_Ipsae rursum concedite sylvae._
VIRG. _Ecl._ x. ver. 63.
Once more, ye woods, adieu.
It is usual for a man who loves country sports to preserve the game on
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 about
in search of a 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, beside that the sport is the more agreeable where the game is
the harder to come at, and where it 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 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[143] 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 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 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[144] way of
life, having raised a great curiosity in all these parts.
The notions which have been framed of me are various: some look upon me
as very proud, some as very modest, and some as very melancholy. Will
Wimble, as my friend the butler tells me, observing me very much alone,
and extremely 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 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[145]."
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 harbour 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.
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[146] when he is in town, do not know but he
has brought down with him some discarded[147] Whig, that is 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 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 this will not
satisfy them. They think there is more in me than he discovers[148], 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[149]. 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 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 years out of the smoke of London, and
rallies me after his way upon my country life.