ROOM IN THE INN. 67 



needs exhume its bitter roots, wherewith to feed their 

 melancholy ! 



Hackle. Your satire, Doctor, is wickedly over- 

 charged : There be fires and faces merry as ever, 

 in our free, glad homes hearts light and innocent, 

 that need not the goading impulse of strong drinks in 

 order to stir them up that call not to ,aid the blands 

 of novelty, but are alway buoyant, alway in time to 

 joyous measures. 



Swivel. I know it, Hackle ; but over their cups men 

 are no hypocrites. See the wariest of them reveal 

 themselves ; they betray their characters, and open up 

 their schemes ; they let out the issues of frail human- 

 ity ! Here it was that Shakspeare took lessons in the 

 study of mankind ; here true philosophy is taught, and 

 not in abstract spheres, in grave, solemn circles, nor in 

 wildernesses, nor in garrets. Over the cup, my boys> 

 more glorious things have been uttered than are written 

 in immortal books ; the walls of the senate-house have 

 been put to shame by the eloquence displayed in 

 corners at the feast-table ! Yet, mark me, Hackle, I 

 cry not up the drunkard who extinguishes reason ; 1 

 cry not up that excessive indulgence, which takes the 

 curb off our passions, and allows an impress to the 

 dominant powers of darkness ; moderation, boys, 

 moderation in all things ! 



May. Eh ! Doctor, and thyself as the example, 

 most abstemious Swiveltop ? By the bye, Gaff 

 yonder is sound asleep, and there is some inclina- 



