“You are very severe, my lord.”

“I meant to be so; but am I unjust?  Ah, John, let your own conscience answer that question.”

“Well, my lord, I trust you will be gratified to hear that I am perfectly sensible of the life I have led—­ahem?”

“And what is that but admitting that you know the full extent of your vices?—­unless, indeed, you have made a firm resolution to give them up.”

“I have made such a resolution, my lord, and it is my intention to keep it.  I know I can do little of myself, but I trust that where there is a sincere disposition, all will go on swimmingly, as the Bible says—­ahem!”

“Where does the Bible say that all will go on swimmingly?”

“I don’t remember the exact chapter and verse, my lord,” he replied, affecting a very grave aspect, “but I know it is somewhere in the Book of Solomon—­ahem!—­ahem!  Either in Solomon or Exodus the Prophet, I am not certain which.  Oh, no, by the by, I believe it is in the dialogue that occurs between Jonah and the whale.”

His father looked at him as if to ascertain whether his worthy son were abandoned enough to tamper, in the first place, with a subject so solemn, and, in the next, with the anxiety of his own parent, while laboring, under age and infirmity, to wean him from a course of dissipation and vice.  Little indeed did he suspect that his virtuous offspring was absolutely enacting his part, for the purpose of having a good jest to regale Norton with in the course of their evening’s potations.

Let it not be supposed that we are overstepping the modesty of nature in this scene.  There is scarcely any one acquainted with life who does not know that there are hundreds, thousands, of hardened profligates, who would take delight, under similar circumstances, to quiz the governor—­as a parent is denominated by this class—­even at the risk of incurring his lasting displeasure, or of altogether forfeiting his affection, rather than lose the opportunity of having a good joke to tell their licentious companions, when they meet.  The present age has as much of this, perhaps, as any of its predecessors, if not more.  But to return.

“I know not,” observed Lord Cullamore, “whether this is an ironical affectation of ignorance, or ignorance itself; but on whichever horn of the dilemma I hang you, Dunroe, you are equally contemptible and guilty.  A heart must be deeply corrupted, indeed, that can tempt its owner to profane sacred things, and cast an aged and afflicted parent into ridicule.  You are not aware, unfortunate young man, of the precipice on which you stand, or the dismay with which I could fill your hardened heart, by two or three words speaking.  And only that I was not a conscious party in circumstances which may operate terribly against us both, I would mention them to you, and make you shudder at the fate that is probably before you.”