"Don't you think this is carrying the joke a point too far?" asked
Deacon Rosebrook, who had been some time silently watching the
prostrate condition of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy.
Marston shrugs his shoulders, whispers a word or two in the ear of
his friend Maxwell, twirls his glass upon the table. He is somewhat
cautious how he gives an opinion on such matters, having previously
read one or two law books; but believes it does'nt portray all
things just right. He has studied ideal good-at least he tells us
so-if he never practises it; finally, he is constrained to admit
that this 'ere's all very well once in a while, but becomes
tiresome--especially when kept up as strong as the Elder does it. He
is free to confess that southern mankind is curiously constituted,
too often giving license to revelries, but condemning those who fall
by them. He feels quite right about the Elder's preaching being just
the chime for his nigger property; but, were he a professing
Christian, it would'nt suit him by fifty per cent. There is
something between the mind of a "nigger" and the mind of a white
man,--something he can't exactly analyse, though he is certain it is
wonderfully different; and though such preaching can do niggers no
harm, he would just as soon think of listening to Infidelity.
Painful as it was to acknowledge the fact, he only appeared at the
"Meet'n House" on Sundays for the looks of the thing, and in the
hope that it might have some influence with his nigger property.
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