I was again nearly forgetting myself, affronted at the idea of sixpence being offered to me; but I recovered myself, saying, as I took it, "A poor labouring man, sir."

"What, with those hands?" said he, looking at them as I took the money; and then looking at my face, he continued, "I think we have met before, my lad—I cannot be sure; you know best—I am a Bow Street magistrate."

In a moment, I remembered that he was the very magistrate before whom I had twice made my appearance. I coloured deeply, and made no reply.

"Well, my lad, I'm not on my bench now, and this sixpence you have earned honestly. I trust you will continue in the right path. Be careful—I have sharp eyes." So saying, he rode off.

I never felt more mortified. It was evident that he considered me as one who was acting a part for unworthy purposes; perhaps one of the swell mob or a flash pickpocket rusticating until some hue and cry was over. "Well, well," thought I, as I took up a lump of dirt and rubbed over my then white hands, "it is my fate to be believed when I deceive, and to be mistrusted when I am acting honestly;" and I returned to the bench for my bundle, which—was gone. I stared with astonishment. "Is it possible?" thought I. "How dishonest people are! Well, I will not carry another for the present. They might as well have left me my stick." So thinking, and without any great degree of annoyance at the loss, I turned from the bench and walked away, I knew not whither. It was now getting dark, but I quite forgot that it was necessary to look out for a lodging; the fact is, that I had been completely upset by the observations of the magistrate, and the theft of my bundle; and, in a sort of brown study, from which I was occasionally recalled for a moment by stumbling over various obstructions, I continued my walk on the pathway until I was two or three miles away from Brentford. I was within a mile of Hounslow, when I was roused by the groans of some person, and it being now dark I looked round, trying to catch by the ear the direction in which to offer my assistance. They proceeded from the other side of a hedge, and I crawled through, where I found a man lying on the ground, covered with blood about the head, and breathing heavily. I untied his neckcloth, and, as well as I could, examined his condition. I bound his handkerchief round his head, and perceiving that the position in which he was lying was very unfavourable, his head and shoulders being much lower than his body, I was dragging the body round so as to raise those parts, when I heard footsteps and voices. Shortly after, four people burst through the hedge and surrounded me.

"That is him, I'll swear to it," cried an immense stout man, seizing me; "that is the other fellow who attacked me, and ran away. He has come to get off his accomplice, and now we've just nicked them both."

"You are very much mistaken," replied I, "and you have no need to hold me so tight. I heard the man groan, and I came to his assistance."

"That gammon won't do," replied one of them, who was a constable; "you'll come along with us, and we may as well put on the darbies," continued he, producing a pair of handcuffs.

Indignant at the insult, I suddenly broke from him who held me, and darting at the constable, knocked him down, and then took to my heels across the ploughed field. The whole four pursued, but I rather gained upon them, and was in hopes to make my escape. I ran for a gap I perceived in the hedge, and sprang over it, without minding the old adage, of "look before you leap;" for, when on the other side, I found myself in a deep and stagnant pit of water and mud. I sank over head, and with difficulty extricated myself from the mud at the bottom, and when at the surface I was equally embarrassed with the weeds at the top, among which I floundered. In the meantime my pursuers, warned by the loud splash, had paused when they came to the hedge, and perceiving my situation, were at the brink of the pit watching for my coming out. All resistance was useless. I was numbed with cold and exhausted by my struggles, and when I gained the bank I surrendered at discretion.



Chapter LVIII

Worse and worse—If out of gaol, it will be to go out of the world—I am resolved to take my secret with me.

The handcuffs were now put on without resistance on my part, and I was led away to Hounslow by the two constables, while the others returned to secure the wounded man. On my arrival I was thrust into the clink, or lock-up house, as the magistrates would not meet that evening, and there I was left to my reflections. Previously, however, to this, I was searched, and my money, amounting, as I before stated, to upwards of twenty pounds, taken from me by the constables, and what I had quite forgotten, a diamond solitaire ring, which I had intended to have left with my other bijouterie for Timothy, but in my hurry, when I left London, I had allowed to remain upon my finger. The gaol was a square building, with two unglazed windows secured with thick iron bars, and the rain having beat in, it was more like a pound for cattle, for it was not even paved, and the ground was three or four inches deep in mud. There was no seat in it, and there I was the whole of the night walking up and down shivering in my wet clothes, in a state of mind almost bordering upon insanity. Reflect upon what was likely to happen, I could not. I only ran over the past. I remembered what I had been, and felt cruelly the situation I then was in. Had I deserved it? I thought not. "Oh! father—father!" exclaimed I, bitterly, "see to what your son is brought—handcuffed as a felon! God have mercy on my brain, for I feel that it is wandering. Father, father—alas, I have none!—had you left me at the asylum, without any clue, or hopes of a clue, to my hereafter being reclaimed, it would have been a kindness; I should then have been happy and contented in some obscure situation; but you raised hopes only to prostrate them—and imaginings which have led to my destruction. Sacred is the duty of a parent, and heavy must be the account of those who desert their children, and are required by Heaven to render up an account of the important trust. Couldst thou, oh! father, but now behold thy son! God Almighty!—but I will not curse you, father! No, no"—and I burst into tears, as I leant against the damp walls of the prison.

The day at last broke, and the sun rose, and poured his beaming rays through the barred windows. I looked at myself, and was shocked at my appearance; my smock-frock was covered with black mud, my clothes were equally disfigured. I had lost my hat when in the water, and I felt the dry mud cracking on my cheeks. I put my hands up to my head, and I pulled a quantity of duck-weed out of my matted and tangled hair. I thought of the appearance I should make when summoned before the magistrates, and how much it would go against me. "Good God!" thought I, "who, of all the world of fashion—who, of all those who once caught my salutation so eagerly—who, of all those worldly-minded girls, who smiled upon me but one short twelve months since, would imagine, or believe, that Japhet Newland could ever have sunk so low—and how has he so fallen? Alas! because he would be honest, and had strength of mind enough to adhere to his resolution. Well, well, God's will be done; I care not for life; but still an ignominious death—to go out of the world like a dog, and that too without finding out who is my father." And I put my fettered hands up and pressed my burning brow, and remained in a sort of apathetic sullen mood, until I was startled by the opening of the door, and the appearance of the constables. They led me out among a crowd, through which, with difficulty, they could force their way, and followed by the majority of the population of Hounslow, who made their complimentary remarks upon the footpad, I was brought before the magistrates. The large stout man was then called up to give his evidence, and deposed as follows:—

"That he was walking to Hounslow from Brentford, whither he had been to purchase some clothes, when he was accosted by two fellows in smock-frocks, one of whom carried a bundle in his left hand. They asked him what o'clock it was; and he took out his watch to tell them, when he received a blow from the one with the bundle (this one, sir, said he, pointing to me), on the back of his head; at the same time the other (the wounded man who was now in custody) snatched his watch.—That at the time he had purchased his clothes at Brentford, he had also bought a bag of shot, fourteen pounds weight, which he had, for the convenience of carrying, tied up with the clothes in the bundle, and perceiving that he was about to be robbed, he had swung his bundle round his head, and with the weight of the shot, had knocked down the man who had snatched at his watch. He then turned to the other (me) who backed from him, and struck at him with his stick. (The stick was here produced, and when I cast my eye on it, I was horrified to perceive that it was the very stick which I had bought of the Jew, for three-pence, to carry my bundle on.) He had closed in with me, and was wresting the stick out of my hand, when the other man, who had recovered his legs, again attacked him with another stick. In the scuffle he had obtained my stick, and I had wrested from him his bundle, with which, as soon as he had knocked down my partner, I ran off. That he beat my partner until he was insensible, and then found that I had left my own bundle, which in the affray I had thrown on one side." He then made the best of his way to Hounslow to give the information. His return and finding me with the other man is already known to the readers.

The next evidence who came forward was the Jew, from whom I had bought the clothes and sold my own. He narrated all that had occurred, and swore to the clothes in the bundle left by the footpad, and to the stick which he had sold to me. The constable then produced the money found about my person and the diamond solitaire ring, stating my attempt to escape when I was seized. The magistrate then asked me whether I had anything to say in my defence, cautioning me not to commit myself.

I replied, that I was innocent; that it was true that I had sold my own clothes, and had purchased those of the Jew, as well as the stick: that I had been asked to hold the horse of a gentleman when sitting on a bench opposite a public-house, and that some one had stolen my bundle and my stick. That I had walked on towards Hounslow, and, in assisting a fellow-creature, whom I certainly had considered as having been attacked by others, I had merely yielded to the common feelings of humanity—that I was seized when performing that duty, and should willingly have accompanied them to the magistrate's, had not they attempted to put on handcuffs, at which my feelings were roused, and I knocked the constable down, and made my attempt to escape.

"Certainly, a very ingenious defence," observed one of the magistrates; "pray where—!" At this moment the door opened, and in came the very gentleman, the magistrate at Bow Street, whose horse I had held. "Good morning, Mr Norman, you have just come in time to render us your assistance. We have a very deep hand to deal with here, or else a very injured person, I cannot tell which. Do us the favour to look over these informations and the defence of the prisoner, previous to our asking him any more questions."

