in appears in all its
naked deformity. Looking back, therefore--"

"Is very well," said Mr. Slick, "in the way of preachin'; but lookin'
back when you can't see nothin', as you are now, is only a hurtin' of
your eyes. I never hear that word, 'lookin' back,' that I don't think of
that funny story of Lot's wife."

"Funny story of Lot's wife, Sir! Do you call that a funny story, Sir?"

"I do, Sir."

"You do, Sir?"

"Yes, I do, Sir; and I defy you or any other man to say it ain't a funny
story."

"Oh dear, dear," said Mr. Hopewell, "that I should have lived to see
the day when you, my son, would dare to speak of a Divine judgment as a
funny story, and that you should presume so to address me."

"A judgment, Sir?"

"Yes, a judgment, Sir."

"Do you call the story of Lot's wife a judgment?"

"Yes, I do call the story of Lot's wife a judgment; a monument of the
Divine wrath for the sin of disobedience."

"What! Mrs. Happy Lot? Do you call her a monument of wrath? Well, well,
if that don't beat all, Minister. If you had a been a-tyin' of the
night-cap last night I shouldn't a wondered at your talkin' at that
pace. But to call that dear little woman, Mrs. Happy Lot, that dancin',
laughin' tormentin', little critter, a monument of wrath, beats all to
immortal smash."

"Why who are you a-talkin' of, Sam?"

"Why, Mrs. Happy Lot, the wife of the Honourable Cranbery Lot, of
Umbagog, to be sure. Who did you think I was a-talkin' of?"

"Well, I thought you was a-talkin' of--of--ahem--of subjects too serious
to be talked of in that manner; but I did you wrong, Sam; I did you
injustice. Give me your hand, my boy. It's better for me to mistake and
apologize, than for you to sin and repent. I don't think I ever heard of
Mr. Lot, of Umbagog, or of his wife either. Sit down here, and tell me
the story, for 'with thee conversing, I forget all time.'"

"Well, Minister," said Mr. Slick, "I'll tell you the ins and outs of it;
and a droll story it is too. Miss Lot was the darter of Enoch Mosher,
the rich miser of Goshen; as beautiful a little critter too, as ever
slept in shoe-leather. She looked for all the world like one of the
Paris fashion prints, for she was a parfect pictur', that's a fact.
Her complexion was made of white and red roses, mixed so beautiful, you
couldn't tell where the white eended, or the red begun, natur' had
used the blendin' brush so delicate. Her eyes were screw augurs, I tell
_you_; they bored right