“With all my heart, Doctor,” said Simeon, not a little flattered.  “Turn right in.  Mrs. Brown will be about her house-business, and we will have the keeping-room all to ourselves.  Come right in.”

The “keeping-room” of Mr. Simeon Brown’s house was an intermediate apartment between the ineffable glories of the front-parlor and that court of the gentiles, the kitchen; for the presence of a large train of negro servants made the latter apartment an altogether different institution from the throne-room of Mrs. Katy Scudder.

This keeping-room was a low-studded apartment, finished with the heavy oaken beams of the wall left full in sight, boarded over and painted.  Two windows looked out on the street, and another into a sort of court-yard, where three black wenches, each with a broom, pretended to be sweeping, but were, in fact, chattering and laughing, like so many crows.

On one side of the room stood a heavy mahogany sideboard, covered with decanters, labelled Gin, Brandy, Rum, etc.,—­for Simeon was held to be a provider of none but the best, in his housekeeping.  Heavy mahogany chairs, with crewel coverings, stood sentry about the room; and the fireplace was flanked by two broad arm-chairs, covered with stamped leather.

On ushering the Doctor into this apartment, Simeon courteously led him to the sideboard.

“We mus’n’t make our discussions too dry, Doctor,” he said.  “What will you take?”

“Thank you, Sir,” said the Doctor, with a wave of his hand,—­“nothing this morning.”

And depositing his cocked hat in a chair, he settled himself into one of the leathern easy-chairs, and, dropping his hands upon his knees, looked fixedly before him, like a man who is studying how to enter upon an inwardly absorbing subject.

“Well, Doctor,” said Simeon, seating himself opposite, sipping comfortably at a glass of rum-and-water, “our views appear to be making a noise in the world.  Everything is preparing for your volumes; and when they appear, the battle of New Divinity, I think, may fairly be considered as won.”

Let us consider, that, though a woman may forget her first-born, yet a man cannot forget his own system of theology,—­because therein, if he be a true man, is the very elixir and essence of all that is valuable and hopeful to the universe; and considering this, let us appreciate the settled purpose of our friend, whom even this tempting bait did not swerve from the end which he had in view.

“Mr. Brown,” he said, “all our theology is as a drop in the ocean of God’s majesty, to whose glory we must be ready to make any and every sacrifice.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Brown, not exactly comprehending the turn the Doctor’s thoughts were taking.

“And the glory of God consisteth in the happiness of all his rational universe, each in his proportion, according to his separate amount of being; so that, when we devote ourselves to God’s glory, it is the same as saying that we devote ourselves to the highest happiness of his created universe.”