhaps a greater

to their mother, for such degeneracy is scarce credible), have the

insolence to treat those with disregard who are at least equal to the

founders of their own splendor. It is, I fancy, impossible to conceive a

spectacle more worthy of our indignation, than that of a fellow, who is

not only a blot in the escutcheon of a great family, but a scandal to

the human species, maintaining a supercilious behaviour to men who are

an honour to their nature and a disgrace to their fortune.

And now, reader, taking these hints along with you, you may, if you

please, proceed to the sequel of this our true history.