The poor fellow, however, had no sooner warmed himself, than those

thoughts which were always uppermost in his mind, began a little to

disturb his brain. There was no article of his creed in which he had a

stronger faith than he had in witchcraft, nor can the reader conceive

a figure more adapted to inspire this idea, than the old woman who now

stood before him. She answered exactly to that picture drawn by Otway

in his Orphan. Indeed, if this woman had lived in the reign of James

the First, her appearance alone would have hanged her, almost without

any evidence.

Many circumstances likewise conspired to confirm Partridge in his

opinion. Her living, as he then imagined, by herself in so lonely a

place; and in a house, the outside of which seemed much too good for

her, but its inside was furnished in the most neat and elegant manner.

To say the truth, Jones himself was not a little surprized at what he

saw; for, besides the extraordinary neatness of the room, it was

adorned with a great number of nicknacks and curiosities, which might

have engaged the attention of a virtuoso.

While Jones was admiring these things, and Partridge sat trembling

with the firm belief that he was in the house of a witch, the old

woman said, “I hope, gentlemen, you will make what haste you can; for

I expect my master presently, and I would not for double the money he

should find you here.”--“Then you have a master?” cried Jones.

“Indeed, you will excuse me, good woman, but I was surprized to see

all those fine things in your house.”--“Ah, sir,” said she, “if the

twentieth part of these things were mine, I should think myself a rich

woman. But pray, sir, do not stay much longer, for I look for him in

every minute.”--“Why, sure he would not be angry with you,” said

Jones, “for doing a common act of charity?”--“Alack-a-day, sir!” said

she, “he is a strange man, not at all like other people. He keeps no

company with anybody, and seldom walks out but by night, for he doth

not care to be seen; and all the country people are as much afraid of

meeting him; for his dress is enough to frighten those who are not

used to it. They call him, the Man of the Hill (for there he walks by

night), and the country people are not, I believe, more afraid of the

devil himself. He would be terribly angry if he found you

here.”--“Pray, sir,” says Partridge, “don't let us offend the

gentleman; I am ready to walk, and was never warmer in my life. Do

pray, sir, let us go. Here are pistols over the chimney: who knows

whether they be charged or no, or what he may do with them?”--“Fear

nothing, Partridge,” cries Jones; “I will secure thee from

danger.”--“Nay, for matter o' that, he never doth any mischief,” said

the woman; “but to be sure it is necessary he should keep some arms

for his own safety; for his house hath been beset more than once; and

it is not many nights ago that we thought we heard thieves about it:

for my own part, I have often wondered that he is not murdered by some

villain or other, as he walks out by himself at such hours; but then,

as I said, the people are afraid of him; and besides, they think, I

suppose, he hath nothing about him worth taking.”--“I should imagine,

by this collection of rarities,” cries Jones, “that your master had

been a traveller.”--“Yes, sir,” answered she, “he hath been a very

great one: there be few gentlemen that know more of all matters than

he. I fancy he hath been crost in love, or whatever it is I know not;

but I have lived with him above these thirty years, and in all that

time he hath hardly spoke to six living people.” She then again

solicited their departure, in which she was backed by Partridge; but

Jones purposely protracted the time, for his curiosity was greatly

raised to see this extraordinary person. Though the old woman,

therefore, concluded every one of her answers with desiring him to be

gone, and Partridge proceeded so far as to pull him by the sleeve, he

still continued to invent new questions, till the old woman, with an

affrighted countenance, declared she heard her master's signal; and at

the same instant more than one voice was heard without the door,

crying, “D--n your blood, show us your money this instant. Your money,

you villain, or we will blow your brains about your ears.”

“O, good heaven!” cries the old woman, “some villains, to be sure,

have attacked my master. O la! what shall I do? what shall I

do?”--“How!” cries Jones, “how!--Are these pistols loaded?”--“O, good

sir, there is nothing in them, indeed. O pray don't murder us,

gentlemen!” (for in reality she now had the same opinion of those

within as she had of those without). Jones made her no answer; but

snatching an old broad sword which hung in the room, he instantly

sallied out, where he found the old gentleman struggling with two

ruffians, and begging for mercy. Jones asked no questions, but fell so

briskly to work with his broad sword, that the fellows immediately

quitted their hold; and without offering to attack our heroe, betook

themselves to their heels and made their escape; for he did not

attempt to pursue them, being contented with having delivered the old

gentleman; and indeed he concluded he had pretty well done their

business, for both of them, as they ran off, cried out with bitter

oaths that they were dead men.

Jones presently ran to lift up the old gentleman, who had been thrown

down in the scuffle, expressing at the same time great concern lest he

should have received any harm from the villains. The old man stared a

moment at Jones, and then cried, “No, sir, no, I have very little

harm, I thank you. Lord have mercy upon me!”--“I see, sir,” said

Jones, “you are not free from apprehensions even of those who have had

the happiness to be your deliverers; nor can I blame any suspicions

which you may have; but indeed you have no real occasion for any; here

are none but your friends present. Having mist our way this cold

night, we took the liberty of warming ourselves at your fire, whence

we were just departing when we heard you call for assistance, which, I

must say, Providence alone seems to have sent you.”--“Providence,

indeed,” cries the old gentleman, “if it be so.”--“So it is, I assure

you,” cries Jones. “Here is your own sword, sir; I have used it in

your defence, and I now return it into your hand.” The old man having

received the sword, which was stained with the blood of his enemies,

looked stedfastly at Jones during some moments, and then with a sigh

cried out, “You will pardon me, young gentleman; I was not always of a

suspicious temper, nor am I a friend to ingratitude.”

“Be thankful then,” cries Jones, “to that Providence to which you owe

your deliverance: as to my part, I have only discharged the common

duties of humanity, and what I would have done for any fellow-creature

in your situation.”--“Let me look at you a little longer,” cries the

old gentleman. “You are a human creature then? Well, perhaps you are.

Come pray walk into my little hutt. You have been my deliverer

indeed.”

The old woman was distracted between the fears which she had of her

master, and for him; and Partridge was, if possible, in a greater

fright. The former of these, however, when she heard her master speak

kindly to Jones, and perceived what had happened, came again to

herself; but Partridge no sooner saw the gentleman, than the

strangeness of his dress infused greater terrors into that poor fellow

than he had before felt, either from the strange description which he

had heard, or from the uproar which had happened at the door.

To say the truth, it was an appearance which might have affected a

more constant mind than that of Mr Partridge. This person was of the

tallest size, with a long beard as white as snow. His body was

cloathed with the skin of an ass, made something into the form of a

coat. He wore likewise boots on his legs, and a cap on his head, both

composed of the skin of some other animals.

As soon as the old gentleman came into his house, the old woman began

her congratulations on his happy escape from the ruffians. “Yes,”

cried he, “I have escaped, indeed, thanks to my preserver.”--“O the

blessing on him!” answered she: “he is a good gentleman, I warrant

him. I was afraid your worship would have been angry with me for

letting him in; and to be certain I should not have done it, had not I

seen by the moon-light, that he was a gentleman, and almost frozen to

death. And to be certain it must have been some good angel that sent

him hither, and tempted me to do it.”

“I am afraid, sir,” said the old gentleman to Jones, “that I have

nothing in this house which you can either eat or drink, unless you

will accept a dram of brandy; of which I can give you some most

excellent, and which I have had by me these thirty years.” Jones

declined this offer in a very civil and proper speech, and then the

other asked him, “Whither he was travelling when he mist his way?”

saying, “I must own myself surprized to see such a person as you

appear to be, journeying on foot at this time of night. I suppose,

sir, you are a gentleman of these parts; for you do not look like one

who is used to travel far without horses?”

“Appearances,” cried Jones, “are often deceitful; men sometimes look

what they are not. I assure you I am not of this country; and whither

I am travelling, in reality I scarce know myself.”

“Whoever you are, or whithersoever you are going,” answered the old

man, “I have obligations to you which I can never return.”

“I once more,” replied Jones, “affirm that you have none; for there

can be no merit in having hazarded that in your service on which I set

no value; and nothing is so contemptible in my eyes as life.”

“I am sorry, young gentleman,” answered the stranger, “that you have

any reason to be so unhappy at your years.”

“Indeed I am, sir,” answered Jones, “the most unhappy of

mankind.”--“Perhaps you have had a friend, or a mistress?” replied the

other. “How could you,” cries Jones, “mention two words sufficient to

drive me to distraction?”--“Either of them are enough to drive any man

to distraction,” answered the old man. “I enquire no farther, sir;

perhaps my curiosity hath led me too far already.”

“Indeed, sir,” cries Jones, “I cannot censure a passion which I feel

at this instant in the highest degree. You will pardon me when I

assure you, that everything which I have seen or heard since I first

entered this house hath conspired to raise the greatest curiosity in

me. Something very extraordinary must have determined you to this

course of life, and I have reason to fear your own history is not

without misfortunes.”

Here the old gentleman again sighed, and remained silent for some

minutes: at last, looking earnestly on Jones, he said, “I have read

that a good countenance is a letter of recommendation; if so, none

ever can be more strongly recommended than yourself. If I did not feel

some yearnings towards you from another consideration, I must be the

most ungrateful monster upon earth; and I am really concerned it is no

otherwise in my power than by words to convince you of my gratitude.”

Jones, after a moment's hesitation, answered, “That it was in his

power by words to gratify him extremely. I have confest a curiosity,”

said he, “sir; need I say how much obliged I should be to you, if you

would condescend to gratify it? Will you suffer me therefore to beg,

unless any consideration restrains you, that you would be pleased to

acquaint me what motives have induced you thus to withdraw from the

society of mankind, and to betake yourself to a course of life to

which it sufficiently appears you were not born?”

“I scarce think myself at liberty to refuse you anything after what

hath happened,” replied the old man. “If you desire therefore to hear

the story of an unhappy man, I will relate it to you. Indeed you judge

rightly, in thinking there is commonly something extraordinary in the

fortunes of those who fly from society; for however it may seem a

paradox, or even a contradiction, certain it is, that great

philanthropy chiefly inclines us to avoid and detest mankind; not on

account so much of their private and selfish vices, but for those of a

relative kind; such as envy, malice, treachery, cruelty, with every

other species of malevolence. These are the vices which true

philanthropy abhors, and which rather than see and converse with, she

avoids society itself. However, without a compliment to you, you do

not appear to me one of those whom I should shun or detest; nay, I

must say, in what little hath dropt from you, there appears some

parity in our fortunes: I hope, however, yours will conclude more

successfully.”

Here some compliments passed between our heroe and his host, and then

the latter was going to begin his history, when Partridge interrupted

him. His apprehensions had now pretty well left him, but some effects

of his terrors remained; he therefore reminded the gentleman of that

excellent brandy which he had mentioned. This was presently brought,

and Partridge swallowed a large bumper.

The gentleman then, without any farther preface, began as you may read

in the next chapter.

Chapter xi.

In which the Man of the Hill begins to relate his history.

“I was born in a village of Somersetshire, called Mark, in the year

1657. My father was one of those whom they call gentlemen farmers. He

had a little estate of about £300 a year of his own, and rented

another estate of near the same value. He was prudent and industrious,

and so good a husbandman, that he might have led a very easy and

comfortable life, had not an arrant vixen of a wife soured his

domestic quiet. But though this circumstance perhaps made him

miserable, it did not make him poor; for he confined her almost

entirely at home, and rather chose to bear eternal upbraidings in his

own house, than to injure his fortune by indulging her in the

extravagancies she desired abroad.

“By this Xanthippe” (so was the wife of Socrates called, said

Partridge)--“by this Xanthippe he had two sons, of which I was the

younger. He designed to give us both good education; but my elder

brother, who, unhappily for him, was the favourite of my mother,

utterly neglected his learning; insomuch that, after having been five

or six years at school with little or no improvement, my father, being

told by his master that it would be to no purpose to keep him longer

there, at last complied with my mother in taking him home from the

hands of that tyrant, as she called his master; though indeed he gave

the lad much less correction than his idleness deserved, but much

more, it seems, than the young gentleman liked, who constantly

complained to his mother of his severe treatment, and she as

constantly gave him a hearing.”

“Yes, yes,” cries Partridge, “I have seen such mothers; I have been

abused myself by them, and very unjustly; such parents deserve

correction as much as their children.”

Jones chid the pedagogue for his interruption, and then the stranger

proceeded.

“My brother now, at the age of fifteen, bade adieu to all learning,

and to everything else but to his dog and gun; with which latter he

became so expert, that, though perhaps you may think it incredible, he

could not only hit a standing mark with great certainty, but hath

actually shot a crow as it was flying in the air. He was likewise

excellent at finding a hare sitting, and was soon reputed one of the

best sportsmen in the country; a reputation which both he and his

mother enjoyed as much as if he had been thought the finest scholar.

“The situation of my brother made me at first think my lot the harder,

in being continued at school: but I soon changed my opinion; for as I

advanced pretty fast in learning, my labours became easy, and my

exercise so delightful, that holidays were my most unpleasant time;

for my mother, who never loved me, now apprehending that I had the

greater share of my father's affection, and finding, or at least

thinking, that I was more taken notice of by some gentlemen of

learning, and particularly by the parson of the parish, than my

brother, she now hated my sight, and made home so disagreeable to me,

that what is called by school-boys Black Monday, was to me the whitest

in the whole year.

“Having at length gone through the school at Taunton, I was thence

removed to Exeter College in Oxford, where I remained four years; at

the end of which an accident took me off entirely from my studies; and

hence, I may truly date the rise of all which happened to me

afterwards in life.

“There was at the same college with myself one Sir George Gresham, a

young fellow who was intitled to a very considerable fortune, which he

was not, by the will of his father, to come into full possession of

till he arrived at the age of twenty-five. However, the liberality of

his guardians gave him little cause to regret the abundant caution of

his father; for they allowed him five hundred pounds a year while he

remained at the university, where he kept his horses and his whore,

and lived as wicked and as profligate a life as he could have done had

he been never so entirely master of his fortune; for besides the five

hundred a year which he received from his guardians, he found means to

spend a thousand more. He was above the age of twenty-one, and had no

difficulty in gaining what credit he pleased.

“This young fellow, among many other tolerable bad qualities, had one

very diabolical. He had a great delight in destroying and ruining the

youth of inferior fortune, by drawing them into expenses which they

could not afford so well as himself; and the better, and worthier, and

soberer any young man was, the greater pleasure and triumph had he in

his destruction. Thus acting the character which is recorded of the

devil, and going about seeking whom he might devour.

“It was my misfortune to fall into an acquaintance and intimacy with

this gentleman. My reputation of diligence in my studies made me a

desirable object of his mischievous intention; and my own inclination

made it sufficiently easy for him to effect his purpose; for though I

had applied myself with much industry to books, in which I took great

delight, there were other pleasures in which I was capable of taking

much greater; for I was high-mettled, had a violent flow of animal

spirits, was a little ambitious, and extremely amorous.

“I had not long contracted an intimacy with Sir George before I became

a partaker of all his pleasures; and when I was once entered on that

scene, neither my inclination nor my spirit would suffer me to play an

under part. I was second to none of the company in any acts of

debauchery; nay, I soon distinguished myself so notably in all riots

and disorders, that my name generally stood first in the roll of

delinquents; and instead of being lamented as the unfortunate pupil of

Sir George, I was now accused as the person who had misled and

debauched that hopeful young gentleman; for though he was the

ringleader and promoter of all the mischief, he was never so

considered. I fell at last under the censure of the vice-chancellor,

and very narrowly escaped expulsion.

“You will easily believe, sir, that such a life as I am now describing

must be incompatible with my further progress in learning; and that in

proportion as I addicted myself more and more to loose pleasure, I

must grow more and more remiss in application to my studies. This was

truly the consequence; but this was not all. My expenses now greatly

exceeded not only my former income, but those additions which I

extorted from my poor generous father, on pretences of sums being

necessary for preparing for my approaching degree of batchelor of

arts. These demands, however, grew at last so frequent and exorbitant,

that my father by slow degrees opened his ears to the accounts which

he received from many quarters of my present behaviour, and which my

mother failed not to echo very faithfully and loudly; adding, `Ay,

this is the fine gentleman, the scholar who doth so much honour to his

family, and is to be the making of it. I thought what all this

learning would come to. He is to be the ruin of us all, I find, after

his elder brother hath been denied necessaries for his sake, to

perfect his education forsooth, for which he was to pay us such

interest: I thought what the interest would come to,' with much more

of the same kind; but I have, I believe, satisfied you with this

taste.

“My father, therefore, began now to return remonstrances instead of

money to my demands, which brought my affairs perhaps a little sooner

to a crisis; but had he remitted me his whole income, you will imagine

it could have sufficed a very short time to support one who kept pace

with the expenses of Sir George Gresham.

“It is more than possible that the distress I was now in for money,

and the impracticability of going on in this manner, might have

restored me at once to my senses and to my studies, had I opened my

eyes before I became involved in debts from which I saw no hopes of

ever extricating myself. This was indeed the great art of Sir George,

and by which he accomplished the ruin of many, whom he afterwards

laughed at as fools and coxcombs, for vying, as he called it, with a

man of his fortune. To bring this about, he would now and then advance

a little money himself, in order to support the credit of the

unfortunate youth with other people; till, by means of that very

credit, he was irretrievably undone.

“My mind being by these means grown as desperate as my fortune, there

was scarce a wickedness which I did not meditate, in order for my

relief. Self-murder itself became the subject of my serious

deliberation; and I had certainly resolved on it, had not a more

shameful, though perhaps less sinful, thought expelled it from my

head.”--Here he hesitated a moment, and then cried out, “I protest, so

many years have not washed away the shame of this act, and I shall

blush while I relate it.” Jones desired him to pass over anything that

might give him pain in the relation; but Partridge eagerly cried out,

“Oh, pray, sir, let us hear this; I had rather hear this than all the

rest; as I hope to be saved, I will never mention a word of it.” Jones

was going to rebuke him, but the stranger prevented it by proceeding

thus: “I had a chum, a very prudent, frugal young lad, who, though he

had no very large allowance, had by his parsimony heaped up upwards of

forty guineas, which I knew he kept in his escritore. I took therefore

an opportunity of purloining his key from his breeches-pocket, while

he was asleep, and thus made myself master of all his riches: after

which I again conveyed his key into his pocket, and counterfeiting

sleep--though I never once closed my eyes, lay in bed till after he

arose and went to prayers--an exercise to which I had long been

unaccustomed.

“Timorous thieves, by extreme caution, often subject themselves to

discoveries, which those of a bolder kind escape. Thus it happened to

me; for had I boldly broke open his escritore, I had, perhaps, escaped

even his suspicion; but as it was plain that the person who robbed him

had possessed himself of his key, he had no doubt, when he first

missed his money, but that his chum was certainly the thief. Now as he

was of a fearful disposition, and much my inferior in strength, and I

believe in courage, he did not dare to confront me with my guilt, for

fear of worse bodily consequences which might happen to him. He

repaired therefore immediately to the vice-chancellor, and upon

swearing to the robbery, and to the circumstances of it, very easily

obtained a warrant against one who had now so bad a character through

the whole university.

“Luckily for me, I lay out of the college the next evening; for that

day I attended a young lady in a chaise to Witney, where we staid all

night, and in our return, the next morning, to Oxford, I met one of my

cronies, who acquainted me with sufficient news concerning myself to

make me turn my horse another way.”

“Pray, sir, did he mention anything of the warrant?” said Partridge.

But Jones begged the gentleman to proceed without regarding any

impertinent questions; which he did as follows:--

“Having now abandoned all thoughts of returning to Oxford, the next

thing which offered itself was a journey to London. I imparted this

intention to my female companion, who at first remonstrated against

it; but upon producing my wealth, she immediately consented. We then

struck across the country, into the great Cirencester road, and made

such haste, that we spent the next evening, save one, in London.

“When you consider the place where I now was, and the company with

whom I was, you will, I fancy, conceive that a very short time brought

me to an end of that sum of which I had so iniquitously possessed

myself.

“I was now reduced to a much higher degree of distress than before:

the necessaries of life began to be numbered among my wants; and what

made my case still the more grievous was, that my paramour, of whom I

was now grown immoderately fond, shared the same distresses with

myself. To see a woman you love in distress; to be unable to relieve

her, and at the same time to reflect that you have brought her into

this situation, is perhaps a curse of which no imagination can

represent the horrors to those who have not felt it.”--“I believe it

from my soul,” cries Jones, “and I pity you from the bottom of my

heart:” he then took two or three disorderly turns about the room, and

at last begged pardon, and flung himself into his chair, crying, “I

thank Heaven, I have escaped that!”

“This circumstance,” continued the gentleman, “so severely aggravated

the horrors of my present situation, that they became absolutely

intolerable. I could with less pain endure the raging in my own

natural unsatisfied appetites, even hunger or thirst, than I could

submit to leave ungratified the most whimsical desires of a woman on

whom I so extravagantly doated, that, though I knew she had been the

mistress of half my acquaintance, I firmly intended to marry her. But

the good creature was unwilling to consent to an action which the

world might think so much to my disadvantage. And as, possibly, she

compassionated the daily anxieties which she must have perceived me

suffer on her account, she resolved to put an end to my distress. She

soon, indeed, found means to relieve me from my troublesome and

perplexed situation; for while I was distracted with various

inventions to supply her with pleasures, she very kindly--betrayed me

to one of her former lovers at Oxford, by whose care and diligence I

was immediately apprehended and committed to gaol.

“Here I first began seriously to reflect on the miscarriages of my

former life; on the errors I had been guilty of; on the misfortunes

which I had brought on myself; and on the grief which I must have

occasioned to one of the best of fathers. When I added to all these

the perfidy of my mistress, such was the horror of my mind, that life,

instead of being longer desirable, grew the object of my abhorrence;

and I could have gladly embraced death as my dearest friend, if it had

offered itself to my choice unattended by shame.

“The time of the assizes soon came, and I was removed by habeas corpus

to Oxford, where I expected certain conviction and condemnation; but,

to my great surprize, none appeared against me, and I was, at the end

of the sessions, discharged for want of prosecution. In short, my chum

had left Oxford, and whether from indolence, or from what other motive

I am ignorant, had declined concerning himself any farther in the

affair.”

“Perhaps,” cries Partridge, “he did not care to have your blood upon

his hands; and he was in the right on't. If any person was to be

hanged upon my evidence, I should never be able to lie alone

afterwards, for fear of seeing his ghost.”

“I shall shortly doubt, Partridge,” says Jones, “whether thou art more

brave or wise.”--“You may laugh at me, sir, if you please,” answered

Partridge; “but if you will hear a very short story which I can tell,

and which is most certainly true, perhaps you may change your opinion.

In the parish where I was born--” Here Jones would have silenced him;

but the stranger interceded that he might be permitted to tell his

story, and in the meantime promised to recollect the remainder of his

own.

Partridge then proceeded thus: “In the parish where I was born, there

lived a farmer whose name was Bridle, and he had a son named Francis,

a good hopeful young fellow: I was at the grammar-school with him,

where I remember he was got into Ovid's Epistles, and he could

construe you three lines together sometimes without looking into a

dictionary. Besides all this, he was a very good lad, never missed

church o' Sundays, and was reckoned one of the best psalm-singers in

the whole parish. He would indeed now and then take a cup too much,

and that was the only fault he had.”--“Well, but come to the ghost,”

cries Jones. “Never fear, sir; I shall come to him soon enough,”

answered Partridge. “You must know, then, that farmer Bridle lost a

mare, a sorrel one, to the best of my remembrance; and so it fell out

that this young Francis shortly afterward being at a fair at Hindon,

and as I think it was on--, I can't remember the day; and being as he

was, what should he happen to meet but a man upon his father's mare.

Frank called out presently, Stop thief; and it being in the middle of

the fair, it was impossible, you know, for the man to make his escape.

So they apprehended him and carried him before the justice: I remember

it was Justice Willoughby, of Noyle, a very worthy good gentleman; and

he committed him to prison, and bound Frank in a recognisance, I think

they call it--a hard word compounded of _re_ and _cognosco_; but it

differs in its meaning from the use of the simple, as many other

compounds do. Well, at last down came my Lord Justice Page to hold the

assizes; and so the fellow was had up, and Frank was had up for a

witness. To be sure, I shall never forget the face of the judge, when

he began to ask him what he had to say against the prisoner. He made

poor Frank tremble and shake in his shoes. `Well you, fellow,' says my

lord, `what have you to say? Don't stand humming and hawing, but speak

out.' But, however, he soon turned altogether as civil to Frank, and

began to thunder at the fellow; and when he asked him if he had

anything to say for himself, the fellow said, he had found the horse.

`Ay!' answered the judge, `thou art a lucky fellow: I have travelled

the circuit these forty years, and never found a horse in my life: but

I'll tell thee what, friend, thou wast more lucky than thou didst know

of; for thou didst not only find a horse, but a halter too, I promise

thee.' To be sure, I shall never forget the word. Upon which everybody

fell a laughing, as how could they help it? Nay, and twenty other

jests he made, which I can't remember now. There was something about

his skill in horse-flesh which made all the folks laugh. To be

certain, the judge must have been a very brave man, as well as a man

of much learning. It is indeed charming sport to hear trials upon life

and death. One thing I own I thought a little hard, that the

prisoner's counsel was not suffered to speak for him, though he

desired only to be heard one very short word, but my lord would not

hearken to him, though he suffered a counsellor to talk against him

for above half-an-hour. I thought it hard, I own, that there should be

so many of them; my lord, and the court, and the jury, and the

counsellors, and the witnesses, all upon one poor man, and he too in

chains. Well, the fellow was hanged, as to be sure it could be no

otherwise, and poor Frank could never be easy about it. He never was

in the dark alone, but he fancied he saw the fellow's spirit.”--“Well,

and is this thy story?” cries Jones. “No, no,” answered Partridge. “O

Lord have mercy upon me! I am just now coming to the matter; for one

night, coming from the alehouse, in a long, narrow, dark lane, there

he ran directly up against him; and the spirit was all in white, and

fell upon Frank; and Frank, who was a sturdy lad, fell upon the spirit

again, and there they had a tussel together, and poor Frank was

dreadfully beat: indeed he made a shift at last to crawl home; but

what with the beating, and what with the fright, he lay ill above a

fortnight; and all this is most certainly true, and the whole parish

will bear witness to it.”

The stranger smiled at this story, and Jones burst into a loud fit of

laughter; upon which Partridge cried, “Ay, you may laugh, sir; and so

did some others, particularly a squire, who is thought to be no better

than an atheist; who, forsooth, because there was a calf with a white

face found dead in the same lane the next morning, would fain have it

that the battle was between Frank and that, as if a calf would set

upon a man. Besides, Frank told me he knew it to be a spirit, and

could swear to him in any court in Christendom; and he had not drank

above a quart or two or such a matter of liquor, at the time. Lud have

mercy upon us, and keep us all from dipping our hands in blood, I

say!”

“Well, sir,” said Jones to the stranger, “Mr Partridge hath finished

his story, and I hope will give you no future interruption, if you

will be so kind to proceed.” He then resumed his narration; but as he

hath taken breath for a while, we think proper to give it to our

reader, and shall therefore put an end to this chapter.

Chapter xii.

In which the Man of the Hill continues his history.

“I had now regained my liberty,” said the stranger; “but I had lost my

reputation; for there is a wide difference between the case of a man

who is barely acquitted of a crime in a court of justice, and of him

who is acquitted in his own heart, and in the opinion of the people. I

was conscious of my guilt, and ashamed to look any one in the face; so

resolved to leave Oxford the next morning, before the daylight

discovered me to the eyes of any beholders.

“When I had got clear of the city, it first entered into my head to

return home to my father, and endeavour to obtain his forgiveness; but

as I had no reason to doubt his knowledge of all which had past, and

as I was well assured of his great aversion to all acts of dishonesty,

I could entertain no hopes of being received by him, especially since

I was too certain of all the good offices in the power of my mother;

nay, had my father's pardon been as sure, as I conceived his

resentment to be, I yet question whether I could have had the

assurance to behold him, or whether I could, upon any terms, have

submitted to live and converse with those who, I was convinced, knew

me to have been guilty of so base an action.

“I hastened therefore back to London, the best retirement of either

grief or shame, unless for persons of a very public character; for

here you have the advantage of solitude without its disadvantage,

since you may be alone and in company at the same time; and while you

walk or sit unobserved, noise, hurry, and a constant succession of

objects, entertain the mind, and prevent the spirits from preying on

themselves, or rather on grief or shame, which are the most

unwholesome diet in the world; and on which (though there are many who

never taste either but in public) there are some who can feed very

plentifully and very fatally when alone.

“But as there is scarce any human good without its concomitant evil,

so there are people who find an inconvenience in this unobserving

temper of mankind; I mean persons who have no money; for as you are

not put out of countenance, so neither are you cloathed or fed by

those who do not know you. And a man may be as easily starved in

Leadenhall-market as in the deserts of Arabia.

“It was at present my fortune to be destitute of that great evil, as

it is apprehended to be by several writers, who I suppose were

overburthened with it, namely, money.”--“With submission, sir,” said

Partridge, “I do not remember any writers who have called it

_malorum_; but _irritamenta malorum_. _Effodiuntur opes, irritamenta

malorum_”--“Well, sir,” continued the stranger, “whether it be an

evil, or only the cause of evil, I was entirely void of it, and at the

same time of friends, and, as I thought, of acquaintance; when one

evening, as I was passing through the Inner Temple, very hungry, and

very miserable, I heard a voice on a sudden hailing me with great

familiarity by my Christian name; and upon turning about, I presently

recollected the person who so saluted me to have been my

fellow-collegiate; one who had left the university above a year, and

long before any of my misfortunes had befallen me. This gentleman,

whose name was Watson, shook me heartily by the hand; and expressing

great joy at meeting me, proposed our immediately drinking a bottle

together. I first declined the proposal, and pretended business, but

as he was very earnest and pressing, hunger at last overcame my pride,

and I fairly confessed to him I had no money in my pocket; yet not

without framing a lie for an excuse, and imputing it to my having

changed my breeches that morning. Mr Watson answered, `I thought,

Jack, you and I had been too old acquaintance for you to mention such

a matter.' He then took me by the arm, and was pulling me along; but I

gave him very little trouble, for my own inclinations pulled me much

stronger than he could do.

“We then went into the Friars, which you know is the scene of all

mirth and jollity. Here, when we arrived at the tavern, Mr Watson

applied himself to the drawer only, without taking the least notice of

the cook; for he had no suspicion but that I had dined long since.

However, as the case was really otherwise, I forged another falsehood,

and told my companion I had been at the further end of the city on

business of consequence, and had snapt up a mutton-chop in haste; so

that I was again hungry, and wished he would add a beef-steak to his

bottle.”--“Some people,” cries Partridge, “ought to have good

memories; or did you find just money enough in your breeches to pay

for the mutton-chop?”--“Your observation is right,” answered the

stranger, “and I believe such blunders are inseparable from all

dealing in untruth.--But to proceed--I began now to feel myself

extremely happy. The meat and wine soon revived my spirits to a high

pitch, and I enjoyed much pleasure in the conversation of my old

acquaintance, the rather as I thought him entirely ignorant of what

had happened at the university since his leaving it.

“But he did not suffer me to remain long in this agreeable delusion;

for taking a bumper in one hand, and holding me by the other, `Here,

my boy,' cries he, `here's wishing you joy of your being so honourably

acquitted of that affair laid to your charge.' I was thunderstruck

with confusion at those words, which Watson observing, proceeded thus:

`Nay, never be ashamed, man; thou hast been acquitted, and no one now

dares call thee guilty; but, prithee, do tell me, who am thy friend--I

hope thou didst really rob him? for rat me if it was not a meritorious

action to strip such a sneaking, pitiful rascal; and instead of the

two hundred guineas, I wish you had taken as many thousand. Come,

come, my boy, don't be shy of confessing to me: you are not now

brought before one of the pimps. D--n me if I don't honour you for it;

for, as I hope for salvation, I would have made no manner of scruple

of doing the same thing.'

“This declaration a little relieved my abashment; and as wine had now

somewhat opened my heart, I very freely acknowledged the robbery, but

acquainted him that he had been misinformed as to the sum taken, which

was little more than a fifth part of what he had mentioned.

“`I am sorry for it with all my heart,' quoth he, `and I wish thee

better success another time. Though, if you will take my advice, you

shall have no occasion to run any such risque. Here,' said he, taking

some dice out of his pocket, `here's the stuff. Here are the

implements; here are the little doctors which cure the distempers of

the purse. Follow but my counsel, and I will show you a way to empty

the pocket of a queer cull without any danger of the nubbing cheat.'”

“Nubbing cheat!” cries Partridge: “pray, sir, what is that?”

“Why that, sir,” says the stranger, “is a cant phrase for the gallows;

for as gamesters differ little from highwaymen in their morals, so do

they very much resemble them in their language.

“We had now each drank our bottle, when Mr Watson said, the board was

sitting, and that he must attend, earnestly pressing me at the same

time to go with him and try my fortune. I answered he knew that was at

present out of my power, as I had informed him of the emptiness of my

pocket. To say the truth, I doubted not from his many strong

expressions of friendship, but that he would offer to lend me a small

sum for that purpose, but he answered, `Never mind that, man; e'en

boldly run a levant' [Partridge was going to inquire the meaning of

that word, but Jones stopped his mouth]: `but be circumspect as to the

man. I will tip you the proper person, which may be necessary, as you

do not know the town, nor can distinguish a rum cull from a queer

one.”

“The bill was now brought, when Watson paid his share, and was

departing. I reminded him, not without blushing, of my having no

money. He answered, `That signifies nothing; score it behind the door,

or make a bold brush and take no notice.--Or--stay,' says he; `I will

go down-stairs first, and then do you take up my money, and score the

whole reckoning at the bar, and I will wait for you at the corner.' I

expressed some dislike at this, and hinted my expectations that he

would have deposited the whole; but he swore he had not another

sixpence in his pocket.

“He then went down, and I was prevailed on to take up the money and

follow him, which I did close enough to hear him tell the drawer the

reckoning was upon the table. The drawer past by me up-stairs; but I

made such haste into the street, that I heard nothing of his

disappointment, nor did I mention a syllable at the bar, according to

my instructions.

“We now went directly to the gaming-table, where Mr Watson, to my

surprize, pulled out a large sum of money and placed it before him, as

did many others; all of them, no doubt, considering their own heaps as

so many decoy birds, which were to intice and draw over the heaps of

their neighbours.

“Here it would be tedious to relate all the freaks which Fortune, or

rather the dice, played in this her temple. Mountains of gold were in

a few moments reduced to nothing at one part of the table, and rose as

suddenly in another. The rich grew in a moment poor, and the poor as

suddenly became rich; so that it seemed a philosopher could nowhere

have so well instructed his pupils in the contempt of riches, at least

he could nowhere have better inculcated the incertainty of their

duration.

“For my own part, after having considerably improved my small estate,

I at last entirely demolished it. Mr Watson too, after much variety of

luck, rose from the table in some heat, and declared he had lost a

cool hundred, and would play no longer. Then coming up to me, he asked

me to return with him to the tavern; but I positively refused, saying,

I would not bring myself a second time into such a dilemma, and

especially as he had lost all his money and was now in my own

condition. `Pooh!' says he, `I have just borrowed a couple of guineas

of a friend, and one of them is at your service.' He immediately put

one of them into my hand, and I no longer resisted his inclination.

“I was at first a little shocked at returning to the same house whence

we had departed in so unhandsome a manner; but when the drawer, with

very civil address, told us, `he believed we had forgot to pay our

reckoning,' I became perfectly easy, and very readily gave him a

guinea, bid him pay himself, and acquiesced in the unjust charge which

had been laid on my memory.

“Mr Watson now bespoke the most extravagant supper he could well think

of; and though he had contented himself with simple claret before,

nothing now but the most precious Burgundy would serve his purpose.

“Our company was soon encreased by the addition of several gentlemen

from the gaming-table; most of whom, as I afterwards found, came not

to the tavern to drink, but in the way of business; for the true

gamesters pretended to be ill, and refused their glass, while they

plied heartily two young fellows, who were to be afterwards pillaged,

as indeed they were without mercy. Of this plunder I had the good

fortune to be a sharer, though I was not yet let into the secret.

“There was one remarkable accident attended this tavern play; for the

money by degrees totally disappeared; so that though at the beginning

the table was half covered with gold, yet before the play ended, which

it did not till the next day, being Sunday, at noon, there was scarce

a single guinea to be seen on the table; and this was the stranger as

every person present, except myself, declared he had lost; and what

was become of the money, unless the devil himself carried it away, is

difficult to determine.”

“Most certainly he did,” says Partridge, “for evil spirits can carry

away anything without being seen, though there were never so many folk

in the room; and I should not have been surprized if he had carried

away all the company of a set of wicked wretches, who were at play in

sermon time. And I could tell you a true story, if I would, where the

devil took a man out of bed from another man's wife, and carried him

away through the keyhole of the door. I've seen the very house where

it was done, and nobody hath lived in it these thirty years.”

Though Jones was a little offended by the impertinence of Partridge,

he could not however avoid smiling at his simplicity. The stranger did

the same, and then proceeded with his story, as will be seen in the

next chapter.

Chapter xiii.

In which the foregoing story is farther continued.

“My fellow-collegiate had now entered me in a new scene of life. I

soon became acquainted with the whole fraternity of sharpers, and was

let into their secrets; I mean, into the knowledge of those gross

cheats which are proper to impose upon the raw and unexperienced; for

there are some tricks of a finer kind, which are known only to a few

of the gang, who are at the head of their profession; a degree of

honour beyond my expectation; for drink, to which I was immoderately

addicted, and the natural warmth of my passions, prevented me from

arriving at any great success in an art which requires as much

coolness as the most austere school of philosophy.

“Mr Watson, with whom I now lived in the closest amity, had unluckily

the former failing to a very great excess; so that instead of making a

fortune by his profession, as some others did, he was alternately rich

and poor, and was often obliged to surrender to his cooler friends,

over a bottle which they never tasted, that plunder that he had taken

from culls at the public table.

“However, we both made a shift to pick up an uncomfortable livelihood;

and for two years I continued of the calling; during which time I

tasted all the varieties of fortune, sometimes flourishing in

affluence, and at others being obliged to struggle with almost

incredible difficulties. To-day wallowing in luxury, and to-morrow

reduced to the coarsest and most homely fare. My fine clothes being

often on my back in the evening, and at the pawn-shop the next

morning.

“One night, as I was returning pennyless from the gaming-table, I

observed a very great disturbance, and a large mob gathered together

in the street. As I was in no danger from pickpockets, I ventured into

the croud, where upon enquiry I found that a man had been robbed and

very ill used by some ruffians. The wounded man appeared very bloody,

and seemed scarce able to support himself on his legs. As I had not

therefore been deprived of my humanity by my present life and

conversation, though they had left me very little of either honesty or

shame, I immediately offered my assistance to the unhappy person, who

thankfully accepted it, and, putting himself under my conduct, begged

me to convey him to some tavern, where he might send for a surgeon,

being, as he said, faint with loss of blood. He seemed indeed highly

pleased at finding one who appeared in the dress of a gentleman; for

as to all the rest of the company present, their outside was such that

he could not wisely place any confidence in them.

“I took the poor man by the arm, and led him to the tavern where we

kept our rendezvous, as it happened to be the nearest at hand. A

surgeon happening luckily to be in the house, immediately attended,

and applied himself to dressing his wounds, which I had the pleasure

to hear were not likely to be mortal.

“The surgeon having very expeditiously and dextrously finished his

business, began to enquire in what part of the town the wounded man

lodged; who answered, `That he was come to town that very morning;

that his horse was at an inn in Piccadilly, and that he had no other

lodging, and very little or no acquaintance in town.'

“This surgeon, whose name I have forgot, though I remember it began

with an R, had the first character in his profession, and was

serjeant-surgeon to the king. He had moreover many good qualities, and

was a very generous good-natured man, and ready to do any service to

his fellow-creatures. He offered his patient the use of his chariot to

carry him to his inn, and at the same time whispered in his ear, `That

if he wanted any money, he would furnish him.'

“The poor man was not now capable of returning thanks for this

generous offer; for having had his eyes for some time stedfastly on

me, he threw himself back in his chair, crying, `Oh, my son! my son!'

and then fainted away.

“Many of the people present imagined this accident had happened

through his loss of blood; but I, who at the same time began to

recollect the features of my father, was now confirmed in my

suspicion, and satisfied that it was he himself who appeared before

me. I presently ran to him, raised him in my arms, and kissed his cold

lips with the utmost eagerness. Here I must draw a curtain over a

scene which I cannot describe; for though I did not lose my being, as

my father for a while did, my senses were however so overpowered with

affright and surprize, that I am a stranger to what passed during some

minutes, and indeed till my father had again recovered from his swoon,

and I found myself in his arms, both tenderly embracing each other,

while the tears trickled a-pace down the cheeks of each of us.

“Most of those present seemed affected by this scene, which we, who

might be considered as the actors in it, were desirous of removing

from the eyes of all spectators as fast as we could; my father

therefore accepted the kind offer of the surgeon's chariot, and I

attended him in it to his inn.

“When we were alone together, he gently upbraided me with having

neglected to write to him during so long a time, but entirely omitted

the mention of that crime which had occasioned it. He then informed me

of my mother's death, and insisted on my returning home with him,

saying, `That he had long suffered the greatest anxiety on my account;

that he knew not whether he had most feared my death or wished it,

since he had so many more dreadful apprehensions for me. At last, he

said, a neighbouring gentleman, who had just recovered a son from the

same place, informed him where I was; and that to reclaim me from this

course of life was the sole cause of his journey to London.' He

thanked Heaven he had succeeded so far as to find me out by means of

an accident which had like to have proved fatal to him; and had the

pleasure to think he partly owed his preservation to my humanity, with

which he profest himself to be more delighted than he should have been

with my filial piety, if I had known that the object of all my care

was my own father.

“Vice had not so depraved my heart as to excite in it an insensibility

of so much paternal affection, though so unworthily bestowed. I

presently promised to obey his commands in my return home with him, as

soon as he was able to travel, which indeed he was in a very few days,

by the assistance of that excellent surgeon who had undertaken his

cure.

“The day preceding my father's journey (before which time I scarce

ever left him), I went to take my leave of some of my most intimate

acquaintance, particularly of Mr Watson, who dissuaded me from burying

myself, as he called it, out of a simple compliance with the fond

desires of a foolish old fellow. Such sollicitations, however, had no

effect, and I once more saw my own home. My father now greatly

sollicited me to think of marriage; but my inclinations were utterly

averse to any such thoughts. I had tasted of love already, and perhaps

you know the extravagant excesses of that most tender and most violent

passion.”--Here the old gentleman paused, and looked earnestly at

Jones; whose countenance, within a minute's space, displayed the

extremities of both red and white. Upon which the old man, without

making any observations, renewed his narrative.

“Being now provided with all the necessaries of life, I betook myself

once again to study, and that with a more inordinate application than

I had ever done formerly. The books which now employed my time solely

were those, as well antient as modern, which treat of true philosophy,

a word which is by many thought to be the subject only of farce and

ridicule. I now read over the works of Aristotle and Plato, with the

rest of those inestimable treasures which antient Greece had

bequeathed to the world.

“These authors, though they instructed me in no science by which men

may promise to themselves to acquire the least riches or worldly

power, taught me, however, the art of despising the highest

acquisitions of both. They elevate the mind, and steel and harden it

against the capricious invasions of fortune. They not only instruct in

the knowledge of Wisdom, but confirm men in her habits, and

demonstrate plainly, that this must be our guide, if we propose ever

to arrive at the greatest worldly happiness, or to defend ourselves,

with any tolerable security, against the misery which everywhere

surrounds and invests us.

“To this I added another study, compared to which, all the philosophy

taught by the wisest heathens is little better than a dream, and is

indeed as full of vanity as the silliest jester ever pleased to

represent it. This is that Divine wisdom which is alone to be found in

the Holy Scriptures; for they impart to us the knowledge and assurance

of things much more worthy our attention than all which this world can

offer to our acceptance; of things which Heaven itself hath

condescended to reveal to us, and to the smallest knowledge of which

the highest human wit unassisted could never ascend. I began now to

think all the time I had spent with the best heathen writers was

little more than labour lost: for, however pleasant and delightful

their lessons may be, or however adequate to the right regulation of

our conduct with respect to this world only; yet, when compared with

the glory revealed in Scripture, their highest documents will appear

as trifling, and of as little consequence, as the rules by which

children regulate their childish little games and pastime. True it is,

that philosophy makes us wiser, but Christianity makes us better men.

Philosophy elevates and steels the mind, Christianity softens and

sweetens it. The former makes us the objects of human admiration, the

latter of Divine love. That insures us a temporal, but this an eternal

happiness.--But I am afraid I tire you with my rhapsody.”

“Not at all,” cries Partridge; “Lud forbid we should be tired with

good things!”

“I had spent,” continued the stranger, “about four years in the most

delightful manner to myself, totally given up to contemplation, and

entirely unembarrassed with the affairs of the world, when I lost the

best of fathers, and one whom I so entirely loved, that my grief at

his loss exceeds all description. I now abandoned my books, and gave

myself up for a whole month to the effects of melancholy and despair.

Time, however, the best physician of the mind, at length brought me

relief.”--“Ay, ay; _Tempus edax rerum_” said Partridge.--“I then,”

continued the stranger, “betook myself again to my former studies,

which I may say perfected my cure; for philosophy and religion may be

called the exercises of the mind, and when this is disordered, they

are as wholesome as exercise can be to a distempered body. They do

indeed produce similar effects with exercise; for they strengthen and

confirm the mind, till man becomes, in the noble strain of Horace--

_Fortis, et in seipso totus teres atque rotundus,

Externi ne quid valeat per laeve morari;

In quem manca ruit semper Fortuna._“[*]

[*] Firm in himself, who on himself relies,

Polish'd and round, who runs his proper course

And breaks misfortunes with superior force.--MR FRANCIS.

Here Jones smiled at some conceit which intruded itself into his

imagination; but the stranger, I believe, perceived it not, and

proceeded thus:--

“My circumstances were now greatly altered by the death of that best

of men; for my brother, who was now become master of the house,

differed so widely from me in his inclinations, and our pursuits in

life had been so very various, that we were the worst of company to

each other: but what made our living together still more disagreeable,

was the little harmony which could subsist between the few who

resorted to me, and the numerous train of sportsmen who often attended

my brother from the field to the table; for such fellows, besides the

noise and nonsense with which they persecute the ears of sober men,

endeavour always to attack them with affront and contempt. This was so

much the case, that neither I myself, nor my friends, could ever sit

down to a meal with them without being treated with derision, because

we were unacquainted with the phrases of sportsmen. For men of true

learning, and almost universal knowledge, always compassionate the

ignorance of others; but fellows who excel in some little, low,

contemptible art, are always certain to despise those who are

unacquainted with that art.

“In short, we soon separated, and I went, by the advice of a

physician, to drink the Bath waters; for my violent affliction, added

to a sedentary life, had thrown me into a kind of paralytic disorder,

for which those waters are accounted an almost _certain_ cure. The

second day after my arrival, as I was walking by the river, the sun

shone so intensely hot (though it was early in the year), that I

retired to the shelter of some willows, and sat down by the river

side. Here I had not been seated long before I heard a person on the

other side of the willows sighing and bemoaning himself bitterly. On a

sudden, having uttered a most impious oath, he cried, `I am resolved

to bear it no longer,' and directly threw himself into the water. I

immediately started, and ran towards the place, calling at the same

time as loudly as I could for assistance. An angler happened luckily

to be a-fishing a little below me, though some very high sedge had hid

him from my sight. He immediately came up, and both of us together,

not without some hazard of our lives, drew the body to the shore. At

first we perceived no sign of life remaining; but having held the body

up by the heels (for we soon had assistance enough), it discharged a

vast quantity of water at the mouth, and at length began to discover

some symptoms of breathing, and a little afterwards to move both its

hands and its legs.

“An apothecary, who happened to be present among others, advised that

the body, which seemed now to have pretty well emptied itself of

water, and which began to have many convulsive motions, should be

directly taken up, and carried into a warm bed. This was accordingly

performed, the apothecary and myself attending.

“As we were going towards an inn, for we knew not the man's lodgings,

luckily a woman met us, who, after some violent screaming, told us

that the gentleman lodged at her house.

“When I had seen the man safely deposited there, I left him to the

care of the apothecary; who, I suppose, used all the right methods

with him, for the next morning I heard he had perfectly recovered his

senses.

“I then went to visit him, intending to search out, as well as I

could, the cause of his having attempted so desperate an act, and to

prevent, as far as I was able, his pursuing such wicked intentions for

the future. I was no sooner admitted into his chamber, than we both

instantly knew each other; for who should this person be but my good

friend Mr Watson! Here I will not trouble you with what past at our

first interview; for I would avoid prolixity as much as

possible.”--“Pray let us hear all,” cries Partridge; “I want mightily

to know what brought him to Bath.”

“You shall hear everything material,” answered the stranger; and then

proceeded to relate what we shall proceed to write, after we have

given a short breathing time to both ourselves and the reader.

Chapter xiv.

In which the Man of the Hill concludes his history.

“Mr Watson,” continued the stranger, “very freely acquainted me, that

the unhappy situation of his circumstances, occasioned by a tide of

ill luck, had in a manner forced him to a resolution of destroying

himself.

“I now began to argue very seriously with him, in opposition to this

heathenish, or indeed diabolical, principle of the lawfulness of

self-murder; and said everything which occurred to me on the subject;

but, to my great concern, it seemed to have very little effect on him.

He seemed not at all to repent of what he had done, and gave me reason

to fear he would soon make a second attempt of the like horrible kind.

“When I had finished my discourse, instead of endeavouring to answer

my arguments, he looked me stedfastly in the face, and with a smile

said, `You are strangely altered, my good friend, since I remember

you. I question whether any of our bishops could make a better

argument against suicide than you have entertained me with; but unless

you can find somebody who will lend me a cool hundred, I must either

hang, or drown, or starve; and, in my opinion, the last death is the

most terrible of the three.'

“I answered him very gravely that I was indeed altered since I had

seen him last. That I had found leisure to look into my follies and to

repent of them. I then advised him to pursue the same steps; and at

last concluded with an assurance that I myself would lend him a

hundred pound, if it would be of any service to his affairs, and he

would not put it into the power of a die to deprive him of it.

“Mr Watson, who seemed almost composed in slumber by the former part

of my discourse, was roused by the latter. He seized my hand eagerly,

gave me a thousand thanks, and declared I was a friend indeed; adding

that he hoped I had a better opinion of him than to imagine he had

profited so little by experience, as to put any confidence in those

damned dice which had so often deceived him. `No, no,' cries he; `let

me but once handsomely be set up again, and if ever Fortune makes a

broken merchant of me afterwards, I will forgive her.'

“I very well understood the language of setting up, and broken

merchant. I therefore said to him, with a very grave face, Mr Watson,

you must endeavour to find out some business or employment, by which

you may procure yourself a livelihood; and I promise you, could I see

any probability of being repaid hereafter, I would advance a much

larger sum than what you have mentioned, to equip you in any fair and

honourable calling; but as to gaming, besides the baseness and

wickedness of making it a profession, you are really, to my own

knowledge, unfit for it, and it will end in your certain ruin.

“`Why now, that's strange,' answered he; `neither you, nor any of my

friends, would ever allow me to know anything of the matter, and yet I

believe I _am_ as good a hand at every game as any of you all; and I

heartily wish I was to play with you only for your whole fortune: I

should desire no better sport, and I would let you name your game into

the bargain: but come, my dear boy, have you the hundred in your

pocket?”

“I answered I had only a bill for £50, which I delivered him, and

promised to bring him the rest next morning; and after giving him a

little more advice, took my leave.

“I was indeed better than my word; for I returned to him that very

afternoon. When I entered the room, I found him sitting up in his bed

at cards with a notorious gamester. This sight, you will imagine,

shocked me not a little; to which I may add the mortification of

seeing my bill delivered by him to his antagonist, and thirty guineas

only given in exchange for it.

“The other gamester presently quitted the room, and then Watson

declared he was ashamed to see me; `but,' says he, `I find luck runs

so damnably against me, that I will resolve to leave off play for

ever. I have thought of the kind proposal you made me ever since, and

I promise you there shall be no fault in me, if I do not put it in

execution.'

“Though I had no great faith in his promises, I produced him the

remainder of the hundred in consequence of my own; for which he gave

me a note, which was all I ever expected to see in return for my

money.

“We were prevented from any further discourse at present by the

arrival of the apothecary; who, with much joy in his countenance, and

without even asking his patient how he did, proclaimed there was great

news arrived in a letter to himself, which he said would shortly be

public, `That the Duke of Monmouth was landed in the west with a vast

army of Dutch; and that another vast fleet hovered over the coast of

Norfolk, and was to make a descent there, in order to favour the

duke's enterprize with a diversion on that side.'

“This apothecary was one of the greatest politicians of his time. He

was more delighted with the most paultry packet, than with the best

patient, and the highest joy he was capable of, he received from

having a piece of news in his possession an hour or two sooner than

any other person in the town. His advices, however, were seldom

authentic; for he would swallow almost anything as a truth--a humour

which many made use of to impose upon him.

“Thus it happened with what he at present communicated; for it was

known within a short time afterwards that the duke was really landed,

but that his army consisted only of a few attendants; and as to the

diversion in Norfolk, it was entirely false.

“The apothecary staid no longer in the room than while he acquainted

us with his news; and then, without saying a syllable to his patient

on any other subject, departed to spread his advices all over the

town.

“Events of this nature in the public are generally apt to eclipse all

private concerns. Our discourse therefore now became entirely

political.[*] For my own part, I had been for some time very seriously

affected with the danger to which the Protestant religion was so

visibly exposed under a Popish prince, and thought the apprehension of

it alone sufficient to justify that insurrection; for no real security

can ever be found against the persecuting spirit of Popery, when armed

with power, except the depriving it of that power, as woeful

experience presently showed. You know how King James behaved after

getting the better of this attempt; how little he valued either his

royal word, or coronation oath, or the liberties and rights of his

people. But all had not the sense to foresee this at first; and

therefore the Duke of Monmouth was weakly supported; yet all could

feel when the evil came upon them; and therefore all united, at last,

to drive out that king, against whose exclusion a great party among us

had so warmly contended during the reign of his brother, and for whom

they now fought with such zeal and affection.”

“What you say,” interrupted Jones, “is very true; and it has often

struck me, as the most wonderful thing I ever read of in history, that

so soon after this convincing experience which brought our whole

nation to join so unanimously in expelling King James, for the

preservation of our religion and liberties, there should be a party

among us mad enough to desire the placing his family again on the

throne.” “You are not in earnest!” answered the old man; “there can be

no such party. As bad an opinion as I have of mankind, I cannot

believe them infatuated to such a degree. There may be some hot-headed

Papists led by their priests to engage in this desperate cause, and

think it a holy war; but that Protestants, that are members of the

Church of England, should be such apostates, such _felos de se_, I

cannot believe it; no, no, young man, unacquainted as I am with what

has past in the world for these last thirty years, I cannot be so

imposed upon as to credit so foolish a tale; but I see you have a mind

to sport with my ignorance.”--“Can it be possible,” replied Jones,

“that you have lived so much out of the world as not to know that

during that time there have been two rebellions in favour of the son

of King James, one of which is now actually raging in the very heart

of the kingdom.” At these words the old gentleman started up, and in a

most solemn tone of voice, conjured Jones by his Maker to tell him if

what he said was really true; which the other as solemnly affirming,

he walked several turns about the room in a profound silence, then

cried, then laughed, and at last fell down on his knees, and blessed

God, in a loud thanksgiving prayer, for having delivered him from all

society with human nature, which could be capable of such monstrous

extravagances. After which, being reminded by Jones that he had broke

off his story, he resumed it again in this manner:--

“As mankind, in the days I was speaking of, was not yet arrived at

that pitch of madness which I find they are capable of now, and which,

to be sure, I have only escaped by living alone, and at a distance

from the contagion, there was a considerable rising in favour of

Monmouth; and my principles strongly inclining me to take the same

part, I determined to join him; and Mr Watson, from different motives

concurring in the same resolution (for the spirit of a gamester will

carry a man as far upon such an occasion as the spirit of patriotism),

we soon provided ourselves with all necessaries, and went to the duke

at Bridgewater.

“The unfortunate event of this enterprize, you are, I conclude, as

well acquainted with as myself. I escaped, together with Mr Watson,

from the battle at Sedgemore, in which action I received a slight

wound. We rode near forty miles together on the Exeter road, and then

abandoning our horses, scrambled as well as we could through the

fields and bye-roads, till we arrived at a little wild hut on a

common, where a poor old woman took all the care of us she could, and

dressed my wound with salve, which quickly healed it.”

“Pray, sir, where was the wound?” says Partridge. The stranger

satisfied him it was in his arm, and then continued his narrative.

“Here, sir,” said he, “Mr Watson left me the next morning, in order,

as he pretended, to get us some provision from the town of Collumpton;

but--can I relate it, or can you believe it?--this Mr Watson, this

friend, this base, barbarous, treacherous villain, betrayed me to a

party of horse belonging to King James, and at his return delivered me

into their hands.

“The soldiers, being six in number, had now seized me, and were

conducting me to Taunton gaol; but neither my present situation, nor

the apprehensions of what might happen to me, were half so irksome to

my mind as the company of my false friend, who, having surrendered

himself, was likewise considered as a prisoner, though he was better

treated, as being to make his peace at my expense. He at first

endeavoured to excuse his treachery; but when he received nothing but

scorn and upbraiding from me, he soon changed his note, abused me as

the most atrocious and malicious rebel, and laid all his own guilt to

my charge, who, as he declared, had solicited, and even threatened

him, to make him take up arms against his gracious as well as lawful

sovereign.

“This false evidence (for in reality he had been much the forwarder of

the two) stung me to the quick, and raised an indignation scarce

conceivable by those who have not felt it. However, fortune at length

took pity on me; for as we were got a little beyond Wellington, in a

narrow lane, my guards received a false alarm, that near fifty of the

enemy were at hand; upon which they shifted for themselves, and left

me and my betrayer to do the same. That villain immediately ran from

me, and I am glad he did, or I should have certainly endeavoured,

though I had no arms, to have executed vengeance on his baseness.

“I was now once more at liberty; and immediately withdrawing from the

highway into the fields, I travelled on, scarce knowing which way I

went, and making it my chief care to avoid all public roads and all

towns--nay, even the most homely houses; for I imagined every human

creature whom I saw desirous of betraying me.

“At last, after rambling several days about the country, during which

the fields afforded me the same bed and the same food which nature

bestows on our savage brothers of the creation, I at length arrived at

this place, where the solitude and wildness of the country invited me

to fix my abode. The first person with whom I took up my habitation

was the mother of this old woman, with whom I remained concealed till

the news of the glorious revolution put an end to all my apprehensions

of danger, and gave me an opportunity of once more visiting my own

home, and of enquiring a little into my affairs, which I soon settled

as agreeably to my brother as to myself; having resigned everything to

him, for which he paid me the sum of a thousand pounds, and settled on

me an annuity for life.

“His behaviour in this last instance, as in all others, was selfish

and ungenerous. I could not look on him as my friend, nor indeed did

he desire that I should; so I presently took my leave of him, as well

as of my other acquaintance; and from that day to this, my history is

little better than a blank.”

“And is it possible, sir,” said Jones, “that you can have resided here

from that day to this?”--“O no, sir,” answered the gentleman; “I have

been a great traveller, and there are few parts of Europe with which I

am not acquainted.” “I have not, sir,” cried Jones, “the assurance to

ask it of you now; indeed it would be cruel, after so much breath as

you have already spent: but you will give me leave to wish for some

further opportunity of hearing the excellent observations which a man

of your sense and knowledge of the world must have made in so long a

course of travels.”--“Indeed, young gentleman,” answered the stranger,

“I will endeavour to satisfy your curiosity on this head likewise, as

far as I am able.” Jones attempted fresh apologies, but was prevented;

and while he and Partridge sat with greedy and impatient ears, the

stranger proceeded as in the next chapter.

[*] _The rest of this paragraph and the two following paragraphs

in the first edition were as follows_:

“For my own part, I had been for some time very seriously affected

with the danger to which the Protestant religion was so visibly

exposed, that nothing but the immediate interposition of Providence

seemed capable of preserving it; for King James had indeed declared

war against the Protestant cause. He had brought known papists into

the army and attempted to bring them into the Church and into the

University. Popish priests swarmed through the nation, appeared

publicly in their habits, and boasted that they should shortly walk

in procession through the streets. Our own clergy were forbid to

preach against popery, and bishops were ordered to supend those who

did; and to do the business at once an illegal ecclesiastical

commission was erected, little inferior to an inquisition, of which,

probably, it was intended to be the ringleader. Thus, as our duty to

the king can never be called more than our second duty, he had

discharged us from this by making it incompatible with our

preserving the first, which is surely to heaven. Besides this, he

had dissolved his subjects from their allegiance by breaking his

Coronation Oath, to which their allegiance is annexed; for he had

imprisoned bishops because they would not give up their religion,

and turned out judges because they would not absolutely surrender

the law into his hands; nay, he seized this himself, and when he

claimed a dispensing power, he declared himself, in fact, as

absolute as any tyrant ever was or can be. I have recapitulated

these matters in full lest some of them should have been omitted in

history; and I think nothing less than such provocations as I have

here mentioned, nothing less than certain and imminent danger to

their religion and liberties, can justify or even mitigate the

dreadful sin of rebellion in any people.”

“I promise you, sir,” says Jones, “all these facts, and more, I have

read in history, but I will tell you a fact which is not yet

recorded and of which I suppose you are ignorant. There is actually

now a rebellion on foot in this kingdom in favour of the son of that

very King James, a professed papist, more bigoted, if possible, than

his father, and this carried on by Protestants against a king who

hath never in one single instance made the least invasion on our

liberties.”

“Prodigious indeed!” answered the stranger. “You tell me what would

be incredible of a nation which did not deserve the character that

Virgil gives of a woman, _varium et mutabile semper_. Surely this is

to be unworthy of the care which Providence seems to have taken of

us in the preservation of our religion against the powerful designs

and constant machinations of Popery, a preservation so strange and

unaccountable that I almost think we may appeal to it as to a

miracle for the proof of its holiness. Prodigious indeed! A

Protestant rebellion in favour of a popish prince! The folly of

mankind is as wonderful as their knavery--But to conclude my story:

I resolved to take arms in defence of my country, of my religion,

and my liberty, and Mr. Watson joined in the same resolution. We

soon provided ourselves with an necessaries and joined the Duke at

Bridgewater.”

“The unfortunate event of this enterprise you are perhaps better

acquainted with than myself. I escaped together with Mr. Watson from

the battle at Sedgemore,...

Chapter xv.

A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse between Mr Jones

and the Man of the Hill.

