"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.