“You did, Sir Thomas; and with regard to what we were speaking about—­I mean religion—­I’ll hould a pound note with Charley Corbet, when he comes back, that I have less of it than him; and we’ll both leave it to your honor, as the best judge; now, if I have less of it than Charley, I think I deserve the preference.”

The baronet looked at him, or rather in the direction where he stood, which induced Gillespie to suppose that he was paying the strictest attention to what he said.

“Besides, I once caught Charley at his prayers, Sir Thomas; but I’d be glad to see the man that ever caught me at them—­that’s the chat.”

Sir Thomas placed his two hands upon his eyes for as good as a minute, after which he removed them, and stared about him like one awakening from a disturbed dream.

“Eh?—­Begone, Gillespie; I believe I sent for you, but you may go.  I am unwell, and not in a condition to speak to you.  When I want you again, you shall be sent for.”

“I don’t care a d——­ about either hell or the devil, Sir Thomas, especially when I’m drunk; and I once, for a wager, outswore Squire Leatherings, who was so deaf that I was obliged to swear with my mouth to the end of his ear-trumpet.  I was backed for fifty guineas by Colonel Brimstone, who was head of the Hellfire Club.”

The baronet signed to him impatiently to begone, and this worthy moralist withdrew, exclaiming as he went: 

“Take my word for it, you will find nothing to your hand equal to myself; and if there’s anything to be done, curse me but I deserve a preference.  I think merit ought to have its reward at any rate.”

Sir Thomas, we need not say, felt ill at ease.  The tumults of his mind resembled those of the ocean after the violence of the tempest has swept over it, leaving behind that dark and angry agitation which indicates the awful extent of its power.  After taking a turn or two through the room, he felt fatigued and drowsy, with something like a feeling of approaching illness.  Yielding to this heaviness, he stretched himself on a sofa, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.

All minds naturally vicious, or influenced by the impulses of bad and irregular passions, are essentially vulgar, mean, and cowardly.  Our baronet was, beyond question, a striking proof of this truth.  Had he possessed either dignity, or one spark of gentlemanly feeling, or self-respect, he would not have degraded himself from what ought to have been expected from a man in his position, by his violence to the worthless wretch, Crackenfudge, who was slight, comparatively feeble, and by no means a match for him in a personal contest.  The only apology that can be offered for him is, that it is probable he was scarcely conscious, in the whirlwind and tempest of his passions, that he allowed himself to act such a base and unmanly part to a person who had not willingly offended him, and who was entitled, whilst under his roof, to forbearance, if not protection, even in virtue of the communication he had made.