Marston coolly suggests that the Elder is decidedly uncatholicised.

“Elder,” interrupted Deacon Rosebrook, touching him on the shoulder, “you are modestly undone-that is, very respectably sold to your wine.”

“Yes,” rejoined Marston; “I would give an extra ten dollars to hear him preach a sermon to my niggers at this moment.”

“Villainous inconsistency!” exclaimed the Elder, in an indistinct voice, his eyes half closed, and the spectacles gradually falling from his nose.  “You are scandalising my excellent character, which can’t be replaced with gold.”  Making another attempt to raise a glass of wine to his lips, as he concluded, he unconsciously let the contents flow into his bosom, instead of his mouth.

“Well, my opinion is, Elder, that if you get my nigger property into heaven with your preaching, there’ll be a chance for the likes of me,” said Marston, watching the Elder intently.  It was now evident the party were all becoming pretty deeply tinctured.  Rosebrook thought a minister of the gospel, to get in such a condition, and then refer to religious matters, must have a soul empty to the very core.  There could be no better proof of how easily true religion could be brought into contempt.  The Elder foreclosed with the spirit, considered himself unsafe in the chair, and was about to relieve it, when Dandy caught him in his arms like a lifeless mass, and carried him to a settee, upon which he spread him, like a substance to be bleached in the sun.

“Gentlemen! the Elder is completely unreverenced,-he is the most versatile individual that ever wore black cloth.  I reverence him for his qualities,” says Marston:  then, turning to Maxwell, he continued, “you must excuse this little joviality; it occurs but seldom, and the southern people take it for what it is worth, excusing, or forgetting its effects.”

“Don’t speak of it-it’s not unlike our English do at times-nor do our ministers form exceptions; but they do such things under a monster protection, without reckoning the effect,” the Englishman replied, looking round as if he missed the presence of Franconia.

The Elder, soon in a profound sleep, was beset by swarms of mosquitoes preying upon his haggard face, as if it were good food.  “He’s a pretty picture,” says Marston, looking upon the sleeping Elder with a frown, and then working his fingers through his crispy red hair.  “A hard subject for the student’s knife he’ll make, won’t he?” To add to the comical appearance of the reverend gentleman, Marston, rising from his seat, approached him, drew the spectacles from his pocket, and placed them on the tip of his nose, adding piquancy to his already indescribable physiognomy.

“Don’t you think this is carrying the joke a point too far?” asked Deacon Rosebrook, who had been some time silently watching the prostrate condition of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy.