But this Conscience, about which I am now hovering, seldom acts the monitor in this way, unless against respectable crimes, such as murder, debauching your friend’s wife, or stealing. But the chield I have to do with for the present, and who has led to this rigmarole, is a sort of deputy Conscience, a looker--out after small affairs--peccadilloes. The grewsome carle, Conscience Senior, you can grapple with, for he only steps forth on great occasions, when he says sternly--and the mischief is, that what he says, we know to be true--says he, “Thomas Cringle”--he never calls me Tom, or Mister, or Lieutenant--“Thomas Cringle,” says he, “if you do that thing, you shall be damned.” “Lud-a mercy,” quoth I, Thomas, “I will perpend, Master Conscience” and I set myself to eschew the evil deed, with all my might. But Conscience the Younger--whom I will take leave to call by Quashie’s appellative hereafter, Conshy--is a funny little fellow, and another guess sort oft a chap altogether. An instance--“I say, Tom, my boy--Tom Cringle--why the deuce now”--he won’t say “the Devil” for the world--“Why the deuce, Tom, don’t you confine yourself to a pint of wine at dinner, eh?” quoth Conshy. “Why will you not give up your toddy after it? You are ruining your interior, Thomas, my fine fellow--the gout is on the look out for you, your legs are spindling, and your paunch is increasing. Read Hamlet’s speech to Polonius, Tom, and if you don’t find all the marks of premature old age creeping on you, then am I, Conshy, a Dutchman, that’s all.” Now Conshy always lectures you in the watches of the night; I generally think his advice is good at breakfast time, and during the forenoon, egad, I think it excellent and most reasonable, and I determine to stick by it and if Conshy and I dine alone, I do adhere to his maxims most rigidly; but if any of my old allies should topple in to dinner, Conshy, who is a solitary mechanic, bolts instanter. Still I remember him for a time--we sit down--the dinner is good. “I say, Jack, a glass of wine, Peter what shall we have?” and until the pint a-piece is discussed, all is right between Conshy and I. But then comes some grouse. Hook, in his double-refined nonsense, palavers about the blasphemy of white wine after brown game--and he is not far wrong either;--at least I never thought he was, so long as my Hermitage lasted; but at the time I speak of, it was still to the fore--so the moment the pint a-piece was out, “Hold hard, Tom, now,” cheeps little Conshy. “Why, only one glass of Hermitage, Conshy.” Conshy shakes his head. Cheese--after the manner of the ancients--Hook again--“Only one glass of port, Conshy.” He shakes his head, and at length the cloth is drawn, and a confounded old steward of mine, who is now installed as butler, brings in the crystal decanters, sparkling to the wax lights poor as I am, I consider mutton fat still damnable--and every thing as it should be, down to a finger-glass. “Now, Mary, where are the