Paramount. Damn him, I never intend to do either—See again how he bows—there again—how the mob throw up their hats, split their throats; how they huzza too; they make a mere god of the fellow; how they idolize him—Ignorant brutes!
Charley. A scoundrel; he has climb'd up the stilts of preferment strangely, my Lord.
Paramount. Strangely, indeed; but it's our own faults.
Charley. He has had better luck than honester folks; I'm surpris'd to think he has ever rose to the honour of presenting a remonstrance, or rather, that he could ever have the impudence to think of remonstrating.
Paramount. Aye, Charley, you see how unaccountably things turn out; his audacity is unparalleled—a Newgate dog.
Charley. My Lord, I believe the fellow was never known to blush; and, indeed, it's an observation I made some time ago, and I believe a just one, without an exception, that those who squint never blush.
Paramount. You must be mistaken, Charley.
Charley. No, my Lord, it's a fact, I had an uncle squinted exactly like him, who was guilty of many scandalous things, and yet all the parish, with the parson at their head, could not make him blush, so that at last he became a by-word—Here comes old shame-the-devil; this dog is the very spawn of him.
Paramount. Hoot, mon, ye give your uncle a shocking character.
Charley. I only mention it, my Lord, for the similarity's sake.