We are not worst at once—the course of evil   Begins so slowly, and from such slight source,
  An infant's hand might stem its with clay;
  But let the stream get deeper, and philosophy—
  Ay, and religion too—shall strive in vain
  To turn the headlong .
                            Old Play.
The Templars had been regaled by our friend Richie Moniplies in a private at Beaujeu's, where he might be considered as good company; for he had exchanged his serving-man's cloak and jerkin for a grave yet handsome suit of clothes, in the fashion of the times, but such as might have befitted an older man than himself. He had declined presenting himself at the ordinary, a point to which his companions were very desirous to have brought him, for it will be easily believed that such wags as Lowestoffe and his companion were not indisposed to a little merriment at the expense of the raw and Scotsman; besides the chance of easing him of a few pieces, of which he appeared to have acquired considerable command. But not even a succession of measures of sparkling sack, in which the little brilliant atoms circulated like in the sun's rays, had the least effect on Richie's sense of decorum. He retained the gravity of a judge, even while he drank like a fish, partly from his own natural to good liquor, partly in the way of good fellowship towards his guests. When the wine began to make some innovation on their heads, Master Lowestoffe, tired, perhaps, of the humours of Richie, who began to become yet more stoically and dogmatical than even in the earlier part of the entertainment, proposed to his friend to break up their and join the gamesters.
 
The drawer was called accordingly, and Richie discharged the reckoning of the party, with a generous remuneration to the attendants, which was received with cap and knee, and many assurances of—“ welcome, gentlemen.”
 
“I grieve we should part so soon, gentlemen,” said Richie to his companions,—“and I would you had cracked another quart ere you went, or stayed to take some slight matter of supper, and a glass of Rhenish. I thank you, however, for having graced my poor thus far; and I commend you to fortune, in your own courses, for the ordinary neither was, is, nor shall be, an element of mine.”
 
“Fare thee well, then,” said Lowestoffe, “most and sententious Master Moniplies. May you soon have another mortgage to , and may I be there to witness it; and may you play the good fellow, as as you have done this day.”
 
“, gentlemen, it is merely of your grace to say so—but, if you would but hear me speak a few words of admonition respecting this wicked ordinary—”
 
“Reserve the lesson, most Richie,” said Lowestoffe, “until I have lost all my money,” showing, at the same time, a purse indifferently well provided, “and then the lecture is likely to have some weight.”
 
“And keep my share of it, Richie,” said the other Templar, showing an almost empty purse, in his turn, “till this be full again, and then I will promise to hear you with some patience.”
 
“Ay, ay, gallants,” said Richie, “the full and the empty gang a' ae gate, and that is a grey one—but the time will come.”
 
“Nay, it is come already,” said Lowestoffe; “they have set out the hazard table. Since you will not go with us, why, farewell, Richie.”
 
“And farewell, gentlemen,” said Richie, and left the house, into which they had returned.
 
Moniplies was not many steps from the door, when a person, whom, lost in his reflections on gaming, ordinaries, and the manners of the age, he had not observed, and who had been as on his part, ran full against him; and, when Richie desired to know whether he meant “ony incivility,” replied by a curse on Scotland, and all that belonged to it. A less round reflection on his country would, at any time, have provoked Richie, but more especially when he had a double quart of Canary and better in his . He was about to give a very rough answer, and to second his word by action, when a closer view of his changed his purpose.
 
“You are the vera lad in the warld,” said Richie, “whom I most wished to meet.”
 
“And you,” answered the stranger, “or any of your beggarly countrymen, are the last sight I should ever wish to see. You Scots are ever fair and false, and an honest man cannot thrive within eyeshot of you.”
 
“As to our poverty, friend,” replied Richie, “that is as Heaven pleases; but our falset, I'll prove to you that a Scotsman bears as leal and true a heart to his friend as ever beat in English doublet.”
 
“I care not whether he does or not,” said the . “Let me go—why keep you hold of my cloak? Let me go, or I will thrust you into the .”
 
“I believe I could forgie ye, for you did me a good turn once, in plucking me out of it,” said the Scot.
 
“Beshrew my fingers, then, if they did so,” replied the stranger. “I would your whole country lay there, along with you; and Heaven's curse the hand that helped to raise them!—Why do you stop my way?” he added, fiercely.
 
“Because it is a bad one, Master Jenkin,” said Richie. “Nay, never start about it, man—you see you are known. Alack-a-day! that an honest man's son should live to start at hearing himself called by his own name!” Jenkin struck his brow violently with his fist.
 
“Come, come,” said Richie, “this passion availeth nothing. Tell me what gate go you?”
 
“To the devil!” answered Jin Vin.
 
