Conscience. Suppose you were now in Brazil, and the owner of a large establishment to fit out slave-traders with handcuffs for the coast of Africa, and could not change your business without considerable pecuniary sacrifice; would you make the sacrifice, or would you keep your fires and hammers still going?
Distiller. Why do you ask such puzzling questions? You know I don’t like them at all, especially when my mind is occupied with other subjects. Leave me, at least till I can compose myself, I beseech you.
Conscience. Nay, but hear me through. Is it right for you to go on manufacturing fevers, dropsy, consumption, delirium tremens, and a host of other frightful diseases, because your property happens to be vested in a distillery? Is it consistent with the great law of love by which you profess to be governed? Will it bear examination in a dying hour? Shall I bid you look back upon it from the brink of eternity, that you may from such recollections gather holy courage for your pending conflict with the king of terrors? Will you bequeath this magazine of wrath and perdition to your only son not already ruined, and go out of the world rejoicing that you can leave the whole concern in the hands of one who is so trustworthy and so dear?
[Here the Distiller leaves abruptly, without answering a word.]
SECOND INTERVIEW.
Distiller. (Seeing Conscience approach, and beginning to tremble.) What, so soon and so early at your post again? I did hope for a short respite.
Conscience. O, I am distressed—I cannot hold my peace. I am pained at my very heart.
Distiller. Do be composed, I beseech you, and hear what I have to say. Since our last interview I have resolved to sell out, and I expect the purchaser on in a very few days.
Conscience. What will he do with the establishment when he gets it?
Distiller. You must ask him, and not me. But whatever he may do with it, I shall be clear.