TOM JONES
PART 24
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.
BOOK IX. — CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i. — Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not, write such histories as this.
Among
other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute these several
introductory chapters, I have considered them as a kind of mark or stamp, which
may hereafter enable a very indifferent reader to distinguish what is true and
genuine in this historic kind of writing, from what is false and counterfeit.
Indeed, it seems likely that some such mark may shortly become necessary, since
the favourable reception which two or three authors have lately procured for
their works of this nature from the public, will probably serve as an
encouragement to many others to undertake the like. Thus a swarm of foolish
novels and monstrous romances will be produced, either to the great
impoverishing of booksellers, or to the great loss of time and depravation of morals
in the reader; nay, often to the spreading of scandal and calumny, and to the
prejudice of the characters of many worthy and honest people.
I question
not but the ingenious author of the Spectator was principally induced to prefix
Greek and Latin mottos to every paper, from the same consideration of guarding
against the pursuit of those scribblers, who having no talents of a writer but
what is taught by the writing-master, are yet nowise afraid nor ashamed to
assume the same titles with the greatest genius, than their good brother in the
fable was of braying in the lion’s skin.
By the
device therefore of his motto, it became impracticable for any man to presume
to imitate the Spectators, without understanding at least one sentence in the
learned languages. In the same manner I have now secured myself from the
imitation of those who are utterly incapable of any degree of reflection, and
whose learning is not equal to an essay.
I would
not be here understood to insinuate, that the greatest merit of such historical
productions can ever lie in these introductory chapters; but, in fact, those
parts which contain mere narrative only, afford much more encouragement to the
pen of an imitator, than those which are composed of observation and
reflection. Here I mean such imitators as Rowe was of Shakespear, or as Horace
hints some of the Romans were of Cato, by bare feet and sour faces.
To invent
good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very rare talents, and yet I
have observed few persons who have scrupled to aim at both: and if we examine
the romances and novels with which the world abounds, I think we may fairly
conclude, that most of the authors would not have attempted to show their teeth
(if the expression may be allowed me) in any other way of writing; nor could
indeed have strung together a dozen sentences on any other subject whatever.
Scribimus indocti doctique passim,[*]
[*] —Each desperate blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the trade of every living wight.—FRANCIS.
may be more
truly said of the historian and biographer, than of any other species of
writing; for all the arts and sciences (even criticism itself) require some
little degree of learning and knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may perhaps be thought
an exception; but then it demands numbers, or something like numbers: whereas,
to the composition of novels and romances, nothing is necessary but paper,
pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using them. This, I conceive, their
productions show to be the opinion of the authors themselves: and this must be
the opinion of their readers, if indeed there be any such.
Hence we
are to derive that universal contempt which the world, who always denominate
the whole from the majority, have cast on all historical writers who do not draw
their materials from records. And it is the apprehension of this contempt that
hath made us so cautiously avoid the term romance, a name with which we might
otherwise have been well enough contented. Though, as we have good authority
for all our characters, no less indeed than the vast authentic doomsday-book of
nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our labours have sufficient title to the name
of history. Certainly they deserve some distinction from those works, which one
of the wittiest of men regarded only as proceeding from a pruritus, or
indeed rather from a looseness of the brain.
But
besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful as well as
entertaining of all kinds of writing, there is just reason to apprehend, that
by encouraging such authors we shall propagate much dishonour of another kind;
I mean to the characters of many good and valuable members of society; for the
dullest writers, no more than the dullest companions, are always inoffensive.
They have both enough of language to be indecent and abusive. And surely if the
opinion just above cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so nastily
derived should be nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make others so.
To prevent
therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of leisure, of letters, and
of the liberty of the press, especially as the world seems at present to be
more than usually threatened with them, I shall here venture to mention some
qualifications, every one of which are in a pretty high degree necessary to this
order of historians.
The first
is, genius, without a full vein of which no study, says Horace, can avail us.
By genius I would understand that power or rather those powers of the mind,
which are capable of penetrating into all things within our reach and
knowledge, and of distinguishing their essential differences. These are no
other than invention and judgment; and they are both called by the collective
name of genius, as they are of those gifts of nature which we bring with us
into the world. Concerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very
great errors; for by invention, I believe, is generally understood a creative
faculty, which would indeed prove most romance writers to have the highest
pretensions to it; whereas by invention is really meant no more (and so the
word signifies) than discovery, or finding out; or to explain it at large, a
quick and sagacious penetration into the true essence of all the objects of our
contemplation. This, I think, can rarely exist without the concomitancy of
judgment; for how we can be said to have discovered the true essence of two
things, without discerning their difference, seems to me hard to conceive. Now
this last is the undisputed province of judgment, and yet some few men of wit
have agreed with all the dull fellows in the world in representing these two to
have been seldom or never the property of one and the same person.
But though
they should be so, they are not sufficient for our purpose, without a good
share of learning; for which I could again cite the authority of Horace, and of
many others, if any was necessary to prove that tools are of no service to a
workman, when they are not sharpened by art, or when he wants rules to direct
him in his work, or hath no matter to work upon. All these uses are supplied by
learning; for nature can only furnish us with capacity; or, as I have chose to
illustrate it, with the tools of our profession; learning must fit them for
use, must direct them in it, and, lastly, must contribute part at least of the
materials. A competent knowledge of history and of the belles-lettres is here
absolutely necessary; and 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
in 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 controuls 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 will make me weep, says Horace, must first weep himself. In reality, no man
can paint a distress 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 ii. — 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 Jones
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: first, we despair of making those who have
seen this prospect admire our description; secondly, we very much doubt whether
those 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, What he was looking at with so much
attention? “Alas! sir,” answered he with a sigh, “I was endeavouring to trace
out my own journey hither. Good heavens! what a distance is Gloucester from us!
What a vast track of land must be between me and my own home!”—“Ay, ay, young
gentleman,” cries the other, “and by your sighing, from what you love better
than 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 a 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 own 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
over a vast and extensive wood. Here they were 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
conveniencies. 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 to 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.
To be continued
