"
"Pray what is that? Let us hear it; let us hear it. Perhaps it is
the very piety of nonsense," rejoined Marston, quickly. "Dead men
and devils are always haunting us." The Elder draws his spectacles
from his pocket, wipes them with his silk handkerchief, adjusts them
on his nose, and replies with some effort, "The Future."
"Nothing more?" Marston inquires, quaintly: "Never contented; riches
all around us, favourable prospects for the next crop, prices stiff,
markets good, advices from abroad exciting. Let the future take care
of itself; you are like all preachers, Elder, borrowing darkness
when you can't see light."
"The Elder, so full of allegory!" whispers the Deacon. "He means a
moral condition, which we all esteem as a source of riches laid up
in store for the future."
"I discover; but it never troubles me while I take care of others. I
pray for my negro property-pray loudly and long. And then, their
piety is a charge of great magnitude; but when I need your
assistance in looking after it, be assured you will receive an extra
fee."
"That's personal-personal, decidedly personal."
"Quite the reverse," returns Marston, suddenly smiling, and, placing
his elbows on the table, rests his face on his hands. "Religion is
well in its place, good on simple minds; just the thing to keep
vassals in their places: that's why I pay to have it talked to my
property. Elder, I get the worth of my money in seeing the
excitement my fellows get into by hearing you preach that old
worn-out sermon.
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