Mr. Praiseworthy suggests that the good lady does not comprehend the virtue lying beneath his motives; that it takes a philosophical mind to analyse the good that can be done to human nature, especially poor black human nature.  And he asserts, with great sincerity, that saving the lives of those about to die miserable deaths is a wonderful thing for the cause of humanity.  Buying them saves their hopeless lives; and if that isn’t praiseworthy nothing can be, and when the act is good the motive should not be questioned.

“Do you save their lives for a Christian purpose, or is it lucre you seek, Mr. Praiseworthy?” she enquires, giving the Elder a significant look, and waiting for a reply.

The Elder rises sedately, and walks across the room, considering his reply.  “The question’s so kind of round about,” he mutters, as she continues:—­

“Sick when you purchase, your Christianity consists in the art of healing; but you sell them, and consequently save their lives for a profit.  There is no cholera in our plantation, thank God! you cannot speculate on our sick.  You outshine the London street Jews; they deal in old clothes, you deal in human oddities, tottering infirmity, sick negroes.”  Mrs. Rosebrook suggests that such a business in a great and happy country should be consigned to its grave-digger and executioner, or made to pay a killing income tax.

The humane Elder views his clothes; they have become somewhat threadbare since he entered upon his new profession.  He, as may be supposed, feels the force of the lady’s remarks, and yet cannot bring his mind to believe himself actuated by anything but a love to do good.  Kindness, he contends, was always the most inherent thing in his nature:  it is an insult to insinuate anything degrading connected with his calling.  And, too, there is another consolation which soars above all,—­it is legal, and there is a respectability connected with all legal callings.

“To be upright is my motto, madam,” the Elder says, drawing his hand modestly over his mouth, and again adjusting the tie of his white neck-cloth.  “I’m trying to save them, and a penny with them.  You see-the Lord forgive him!-my dear madam, Marston didn’t do the clean thing with me; and, the worst of all was, he made a preacher of that nigger of his.  The principle is a very bad one for nigger property to contend for; and when their masters permit it, our profession is upset; for, whenever a nigger becomes a preacher, he’s sure to be a profitable investment for his owner.  There is where it injures us; and we have no redress, because the nigger preacher is his master’s property, and his master can make him preach, or do what he pleases with him,” says Mr. Praiseworthy, becoming extremely serious.

“Ah! yes,—­self pinches the principles; I see where it is, Elder,” says the lady.  “But you were indiscreet, given to taking at times; and the boy Harry, proving himself quite as good at preaching, destroyed your practice.  I wish every negro knew as much of the Bible as that boy Harry.  There would be no fear of insurrections; it would be the greatest blessing that ever befell the South.  It would make some of your Christians blush,—­perhaps ashamed.”