_Jourd._ Oh! _Old Lar._ And I assure you it is a very warm sort of a Place; for I call'd there as I came along to take Lodgings for you. _Jourd._ Oh! Heavens! is it possible! that you can have seen the dreadful Horrors of that Place? _Old Lar._ Seen them! Ha, ha, ha, why, I have been there half a dozen times in a Day: Why, how far do you take it to be to Purgatory? Not above a Mile and half at farthest, and every Step of the way down Hill. Seen them! ay, ay, I have seen them, and a pretty Sight they are too, a pretty tragical sort of a Sight; if it were not for the confounded Heat of the Air----then there is the prettiest Consort of Musick. _Jourd._ Oh! Heavens! Musick! _Old Lar._ Ay, ay, Groans, Groans, a fine Consort of Groans, you would think your self at an Opera, if it were not for the great Heat of the Air, as I said before; some Spirits are shut up in Ovens, some are chain'd to Spits, some are scatter'd in Frying-pans--and I have taken up a Place for you on a Gridiron. _Jourd._ Oh! I am scorch'd, I am scorch'd--For Pity's sake, Father, intercede with St. _Francis_ for me: Compassionate my Case-- _Old Lar._ There is but one way, let me carry him the News of your Daughter's Marriage, that may perhaps appease him. Between you and I, St. _Francis_ is a liquorish old Dog, and loves to set People to work to his Heart. _Jourd._ She shall be married this Instant, the Saint must know it is none of my Fault: Had I rightly understood his Will, it had been long since performed--But well might I misinterpret him, when even the Church, when Father _Martin_ fail'd. _Old Lar._ I wou'd be very glad to know where I should find that same Father _Martin_. I have a small Commission to him relating to a Purgatory Affair. St. _Francis_ has sentenced him to lie in a Frying-pan there, just six hundred Years, for his Amour with your Daughter. _Jourd._ My Daughter! _Old Lar._ Are you ignorant of it then? Did not you know that he had debauched your Daughter? _Jourd._ Ignorant! oh! Heavens! no Wonder she is refused the Veil. _Old Lar._ I thought you had known it. I'll shew you a Sight worse than Purgatory it self. You shall behold this Disgrace to the Church; a Sight shall make you shudder. _Jourd._ Is it possible a Priest should be such a Villain? _Old Lar._ Nothing's impossible to the Church you know. _Jourd._ And may I hope St. _Francis_ will be appeas'd. _Old Lar._ Hum! There is a great Favourite of that Saint who lives in this Town, his Name is Monsieur _Laroon_. If you could get him to say half a Dozen Bead-Rolls for you, they might be of great Service. _Jourd._ How! Can the Saint regard so loose a Liver? _Old Lar._ Oh! St. _Francis_ loves an honest merry Fellow to his Soul. And hearkee, I don't think it impossible for Mr. _Laroon_ to bring you acquainted with the Saint; for to my Knowledge, they very often crack a Bottle together. _Jourd._ Can I believe it? _Serv._ Father _Martin_ is below.