The Bow Street magistrate complied, and then turned to me, but I was so disguised with mud, that he could not recognise me. "You are the gentleman, sir, who asked me to hold your horse," said I. "I call you to witness, that that part of my assertion is true."

"I do now recollect that you are the person," replied he, "and you may recollect the observation I made, relative to your hands, when you stated that you were a poor countryman."

"I do, sir, perfectly," replied I.

"Perhaps then you will inform us by what means a diamond ring and twenty pounds in money came into your possession?"

"Honestly, sir," replied I.

"Will you state, as you are a poor countryman, with whom you worked last—what parish you belong to—and whom you can bring forward in proof of good character?"

"I certainly shall not answer those questions," replied I; "if I chose I might so do, and satisfactorily."

"What is your name?"

"I cannot answer that question either, sir," replied I.

"I told you yesterday that we had met before; was it not at Bow Street?"

"I am surprised at your asking a question, sir, from the bench, to which, if I answered, the reply might affect me considerably. I am here in a false position, and cannot well help myself. I have no friends that I choose to call, for I should blush that they should see me in such a state, and under such imputations."

"Your relations, young man, would certainly not be backward. Who is your father?"

"My father!" exclaimed I, raising up my hands and eyes. "My father! Merciful God!—if he could only see me here—see to what he has reduced his unhappy son," and I covered my face, and sobbed convulsively.



Chapter LIX

By the committing of magisterial mistakes I am personally and penally committed—I prepare for my trial by calling in the assistance of the tailor and the perfumer—I am resolved to die like a gentleman.

"It is indeed a pity, a great pity," observed one of the magistrates, "such a fine young man, and evidently, by his demeanour and language, well brought up; but I believe," said he turning to the others, "we have but one course; what say you, Mr Norman?"

"I am afraid that my opinion coincides with yours, and that the grand jury will not hesitate to find a bill, as the case stands at present. Let us, however, ask the witness Armstrong one question. Do you positively swear to this young man being one of the persons who attacked you?"

"It was not very light at the time, sir, and both the men had their faces smutted; but it was a person just his size, and dressed in the ame way, as near as I can recollect."

"You cannot, therefore, swear to his identity?"

"No, sir; but to the best of my knowledge and belief, he is the man."

"Take that evidence down as important," said Mr Norman, "it will assist him at his trial."

The evidence was taken down, and then my commitment to the county gaol was made out. I was placed in a cart, between two constables, and driven off. On my arrival I was put into a cell, and my money returned to me, but the ring was detained, that it might be advertised. At last, I was freed from the manacles, and when the prison dress was brought to me to put on, in lieu of my own clothes, I requested leave from the gaoler to wash myself, which was granted; and, strange to say, so unaccustomed had I been to such a state of filth, that I felt a degree of happiness, as I returned from the pump in the prison-yard, and I put on the prison dress almost with pleasure; for degrading as it was, at all events, it was new and clean. I then returned to my cell and was left to my meditations.

Now that my examination and committal were over, I became much more composed, and was able to reflect coolly. I perceived the great danger of my situation—how strong the evidence was against me—and how little chance I had of escape. As for sending to Lord Windermear, Mr Masterton, or those who formerly were acquainted with me, my pride forbade it—I would sooner have perished on the scaffold. Besides, their evidence as to my former situation in life, although it would perhaps satisfactorily account for my possession of the money and the ring, and for my disposing of my portmanteau—all strong presumptive evidence against me—would not destroy the evidence brought forward as to the robbery, which appeared to be so very conclusive to the bench of magistrates. My only chance appeared to be in the footpad, who had not escaped, acknowledging that I was not his accomplice, and I felt how much I was interested in his recovery, as well as in his candour. The assizes I knew were near at hand, and I anxiously awaited the return of the gaoler, to make a few inquiries. At night he looked through the small square cut out of the top of the door of the cell, for it was his duty to go his rounds and ascertain if all his prisoners were safe. I then asked him if I might be allowed to make a few purchases, such as pens, ink, and paper, &c. As I was not committed to prison in punishment, but on suspicion, this was not denied, although it would have been to those who were condemned to imprisonment and hard labour for their offences; and he volunteered to procure them for me the next morning. I then wished him a good-night, and threw myself on my mattress. Worn out with fatigue and distress of mind, I slept soundly, without dreaming, until daylight the next morning. As I awoke, and my scattered senses were returning, I had a confused idea that there was something which weighed heavily on my mind, which sleep had banished from my memory. "What is it?" thought I; and as I opened my eyes, so did I remember that I, Japhet Newland, who but two nights before was pressing the down of luxury in the same habitation as Lady de Clare and her lovely child, was now on a mattress in the cell of a prison, under a charge which threatened me with an ignominious death. I rose, and sat on the bed, for I had not thrown off my clothes. My first thoughts were directed to Timothy. Should I write to him? No, no! why should I make him miserable?

If I was to suffer, it should be under an assumed name. But what name? Here I was interrupted by the gaoler, who opened the door, and desired me to roll up my mattress and bed-clothes, that they might, as was the custom, be taken out of the cell during the day.

My first inquiry was, if the man who had been so much hurt was in the gaol.

"You mean your 'complice," replied the gaoler. "Yes, he is here, and has recovered his senses. The doctor says he will do very well."

"Has he made any confession?" inquired I.

The gaoler made no reply.

"I ask that question," continued I, "because if he acknowledges who was his accomplice, I shall be set at liberty."

"Very likely," replied the man, sarcastically; "the fact is, there is no occasion for king's evidence in this case, or you might get off by crossing the water; so you must trust to your luck. The grand jury meet to-day, and I will let you know whether a true bill is found against you or not."

"What is the name of the other man?" inquired I.

"Well, you are a good un to put a face upon a matter, I will say. You would almost persuade me, with that innocent look of yours, that you know nothing about the business."

"Nor do I," replied I.

"You will be fortunate if you can prove as much, that's all."

"Still, you have not answered my question; what is the other man's name?"

"Well," replied the gaoler, laughing, "since you are determined I shall tell you, I will. It must be news to you, with a vengeance. His name is Bill Ogle, alias Swamping Bill. I suppose you never heard that name before?"

"I certainly never did," replied I.

"Perhaps you do not know your own name? Yet I can tell it you, for Bill Ogle has blown upon you so far."

"Indeed," replied I; "and what name has he given to me?"

"Why, to do him justice, it wasn't until he saw a copy of the depositions before the magistrates, and heard how you were nabbed in trying to help him off, that he did tell it; and then he said, 'Well, Phil Maddox always was a true un, and I'm mortal sorry that he's in for't, by looking a'ter me.' Now do you know your own name?"

"I certainly do not," replied I.

"Well, did you ever hear of one who went by the name of Phil Maddox?"

"I never did," replied I; "and I am glad that Ogle has disclosed so much."

"Well, I never before met with a man who didn't know his own name, or had the face to say so, and expect to be believed; but never mind, you are right to be cautious, with the halter looking you in the face."

"O God! O God!" exclaimed I, throwing myself on the bedstead, and covering up my face, "give me strength to bear even that, if so it must be."

The gaoler looked at me for a time. "I don't know what to make of him—he puzzles me quite, certainly. Yet it's no mistake."

"It is a mistake," replied I, rising; "but whether the mistake will be found out until too late, is another point. However, it is of little consequence. What have I to live for,—unless to find out who is my father?"

"Find out your father! what's in the wind now? well, it beats my comprehension altogether. But did not you say you wished me to get you something?"

"Yes," replied I; and I gave him some money, with directions to purchase me implements for writing, some scented wax, a tooth-brush, and tooth-powder, eau de cologne, hair-brush and comb, razors, small looking-glass, and various implements for my toilet.

"This is a rum world," said the man, repeating what I asked for, as I put two guineas in his hand. "I've purchased many a article for a prisoner, but never heard of such rattletraps afore; however, that be all the same. You will have them, though what ho de colum is I can't tell, nor dang me if I shall recollect—not poison, be it, for that is not allowed in the prison?"

"No, no," replied I, indulging in momentary mirth at the idea; "you may inquire, and you will find that it's only taken by ladies who are troubled with the vapours." "Now I should ha' thought that you'd have spent your money in the cookshop, which is so much more natural. However, we all have our fancies;" so saying, he quitted the cell, and locked the door.



Chapter LX

I am condemned to be hung by the neck until I am dead, and to go out of the world without finding out who is my father—Afterwards my innocence is made manifest and I am turned adrift a maniac in the high road.

It may appear strange to the reader that I sent for the above-mentioned articles, but habit is second nature, and although two days before, when I set out on my pilgrimage, I had resolved to discard these superfluities, yet now in my distress I felt as if they would comfort me. That evening, after rectifying a few mistakes on the part of the good-tempered gaoler, by writing down what I wanted on the paper which he had procured me, I obtained all that I required.

