" Jones then fell a-laughing, and asked Partridge, "if he was
not ashamed, with so much charity in his mouth, to have no charity
in his heart. Your religion," says he, "serves you only for an
excuse for your faults, but is no incentive to your virtue. Can any
man who is really a Christian abstain from relieving one of his
brethren in such a miserable condition?" And at the same time, putting
his hand in his pocket, he gave the poor object a shilling.
"Master," cries the fellow, after thanking him, "I have a curious
thing here in my pocket, which I found about two miles off, if your
worship will please to buy it. I should not venture to pull it out
to every one; but, as you are so good a gentleman, and so kind to
the poor, you won't suspect a man of being a thief only because he
is poor." He then pulled out a little gilt pocketbook, and delivered
it into the hands of Jones.
Jones presently opened it, and (guess, reader, what he felt) saw
in the first page the words Sophia Western, written by her own fair
hand. He no sooner read the name than he prest it close to his lips;
nor could he avoid falling into some very frantic raptures,
notwithstanding his company; but, perhaps, these very raptures made
him forget he was not alone.
While Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had an
excellent brown buttered crust in his mouth, or as if he had really
been a book-worm, or an author who had nothing to cat but his own
works, a piece of paper fell from its leaves to the ground, which
Partridge took up, and delivered to Jones, who presently perceived
it to be a bank-bill.
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