will own that it takes a great deal to rouse me.
But I do consider the grief and tears (when justly caused) of my dearest
friends, to be a great deal to rouse me.

CHAPTER XLVII

JEREMY IN DANGER

Nothing very long abides, as the greatest of all writers (in whose
extent I am for ever lost in raptured wonder, and yet for ever quite at
home, as if his heart were mine, although his brains so different), in a
word as Mr. William Shakespeare, in every one of his works insists, with
a humoured melancholy. And if my journey to London led to nothing else
of advancement, it took me a hundred years in front of what I might else
have been, by the most simple accident.

Two women were scolding one another across the road, very violently,
both from upstair windows; and I in my hurry for quiet life, and not
knowing what might come down upon me, quickened my step for the nearest
corner. But suddenly something fell on my head; and at first I was
afraid to look, especially as it weighed heavily. But hearing no
breakage of ware, and only the other scold laughing heartily, I turned
me about and espied a book, which one had cast at the other, hoping to
break her window. So I took the book, and tendered it at the door of the
house from which it had fallen; but the watchman came along just then,
and the man at the door declared that it never came from their house,
and begged me to say no more. This I promised readily, never wishing to
make mischief; and I said, 'Good sir, now take the book; I will go on
to my business.' But he answered that he would do no such thing; for
the book alone, being hurled so hard, would convict his people of a lewd
assault; and he begged me, if I would do a good turn, to put the book
under my coat and go. And so I did: in part at least. For I did not put
the book under my coat, but went along with it openly, looking for any
to challenge it. Now this book, so acquired, has been not only the
joy of my younger days, and main delight of my manhood, but also the
comfort, and even the hope, of my now declining years. In a word, it is
next to my Bible to me, and written in equal English; and if you espy
any goodness whatever in my own loose style of writing, you must not
thank me, John Ridd, for it, but the writer who holds the champion's
belt in wit, as I once did in wrestling.

Now, as nothing very long abides, it cannot be expected that a woman's
anger should last very long, if she be at all of the proper so