On The Death Of His Father, He Emigrated To New South Wales, Where
He Contrived To Doze Away Seven Years Of His Valueless Existence,
Suffering His Convict Servants To Rob Him Of Everything, And
Finally To Burn His Dwelling.
He returned to his native village,
dressed as an Italian mendicant, with a monkey perched upon his
shoulder, and playing airs of his own composition upon a
hurdy-gurdy.
In this disguise he sought the dwelling of an old
bachelor uncle, and solicited his charity. But who that had once
seen our friend Tom could ever forget him? Nature had no counterpart
of one who in mind and form was alike original. The good-natured
old soldier, at a glance, discovered his hopeful nephew, received
him into his house with kindness, and had afforded him an asylum
ever since.
One little anecdote of him at this period will illustrate the quiet
love of mischief with which he was imbued. Travelling from W - - to
London in the stage-coach (railways were not invented in those
days), he entered into conversation with an intelligent farmer who
sat next to him; New South Wales, and his residence in that colony,
forming the leading topic. A dissenting minister who happened to
be his vis-a-vis, and who had annoyed him by making several
impertinent remarks, suddenly asked him, with a sneer, how many
years he had been there.
"Seven," returned Tom, in a solemn tone, without deigning a glance
at his companion.
"I thought so," responded the other, thrusting his hands into his
breeches pockets.
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