“When the Deacon feels the ground a little shaky under him,” resumed Mr. Bright, he leans on his minister down in Carolina, who, he says, is a Northern man, and so pious that folks come from far and near to get him to pray for rain in a dry time; thinking the prayers of such a godly man will be sure to bring down the showers.  He says that man preached a sermon that proved niggers were born to be servants of servants unto their brethren.  I told him I didn’t doubt that part of the prophecy was fulfilled about their serving their brethren; and I showed him the advertisement about sandy hair and blue eyes.  But as for being servants of servants, I never heard of slaveholders serving anybody except—­a chap whose name it ain’t polite to mention before ladies.  As for that preacher, he put me in mind of a minister my father used to tell of.  He’d been to a wedding, and when he come home he couldn’t light his lamp.  After trying a long spell he found out that the extinguisher was on it.  I told the deacon that ministers down South had put an extinguisher on their lamp, and couldn’t be expected to raise much of a light from it to guide anybody’s steps.”

“Some of the Northern ministers are not much better guides, I think,” rejoined Mr. Blumenthal.

“Just so,” replied his host; “’cause they’ve got the same extinguisher on; and ain’t it curious to see ’em puffing and blowing at the old lamp?  I get ’most tired of talking common sense and common feeling to the Deacon.  You can’t get it into him, and it won’t stay on him.  You might as well try to heap a peck o’ flax-seed.  He keeps eating his own words, too; though they don’t seem to agree with him, neither.  He maintains that the slaves are perfectly contented and happy; and the next minute, if you quote any of their cruel laws, he tells you they are obliged to make such laws or else they would rise and cut their masters’ throats.  He says blacks and whites won’t mix any more than oil and water; and the next minute he says if the slaves are freed they’ll marry our daughters.  I tell him his arguments are like the Kilkenny cats, that ate one another up to the tip o’ their tails.  The Deacon is sensible enough, too, about many other subjects; but he nor no other man can saw straight with a crooked saw.”

“It’s an old saying,” rejoined Blumenthal, “that, when men enter into a league with Satan, he always deserts them at the tightest pinch; and I’ve often observed he’s sure to do it where arguments pinch.”

“I don’t wonder you are far from being a favorite with the Deacon,” remarked Flora; “for, according to your own account, you hit him rather hard.”

“I suppose I do,” rejoined Mr. Bright.  “I’m always in earnest myself; and when I’m sure I’m in the right, I always drive ahead.  I soon get out o’ patience trying to twist a string that ain’t fastened at nary end, as an old neighbor of my father used to say.  I suppose some of us Abolitionists are a little rough at times; but I reckon the coarsest of us do more good than the false prophets that prophesy smooth things.”