Originally published in The Literary Chronicle and Weekly Review (J. Sidebetmem) vol.1 #15 (28 Aug 1819).
A word spoken at random has often proved of more utility than the best concerted plans; hence it happens, that fools often prosper when men of talents fail.
As an illustration of this assertion, I shall present my perusers with a tale, which, a little while ago, I read in a French periodical work, called Forfeits Redeemed, and which I have rather imitated than translated.
A poor simple peasant, of the name of Cricket, being heartily tired of his daily fare of brown bread and cheese, resolved, whatever might be the consequence, to procure to himself, by hook or by crook, even at the expense of a broken head, three sumptuous meals. Having taken this courageous and noble resolution, the next thing was to devise a plan to put it into execution; and here his good fortune befriended him. The wife of a rich nabob, in the neighbourhood of his cottage, had, during the absence of her husband, lost a valuable diamond ring; she offered great rewards to any person who could recover it, or give any tidings of the jewel. But no one was likely to do either; for three of her own footmen, of whose fidelity she had not the smallest doubt, had stolen it. The loss soon reached our glutton's ears—'I'll go,' cries he; 'I'll say I am a conjurer, and that I will discover where the gen is hidden, on condition of first receiving three splendid meals. I shall fail, 'tis true. What then? I shall be treated as an impostor; my back and sides may suffer for it; but my hungry stomach will be filled.'
To concert his scheme and put it into practice, was but the work of a moment; the nabob still was absent. The lady, anxious for the recovery of her ring, accepted the offered terms; a sumptuous dinner was prepared; the table was covered with rich viands; expensive wines, of every sort, were placed upon the sideboard. Good heavens! how he ate. An attentive footman, one of the secret thieves, filled him to drink; our conjuror, gorged, exclaimed, ''Tis well! I have the first!' The servant trembled at the ambiguous words, and ran to his companions—'He has found us out, dear friends,' he cried; 'he is a cunning man; he said he had the first; what could he mean but me?'—'It looks a little like it,' replied the second thief; 'I'll wait on him to-night; as yet you may have mistaken his meaning—should he speak in the same strain, we must decamp.'
At night, a supper fit for a court of aldermen was set before the greedy Cricket, who filled his paunch till he could eat no more. The second footman watched him all the while. When satisfied, he rose, exclaiming, 'The second's in my sack, and cannot escape me.' Away flew the affrighted robber—'We are lost!' he cried; 'our heels alone can save us.'—'Not so,' answered the third; 'if we fly and are caught, we swing; I'll tend him at to-morrow's meal, and should he then speak as before, I'll own the theft to him, and offer some great reward to screen us from punishment, and that he may deliver the jewels to the lady without betraying us.' They all agreed.
On the morrow, our peasant's appetite was still the same; at last, quite full, he exclaimed, 'My task is done! the third, thank God, is here!'--'Yes,' said the trembling culprit, 'here's the ring; but hide our blame, and you shall never want good fare again.' 'Be silent!' exclaimed the astonished Cricket, who little thought that what he had spoken of his meals could have made the plunderers betray themselves; 'Be silent! I have it all.' Some geese were feeding before the windows; he went out, and having seized the largest, forced the ring down his gullet; then declared that the large goose had swallowed the jewel. The goose was killed—the diamond found.
In the mean time, the nabob returned, and was incredulous. 'Some crafty knave, madam,' said he, 'either the thief himself, or his abettor, has, with a well-concerted scheme, wrought on your easy faith. But I'll soon try his powers of divination. I'll provide him with a meal likewise.' No sooner said than done; between two dishes the mysterious fare was hidden; the false conjuror was told to declare what was the concealed cheer, on pain of being well beaten, should he fail. 'Alas!' he muttered out, 'poor Cricket, thou art taken.' 'He's right!' the nabob cried; 'give him a purse of gold; I honour talents such as his.' It was a little cricket in the dish. Thus our glutton, by four random speeches, gained three hearty meals, a heavy purse, comfort for life, and a most brilliant reputation as a cunning man.