Dear hearers, it is here we find the text of the sermon, and here commenceth the preaching.

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Early one summer, the grasping little door bit to for good, and I missed its mangy proprietor for probably four months.  Had he planted himself in the earth and regerminated, he could not have been more freshened.  His emaciated carcass fairly blossomed with magnificence; and gaudy ornament sprouted all over him.  It peeped through his shirt-front in flashy studs, it twined on his fingers in glittering rings, it trailed around his waist in glowing velvet, and expanded over his thin legs and arms in a forest of broadcloth.  ’Tis true, the shiny collar would get over his ears, the coat-sleeves darkened every sparkle on his hands, and the hems of his trowsers persisted in being trodden under heel; but what were petty annoyances like these, in a renovation so complete?  His face had been shaved and polished until it approached in glistening amiability the ivory head on a walking-stick; but there was an uncertainty in its ripples of merriment impressive of the belief that if once a genuine ha! ha! was ventured, the galvanized look of joy would instantly vanish.  It was at a very uncertain gait he sidled into my office.  He did not seem at all sure I would know him, or, in fact, very intimately acquainted with himself.  The mingled gruffness and cordiality of his greeting suggested a dancing-master suffering with corns.  It was a minute or two before his wonted calmness returned; but finally, with a piteous look of blended tenderness and brutal exultation, he handed me a card.  It contained the handsomely engraved compliments of Miss Florence Gripstone, and a hope for the pleasure of my company at a soiree.  This was the magic wand that turned penury to wealth and made the sterile rock blossom with gorgeous flowers.  The beast had a daughter, and with all the ardor of a distorted nature he loved her.

If, a week before, Gripstone’s soiree had been hinted, I think I would have laughed; but if the assertion had been ventured that it would be given in a stately house, with spacious grounds, on a fashionable street, and with “Gripstone” on the door-plate, I know I would have shouted outright.  Yet the house was stately, and the entertainment superb.  Carpets glowing with the gorgeous coloring of the Orient, pictures that had caught their delicate tinge in sacred Rome, furniture carved from the solid heart of rose-wood, plate vying in richness with the state service of a scion of nobility, abounded.  Fluttering in the light of many tinted lamps, rare flowers breathed daintiest odors; and floating through the high arches, soft music whispered plaintive ecstasy.  In the center of a throng of recently arrived guests, and positively cropping with broadcloth and Marseilles, beamed the host.  Close at his side, radiant in her beauty, faultless in its adornment, stood the daughter.  In one, a magnificent swallow-tail, fleecy shirt-frill, and snowy gloves had stamped their wearer with a look of hopeless absurdity; in the other, exquisite taste, gentle dignity, and true courtesy bore the impress of glorious womanhood.  I was positively bewildered.  Could the father of that lovely girl be the wretch the world hooted at?  Could the owner of all this grandeur be the Beast I fancied my private property?