It is usual for a man who loves country sports to preserve
the game in his own grounds, and divert himself
upon those that belong to his neighbour. My friend Sir
Roger generally goes two or three miles from his house,
and gets into the frontiers of his estate, before he beats (170: 5)
about in search of an hare or partridge, on purpose to
spare his own fields, where he is always sure of finding
diversion when the worst comes to the worst. By this
means the breed about his house has time to increase
and multiply; besides that the sport is the more agreeable (10)
where the game is the harder to come at, and
does not lie so thick as to produce any perplexity or
confusion in the pursuit. For these reasons the country
gentleman, like the fox, seldom preys near his own home.
In the same manner I have made a month's excursion (15)
out of the town, which is the great field of game for
sportsmen of my species, to try my fortune in the country,
where I have started several subjects and hunted
them down, with some pleasure to myself, and I hope to
others. I am here forced to use a great deal of diligence
before I can spring anything to my mind; whereas in
town, whilst I am following one character, it is ten to
one but I am crossed in my way by another, and put up
such a variety of odd creatures in both sexes that they (171: 5)
foil the scent of one another, and puzzle the chase. My
greatest difficulty in the country is to find sport, and, in
town, to choose it. In the meantime, as I have given a
whole month's rest to the cities of London and Westminster,
I promise myself abundance of new game upon (10)
my return thither.
It is indeed high time for me to leave the country,
since I find the whole neighbourhood begin to grow very
inquisitive after my name and character; my love of solitude,
taciturnity, and particular way of life, having raised (15)
a great curiosity in all these parts.
The notions which have been framed of me are various:
some look upon me as very proud, and some as
very melancholy. Will Wimble, as my friend the butler
tells me, observing me very much alone, and extremely (20)
silent when I am in company, is afraid I have killed a
man. The country people seem to suspect me for a conjurer;
and, some of them hearing of the visit which I
made to Moll White, will needs have it that Sir Roger has
brought down a cunning man with him, to cure the old (25)
woman, and free the country from her charms. So that
the character which I go under in part of the neighbourhood,
is what they here call a "White Witch."
A justice of peace, who lives about five miles off, and
is not of Sir Roger's party, has, it seems, said twice or
thrice at his table that he wishes Sir Roger does not
harbor a Jesuit in his house, and that he thinks the gentlemen
of the country would do very well to make me
give some account of myself. (172: 5)
On the other side, some of Sir Roger's friends are
afraid the old knight is imposed upon by a designing
fellow, and as they have heard that he converses very
promiscuously when he is in town, do not know but he
has brought down with him some discarded Whig, that is (10)
sullen and says nothing because he is out of place.
Such is the variety of opinions which are here entertained
of me, so that I pass among some for a disaffected
person, and among others for a popish priest; among
some for a wizard, and among others for a murderer: and (15)
all this for no other reason, that I can imagine, but because
I do not hoot and hollow and make a noise. It is
true my friend Sir Roger tells them, that it is my way,
and that I am only a philosopher; but that will not satisfy
them. They think there is more in me than he discovers, (20)
and that I do not hold my tongue for nothing.
For these and other reasons I shall set out for London
to-morrow, having found by experience that the country
is not a place for a person of my temper, who does not
love jollity, and what they call "good neighbourhood." (25)
A man that is out of humour when an unexpected guest
breaks in upon him, and does not care for sacrificing an
afternoon to every chance comer; that will be the master
of his own time and the pursuer of his own inclinations;
makes but a very unsociable figure in this kind of life. I
shall therefore retire into the town, if I may make use of
that phrase, and get into the crowd again as fast as I can,
in order to be alone. I can there raise what speculations
I please upon others without being observed myself, and (173: 5)
at the same time enjoy all the advantages of company
with all the privileges of solitude. In the meanwhile, to
finish the month, and conclude these my rural speculations,
I shall here insert a letter from my friend Will
Honeycomb, who has not lived a month for these forty (10)
years out of the smoke of London, and rallies me after
his way upon my country life.
"DEAR SPEC,--I suppose this letter will find thee picking of
daisies, or smelling to a lock of hay, or passing away thy time in
some innocent country diversion of the like nature. I have, (15)
however, orders from the club to summon thee up to town, being all of
us cursedly afraid thou wilt not be able to relish our company after
thy conversations with Moll White and Will Wimble. Pr'ythee
don't send us up any more stories of a cock and a bull, nor frighten
the town with spirits and witches. Thy speculations begin to smell (20)
confoundedly of woods and meadows. If thou dost not come up
quickly, we shall conclude that thou art in love with one of Sir
Roger's dairy-maids. Service to the knight. Sir Andrew is grown
the cock of the club since he left us, and if he does not return
quickly will make every mother's son of us Commonwealth's men. (25)
"Dear Spec, thine eternally,
"WILL HONEYCOMB."
C.