The next morning, he informed me that the grand jury had found a true bill against me, and that on the Saturday next, the assizes would be held. He also brought me the list of trials, and I found that mine would be one of the last, and would not probably come on until Monday or Tuesday. I requested him to send for a good tailor, as I wished to be dressed in a proper manner, previous to appearing in court. As a prisoner is allowed to go into court in his own clothes instead of the gaol dress, this was consented to, and when the man came, I was very particular in my directions, so much so, that it surprised him. He also procured me the other articles I required to complete my dress, and on Saturday night I had them all ready, for I was resolved that I would at least die as a gentleman.

Sunday passed away, not as it ought to have passed, certainly. I attended prayers, but my thoughts were elsewhere—how, indeed, could it be otherwise? Who can control his thoughts? He may attempt so to do, but the attempt is all that can be made. He cannot command them. I heard nothing, my mind was in a state of gyration, whirling round from one thing to the other, until I was giddy from intensity of feeling.

On Monday morning the gaoler came and asked me whether I would have legal advice. I replied in the negative. "You will be called about twelve o'clock, I hear," continued he; "it is now ten, and there is only one more trial before yours, about the stealing of four geese and half a dozen fowls."

"Good God!" thought I, "and am I mixed up with such deeds as these?" I dressed myself with the utmost care and precision, and never was more successful. My clothes were black, and fitted well. About one o'clock I was summoned by the gaoler, and led between him and another to the court-house, and placed in the dock. At first my eyes swam, and I could distinguish nothing, but gradually I recovered. I looked round, for I had called up my courage. My eyes wandered from the judge to the row of legal gentlemen below him; from them to the well-dressed ladies who sat in the gallery above; behind me I did not look. I had seen enough, and my cheeks burned with shame. At last I looked at my fellow-culprit, who stood beside me, and his eyes at the same time met mine. He was dressed in the gaol clothes, of pepper and salt coarse cloth. He was a rough, vulgar, brutal looking man, but his eye was brilliant, his complexion was dark, and his face was covered with whiskers. "Good heavens," thought I, "who will ever imagine or credit that we have been associates?"

The man stared at me, bit his lip, and smiled with contempt, but made no further remark. The indictment having been read, the clerk of the court cried out, "You, Benjamin Ogle, having heard the charge, say, guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," replied the man, to my astonishment.

"You, Philip Maddox, guilty or not guilty?" I did not answer.

"Prisoner," observed the judge in a mild voice, "you must answer, guilty or not guilty. It is merely a form."

"My lord," replied I, "my name is not Philip Maddox."

"That is the name given in the indictment by the evidence of your fellow-prisoner," observed the judge; "your real name we cannot pretend to know. It is sufficient that you answer to the question of whether you, the prisoner, are guilty or not guilty."

"Not guilty, my lord, most certainly," replied I, placing my hand to my heart, and bowing to him.

The trial proceeded; Armstrong was the principal evidence. To my person he would not swear. The Jew proved my selling my clothes, purchasing those found in the bundle, and the stick, of which Armstrong possessed himself. The clothes I had on at the time of my capture were produced in court. As for Ogle, his case was decisive. We were then called upon for our defence. Ogle's was very short. "He had been accustomed to fits all his life—was walking to Hounslow, and had fallen down in a fit. It must have been somebody else who had committed the robbery and had made off, and he had been picked up in a mistake." This defence appeared to make no other impression than ridicule, and indignation at the barefaced assertion. I was then called on for mine.

"My lord," said I, "I have no defence to make except that which I asserted before the magistrates, that I was performing an act of charity towards a fellow-creature, and was, through that, supposed to be an accomplice."

"Arraigned before so many upon a charge, at the bare accusation of which my blood revolts, I cannot and will not allow those who might prove what my life has been, and the circumstances which induced me to take up the disguise in which I was taken, to appear in my behalf. I am unfortunate, but not guilty. One only chance appears to be open to me, which is, in the candour of the party who now stands by me. If he will say to the court that he ever saw me before, I will submit without murmur to my sentence."

"I'm sorry that you've put that question, my boy," replied the man, "for I have seen you before;" and the wretch chuckled with repressed laughter.

I was so astonished, so thunderstruck with this assertion, that I held own my head, and made no reply. The judge then summed up the evidence to the jury, pointing out to them, that of Ogle's guilt there could be no doubt, and of mine, he was sorry to say, but little. Still they must bear in mind that the witness Armstrong could not swear to my person. The jury, without leaving the box, consulted together a short time, and brought in a verdict of guilty against Benjamin Ogle and Philip Maddox. I heard no more—the judge sentenced us both to execution: he lamented that so young and prepossessing a person as myself should be about to suffer for such an offence: he pointed out the necessity of condign punishment, and gave us no hopes of pardon or clemency. But I heard him not—I did not fall, but I was in a state of stupor. At last, he wound up his sentence by praying us to prepare ourselves for the awful change, by an appeal to that heavenly Father—"Father!" exclaimed I, in a voice which electrified the court, "did you say my father? O God! where is he?" and I fell down in a fit. The handkerchiefs of the ladies were applied to their faces, the whole court were moved, for I had, by my appearance, excited considerable interest, and the judge, with a faltering, subdued voice, desired that the prisoners might be removed.

"Stop one minute, my good fellow," said Ogle, to the gaoler, while others were taking me out of court. "My lord, I've something rather important to say. Why I did not say it before, you shall hear. You are a judge, to condemn the guilty, and release the innocent. We are told that there is no trial like an English jury, but this I say, that many a man is hung for what he never has been guilty of. You have condemned that poor young man to death. I could have prevented it if I had chosen to speak before, but I would not, that I might prove how little there is of justice. He had nothing to do with the robbery—Phil Maddox was the man, and he is not Philip Maddox. He said that he never saw me before, nor do I believe that he ever did. As sure as I shall hang, he is innocent."

"It was but now, that when appealed to by him, you stated that you had seen him before."

"So I did, and I told the truth—I had seen him before. I saw him go to hold the gentleman's horse, but he did not see me. I stole his bundle and his stick, which he left on the bench, and that's how they were found in our possession. Now you have the truth, and you may either acknowledge that there is little justice, by eating your own words, and letting him free, or you may hang him, rather than acknowledge that you are wrong. At all events, his blood will now be on your hands, and not mine. If Phil Maddox had not turned tail, like a coward, I should not have been here; so I tell the truth to save him who was doing me a kind act, and to let him swing who left me in the lurch."

The judge desired that this statement might be taken down, that further inquiry might be made, intimating to the jury, that I should be respited for the present; but of all this I was ignorant. As there was no placing confidence in the assertions of such a man as Ogle, it was considered necessary that he should repeat his assertions at the last hour of his existence, and the gaoler was ordered not to state what had passed to me, as he might excite false hopes.

When I recovered from my fit, I found myself in the gaoler's parlour, and as soon as I was able to walk, I was locked up in a condemned cell. The execution had been ordered to take place on the Thursday, and I had two days to prepare. In the meantime, the greatest interest had been excited with regard to me. My whole appearance so evidently belied the charge, that everyone was in my favour. Ogle was requestioned, and immediately gave a clue for the apprehension of Maddox, who, he said, he hoped would swing by his side.

The gaoler came to me the next day, saying, that some of the magistrates wished to speak with me; but as I had made up my mind not to reveal my former life, my only reply was, "That I begged they would allow me to have my last moments to myself." I recollected Melchior's idea of destiny, and imagined that he was right. "It was my destiny," thought I: and I remained in a state of stupor. The fact was, that I was very ill, my head was heavy, my brain was on fire, and the throbbing of my heart could have been perceived without touching my breast.

I remained on the mattress all day, and all the next night, with my face buried in the clothes! I was too ill to raise my head. On Wednesday morning I felt myself gently pushed on the shoulder by some one; I opened my eyes; it was a clergyman. I turned away my head, and remained as before. I was then in a violent fever. He spoke for some time: occasionally I heard a word, and then relapsed into a state of mental imbecility. He sighed, and went away.

Thursday came, and the hour of death,—but time was by me unheeded, as well as eternity. In the meantime Maddox had been taken, and the contents of Armstrong's bundle found in his possession; and when he discovered that Ogle had been evidence against him, he confessed to the robbery.

Whether it was on Thursday or Friday, I knew not then, but I was lifted off the bed, and taken before somebody—something passed, but the fever had mounted up to my head, and I was in a state of stupid delirium. Strange to say, they did not perceive my condition, but ascribed it all to abject fear of death. I was led away—I had made no answer—but I was free.



Chapter LXI

When at the lowest spoke of Fortune's wheel, one is sure to rise as it turns round—I recover my senses and find myself amongst Friends.

I think some people shook me by the hand, and others shouted as I walked in the open air, but I recollect no more. I afterwards was informed that I had been reprieved, that I had been sent for, and a long exhortation delivered to me, for it was considered that my life must have been one of error, or I should have applied to my friends, and have given my name. My not answering was attributed to shame and confusion—my glassy eye had not been noticed—my tottering step when led in by the gaolers attributed to other causes; and the magistrates shook their heads as I was led out of their presence. The gaoler had asked me several times where I intended to go. At last, I had told him, to seek my father, and darting away from him, I had run like a madman down the street. Of course he had no longer any power over me: but he muttered, as I fled from him, "I've a notion he'll soon be locked up again, poor fellow! it's turned his brain for certain."

