profligate wretches. Which consideration, he said, could not but afford

him the liveliest satisfaction.

He furthermore conjured him to avoid, above all things, the vice of

intoxication, which he likened unto the filthy habits of swine, and to

those poisonous and baleful drugs which being chewed in the mouth,

are said to filch away the memory. At this point of his discourse, the

reverend and red-nosed gentleman became singularly incoherent, and

staggering to and fro in the excitement of his eloquence, was fain to

catch at the back of a chair to preserve his perpendicular.

Mr Stiggins did not desire his hearers to be upon their guard against

those false prophets and wretched mockers of religion, who, without

sense to expound its first doctrines, or hearts to feel its first

principles, are more dangerous members of society than the common

criminal; imposing, as they necessarily do, upon the weakest and

worst informed, casting scorn and contempt on what should be held

most sacred, and bringing into partial disrepute large bodies of

virtuous and well-conducted persons of many excellent sects and

persuasions. But as he leaned over the back of the chair for a

considerable time, and closing one eye, winked a good deal with the

other, it is presumed that he thought all this, but kept it to himself.

During the delivery of the oration, Mrs. Weller sobbed and wept at the

end of the paragraphs; while Sam, sitting cross- legged on a chair and

resting his arms on the top rail, regarded the speaker with great

suavity and blandness of demeanour; occasionally bestowing a look of

recognition on the old gentleman, who was delighted at the beginning,

and went to sleep about half-way.

Brayvo; wery pretty!' said Sam, when the red-nosed man having

finished, pulled his worn gloves on, thereby thrusting his fingers

through the broken tops till the knuckles were disclosed to view. 'Wery

pretty.'

I hope it may do you good, Samuel,' said Mrs. Weller solemnly.

I think it vill, mum,' replied Sam.

I wish I could hope that it would do your father good,' said Mrs.

Weller.

Thank'ee, my dear,' said Mr Weller, senior. 'How do you find yourself

arter it, my love?'

'Scoffer!' exclaimed Mrs. Weller.

'Benighted man!' said the Reverend Mr Stiggins.

The Pickwick Papers