damnation! You may guzzle wine here, but you shall want a drop of
water to cool your tongue hereafter! You may guttle, while righteous
Lazarus is lying at your gate. But wait a little! He shall soon lie in
Abraham's bosom, while you shall roast on the devil's great gridiron,
and be seasoned just to his tooth!--Will the prophets say, "Come here
gamester, and teach us the long odds?"--'Tis odds if they do!--Will
the martyrs rant, and swear, and shuffle, and cut with you? No! The
martyrs are no shufflers! You will be cut so as you little expect: you
are a field of tares, and Lucifer is your head farmer. He will come
with his reapers and his sickles and his forks, and you will be cut
down and bound and pitched and carted and housed in hell. I will not
oil my lips with lies to please you: I tell you the plain truth: you
will go to hell! Ammon and Mammon and Moloch are head stoakers; they
are making Bethhoron hot for you! Prophane wretches, you daily wrangle
and brawl and tell one another--"I will see you damned first!"--But I
tell you the day will come when you will pray to Beelzebub to let you
escape his clutches! And what will be his answer?--"I will see you
damned first!'"

To this rhapsody of strange but impressive vulgar eloquence I
listened, with rapture, for nearly an hour; selecting and noting
down the passages that I thought most remarkable, many of which were
too extravagant, if repeated, to be believed. In the height of these
effusions, when the divine man was torturing his lungs to be heard by
the increasing croud, he on his stool, I seated uncapped in a cart by
his side, who should I see approach, in a phaeton and pair, but Hector
Mowbray? And by his side--! Yes!--Olivia! The beauteous Olivia! no
longer a child, but tall, straight, perfectly formed; every limb in
the most captivating symmetry, every feature in the full bloom of
youth; intelligence in every look, grace in every motion, sweetness in