“That is a black gate, if you speak according to the letter,” answered Richie; “but if , there are worse places in this great city than the Devil ; and I care not if I go with you, and a pottle of burnt sack on you—it will correct the crudities of my stomach, and form a gentle preparative for the leg of a cold pullet.”
 
“I pray you, in good fashion, to let me go,” said Jenkin. “You may mean me kindly, and I wish you to have no wrong at my hand; but I am in the humour to be dangerous to myself, or any one.”
 
“I will the risk,” said the Scot, “if you will but come with me; and here is a place convenient, a howff nearer than the Devil, whilk is but an ill-omened drouthy name for a tavern. This other of the Saint Andrew is a quiet place, where I have ta'en my whetter now and then, when I in the neighbourhood of the Temple with Lord Glenvarloch.—What the deil's the matter wi' the man, garr'd him gie sic a spang as that, and almaist brought himself and me on the causeway?”
 
“Do not name that false Scot's name to me,” said Jin Vin, “if you would not have me go mad!—I was happy before I saw him—he has been the cause of all the ill that has befallen me—he has made a and a madman of me!”
 
“If you are a knave,” said Richie, “you have met an officer—if you are daft, you have met a keeper; but a gentle officer and a kind keeper. Look you, my gude friend, there has been twenty things said about this same lord, in which there is no more truth than in the leasings of Mahound. The warst they can say of him is, that he is not always so to good advice as I would pray him, you, and every young man to be. Come wi' me—just come ye wi' me; and, if a little spell of siller and a great deal of excellent counsel can relieve your occasions, all I can say is, you have had the luck to meet one capable of giving you both, and maist willing to bestow them.”
 
The of the Scot prevailed over the of Vincent, who was indeed in a state of and incapacity to think for himself, which led him to yield the more readily to the suggestions of another. He suffered himself to be dragged into the small tavern which Richie recommended, and where they soon found themselves seated in a , with a pottle of burnt sack, and a paper of sugar betwixt them. Pipes and tobacco were also provided, but were only used by Richie, who had adopted the custom of late, as adding to the gravity and importance of his manner, and affording, as it were, a and pleasant accompaniment to the words of wisdom which flowed from his tongue. After they had filled their glasses and drank them in silence, Richie repeated the question, whither his guest was going when they met so fortunately.
 
“I told you,” said Jenkin, “I was going to destruction—I mean to the gaming-house. I am resolved to hazard these two or three pieces, to get as much as will pay for a passage with Captain Sharker, whose ship lies at Gravesend, bound for America—and so , ho!—I met one devil in the way already, who would have me from my purpose, but I him from me—you may be another for what I know.—What degree of damnation do you propose for me,” he added wildly, “and what is the price of it?”
 
“I would have you to know,” answered Richie, “that I deal in no such commodities, whether as buyer or seller. But if you will tell me honestly the cause of your , I will do what is in my power to help you out of it,—not being, however, of promises, until I know the case; as a learned physician only gives advice when he has observed the diagnostics.”
 
“No one has any thing to do with my affairs,” said the poor lad; and folding his arms on the table, he laid his head upon them, with the dejection of the overburdened lama, when it throws itself down to die in desperation.
 
Richard Moniplies, like most folk who have a good opinion of themselves, was fond of the task of , which at once displayed his superiority, (for the consoler is necessarily, for the time at least, superior to the person,) and indulged his love of talking. He on the poor penitenta of pitiless length, stuffed full of the usual topics of the mutability of human affairs—the advantages of patience under affliction—the of grieving for what hath no remedy—the necessity of taking more care for the future, and some gentle on account of the past, which acid he threw in to assist in the patient's , as Hannibal used vinegar in cutting his way through rocks. It was not in human nature to endure this flood of commonplace in silence; and Jin Vin, whether desirous of stopping the flow of words—crammed thus into his ear, “against the stomach of his sense,” or whether in Richie's protestations of friendship, which the wretched, says Fielding, are ever so ready to believe, or whether merely to give his sorrows in words, raised his head, and turning his red and eyes to Richie—
 
“Cocksbones, man, only hold thy tongue, and thou shall know all about it,—and then all I ask of thee is to shake hands and part.—This Margaret Ramsay,—you have seen her, man?”
 
“Once,” said Richie, “once, at Master George Heriot's in Lombard Street—I was in the room when they dined.”
 
“Ay, you helped to shift their trenchers, I remember,” said Jin Vin. “Well, that same pretty girl—and I will uphold her the prettiest betwixt Paul's and the Bar—she is to be to your Lord Glenvarloch, with a on him!”
 
“That is impossible,” said Richie; “it is nonsense, man—they make A............