element for the good of man.  His feelings were tenderly susceptible; the scene before him awakened his better nature, struck deep into his mind.  He viewed it as a cruel mockery of Christianity, a torture of innocent nature, for which man had no shame.  He saw the struggling spirit of the old negro contending against wrong,—­his yearnings for the teachings of Christianity, his solicitude for Marston’s good.  And he saw how man had cut down the unoffending image of himself-how Christian ministers had become the tyrant’s hand-fellow in the work of oppression.  It incited him to resolution; a project sprung up in his mind, which, from that day forward, as if it had been a new discovery in the rights of man, he determined to carry out in future, for the freedom of his fellows.

Harry, in accordance with Bob’s advice, chose the latter text.  For some minutes he expounded the power of divine inspiration, in his simple but impressive manner, being several times interrupted by the Deacon, who assumed the right of correcting his philosophy.  At length, Marston interrupted, reminding him that he had lost the “plantation gauge.”  “You must preach according to the Elder’s rule,” said he.

With a submissive stare, Harry replied:  “Mas’r, a man what lives fo’h dis world only is a slave to himself; but God says, he dat lives fo’h de world to come, is the light of life coming forth to enjoy the pleasures of eternity;” and again he burst into a rhapsody of eloquence, to the astonishment and admiration of Maxwell, and even touching the feelings of Marston, who was seldom moved by such displays.  Seeing the man in the thing of merchandise, he inclined to look upon him as a being worthy of immortality; and yet it seemed next to impossible that he should bring his natural feelings to realise the simple nobleness that stood before him,—­the man beyond the increase of dollars and cents in his person!  The coloured winter’s hand leaned against the mantel-piece, watching the changes in Marston’s countenance, as Daddy stood at Harry’s side, in patriarchal muteness.  A tear stealing down Maxwell’s cheek told of the sensation produced; while Marston, setting his elbow on the table, supported his head in his hands, and listened.  The Deacon, good man that he was, filled his glass,—­as if to say, “I don’t stand nigger preaching.”  As for the Elder, his pishes and painful gurglings, while he slept, were a source of much annoyance.  Awaking suddenly-raising himself to a half-bent position-he rubs his little eyes, adjusts his spectacles on his nose, stares at Harry with surprise, and then, with quizzical demeanour, leaves us to infer what sort of a protest he is about to enter.  He, however, thinks it better to say nothing.

“Stop, Harry,” says Marston, interrupting him in a point of his discourse:  then turning to his guests, he inquired, with a look of ridicule, “Gentlemen, what have you got to say against such preaching?  Elder, you old snoring Christian, you have lost all the best of it.  Why didn’t you wake up before?”