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 literary goodness, as well as that fund of literature he was master of,¹ 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.”

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.