As I tottered along, my unsteady step naturally attracted the attention of the passers-by; but they attributed it to intoxication. Thus was I allowed to wander away in a state of madness, and before night I was far from the town. What passed, and whither I had bent my steps, I cannot tell. All I know is, that after running like a maniac, seizing everybody by the arm that I met, staring at them with wild and flashing eyes; and sometimes in a solemn voice, at others in a loud, threatening tone, startling them with the interrogatory, "Are you my father?" and then darting away, or sobbing like a child, as the humour took me, I had crossed the country, and three days afterwards I was picked up at the door of a house in the town of Reading, exhausted with fatigue and exposure, and nearly dead. When I recovered, I found myself in bed, my head shaved, my arm bound up, after repeated bleedings, and a female figure sitting by me.

"God in heaven! where am I?" exclaimed I, faintly.

"Thou hast called often upon thy earthly father during the time of thy illness, friend," replied a soft voice. "It rejoiceth me much to hear thee call upon thy Father which is in heaven. Be comforted, thou art in the hands of those who will be mindful of thee. Offer up thy thanks in one short prayer, for thy return to reason, and then sink again into repose, for thou must need it much."

I opened my eyes wide, and perceived that a young person in a Quaker's dress was sitting by the bed working with her needle; an open Bible was on a little table before her. I perceived also a cup, and parched with thirst, I merely said, "Give me to drink." She arose, and put a teaspoon to my lips; but I raised my hand, took the cup from her, and emptied it. O how delightful was that draught! I sank down on my pillow, for even that slight exertion had overpowered me, and muttering, "God, I thank thee!" I was immediately in a sound sleep, from which I did not awake for many hours. When I did, it was not daylight. A lamp was on the table, and an old man in a Quaker's dress was snoring very comfortably in the arm-chair. I felt quite refreshed with my long sleep, and was now able to recall what had passed. I remembered the condemned cell, and the mattress upon which I lay, but all after was in a state of confusion. Here and there a fact or supposition was strong in my memory; but the intervals between were total blanks. I was, at all events, free, that I felt convinced of, and that I was in the hands of the sect who denominate themselves Quakers: but where was I? and how did I come here? I remained thinking on the past, and wondering, until the day broke, and with the daylight roused up my watchful attendant. He yawned, stretched his arms, and rising from the chair, came to the side of my bed. I looked him in the face. "Hast thou slept well, friend?" said he.

"I have slept as much as I wish, and would not disturb you," replied I, "for I wanted nothing."

"Peradventure I did sleep," replied the man; "watching long agreeth not with the flesh, although the spirit is most willing. Requirest thou anything?"

"Yes," replied I, "I wish to know where I am?"

"Verily, thou art in the town of Reading in Berkshire, and in the house of Phineas Cophagus."

"Cophagus!" exclaimed I; "Mr Cophagus, the surgeon and apothecary?"

"Phineas Cophagus is his name; he hath been admitted into our sect, and hath married a daughter of our persuasion. He hath attended thee in thy fever and thy frenzy, without calling in the aid of the physician, therefore do I believe that he must be the man of whom thou speakest; yet doth he not follow up the healing art for the lucre of gain."

"And the young person who was at my bedside, is she his wife?"

"Nay, friend, she is half-sister to the wife of Phineas Cophagus by a second marriage, and a maiden, who was named Susannah Temple at the baptismal font; but I will go to Phineas Cophagus and acquaint him of your waking, for such were his directions."

The man then quitted the room, leaving me quite astonished with the information he had imparted. Cophagus turned Quaker! and attending me in the town of Reading. In a short time Mr Cophagus himself entered in his dressing-gown. "Japhet!" said he, seizing my hand with eagerness, and then, as if recollecting, he checked himself, and commenced in a slow tone, "Japhet Newland—truly glad am I—hum—verily do I rejoice—you, Ephraim—get out of the room—and so on."

"Yea, I will depart, since it is thy bidding," replied the man, quitting the room.

Mr Cophagus then greeted me in his usual way—told me that he had found me insensible at the door of a house a little way off, and had immediately recognised me. He had brought me to his own home, but without much hope of my recovery. He then begged to know by what strange chance I had been found in such a desolate condition. I replied, "that although I was able to listen, I did not feel myself equal to the exertion of telling so long a story, and that I should infinitely prefer that he should narrate to me what had passed since we had parted at Dublin, and how it was that I now found that he had joined the sect of Quakers."

"Peradventure—long word that—um—queer people—very good—and so on," commenced Mr Cophagus; but as the reader will not understand his phraseology quite so well as I did, I shall give Mr Cophagus's history in my own version.

Mr Cophagus had returned to the small town at which he resided, and, on his arrival, he had been called upon by a gentleman who was of the Society of Friends, requesting that he would prescribe for a niece of his, who was on a visit at his house, and had been taken dangerously ill. Cophagus, with his usual kindness of heart, immediately consented, and found that Mr Temple's report was true. For six weeks he attended the young Quakeress, and recovered her from an imminent and painful disease, in which she showed such fortitude and resignation, and such unconquerable good temper, that when Mr Cophagus returned to his bachelor's establishment, he could not help reflecting upon what an invaluable wife she would make, and how much more cheerful his house would be with such a domestic partner.

In short, Mr Cophagus fell in love, and like all elderly gentlemen who have so long bottled up their affections, he became most desperately enamoured; and if he loved Miss Judith Temple when he witnessed her patience and resignation under suffering, how much more did he love her when he found that she was playful, merry, and cheerful, without being boisterous, when restored to her health. Mr Cophagus's attentions could not be misunderstood. He told her uncle that he had thought seriously of wedding cake—white favours—marriage—family—and so on; and to the young lady he had put his cane up to his nose and prescribed, "A dose of matrimony—to be taken immediately." To Mr Cophagus there was no objection raised by the lady, who was not in her teens, or by the uncle, who had always respected him as a worthy man, and a good Christian; but to marry one who was not of her persuasion, was not to be thought of. Her friends would not consent to it. Mr Cophagus was therefore dismissed, with a full assurance that the only objection which offered was, that he was not of their society.

Mr Cophagus walked home discomforted. He sat down on his easy chair, and found it excessively uneasy—he sat down to his solitary meal, and found that his own company was unbearable—he went to bed, but found that it was impossible to go to sleep. The next morning, therefore, Mr Cophagus returned to Mr Temple, and stated his wish to be made acquainted with the difference between the tenets of the Quaker persuasion and those of the Established Church. Mr Temple gave him an outline, which appeared to Mr Cophagus to be very satisfactory, and then referred him to his niece for fuller particulars. When a man enters into an argument with a full desire to be convinced, and with his future happiness perhaps depending upon that conviction; and when, further, those arguments are brought forward by one of the prettiest voices, and backed by the sweetest of smiles, it is not to be wondered at his soon becoming a proselyte. Thus it was with Mr Cophagus, who in a week, discovered that the peace, humility, and good-will, upon which the Quaker tenets are founded, were much more congenial to the true spirit of the Christian revelation than the Athanasian Creed, to be sung or said in our Established Churches; and with this conviction, Mr Cophagus requested admission into the fraternity, and shortly after his admission, it was thought advisable by the Friends that his faith should be confirmed and strengthened by his espousal of Miss Judith Temple, with whom, at her request—and he could refuse her nothing—he had repaired to the town of Reading, in which her relations all resided; and Phineas Cophagus, of the Society of Friends, declared himself to be as happy as a man could be. "Good people, Japhet—um—honest people, Japhet—don't fight—little stiff—spirit moves—and so on," said Mr Cophagus, as he concluded his narrative, and then shaking me by the hand, retired to shave and dress.



Chapter LXII

I fall in love with religion when preached by one who has the form of an angel.

In half an hour afterwards Ephraim came in with a draught, which I was desired to take by Mr Cophagus, and then to try and sleep. This was good advice, and I followed it. I awoke after a long, refreshing sleep, and found Mr and Mrs Cophagus sitting in the room, she at work and he occupied with a book. When I opened my eyes, and perceived a female, I looked to ascertain if it was the young person whom Ephraim had stated to be Susannah Temple; not that I recollected her features exactly, but I did the contour of her person. Mrs Cophagus was taller, and I had a fair scrutiny of her before they perceived that I was awake. Her face was very pleasing, features small and regular. She appeared to be about thirty years of age, and was studiously neat and clean in her person. Her Quaker's dress was not without some little departure from the strict fashion and form, sufficient to assist, without deviating from, its simplicity. If I might use the term, it was a little coquettish, and evinced that the wearer, had she not belonged to that sect, would have shown great taste in the adornment of her person.

