without this share of knowledge at least, to affect the character of
an historian, is as vain as to endeavour at building a house without
timber or mortar, or brick or stone. Homer and Milton, who, though
they added the ornament of numbers to their works, were both
historians of our order, were masters of all the learning of their
times.
Again, there is another sort of knowledge, beyond the power of
learning to bestow, and this is to be had by conversation. So
necessary is this to the understanding the characters of men, that
none are more ignorant of them than those learned pedants whose
lives have been entirely consumed in colleges, and among books; for
however exquisitely human nature may have been described by writers,
the true practical system can be learnt only in the world. Indeed, the
like happens every other kind of knowledge. Neither physic nor law are
to be practically known from books. Nay, the farmer, the planter,
the gardener, must perfect by experience what he hath acquired the
rudiments of by reading. How accurately soever the ingenious Mr.
Miller may have described the plant, he himself would advise his
disciple to see it in the garden. As we must perceive, that after
the nicest strokes of a Shakespear or a Jonson, of a Wycherly or an
Otway, some touches of nature will escape the reader, which the
judicious action of a Garrick, of a Cibber, or a Clive,* can convey to
him; so, on the real stage, the character shows himself in a
stronger and bolder light than he can be described. And if this be the
case in those fine and nervous descriptions which great authors
themselves have taken from life, how much more strongly will it hold
when the writer himself takes his lines not from nature, but from
books? Such characters are only the faint copy of a copy, and can have
neither the justness nor spirit of an original.
*There is a peculiar propriety in mentioning this great actor, and
these two most justly celebrated actresses, in this place, as they
have all formed themselves on the study of nature only, and not on the
imitation of their predecessors. Hence they have been able to excel
all who have gone before them; a degree of merit which the servile
herd of imitators can never possibly arrive at.
Now this conversation in our historian must be universal, that is,
with all ranks and degrees of men; for the knowledge of what is called
high life will not instruct him in low; nor, e converso, will his
being acquainted with the inferior part of mankind teach him the
manners of the superior. And though it may be thought that the
knowledge of either may sufficiently enable him to describe at least
that in which he hath been conversant, yet he will even here fall
greatly short of perfection; for the follies of either rank do in
reality illustrate each other. For instance, the affectation of high
life appears more glaring and ridiculous from the simplicity of the
low; and again, the rudeness and barbarity of this latter, strikes
with much stronger ideas of absurdity, when contrasted with, and
opposed to, the politeness which controls the former. Besides, to
say the truth, the manners of our historian will be improved by both
these conversations; for in the one he will easily find examples of
plainness, honesty, and sincerity; in the other of refinement,
elegance, and a liberality of spirit; which last quality I myself have
scarce ever seen in men of low birth and education.
Nor will all the qualities I have hitherto given my historian
avail him, unless he have what is generally meant by a good heart, and
be capable of feeling. The author who make me weep, says Horace,
must first weep himself. In reality, no man can paint a well which
he doth not feel while he is painting it; nor do I doubt, but that the
most pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears. In the
same manner it is with the ridiculous. I am convinced I never make my
reader laugh heartily but where I have laughed before him; unless it
should happen at any time, that instead of laughing with me he
should be inclined to laugh at me. Perhaps this may have been the case
at some passages in this chapter, from which apprehension I will
here put an end to it.
Chapter 2
Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed, which Mr. Jones met
with in his walk with the Man of the Hill
Aurora now first opened her casement, Anglice the day began to
break, when walked forth in company with the stranger, and mounted
Mazard Hill; of which they had no sooner gained the summit than one of
the most noble prospects in the world presented itself to their
view, and which we would likewise present to the reader, but for two
reasons: we despair of making those who have seen this prospect admire
our description; secondly, we very much doubt whether who have not
seen it would understand it.
Jones stood for some minutes fixed in one posture, and directing his
eyes towards the south; upon which the old gentleman asked, he was
looking at with so much attention? "Alas! sir," answered he with a
sigh, was endeavouring to trace out my own journey hither. Good
heavens! what a distance is Gloucester from us! What a vast track of
land be between me and my own home!"- "Ay, ay, young gentleman,"
cries the other, "and your sighing, from what you love better your own
home, or I am mistaken. I perceive now the object of your
contemplation is not within your sight, and yet I fancy you have
pleasure in looking that way. "Jones answered with a smile, "I find,
old friend, you have not yet forgot the sensations of your youth. I my
thoughts were employed as you have guessed."
They now walked to that part of the hill which looks to the
north-west, and which hangs a vast and extensive wood. Here they no
sooner arrived than they heard at a distance the most violent
screams of a woman, proceeding from the wood below them. Jones
listened a moment, and then, without saying a word to his companion
(for indeed the occasion seemed sufficiently pressing), ran, or rather
slid, down the hill, and without the least apprehension or concern for
his own safety, made directly to the thicket, whence the sound had
issued.
He had not entered far into the wood before he beheld a most
shocking sight indeed, a woman stript half naked, under the hands of a
ruffian, who had put his garter round her neck, and was endeavouring
to draw her up to a tree. Jones asked no questions at this interval,
but fell instantly upon the villain, and made such good use of his
trusty oaken stick that he laid him sprawling on the ground before
he could defend himself, indeed almost before he knew he was attacked;
nor did he cease the prosecution of his blows till the woman herself
begged him to forbear, saying, she believed he had sufficiently done
his business.
