Among some introductory letters, one had been given me by my father, addressed to a respectable merchant to whom he annually consigned his wool. His name was Pryme—he lived on one of the quays, was reputed to be very wealthy, and was a rigid quaker. When I called at his counting-house I found that he had been absent for a day or two, and was gone to the country on business; but from his son I received much civility and any information that I required. The young quaker was a little older than I, but in height and general appearance singularly like me. Indeed, we might have passed for twin brothers, had not the cut and colour of our garments announced that no relationship could exist between a flashy flanker and a sober youth, whose conversation and outer man told plainly that he had eschewed the pomps and vanities of this wicked world. According to my father’s orders, Mr. Pryme was not only to supply me with good advice, but also to furnish me with money when required—and one fine evening the young quaker, after mess, visited my barrack-room, and then and there replenished a treasury which a military outfit had nearly exhausted.
Of course he was hospitably entertained. The bottle passed freely—some of the younger hands dropped in—the kettle was put in requisition—and it was decreed that whisky punch should complete what port wine had handsomely commenced already.
At eleven o’clock the party were regularly screwed, the quaker worse than any. We had indulged in divers drunken freaks; and not the least ridiculous was an interchange of clothes between me and Simon Pure. Our next proceeding was to seek adventure, and sally forth upon the town; I attired in a snuff-coloured single-breasted coatee and broad-brimmed hat, and brother Samuel in full regimentals and a bearskin chaco.
[Original]
Our career was short and brilliant. We managed to get up a row in Dame-street with a party of college men, bent on the same errand as ourselves. The watch interfered—we joined our quondam opponents in a treaty, offensive and defensive, to resist this impertinent intervention, and the fight for a short time was respectably maintained. But numbers succeeded. I was stretched hors de combat; sundry belligerents (the quaker included) were captured and carried to the watch-house, while the remainder, reserving themselves for deeds of valour on a future day, levanted, and left us to our fate.
Either owing to the severity of the blow, or from the shock of the fall, after having saluted my mother earth I lay perfectly motionless; while, alarmed at this proof of prowess, instead of conveying me to durance vile, the guardians of the night, declaring me dead as Julius Cæsar, carried me into a neighbouring apothecary’s, to ascertain whether that disciple of the healing god could minister to mortal wounds, and set defunct gentlemen safe upon their legs again. The doctor having wiped and mounted his spectacles, proceeded to what he believed would turn out a post mortem examination; for after a single glance, he started back and exclaimed—
“Why, ye villans—every sowl of ye will be hanged! Haven’t ye murdered a quaker?”
“Not at all,” responded the commander of the faithful. “Sure it was the quaker that murdered us.”