Sir Per.  Sir, I insist upon an answer.

Eger.  I beg you will excuse me, sir.

Sir Per.  I will not excuse you, sir.  I insist.

Eger.  Then, sir, in obedience, and with your patience, I will answer your question.

Sir Per.  Ay! ay!  I will be patient, never fear:  come, let us have it, let us have it.

Eger.  You shall; and now, sir, let prejudice, the rage of party, and the habitual insolence of successful vice—­pause but for one moment,—­and let religion, laws, power herself, the policy of a nation’s virtue, and Britain’s guardian genius, take a short, impartial retrospect but of one transaction, notorious in this land,—­then must they behold yeomen, freemen, citizens, artizans, divines, courtiers, patriots, merchants, soldiers, sailors, and the whole plebeian tribe, in septennial procession, urged and seduced by the contending great ones of the land to the altar of perjury,—­with the bribe in one hand, and the evangelist in the other,—­impiously, and audaciously affront the Majesty of Heaven, by calling him to witness that they have not received, nor ever will receive, reward or consideration for his suffrage.—­Is not this a fact, sir?  Can it be denied?  Can it be believed by those who know not Britain?  Or can it be matched in the records of human policy?—­Who then, sir, that reflects one moment, as a Briton or a Christian, on this picture, would be conducive to a people’s infamy and a nation’s ruin?

Sir Per.  Sir, I have heard your rhapsody with a great deal of patience! and great astonishment,—­and you are certainly beside yourself.  What the devil business have you to trouble your head about the sins or the Souls of other men?  You should leave these matters till the clergy, wha are paid for looking after them; and let every man gang till the devil his ain way:  besides, it is nai decent to find fault with what is winked at by the whole nation—­nay, and practised by aw parties.

Eger.  That, sir, is the very shame, the ruin I complain of.

Sir Per.  Oh! you are vary young, vary young in these matters, but experience will convince you, sir, that every man in public business has twa consciences,—­a religious, and a political conscience.  Why, you see a merchant now, or a shop-keeper, that kens the science of the world, always looks upon an oath at a custom-house, or behind a counter, only as an oath in business, a thing of course, a mere thing of course, that has nothing to do with religion;—­and just so it is at an election:—­for instance now—­I am a candidate, pray observe, and I gang till a periwig-maker, a hatter, or a hosier, and I give ten, twenty, or thraty guineas for a periwig, a hat, or a pair of hose; and so on, thro’ a majority of voters;—­vary weel;—­what is the consequence?  Why, this commercial intercourse, you see, begets a friendship betwixt us, a commercial friendship—­and, in a day or twa these men