worst that can
be said against me is, that I have remembered my catechism, and taken
all possible pains 'to learn and labour truly, to get my living, and
do my duty in that state of life, to which it has pleased Providence to
call me.'"

"I have often heard," answered I, "that there is honour among thieves; I
am happy to learn from you, that there is also religion: your baptismal
sponsors must be proud of so diligent a godson."

"They ought to be, Sir," replied Mr. Jonson, "for I gave them the first
specimens of my address; the story is long, but if you ever give me an
opportunity, I will relate it."

"Thank you," said I; "meanwhile I must wish you good morning: your
road now lies to the right. I return you my best thanks for your
condescension, in accompanying so undistinguished an individual as
myself."

"Oh, never mention it, your honour," rejoined Mr. Jonson; "I am always
too happy to walk with a gentleman of your 'common sense.' Farewell,
Sir; may we meet again."

So saying, Mr. Jonson struck into his new road, and we parted. [Note: If
any one should think this sketch from nature exaggerated, I refer him to
the "Memoirs of James Hardy Vaux."]

I went home, musing on my adventure, and delighted with my adventurer.
When I was about three paces from the door of my home, I was accosted,
in a most pitiful tone, by a poor old beggar, apparently in the last
extreme of misery and disease. Notwithstanding my political economy, I
was moved into alms-giving, by a spectacle so wretched. I put my hand
into my pocket, my purse was gone; and, on searching the other, lo--my
handkerchief, my pocket-book, and a gold bracelet, which had belonged to
Madame D'Anville, had vanished too.

One does not keep company with men of two virtues, and receive
compliments upon one's common sense for nothing!

The beggar still continued to importune me. "Give him some food and half
a crown," said I, to my landlady. Two hours afterwards, she came up to
me--"Oh, Sir! my silver tea-pot--that villain, the beggar!"

A light flashed upon me--"Ah, Mr. Job Jonson! Mr. Job Jonson!" cried I,
in an indescribable rage; "out of my sight, woman! out of my sight!"
I stopped short; my speech failed me. Never tell me that shame is the
companion of guilt--the sinful knave is never so ashamed of himself as
is the innocent fool who suffers by him.

CHAPTER LXX.

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, And follow all that peace
disdains to seek.--