In Fore Street, Plymouth Dock, Captain Heywood found himself one day walking behind a man, whose shape had so much the appearance of Christian's, that he involuntarily quickened his pace. Both were walking very fast, and the rapid steps behind him having roused the stranger's attention, he suddenly turned his face, looked at Heywood, and immediately ran off. But the face was as much like Christian's as the back, and Heywood, exceedingly excited, ran also. Both ran as fast as they were able, but the stranger had the advantage, and, after making several short turns, disappeared. That Christian should be in England, Heywood considered as highly improbable, though not out of the scope of possibility; for at this time no account of him whatsoever had been received since they parted at Otaheite; at any rate the resemblance, the agitation, and the efforts of the stranger to elude him, were circumstances too strong not to make a deep impression on his mind. At the moment, his first thought was to set about making some further inquiries, but on recollection of the pain and trouble such a discovery must occasion him, he considered it more prudent to let the matter drop; but the circumstance was frequently called to his memory for the remainder of his life. [40] This Nobbs is probably one of those half-witted persons who fancy they have received a _call_ to preach nonsense--some cobbler escaped from his stall, or tailor from his shopboard. Kitty Quintal's cant phrase--'we want food for our souls,' and praying at meals for 'spiritual nourishment,' smack not a little of the jargon of the inferior caste of evangelicals. Whoever this pastoral drone may be, it is but too evident that the preservation of the innocence, simplicity, and happiness of these amiable people, is intimately connected with his speedy removal from the island. [41] Well may Adams have sought for rules for his little society in a book, which contains the foundation of the civil and religious policy of two-thirds of the human race,--in that wonderful book, into whose inspired pages the afflicted never seek for consolation in vain. Millions of examples attest this truth. 'There is no incident in _Robinson Crusoe_,' observes a writer in a critical journal, 'told in language more natural and affecting, than Robert Knox's accidental discovery of a Bible, in the midst of the Candian dominions of Ceylon. His previous despondency from the death of his father, his only friend and companion, whose grave he had but just dug with his own hands, "being now," as he says, "left desolate, sick, and in captivity,"--his agitation, joy, and even terror, on meeting with a book he had for such a length of time not seen, nor hoped to see--his anxiety lest he should fail to procure it--and the comfort, when procured, which it afforded him in his affliction--all are told in Buch a strain of true piety and genuine simplicity as cannot fail to interest and affect every reader of sensibility.'