he never enjoyed,—­never expects to.  He is a tall, athletic man, nearly six feet two inches in height, with extremely broad, stooping shoulders, and always walks as if he were meditating some speculation.  His dress is usually of southern red-mixed homespun,—­a dress which he takes much pride in wearing, in connection with a black brigand hat, which gives his broad face, projecting cheek-bones, and blunt chin, a look of unmistakeable sullenness.  Add to this a low, narrow forehead, generally covered with thick tufts of matted black hair, beneath which two savage eyes incessantly glare, and, reader, you have the repulsive personification of the man.  Mr. M’Fadden has bought a preacher,—­an article with the very best kind of a soul,—­which he would send to his place in the country.  Having just sent the article to the rail-road, he stands in a neighbouring bar-room, surrounded by his cronies, who are joining him in a social glass, discussing the qualities of the article preacher.  We are not favoured with the point at issue; but we hear Mr. Lawrence M’Fadden say, with great force,—­“Preachers are only good property under certain circumstances; and if them circumstances ain’t just so, it won’t do to buy ’em.  Old aristocrat rice planters may make a good thing or two on ’em, because they can make ’em regulate the cummin’ o’ their property, and make it understand what the Lord says about minding their masters.”  For his-Mr. Lawrence M’Fadden’s-own part, he wouldn’t give seven coppers for the thinking part of any property, having no belief in that fashionable way of improving its value.  “My preacher has been nicely packed up and sent off in advance,” he says, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, and smacking his lips, as he twirls his glass upon the zinc counter, shakes hands with his friends-they congratulate him upon the good bargain in his divine-and proceeds to the railroad dep“t.  Harry has arrived nearly two hours in advance,—­delivered in good condition, as stated in a receipt which he holds in his hand, and which purports to be from the baggage-master.  “Ah! here you are,” says M’Fadden, taking the paper from Harry’s hand, as he enters the luggage-room.  “Take good care on ye,—­I reckon I will!” He looks down upon him with an air of satisfaction.  The poor preacher-the soul-glowing property-is yet chained, hand and foot.  He sits upon the cold floor, those imploring eyes swelling at the thought that freedom only awaits him in another world.  M’Fadden takes a little flask from his breast pocket, and, with a motion of kindness, draws the cork, passes it to him.  “It’s whiskey!” he says; “take a drop-do ye good, old feller.”  Quietly the man passes it to his lips, and moistens his mouth.  “No winking and blinking-it’s tip-top stuff,” enjoins M’Fadden; “don’t get it every day.”

Mr. M’Fadden will take a little himself.  “Glad to find ye here, all straight!” he mutters, taking the flask from his mouth.  He had returned the receipt to his property; and, having gratified his appetite a little, he begins to take a more perspective view of his theological purchase.