a religious vice; but pleasure is divided into so many different
qualities, one hardly knows which suits best now-a-days.
Philosophers say we should avoid making pleasure of that which can
give pain to others; but philosophers say so many things, and give
so much advice that we never think of following. Uncle has a
standard of his own. I do, however, wish southern society would be
more circumspect, looking upon morality in its proper light. Its all
doubtful! doubtful! doubtful! There is Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy;
he preaches, preaches, preaches!--his preaching is to live, not to
die by. I do pity those poor negroes, who, notwithstanding their
impenetrable heads, are bored to death every Sunday with that
selfsame sermon. Such preaching, such strained effort, such
machinery to make men pious,--it's as soulless as a well. I don't
wonder the world has got to be so very wicked, when the wickedness
of the slavery church has become so sublime. And there's Uncle,
too,--he's been affected just in that way; hearing pious discourses
to uphold that which in his soul he knew to be the heaviest
wickedness the world groaned under, he has come to look upon
religion as if it were a commodity too stale for him. He sees the
minister of God's Word a mere machine of task, paid to do a certain
amount of talking to negroes, endeavouring to impress their simple
minds with the belief that it is God's will they should be slaves.
And this is all for necessity's sake!" In this musing mood she sits
rocking in her chair, until at length, overcome with the heat, she
reclines her head against the cushion, resigning herself to the
soothing embrace of sweet sleep.

The moon's silver rays were playing on the calm surface of the
river, the foliage on its banks seemed bathed in quiet repose, the
gentle breeze, bearing its balmy odours, wafted through the arbour