er my
ill-luck to a deluded neighbor.

I say the imitation is so curiously successful, the stamping, milling of
the edges, lettering, and so forth, are so neat, that even now, when
my eyes are open, I cannot see the cheat. How did those experts, the
cabman, and pikeman, and tradesman, come to find it out? How do they
happen to be more familiar with pewter and silver than I am? You see, I
put out of the question another point which I might argue without fear
of defeat, namely, the cabman's statement that I gave him this bad piece
of money. Suppose every cabman who took me a shilling fare were to drive
away and return presently with a bad coin and an assertion that I had
given it to him! This would be absurd and mischievous; an encouragement
of vice amongst men who already are subject to temptations. Being homo,
I think if I were a cabman myself, I might sometimes stretch a furlong
or two in my calculation of distance. But don't come TWICE, my man, and
tell me I have given you a bad half-crown. No, no! I have paid once like
a gentleman, and once is enough. For instance, during the Exhibition
time I was stopped by an old country-woman in black, with a huge
umbrella, who, bursting into tears, said to me, "Master, be this the
way to Harlow, in Essex?" "This the way to Harlow? This is the way to
Exeter, my good lady, and you will arrive there if you walk about 170
miles in your present direction," I answered courteously, replying to
the old creature. Then she fell a-sobbing as though her old heart would
break. She had a daughter a-dying at Harlow. She had walked already
"vifty dree mile that day." Tears stopped the rest of her discourse, so
artless, genuine, and abundant that--I own the truth--I gave her, in
I believe genuine silver, a piece of the exact size of that coin which
forms the subject of this essay. Well. About a month since, near to the
very spot where I had met my old woman, I was accosted by a person in
black, a person in a large draggled cap, a person with a huge umbrella,
who was beginning, "I say, Master, can you tell me if this be the way to
Har--" but here she stopped. Her eyes goggled wildly. She started from
me, as Macbeth turned from Macduff. She would not engage with me. It
was my old friend of Harlow, in Essex. I dare say she has informed many
other people of her daughter's illness, and her anxiety to be put upon
the right way to Harlow. Not long since a very gentleman-like man,
Major Delamere let us c