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.

Marston shrugs his shoulders, whispers a word or two in the ear of
his friend Maxwell, twirls his glass upon the table. He is somewhat
cautious how he gives an opinion on such matters, having previously
read one or two law books; but believes it does'nt portray all
things just right. He has studied ideal good-at least he tells us
so-if he never practises it; finally, he is constrained to admit
that this 'ere's all very well once in a while, but becomes
tiresome--especially when kept up as strong as the Elder does it. He
is free to confess that southern mankind is curiously constituted,
too often giving license to revelries, but condemning those who fall
by them. He feels quite right about the Elder's preaching being just
the chime for his nigger property; but, were he a professing
Christian, it would'nt suit him by fifty per cent. There is
something between the mind of a "nigger" and the mind of a white
man,--something he can't exactly analyse, though he is certain it is
wonderfully different; and though such preaching can do niggers no