the way to play facetious jokes on the Elder, whose arm he touches
every few minutes, reminding him how backward he is in replenishing
his glass.

Not at all backward in such matters, the Elder fills up, asks the
pleasure of drinking his very good health, and empties the liquid
into the safest place nearest at hand. Repeated courses have their
effect; Marston is pleased, the Elder is mellow. With muddled
sensibilities his eyes glare wildly about the table, and at every
fresh invitation to drink he begs pardon for having neglected his
duty, fingers the ends of his cravat, and deposits another
glass,-certainly the very last. Franconia, perceiving her uncle's
motive, begs to be excused, and is escorted out of the room. Mr.
Praiseworthy, attempting to get a last glass of wine to his lips
without spilling, is quite surprised that the lady should leave. He
commences descanting on his own fierce enmity to infidelity and
catholicism. He would that everybody rose up and trampled them into
the dust; both are ruinous to negro property.

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