He had been a collector of scarce books, and possessed many valuable ones; but his inability to follow his professional pursuits, and his high spirit preventing him from making his situation known to his relatives, caused him to dispose of a part of his library, on the produce of which he subsisted. Several friends saw that he was daily becoming an object of their friendly attention, who endeavoured to ascertain his circumstances; but from him they could learn nothing, notwithstanding it was pretty certain that he passed many days without a dinner. It became at length a duty incumbent on them to take him under their care; a recommendation to the Governors of the Royal Society of Musicians was promptly attended to, and an annuity of 50_l._ was granted unknown to him. This single act of benevolence speaks volumes in favour of that excellent institution, which was founded in 1738, with a view of shielding the “child of song,” in the decline of life, from penury and want; also to provide for the widows and orphans of its indigent members, at their decease. Mr. Jones entered the society in 1778. Mr. Parry was deputed to give him the first monthly payment. It was in the evening when he called; he found the Bard locked in his room, at his lodgings in Great Chesterfield-street, Marylebone, and was admitted: he did not recollect Mr. Parry immediately, although most intimately acquainted with him; he had his dressing-gown and night-cap on, his harp standing by the table, on which was a blotted sheet of music paper. Mr. Parry told him the purport of the visit, but he did not pay much attention to it, and only asked, with much fervency, whether he knew “The Melody of Mona,” (See Relicks, vol. i. p. 168,) a most beautiful pathetic Welsh air, in the minor key, to which Mrs. Hemans has written an excellent song, called “The Lament of the last Druid.” He took his harp, and with a trembling hand, “Struck the deep sorrows of his Lyre.” It was impossible not to feel affected on such an occasion—the scene reminded him of the dying hour of a celebrated Bard, who called for his harp, and performed a most plaintive strain— “Sweet solace of my dying hour, Ere yet my arm forget its power, Give to my falt’ring hand, my shell, One strain to bid the world farewell.”