In Book 1, Chapter 14, the surgeon treating Joseph Andrews interrogates the mysterious gentleman who has showed up at the inn, who has offered his own apparent knowledge of surgical matters. As the surgeon tries to prove the gentleman's ignorance, the scene becomes a satire of the medical profession:
“Sir,” says the doctor, “his Case is that of a dead Man — The Contusion on his Head has perforated the internal Memrane of the Occiput, and divellicated that radical small minute insvisible Never, which coheres to the Pericranium; and this was attended with a Fever at first symptomatick, then pneumatick, and he is at lengh grown deliruus, or delirious, as the Vulgar express it."
The surgeon's speech is overwhelming to read, laden as it is with every imaginable bit of medical jargon to describe Andrews's condition. The over-the-top explanation and the surgeon's sense of self-importance in delivering it satirizes the medical profession and doctors' tendencies to give overcomplicated, highly technical diagnoses for common conditions—as the surgeon himself says, his whole rant could be summed up by saying that Andrews has grown delirious ("as the Vulgar," or lay people, would "express it"). Of course, the real humor from the scene comes not only from this satirical representation of a doctor but from the fact that he is a bit of a hypocrite: over the course of his dialogue with the gentleman, the surgeon is completely ignoring his patient.
In Book 1, Chapter 17, Abraham Adams and a bookseller discuss the merits of mass-printed sermons. The exchange satirizes religion and the influence it holds over the general public, which Adams uses a medical metaphor to characterize:
Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engaging in what my friend Mr Barnabas recommends; but sermons are mere drugs. The trade is so vastly stocked with them, that really, unless they come out with the name of Whitefield or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or those sort of people, I don’t care to touch.
In this passage, Adams metaphorically paints the bookseller as a sort of pharmacist and his collection of books a pharmacy: sermons are "mere drugs," like medicine for the masses, Adams argues.
Fielding explores the nature of faith and religion throughout Joseph Andrews, and in this section, he seems to imply that—though a sermon may provide some temporary relief—piety cannot be bought and sold like mere medicine. The bookseller's cynical treatment of religious speech as a good to be bought and sold, and Adams skepticism of this practice, highlight the dubious morality of peddling religious speech for profit, no matter how virtuous the messaging may be; the market, as Adams suggests, is clearly over-saturated.
In Book 2, Chapter 4, Fielding continues his satire of the courtship rituals of the English upper class with the story of Leonora and Horatio:
Leonora, covered with Blushes, and with as angry a Look as she could possibly put on, told him, ‘that had she suspected what his Declaration would have been, he should not have decoyed her from her Company; that he had so surprised and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her back as quick as possible;’ which he, trembling very near as much as herself, did.
As Fielding has explored with Lady Booby and Joseph Andrews, the arcane conventions of upper-class romance often ask young lovers to cast aside their emotions in favor of maintaining proper decorum. In this case, Horatio likes Leonora, Leonora likes Horatio, and yet when Horatio expresses this explicitly to Leonora, she acts appalled and dismisses Horatio’s advances. The sequence is clearly ridiculous, but the story is relayed perfectly seriously by the lady in the coach to Abraham Adams and Mrs. Slipslop. This is yet another example of Fielding treating the inane as perfectly logical within his story in order to amplify its satirical effect on the actual reader.
In Book 3, Chapter 10, the narrator interjects with an interlude—the servants of the squire, who have attempted to kidnap Fanny, are apparently a poet and an actor, respectively, and they have a lot to say. The narrator announces this interlude with a metaphor comparing it to a dance interlude in a work of theater:
Before we proceed any farther in this tragedy we shall leave Mr Joseph and Mr Adams to themselves, and imitate the wise conductors of the stage, who in the midst of a grave action entertain you with some excellent piece of satire or humour called a dance.
In terms of the novel's momentum, this is the worst possible place to put such an interruption—the tension and suspense are near their climax, and the fates of Fanny, Adams, and Andrews are all uncertain. As with many of Fielding's digressions through the novel, however, this section serves a self-conscious purpose: Fielding is satirizing the convention, in the literature as well as the drama of the period (hence the metaphorical comparison between his written interlude and a play's interlude), to interrupt a narrative at inopportune times for the purposes of entertainment and spectacle. Joseph Andrews is full of these types of asides that break with the narrative in order to deliver a sharp satirical critique of Fielding's contemporary authors and playwrights.