Mr Cophagus, although he did not think so himself, as I afterwards found out, was certainly much improved by his change of costume. His spindle-shanks, which, as I have before observed, were peculiarly at variance with his little orbicular, orange-shaped stomach, were now concealed in loose trousers, which took off from the protuberance of the latter, and added dignity to the former, blending the two together, so that his roundness became fine by degrees, and beautifully less as it descended. Altogether, the Quaker dress added very much to the substantiability of his appearance, and was a manifest improvement, especially when he wore his broad-brimmed hat. Having satisfied my curiosity, I moved the curtain so as to attract their attention, and Cophagus came to my bedside, and felt my pulse. "Good—very good—all right—little broth—throw in bark—on his legs—well as ever—and so on."

"I am indeed much better this afternoon," replied I; "indeed, so well, that I feel as if I could get up."

"Pooh:—tumble down—never do—lie a bed—get strong—wife—Mrs Cophagus—Japhet—old friend."

Mrs Cophagus had risen from her chair, and come towards the bed, when her husband introduced her in his own fashion. "I am afraid that I have been a great trouble, madam," said I.

"Japhet Newland, we have done but our duty, even if thou wert not, as it appears that thou art, a friend of my husband. Consider me, therefore, as thy sister, and I will regard thee as a brother; and if thou wouldst wish it, thou shalt sojourn with us, for so hath my husband communicated his wishes unto me."

I thanked her for her kind expressions, and took the fair hand which was offered in such amity. Cophagus then asked me if I was well enough to inform him of what had passed since our last meeting, and telling me that his wife knew my whole history, and that I might speak before her, he took his seat by the side of the bed, his wife also drew her chair nearer, and I commenced the narrative of what had passed since we parted in Ireland. When I had finished, Mr Cophagus commenced as usual, "Um—very odd—lose money—bad—grow honest—good—run away from friends—bad—not hung— good—brain fever—bad—come here—good—stay with us—quite comfortable—and so on."

"Thou hast suffered much, friend Japhet," said Mrs Cophagus, wiping her eyes; "and I would almost venture to say, hast been chastised too severely, were it not that those whom He loveth, He chastiseth. Still thou art saved, and now out of danger; peradventure thou wilt now quit a vain world, and be content to live with us; nay, as thou hast the example of thy former master, it may perhaps please the Lord to advise thee to become one of us, and to join us as a Friend. My husband was persuaded to the right path by me," continued she, looking fondly at him; "who knoweth but some of our maidens may also persuade thee to eschew a vain, unrighteous world, and follow thy Redeemer in humility?"

"Very true—um—very true," observed Cophagus, putting more Quakerism than usual in his style, and drawing out his ums to treble their usual length; "Happy life—Japhet—um—all at peace—quiet amusements—think about it—um—no hurry—never swear—by-and-bye heh!—spirit may move—um—not now—talk about it—get well—set up shop—and so on."

I was tired with talking so much, and having taken some nourishment, gain fell asleep. When I awoke in the evening, friend Cophagus and his wife were not in the room; but Susannah Temple, whom I had first seen, and of whom I had made inquiry of Ephraim, who was Cophagus's servant. She was sitting close to the light and reading, and long did I continue to gaze upon her, fearful of interrupting her. She was the most beautiful specimen of clear and transparent white that I ever had beheld—her complexion was unrivalled—her eyes were large, but I could not ascertain their colour, as they were cast down upon her book, and hid by her long fringed eyelashes—her eyebrows arched and regular, as if drawn by a pair of compasses, and their soft hair in beautiful contrast with her snowy forehead—her hair was auburn, but mostly concealed within her cap—her nose was very straight but not very large, and her mouth was perfection. She appeared to be between seventeen and eighteen years old, as far as I could ascertain, her figure was symmetrically perfect. Dressed as she was in the modest, simple garb worn by the females of the Society of Friends, she gave an idea of neatness, cleanliness, and propriety, upon which I could have gazed for ever. She was, indeed, most beautiful. I felt her beauty, her purity, and I could have worshipped her as an angel. While I still had my eyes fixed upon her exquisite features, she closed her book, and rising from her chair, came to the side of the bed. That she might not be startled at the idea of my having been watching her, I closed my eyes, and pretended to slumber. She resumed her seat, and then I changed my position and spoke, "Is any one there?"

"Yes, friend Newland, what is it that thou requirest?" said she, advancing. "Wouldst thou see Cophagus or Ephraim? I will summon them."

"O no," replied I; "why should I disturb them from their amusements or employments? I have slept a long while, and I would like to read a little I think, if my eyes are not too weak."

"Thou must not read, but I may read unto thee," replied Susannah. "Tell me, what is it that thou wouldest have me read? I have no vain books; but surely thou thinkest not of them, after thy escape from death."

"I care not what is read, provided that you read to me," replied I.

"Nay, but thou shouldest care; and be not wroth if I say to thee, that there is but one book to which thou shouldest now listen. Thou hast been saved from deadly peril—thou hast been rescued from the jaws of death. Art thou not thankful? And to whom is gratitude most due, but to thy heavenly Father, who hath been pleased to spare thee?"

"You are right," replied I; "then I pray you to read to me from the Bible."

Susannah made no reply, but resumed her seat, and selecting those chapters most appropriate to my situation, read them in a beautiful and impressive tone.



Chapter LXIII

Pride and love at issue—the latter is victorious—I turn Quaker and recommence my old profession.

If the reader will recall my narrative to his recollection, he must observe, that religion had had hitherto but little of my thoughts. I had lived the life of most who live in this world; perhaps not quite so correct in morals as many people, for my code of morality was suited to circumstances; as to religion, I had none. I had lived in the world, and for the world. I had certainly been well instructed in the tenets of our faith when I was at the Asylum, but there, as in most other schools, it is made irksome, as a task, and is looked upon with almost a feeling of aversion. No proper religious sentiments are, or can be, inculcated to a large number of scholars; it is the parent alone who can instil, by precept and example, that true sense of religion, which may serve as a guide through life. I had not read the Bible from the time that I quitted the Foundling Hospital. It was new to me, and when I now heard read, by that beautiful creature, passages equally beautiful, and so applicable to my situation, weakened with disease, and humbled in adversity, I was moved, even unto tears.

Susannah closed the book and came to the bedside. I thanked her: she perceived my emotion, and when I held out my hand she did not refuse hers. I kissed it, and it was immediately withdrawn, and she left the room. Shortly afterwards Ephraim made his appearance. Cophagus and his wife also came that evening, but I saw no more of Susannah Temple until the following day, when I again requested her to read to me.

I will not detain the reader by an account of my recovery. In three weeks I was able to leave the room; during that time, I had become very intimate with the whole family, and was treated as if I belonged to it. During my illness I had certainly shown more sense of religion than I had ever done before, but I do not mean to say that I was really religious. I liked to hear the Bible read by Susannah, and I liked to talk with her upon religious subjects; but had Susannah been an ugly old woman, I very much doubt if I should have been so attentive. It was her extreme beauty—her modesty and fervour, which so became her, which enchanted me. I felt the beauty of religion, but it was through an earthly object; it was beautiful in her. She looked an angel, and I listened to her precepts as delivered by one. Still, whatever may be the cause by which a person's attention can be directed to so important a subject, so generally neglected, whether by fear of death, or by love towards an earthly object, the advantages are the same; and although very far from what I ought to have been, I certainly was, through my admiration of her, a better man.

As soon as I was on the sofa, wrapped up in one of the dressing-gowns of Mr Cophagus, he told me that the clothes in which I had been picked up were all in tatters, and asked me whether I would like to have others made according to the usual fashion, or like those with whom I should, he trusted, in future reside. I had already debated this matter in my mind. Return to the world I had resolved not to do; to follow up the object of my search appeared to me only to involve me in difficulties; and what were the intentions of Cophagus with regard to me, I knew not. I was hesitating, for I knew not what answer to give, when I perceived the pensive, deep blue eye of Susannah fixed upon me, watching attentively, if not eagerly, for my response.

It decided the point. "If," replied I, "you do not think that I should disgrace you, I should wish to wear the dress of the Society of Friends, although not yet one of your body."

"But soon to be, I trust," replied Mrs Cophagus.

"Alas!" replied I, "I am an outcast;" and I looked at Susannah Temple.

"Not so, Japhet Newland," replied she, mildly; "I am pleased that thou hast of thy own accord rejected vain attire. I trust that thou wilt not find that thou art without friends."

"While I am with you," replied I, addressing myself to them all, "I consider it my duty to conform to your manners in every way, but by-and-bye, when I resume my search—"

"And why shouldst thou resume a search which must prove unavailing, and but leads thee into error and misfortune? I am but young, Japhet Newland, and not perhaps so able to advise, yet doth it appear to me, that the search can only be availing when made by those who left thee. When they wish for you, they will seek thee, but thy seeking them is vain and fruitless."

"But," replied I, "recollect that inquiries have already been made at the Foundling, and those who inquired have been sent away disappointed—they will enquire no more."

"And is a parent's love so trifling, that one disappointment will drive him from seeking of his child? No, no, Japhet; if thou art yearned for, thou wilt be found, and fresh inquiries will be made; but thy search is unavailing, and already hast thou lost much time."

