Deacon Rosebrook now interceded by saying, with unruffled
countenance, that the Elder had but one thing funny about him,-his
dignity on Sundays: that he was, at times, half inclined to believe
it the dignity of cogniac, instead of pious sentiment.
"I preach my sermon,-who can do more?" the Elder rejoins, with
seeming concern for his honour. "I thought we came to view the
plantation?"
"Yes, true; but our little repartee cannot stop our sight. You
preach your sermon, Elder,--that is, you preach what there is left
of it. It is one of the best-used sermons ever manufactured. It
would serve as a model for the most stale Oxonian. Do you think you
could write another like it? It has lasted seven years, and served
the means of propitiating the gospel on seven manors. Can they beat
that in your country?" says Marston, again turning to the young
Englishmam, and laughing at the Elder, who was deliberately taking
off his glasses to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.
"Our ministers have a different way of patching up old sermons; but
I'm not quite sure about their mode of getting them," the young man
replies, takes Deacon Rosebrook's arm, and walks ahead.
"The Elder must conform to the doctrines of the South; but they say
he bets at the race-course, which is not an uncommon thing for our
divines," rejoins the Deacon, facetiously.
The Elder, becoming seriously inclined, thinks gentlemen had better
avoid personalities. Personalities are not tolerated in the South,
where gentlemen are removed far above common people, and protect
themselves by the code duello.
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