Of my Incarceration in the Jug
Then befell a scene the recollection of which even now makes me merry. For I was myself in a lively mood, now that things were assured for me, and the Ordinary, heated with the drink he had already swallowed, and gloating upon the good liquor, soared beyond his previous behaviour in the extravagance of his meanderings. He had not a spark of humour in his body, but was as serious as a Judge.
“You will wonder, Ryder,” says he, seated very comfortable, “why I, who was ordained for great things, am come to this deplorable state. Females, my lad, cracks, cockatrices, for a start, and an uncommon devotion to the bottle, the which it is pleasing to consider, I have now conquered.”
“Well, here’s another glass on it,” said I, with a laugh.
The Ordinary dipped his beak like a didapper. “’Tis a sore pity you are bound for Hell-fire, Ryder,” he said; “but so ’tis—where their worms dieth not—a parlous state, lamentable, indeed, for a Christian to contemplate,”
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