"True, Susannah, thy advice is good," replied Mrs Cophagus; "in following a shadow Japhet hath much neglected the substance; it is time that thou shouldst settle thyself, and earn thy livelihood."

"And do thy duty in that path of life to which it hath pleased God to call thee," continued Susannah, who with Mrs Cophagus walked out of the room.

Cophagus then took up the conversation, and pointing out the uselessness of my roving about, and the propriety of my settling in life, proposed that I should take an apothecary's shop, for which he would furnish the means, and that he could ensure me the custom of the whole Society of Friends in Reading, which was very large, as there was not one of the sect in that line of business. "Become one of us, Japhet—good business—marry by-and-bye—happy life—little children—and so on." I thought of Susannah, and was silent. Cophagus then said, I had better reflect upon his offer, and make up my determination. If that did not suit me, he would still give me all the assistance in his power. I did reflect long before I could make up my mind. I was still worldly inclined; still my fancy would revel in the idea of finding out my father in high life, and, as once more appearing as a star of fashion, of returning with interest the contumely I had lately received, and re-assuming as a right that position in society which I had held under false colours.

I could not bear the idea of sinking at once into a tradesman, and probably ending my days in obscurity. Pride was still my ruling passion. Such were my first impulses, and then I looked upon the other side of the picture. I was without the means necessary to support myself; I could not return to high life without I discovered my parents in the first place, and in the second, found them to be such as my warm imagination had depicted. I had no chance of finding them. I had already been long seeking in vain. I had been twice taken up to Bow Street—nearly lost my life in Ireland—had been sentenced to death—had been insane, and recovered by a miracle, and all in prosecuting this useless search. All this had much contributed to cure me of the monomania. I agreed with Susannah that the search must be made by the other parties, and not by me. I recalled the treatment I had received from the world—the contempt with which I had been treated—the heartlessness of high life, and the little chance of my ever again being admitted into fashionable society.

I placed all this in juxtaposition with the kindness of those with whom I now resided—what they had done already for me, and what they now offered, which was to make me independent by my own exertions. I weighed all in my mind; was still undecided, for my pride still carried its weight; when I thought of the pure, beautiful Susannah Temple, and—my decision was made. I would not lose the substance by running after shadows.

That evening, with many thanks, I accepted the kind offers of Mr Cophagus, and expressed my determination of entering into the Society of Friends.

"Thou hast chosen wisely," said Mrs Cophagus, extending her hand to me, "and it is with pleasure that we shall receive thee."

"I welcome thee, Japhet Newland," said Susannah, also offering her hand, "and I trust that thou wilt find more happiness among those with whom thou art about to sojourn, than in the world of vanity and deceit, in which thou hast hitherto played thy part. No longer seek an earthly father, who hath deserted thee, but a heavenly Father, who will not desert thee in thy afflictions."

"You shall direct me into the right path, Susannah," replied I.

"I am too young to be a guide, Japhet," replied she, smiling; "but not too young, I hope, to be a friend."

The next day my clothes came home, and I put them on. I looked at myself in the glass, and was anything but pleased; but as my head was shaved, it was of little consequence what I wore; so I consoled myself. Mr Cophagus sent for a barber and ordered me a wig, which was to be ready in a few days; when it was ready I put it on, and altogether did not dislike my appearance. I flattered myself that if I was a Quaker, at all events I was a very good looking and a very smart one; and when, a day or two afterwards, a reunion of friends took place at Mr Cophagus's house to introduce me to them, I perceived, with much satisfaction, that there was no young man who could compete with me. After this, I was much more reconciled to my transformation.



Chapter LXIV

I prosper in every way, and become reconciled to my situation.

Mr Cophagus was not idle. In a few weeks he had rented a shop for me, and furnished it much better than his own in Smithfield; the upper part of the house was let off, as I was to reside with the family. When it was ready, I went over it with him, and was satisfied; all I wished for was Timothy as an assistant, but that wish was unavailing, as I knew not where to find him.

That evening I observed to Mr Cophagus, that I did not much like putting my name over the shop. The fact was, that my pride forbade it, and I could not bear the idea, that Japhet Newland, at whose knock every aristocratic door had flown open, should appear in gold letters above a shop-window. "There are many reasons against it," observed I. "One is, that it is not my real name—I should like to take the name of Cophagus; another is, that the name, being so well known, may attract those who formerly knew me, and I should not wish that they should come in and mock me; another is—"

"Japhet Newland," interrupted Susannah, with more severity than I ever had seen in her sweet countenance, "do not trouble thyself with giving thy reasons, seeing thou hast given every reason but the right one, which is, that thy pride revolts at it."

"I was about to observe," replied I, "that it was a name that sounded of mammon, and not fitting for one of our persuasion. But, Susannah, you have accused me of pride, and I will now raise no further objections. Japhet Newland it shall be, and let us speak no more upon the subject."

"If I have wronged thee, Japhet, much do I crave thy forgiveness," replied Susannah. "But it is God alone who knoweth the secrets of our hearts. I was presumptuous, and you must pardon me."

"Susannah, it is I who ought to plead for pardon; you know me better than I know myself. It was pride, and nothing but pride—but you have cured me."

"Truly have I hopes of thee now, Japhet," replied Susannah, smiling. "Those who confess their faults will soon amend them; yet I do think there is some reason in thy observation, for who knoweth, but meeting with thy former associates, thou mayst not be tempted into falling away? Thou mayst spell thy name as thou listest; and, peradventure, it would be better to disguise it."

So agreed Mr and Mrs Cophagus, and I therefore had it written Gnow-land; and having engaged a person of the society, strongly recommended to me, as an assistant, I took possession of my shop, and was very soon busy in making up prescriptions, and dispensing my medicines in all quarters of the good town of Reading.

And I was happy. I had enjoyment during the day; my profession was, at all events, liberal. I was dressed and lived as a gentleman, or rather I should say respectably. I was earning my own livelihood. I was a useful member of society, and when I retired home to meals, and late at night, I found, that if Cophagus and his wife had retired, Susannah Temple always waited up, and remained with me a few minutes. I had never been in love until I had fallen in with this perfect creature; but my love for her was not the love of the world; I could not so depreciate her—I loved her as a superior being—I loved her with fear and trembling. I felt that she was too pure, too holy, too good for a vain worldly creature like myself. I felt as if my destiny depended upon her and her fiat; that if she favoured me, my happiness in this world and in the next were secured; that if she rejected me, I was cast away for ever. Such was my feeling for Susannah Temple, who, perfect as she was, was still a woman, and perceived her power over me; but unlike the many of her sex, exerted that power only to lead to what was right. Insensibly almost, my pride was quelled, and I became humble and religiously inclined. Even the peculiarities of the sect, their meeting at their places of worship, their drawling, and their quaint manner of talking, became no longer a subject of dislike. I found out causes and good reasons for everything which before appeared strange—sermons in stones, and good in everything. Months passed away—my business prospered—I had nearly repaid the money advanced by Mr Cophagus. I was in heart and soul a Quaker, and I entered into the fraternity with a feeling that I could act up to what I had promised. I was happy, quite happy, and yet I had never received from Susannah Temple any further than the proofs of sincere friendship. But I had much of her society, and we were now very, very intimate. I found out what warm, what devoted feelings were concealed under her modest, quiet exterior—how well her mind was stored, and how right was that mind.

Often when I talked over past events, did I listen to her remarks, all tending to one point, morality and virtue; often did I receive from her at first a severe, but latterly a kind rebuke, when my discourse was light and frivolous; but when I talked of merry subjects which were innocent, what could be more joyous or more exhilarating than her laugh—what more intoxicating than her sweet smile, when she approved of my sentiments! and when animated by the subject, what could be more musical or more impassioned than her bursts of eloquence, which were invariably followed by a deep blush, when she recollected how she had been carried away by excitement?

There was one point upon which I congratulated myself, which was, that she had received two or three unexceptionable offers of marriage during the six months that I had been in her company, and refused them. At the end of that period, thanks to the assistance I received from the Friends, I had paid Mr Cophagus all the money which he had advanced, and found myself in possession of a flourishing business, and independent. I then requested that I might be allowed to pay an annual stipend for my board and lodging, commencing from the time I first came to his house. Mr Cophagus said I was right—the terms were easily arranged, and I was independent.

Still my advances with Susannah were slow, but if slow, they were sure. One day I observed to her, how happy Mr Cophagus appeared to be as a married man; her reply was, "He is, Japhet; he has worked hard for his independence, and he now is reaping the fruits of his industry." That is as much as to say that I must do the same, thought I, and that I have no business to propose for a wife, until I am certain that I am able to provide for her. I have as yet laid up nothing, and an income is not a capital. I felt that whether a party interested or not, she was right, and I redoubled my diligence.



Chapter LXV

A variety of the Quaker tribe—who had a curious disintegration of mind and body.

