spurn the unsanctified spoiler-themselves neck-deep in the very coffers of covetousness the while!  How to their christian spirit it seems ordained they should see a people’s ekeings serve their rolling in wealth and luxury! and, yet, let no man question their walking in the ways of a meek and lowly Saviour-that Redeemer of mankind whose seamless garb no man purchaseth with the rights of his fellow.  Complacently innocent of themselves, they would have us join their flock and follow them,—­their pious eyes seeing only heavenly objects to be gained, and their pure hearts beating in heavy throbs for the wicked turmoil of our common world.  Pardon us, brother of the flesh, say they, in saintly whispers,—­it is all for the Church and Christ.  Boldly fortified with sanctimony, they hurl back the shafts of reform, and ask to live on sumptuously, as the only sought recompense for their christian love.  Pious infallibility! how blind, to see not the crime!

Reader! excuse the diversion, and accompany us while we retrace our steps to where we left the loquacious Mr. M’Fadden, recovered from the fear of death, which had been produced by whiskey in draughts too strong.  In company with a numerous party, he is just returning from an unsuccessful search for his lost preacher.  They have scoured the lawns, delved the morasses, penetrated thick jungles of brakes, driven the cypress swamps, and sent the hounds through places seemingly impossible for human being to seclude himself, and where only the veteran rattlesnake would seek to lay his viperous head.  No preacher have they found.  They utter vile imprecations on his head, pit him “a common nigger,” declare he has just learned enough, in his own crooked way, to be dubious property-good, if a man can keep him at minister business.

Mine host of the Inn feels assured, if he be hiding among the swamp jungle, the snakes and alligators will certainly drive him out:  an indisputable fact this, inasmuch as alligators and snakes hate niggers.  M’Fadden affirms solemnly, that the day he bought that clergyman was one of the unlucky days of his life; and he positively regrets ever having been a politician, or troubling his head about the southern-rights question.  The party gather round the front stoop, and are what is termed in southern parlance “tuckered out.”  They are equally well satisfied of having done their duty to the state and a good cause.  Dogs, their tails drooping, sneak to their kennels, horses reek with foam, the human dogs will “liquor” long and strong.

“Tisn’t such prime stock, after all!” says M’Fadden, entering the veranda, reeking with mud and perspiration:  “after a third attempt we had as well give it up.”  He shakes his head, and then strikes his whip on the floor.  “I’ll stand shy about buying a preacher, another time,” he continues; like a man, much against his will, forced to give up a prize.

The crackers and wire-grass men (rude sons of the sand hills), take the matter more philosophically,—­probably under the impression that to keep quiet will be to “bring the nigger out” where he may be caught and the reward secured.  Two hundred dollars is a sum for which they would not scruple to sacrifice life; but they have three gods-whiskey, ignorance, and idleness, any one of which can easily gain a mastery over their faculties.