"Well," said the other, "you have more money than wit. Good-morning, sir, and take care of another Mr Daniells."
Poor Adam was dumfoundered; and, in the bitterness of his spirit, he said London was a den o' thieves. I might tell you how his last shilling was expended—how he lived upon bread and water—how he fell into arrears with the orange-woman for the rent of his garret—how she persecuted him—how he was puzzled to understand the meaning of the generous words, "Money Lent;"—how the orange-woman, in order to obtain her rent, taught him the mystery of the three golden balls—and how the shirts which his mother had made him from a web of her own spinning, and his books, and all that he had, save the clothes upon his back, were pledged—and how, when all was gone, the old landlady turned him to the door, houseless, friendless, penniless, with no companion but despair. We might have dwelt upon these things, but must proceed with his history.
Adam, after enduring privations which would make humanity shudder, obtained the situation of assistant-porter in a merchant's office. The employment was humble, but he received it joyfully. He was steady and industrious, and it was not long until he was appointed warehouseman; and his employer, finding that, in addition to his good qualities, he had received a superior education, made him one of his confidential clerks. He had held the situation about two years. The rust, as his brother clerks said, was now pretty well rubbed off Scotch Adam. His hodden-grey was laid aside for the dashing green, his hobnailed shoes for fashionable pumps, and his broad-brimmed hat for a narrow-crowned beaver; his speech, too, had caught a sprinkling of the southern accent; but, in other respects, he was the same inoffensive, steady, and serious being as when he left his mother's cottage.
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 Shakspere—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 performances were 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 hae anither gill,
Ne'er mind 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 stair-head a ringin—
Let a' the neebors 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 and drouthy bags,
And at me thraw their duddy claethin!'
"Chorus, gentlemen—chorus!" cried Adam, and continued—
"'The fient a supper I'll get there—
A dish o' tongue is a' she'll gie me!
She'll shake her nieve and rug her hair,
And wonder how she e'er gaed wi' me!
She vows to leave me, and I say,
"Gang, gang! for dearsake!—that's a blessin!"
She rins to get her claes away,
But—o' the kist the key's amissin!
"'The younkers a' set up a skirl.
They shriek and cry, "Oh dinna, mither!"
I slip to bed, and fash the quarrel
Neither ae way nor anither.
Bet creeps beside me, unco dour.
I clap her back, and say, "My dawtie!"
Quo' she, "Weel, weel, my passion's owre;
But dinna gang a-drinkin, Watty."'"