The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 104: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

89 THE COURT OF LONDON no compassion, no sympathy for thy wronged and ruined Octavia? Wherefore hast thou blighted all the hopes of my youth? Why hast thou carried desolation and woe into the sanctuary of that heart which was filled with love for thee? O God! do thy thunders sleep? O Heaven! hast thou no lightnings left? Give me the wand of an enchantress and I will bring an universal deluge on the earth, that he may be swept away from the theatre of his crimes, yes, even though myself and all the world suffer annihilation at the same mo- ment. Or let the mountains fall upon the nations, and crush the entire human species back, back into its pristine elements, so that he may perish miserably, miserably. Would that my words were daggers or that my looks were arrows, that they might go forth and pierce him to the heart. Revenge, revenge! shall I not be blessed with a full, complete, and crowning revenge for all my wrongs? Oh, let me think only of revenge! Let it be my reverie by day and my dream by night. Yes, I will cherish thee, thou fiendlike idea, as I once cherished the love that hath turned to this implacable hatred. I will cherish thee as I would nurture an innocent babe, were I a mother. I will cherish thee, oh, I will cherish thee as the religionist clings to his hope of salvation. Thou shalt wall me around and imprison me in one circle of sensations, thou shalt confine me to the narrow space of one idea, even as the Roman vestal, when seduced from her duty by the blandishments of love, was enclosed in a tomb of massive masonry. And yet, oh, my God, could I hurt that man whom I have adored and wor- shipped? Could I without emotion behold him dying or dead at my feet? No, no, never! ” | And as the wretched girl thus shrieked wildly forth, a strong shudder passed through her frame, and she fell on her knees, joining her hands and clasping them convulsively at the same time. ‘“O ruined, heart-riven creature that I am!” she said, in a low voice fraught with a pathos ineffably touching and tenderly musical; ‘“‘ wherefore have my own feelings become: scorpions to sting and scourges to lacerate my bruised and wounded soul? Will Heaven send no anodyne to soothe and heal? Oh, yes, for Heaven is kind and merciful and good, and blesses the parched flowers of the garden with its re- viving dew. Hear, then, my prayer, O Providence!’ she COmiclooolkxS.