The poor wretch then fell upon her knees to Jones, and gave him a
thousand thanks for her deliverance. He presently lifted her up, and
told her he was highly pleased with the extraordinary accident which
had sent him thither for her relief, where it was so improbable she
should find any; adding, that Heaven seemed to have designed him as
the happy instrument of her protection. "Nay," answered she, "I
could almost conceive you to be some good angel; and, to say the
truth, you look more like an angel than a man in my eye." Indeed he
was a charming figure; and if a very fine person, and a most comely
set of features, adorned with youth, health, strength, freshness,
spirit, and good-nature, can make a man resemble an angel, he
certainly had that resemblance.
The redeemed captive had not altogether so much of the human-angelic
species: she seemed to be at least of the middle age, nor had her face
much appearance of beauty; but her cloaths being torn from all the
upper part of her body, her breasts, which were well formed and
extremely white, attracted the eyes of her deliverer, and for a few
moments they stood silent, and gazing at each other; till the
ruffian on the ground beginning to move, Jones took the garter which
had been intended for another purpose, and bound both his hands behind
him. And now, on contemplating his face, he discovered, greatly to his
surprize, and perhaps not a little to his satisfaction, this very
person to be no other than ensign Northerton. Nor had the ensign
forgotten his former antagonist, whom he knew the moment he came to
himself. His surprize was equal to that of Jones; but I conceive his
pleasure was rather less on this occasion.
Jones helped Northerton upon his legs, and then looking him
stedfastly in the face, "I fancy, sir," said he, "you did not expect
to meet me any more in this world, and I confess I had as little
expectation to find you here. However, fortune, I see, hath brought us
once more together, and hath given me satisfaction for the injury I
have received, even without my own knowledge."
"It is very much like a man of honour, indeed," answered Northerton,
"to take satisfaction by knocking a man down behind his back.
Neither am I capable of giving you satisfaction here, as I have no
sword; but if you dare behave like a gentleman, let us go where I
can furnish myself with one, and I will do by you as a man of honour
ought."
"Doth it become such a villain as you are," cries Jones, "to
contaminate the name of honour by assuming it? But I shall waste no
time in discourse with you. justice requires satisfaction of you
now, and shall have it." Then turning to the woman, he asked her, if
she was near her home; or if not, whether she was acquainted with
any house in the neighbourhood, where she might procure herself some
decent cloaths, in order to proceed to a justice of the peace.
She answered she was an entire stranger in that part of the world.
Jones then recollecting himself, said, he had a friend near who
would direct them; indeed, he wondered at his not following; but, in
fact, the good Man of the Hill, when our heroe departed, sat himself
down on the brow, where, though he had a gun in his hand, he with
great patience and unconcern had attended the issue.
Jones then stepping without the wood, perceived the old man
sitting as we have just described him; he presently exerted his utmost
agility, and with surprizing expedition ascended the hill.
The old man advised him to carry the woman to Upton, which, he said,
was the nearest town, and there he would be sure of furnishing her
with all manner of conveniences. Jones having received his direction
to the place, took his leave of the Man of the Hill, and, desiring him
to direct Partridge the same way, returned hastily to the wood.
Our heroe, at his departure to make this enquiry of his friend,
had considered, that as the ruffian's hands were tied behind him, he
was incapable of executing any wicked purposes on the poor woman.
Besides, he knew he should not be beyond the reach of her voice, and
could return soon enough to prevent any mischief. He had moreover
declared to the villain, that if he attempted the least insult, he
would be himself immediately the executioner of vengeance on him.
But Jones unluckily forgot, that though the hands of Northerton were
tied, his legs were at liberty; nor did he lay the least injunction on
the prisoner that he should not make what use of these he pleased.
Northerton therefore, having given no parole of that kind, thought
he might without any breach of honour depart; not being obliged, as he
imagined, by any rules, to wait for a formal discharge. He therefore
took up his legs, which were at liberty, and walked off through the
wood, which favoured his retreat; nor did the woman, whose eyes were
perhaps rather turned toward her deliverer, once think of his
escape, or give herself any concern or trouble to prevent it.
Jones therefore, at his return, found the woman alone. He would have
spent some time in searching for Northerton, but she would not
permit him; earnestly entreating that he would accompany her to the
town whither they had been directed. "As to the fellow's escape," said
she, "it gives me no uneasiness; for philosophy and Christianity
both preach up forgiveness of injuries. But for you, sir, I am
concerned at the trouble I give you; nay, indeed, my nakedness may
well make me ashamed to look you in the face; and if it was not for
the sake of your protection, I should wish to go alone."
Jones offered her his coat; but, I know not for what reason, she
absolutely refused the most earnest solicitations to accept it. He
then begged her to forget both the causes of her confusion. "With
regard to the former," says he, "I have done no more than my duty in
protecting you; and as for the latter, I will entirely remove it, by
walking before you all the way; for I would not have my eyes offend
you, and I could not answer for my power of resisting the attractive
charms of so much beauty."
Thus our heroe and the redeemed lady walked in the same manner as
Orpheus and Eurydice marched heretofore; but though I cannot believe
that Jones was designedly tempted by his fair one to look behind
him, yet as she frequently wanted his assistance help her over stiles,
and had besides many trips and other accidents, he was often obliged
to turn about. However, he had better fortune than what attended
poor Orpheus, for he brought his companion, or rather follower, safe
into the famous town of Upton.
Chapter 3
The arrival of Mr. Jones with his lady at inn; with a very full
description of the battle of Upton
Though the reader, we doubt not, is very eager to know who this lady
was, and how she fell into the hands of Mr. Northerton, we must beg
him to suspend his curiosity for a short time, as we are obliged,
for some very good reasons which hereafter perhaps he may guess, to
delay his satisfaction a little longer.
Mr. Jones and his fair companion no sooner entered the town, than
