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Book, page 22 / 508 great grandfather, whom it is sufficient to name to have all the blood of all the De Brantefields up in arms for me against all the Jews that ever were born. So my little Jacob, I have you." Mowbray, accordingly, wrote to his mother what he called a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of a letter, and next post came an answer from Lady de Brantefield with the money to pay her son's debt, and, as desired and expected, a strong reproof to her son for his folly in ever dealing with a Jew. How could he possibly expect not to be cheated, as, by his own confession, it appeared he had been, grossly? It was the more extraordinary, since he so well recollected the ever to be lamented case of Sir Josseline de Brantefield, that her son could, with all his family experience, be, at this time of day, a dupe to one of a race branded by the public History of England, and private Memoirs of the De Brantefields, to all eternity! Mowbray showed this letter in triumph to all his party. It answered the double purpose of justifying his own bad opinion of the tribe of Israel, and of tormenting Jacob. The next Thursday evening after that on which judgment had been given against Mowbray, when Jacob appeared in the school-room, the anti-Jewish party gathered round him, according to the instructions of their leader, who promised to show them some good sport at the Jew's expense. "Only give me fair play," said Mowbray, "and stick close, and don't let him off, for your lives don't let him break through you, till I've _roasted_ him well." "There's your money," cried Mowbray, throwing down the money for the watches--"take it--ay, count it--every penny right--I've paid you by the day appointed; and, thank Heaven and my friends, the pound of flesh next my heart is safe from your knife, Shylock!" Jacob made no reply, but he looked as if he felt much. "Now tell me, honest Jacob," pursued Mowbray, "honest Jacob, patient Jacob, tell me, upon your honour, if you know what that word means--upon your conscience, if you ever heard of any such thing--don't you think yourself a most pitiful dog, to persist in coming here to be made game of for twopence? 'Tis wonderful how much your thoroughbred Jew will do and suffer
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