“Good heavens! what an infamous assertion!”
exclaimed I, clasping my hands.
“On reference back to the calendar, we observed
that one J. Newland was transported for such an offence.
Query?”
“It must have been some other person; but this
has arisen from the vindictive feeling of those two
scoundrels who served under Pleggit,” cried
I.
“How can you possibly tell, sir?” mildly
observed one of the governors.
“How can I tell, sir?” replied I, starting
from my chair. “Why, I am Japhet Newland
myself, sir.”
“You, sir,” replied the governor, surveying
my fashionable exterior, my chains, and bijouterie.
“Yes, sir, I am the Japhet Newland brought up
in this asylum, and who was apprenticed to Mr Cophagus.”
“Probably, then, sir,” replied the president,
“you are the Mr Newland whose name appears at
all the fashionable parties in high life?”
“I believe that I am the same person, sir.”
“I wish you joy upon your success in the world,
sir. It would not appear that it can be very
important to you to discover your parents.”
“Sir,” replied I, “you have never
known what it is to feel the want of parents and friends.
Fortunate as you may consider me to be—and
I acknowledge I have every reason to be grateful for
my unexpected rise in life—I would, at
this moment, give up all that I am worth, resume my
Foundling dress, and be turned out a beggar, if I could
but discover the authors of my existence.”—I
then bowed low to the governors, and quitted the room.
Mischief brewing—Timothy
and I set our wits to work, and he
resumes his old profession
of a gipsy.
I hastened home with feelings too painful to be described.
I had a soreness at my heart, an oppression on my
spirits, which weighed me down. I had but one
wish—that I was dead. I had already
imparted to Harcourt the history of my life, and when
I came in, I threw myself upon the sofa in despair,
and relieved my agonised heart with a flood of tears.
As soon as I could compose myself, I stated what had
occurred.
“My dear Newland, although it has been an unfortunate
occurrence in itself, I do not see that you have so
much cause to grieve, for you have this satisfaction,
that it appears there has been a wish to reclaim you.”
“Yes,” replied I, “I grant that,
but have they not been told, and have they not believed,
that I have been ignominiously punished for a capital
crime? Will they ever seek me more?”
“Probably not; you must now seek them.
What I should recommend is, that you repair to-morrow
to the apothecary’s shop, and interrogate relative
to the person who called to make inquiries after you.
If you will allow me, I will go with you.”
“And be insulted by those malignant scoundrels?”
“They dare not insult you. As an apothecary’s
apprentice they would, but as a gentleman they will
quail; and if they do not, their master will most
certainly be civil, and give you all the information
which he can. We may as well, however, not do
things by halves; I will borrow my aunt’s carriage
for the morning, and we will go in style.”
