"I have often heard," answered I, "that there is honour among thieves; I am happy to learn from you, that there is also religion: your baptismal sponsors must be proud of so diligent a godson." "They ought to be, Sir," replied Mr. Jonson, "for I gave them the first specimens of my address; the story is long, but if you ever give me an opportunity, I will relate it." "Thank you," said I; "meanwhile I must wish you good morning: your road now lies to the right. I return you my best thanks for your condescension, in accompanying so undistinguished an individual as myself." "Oh, never mention it, your honour," rejoined Mr. Jonson; "I am always too happy to walk with a gentleman of your 'common sense.' Farewell, Sir; may we meet again." So saying, Mr. Jonson struck into his new road, and we parted. [Note: If any one should think this sketch from nature exaggerated, I refer him to the "Memoirs of James Hardy Vaux."] I went home, musing on my adventure, and delighted with my adventurer. When I was about three paces from the door of my home, I was accosted, in a most pitiful tone, by a poor old beggar, apparently in the last extreme of misery and disease. Notwithstanding my political economy, I was moved into alms-giving, by a spectacle so wretched. I put my hand into my pocket, my purse was gone; and, on searching the other, lo--my handkerchief, my pocket-book, and a gold bracelet, which had belonged to Madame D'Anville, had vanished too. One does not keep company with men of two virtues, and receive compliments upon one's common sense for nothing! The beggar still continued to importune me. "Give him some food and half a crown," said I, to my landlady. Two hours afterwards, she came up to me--"Oh, Sir! my silver tea-pot--that villain, the beggar!" A light flashed upon me--"Ah, Mr. Job Jonson! Mr. Job Jonson!" cried I, in an indescribable rage; "out of my sight, woman! out of my sight!" I stopped short; my speech failed me. Never tell me that shame is the companion of guilt--the sinful knave is never so ashamed of himself as is the innocent fool who suffers by him. CHAPTER LXX. Then must I plunge again into the crowd, And follow all that peace disdains to seek. --Byron. In the quiet of my retreat I remained for eight days--during which time I never looked once at a newspaper--imagine how great was my philosophy! On the ninth, I began to think it high time I should hear from Dawton; and finding that I had eaten two rolls for breakfast, and that my untimely wrinkle began to assume a more mitigated appearance, I bethought me once more of the "Beauties of Babylon." While I was in this kindly mood towards the great city and its inhabitants, my landlady put two letters in my hand--one was from my mother, the other from Guloseton. I opened the latter first; it ran thus: "Dear Pelham,