d make a noise. It is true my friend Sir Roger tells them,
_That it is my way_, and that I am only a philosopher; but this will not
satisfy them. They think there is more in me than he discovers[148], and
that I do not hold my tongue for nothing.

For these and other reasons I shall set out for London to-morrow, having
found by experience that the country is not a place for a person of my
temper, who does not love jollity, and what they call good
neighbourhood[149]. A man that is out of humour when an unexpected guest
breaks in upon him, and does not care for sacrificing an afternoon to
every chance-comer; that will be the master of his own time, and the
pursuer of his own inclinations, makes but a very unsociable figure in
this kind of life. I shall therefore retire into the town, if I may make
use of that phrase, and get into the crowd again as fast as I can, in
order to be alone. I can there raise what speculations I please upon
others, without being observed myself, and at the same time enjoy all the
advantages of company with all the privileges of solitude. In the
meanwhile, to finish the month, and conclude these my rural speculations,
I shall here insert a letter from my friend Will Honeycomb, who has not
lived a month for these forty years out of the smoke of London, and
rallies me after his way upon my country life.

DEAR SPEC,

I suppose this letter will find thee[150] picking of daisies, or
smelling to a lock of hay, or passing away thy time in some
innocent country diversion of the like nature. I have however
orders from the club to summon thee up to town, being all of us
cursedly afraid thou wilt not be able to relish our company, after
thy conversations with Moll White and Will Wimble. Prithee do not
send us up any more stories of a cock and a bull, nor frighten the
town with spirits and witches. Thy speculations begin to smell
confoundedly of woods and meadows. If thou dost not come up
quickly, we shall conclude that thou art in love with one of Sir
Roger's dairymaids. Service to the Knight. Sir Andrew is grown the
cock of the club since he left us, and if he does not return
quickly will make every mother's son of us commonwealth's men[151].

Dear Spec,
Thine eternally,
WILL HONEYCOMB.

C.

FOOTNOTES:

[143] _Spring._ Start from its hiding-place.

[144] _Particular._ Peculiar.

[145] _White witch._ One wh