Thomas, whose mode of
teaching was in so far Socratic that he singled out his man, applied to
the individual--in language occasionally too much to the point to admit
of repetition in the delicate ears of the readers of the nineteenth
century, some of whom are on such friendly terms with the vices
themselves, that they are shocked at the vulgarity and rudeness of the
_names_ given them by their forefathers.

"Ye ken weel eneuch that ye're a drucken vratch, Peter Peterson. An' ye
ken weel eneuch that ye're nane better, forbye, than ye sud be. Naebody
ever accused ye o' stealin'; but gin ye haud on as ye're doin', that'll
come neist. But I doobt the wrath o' the Almichty'll be doon upo' 's
like a spate, as it was i' the days o' Noah, afore ye hae time to learn
to steal, Peter Peterson. Ye'll hae _your_ share in bringin'
destruction upo' this toon, and a' its belongin's. The verra kirk-yard
winna hide ye that day frae the wrath o' Him that sitteth upo' the
throne. Tak' ye tent, and repent, Peter; or it'll be the waur for ye."

The object of this terrible denunciation of the wrath of the Almighty
was a wretched little object indeed, just like a white rabbit--with
pink eyes, a grey face and head, poor thin legs, a long tail-coat that
came nearly to his heels, an awfully ragged pair of trowsers, and a
liver charred with whisky. He had kept a whisky-shop till he had drunk
all his own whisky; and as no distiller would let him have any on
trust, he now hung about the inn-yard, and got a penny from one, and
twopence from another, for running errands.--Had they been sovereigns
they would all have gone the same way--namely, for whisky.

He listened to Thomas with a kind of dazed meekness, his eyes wandering
everywhere except in the direction of Thomas's. One who did not know
Thomas would have thought it cowardly in him to attack such a poor
creature. But Thomas was just as ready to fly at the greatest man in
Glamerton. All the evildoers of the place feared him--the rich
manufacturer and the strong horse-doctor included. They called him a
wheezing, canting hypocrite, and would go streets out of their way to
avoid him.

But on the present occasion he went too far with Peter.

"And it's weel kent your dochter Bauby's no better nor she sud be;
for--"

Peter's face flushed crimson, though where the blood could have come
from was an anatomical mystery; he held up his hands with the fingers
crooked like the claws of an animal, for