Chapter x.

In which our travellers meet with a very extraordinary adventure.

Just as Jones and his friend came to the end of their dialogue in the

preceding chapter, they arrived at the bottom of a very steep hill.

Here Jones stopt short, and directing his eyes upwards, stood for a

while silent. At length he called to his companion, and said,

“Partridge, I wish I was at the top of this hill; it must certainly

afford a most charming prospect, especially by this light; for the

solemn gloom which the moon casts on all objects, is beyond expression

beautiful, especially to an imagination which is desirous of

cultivating melancholy ideas.”--“Very probably,” answered Partridge;

“but if the top of the hill be properest to produce melancholy

thoughts, I suppose the bottom is the likeliest to produce merry ones,

and these I take to be much the better of the two. I protest you have

made my blood run cold with the very mentioning the top of that

mountain; which seems to me to be one of the highest in the world. No,

no, if we look for anything, let it be for a place under ground, to

screen ourselves from the frost.”--“Do so,” said Jones; “let it be but

within hearing of this place, and I will hallow to you at my return

back.”--“Surely, sir, you are not mad,” said Partridge.--“Indeed, I

am,” answered Jones, “if ascending this hill be madness; but as you

complain so much of the cold already, I would have you stay below. I

will certainly return to you within an hour.”--“Pardon me, sir,” cries

Partridge; “I have determined to follow you wherever you go.” Indeed

he was now afraid to stay behind; for though he was coward enough in

all respects, yet his chief fear was that of ghosts, with which the

present time of night, and the wildness of the place, extremely well

suited.

At this instant Partridge espied a glimmering light through some

trees, which seemed very near to them. He immediately cried out in a

rapture, “Oh, sir! Heaven hath at last heard my prayers, and hath

brought us to a house; perhaps it may be an inn. Let me beseech you,

sir, if you have any compassion either for me or yourself, do not

despise the goodness of Providence, but let us go directly to yon

light. Whether it be a public-house or no, I am sure if they be

Christians that dwell there, they will not refuse a little house-room

to persons in our miserable condition.” Jones at length yielded to the

earnest supplications of Partridge, and both together made directly

towards the place whence the light issued.

They soon arrived at the door of this house, or cottage, for it might

be called either, without much impropriety. Here Jones knocked several

times without receiving any answer from within; at which Partridge,

whose head was full of nothing but of ghosts, devils, witches, and

such like, began to tremble, crying, “Lord, have mercy upon us! surely

the people must be all dead. I can see no light neither now, and yet I

am certain I saw a candle burning but a moment before.--Well! I have

heard of such things.”--“What hast thou heard of?” said Jones. “The

people are either fast asleep, or probably, as this is a lonely place,

are afraid to open their door.” He then began to vociferate pretty

loudly, and at last an old woman, opening an upper casement, asked,

Who they were, and what they wanted? Jones answered, They were

travellers who had lost their way, and having seen a light in the

window, had been led thither in hopes of finding some fire to warm

themselves. “Whoever you are,” cries the woman, “you have no business

here; nor shall I open the door to any one at this time of night.”

Partridge, whom the sound of a human voice had recovered from his

fright, fell to the most earnest supplications to be admitted for a

few minutes to the fire, saying, he was almost dead with the cold; to

which fear had indeed contributed equally with the frost. He assured

her that the gentleman who spoke to her was one of the greatest

squires in the country; and made use of every argument, save one,

which Jones afterwards effectually added; and this was, the promise of

half-a-crown;--a bribe too great to be resisted by such a person,

especially as the genteel appearance of Jones, which the light of the

moon plainly discovered to her, together with his affable behaviour,

had entirely subdued those apprehensions of thieves which she had at

first conceived. She agreed, therefore, at last, to let them in; where

Partridge, to his infinite joy, found a good fire ready for his

reception.

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.