“In Italy the landlords are very silent. In France they are more

talkative, but yet civil. In Germany and Holland they are generally

very impertinent. And as for their honesty, I believe it is pretty

equal in all those countries. The _laquais à louange_ are sure to lose

no opportunity of cheating you; and as for the postilions, I think

they are pretty much alike all the world over. These, sir, are the

observations on men which I made in my travels; for these were the

only men I ever conversed with. My design, when I went abroad, was to

divert myself by seeing the wondrous variety of prospects, beasts,

birds, fishes, insects, and vegetables, with which God has been

pleased to enrich the several parts of this globe; a variety which, as

it must give great pleasure to a contemplative beholder, so doth it

admirably display the power, and wisdom, and goodness of the Creator.

Indeed, to say the truth, there is but one work in his whole creation

that doth him any dishonour, and with that I have long since avoided

holding any conversation.”

“You will pardon me,” cries Jones; “but I have always imagined that

there is in this very work you mention as great variety as in all the

rest; for, besides the difference of inclination, customs and climates

have, I am told, introduced the utmost diversity into human nature.”

“Very little indeed,” answered the other: “those who travel in order

to acquaint themselves with the different manners of men might spare

themselves much pains by going to a carnival at Venice; for there they

will see at once all which they can discover in the several courts of

Europe. The same hypocrisy, the same fraud; in short, the same follies

and vices dressed in different habits. In Spain, these are equipped

with much gravity; and in Italy, with vast splendor. In France, a

knave is dressed like a fop; and in the northern countries, like a

sloven. But human nature is everywhere the same, everywhere the object

of detestation and scorn.

“As for my own part, I past through all these nations as you perhaps

may have done through a croud at a shew-jostling to get by them,

holding my nose with one hand, and defending my pockets with the

other, without speaking a word to any of them, while I was pressing on

to see what I wanted to see; which, however entertaining it might be

in itself, scarce made me amends for the trouble the company gave me.”

“Did not you find some of the nations among which you travelled less

troublesome to you than others?” said Jones. “O yes,” replied the old

man: “the Turks were much more tolerable to me than the Christians;

for they are men of profound taciturnity, and never disturb a stranger

with questions. Now and then indeed they bestow a short curse upon

him, or spit in his face as he walks the streets, but then they have

done with him; and a man may live an age in their country without

hearing a dozen words from them. But of all the people I ever saw,

heaven defend me from the French! With their damned prate and

civilities, and doing the honour of their nation to strangers (as they

are pleased to call it), but indeed setting forth their own vanity;

they are so troublesome, that I had infinitely rather pass my life

with the Hottentots than set my foot in Paris again. They are a nasty

people, but their nastiness is mostly without; whereas, in France, and

some other nations that I won't name, it is all within, and makes them

stink much more to my reason than that of Hottentots does to my nose.

“Thus, sir, I have ended the history of my life; for as to all that

series of years during which I have lived retired here, it affords no

variety to entertain you, and may be almost considered as one

day.[*] The retirement has been so compleat, that I could hardly have

enjoyed a more absolute solitude in the deserts of the Thebais than

here in the midst of this populous kingdom. As I have no estate, I am

plagued with no tenants or stewards: my annuity is paid me pretty

regularly, as indeed it ought to be; for it is much less than what I

might have expected in return for what I gave up. Visits I admit none;

and the old woman who keeps my house knows that her place entirely

depends upon her saving me all the trouble of buying the things that I

want, keeping off all sollicitation or business from me, and holding

her tongue whenever I am within hearing. As my walks are all by night,

I am pretty secure in this wild unfrequented place from meeting any

company. Some few persons I have met by chance, and sent them home

heartily frighted, as from the oddness of my dress and figure they

took me for a ghost or a hobgoblin. But what has happened to-night

shows that even here I cannot be safe from the villany of men; for

without your assistance I had not only been robbed, but very probably

murdered.”

[*] the rest of this paragraph is omitted in the third edition

Jones thanked the stranger for the trouble he had taken in relating

his story, and then expressed some wonder how he could possibly endure

a life of such solitude; “in which,” says he, “you may well complain

of the want of variety. Indeed I am astonished how you have filled up,

or rather killed, so much of your time.”

“I am not at all surprized,” answered the other, “that to one whose

affections and thoughts are fixed on the world my hours should appear

to have wanted employment in this place: but there is one single act,

for which the whole life of man is infinitely too short: what time can

suffice for the contemplation and worship of that glorious, immortal,

and eternal Being, among the works of whose stupendous creation not

only this globe, but even those numberless luminaries which we may

here behold spangling all the sky, though they should many of them be

suns lighting different systems of worlds, may possibly appear but as

a few atoms opposed to the whole earth which we inhabit? Can a man who

by divine meditations is admitted as it were into the conversation of

this ineffable, incomprehensible Majesty, think days, or years, or

ages, too long for the continuance of so ravishing an honour? Shall

the trifling amusements, the palling pleasures, the silly business of

the world, roll away our hours too swiftly from us; and shall the pace

of time seem sluggish to a mind exercised in studies so high, so

important, and so glorious? As no time is sufficient, so no place is

improper, for this great concern. On what object can we cast our eyes

which may not inspire us with ideas of his power, of his wisdom, and

of his goodness? It is not necessary that the rising sun should dart

his fiery glories over the eastern horizon; nor that the boisterous

winds should rush from their caverns, and shake the lofty forest; nor

that the opening clouds should pour their deluges on the plains: it is

not necessary, I say, that any of these should proclaim his majesty:

there is not an insect, not a vegetable, of so low an order in the

creation as not to be honoured with bearing marks of the attributes of

its great Creator; marks not only of his power, but of his wisdom and

goodness. Man alone, the king of this globe, the last and greatest

work of the Supreme Being, below the sun; man alone hath basely

dishonoured his own nature; and by dishonesty, cruelty, ingratitude,

and treachery, hath called his Maker's goodness in question, by

puzzling us to account how a benevolent being should form so foolish

and so vile an animal. Yet this is the being from whose conversation

you think, I suppose, that I have been unfortunately restrained, and

without whose blessed society, life, in your opinion, must be tedious

and insipid.”

“In the former part of what you said,” replied Jones, “I most heartily

and readily concur; but I believe, as well as hope, that the

abhorrence which you express for mankind in the conclusion, is much

too general. Indeed, you here fall into an error, which in my little

experience I have observed to be a very common one, by taking the

character of mankind from the worst and basest among them; whereas,

indeed, as an excellent writer observes, nothing should be esteemed as

characteristical of a species, but what is to be found among the best

and most perfect individuals of that species. This error, I believe,

is generally committed by those who from want of proper caution in the

choice of their friends and acquaintance, have suffered injuries from

bad and worthless men; two or three instances of which are very

unjustly charged on all human nature.”

“I think I had experience enough of it,” answered the other: “my first

mistress and my first friend betrayed me in the basest manner, and in

matters which threatened to be of the worst of consequences--even to

bring me to a shameful death.”

“But you will pardon me,” cries Jones, “if I desire you to reflect who

that mistress and who that friend were. What better, my good sir,

could be expected in love derived from the stews, or in friendship

first produced and nourished at the gaming-table? To take the

characters of women from the former instance, or of men from the

latter, would be as unjust as to assert that air is a nauseous and

unwholesome element, because we find it so in a jakes. I have lived

but a short time in the world, and yet have known men worthy of the

highest friendship, and women of the highest love.”

“Alas! young man,” answered the stranger, “you have lived, you

confess, but a very short time in the world: I was somewhat older than

you when I was of the same opinion.”

“You might have remained so still,” replies Jones, “if you had not

been unfortunate, I will venture to say incautious, in the placing

your affections. If there was, indeed, much more wickedness in the

world than there is, it would not prove such general assertions

against human nature, since much of this arrives by mere accident, and

many a man who commits evil is not totally bad and corrupt in his

heart. In truth, none seem to have any title to assert human nature to

be necessarily and universally evil, but those whose own minds afford

them one instance of this natural depravity; which is not, I am

convinced, your case.”

“And such,” said the stranger, “will be always the most backward to

assert any such thing. Knaves will no more endeavour to persuade us of

the baseness of mankind, than a highwayman will inform you that there

are thieves on the road. This would, indeed, be a method to put you on

your guard, and to defeat their own purposes. For which reason, though

knaves, as I remember, are very apt to abuse particular persons, yet

they never cast any reflection on human nature in general.” The old

gentleman spoke this so warmly, that as Jones despaired of making a

convert, and was unwilling to offend, he returned no answer.

The day now began to send forth its first streams of light, when Jones

made an apology to the stranger for having staid so long, and perhaps

detained him from his rest. The stranger answered, “He never wanted

rest less than at present; for that day and night were indifferent

seasons to him; and that he commonly made use of the former for the

time of his repose and of the latter for his walks and lucubrations.

However,” said he, “it is now a most lovely morning, and if you can

bear any longer to be without your own rest or food, I will gladly

entertain you with the sight of some very fine prospects which I

believe you have not yet seen.”

Jones very readily embraced this offer, and they immediately set

forward together from the cottage. As for Partridge, he had fallen

into a profound repose just as the stranger had finished his story;

for his curiosity was satisfied, and the subsequent discourse was not

forcible enough in its operation to conjure down the charms of sleep.

Jones therefore left him to enjoy his nap; and as the reader may

perhaps be at this season glad of the same favour, we will here put an

end to the eighth book of our history.