Deacon Rosebrook is a comely, fair-faced man, a moderate thinker, a charitable Christian, a very good man, who lets his deeds of kindness speak of him.  He is not a politician-no! he is a better quality of man, has filled higher stations.  Nor is he of the modernly pious-that is, as piety professes itself in our democratic world, where men use it more as a necessary appliance to subdue the mind than a means to improve civilization.  But he was always cautious in giving expression to his sentiments, knowing the delicate sensibilities of those he had to deal with, and fearing lest he might spring a democratic mine of very illiberal indignation.

“Come, gentlemen guests, you are as welcome as the showers,” says Marston, in a stentorious voice:  “Be seated; you are at home under my roof.  Yes, the hospitality of my plantation is at your service.”  The yellow man removes a table that stood in the centre of the room, places chairs around it, and each takes his seat.

“Pardon me, my dear Marston, you live with the comfort of a nabob.  Wealth seems to spring up on all sides,” returns the Deacon, good-naturedly.

“And so I think,” joins the Elder:  “the pleasures of the plantation are manifold, swimming along from day to day; but I fear there is one thing our friend has not yet considered.”

“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.  You’ve preached it to them so long, they have got it by heart.  Only impress the rascals that it’s God’s will they should labour for a life, and they’ll stick to it like Trojans:  they are just like pigs, sir.”