I was not yet weaned from the world, but I was fast advancing to that state, when a very smart young Quaker came on a visit to Reading. He was introduced to Mr and Mrs Cophagus, and was soon, as might be expected, an admirer of Susannah, but he received no encouragement. He was an idle person, and passed much of his time sitting in my shop, and talking with me, and being much less reserved and guarded than the generality of the young men of the sect, I gradually became intimate with him. One day when my assistant was out he said to me, "Friend Gnow-land, tell me candidly, hast thou ever seen my face before?"

"Not that I can recollect, friend Talbot."

"Then my recollection is better than yours, and now having obtained thy friendship as one of the society, I will remind thee of our former acquaintance. When thou wert Mr N-e-w-land, walking about town with Major Carbonnell, I was Lieutenant Talbot, of the—Dragoon Guards."

I was dumb with astonishment, and I stared him in the face.

"Yes," continued he, bursting into laughter, "such is the fact. You have thought, perhaps, that you were the only man of fashion who had ever been transformed into a Quaker; now you behold another, so no longer imagine yourself the Phoenix of your tribe."

"I do certainly recollect that name," replied I; "but although, as you must be acquainted with my history, it is very easy to conceive why I have joined the society, yet, upon what grounds you can have so done, is to me inexplicable."

"Newland, it certainly does require explanation; it has been, I assert, my misfortune, and not my fault. Not that I am not happy. On the contrary, I feel that I am now in my proper situation. I ought to have been born of Quaker parents—at all events, I was born a Quaker in disposition; but I will come to-morrow early, and then, if you will give your man something to do out of the way, I will tell you my history. I know that you will keep my secret."

The next morning he came, and as soon as we were alone he imparted to me what follows.

"I recollect well, Newland, when you were one of the leaders of fashion, I was then in the Dragoon Guards, and although not very intimate with you, had the honour of a recognition when we met at parties. I cannot help laughing, upon my soul, when I look at us both now; but never mind. I was of course a great deal with my regiment, and at the club. My father, as you may not perhaps be aware, was highly connected, and all the family have been brought up in the army; the question of profession has never been mooted by us, and every Talbot has turned out a soldier as naturally as a young duck takes to the water. Well, I entered the army, admired my uniform, and was admired by the young ladies. Before I received my lieutenant's commission, my father, the old gentleman, died, and left me a younger brother's fortune of four hundred per annum; but, as my uncle said, 'It was quite enough for a Talbot, who would push himself forward in his profession, as the Talbots had ever done before him.' I soon found out that my income was not sufficient to enable me to continue in the Guards, and my uncle was very anxious that I should exchange into a regiment on service. I therefore, by purchase, obtained a company in the 23rd, ordered out to reduce the French colonies in the West Indies, and I sailed with all the expectation of covering myself with as much glory as the Talbots had done from time immemorial. We landed, and in a short time the bullets and grape were flying in all directions, and then I discovered, what I declare never for a moment came into my head before, to wit—that I had mistaken my profession."

"How do you mean, Talbot?"

"Mean why, that I was deficient in a certain qualification, which never was before denied to a Talbot—courage."

"And you never knew that before?"

"Never, upon my honour; my mind was always full of courage. In my mind's eye I built castles of feats of bravery, which should eclipse all the Talbots, from him who burnt Joan of Arc, down to the present day. I assure you, that surprised as other people were, no one was more surprised than myself. Our regiment was ordered to advance, and I led on my company, the bullets flew like hail. I tried to go on, but I could not; at last, notwithstanding all my endeavours to the contrary, I fairly took to my heels. I was met by the commanding officer—in fact, I ran right against him. He ordered me back, and I returned to my regiment, not feeling at all afraid. Again I was in the fire, again I resisted the impulse, but it was of no use, and at last, just before the assault took place, I ran away as if the devil was after me. Wasn't it odd?"

"Very odd, indeed," replied I, laughing.

"Yes, but you do not exactly understand why it was odd. You know what philosophers tell you about volition; and that the body is governed by the mind, consequently obeys it; now, you see, in my case, it was exactly reversed. I tell you, that it is a fact, that in mind I am as brave as any man in existence; but I had a cowardly carcass, and what is still worse, it proved the master of my mind, and ran away with it. I had no mind to run away; on the contrary, I wished to have been of the forlorn hope, and had volunteered, but was refused. Surely, if I had not courage I should have avoided such a post of danger. Is it not so?"

"It certainly appears strange, that you should volunteer for the forlorn hope, and then run away."

"That's just what I say. I have the soul of the Talbots, but a body which don't belong to the family, and too powerful for the soul."

"So it appears. Well, go on."

"It was go off, instead of going on. I tried again that day to mount the breach, and as the fire was over, I succeeded; but there was a mark against me, and it was intimated that I should have an opportunity of redeeming my character."

"Well?"

"There was a fort to be stormed the next day, and I requested to lead my company in advance. Surely that was no proof of want of courage? Permission was granted. We were warmly received, and I felt that my legs refused to advance; so what did I do—I tied my sash round my thigh, and telling the men that I was wounded, requested they would carry me to the attack. Surely that was courage?"

"Most undoubtedly so. It was like a Talbot."

"We were at the foot of the breach; when the shot flew about me, I kicked and wrestled so, that the two men who carried me were obliged to let me go, and my rascally body was at liberty. I say unfortunately, for only conceive, if they had carried me wounded up the breach, what an heroic act it would have been considered on my part; but fate decided it otherwise. If I had lain still when they dropped me, I should have done well, but I was anxious to get up the breach, that is, my mind was so bent; but as soon as I got on my legs, confound them if they didn't run away with me, and then I was found half a mile from the fort with a pretended wound. That was enough; I had a hint that the sooner I went home the better. On account of the family I was permitted to sell out, and I then walked the streets as a private gentleman, but no one would speak to me. I argued the point with several, but they were obstinate, and would not be convinced; they said that it was no use talking about being brave, if I ran away."

"They were not philosophers, Talbot."

"No; they could not comprehend how the mind and the body could be at variance. It was no use arguing—they would have it that the movements of the body depended upon the mind, and that I had made a mistake—and that I was a coward in soul as well as body."

"Well, what did you do?"

"Oh, I did nothing! I had a great mind to knock them down, but as I knew my body would not assist me, I thought it better to leave it alone. However, they taunted me so, by calling me fighting Tom, that my uncle shut his door upon me as a disgrace to the family, saying, he wished the first bullet had laid me dead—very kind of him;—at last my patience was worn out, and I looked about to find whether there were not some people who did not consider courage as a sine quae non. I found that the Quakers' tenets were against fighting, and therefore courage could not be necessary, so I have joined them, and I find that, if not a good soldier, I am, at all events, a very respectable Quaker; and now you have the whole of my story—and tell me if you are of my opinion."

"Why, really it's a very difficult point to decide. I never heard such a case of disintegration before. I must think upon it."

"Of course, you will not say a word about it, Newland."

"Never fear, I will keep your secret, Talbot. How long have you worn the dress?"

"Oh, more than a year. By-the-bye, what a nice young person that Susannah Temple is. I've a great mind to propose for her."

"But you must first ascertain what your body says to it, Talbot," replied I, sternly. "I allow no one to interfere with me, Quaker or not."

"My dear fellow, I beg your pardon, I shall think no more about her," said Talbot, rising up, as he observed that I looked very fierce. "I wish you a good morning. I leave Reading to-morrow. I will call on you, and say good-bye, if I can;" and I saw no more of Friend Talbot, whose mind was all courage, but whose body was so renegade.



Chapter LXVI

I fall in with Timothy.

About a month after this, I heard a sailor with one leg, and a handful of ballads, singing in a most lachrymal tone,

"Why, what's that to you if my eyes I'm a wiping? A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way"—

"Bless your honour, shy a copper to Poor Jack, who's lost his leg in the sarvice. Thanky, your honour," and he continued,

"It's nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping, But they who can't pity—why I pities they. Says the captain, says he; I shall never forget it, Of courage, you know, boys, the true from the sham,"

"Back your maintopsail, your worship, for half a minute, and just assist a poor dismantled craft, who has been riddled in the wars—"'Tis a furious lion.' Long life to your honour—'In battle so let it—'

"'Tis a furious lion, in battle so let it; But duty appeased—but duty appeased—

"Buy a song, young woman, to sing to your sweetheart, while you sit on his knee in the dog-watch—

"But duty appeased'tis the heart of a lamb."

I believe there are few people who do not take a strong interest in the English sailor, particularly in one who has been maimed in the defence of his country. I always have, and as I heard the poor disabled fellow bawling out his ditty, certainly not with a very remarkable voice or execution, I pulled out the drawer behind the counter, and took out some halfpence to give him. When I caught his eye I beckoned to him, and he entered the shop. "Here, my good fellow," said I, "although a man of peace myself, yet I feel for those who suffer in the wars;" and I put the money to him.

"May your honour never know a banyan day," replied the sailor; "and a sickly season for you, into the bargain."

"Nay, friend, that is not a kind wish to others," replied I.

The sailor fixed his eyes earnestly upon me, as if in astonishment, for, until I had answered, he had not looked at me particularly.

