His companions were wont "to roast" Adam, as they termed it, on what they called his Methodism. They had often urged him to accompany them to the theatre; but, for two years, he had stubbornly withstood their temptations. The stage was to Adam what the tree of knowledge was to his first namesake and progenitor. He had been counselled against it, he had read against it, he had heard sermons against it; but had never been within the walls of a theatre. _The_ Siddons, and her brother John Kemble, then in the zenith of their fame, were filling not only London but Europe with their names. One evening they were to perform, together--Adam had often heard of them--he admired Shakspeare--his curiosity was excited, he yielded to the solicitations of his companions, and accompanied them to Covent Garden. The curtain was drawn up. The performance began. Adam's soul was riveted, his senses distracted. The Siddons swept before him like a vision of immortality--Kemble seemed to draw a soul from the tomb of the Cæsars; and, as the curtain fell, and the loud music pealed, Adam felt as if a new existence and a new world had opened before him, and his head reeled with wonder and delight. When the performance was concluded, his companions proposed to have a single bottle in an adjoining tavern; Adam offered some opposition, but was prevailed upon to accompany them. Several of the players entered--they were convivial spirits, abounding with wit, anecdote, and song. The scene was new, but not unpleasant to Adam. He took no note of time. He was unused to drink, and little affected him. The first bottle was finished. "WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER," said one of his companions. It was the first time Adam had heard the fatal words, and he offered no opposition. He drank again--he began to expatiate on divers subjects--he discovered he was an orator. "Well done, Mr Brown," cried one of his companions, "there's hope of you yet--_we'll have another_, my boy--three's band!" A third bottle was brought; Adam was called upon for a song. He could sing, and sing well too; and, taking his glass in his hand, he began-- "Stop, stop, we'll ha'e anither gill, Ne'ermind a lang-tongued beldame's yatter; They're fools wha'd leave a glass o' yill For ony wife's infernal clatter. "There's Bet, when I gang hame the night, Will set the hail stairhead a ringin'-- Let a' the neebours hear her flyte, Ca' me a brute, and stap my singin'. "She'll yelp about the bairns' rags-- Ca' me a drucken gude-for-naethin'! She'll curse my throat an' drouthy bags, An' at me thraw their duddy claethin'! "Chorus, gentlemen--chorus!" cried Adam, and continued--