likely, with the blessing, to recover, there is laa for him yet; and if you will employ lawyer Small, I darest be sworn he'll make the fellow fly the country for him; though perhaps he'll have fled the country before; for it is here to-day and gone to-morrow with such chaps. I hope, however, you will learn more wit for the future, and return back to your friends; I warrant they are all miserable for your loss; and if they was but to know what had happened--La, my seeming! I would not for the world they should. Come, come, we know very well what all the matter is; but if one won't, another will; so pretty a gentleman need never want a lady. I am sure, if I was you, I would see the finest she that ever wore a head hanged, before I would go for a soldier for her.--Nay, don't blush so” (for indeed he did to a violent degree). “Why, you thought, sir, I knew nothing of the matter, I warrant you, about Madam Sophia.”--“How,” says Jones, starting up, “do you know my Sophia?”--“Do I! ay marry,” cries the landlady; “many's the time hath she lain in this house.”--“With her aunt, I suppose,” says Jones. “Why, there it is now,” cries the landlady. “Ay, ay, ay, I know the old lady very well. And a sweet young creature is Madam Sophia, that's the truth on't.”--“A sweet creature,” cries Jones; “O heavens!” Angels are painted fair to look like her. There's in her all that we believe of heav'n, Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy and everlasting love. “And could I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia!”--“I wish,” says the landlady, “you knew half so much of her. What would you have given to have sat by her bed-side? What a delicious neck she hath! Her lovely limbs have stretched themselves in that very bed you now lie in.”--“Here!” cries Jones: “hath Sophia ever laid here?”--“Ay, ay, here; there, in that very bed,” says the landlady; “where I wish you had her this moment; and she may wish so too for anything I know to the contrary, for she hath mentioned your name to me.”--“Ha!” cries he; “did she ever mention her poor Jones? You flatter me now: I can never believe so much.”--“Why, then,” answered she, “as I hope to be saved, and may the devil fetch me if I speak a syllable more than the truth, I have heard her mention Mr Jones; but in a civil and modest way, I confess; yet I could perceive she thought a great deal more than she said.”--“O my dear woman!” cries Jones, “her thoughts of me I shall never be worthy of. Oh, she is all gentleness, kindness, goodness! Why was such a rascal as I born, ever to give her soft bosom a moment's uneasiness? Why am I cursed? I, who would undergo all the plagues and miseries which any daemon ever invented for mankind, to procure her any good; nay, torture itself could not be misery to me, did I but know that she was happy.”--“Why, look you there now,” says the landlady; “I told her you was a constant lovier.”--“But pray, madam, tell me when or where you knew anything of me; for I never was