"What are you looking at?" said I.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed he. "It is—yet it cannot be!"

"Cannot be! what, friend?"

He ran out of the door, and read the name over the shop, and then came in, and sank upon a chair outside of the counter. "Japhet—I have found you at last!" exclaimed he, faintly.

"Good Heaven! who are you?"

He threw off his hat, with false ringlets fastened to the inside of it, and I beheld Timothy. In a moment I sprang over the counter, and was in his arms. "Is it possible," exclaimed I, after a short silence on both sides, "that I find you, Timothy, a disabled sailor?"

"Is it possible, Japhet," replied Timothy, "that I find you a broad-brimmed Quaker?"

"Even so, Timothy. I am really and truly one."

"Then you are less disguised than I am," replied Timothy, kicking off his wooden leg, and letting down his own, which had been tied up to his thigh, and concealed in his wide blue trousers. "I am no more a sailor than you are, Japhet, and since you left me have never yet seen the salt water, which I talk and sing so much about."

"Then thou hast been deceiving, Timothy, which I regret much."

"Now I do perceive that you are a Quaker," replied Tim; "but do not blame me until you have heard my story. Thank God, I have found you at last. But tell me, Japhet, you will not send me away—will you? If your dress is changed, your heart is not. Pray answer me, before I say nything more. You know I can be useful here."

"Indeed, Timothy, I have often wished for you since I have been here, and it will be your own fault if I part with you. You shall assist me in the shop; but you must dress like me."

"Dress like you! have I not always dressed like you? When we started from Cophagus's, were we not dressed much alike? did we not wear spangled jackets together? did I not wear your livery, and belong to you? I'll put on anything, Japhet—but we must not part again."

"My dear Timothy, I trust we shall not; but I expect my assistant here soon, and do not wish that he should see you in that garb. Go to a small public-house at the farther end of this street, and when you see me pass, come out to me, and we will walk out into the country, and consult together."

"I have put up at a small house not far off, and have some clothes there; I will alter my dress and meet you. God bless you, Japhet."

Timothy then picked up his ballads, which were scattered on the floor, put up his leg, and putting on his wooden stump, hastened away, after once more silently pressing my hand.

In half an hour my assistant returned, and I desired him to remain in the shop, as I was going out on business. I then walked to the appointed rendezvous, and was soon joined by Tim, who had discarded his sailor's disguise, and was in what is called a shabby genteel sort of dress. After the first renewed greeting, I requested Tim to let me know what had occurred to him since our separation.

"You cannot imagine, Japhet, what my feelings were when I found, by your note, that you had left me. I had perceived how unhappy you had been for a long while, and I was equally distressed, although I knew not the cause. I had no idea until I got your letter, that you had lost all your money; and I felt it more unkind of you to leave me then, than if you had been comfortable and independent. As for looking after you, that I knew would be useless; and I immediately went to Mr Masterton, to take his advice as to how I should proceed. Mr Masterton had received your letter, and appeared to be very much annoyed. 'Very foolish boy,' said he, 'but there is nothing that can be done now. He is mad, and that is all that can be said in his excuse. You must do as he tells you, I suppose, and try the best for yourself. I will help you in any way that I can, my poor fellow,' said he, 'so don't cry.' I went back to the house and collected together your papers, which I sealed up. I knew that the house was to be given up in a few days. I sold the furniture, and made the best I could of the remainder of your wardrobe, and other things of value that you had left; indeed, everything, with the exception of the dressing-case and pistols, which had belonged to Major Carbonnell, and I thought you might perhaps some day like to have them."

"How very kind of you, Timothy, to think of me in that way! I shall indeed be glad; but no—what have I to do with pistols or silver dressing-cases now? I must not have them, but still I thank you all the same."

"The furniture and everything else fetched L430, after all expenses were paid."

"I am glad of it, Timothy, for your sake; but I am sorry, judging by your present plight, that it appears to have done you but little good."

"Because I did not make use of it, Japhet. What could I do with all that money? I took it to Mr Masterton, with all your papers, and the dressing-case and pistols;—he has it now ready for you when you ask for it. He was very kind to me, and offered to do anything for me; but I resolved to go in search of you. I had more money in my pocket when you went away than I generally have, and with the surplus of what you left for the bills, I had twelve or fourteen pounds. So I wished Mr Masterton good-bye, and have ever since been on my adventures in search of my master."

"Not master, Timothy, say rather of your friend."

"Well, of both if you please, Japhet; and very pretty adventures I have had, I assure you, and some very hair-breadth escapes."

"I think, when we compare notes, mine will be found most eventful, Timothy; but we can talk of them, and compare notes another time. At present, whom do you think I am residing with?"

"A Quaker, I presume."

"You have guessed right so far: but who do you think that Quaker is?"

"There I'm at fault."

"Mr Cophagas."

At this intelligence Timothy gave a leap in the air, turned round on his heel, and tumbled on the grass in a fit of immoderate laughter.

"Cophagus!—a Quaker!" cried he at last. "Oh! I long to see him. Snuffle, snuffle—broad brims—wide skirts—and so on. Capital!"

"It is very true, Timothy, but you must not mock at the persuasion."

"I did not intend it, Japhet, but there is something to me so ridiculous in the idea. But," continued Timothy, "is it not still stranger, that, after having separated so many years, we should all meet again—and that I should find Mr Cophagus—an apothecary's shop—you dispensing medicines—and I—as I hope to be—carrying them about as I did before. Well, I will row in the same boat, and I will be a Quaker as well as you both."

"Well, we will now return, and I will take you to Mr Cophagus, who will, I am sure, be glad to see you."

"First, Japhet, let me have some Quaker's clothes—I should prefer it."

"You shall have a suit of mine, Timothy, since you wish it; but recollect it is not at all necessary, nor indeed will it be permitted that you enter into the sect without preparatory examination as to your fitness for admission."

I then went to the shop, and sending out the assistant, walked home and took out a worn suit of clothes, with which I hastened to Timothy. He put them on in the shop, and then walking behind the counter, said, "This is my place, and here I shall remain as long as you do."

"I hope so, Timothy; as for the one who is with me at present, I can easily procure him other employment, and he will not be sorry to go, for he is a married man, and does not like the confinement."

"I have some money," said Timothy, taking out of his old clothes a dirty rag, and producing nearly twenty pounds. "I am well off, you see."

"You are, indeed," replied I.

"Yes, there is nothing like being a sailor with one leg, singing ballads. Do you know, Japhet, that sometimes I have taken more than a pound a day since I have shammed the sailor?"

"Not very honestly, Tim."

"Perhaps not, Japhet; but it is very strange, and yet very true, that when honest I could make nothing, and when I deceived, I have done very well."



Chapter LXVII

Timothy commences his narrative of his search after Japhet.

I could not help calling to mind that the same consequences as Timothy related in the last chapter had occurred to me during my eventful career; but I had long considered that there was no excuse for dishonesty, and that, in the end, it would only lead to exposure and disgrace. I went home early in the evening to introduce Timothy to Mr Cophagus, who received him with great kindness, and agreed immediately that he ought to be with me in the shop. Timothy paid his respects to the ladies, and then went down with Ephraim, who took him under his protection. In a few days, he was as established with us as if he had been living with us for months. I had some trouble, at first, in checking his vivacity and turn for ridicule; but that was gradually effected, and I found him not only a great acquisition, but, as he always was, a cheerful and affectionate companion. I had, during the first days of our meeting, recounted my adventures, and made many inquiries of Timothy relative to my few friends. He told me that from Mr Masterton he had learnt that Lady de Clare and Fleta had called upon him very much afflicted with the contents of my letter—that Lord Windermear also had been very much vexed and annoyed—that Mr Masterton had advised him to obtain another situation as a valet, which he had refused, and, at the same time, told him his intention of searching for me. He had promised Mr Masterton to let him know if he found me, and then bade him farewell.

"I used to lie in bed, Japhet," continued Timothy, "and think upon the best method of proceeding. At last, I agreed to myself, that to look for you as you looked after your father, would be a wild-goose chase, and that my money would soon be gone; so I reflected whether I might not take up some roving trade which would support me, and, at the same time, enable me to proceed from place to place. What do you think was my first speculation? Why, I saw a man with a dog harnessed in a little cart, crying dog's meat and cat's meat, and I said to myself, 'Now there's the very thing—there's a profession—I can travel and earn my livelihood.' I entered into conversation with him, as he stopped at a low public-house, treating him to a pot of beer; and having gained all I wanted as to the mysteries of the profession, I called for another pot, and proposed that I should purchase his whole concern, down to his knife and apron. The fellow agreed, and after a good deal of bargaining, I paid him three guineas for the set out or set up, which you please. He asked me whether I meant to hawk in London or not, and I told him no, that I should travel the country. He advised the western road, as there were more populous towns in it. Well, we had another pot to clench the bargain, and I paid down the money and took possession, quite delighted with my new occupation. Away I went to Brentford, selling a bit here and there by the way, and at last arrived at the very bench where we had sat down together and eaten our meal."