Hum.  No; but if a servant has grown bald under his master’s nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and regard for it on the other.

Sir R. Why, to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as honest as a—­pshaw! the parson means to palaver us; but, to return to my position, I tell you I do n’t like your flat contradiction.

Hum.  Yes, you do.

Sir R. I tell you I don’t.  I only love to hear men’s arguments.  I hate their flummery.

Hum.  What do you call flummery?

Sir R. Flattery, blockhead! a dish too often served up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones.

Hum.  I never serve it up to you.

Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a different description.

Hum.  Hem! what is it?

Sir R. Sauerkraut, you old crab

Hum.  I have held you a stout tug at argument this many a year.

Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism.  Now mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him:  now I am rich, and hate flattery.  Ergo—­when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I hate him.

Hum.  That’s wrong.

Sir R. Very well; negatur; now prove it.

Hum.  Put the case then, I am a poor man.

Sir R. You an’t, you scoundrel.  You know you shall never want while I have a shilling.

Hum.  Bless you!

Sir R. Pshaw!  Proceed.

Hum.  Well, then, I am a poor—­I must be a poor man now, or I never shall get on.

Sir R. Well, get on, be a poor man.

Hum.  I am a poor man, and I argue with you, and convince you, you are wrong; then you call yourself a blockhead, and I am of your opinion:  now, that’s no flattery.

Sir R. Why, no; but when a man’s of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an end to the conversation, and so I hate him for that.  But where’s my nephew Frederic?

Hum.  Been out these two hours.

Sir R. An undutiful cub!  Only arrived from Russia last night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he’s scampering over the fields like a Calmuck Tartar.

Hum.  He’s a fine fellow.

Sir R. He has a touch of our family.  Don’t you think he is a little like me, Humphrey?

Hum.  No, not a bit; you are as ugly an old man as ever I clapped my eyes on.

Sir R. Now that’s plaguy impudent, but there’s no flattery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argument.  His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit—­Humphrey, you remember my brother Job?

Hum.  Yes, you drove him to Russia five and twenty years ago.

Sir R. I did not drive him.

Hum.  Yes, you did.  You would never let him be at peace in the way of argument.

Sir R. At peace!  Zounds, he would never go to war.

Hum.  He had the merit to be calm.

Sir R. So has a duck pond.  He was a bit of still life; a chip; weak water gruel; a tame rabbit, boiled to rags, without sauce or salt.  He received my arguments with his mouth open, like a poorbox gaping for half-pence, and, good or bad, he swallowed them all without any resistance.  We could n’t disagree, and so we parted.